I look around and see my men, nervously puffing cigarettes faster than they can buy them. Fear and reluctant excitement thicken the air. We’ve logged hundreds of hours in this steel tube and flown clear across the ocean, but never into enemy territory. 

The stories from returning crews are either heroic or tragic. There is no middle ground. The miraculous tales of crippled planes hobbling back to safety give us hope. The empty seats in the mess hall give us pause. 

The flight starts without incident. One by one, hundreds of giant planes take off and come together in a great formation. We reach our cruising altitude of 28,000 feet, and from this height the view of the sky and the earth allow us to peek at heaven. If only we could stay, for heaven quickly fades into a staccato of anti-aircraft fire across the cloudless sky. We are above it for a moment, but as we cross into Germany and head to our target, the detonating flashes surround us. I begin the avoidance maneuvers I’ve practiced a hundred times, realizing now how futile they are against a sea of flak. The plane jerks violently as the right wing goes completely vertical. Two engines are a total loss and the wing is nearly separated from the body of the plane. 

My co-pilot checks the other engines and a basketball-sized hole is spitting flames from one. With one wing and one engine I do the only thing I know to do. I dump five thousand pounds of bombs over unknown territory. It doesn’t make a difference. We are plummeting towards the earth and our formation is almost out of sight ahead of us. Against a clear, cloudless sky, I give the order to abandon the plane. When the full crew is out, I drop through the bomb bay. 

Below, I see people aiming rifles and firing like it is a sport. With no control over my parachute, I fall rapidly toward a wooded area. My cords wrap around the upper branches of an ancient tree, leaving me suspended thirty feet above the ground. I slip out of the harness and try to swing my leg over a branch, but it won’t obey. Gunfire continues around me as I drag myself to some protection behind the trunk. A loud crack tears through my ears and the world goes dark. 

When I come to, the acrid air is not the cloudless sky I remember from moments ago. Something is off. I’m twisted on a pulsing surface. Something is not right. More noise detonates in my ears and I hear unintelligible voices. They are loud, but are they near? I realize my eyes are closed and when I open them, I see soldiers quickly approaching, rifles aimed, gesturing and shouting wildly at me. It’s not my language, but it’s clear I’m meant to do something. I’ll get up and get this world into focus. Trying to stand, I discover the source of the pulsing. My own heartbeat. I’m connected to the earth by twisted bone and flesh. The yelling is louder but standing is not possible. I use the calmest voice I can muster and put my hands in the air trying to make it plain that I don’t have a weapon. It takes all of my energy. As the soldiers approach, I wonder about the fate of my crew. We were going to be heroes today. Instead we are broken and scattered in a foreign, hateful land. My world returns to darkness. 

Joey Bokor