“I'm ready.” Adam kept his gaze on the big man's solemn, gray eyes.
Chuck slapped him on the shoulder. “All right, then, today's the day. Be on the airfield at 0700.” Without another word, he strode off. “I hope you got flight training,” he called over his shoulder.
“'Course I do,” Adam said. He was stretching the truth. He'd had minimal instruction, just enough to get him out of a plane if it were going down.
Wearing a one-piece flight suit plus heavy gear, Adam walked on to the field early. He wondered how the airmen could do much of anything while wearing their insulated suits, flak jackets, and parachutes. They were cumbersome and heavy.
He double-checked his camera equipment, making sure everything was in good working order, then patted his jacket pocket with his pencil and writing pad. “Guess I'm ready. This is what I've been waiting for.” He tried to show confidence, but his stomach felt queasy, and adrenaline overload was giving him the jitters.
Ground crews gassed up planes and checked and rechecked the aircraft for flight readiness. Fighter pilots were the first aircrew on the field. Their planes would serve as escorts to the bulky, slow-moving bombers, which were easy targets. Engines fired off one by one. The air reverberated, sounding like a monstrous beehive. Adam's heart rate climbed, and so did his anticipation.
With the fighter planes in the air, bomber crews dashed across the tarmac to waiting B-17s. Adam watched for Chuck. When he spotted him, he ran and joined him.
“You didn't change your mind, eh?” Chuck grinned.
“No way. I can't wait.”
He puffed on a cigar. “All right then. You take your pictures and write your story, but stay out of the way. We've got a job to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam said, keeping pace with the pilot.
The air pulsed with the deep throb of B-17 engines. The heavy bombers were stacked and ready for takeoff. Adam sat on a bench along one wall, surprised at how crowded and loud it was inside. Even while on the ground, you had to strain to make yourself heard.
“What's he doing here?” asked John Lewis, a cocky engineer.
Dale Evanston, the navigator, glanced at Adam. “Captain said it was all right,” he hollered.
Lewis glowered at Adam. “That's all we need—a self-important journalist on board.”
“Is self-important the same as arrogant? I figure you'd know.” Adam grinned.
“Roll up your flaps,” Lewis sneered.
“All right, you two,” said Dale. “We've got Jerrys to kill. This is no place for your adolescent squabbling.”
“Right.” Adam leaned against a bulkhead.
“You'll need oxygen once we get up there. The gear is over there.” Dale nodded at a face mask attached to a toggle. “Not much oxygen at twenty-four thousand feet. There's a headset. You'll need it if you want to talk to any of us.”
Adam nodded and put on the headset. Better, he thought. At least no one would have to yell.
The reality of what he was about to do set in. He rested a hand on his bouncing leg and pushed his foot flat against the floor to quiet it. Taking a deep breath, he prayed for peace and protection. Still, his stomach jumped. This was his first real combat experience.
Adam grabbed the mask and practiced putting it on and taking it off. He leaned back, resting against his parachute. The feel of it gave him a small sense of security. At least with a parachute, a person had a chance of making it if the plane was hit. The idea of jumping from a dying plane made his mouth go dry.
Dale checked maps laid out in front of him, then glanced at Adam. “You got it figured out?”
“No problem.” Adam glanced at the crew.
One of the waist gunners said, “First time's always the hardest. After you've made a few runs, you get used to 'em—kinda.” He offered Adam a sideways grin.
“I figured,” Adam said, taking out his pad and pencil. He needed to record the surroundings—the sounds and smells, the duties of the crew, as well as his own intense feelings. He took several photographs of the inside of the bomber and wrote that it must be a little like being in the belly of a whale and being served up as a meal.
Adam's insides vibrated in tune with the thrum of the B-17. The bomber's engines surged, and the plane moved onto the runway. It rolled down the airstrip, made a tight turn, then headed back, picking up speed. Adam gripped the bench. Sweat ran into his eyes, and his heart hammered beneath his ribs. There was an upsurge in the engine's cadence. They moved faster. The plane vibrated so hard it felt as if it would shake apart. The engines roared.
Adam loved speed, and the thrill of flight swept away his uncertainties. A moment more and they would be in the air. He felt the wheels leave the ground, followed by a sense of buoyancy. It was brief, however. This was a B-17; it would not take to the air with ease. The huge plane gradually dragged skyward.
Adam's mind moved to Palmer, his wife, and his son. Laurel was probably working in the garden with William alongside, doing his best to help. It was the busy season, the time of harvest. She would have cabbages to cut and potatoes and carrots to dig. Adam could almost smell the starchy odor of spuds laid out in the root cellar. He hoped Laurel had found adequate help and felt a twinge of guilt at not being there. This is war, he told himself. There are higher priorities. We'll have other seasons.
The heavy plane dropped into an air pocket, bouncing Adam back to the present. He had a job, and for now it was here. He picked up his camera, and trying to stay out of the crew's way, took photographs. He flashed pictures of the gunner sitting in a bubble atop the aircraft and of Dale as he worked out figures and watched for landmarks. The waist-gunners kept watch on either side of the plane.
He started toward the cockpit.
“What do you think you're doing?” Lewis asked.
“Figured I'd better get some pictures of the pilot and copilot.”
“Good luck getting those cleared through the censors.” He chuckled. “You'd be smarter to stay clear of them altogether. They gotta concentrate.”
“I'll stay out of their way.”
“Go ahead,” Dale said, “but remember, this is no game. When we reach France, we'll climb. You'll need to be in your seat, oxygen on.”
“Gotcha.”
