Bix & Bones: A Story of a Different Wwii

By Mark Druck

Visit these links: http://www.bixandbones.com/ and http://www.lookpokergame.com/
BIX & BONES - WWII novel of one-of-a-kind bomb group. History of this story, which has now become a newly-completed novel, byMark Druck, retired Major, USAFR, entitled: BIX & BONES Original version of this material, written in 1946, by a young officer just returned from WWII, writing of experiences he had just been through, focusing on the B-25 wild ride, the sort of missions he flew in the 38th Bomb Group, 5th U.S. Army Air Force, against the Japanese. The missions were truly unique, flown in Billy Mitchell bombers, coming in over a target at altitudes UNDER 20 FEET, at 300 to 350 MPH, with parachutes on the bombs to slow their approximately 15-foot drop, thus enabling the bomber to escape the bomb blast. Knowing nothing of structure for a novel, he wrote a sort of my life in combat story. Having completed this work, he came to New York, met a literary agent, Maurice Crane, with MacIntosh & Otis agency, who had been a gunner on a B-17 over Germany. His plane was shot down, he became a prisoner of war. When men in the camp learned he was an agent, they promised Crane to send their novels to him. As a result, he collected dozens of mss. When the early version of this mss came in, over the transom, Crane decided it would be one of the six war stories he would represent. He praised the characterizations and dialogue as most valid. Then came June, 1950. The Korean War. Crane phoned to say War is no longer in fashion. He returned all six of the mss he had collected on WWII. Slow fade to 1978. Having met the Weisers, Olga was told about the war novel. Let George read it, she said. It was submitted on Thursday. Two business days later Monday Olga called to say We sold it. It was published under the title, The Final Mission, as a paperback. Zebra Books was thought to have printed 65,000 copies of the novel. Meanwhile, drastic changes had been made in the basic story and characters. In 1948, he studied playwrighting at the Dramatic Workshop, then a famous theatre school, he was directed to go there by the theatre worlds most famous playwright agent, Harold Freedman (he represented nearly all the then successful playwrights in USA and England of any 10 plays and musicals produced on Broadway and the West End, London during period from late 1920s-1960s, Harold Freedman represented probably six or seven). History of the material in BIX &BONES page 2 During his studies under Irwin Piscator, the famous German director, who ran the theatre school, which became part of the NEW SCHOOL, he dramatized the material in the mss. It became a drama, titled, All-American, and won an award as one of the best Off-Broadway plays of l949. In dramatizing the material and background and characters and dialogue, he created a plot, reorganized the characters to make them three-dimensional, and invented a basic conflict. The basic plot, the new characters, the one-on-one situations that were in that play are now the basis of the current version of the novel, called BIX & BONES: Harold Freedman, who had become his agent by this time (representing Druck on four plays at the time of his sudden death), felt the play could be sold to movies, because of the strong head-to-head conflict between the lead characters, the action scenes, and the dialogue. He had sold many plays to movies, including My Fair Lady, for the biggest price paid for a property up to that time, and including leasing for ten years the film rights of Harvey. He described Bix & Bones as the Journeys End of WWII : *********************************

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 19, 2006
• ISBN: 9781469115122

Mark Druck

Mark Druck is a playwright produced Off-Off-Broadway, author of four novels, film scriptwriter, director for stage and camera Established MARK DRUCK PRODUCTIONS, 1969, producing Industrial films/videos & TV commercials. Listed in ‘Who’s Who In Entertainment,’ ‘Who’s Who In America,’ & ‘Who’s Who In The World.’ Flew with 38th Bomb Group, in B25s, coming in on missions at altitudes as low as 20 feet over targets at 350 mph. He served in the Air Force Reserve through Korea and Viet Nam, retiring as a Major. One of the first officers to land on Kyushu following the surrender to find Japanese civilians terrified, for they had been propagandized for years that US troops were monsters. He was arguably one of the first Americans to visit the original Geisha Houses in Fukuoka. The characters in this story are based on his experiences, & upon a story he heard at that time, which was probably not true, but fascinated by the revealing relationships between the two peoples in those earliest days of American soldiers in Japan.

Book preview

Pre-Flight

I t was a time of excellence.

Everyone felt it. It was as real as a strong wind blowing across the country. It was present every day and every night, in every hope that a family had while praying for that soldier in some far-off place. It was in each day’s plans, in the purchase of scarce necessities, every rationed gallon of gasoline, those precious silk stockings a woman might be able to locate. It was mixed into every conversation in bars and buses, taken straight in important discussions in offices, schools, homes, it was the headlines in each edition of every newspaper, the lead story on every radio newscast – it was in every heart, and foremost on everyone’s mind.

