The Mourning Doves

By Patricia Huff

To those on the outside, handsome, wealthy broadcasting executive Jason Borseau's life seems idyllic. In reality, his existence is like the surreal reflections in a house of mirrors.

When World War II ends, Jason, a decorated B-17 pilot, returns to Arizona, anguished and guilt-ridden after most of his crew is lost in a raid on Schweinfurt, Germany. Bent on drowning his nightmares in alcohol, when at last Jason rises above his self-induced oblivion, he finds himself trapped in a disastrous marriage with a psychotic who abuses their young son.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524600976

Book preview

THE MOURNING DOVES

By

Patricia Huff

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2016 Patricia Huff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/18/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0097-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Part One

One Rougham Air Force Base, England October 12, 1943

Two Columbia, Idaho October 13, 1943

Three The Schweinfurt Raid October 13, 1943

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight Pendleton, Oregon August 1945

Part Two

Nine Yuma, Arizona November 1951

Ten December 1951

Eleven Philadelphia, Pennsylvania January 1952

Twelve February 1952

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen April 1952

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven May 1952

Twenty-eight June 1952

Twenty-nine

Thirty July 1952

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-Three August 1952

Thirty-four October 1952

Thirty-five November 1952

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight March 1953

Thirty-nine

Forty May 1953

Forty-one October 1953

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight December 1953

Forty-nine

Fifty

Part Three

Fifty-one

Fifty-two June 1954

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five August 1954

Fifty-Six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight Late August 1954

Fifty-nine October 1954

Sixty

Sixty-one Boise, Idaho November 1954

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five April 1955

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Seventy-one

Seventy-Two

Seventy-three

Seventy-four

Seventy-five

Epilogue October 1957

About the Author

Dedication

In loving memory of the one who waits …

"Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;

warm southern wind, blow softly here;

green sod above, lie light, lie light.

Good night, dear heart, good-night, good-night."

Mark Twain

Acknowledgments

The Mourning Doves could not have been written without the patience, encouragement,

and support

of my family and friends.

Cover art by Richard Pike

Illustration Design

Sacramento, California

Part One

…On the eighth day…

Man created war

One

Rougham Air Force Base, England

October 12, 1943

Captain Jason Borseau’s flight crew—snappy looking in their uniforms, caps cocked at rakish angles—single-filed into the recreation hall. Acting like grade school kids at recess, their commanding officer mused, as they jockeyed for position, danced around, feigned jabs at one another, darted in, backed off, darted in again.

Jason smiled, knowing their antics were designed to impress the nurses from the base hospital, the handful of WAAFS and WRACS, and a few patriotic dollies from Bury St. Edmunds—the quaint English village some fifty kilometers away. More like boys than men, he thought ruefully, but only for the moment.

Tech’ Sergeant Nick Andretti caught sight of their commanding officer and passed the word. Jason’s crew stiffened and saluted. He acknowledged them with a nod and the touch of an index finger to his forehead.

The dimly lit hall, a hastily converted hanger, was hazy with cigarette smoke. Music blared from the antiquated PA system, bounced from wall to wall, and collided somewhere in the middle of the room. When the melody caught up with itself, Jason recognized The Very Thought of You, one of his favorites, though he wondered if anyone would ever make him forget to do the little ordinary things, whatever they might be.

He gazed thoughtfully at Ann Jeffreys, the nurse who sat across the table from him. She wasn’t like the women he’d dated back home. In the here and now, they came off seeming a tad spoiled, even a little self-centered. He thought about the letter he’d gotten the day before, from a girl he’d dated in college, whining about the war, what a terrible nuisance it is, what with rationing and all, coupons for heaven’s sake.

No, Ann was different. She cared deeply about her patients, not just their mutilated bodies, their wounded minds as well. Maybe she wasn’t glamorous, though certainly she was cute, with a cap of curly strawberry blonde hair, merry blue eyes, a pert pug nose dotted with freckles. He got a kick out of her crisp English accent. Still, as fond as Jason was of her, he’d begun to wonder if she was in love with him or thought she was.

After several months of what Ann called, walking out in his company, they’d become lovers. To him, the union of their bodies was a natural sequence of events, part of the dating game in the States. In retrospect, he suspected Ann had taken it to mean they’d spend the rest of their lives together. If so, he had a decision to make, one he’d been wrestling with for several weeks. Until death do us part, though his might be imminent, was not a heartfelt commitment he could make. Maybe it never would be, but now was out of the question. At this time, in this place, it was absurd to think about a future none of them might have. More than a third of their bombers weren’t making it back to the base.

The next day they were to fly their fifteenth mission. Fourteen times, Captain Borseau had flown his men over enemy territory and fourteen times they’d returned far older than the number of hours they’d spent in the air, battle-weary, but, Jason thanked God, alive.

About a month before, The Valiant Lady, a B-17G had replaced his F-model. After a few shakedown flights, Jason understood the subtle idiosyncrasies that set her apart from the other 17s he’d known. The new Boeing aircraft, nearly identical to the previous model, had one significant change: a Bendix movable turret fitted on the underside of the nose. The twin .50 caliber guns had given them the firepower they needed to combat the deadly head-on attacks by the skilled Luftwaffe pilots.

The Flying Fortress had become the most visible symbol of the United States’ zeal to defeat the oppressive Nazi War Machine. While allied ground forces assaulted Hitler’s front in Italy and France, waves of the rugged B-17s, flown by courageous American aircrews, battled relentlessly through swarms of Luftwaffe fighters and murderous flak to attack the German heartland.

Jason’s outfit, the 94th Bomb Group was assigned to the 8th Air Force. The impact of the American pilots, their flying machines, support facilities, and personnel, on the bases in England was enormous. It had taken the best logistical minds on both sides of the Atlantic to make the strategy work.

The voice of his upper turret gunner merged with Jason’s thoughts.

Captain, would you mind if I danced with your girl?

A smile tugged at Jason’s mouth. He’d seen his men drawing straws and wondered if the youngest member of his crew had won or lost. Either way, he was sure the sergeant had been set up. Jason nodded at Ann. Well, Junior, I think you’re asking the wrong person.

Yes, sir. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the airman said, Ma’am? as if he expected to be turned down.

