Boise City

Bursting back to life, the engines yank the plane east, fighting the wind as we turn for another pass.

“CIRCLING FOR A THIRD PASS,” Bickler offers.

The wind is going the wrong way. Why is the wind going the wrong way? Can we be in the wrong place?

“WE’RE LINED UP;” Bickler calls out for a third time.

“TAKING OVER,” the bombardier replies.

As we settle into this third bomb run, I run some numbers.

We arrived at the target 10 minutes later than I thought, but there was a headwind and almost complete pitch-blackness since leaving Dalhart. We had banked west upon getting airborne, flew at 300 miles an hour for 25 minutes, and...

“THREE AWAY,” the bombardier perfunctorily calls out, as if bored by the experience.

Read More

The March

The Fuhrer marches up to The Leader in time to the even beats of Wagner’s wedding song. The Duce stands like a bridegroom awaiting his bride before the altar.

The marriage of Italy and Germany, Europe’s Fascist core, will mean great things for the World! 

Corrado, who is standing next to me and holding up a fasces, elbows me in the ribs. He whispers, “I wonder if they’re going to exchange rings.” 

Read More

Shrill

Our Pals battalion of Liverpool Volunteers is a hive of activity today as we prepare for the attack. For more than two days, our artillery has been pounding the Hun line. We’ll be surprised if there’s anyone left over there by the time we’re ordered to go over the top.

Once past Doug, we each approach the assault trench in our own way. Some are silent, others boisterous. I am not in the mood for conversation. Instead, my mind focuses on my goal.

Survive this attack and make it back.

Read More