As comedians said, It’s in all the papers!

Everywhere, it was the most important on-going subject in the country!

It was the war! World War II in the United States!

Everyone was involved. Starting with women working in defense factories – new lives for females who stepped out of their homes into re-making their own existence, earning their own money and keeping their own accounts, altering their choices in ways that could never be undone. Families were separated. How wives would learn to relate to husbands and children, would require a lot of bridging of lost time.

These feelings will never be felt again! Never again will the people of this country be so united, so eager to give so much to a common cause.

First among America’s heroes were the ‘fly-boys’ of the Army Air Force, with silver wings pinned to the left breast of their forest green blouses (Army talk for jackets), and Navy fly-boys sporting gold wings on their Navy blues.

Young men, fresh from campuses, setting aside dreams of going into business, the professions, and, yes, family life, were enlisting in The Aviation Cadet Program, learning to fly B-17s, B-24s, B-25s, B-26s and the Navy fighters from Grauman and Douglas, in flights around the world. Curtiss C-46s and Douglas Goony-bird C-47s (still flying some 60 years later), and fighter planes, the P-38, P-39, P-40, P-51, P-47, planes built to meet special situations where Americans would be flying to places they had never heard of only months before.

Actually there were two wars – completely different one from the other – one featuring B-17 and B-24 bombers, escorted by P-51s, then P47s with extra fuel tanks to fly escort for the 1000-plane formations going against the coldly efficient Germans in Europe.

The other, attacking islands where fanatical Japanese were dug in, prepared to sacrifice their lives for their Emperor rather than lose face by surrendering.

And pitiless and cruel to any allied soldier or marine who surrendered to them.

Responding to the cowardly attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7th, 1941, citizens of the United States of America stood up, rolled up their sleeves and pronounced ‘We’re all in this together!’ marching ahead, riding in the same jeep, pulling the same wagon. The Japanese managed to accomplish this for us at 7:00 ayem on that infamous December Sunday morning.

This story is about young men wearing those aviator wings!

People went out of their way to greet them. They were ushered into any restaurant ahead of the crowd, without a word of protest from those waiting in line to be seated. They were sent drinks in just about any bar in the land. They were literally plucked off the street by women who treated them like movie stars; ladies picked them out of a crowd and took them home and bedded them. They were the gallant young knights, off to fight the dragon, and everybody loved them, smiled upon them. Taxis would stop for them, ignoring other citizens lining the street. In small towns – fliers always seemed to be based miles from any metropolis – they were invited by gracious families who wanted nothing more than to entertain and offer home cooking to these uniformed handsome young gentlemen, so far from family and friends.

Thus was the spirit in the land. Heartfelt togetherness was so real one could almost feel it in the air! One hundred and fifty million people, all pulling together, all working for that day of final victory which everyone felt, deep-down, was coming.

That was the home front!

Out, where guns were being shot and men were dying, the dirty work was being done, every day, every night, with no days off, watching out for your buddies, dying for your country.

In Europe, Nazis were bombing English cities to kill as many civilians as possible, and murdering their own citizens in gas chambers. R.A.F. pilots flying two and three missions a day against hundreds of invading German planes, landing to re-fuel and re-load, and take off to fight again, until most of those gallant young Britons, who gave new meaning to the words: ‘fighting for your country,’ had been killed in action.

In the Pacific, so hated by the Japanese that no prisoner from the 38th Bomb Group survived more than the time it took for their Japanese captors to force the American fliers to kneel down.

They were summarily beheaded.

The 38th Bomb Group knew it was different from other bomb groups. The missions they flew made them special. Each squadron painted a jungle cat on both sides of the plane’s nose. The B-25 (a scattered few were still flying, 60 years later) flew in on a land target at perhaps 10 to 20 feet off the ground, roaring in at more than 300 miles per hour, presenting the enemy with a painted wild beast charging at them, spitting fire from eight 50-calibre machine guns in the nose, two in the top turret and finally from the tail-gunner. Coming in that low provided full view of those roaring snarling planes with two engines and two tails, filling that moment for Japanese on the ground to see the lion or tiger or leopard or panther that had come into their lives to spread destruction.

