James Benn: The First Wave

"We should go down to the bomb shelter," I said.

"No. Let's stay here. I don't want to run and hide."

She hooked her arm through mine and something told me that she was right. Cowering in a basement was the last thing Diana needed to do right now. Unless those bombers were aware this was a headquarters building, that is. We stood at the balcony railing, watching the bombers draw closer, coming toward us at an angle, aiming for the harbor. Air raid sirens started to howl throughout the city, as people below us scattered to shelters and slit trenches. I shaded my eyes with my hand and tried to count them. It looked like twenty-five or so. Heinkel 111s again.

A snarling roar came from behind us, and I ducked instinctively as four RAF Spitfires flew over the hotel, so low that the palm trees bent forward as the planes blasted past us. Diana shrieked in surprise and then we both laughed, crazily. It was like having a ringside seat at the fights, the excitement of the match boiling up inside you. Now our boys were in the ring, and I was damned glad those Heinkels wouldn't have such a smooth run this time.

The Spitfires flew on a collision course with the bombers, aiming to break up their formation before they reached the docks. They climbed briefly, rising slightly above the Heinkels, then leveled out. The bombers grew larger as the fighters closed the distance. Suddenly the four fighters split into two groups, one pair swooping head on into the formation, machine guns blazing. The other pair looped around and came in from the side, both firing their guns at the same bomber. It exploded in a ball of fire. The fighters broke off, climbing up and around for another run, as the bombers broke formation to avoid hitting the stricken plane, which flew forward in a flaming wreck until its wings caved in and it crumpled into the water. The first two fighters hadn't brought anyone down, but their attack run had broken up the tight formation. The bombers kept on course, but now they were all over the sky, and the fighters could pick their targets without running into a hail of fire from the machine guns that bristled from their tops and sides.

"Look!" yelled Diana, pointing with a shaky hand.

Another bomber was down, plowing into the sea as it dove, trying to maneuver away from the Spitfire hammering it. As the lead group got closer to the docks it was met by anti-aircraft fire. The Spitfires were staying away from land, content to harass the rear of the formation, out of the line of fire from the ground.

I stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the palm trees to the docks. I heard the first bombs explode, but couldn't tell if they hit anything. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something headed for us. A Heinkel was hurtling straight toward the hotel, a Spitfire slightly above and behind him, both barely above eye level. Machine guns sparkled on the Spit's wings, and little pieces of the bomber flew off as the pilot strained to get away. His bomb bay doors opened and I wondered if the hotel was his target, before I realized he was dropping weight, getting rid of his bombs in hope of climbing and escaping. The planes were so close I could count the bombs as they tumbled out, exploding in the ocean one after another, in a line heading straight for the shore below us. Five, six, seven hit the water and then the bomber was almost over our heads. Eight and nine exploded on the hillside and then I saw the last, number ten. Its tailfins wobbled as it sailed down toward us and the bomber rose and roared over the hotel, the fighter racing behind, chattering machine guns drowning out all other noises as I stood in front of Diana and waited for that last great crashing noise. I felt her arms around me and we both watched, transfixed by the falling bomb that seemed to take forever to reach the ground. I was sure I could follow its trajectory and see right where it would land, below us in the green, manicured gardens. We embraced and I closed my eyes.

A sharp crunching sound, then silence. We looked at each other, amazed to be alive, but eerily calm. Smoke curled in the air from the direction of the harbor, distant explosions fading as the bombers ran for home. We stepped forward, looking down over the edge of the balcony railing. I gripped it hard; the feeling of cold iron steadied in my trembling hands.

Below us dirt was scattered everywhere. An unexploded 250- pound bomb scarred the garden, its tail fins pointing skyward, its nose buried in the soft ground. It was close enough to spit on. A dud? Or maybe it was set to explode in five minutes, or an hour, who knew? We were alive. We backed into the room, holding hands, moving carefully, as if a heavy step might set it off.

"Billy," Diana said. Her hands were trembling. She grabbed at my shirt and pressed her face to my chest. "I thought I'd never see you again, I thought I'd die there. I wanted to die, so many times."

She pressed her forehead against my chest, as she cried for the first time since she had raised that gun to her head. I put my arms around her.

"Do you understand?" she asked. "Can you?"

I knew what she wanted to hear, what she had to hear from me. I pressed my cheek to hers, feeling our tears mingle. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, about everything. About everything we had both lost, about all the death and pain and suffering. About Harding's heartbreak. About Gloria walking into the explosions. Maybe even about killing Villard. But mostly about how my hatred of Villard and what he’d done had come between us. Because I had let it come between us, tainting my every thought of her. I'd gotten rid of the poison, but I couldn't help wondering at the price.

"Do you?" she repeated, her moist eyes searching mine for understanding.

I understood. I nodded, holding her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes and whispered.

"Je suis desole, je suis desole, je suis deeole."