One Thousand Years Read Free Page A

switches,” Douglas said, sounding out of breath. They
were all busy.
    “Tried
that,” McHenry said, making another tight turn while looking
back and forth for the ‘190s he was tangling with, and then deciding
to dive toward the trees. He couldn't blame Douglas for the obvious
suggestion. Allowances are made for the stress of combat. He'd have
suggested that, too.
    “Anthem,
Twain,” Parker called. “Having trouble spotting you.
Can you get home?”
    “West
of the main,” McHenry replied, seeing the ‘190 on his tail
again. Then he saw there were two of them again, and immediately
took this as an opportunity to help the others win the day. “Leading
two away on a chase. Don't worry about me; will shake these guys.”
No sooner had he said that that he saw one more with them. Even
better , he thought. This could help even the odds for the
rest.
    He
hugged the contour of the ground, hills and valleys, nearly clipping
the trees. He had to keep looking behind, then forward, occasionally
seeing the Germans' tracers fly by, and occasionally missing trees
and high tension wires by inches. He went as fast as he could while
jinking. At 275 miles per hour, he was as likely to be killed by a
tree as by the Germans.
    He tried aiming toward the direction of his base but the three ‘190s had the advantage.
His heading was determined more by their attacks than by his own intent.
The best he could do was jink out of their sights while they seemed
to control the general direction. He didn't mind at first, as long
as it wasn't north. He was still alive. Then they reached the end
of the landscape, and they were out skimming over the sea.
    “I'm
out over the water,” he reported, although certain the men were
out of range by now, especially at this low altitude. He kept
jinking left and right, up and down, and picking up salt spray. The
Germans rarely had a good shot at him. One of them was gone now,
probably back to rejoin the fray, but possibly out of ammunition.
Bullets are heavy. An aircraft can only carry so many. It gave him
hope that they might run out, too. The other two kept at him, and
they scored more hits. Seeing that he was leaking fuel, he changed
tanks so that he could empty that one first. There was still enough
hope that he was able to think ahead.
    The
nose kept veering right. In a quick glance, he saw the edge of his
starboard wing now torn up. But, thankfully, his controls still
responded. He needed them. His life depended on his
maneuverability. He kept up his jinking, but they still forced him
out further over the sea. They scored more hits, one rattling the
armoring at his back. Wind hissed through a new misalignment of the
airframe, but the aircraft held together. Then the controls became
sluggish. He didn't even need to look behind him to know that most
of his rudder was shot out — a death sentence, he knew.
    Ditching
would be the smart thing to do. One of these Germans still gets
credit for a kill, and he wouldn't need to die. Would they let him
live long enough for that? It didn't matter , McHenry
resolved. He was never going to give in. Never. He pulled
the yoke hard. The plane could still respond well up and down, so he
kept at it, jinking vertically. He only needed to last long enough
for them to run out of bullets or fuel.
    Then
the two remaining ‘190s were gone. He'd have expected them to climb
first, but they turned eastward, rising only slowly to a less crazy
altitude, and clearly favoring maximum speed. Then he saw what made
them run off.
    “Anthem!”
a voice shouted. It was Parker, having made a beeline from the
target area. Two planes were up at five hundred feet.
    “You're
just in time,” McHenry said. “I was just about to put
them all into the Tyrrhenian Sea.” He rose steadily, angling
to join them, and then saw another formation of planes coming at
them. It was the rest of the mission.
    “You know,” Douglas laughed,
“we saw you kept dodging 'em even after they'd