I’d love to dance with you, Sergeant Kramer, Ann said, emphasizing his name and rank, while looking derisively at Jason for calling him Junior. She took the airman’s arm and strolled with him to the dance floor.

Jason unfolded his lean six-three and headed for the bar. As he threaded his way back, he began to laugh. One by one, his men were taking turns tapping Ann’s current partner on the shoulder, while glancing slyly at their CO as they did so.

He sat down, patted his shirt pocket, and withdrew the almost empty pack of Lucky Strikes. He was smoking too much, but it helped to ease the tension, especially the night before a flight. His gut told him this would not be an ordinary mission. What the hell was that? Jason asked himself. None of them were ordinary. They were the stuff nightmares were made of, and he was having plenty of those.

Massed together at staggered elevations for strength, as well as protection, their bombers were flying deeper and deeper into enemy territory. The losses were abysmal. Yet the top Brass, likely some five-stars in Washington, Jason assessed cynically, considered the demise of three out of every ten planes to be, though unfortunate, within acceptable limits. Whatever that meant. Jason could only hope the men in charge didn’t view Germany as a yellow blob inside some squiggly black lines on a map. Whether they did or not wouldn’t affect him personally. He was proud to contribute to the effort that, he felt certain, would defeat the Nazis.

But, the fighting men and women, aircrews, like his, were the real blood and bone of the free world—the great hope for a better, kinder future. Kids barely out of high school were sacrificing their lives to keep faith with their loved ones at home, to protect their way of life. And that Jason took personally.

The missions swam together in his mind, though some stood out more poignantly than others. He couldn’t recall all of the close calls they’d had, wondering if his mind had conjured up amnesia as an involuntary defense mechanism. Jason just prayed their luck would hold. No one’s had. But then he remembered The Memphis Belle, its captain and crew. After completing twenty-five missions, they were back home, enjoying the hero status they so richly deserved.

Jason studied his crew.

Scott Kramer, Junior, twenty-years old, from Fair Oaks, California, a suburb of Sacramento. Before entering the service, he’d completed one year of pre-law at Sacramento State. He was good-looking, Jason decided, five feet ten or so with an athletic build, dark hair and eyes, a contagious grin. Everyone liked him. He took their good-natured ribbing about his age in stride and dished out a little of his own from time to time. Jason wondered how his crew would feel if they knew he was only a couple of years older than Scott. They wouldn’t believe it. The truth was, he couldn’t believe it either. Surely, he’d never been as young as they were. Born old? Maybe so.

Sergeant Ben Murphy from Helena, Montana, the right waist gunner, hoped one day to be a pharmacist, and Sergeant Joe Callahan from Atlanta, Georgia, the left waist gunner, aspired to be an architect. Both were typically Irish in appearance—dark hair, sky blue eyes, ruddy complexions. Not only did they fly butt to butt in the narrow icy space allotted to them, they were practically glued together on the ground as well.

Jason zeroed in on Second Lieutenant Blair MacDuff, his navigator and cheek gunner, from Carmel, California. If Mac survived the war, eventually, he’d take over his father’s cattle ranch. He was a towhead, of medium height and build, quiet, with a slow, easy grin that seemed to sneak up on him. Mac was afraid to fly, and Jason knew it. Yet in spite of his trepidation, Lieutenant MacDuff was considered the best navigator in the squadron.

The native New Yorker, First Lieutenant Irving Weisman, The Lady’s bombardier and chin turret gunner, destined from birth to be a rabbi. His calm exterior and inner strength were only a few of his many qualities Jason had come to admire and count on. Irv was the first to reach the wounded, quieting their fears, dressing their wounds, though to date, the crew had suffered only minor injuries. The only thing that could keep him from the wounded was his zealous commitment to dropping The Lady’s bellyful of bombs on target. He was as tall as Jason, with pointed, evenly balanced features, dark eyes and hair.

Sergeant Adam Graham, the radio officer and ball turret gunner hailed from Seattle, Washington. He was a little guy, five feet five, with flaming red hair, a face full of freckles, and an infectious grin. Adam dreamed of owning a commercial fishing boat.

Tech’ Sergeant Nick Andretti, the flight engineer and top turret gunner, from Globe, Arizona. A handsome dude, Jason thought, eyeing Andretti’s curly black hair and eyes, the lazy grin. He was the practical joker of the outfit, his wit always at the ready, if the crew’s spirits flagged. A graduate of the University of Arizona, he planned to attend medical school after the war. Everyone called him Doc, and when his other duties allowed, he helped Irv with the wounded.

From Ada, Oklahoma, Sergeant Mark Froman, the tail gunner, a professional cowboy, already known on the national rodeo circuit. And he was built like a bull, with brown hair and green eyes, quiet, almost reclusive at times, except now, Jason observed, when there were women in the mix.

Jason thoroughly admired and respected them. Each was as individual and unique as the places they were from, yet a strong, cohesive unit. It was difficult for him to be objective, to separate who they were from the job they’d signed on to do. But the slightest hesitation in combat could be fatal. And Jason didn’t forget it for a moment. Once the props were spinning, he didn’t allow his personal feelings to affect his judgment. When his hands touched the controls, he was Captain Borseau, the pilot, not Jason Borseau, the man. Deep in thought, he didn’t see his copilot, First Lieutenant Chris Meadows, standing beside him, until he spoke.

Well, boss, I think the guys are having a little fun at your expense. Yes, siree, they’re the men in charge. At least for the moment.

Oh, yeah. Jason nodded at the oldest member of his crew. They’d love it if I’d go out there and retrieve Ann, but I’m sure as hell not going to give them that satisfaction.

Chris grabbed a chair, flipped it around, and sat with his arms propped along the back. What’s going on, Jace? He frowned into his CO’s eyes. I’ve never seen so much frantic activity at this base before.

‘Can’t help you there. I haven’t heard any scuttlebutt. Jason kept his voice even, though his stomach began to churn. Maybe we’re going to hit Mannheim or Bremen again. The brass have clammed up. Even their aides are walking around like zombies. Jason dredged up a smile, one he didn’t feel, for his copilot. Until the briefing, we’ll just have to sweat it. Which reminds me, and I hate to spoil their fun, even though it’s at my expense, the men need to head for their quarters soon.

