The Flyboys

Operation Overlord

-February 1, 1944-
*This chapter might be a bit gory to some readers so if you have a weak stomach, I don't recommend reading it*
The next morning was like any other; wake up at 05:00, breakfast at 05:30, but when briefing started at 06:00, there was something different. For one, there was no mission plans on the large, dark oak table. Then there was an unpleasant surprise, we were going to provide air cover for the Normandy Landings. Of course we had all heard about "Operation Overlord" but we had never dreamt about being involved in it.
The next few weeks were just the basics for air support; fly straight, low, fast, and most importantly don't break formation until commanded to do so.
    There was no mistakes for the fist few days, we did mock dogfights and practiced breaking formation on cue. Then, on the 10th day of training, the unbelievable happened. As the team in front of mine was lining up on final approach, a ginormous fireball erupted from the side of the runway. The thick black smoke was blocking our views of the runway so we aborted the landing and circled the airfield at 5,000 feet. Eventually I worked up the courage to make a call on my radio. "Does anybody know who that was? I'm starting to worry up here!"
The feeble and shaking voice of the group's tower commander came through loud and clear, like shattering glass. "It was L-L-Lieu-Lieutenant M-M-Morrison, sir,"
"WHAT THE HELL?? HOW COULD'VE HE CRASHED???? HE'S ONE OF THE BEST PILOTS WE HAVE!!!!" I roared. "I'm coming in, clear the runway as best as possible," I commanded .
Although at that point I was no where near the highest ranking in the squadron, I was the unofficial leader of it. This was because I was the best pilot with over 5,000 flying hours in the Army Air Corps and around 15,000 flying hours as a civilian, as well as an impressive kill tally of 25.5 in the air and 10 on the ground.
The second my plane's tires touched down on the metal tarmac, I cut the throttle and slammed on the brakes, a very arrogant move that easily could have killed me. Once the plane coasted to a stop, a mechanic came and helped me out of the cockpit and ran to the burning wreckage. Luckily, Morrison, who had been my best friend since primary school, had been carried out by a pilot and rushed to the hospital.
    The next day, I was allowed to visit Charlie, who was still in critical condition. As I walked into the room, I was horrified at what I saw, Charlie's skin was charred and had been falling off in clumps. His eyelids had burned off and his once handsome face had melted. He was covered in third degree burns, as well as having no skin on his feet or hands.
I left knowing my best friend would probably die.