In Search of a Hero

Chapter 3: A Hero On Hold

The sky rained fire all around him. Bits of flame carved from the depths of hell itself searched for him, found thin sheets of aluminum . . . Punched through. The stick jerked in his hand from the force of the impact. The plane, the only protection from the inferno outside . . . from the ground below . . . bucked and shuddered, fighting against his struggle to hold it aloft. Screams surrounded him . . . from the men who flew with him, from the bullets streaking toward him. The enemy was just ahead, flying straight at him in a move both reckless and dangerous . . . and lethally effective.

He felt the heat through his boots, inhaled the acrid scent of burning leather, then saw the orange glow at his feet. He ground his teeth against the pain and raged against the hopelessness of escape with one last thought . . .

He might die today, but he would take the other pilot with him.

.

.

.

It was a dream. Booth knew it was a dream even as he fought to free himself of a safety harness he wasn't wearing and shouted to the crew that wasn't there, promising to get them to safety.

It was a dream . . . He knew it was a dream . . .

Fire . . . and heat . . . and pain . . .

"Captain Booth!"

He had to wake up. If he could just wake up . . .

"Captain Booth!"

Panicked screaming behind him . . . Someone praying out loud . . . His men . . . His crew . . . His responsibility . . .

"Captain Booth!"

Trapped . . . Get out of the cockpit . . .

"Doctor! Doctor, over here please! Winklehurst, hold his legs, don't let him tumble out of bed. Gently, please! Mind his feet. Someone get Dr. Smythe-Chambers! Now!"

Pull the nose up . . . His responsibility . . .

"Yes, Matron, what's all this yelling about? Ah, our Yank is coming out of it, I see. Making a bit of a fuss, is he?"

His crew . . . His men . . . His duty . . .

"Morphine, I think. That should do the trick."

He felt a sharp pinch that in his fevered imagination became a bullet striking deep into his flesh . . . and then felt only peace. Blessed peace . . .

.

.

.

The fever broke the next day. He woke, groggy, with the foul taste of grit and cotton filling his mouth. The bleary haze behind his eyes cleared enough that he saw a row of narrow white-covered beds and uniformed nurses moving between them . . . then memory returned like a punch to the gut. His plane . . . his men . . . He struggled to free himself of the blankets covering him, kicking his legs and feet, unable to hold back a hoarse shout when pain lanced through him. A hand touched his arm.

"You don't want to be starting all that again, Captain. The nurses here are real quick with the jab. You keep making all that noise and one of 'em will get her needle out and put you under again, real quick."

The remnants of the dream held him fast in its grip, quickening his breath with panic. "My crew . . ."

"All safe. They're all safe, Captain. You got everyone home."

The comforting words and the familiar voice finally broke through the nightmare. Booth fell back against the bed and looked over at Lt. Clark Edison, sitting in a wheelchair beside his bed, one arm in a sling and salve glistening on his cheek over a nasty burn. A mistake in Army paperwork had assigned the young Black pilot not to the 332nd Fighter Group in North Africa with the rest of his Tuskegee classmates, but to the Eighth Air Force flying bombing missions over Germany. The disapproving grumbles from some of the men lasted until he took to the air for the first time. He flew with a skill that was breathtaking in its daring, hauling the somewhat clunky bomber into maneuvers that he made look as easy as if the plane was an extension of his own body. After seeing him fly, no one complained about his place in the squad.