As if anyone’s going to sleep, Chris said dryly as he shifted his tall, gangly frame in the hard chair. Speaking of that, every time I turn over in my bunk, you’re sitting on the edge of yours smoking a cigarette.

"Yeah, I’m having a little trouble nodding off. We’ve been so damned lucky, I can’t help wondering how much longer Lady Luck will hitch a ride with our Lady."

Chris squirreled his mouth to one side. "Lady luck? I don’t know, I’ve never held much with luck. Hands down, you’re the best pilot in the squadron, and I think we have an amazing crew.

Hell, my dad’s a farmer and a good one. Chris laughed. To hear him tell it, he doesn’t believe in gambling, but in Nebraska—the Midwest in general, I suppose—raising crops and getting them harvested is a toss of the dice every year. Luck has nothing to do with it, but circumstances sure as hell do. Hail, floods, invasions of grasshoppers, locusts, so thick they blot out the sun, cyclones, drought. I think that’s what we’re facing. No matter how skilled we may be, we can’t control the circumstances. Some maybe, but not all.

Jason leaned back, took a sip of the lukewarm brew he’d never gotten used to, and gazed thoughtfully at his copilot. So, I take it you don’t intend to farm after the war.

Hell no. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, but I want to get into politics. When I graduated from high school, I thought I wanted to be a teacher—English Lit’, at the college level, eventually. He chuckled at the memory. "I’d already done my student teaching, when I said to myself, Chris, how are you going to convince these farm boys that Shakespeare should be important to them or that understanding Beowulf will make a difference in their lives? After working from dawn ’til dusk in the fields, I couldn’t see a one of them curling up with Romeo and Juliet.

"The girls, young women, who weren’t there to find a husband, were enjoying a well-earned vacation from cooking for harvest crews, canning, tending an acre or so of garden, milking cows, churning butter. By the time they got to college, they knew what would be important in their lives and how to do it. Of course, not all of them were destined to be farmers’ wives.

Anyway, I transferred from Kearney State Teacher’s College to the University in Lincoln and changed my major to political science. If I survive this goddamned war, maybe I’ll have some influence in keeping us out of the next one.

Jason contemplated his copilot, seeing him from a different aspect than he had before.

What’re you going to do, Jace?

Finish college, two more years to go. Then I’d like to get into broadcasting. Before the war, I worked part-time at a Phoenix station. Of course, I got the sweat jobs, carrying and setting up the recorders for the announcers who did remotes, updating copybooks sort of duty. The summer before I enlisted, I wrote some ad copy.

Chris cocked an eyebrow. Was it any good?

Jason laughed. "Well, they didn’t deep six it. Maybe I was lucky enough to draw a few of my dad’s journalistic genes. He owns and is the publisher of record for The Tucson Examiner. Naturally, he’d like me to follow in his footsteps, but the newspaper business isn’t for me. With a wave of his hand, Jason said, Actually, he’ll support whatever I decide to do, my mother, too. I’m her only chick, and she spoils me rotten. He laughed again. I guess they both do."

How old are you, Jace? Chris wondered why he’d never asked before, but something about Captain Borseau didn’t invite personal inquiries. And yet, he felt a special kinship with his commanding officer, a closer connection than he enjoyed with the rest of the crew.

Twenty-two, going on a hundred. Jason took a sip of beer. "My parents are European, ‘emigrated shortly before I was born. They were very different from the parents of the kids I went to school with. We lived south of Tucson on an isolated chunk of desert, so until I could drive, I was theirs."

Jason paused to glance at Ann. She seemed to be enjoying herself. "Anyway, my dad’s an intellectual. Even before I could read, he was bombarding me with the classics—Shakespeare and Chaucer among them—art, music, history. We didn’t talk about the World Series. No, our discussions were grounded in philosophy—debates about life, liberty, and the pursuit of justice. Musing, Jason toyed with the cigarette package. Looking back, I think my father may have taken happiness for granted. Maybe because he was, is, so filled with the joy of living."

Twenty-two? Chris drew back and squinted. I thought you were older than I am. You already have some silver in that black mane of yours.

Yeah, and Adolf put them there. Jason raked his fingers through his hair. Hey, buddy, at least I have a full head of the stuff. He nodded toward his copilot’s thinning, kinky brown hair, and laughed when Chris flipped a middle finger at him.

Jason admired his copilot, had confidence in him. Chris was smart and steady, cool under fire, quick to respond. On the ground, he had an easy gait, loping along as if he had no place in particular to go, even when he was in a hurry. They’d been through some terrifying moments, but nothing seemed to ruffle his copilot. Maybe Chris didn’t believe in luck, but Jason was grateful for the cut of the cards that had put him in The Lady’s second seat.

Twenty-two? Chris said again. Nah, too damned young to have made Captain.

The Air Force was desperate for pilots, and I knew how to fly when I joined up.

Movie-star good looks, sort of a cross between Tyrone Power and Robert Taylor.

Jesus, give me a break. If you’re bucking for a promotion, I shot the paperwork into the system a month ago, Jason muttered.

"No, really, I’m surprised the Air Force hasn’t put your handsome mug on one of those Uncle Sam Needs You posters. With a boisterous laugh, Chris lifted his arms as if to ward off an impending blow. Okay, Jace, I’ll round up the boys and head them toward their quarters. He grinned and added, Then you can escort Ann to wherever it is you two go."

A frown narrowed Jason’s eyes. Thanks, Chris. He glanced at his watch. It was 2230 hours. The briefing was scheduled for 0600.

Jace, it’s none of my business, but that little nurse is in love with you. Are you aware of that?

For a long moment, Jason concentrated on his hands, stretching his fingers, squeezing them into fists. He took the last cigarette from the pack, twisted the paper and cellophane into a bow and tossed it on the table. With a snap of his Zippo, he torched the cigarette, pulled a mouthful of smoke into his lungs, and let it drift out, before meeting his copilot’s gaze. Or so she thinks. Jesus, Chris, she’s twenty years old.

Oh, and you’re an old man of twenty-two. If you were in love with her it wouldn’t matter.

You’re right, I’m not in love with her, but I care about her, and you have no idea how lousy I feel for letting it go this far.

