Next to me, Pokey’s eyes are locked on the sky, his jaw agape at the site of more than a thousand bombers overhead.

“I’d hate bein’ on th’ other end o’ that!” Pokey yells in order to be heard above the din.

I smile, pushing my whole tense body ever harder against the soft mud.

“Bombs a fall’n!” Pokey mumbles to himself, his eyes still locked on the bombers.

My head lifts away from the mud, small bits of its brown soft drops dripping from the right side of my helmet. In the sky, I can see hundreds, maybe thousands, of small black dots falling gently toward the earth.

The Germans are only a few hundred yards away, yet those bombs look like they're falling right above us.

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