Bombs Away (24 page)

The time was coming. The squadron knew it. Daily, nightly, the missions went out over the Gulf, but the big mission was coming. The mission toward which all the training had aimed—contact with the enemy, a well-armed, well-trained desperate enemy. That was why the men looked so carefully at the newspapers and what they found in the newspapers reassured them. Our ships are as good or better than anything in the world. Our crews are better. They found in the papers that when forces were equal, our force won.

The major called the pilots in and fifteen minutes later they came out of the squadron room.

Bill said “We going?”

“Yes,” said Joe.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“You know where?”

“No. You want to get your things together,” Joe said.

“That won’t take half an hour.” And then Joe said, “You can write some letters. They’ll be posted after we go.”

And each man wrote his letters home. They were not the kind of letters they could have written six months before.

Bill wrote, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to go quail hunting this season, but I guess we’ll be going hunting all right.”

And Joe wrote, “And now might be a good time to buy a few sows. Pork will probably bring a good price this year. I’ll write when I know where we are.” They wrote quiet, matter-of-fact letters and they put them in the box to be mailed after they had gone. The men felt matter-of-fact. It is always like that just before action. All the churning and expectations and the tremors go away and, well, there is a job to do, a ship to fly, bombs to drop.
Baby’s
crew got ready quietly. They packed their bags, shirts, socks, and underwear, toothbrushes. There wasn’t much besides these things. They had not had time to accumulate things. Accumulation takes leisure.

On the field they met men from other squadrons. “I hope we’ll join you before long,” they said. It was a very quiet time that afternoon. This cross section, these men from all over the country, from all the background of the country, had become one thing—a bomber crew. They were changed but they had not lost what they were, they were still individuals. Perhaps that is what makes our crews superior. The split seconds where a man’s judgment is the most important thing in the world. They did not think how important they were to the nation. It is doubtful that they even knew it.

In the afternoon they shaved and cleaned up and went to dinner all together and when they sat down Joe lifted his beer glass, but all he could think to say was “Well, here’s luck!”

In the dark they went out to
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where she stood in the line. There were no lights. The crew clambered in through the open bomb bay. Joe, the pilot from South Carolina, and Bill from Idaho and Allan from Indiana and Abner from California. Their luggage was stowed in the big compartment back of the bomb bays. They buckled on their parachutes, snapped their safety belts. Allan waited in his take-off seat with his map case in his hand. The squadron leader’s motors started. Joe leaned out of his window. “Clear number one,” he called, and from the darkness “number one clear” came back. The engines started. Abner cocked his head, the better to hear them. Bill sat in his take-off seat and his bombsight was between his feet in its canvas case. The leader gunned his motors and taxied down the runway and Joe looked around into the darkened cabin. He could see the faces of the men, quiet and ready.

“Here we go,” he said. He pushed the throttles a little forward and taxied behind the leader.

The thundering ships took off one behind the other. At 5,000 feet they made their formation. The men sat quietly at their stations, their eyes fixed. And the deep growl of the engines shook the air, shook the world, shook the future.