Captain Shawn Collins had flown seventeen bombing missions so far, but he’d never been this terrified before.
The 91st Bomb Group had already lost six planes to Nazi fighters on the way in to the target: a munitions factory in Bremen, Germany. Then as quickly as they came, the fighters disappeared. But then came a more terrifying adversary, for which the bombers had no defenses. Dozens of German antiaircraft gunners shot thousands of exploding canisters into the air disguised as harmless puffs of black smoke, each one unleashing jagged shards of molten metal in every direction. The boys nicknamed it “flak.”
A direct hit from a single flak gun could instantly turn a bomber into a fireball of flaming debris. An indirect hit could knock out engines or flight controls, kill or maim anyone caught in the shrapnel’s path.
Shawn, piloting a B-17 Flying Fortress nicknamed “Mama’s Kitchen,” tried to sound calm as he took in a damage report over the interphone from Nick Manzini, their starboard waist gunner.
“Hastings bought it, sir,” Manzini said. “Took a big piece of metal in the neck. It ain’t pretty. Looks like he went quick, though. Anderson is alive. Took some metal in the leg. Got a tourniquet around it. The bleeding has slowed a little, but he’s in a state of shock. I can’t even get him to talk to me.”
Shawn forced his emotions to stay intact. The entire crew looked to him for stability. But these men were more than just gunners under his command; they’d trained together for months, had flown every mission together, so far without a single mishap.
“And Captain,” Manzini continued, “that last flak burst open a brand-new window back here. Can’t take too many more hits like that.”
“Your guns operational?” Shawn asked.
“Let me check.”
Shawn heard the sound of both machine guns being test fired.
“They’re fine.”
“Okay, get back to your station. You’re gonna have to man both guns on the way home. Once out of Bremen, the fighters will hit us again. Make sure Anderson gets covered up, stays warm. Maybe he’ll snap out of it in awhile and give you some help.”
“Got it,” said Manzini.
For several minutes, no one said a word. Only the droning engines and muffled explosions of flak bursts could be heard over their pounding hearts. The plane jumped and shuddered with each one. The crew didn’t even react when another bomber just ahead fell out of formation and spun out of control, its left wing half shot off. No chutes were seen before it dropped out of sight.
Shawn tried to keep the plane steady, trying to keep his mind off the possibilities. With each new flak burst, he fought the temptation to steer the plane out of its path. The fact was, there were no safe paths; no amount of evasive action mattered. Survival seemed entirely a matter of fate or chance.
Some, like Shawn, believed it a matter of Providence and prayed every prayer they knew. Others superstitiously clung to their rabbits’ feet, lucky coins, saints’ medals, or some other homemade talisman.
Every few moments, Shawn looked down at a photo of Patrick and Elizabeth. She’d sent it two months ago. Patrick was holding the baseball Shawn had caught at a Phillies game two seasons ago. Elizabeth . . . he still found it hard to believe he’d won the heart of such a beautiful woman. She could have been a cover girl from a fashion magazine, with her shoulder-length blonde hair, all natural, lightly curled, parted slightly to the right. Her lips were plump and soft, almost set in a pout, immanently kissable. The hardest part being married to her had been holding back the urge to deck guys who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.
He thought about the first time they’d met. For him, it was love at first sight. For her, love came later. Her faith made her cautious. But that was okay. He had it bad enough for the both of them. She was sitting all alone at a table in the Penn State library. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His stares had finally gotten her attention. At first, she turned away, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Then came that first smile. It happened on her third look up. He could still remember how it made him feel.
“It’s time, Captain,” said MacReady, the copilot.
“What?”
“Gotta turn the ship over to Davis.”
“Oh, right,” Shawn said. He reached down and flipped on the autopilot. “Okay, Nick. You’ve got the plane from here on. Make it count.”
“Roger, Captain.” The flak stayed heavy for ten more minutes. Every so often he heard a bang or a ping, as a stray piece of metal smacked into the fuselage. The plane seemed to be straining on the left side. Shawn feared one of the engines might have swallowed some shrapnel. Still, they held their place in the formation. He heard the bomb bay doors open.
Nick Davis simply announced “Bombs away” and closed the doors.
“How’d it look, Nick?” Shawn asked.
“A little hazy down there, but I think we nailed ’em.”
Shawn braced himself. Once they cleared Bremen, the fighters would return.
The crawling speed of the bombers had always been a source of frustration for Shawn. On every mission he’d watch the enemy fighters dart in and around them at will, picking them off one at a time. And every time a bomber fell from the sky, ten men went down with it. Some to their deaths, the lucky ones to prison.
Shawn looked down at Elizabeth’s picture again. “God, just let me get out of this alive.” His thoughts were interrupted by Manzini yelling, “Here they come!” into the interphone.
The fighters.
Man, they were coming in fast. Shawn heard a loud explosion, followed by piercing screams.
A moment later, it felt like he was losing control of the plane.