Attacking a ship, the tactic called for two planes working together. Beginning at about 4,000 feet, they would go into a shallow dive to increase air speed to over 300 miles per hour. The strategy was for one pilot to be the ‘bomber,’ the other plane to ride ‘shotgun,’ offering 10 additional machine guns to help sweep the gunners off the deck, which was some 20 or 30 feet above water level. The planes, flying at 10 feet of altitude, were so low that gunners on the deck were unable to depress their guns sufficiently to shoot at the attackers. This run on the ship was culminated when the ‘bomber’ pulled up to fly over the ship’s superstructure and drop his bombs. – being so near to the deck that bombs were mounted with parachutes, which would provide the necessary delay of a second or two needed for the B-25 to escape its own bomb blast.

In this ‘close-in war,’ a sudden error in depth-perception by a pilot flying ‘down on the deck ‘at over 300 miles per hour, resulted in crashing into a tree, or failing to negotiate the height of a building or a top of a ship.

In this theatre of operation, Tom Bixby believed in three things:(1) his airplane; (2) his ability to fly the hell out of that B-25; (3) that there wasn’t one damn college boy that was as good a pilot as himself! He cared little for the junk that college boys got to know ‘out of books.’ He believed in his own brand of Science – the Science of Flight. And in the weapon that was his B-25.

I believe in the ‘S’s’, he said. "If you are a flier and want to live a long life, study the tendencies of your aircraft. And Bix would laugh, with that sharp edge of cynicism, which would cut into the irony – his white teeth, appearing even whiter against his tanned flesh. If you wanna’ stay alive, study your ship – two S’s. Then, his grin might look more like a grimace. Life is good when you get the basic ‘S’s’ – six of ’em! – a good supper, a hot shower, warm water for a shave, a satisfying shit, great sex, and a sound sleep – all the rest is superfluous, which also starts with an ‘s’.

Never reckless, he gained the trust of his commanders. They understood that he lived by the trusted flier’s proven adage – "There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots!"

Duty in the wilds of a Pacific Island was usually a lot of the usual – days of sitting around, waiting. It was the Army Way – Hurry up and wait. However, on days you. were scheduled for a mission, the real routine kicked in early. Men rousted from their canvas & wood-framed cots at 0430 hours, in the darkness to make their way to an out-in-the-open unprotected ‘latrine,’ a dozen or so oval holes cut into a long 6’’x 2’’ plank. Sometimes in the rain. Then to the water truck to fill your helmet to wash with. Then to the huge Mess Tent for breakfast of pancakes – they stuck to the ribs during 8-to10-hour bombing mission. Then to the Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) Briefing for guys with the same job – pilots or navigators or radiomen or flight engineers. Then to the Ops Tent for Major Briefing on the flight plan, including how to contact Navy rescue seaplanes, just in case. Then a ride in the back of a truck to the flight-line, where your mechanic was working on your ship. Then to warm up the twin Wright R-2600-13 radial piston engines which powered the 20,000-pound (empty) Billy Mitchell Bomber, with a wing span of 67’ 7’’, length of 51 feet, height of 15’ 9’’. Then to taxi out to the strip, to maneuver the ship into the group order in one of two lines of 12 planes. Then to take off from these alternating lines, to fly alone in the dark to the target area. On a typical mission beginning in the dark, 6 planes from each of the four squadrons, flying separately, without lights so as to avoid detection from a passing Jap ship, to the dawn rendezvous, where the 24 planes would join up and the attack would begin!

Some of these planes were never seen again.

The spot where the 6-man crew went down was marked by a wave.

Chapter I

I t was 1944. Night. Leaves in the

palm trees waved gracefully, slow dancing in the gentle breeze. The island, a jewel in the Pacific Ocean, was peaceful as the setting for a fairy tale. The smell of salt water wafted from the beach only about 100 yards away. With the scent of the sea and soothed by the sound of waves rolling up on the clean beige sand, nature was in rhythm here.

So it would seem to the newly-arrived, the uninitiated who had lately come.

Residents were billeted in four long neat rows of square olive drab tents lining the beach area where the men of the 839th Squadron, 38th Bomb Group, slept on wood-and-canvas cots, sweating in the humidity. They were protected – so they hoped – by mosquito netting. Malaria was an ever-present danger.

The moon peeked out from behind one of the few puffy cumulus clouds that decorated the heavens to survey the encampment.

The sky was as blue as a Chinese kimono.

