Steven Boyett - Fata Morgana

So this 190 comes in from one o’clock level and opens fire and then rolls off. He’s still firing as he goes by. I could feel it stitching down the whole length of the hull, front to back. He’s so close I think he’d have clipped us if he hadn’t rolled. I had his whole silhouette not fifty feet away from me and I turned and fired, but he was already gone.

They came in one more time like that. This time the captain turned us away before they broke. It gave the navigator and the top turret a shot, but I wasn’t expecting the turn and I missed by a mile when the fighter came by.

They peeled off after that. Two suicide charges at every Fortress coming off the bombing run, unload their thirties in a five-second burst, and then gone. They did some serious damage.

My interphone was out and I had no idea what the situation was inside the bomber. The engines weren’t smoking up but the right stabilizer was chewed up something awful. You could see the tail waggling; the captain was having to zigzag to go forward. I’m hitting the talk button and saying, “Ball gunner checking in, anybody read me?” There’s nothing. If it’s just my connection, they’ll know next time the captain calls a crew check. If it’s the whole interphone, someone’ll bang on the ball and I’ll bang back.

So I sit tight and do my job. I’ve got about ten seconds of ammo left and I keep my eyes peeled in case those bandits come back. Pleitzhaven was burning behind us. Two more Fortresses went down, but I couldn’t make out which ones. I counted eight parachutes. That’s the most helpless feeling in the world, watching that.

After a couple minutes it’s pretty clear the Ill Wind ’s in trouble. The tail waggle’s gotten worse, and every once in a while the right wing dips like she wants to roll.

Number Two engine cut out just as we got out over the North Atlantic. You could feel the drag trying to turn us, but the captain got the prop feathered and it wasn’t as bad. But now we’re out over the water and we’re flying slower and losing altitude.

Well, that engine quitting made up my mind. I had to see what was going on upstairs. I could always get back in the turret if I had to, but I sure as hell couldn’t always get out. So I rolled the guns straight down and I undid the hatch—and it wouldn’t move. I checked the latches and stood into it and felt it give. Well, if it’ll move, it’ll open. The only place I can brace is the footrests, but at this point I don’t give a damn about screwing up the range pedal, so I put my weight into it, and the hatch comes up and all this red just comes dripping down all over me. For a second I start to lose my noodle. Then I realize the hydraulics have been hit, and it’s fluid leaking everywhere. But then I think that can’t be right, either, because I was just moving the turret around like a carnival ride, no problem.

Something slides off the hatch as I stand up. I’m facing the back of the bomber, and the first thing I see is a line of holes big as dimes along the fuselage. There’s light coming in and they’re whistling loud as hell. There’s a loud roar from up front and a lot of wind rushing through the cabin.

Then I see the blood. It’s on the sides, the floor, the ribs. Like someone threw balloons full of red paint. There’s a pile of rags up against a bulkhead and I realize it’s Charlie Gower, one of our waist gunners. He’s frozen solid and the blood everywhere is just red ice.

The bomber jerks and I catch myself on the hatchway, and that’s when I see Eugene Walker, our other waist gunner. He must have been firing at the bandit as it came by, because he’s shot in the chest. It knocked him back on top of the ball turret, and he’s what was blocking my hatch. I’ve got his blood all over me and I feel like I’m gonna pass out, and I realize I’ve got to plug into an air tank pronto.

I pretty much fall into the radio room, and Bob Murray’s dead at his table with his head on his arm like he’s taking a nap. The line of bulletholes runs down the hull right beside him.

I plug into a walkaround and haul it back with me to check on the tail gunner. Past the rear wheel I can see Cantrell on his saddle at the tail gun, so I slide up a little more and I’m looking up at him and his face is blue. There’s frost on his eyelashes but not a scratch on him I can see. I think his oxygen feed got cut.

I don’t know why, but that gave me the creepy crawlies more than Charlie or Eugene. I guess because Cantrell never even had a clue. He just nodded off. Some people say that’s better, and maybe it is. But I still want to be there when it happens.

I slid out of the tail and went up front. There was a lot of wind coming through the ship and it was loud as hell. The whole thing was shaking and shuddering. I got through the bomb bay and saw J.D. there on the floor. He was our flight engineer. Looked like he’d been standing behind the cockpit seats and fell backward and hit his head.

What had probably knocked him off was a hole a yard wide on the left side, near the pilot seat. The wind coming through was so strong I could barely stand up. Captain Ryan and Pepper Thompson were still up there in the cockpit, so I crawled into the nose. Louie Stoddard, our bombardier, was laying up against the plexi, and Ferguson was on the floor by his navigator station. Both of them just shredded. It was awful.

There was nothing I could do, so I backed out of there and climbed up to the cockpit. You could barely hold on, the air was so strong coming through the flak hole. Pepper Thompson had the wheel and he was staring straight ahead. Captain Ryan was just staring.

I yelled out to the captain, but no one could’ve heard me with all that wind blasting. I leaned down to yell in his ear and I saw that he wasn’t even there from the waist down. The flak had just cut him in half. His seat was shredded and there was blood and foam everywhere. So it had to be Pepper Thompson who’d cut the feed to Number Two engine and feathered the prop. We called him Pepper because he poured Tabasco sauce on everything he ate. He was really struggling with the controls and I just stood there for a second. I didn’t know if he even knew I was there. I wasn’t sure what to do. Finally I put a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but he didn’t look back or take his hands off the wheel. I yelled at him that everybody was dead. He just nodded again and said something.

I leaned in close so I could hear him, and that’s when I saw about ten inches of metal sticking up out of his right side just as I felt his lips move against my ear. “We’re all dead,” he said.

I swear to god the hair stood up on the back of my head. I’ve had nightmares about it. His lips moving on my ear. That voice like it didn’t even have any breath, telling me We’re all dead.

I told him I’d stay with him but he just shook his head. I didn’t need to hear him to know what he said next. He said jump.

I told him I’ll get you a chute and we’ll get you out of here. He kind of smiled at that, and a lot of blood ran out of his mouth. He stared ahead and grabbed the control wheel harder, and I understood that I wasn’t going to be taking him anywhere.

We all have good luck charms. We don’t talk about them much because they have power for us and no one else. Pictures of girlfriends, letters from home. Pocket watches. I wear a medicine bag. My grandfather made it for me when I left the reservation. When he gave it to me he said that one day I would fight Wakínyan Tanka, the great bird whose voice is thunder. I can’t tell you what’s in that bag, but it has things that are part of my home. My people. So a piece of home is always with me. It’s connected. Like a radio beacon. So that wherever I go, it’ll help me get back home.