silver cigarette case over his heart, in case a shard of shrapnel hit its mark. Wrath took a rabbit's foot and a St. Christopher's medal. The foot would keep him from getting shot down, he believed, and the medal would get him home to his family if he did.
Sweaty, of course, had the fun ritual. As he fastened his parachute harness, he pulled the crotch straps tight and let out the falsetto squeal of a Vatican castrato. Loosening them, he dropped his voice to a deep bass for a joke.
That day, it was a knock-knock joke.
"Knock-knock," said Sweaty.
"Who's there?" he answered himself.
"Gestapo.
"Gestapo who?
"Ve vill ask ze questions!"
The crew laughed too loudly, another sign of strain.
And another omen?
Wearing several layers of clothing—the gunners in their electro-thermal Taylorsuits were the chubbiest of all—the men walked stiffly from the locker room. They were taken to their plane on a rickety old bus, its headlamps covered with card-board so the light was directed down to the ground, where it couldn't be seen from overhead. The bombers were dispersed around the perimeter of the airfield, as a precaution against enemy attack. Their ground crew was waiting.
For Balsdon, the few moments that Wrath spent checking the plane before they boarded were the most tense. So acute was the cumulative strain from all his previous missions that the muscles of his abdomen cinched his stomach back to his spine.
His crewmates were gripped by the same turmoil. They chain-smoked cigarettes and couldn't stand still. A few pissed on the tail wheel for luck. To keep their minds occupied while Wrath signed a form for the ground crew corporal, they busied themselves with their personal contributions to Hitler's downfall: bricks and bottles they would toss out over Germany.
Supposedly, the bottles made screaming noises as they fell, scaring the hell into the Huns below.
"Wizard, Chiefy," Wrath said, handing back the form. "I hope you scrawled appropriate messages to Hitler on the bombs."
"Aye," said the Scotsman, smirking.
They boarded the bomber through a door behind one wing.
Inside, the fuselage smelled of gasoline mixed with cordite. The pilot, navigator, flight engineer, wireless operator, and bomb-aimer stooped their way up to the nose, while the gunners took their places in the turrets above the door and in the rear.
Outside, the ground crew hauled the battery starter into position under the port wing.
"Contact!"
The engines coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. Wrath did an intercom check to all positions. The wheel chocks were pulled away, and the pilot opened the throttles. The hulking bomber trundled and swayed onto the perimeter track, then taxied to the threshold of the runway. There, they waited for a green light to flash on the control van. Soon, they were lumbering faster and faster along the bumpy strip, holding the nose down to build up speed, until the skipper eased back the control column and the engine roar changed.
The Halifax left the runway at a little more than a hundred miles an hour and clawed its way into the night.
The Ace of Clubs was outward bound ...
It wouldn't be coming back.
+ + +
NOW
Tonight, sixty-odd years later, darkness cloaked the Yorkshire cottage where the crippled veteran was spending his old age.
Confined to a wheelchair, Balsdon sat at a large oak table beneath rough-hewn ceiling beams and rearranged his massive Bomber Command archive. He'd spent his lifetime collecting every bit of information he could find about why the Ace of Clubs went down. The discovery of the long-lost bomber offered hope the mystery would be solved before he died, as did today's telephone call from Liz Hannah—Wrath's granddaughter—telling him that Wyatt Rook had the hook through his cheek.
"Can he come up and see you?"
"When?" asked Balsdon.
"Tonight or tomorrow. Depending on his promo tour and when he can catch a train."
"I'll be waiting."
Balsdon rolled back from the table with a
Sweaty, of course, had the fun ritual. As he fastened his parachute harness, he pulled the crotch straps tight and let out the falsetto squeal of a Vatican castrato. Loosening them, he dropped his voice to a deep bass for a joke.
That day, it was a knock-knock joke.
"Knock-knock," said Sweaty.
"Who's there?" he answered himself.
"Gestapo.
"Gestapo who?
"Ve vill ask ze questions!"
The crew laughed too loudly, another sign of strain.
And another omen?
Wearing several layers of clothing—the gunners in their electro-thermal Taylorsuits were the chubbiest of all—the men walked stiffly from the locker room. They were taken to their plane on a rickety old bus, its headlamps covered with card-board so the light was directed down to the ground, where it couldn't be seen from overhead. The bombers were dispersed around the perimeter of the airfield, as a precaution against enemy attack. Their ground crew was waiting.
For Balsdon, the few moments that Wrath spent checking the plane before they boarded were the most tense. So acute was the cumulative strain from all his previous missions that the muscles of his abdomen cinched his stomach back to his spine.
His crewmates were gripped by the same turmoil. They chain-smoked cigarettes and couldn't stand still. A few pissed on the tail wheel for luck. To keep their minds occupied while Wrath signed a form for the ground crew corporal, they busied themselves with their personal contributions to Hitler's downfall: bricks and bottles they would toss out over Germany.
Supposedly, the bottles made screaming noises as they fell, scaring the hell into the Huns below.
"Wizard, Chiefy," Wrath said, handing back the form. "I hope you scrawled appropriate messages to Hitler on the bombs."
"Aye," said the Scotsman, smirking.
They boarded the bomber through a door behind one wing.
Inside, the fuselage smelled of gasoline mixed with cordite. The pilot, navigator, flight engineer, wireless operator, and bomb-aimer stooped their way up to the nose, while the gunners took their places in the turrets above the door and in the rear.
Outside, the ground crew hauled the battery starter into position under the port wing.
"Contact!"
The engines coughed, sputtered, and roared to life. Wrath did an intercom check to all positions. The wheel chocks were pulled away, and the pilot opened the throttles. The hulking bomber trundled and swayed onto the perimeter track, then taxied to the threshold of the runway. There, they waited for a green light to flash on the control van. Soon, they were lumbering faster and faster along the bumpy strip, holding the nose down to build up speed, until the skipper eased back the control column and the engine roar changed.
The Halifax left the runway at a little more than a hundred miles an hour and clawed its way into the night.
The Ace of Clubs was outward bound ...
It wouldn't be coming back.
+ + +
NOW
Tonight, sixty-odd years later, darkness cloaked the Yorkshire cottage where the crippled veteran was spending his old age.
Confined to a wheelchair, Balsdon sat at a large oak table beneath rough-hewn ceiling beams and rearranged his massive Bomber Command archive. He'd spent his lifetime collecting every bit of information he could find about why the Ace of Clubs went down. The discovery of the long-lost bomber offered hope the mystery would be solved before he died, as did today's telephone call from Liz Hannah—Wrath's granddaughter—telling him that Wyatt Rook had the hook through his cheek.
"Can he come up and see you?"
"When?" asked Balsdon.
"Tonight or tomorrow. Depending on his promo tour and when he can catch a train."
"I'll be waiting."
Balsdon rolled back from the table with a
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