Suddenly the quietude was broken. A voice crackled in the dark, coming from one of the tents along the long line of canvas pyramids. It creamed with satisfaction. Got you, you sonofabitch!

A second voice, from a tent two rows down and one row over, snarled. Okay. Now the rest of us can get some sleep.

A third voice, three tents down the same row, sounded exasperated. I don’t know which makes more noise – you guys or the friggin’ mosquitoes.

A fourth voice, sounding more plaintive, came from two rows away. How ’bout turning it off, you guys, and letting us get some sleep?

The third voice replied, What’s eating you?

The first voice, sounding weary, Mosquitoes. What’s eating you?

The fourth voice, sighing, I’ve got a mission tomorrow.

First voice, quietly, Sorry.

Silence fell again. From a tent, over nearer the flight line, a snore rumbled, until the source was apparently given an elbow, or had a shoe tossed at it.

Then it was quiet again.

The moon in the China blue sky watched.

Shadows of palm trees danced a funny little uptight waltz to the gentle breeze coming off the rolling rhythm of the surf.

In the third tent in the third row, three of the four cots were occupied; all slept deeply in slumber full of quirks and troubled dreams. The tousled blonde head belonged to Dewey Newton; he twitched, moved his hand suddenly as he dreamed of his young wife, back home in Chicago.

Don Lott was lean and tall; his left foot stuck out from under the white sheet; his left arm covered his face as if protecting himself from what he was seeing in his dream.

Tom Bixby slept on his side, with his knees drawn up slightly and his arms folded, as if keeping everything he dreamt close to the vest.

From a distant place along the third row of tents came the clap of a slap – hand against bare flesh. Got you, you sonofabitch!

Sounding like a low, eerie moan coming up from the center of the small island, a siren began cranking its haunting wail into the night. Serenity was shattered. Voices of sleepy men could be heard, grumbling. Sound of one man calling to his buddies. Some choice four-letter words bit into the darkness. Unrestrained yawns echoed. Awakened young men calling to one another without losing their completely unhurried, rather bored tones. Everyone was accepting this dull interruption as merely a part of the routine of war. However, the trio in the third tent, third row, did not move. They were accustomed to all this. Outside, a man made his way through the late hour, sleepily stumbling through the ankle-high sand, past tents, slowly pulling up his G.I. cotton summer trousers. He was stripped to the waist. His feet were sockless, jammed into g.i. boots. He carried a combat helmet. He paused near this tent, scratched his head, stared in at the slumbering men.

He approached the entrance of the canvas pyramid, and pushed the flap aside, and looked in.

Hey. His voice showed absolutely no emotion. Hit the deck, you guys.

There was no reaction.

Come on, you clowns. Drop your cocks and grab your socks. Air raid.

Lott stirred. Moved his forearm from over his face. He blinked his eyes open. Blinked again. Couldn’t get his brain organized. Lifted his head from the makeshift pillow, which consisted of his flight jacket folded into a ball and covered with part of the sheet. Damn Japs, he said, you’d think they’d want to get some sleep, too. He sat up and worked his feet through the mosquito netting which was tucked in under that one bed sheet on the canvas-wood cot. In the dark his feet groped to find his shoes. He stood and took the first small steps that brought him to the center pole. He located the long white string and pulled on it. The 60-watt bulb garnered all its strength and managed to evoke a pale yellow glow. He wore olive-drab boxer shorts, a white T-shirt. He glanced at the two guys still sleeping. He leaned over, switched on the small olive-drab aircraft metal radio, which had been resurrected from a downed Zero fighter plane somewhere along the way by an earlier resident of this square tent, on a difference Pacific Ocean island.

There was a crackle of voices, not yet discernible. Pilots flying night-fighters, that had been sent aloft to intercept the approaching Jap Betty bombers.

‘First Lieutenant Bix Bixby lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, witnessing all this activity, listening to the sounds. Those jokers with their goddamn mosquitoes. They make more racket than the Japs.

You’re going to be the new Exec Officer one of these days. Lott scratched his head. So why don’t you pull rank and tell those guys to shut up?

I’ll wait ’til then.

Lott turned to Newton’s cot. Fig? Hey, Fig.

The voice came from within the netting. The blonde head turned on its pillowing. I’m awake, Don.

Bixby watched this vignette, starring his two tent-mates. Like a mother waking a child for school. His voice mimicked Newton’s, plus adding a little sarcasm like gravy over a Christmas goose. I’m awake too, Don.