What’re you going to do?

Tell her, after we get back from this mission. With a sardonic smile, Jason added, Maybe I’ll cash it in and it’ll be moot.

"Well, there’s a flip side to that. It’s the only way I’ll ever get to fly The Lady. You’re stingy as hell with her."

Knowing Chris’ comment was only partly in jest, Jason was quick to say, If I sat in your seat, I’d have a raging case of the jitters.

Yes, you would, but I don’t. I know when I’m outclassed, and I’m damned glad you’re at the controls, Jace. Hey, if I believed in reincarnation, I’d guess, in some former life, you were an eagle soaring through the skies.

Jesus, if you’re through kissing my ass, I’ll rescue Ann, and you can round up the crew. Just kidding, Jason said with a grin as he leaned forward to give his copilot’s shoulder a squeeze. I admire you too, more than you may know.

I t was dark when Jason left the officer’s quarters and stepped into the impenetrable mist that hugged the ground and rose like an eerie, gray specter to shroud the sky. It would be hours before they could get off the ground, if at all. Timely takeoffs could never be counted on.

Damned English weather, he muttered. But he knew it wasn’t just England, it was Europe in general. Cloud cover frequently obscured their primary targets, forcing them to attack targets of opportunity or return to the base with their bombs still on board.

The Lady’s crew chief, a ghostly outline in the Jeep at the curb, hailed him. Good morning, Captain.

Morning, Mitch, ‘hope I didn’t keep you waiting.

No, sir, but it looks like a lousy day to fly. I practically had to feel my way from the field to your quarters.

We should be getting used to it. Jason turned toward his crew chief. What’s with the hydraulic system? he said, referring to a problem the bomber had developed on their last mission.

Just a small leak. It’s fixed, the chief said as the Jeep lurched forward.

Though the Fort was considered a relatively vice-free aircraft, flying in the rarified sub-stratosphere put considerable stress on the aircraft as well as the crew. Engine temperatures could reach critical limits, and the hydraulic turbo-supercharged regulators could freeze up. Both needed constant monitoring. Whether from enemy action or mechanical failure, feathering a propeller might create other problems. A number of 17s had been lost when severe vibration from idling props compromised the safety of the planes and their crews.

In addition to fatigue, the long flights created other risks for the airmen, frostbite among them, while the heavy clothing they wore to offset the cold restricted movement in the cramped spaces. Wearing oxygen masks for hours at a stretch was physically debilitating, but a failure in the oxygen supply would quickly cause unconsciousness and worst case, death.

When they drew alongside The Valiant Lady and hopped out of the Jeep, the vast tarmac was already thrumming with activity. Before each mission, Jason inspected the plane, tested the engines, the operating systems, touched everything he could reach, and talked to The Lady, as if she, too, was blood and bone. In flight, the bomber was essentially an extension of his being.

An hour and a half later, satisfied, to the extent he could be, that the bomber was fit to fly, Jason hitched a ride to the briefing room. He shivered, forcing images of Arizona’s sunshine away, determined to ignore the damp air, even as it permeated his leather flight jacket.

If the mission were scrubbed, it would mean another sleepless night. He was tired, but knew it was more emotional than physical. He’d always gotten by with very little sleep. Of course, with the lives of his crew depending upon him, getting by wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t a matter of closing his eyes, Jason couldn’t shut his mind to the innocent men, women, and children, who would die beneath his bomber that day. God, how he hated this war!

When, like a giant igloo, the familiar Quonset hut loomed out of the fog, Jason jumped off the back of the still-moving utility truck. Mentally immersed in the impending mission, he hoped Chris had remembered to bring his clipboard and flight bag. When Jason left their quarters, his copilot was more asleep than awake. As he’d started out the door, Jason had gone back to his locker to throw in some extra ammunition for his Smith and Wesson thirty-eight. He never flew without it, the possibility of having to crash-land in enemy territory uppermost in his mind. He was an expert marksman, though he wondered if he could kill a human being face to face, praying to God he’d never have to make that decision. He didn’t think of himself as a soldier, only as a pilot. Of course, he had to stop kidding himself. Face to face or from the sky, the inevitable outcome was death and destruction.

As he strode into the cavernous briefing room, he spotted Chris at one of the rectangular tables near the back, and took the empty seat beside him.

Chris glanced at him and with a facetious grin, asked, Is the love of your life ready to go?

As far as I can tell. Chief fixed the hydraulic system, said it was a small leak. Jason glanced around. Jesus, I need a cup of coffee.

I figured that. Chris slid a cup in his CO’s direction.

Thanks, buddy.

You’re welcome. I didn’t think an Air Force Captain with caffeine deprivation at 30,000 feet would be a pretty sight.

It won’t be long now, Jason said as the pontifical entrance began. Generals, colonels, and majors, in descending order, strode two by two down the center aisle to the stage and mounted the stairs.

Attenhut!

As he stood, pride expanded Jason’s chest. He might joke about the Brass, but what could be more devastating than pronouncing death sentences on a third of the men in this room? And the judgment would be carried out before the end of the day.

Chris elbowed Jason and nodded at the wall chart where the positions of the bombers were indicated. We’re flying starboard wing to the lead plane.

So I see. Thank god, it’s General Labonte’s outfit. Jason respected Jake Labonte’s piloting skills, his levelheaded leadership.

One of the aide’s went to the blackboard, grabbed a piece of chalk, and with bold strokes, printed the mission’s target.

In the years to come, Jason would wake up drenched with sweat, the words indelibly branded on his soul.

TODAY’S MISSION: SCHWEINFURT

Two

Columbia, Idaho

October 13, 1943

K athryn Whittaker wrinkled her nose. Yuk. No one could kid her. After all, she was one who mixed the orange dye into stuff that looked like lard. Poising the knife above the bowl of oleomargarine, she hesitated, then slathered raspberry jam on her toast instead. After putting everything back in the fridge, she cleaned the breadboard and left the kitchen, vaulting up three steps to the broad landing, jumping down three steps to the entry hall. It was like crossing a stile over a fence.

