When Heroes Flew - H. W. _Buzz_ Bernard Page 0,2

like a pregnant cow.”

She laughed. “It’s not that bad. It just looks . . .”

“Different?”

He knew it did. With its slab-sided fuselage, twin vertical stabilizers, and a high-mounted straight wing that spanned one hundred ten feet, it bore a much more businesslike and boxy appearance than the popularized Flying Fortress.

“Yes, different,” she said. “Tell me about it. You know, the stuff you can, the stuff that isn’t secret.”

He took a swallow of his Manhattan. “Well, without giving away any numbers, it’s actually a bit faster, has a longer range, and typically carries a bigger bomb load than the B-17.” He paused for a moment, then added, “But it’s a handful to fly.”

She locked her gaze on him, and he read the trepidation in her eyes.

“I’m a good pilot,” he said. “I love flying it. I know what I’m doing. It’s just that it’s not like driving a Packard. More like driving a garbage truck.”

She reached across the table for his hand. “I know you’re a good pilot. But I’ll never stop worrying about you. You’re the most important thing in my life.”

“And you in mine,” he responded, and meant it.

“Promise me you’ll come home,” she whispered.

He couldn’t, but knew he had to. A part of him, the intellectual part, understood he might not return, that people in Axis fighters and behind flak guns would be trying to kill him. But another part of him—the youthful, not-yet-battle-tested part, the part that bore a sense of invincibility—brimmed with excitement and anticipation over embarking on a “great adventure.” A ripple of guilt surged through him. He realized how hard it must be for Sarah, and all the others left behind—wives, girlfriends, parents, children—to see their loved ones off to war.

“I don’t know,” he responded. “I don’t know how I can make that guarantee. There are just too many—”

“Promise me, damn you, promise,” she hissed, and gripped his hand so fiercely he thought she might bruise it. “I know you’ll be lying. But I want to hear the words. Please say them.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as her gaze bore into his soul.

“I’ll come home, Sarah, I will. I love you so much. That’s all the incentive I need. Somehow, someway, I’ll make it.” He attempted to force genuine conviction into his words, but it proved futile.

“How many missions?” she asked, her voice husky with emotion.

“Before I can come home? Right now, twenty-five.” Twenty-five opportunities for the enemy to make sure he wouldn’t.

The orchestra returned from its intermission and launched into “String of Pearls,” and the audience applauded.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “You look so handsome in your uniform, I’m not sure I want other women noticing you.”

He stood. “I understand. I guess I could easily be mistaken for Clark Gable.”

She frowned and gave him an icy stare. “Sure, if you grew a mustache and a couple of inches, maybe.”

Holding hands, they wove their way onto the dance floor.

A stratus of cigarette smoke, like an early morning overcast along the Pacific coast, hung over the floor. The aroma of sirloin steaks and spilled whiskey floated through the casino. He pulled Sarah close and buried his face in her honeysuckle-scented hair as the Miller band began one of his favorites, “Tuxedo Junction.”

They glided across the hardwood floor to the soft oop-pah oop-pah of the trombone section as the musicians fanned hat mutes in front of their instruments. They seemed to become one, floating through an ephemeral world of beauty and peace where no one else existed, as if he and Sarah had the casino to themselves.

The orchestra moved from “Tuxedo Junction” to “At Last,” and the magic of the evening seemed endless.

“Sir, Benghazi’s coming up.” Sorey’s voice over the interphone snapped Al awake. He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep.

“Sorry, Sorey. Didn’t think I’d go lights out like that.”

“Been a long day, Pops, I know. But I’d like you at the controls with me when we set ’er down.”

Al hated his nickname, “Pops,” but realized he’d earned it because his advanced age, thirty, made him the oldest member of his ten-man crew. Not that it really mattered. Everyone on the crew sported a nickname. It had become an esprit de corps sort of thing. Even the bomber had a name. In fact, all American bombers did. Not only did they have names but also elaborate artwork on their noses to accompany them.

The artwork, in truth, often bordered on the prurient by featuring long-legged, big-breasted women in the nude or only scantily clad.