Lott ignored the sarcasm. Pointedly. And proceeded to wrestle himself into his G.I. cotton trousers.

Meanwhile, the radio crackled. Coconut 2 to Pineapple 4: did you spot that bogie? Over.

There was a pause; second voice reported, Tell you what – I lost the bastard.

"This is Coconut 2. Identify yourself. Who lost the bastard? Over."

There was a pause. Pineapple 4 did. Over.

A third, gruffer, crisper voice, older and angry, "Pineapple 4, this is Hickory Tower. Get your head out of your ass and find the bastard!"

Lott buckled his web belt, tried to decide whether or not to tie his shoelaces. He glared at the radio. Well, find them, you silly tools.

Bixby snorted. For this we pay taxes: they can’t even find the friggin’ enemy.

Lott sat on his cot and tied his shoelaces. Listening to those night-fighters chasing around like that, makes me wonder if Radar isn’t just a fad – like night baseball and hot dogs, and sex.

Bixby grunted.

Newton was awake now, putting on his socks and shoes. Considering that all Japs are supposed to have poor eyesight, they certainly seem to get around in the dark.

Bixby was annoyed by that. Not his ordinary pique, but annoyance he seemed to reserve for the youthful curly-haired smooth-faced kid from Chicago. If you ate raw fish and rice, you’d probably see good in the dark, too.

Nothing around here in the dark, Lott said, that’d make me be that curious.

The thought of that kind of food, Newton said, is enough to make me nauseous.

Bixby was on his feet, pulling on his trousers. Not quite like eating at the Waldorf, is it, Sportie?

Lott was impatient with this inter-play that Bixby aimed at Fig Newton. Oh relax, Bix.

I can’t relax. There’s a war on.

Don’t get sore, Bix. Newton was climbing into his flying coveralls. I didn’t mean anything.

But Bixby wouldn’t let it alone. You Ivy League clowns – always saying things you don’t mean!

But I keep telling you, Bix, I didn’t go to an Ivy League school – I went to Northwestern!

What the hell’s the difference? Bixby slipped into his shirt but did not button it. You sound like Ivy League.

But Bix, I – I didn’t mean anything, I . . .

 . . . Don’t tell me your troubles, Buster, Bixby interrupted, I got troubles of my own! He turned and was gone.

Young Newton stared after the man he respected as the hottest pilot in the squadron. I don’t know why he’s always so pisst at me.

Forget it, Fig. In Bix’s eyes, you committed two cardinal sins – your parents had the money to send you to college – and you haven’t flown as many missions as him.

The radio crackled. Coconut 2 to Pineapple 4. Bogie at zero-two-three degrees, at two seven miles. Over.

Roger, Coconut 2. This is Pineapple 4. I’m coming over. Over. Then a pause, then: Out.

Lott made a face. 20 miles north. They’ll be here in about nine minutes. He started for the doorway of the tent. Let’s get to the trenches and get a good seat.

But Newton was reluctant to move. "Don . . . ? His voice ran down into its own quagmire.

What’s wrong, Fig?

Newton sat on his cot, ignoring how his hips were pulling on the netting. He held his combat helmet in both hands, on his lap, staring down at it. Do you – do you believe in dreams?

Lott paused in the opening of the canvas.

Newton looked very somber. I heard that the only time they come true is if you touch – actually touch – the person you’re dreaming about. You believe that?

Everybody around here’s got crazy dreams.

Newton couldn’t let it go. He shook his head. He looked troubled.

Don’t make a big deal out of it, Fig.

Newton shook his head. This one – I’ve been having. I – I had again, tonight. I’ve had it three or four times. Had it again tonight . . .

Lott interjected. Forget it, Fig. I don’t think I really believe in dreams. He came back into the tent. The young blonde pilot was like a kid brother. Well, that’s how Lott felt about him.

In my dreams, Don, I see myself floating around in the ocean. I’m hanging onto a big tombstone that seems to be floating on top of the water. It’s big. And slippery and I’m trying to hang onto it. Then I sort of hold myself away from it so I can read it. Know what it says? ‘Here lies D.W.Newton, age 20 in three months and seven days, who only married Lorna because he was going to be shipped overseas and their parents expected it.

Hell, Lott didn’t want to get involved in somebody else’s nightmares. He had enough of his own! He shook his head, as if trying to shake off any involvement or opinion. Just a dream, Fig. Just another bad dream. We all have ’em. Hey, maybe it’s the coffee. Or the spam.