Peas! She’d be more than happy to give up those puky green things for the war effort. Then, with a twinge of guilt, she thought about her Uncle Jim Reynolds, her mother’s brother, who was fighting with General Patton’s Army in Europe. Though they heard from him quite regularly, day-to-day, they didn’t know if he was alive or dead. At Mass on Sundays, the family lighted candles and prayed for his safe return. St. Christopher’s wasn’t far from their house. So, on her way home from school, Kathryn often stopped to pray for her uncle and all of the Americans fighting abroad.

They should be hearing from him again, any day now. Kathryn could see his precise handwriting on the flimsy stationary with Via Airmail stamped on the envelope. She wrote to him every week, as did the rest of her family. They sent packages, tins filled with his favorite peanut butter cookies, as well as other incidentals he might not be able to get—the half-dozen pairs of heavy wool socks, after her uncle had written how much he dreaded the bitterly cold winter ahead. In Nebraska, where they were from originally and still called home, the winters were terrible, too, but no one had to march in sleet or snow or sleep outdoors.

Shortly after the war started, the girls in the Home Ec’ classes at school began knitting afghan squares. Once there were forty-eight of them, the teachers crocheted them together. She wondered where they’d gone? Maybe at this very moment they were keeping some wounded soldiers warm.

The grandfather clock bonged, ominously reminding her that if she didn’t get going, she’d be late for school. Kathryn clamped the toast between her teeth, put on her coat, and pulled a stocking cap, the one her grandmother had crocheted for her, over her curly, honey-colored hair.

Granddad and Grandee Whittaker lived in Idaho’s Bitterroot Wilderness. If they weren’t snowbound, they’d be coming for Thanksgiving. Kathryn loved spending her school vacations with them at The Aerie, so-named because it was at the very top of Eagle Mountain. This past summer, granddad, from whom everyone said she’d gotten her gray eyes, had given Kathryn her very own horse, Seraphina, a two-year-old Appaloosa filly.

Swallowing the last bite of toast, Kathryn grabbed her books from the library table, and shouted up the stairs, I’m leaving, Mother.

Come straight home after school. I’m playing bridge, and Ann has choir practice, she added, referring to Kathryn’s sister, who was a freshman in college. You’ll have to sit with Jeff.

What about my piano lesson?

I’ll reschedule it.

Okay, bye, Kathryn called back.

Oh, did you—?

Put on clean underwear? Kathryn smothered a giggle. Golly, yes, what if I was in an accident? It was common knowledge that if one of Diane Whittaker’s children were, god forbid, injured in some way, the most important thing would be the condition of their unders.

Don’t be sassy, darling, her mother said, peering over the curving balustrade, beautiful as always, with her tousled dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Everyone likened her to Hedy Lamarr, the movie star.

Just kidding. Still grinning, Kathryn hurried through the door and across the broad front porch, where, rather than taking the steps, she swung around one of the stately pillars and dropped to the ground.

Kafryn, her four-year-old brother Jeff yelled, you didn’t tell me goodbye.

Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I’m in such a hurry. Barb hasn’t gotten here yet, so I’m going by her house. Kathryn dashed back to hug her little brother. He looked so cute, all bundled up against the cold autumn air with bright red spots for cheeks. Kathryn took the handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped his runny little pug nose.

Is Barb sick?

If she is, we’ll take her homework by this afternoon. Okay?

Okay. Jeff threw his arms around his sister’s legs and grinned up at her. Can we make cookies, too?

Sure. Kathryn hugged him again. See you later. Be a good boy and stay out of the street!

Jeff waved a red mitten at her. I will.

Kathryn skirted around two lofty cedar trees to cut across the neighbor’s yard. She waved at the windows, in case Mrs. Beltran was watching. She was old, ninety-something, and too frail to do much of anything, except view life through the windows of her Victorian-style house. When she could, Kathryn liked spending time with the elderly woman. She’d listen intently, soaking up lore as Mrs. Beltran recounted her childhood memories—crossing the country in a covered wagon, with vivid descriptions of marauding Indians, fierce wild animal attacks, perilous river crossings, treacherous mountains to conquer, hunger and pestilence and death.

One day, Kathryn hoped to be a writer, like Bess Streeter Aldrich, her favorite author, who’d written about the very things Mrs. Beltran talked about. It had taken Kathryn the better part of a year to write the mystery story she’d given her mother for her birthday.

This is wonderful, Kathryn. Delighted by the unique gift, Diane Whittaker gave her daughter a fierce bear hug. I’ll cherish it, always. After leafing through the pages, she said, It must have taken a long time to write this. What inspired you to do it?

I don’t know. It’s just… I can’t not write, she responded.

Can’t not is a double negative, Kathryn.

Okay then, I have to do it.

Much better. Her mother lifted her daughter’s chin and smiled into her eyes. You’re such a strange little widget, so dear to my heart. So, while your friends were playing, you were writing this for me. Thank you, love.

Thinking back had caused her to dawdle, and it was getting so late, Kathryn was relieved when she got to the Larsen’s white stucco, one-story house. She crossed the neatly groomed yard, with its precisely trimmed privet hedge all around. A forest of ancient chestnut trees, now bereft of leaves, dwarfed the modest home.

Kathryn raced up the concrete steps and rang the bell. Theola Larsen, tall, austere, and unsmiling, opened the door.

Hi, Kathryn said, trying to catch her breath. If Barb’s ill, I’ll bring her homework by―

Barbara is on her way to school, she said.

Oh. Kathryn backed up a step, seeing the woman’s eyes narrow menacingly.

She can’t play with you anymore.

But why? Kathryn took another step back. I don’t understand.

Ask your mother, Mrs. Larsen said, with undisguised hostility. The door closed with a resounding bang in Kathryn’s face.

Too stunned to move, she just stood there, staring. What could have happened? Tears rose quickly to blur her vision. Her legs were trembling so, she missed the top step, and fell to the sidewalk below, scraping her knees on the rough concrete surface. Sobs rose in her throat as tears spilled from her eyes. She got up and glanced back at the house. The curtain at one of the windows fluttered. Mrs. Larsen had seen her fall, Kathryn thought sadly, but she didn’t care.

