One Thousand Years Read Free

downward at
sixty-five degrees. The flak was directed at him now. After dozens
of missions like this, he felt that knew the Germans' playbook. The
temptation to defend himself was great. He wanted so badly to
reciprocate with his .50 cals, but he had to concentrate on that
bridge. His ears cleared, and so did his mind.
    “Bridge
still up, but smoking,” he shouted, reporting on Brooks' hit.
He stayed quiet from then on, wanting to be completely focused for
the last moment before releasing his bomb.
    That moment was approaching as though in slow motion.
His cockpit shook hard as the enemy's flak exploded around him.
He made an instantaneous decision to fall another three seconds
— a long and dangerous three seconds
— to get the aim right. Then he released the bomb and pulled
up, pushing the throttle, feeling the intense gee-forces, and
resisting the unrealistic fear that the wings could snap off, or the
very real worry that those gee-forces could force him to black out.
    But
that worry was short-lived. He was okay, and his plane was okay. It
felt good to be rid of the 1,000 pound bomb that was dragging him.
He gained altitude quickly to rejoin the group in a circle around the
target, while checking for damage from that flak.
There must have been damage, he knew, but he couldn't see any of significance.
His eyes scanned the sky again,
hoping for a repeat of their recent air battle.
He wondered, too, about that remarkable silver ship he'd seen those months before.
    The next man dropped his bomb, increasing the damage to where it could
not be easily repaired. But then Douglas sighted enemy aircraft above.
Coming from a dive, the German fighters would be quickly on them.
    Parker
turned hard right, leading them into the attack. “Battle
stations, people! Those still carrying, find a good place to
jettison, but get in formation quick!”
    “‘190s,”
Brooks shouted — meaning the Focke-Wulf 190, the
Luftwaffe's versatile fighter. They had tangled with ‘190s before.
The Germans were faster, and could climb higher, but the P-40 was
more agile and had better armoring. Today, the Germans' main
advantage was their numbers.
There were simply more of them this day. Too many more.
    “I
count at least twenty,” said Rebbit, one of the new
replacements.
    “At
least,” agreed Parker. The formation tightened up. Parker saw
that the enemy aircraft were going to overcast — coming in too
high. He made a sharp right, leading the men under the Germans.
    Now
the real fighting would begin. They broke off into pairs, McHenry
with Douglas, as the ‘190s did as well. But the numbers quickly made
coordination impossible.
    McHenry
was attempting to line up on a ‘190, only to find another attacking
from behind him. He turned, trying to shake him loose, but the man
stayed on him. He cut his power and turned into a tight barrel roll,
letting his follower overtake him. That worked. Then he pushed the
throttle to stay close behind. He almost had it in his sights but a
second ‘190 came from the side, now firing at him. McHenry made a
wild corkscrew turn, coming out of it nearly lined up on the second
‘190. They both turned and banked, but McHenry was turning tighter,
reaching for the sweet spot where their swerves could cross the
trajectory of his shells. Finally, he pushed the trigger.
    He
expected to see his tracers spit forward but they didn't. His guns
didn't fire. He pushed the trigger again, with no result. With
another ‘190 behind him, he jinked left so hard it was difficult to
get his fingers to check the gun switches. They were already on. He
reset them quickly, to no avail. Leveling off only long enough to
clear his mind and try it again, slowly, his guns still didn't fire.
He toggled the gun switches off and on one more time. Nothing.
    “My
guns are out!” he called. “Repeat, this is Anthem; my
guns are out.”
    Douglas
was quick to reply. “Jammed?”
    “Negative.
Appears electrical.”
    “Reset
your gun