And then Lorna comes over and looks at me, floating there. She’s not swimming – she’s just – there.

Maybe she’s like MacArthur – maybe she can walk on water.

No, Don, she’s just – there! Like above me. Not swimming, but sort of in the air. Anyway, I reach out and – and know what we do? We shake hands. We don’t kiss or anything. Or even say anything. We just shake hands. Like good old friends. Then I wake up. His smile looked rather sheepish. Screwy, huh?

Yeah. Real screwy. Lott looked at his watch; he knew it was time to start for the air raid shelter. Dreams do get real screwy, it sounded corny to him, too, sometimes.

But Newton wasn’t finished. Like friends, we are, Don. We’ve lived next door – all our lives. I dated her – almost like it was expected. It – it’s like being married to your own sister. Fig continued to turn his helmet over in his fingers. Don? I want you to promise to do me a favor. Will you? He looked at Lott, who was still standing in the doorway. In case anything ever happens to me – tonight. Or on a mission. You know. My gold fountain pen. And this ring – my wedding ring. I never wear it on missions.

Oh for God’s sake, Fig. Don’t talk like that.

Just in case?

Sure. Sure. Now, come on. Let’s go. Lott came back to him, as though herding him along. Just few minutes before the Japs get here.

No, I mean it. I’m serious, Don. Just in case . . .

 . . . Okay. Okay.

Promise? Don, you promise?

Sure, Fig. I’ll send the pen and the ring to . . .

"No! Promise! Promise you’ll take those things to her. Take them – in person! Yourself!"

Lott was sort of nonplussed.

You know her. And, then there’s that night before we all shipped out. And I’ve been telling Lorna about you, in the letters I write home, know what I mean?

Of course I met her that time. You arranged those dinners. I never knew why.

I’d like you to be the one to take those things to Lorna.

Oh stop talking like that! Come on, Fig, let’s go.

Newton took the photo of a very pretty young blonde girl off the upright ammo box, that served as a night-table, and placed it under his pillow. He had a real pillow, sent by Lorna. He moved to the center of the tent, forgetting to turn off the radio, remembering to pull on the long string. The bulb went out. The voices continued. Newton joined Lott outside the tent. They made their way, slogging through the sand toward the bomb shelter.

The residences of this tent city all moved in a sort of slow motion, unhurriedly; they knew almost to the minute how much time they had. In small clusters, they slogged through sandy streets, past the canvas pyramids.

Of course, the moon looked peaceful. As always. The few puffy cumulus clouds floated in the blue sky. The only sounds were the wailing of distant sirens.

At that moment, a tall, strong figure labored down the tent street, paused to look around. He stared at the tent, checking it out. He was lugging two heavy bags – a jammed B-4 bag, and a bulging parachute bag, so heavy that most men would have had to drag it along the ground.

Satisfied that this was the place he sought, he moved inside, dragging his parachute bag, toting his B-4 full of his officer uniforms. He surveyed the interior in the dark, as if wondering ‘Just what the hell am I doing here?’

At that moment, Bixby came out of a nearby tent, paused to look back inside. Come on, Capone. Goddamnit, get your fat tail in gear.

Luigi Capone came out, pulling on his shirt; his second lieutenant bar shone in the moonlight. His trousers, however, were slowly sliding down over his hips. He laughed, finding it all too funny. He was jolly. Able to find humor in his dilemma; standing out in the beginning of an air-raid, with his pants falling down, seemed kooky as hell to him.

Come on, come on.

Relax, Bix. Don’t race your engine – you’ll blow a gasket. He pulled up his trousers. Besides, you know they ain’t startin’ no air raid ’til we get there.

Bix shook his head. You better get that fat tail out of sight. Makes a damn good target.

I keep tellin’ you, Bix: I ain’t fat, I just learned the secret of how to relax – all over.

And wear your damn helmet. Like you’re supposed to. I don’t wanna’ see you get splattered all over the area. I might have to fly one of your missions.

Capone pulled himself together. Took his helmet and plunked it on his head. The helmet seemed too small. There. You happy now?

Jump up and down. Maybe the helmet will work its way down.

You’re just jealous, Bix, of all my combat points.

Yeah, Bix said, and your good looks.

Capone went back to the doorway of the tent. Come on, Cohenie. You’re late again.

With hands-on-hips, Bixby had patience for these guys. Veteran fliers he could count on. Bixby didn’t trust