There wasn’t time to feel sorry for herself. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for school. Jefferson Junior High, where she was an eighth grader, was a mile away. But she couldn’t seem to make her legs go faster. They felt as heavy as the weight in her chest. Wouldn’t her mother have said something if she’d had an argument with Mrs. Larsen? How could such a thing happen when they hardly knew each other? Socially, her parents ran with a different crowd than the Larsens.

Her downcast eyes swept the sidewalk, but glancing up she spotted them—the girls she’d gone to school with since first grade. They were a block ahead of her. Her best friend, Meg Carmichael, turned to look at her, then whispered to the others. They laughed and started running.

The toast she’d eaten rose into her throat. She had to swallow hard to keep from throwing it up. Maybe she’d go home and talk to her mother. No! Her chin quivered, but her head lifted. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Whatever it was would simply go away.

Still, when her friends kept glancing back and laughing, she couldn’t bear the humiliation any longer. The moment they turned away again, she slipped behind the enormous trunk of a maple tree and pressed her back against it. Once she made sure they were out of sight, Kathryn circled the block, and crossed the playground to the rear entrance of the school. She hurried in, ran to her classroom, and heaved a sigh, grateful to have gotten there ahead of the others. She hung her coat and stocking cap in her locker and went to her desk. Her knees were bleeding, and she dabbed at them with her handkerchief.

Christina Berry, Kathryn’s homeroom teacher, came into the classroom and set her books on the desk at the front of the room. She was young and pretty and kind. Kathryn liked her better than any teacher she’d ever had.

Good morning, Kathryn. All by yourself this morning?

Good morning, Miss Berry. Yes… I… With that a flood of tears slipped from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

The teacher hurried across the room to Kathryn’s desk. What is it? What’s wrong, dear?

Oh, I fell and scraped my knees.

Let me see.

Kathryn turned sideways in the seat and lifted the hem of her pleated skirt.

Why you’re bleeding. Let’s have the nurse fix you up.

No, please, I’m fine. Kathryn wiped her knees with the stained handkerchief. See, it’s okay, the bleeding has nearly stopped.

Well, all right. Still, during recess, I’d like you to see the school nurse. Promise me you’ll do that.

Kathryn nodded and tried, without success, to manufacture a smile. Her gaze strayed to the door. Barbara, Meg, and the other girls were filing into the room.

Miss Berry said, Is something else wrong?

With a frantic shake of her head, she whispered, No, please, everything’s fine.

The teacher patted Kathryn’s shoulder and walked to her desk.

With their noses in the air, Barbara and Meg went to their desks, unfortunately situated in front of and behind Kathryn’s.

Swiveling around in her seat, Barbara hissed, Tattletale!

I didn’t tell Miss Berry anything. How could I, when I don’t know what this is about?

Liar! Your mother’s a slut, and your parents are getting a divorce.

Kathryn gasped, her eyes flaring, then narrowing. How dare you say that about my mother? You’re the liar, Barbara Larsen. And your mother’s a mean, ugly, old biddy.

What’s going on? their teacher said in a stern voice.

Nothing, Miss Berry, Barbara said, smiling sweetly.

Kathryn, is it nothing?

It’s nothing or it’s everything, she whispered, shaking her head, trying to rid herself of the roaring in her ears. Her hands fluttered to her face, pressed against her cheeks.

Barbara, what did you say to Kathryn?

Kathryn could see the teacher’s mouth moving, but she couldn’t make out what Miss Berry was saying. The room was spinning, faces blurring, voices fading as a veil of darkness descended over her. Her head fell back as she slumped in her seat and slid to the floor.

Three

The Schweinfurt Raid

October 13, 1943

T he controls vibrated in Jason’s hands as he fought to keep the bomber flying. The Lady was in serious trouble, and they had yet to drop their bombs. The raid had been ill fated from the start, and Jason had sensed it before they were wheels up. Being right was giving him no comfort. The raid was taking them deeper inside Germany than they’d ever been before. By comparison, all of their previous missions paled.

Certainly the weather had conspired against them, as it almost always did. Then, as The Loose Goose was taking off, it had blown a tire, spun out of control, and clipped a wing on Southern Comfort. While the ground crews moved the planes and cleared the debris, the runway had been tied up for the better part of an hour. Two Forts, already airborne, were burning fuel they’d need to make it back from the long flight—The Avenger, General Lebonte’s plane, and Jason’s plane, The Valiant Lady. The Goose had been slated to take off next. It was mid-day before the last of their nearly two hundred bombers had gotten off the ground.

Their fighter escorts had stayed with them as long as they dared, but finally were forced to turn back or run out of fuel. Jason was sure some of them probably had. Once the bombers were vulnerable, the Luftwaffe’s Messerschmitt 109’s and Focke Wulf 190’s closed in. A welcoming committee from hell, Jason said to himself. They’d taken a lot of hits, too many.

He had a decision to make, one he’d been wrestling with for the past hour. He could turn back if, in his judgment, the condition of his bomber warranted it, but, in the distance, he could see the Main River, and knew, unless the Luftwaffe got them first, they could make it to the target—the ball-bearing factories in Schweinfurt. Once they’d dropped their bombs, the Fort would be lighter, consume less fuel. Still, with a glance at the fuel gauge, Jason knew they’d never make it back to the base. He’d take his men as far as he could, hopefully out of enemy territory, before ordering them to bailout. For now, he decided, they’d finish the job they’d come to do.

He punched the throat mike. Sergeant Andretti, what’s the damage?

Working on it, Captain. I think we’re losing hydraulic fluid. How does the gauge look to you, sir?

Left of center, still within limits, Jason said. Nick, could we be losing fuel?

Captain, it’s bad back here, and I’m not sure of anything yet.

Keep me posted. Minute by minute.

Roger, Captain.

Shit, Jace, here they come again! Chris shouted as Hitler’s fighters broke through a cloudbank north of them and darted in like gnats drawn to a flame.

Look lively, men, they’re coming at us from every direction.

The Lady surfed across the sky, rising sharply, plunging suddenly, as FLAK from the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns exploded around them. Black smoke and orange and red bursts of flame filled the sky, as Hitler’s guns, seeking the intruders, found and destroyed them in devastating numbers. Visibility was severely limited. Patches of blue sky appeared intermittently, for moments only.

