1275psi
Posts: 7979
Joined: 4/17/2005 Status: offline
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19/6/43 WO Fuchida eats breakfast with his friends. Dawn is breaking over rabual, the cool air swet upon the skin, the smell of the ground crisp, clean. Soon, of course, the sun will rise, and the humidity will return, and the sweat will flow, the stink will begin. But for now, he drinks the coolness, savouring this peace, this moment. Behind them, the eagles await. No longer gleaming, now tattered, worn. Covered in palm branches, to hide them from the hunters above. Munda is gone. buna is pounded daily, as is Shortlands. Kavieng too. The twin tailed devils are yet to come here, it can only be a matter of time. The silence is comforting. There is, anyway, very little to say. They have been together so long, these men, conversation has little new to convey. There is nothing to talk about anyway. Soon they will rise, fly, and probably fight. If they do not die, then tomorrow, it will happen again. The same breakfast, the same plane, the same fear, the same battle. it gos on, and on...........and on 375 missions. 375 times he has risen. how many more, before he rises, and just keeps on flying to the sun, to the heavens itself? Will he feel pain, fear, or just slip seamlessly into the other plain? Soon, he feels, he will find out. The odds are against them all. The enemy are coming. Wordlessly, wearily, they climb into the machines, helped by tattered, skinny men. Fuchida smells the alcohol on his ground mans breath. Food, spares, hope, all are short here now. But not the booze. Never that. The jaws are closing on rabual. He cannot blame them really, booze will be the only escape....... They race now over the battered field, the wrecks scattered so thickly about it, wheeling over the almost empty bay, climbing swiftly, breathing briefly the stink of the volcano, seeking the clouds, the soft grey bottoms, the coolness there. A dozen or so zeros join them, they circle at 15000 feet, waiting. There are ten liberators today. So few. But so many bombs, so many deaths nestled in those fat bellies. Without emotion, Fuchida wings over, throttles full, head on attack. He takes the lead bomber, takes the point of maximum resistance, of danger. All bullshit, he knows. Attack a liberator and every point is a point of maximum danger............ The range, as always, closes startingly quickly, the guns, as always, hammer, the tracer floats ahead, the points of bright white death float and flash back at him, past him. he hits today, bright lights flashing climbing across the bombers inner wing.......an instantanous correction, another half a second burst, the bomber flashing past, its cockpit shattered, bright red painted.. Still banking, now banking, correcting, another great shape looming, the s turn aligning him so perfectly, another burst at this buka, the gout of flame, the dive, the stunning realisation as he curves away............ Sometimes the barsteds do fall............... He lands, guns empty. Drinks, drinks deeply. Life has sparked in him again. 10 liberators have attacked. 4 have gone down. And Fuchida is ACE......... He will not fly again today, his eagle develops a sudden fear of flying, four cylinders will not fire. Maybe those two bullets impaled in it have something to do with it They come all day today. they rise against them, again and again They fight, they die, they fly. And then, as dusk comes, and the sweat dries, the miracle. "You are posted to TRANCOM WO Fuchida. Congratulations. Please take a memory of us back to Japan, tell them what we do. Please don't let them forget............." he boards the destroyer in the dark. The cloak of death falls from him. Maybe, just maybe, he will live his life yet.
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