Jesus Christ, Jason muttered, instantly banking his plane into a sharp turn, barely escaping a collision with The Avenger as it wandered out of formation. A split second later, General Lebonte’s plane exploded directly in front of them. Debris smashed against The Lady, and Jason froze, bile rising in his throat, as a crack started at the base of the windscreen and traveled at crazy angles to the top. He and his copilot stared in silence as the crimson stain, mingled with bits of flesh, imbedded themselves in the Plexiglas.

The number three engine coughed and died, and number two began cutting in and out. It wasn’t wind milling as Jason knew it could, in which case, he’d be forced to shut it down. By feeding more fuel to it, at the least for the moment, he was maintaining altitude.

In one horrifying moment, The Lady had become the squadron leader and would be the first to drop her bombs. His bombardier was equal to the task, Jason knew, if he could keep the plane in the air. Lieutenant Weisman, we’re leading the flight. It’s up to you, he added.

Yes, sir, no problem, sir, Irv responded serenely.

As they neared the target, Jason couldn’t believe the German fighters were still swarming around them. He’d seen two ME-109’s destroyed by their own anti-aircraft fire.

Rockets at two o’clock, Ben Murphy screamed into Jason’s ears. By peeling to port and putting the plane into a moderate dive, Jason managed to avoid a direct hit and the disaster the modified air-to-air barrage missiles could create.

We took a hit, we’re hit! Joe Callahan yelled. Ben’s hurt, he wailed. Oh, Jesus, he’s bleeding bad.

On my way, Captain, Lieutenant Weisman’s calm voice crackled through the interphone.

Make it snappy, Irv, we’re not far from the target. Jason pulled the bomber back into formation. There’s a lot riding on us.

Roger, Captain, he responded.

Grab an extinguisher, Joe, Sergeant Andretti ordered. I need help here, he bellowed.

Four bandits coming at me in pairs from either side, Mark Froman hollered from his position in the tail.

I’m on it, Mark. Take the two on port, Adam Graham shouted back.

Jason’s jaws bunched. He wished to hell he was manning a gun.

I got one, Froman screamed jubilantly. Damn, where’s the other one, must’ve pulled up. Do you see it, Junior?

I see the fucking bastard, Scott Kramer growled and fired long bursts from the upper turret.

Captain, Joe’s in pretty bad shape, Andretti said. He and Ben are—

Sergeant Callahan, get back to your gun, Jason’s stern voice punctuated each word. Did you hear me, Joe? he snapped.

I hear you, Captain. I am, sir, he responded between sobs.

A bitter metallic taste scalded Jason’s throat. Then, like flipping a switch, he closed his mind to what was happening behind him, only concentrating on what lay ahead. Sergeant Andretti, I need a damage report. Now!

"Uh, Roger, Captain. The fire’s out, and it’s a miracle the interphone is working, electrical wires strewn all over the place. And I’m sure we’re losing hydraulic fluid. How does the gauge look to you now, sir?

Jason checked the oil pressure. Barely within normal range, he said. Sergeant, are you sure we aren’t losing fuel, too?

Still working on it, sir.

Keep me advised. Irv, let someone else take over. We’re approaching the target.

Captain, there’s nothing more I can do, Sergeant Murphy is dead.

All right, Lieutenant, get back where you belong, Jason responded quietly and glanced at his copilot. Chris had covered his face with his hands and rocked forward. At that moment, a shell pierced the windscreen, and Chris toppled out of his seat. Jason felt the bullet whiz past his head, heard it thud into the bulkhead.

Irv, Chris is hit. We need to drop our bombs and get the hell out of here. How far are we from the target?

Sir, Mac’s injured, too, the bombardier’s voice wasn’t as calm as usual. His right forearm. I’ve put a tourniquet on it, sprinkled it with sulfa, bandaged it, and I’ve given him a shot of morphine.

Is he conscious? Jason asked.

Yes, but until the morphine grabs, he’s in a lot of pain. And, sir, we’re five minutes to the target. Switch her over, Captain, I’ll take her from here, so you can see to Lieutenant Meadows.

Stunned, but conscious, Chris pulled himself back into his seat.

Where are you hit? Do you even know?

Somewhere in my upper arm. I can still move my fingers, feels like someone branded me. He jerked his oxygen mask down. I hate this fucking thing.

Dammit, I hate them, too, but the last we need is someone passing out. Put it on.

Jason hesitated for what seemed an interminable length of time. While adjusting his oxygen mask, Chris glanced at his CO, feeling compassion for him, knowing how much he hated to give up the control of his plane.

All of my equipment seems to be intact, Irv muttered, patting the Norden bombsight he referred to as Baby. Two minutes to target, Captain. On my mark, sir—three, two, one, mark.

Jason switched the controls to his bombardier and swiveled toward his copilot. Let me take a look at that. He unzipped his copilot’s flight suit, dropped the right sleeve, and eyed the wound. Reaching behind him, Jason opened the first aid kit, uncapped a syringe of morphine, and jabbed the needle into his copilot’s arm. You’re missing a chunk of flesh about the size of a quarter from your upper arm. It isn’t bleeding much. The bullet must’ve cauterized it.

Well, hell, Jace, I guess that’s why it only hurts when I laugh. Chris squeezed and released his fist, bent his elbow up and down.

Yeah, smart ass, that must be it. Jason rubbed the bald spot on the crown of the Lieutenant’s head. Just think, you’ll get a purple heart. He chuckled, wrapped gauze around Chris’ arm and taped it in place.

Why do I think it’ll be awarded posthumously? From where I sit, our chances are slim to none.

Jason flicked a thumb across the bullet protruding from the bulkhead. I’m not giving odds this time.

Thirty seconds to target, Captain, opening the bomb bay doors.

For the next few minutes, they’d be suspended in time, the crew holding its collective breath. This was the job they’d come to do. And now, they knew how costly it had become. One of their comrades was dead.

Bombs away.

With a sigh of relief, Jason felt the lift of the plane as the bombs fell from The Lady’s belly through the sky. Bombs away, he echoed, hoping to hell they weren’t hitting any residences, schools, or hospitals near the factories. Jason closed his eyes to the victims’ faces. There was some consolation in knowing that their daylight raids were more precise than the RAF’s night sorties. They were almost always off target and indiscriminate as to whom or what they hit.

On target, Captain, right in the pickle barrel, his bombardier’s upbeat voice crackled into Jason’s headset. The bomb bay doors are closed, and you can have her back, sir. She’s all yours.

Lieutenant MacDuff, if you’re up to giving me a heading, let’s get the hell out of here. Jason listened and said, Copy that, Lieutenant. But when the bomber made a wider turn than he’d intended, Jason realized, along with their other problems, the rudder had been damaged.

Hitler’s Folly dropped its bombs next, then arced around, and followed Jason’s lead.

How’s that arm holding up, Mac? the Captain asked.

Well, sir, I wish I’d learned to write left-handed, and I’m pretty lightheaded. I just hope I don’t let you down, sir.

Jason cringed and met his copilot’s eyes. "Mac, just keep telling me where to point The Lady’s pretty nose, and I’ll take it from there."

Cris shook his head and looked away. She’s shimmyin’ like my sister Kate, Jace, and how about rudder control?

Still responding, but sluggish.

From the upper turret, Scott Kramer shouted, Two bogies at twelve o’clock, closing fast.

Mac? Irv glanced up to see his partner sprawled over his gun in the cheek turret. Squeezing out of the tight quarters he occupied under the nose, he snaked his way to Mac, and checked the tourniquet he’d applied to what was left of the navigator’s right arm. The wound was seeping, but not bleeding profusely as it had at first. Feeling the pulse in his partner’s neck, Irv blew out a breath.

Captain, Mac’s unconscious. I’ll try to move back and forth between the two guns, but I’ll need some help from you folks upstairs, Irv said.

Understood. Everybody copy that? Call out your sightings. Suddenly, the bomber shuddered convulsively as a bullet a second pounded into her fuselage.

Oh, Jesus, Chris cried out. "The Bomb Squad just took a FLAK burst. She’s going down, Jace. Oh, Christ, I don’t think anyone got out. My friend Tom Cameron—"

Later, Lieutenant, Jason snapped. And that was why he didn’t want to get close to anyone, even his crew, but dammit, they were family, and one of his boys was lying dead back there. Even so, Jason couldn’t help thinking about the Bomb Squad’s officers he’d spent time with two nights before. They’d had a few beers, talked about home—the New York Giants, the Brooklyn Dodgers—knowing deep down, it might be the last time they would. Tom Cameron, whose life had been extinguished moments before, was married, the pictures of his wife and three children within easy reach, eagerly handing them off to anyone who showed the slightest interest. Jason was always interested. And maybe a little envious, he decided.

"Damn, The Iron Maiden and Hitler’s Folly are going down," Chris said.

Feeling his emotions begin to race, Jason watched the Forts spiral toward the earth, praying he’d see some parachutes.

No parachutes.

I know. Well, hell, Jason said, when the number two engine began belching black smoke. Feather two, Chris.

Feathering two.

Lieutenant Weisman, Irv, can Mac give me a fix? I think we’re near the Holland border, but I need confirmation.

Mac’s unconscious, sir, but if you’ll give me a minute, I can do it.

Okay, do what you can, Jason muttered. And I want a report from each of you in the rear. We took a lot of hits. Sound off, starting with you, Sergeant Andretti.

Sir, Sergeant Callahan, Joe, is dead. The radio equipment’s all shot to hell, so even when we can break silence, we won’t be able to communicate with the rest of the squadron. Sergeant Graham, Adam, is wounded. He can’t see, Captain, Andretti whispered into his throat mike. I’ve taken over Callahan’s gun in the waist. Sergeants Kramer and Froman are okay, sir. Junior just took out another Jerry. I think we’re leaking fuel, and sir, how does the oil pressure gauge look now?

Left of center, Sergeant, Jason replied, knowing it didn’t matter where they were. Soon, very soon, he’d have to order the bail out. Still, every minute he could keep the plane in the air got them closer to home. Home, he thought, cynically.

He pulled down his oxygen mask and turned to Chris. If I order the bail out now, those Nazi bastards will shoot you out of the sky. It’s risky, but I’m going to push her as far as she’ll go.

"By you, do you mean everyone else will jump, and you’ll stay with the wounded, and try to handle them and the plane by yourself?" Chris growled.

Plummeting through the sky without a plane around me holds no appeal for me whatsoever, Jason said dryly.

Well, dammit, for me either. I don’t like parachutes any more than you do, Jace, his copilot said, bristling.

When the time comes, you’ll go, Lieutenant Meadows, Jason snapped, pulling rank on his copilot. "That’s an order, and it’s not up for debate. The Lady’s a tough old girl, but even she can’t take any more and fly. He punched the throat mike. Sergeant Andretti, get the men into their chutes, and Nick, see to Adam’s. Sergeants Kramer and Froman, I know you’re tight for space, but keep your chutes no more than an arm’s reach away."

Roger, Captain, they responded dismally in sequence.

Irv, put a chute on Mac, in case we all have to jump, and one on yourself.

Already done, Captain, Irv said.

Jason could no longer maintain the 25,000-foot altitude, and The Lady had fallen beneath the scattered formation. There were significantly fewer bombers than had left the base that morning. Jason guessed about half of the 17s were missing, hoping some were simply lagging behind.

Circling above the formation, the ME-109’s and FW-190’s were dropping bombs on the Forts, with devastating results. Of course, once she fell behind, Jason knew the fighters would close in fast to cut The Lady down. And now, they could man only four, possibly five, of their thirteen guns.

There was one thing going for them. During the last few minutes, with the exception of a few diehard stragglers, the Luftwaffe, low on fuel, was turning back in droves. Jason wondered how the sister raid on the Focke-Wulf factories in Regensburg had gone. From a pilot’s point of view, destroying the German’s ability to manufacture their fighter planes was a whole lot better than trying to knock them out of the sky while they were shooting at you.

Captain, we’ve crossed the Rhine River. We’re in The Netherlands, their air space anyway. I’ve spotted some flatlands down there, but the problem is, there are forests on both sides. I don’t know if you can squeak between them or not, may lose a wing or both trying, Irv said.

Roger, Jason said. "I’m taking her down to 10,000 feet. Chris, go back and get the men who’re able ready to jump. Put on your chute, you’re going with them. Have the men throw