Doug had woken hugging her tail like a goddamn life raft. The others hadn’t noticed, or they hadn’t said anything, but that hadn’t stopped her dwelling on it. She’d been ten years old the last time she’d woken like that; that time she’d blamed on a particularly bad nightmare. That had been the first time since she’d given it up on her sixth birthday. Now she was almost twenty-one, and the more excuses she tried to fish for, the fewer she seemed to find. She’d used to hug it, and imagine it was what, or whomever she needed it to be to get her through the night: whatever she’d needed to ward off the darkness, or the thought of what might lurk there. And in that manner she’d gotten by, not once in her life admitting to being afraid. Not to her friends, or even to her mother. Nobody said anything, or even noticed, but it was still a crutch. She didn’t need crutches. So on her sixth birthday, she’d thrown it aside. Hadn’t she? Not on that cold, foggy night in the winter of 1931, and not this morning. It didn’t help that there was so much goddamn time to think about it. She’d woken at first light, like the others. They’d shared coffee, and rubbed the sleep from their eyes and the morning dew from the glass of their canopies. There’d been a briefing, and they’d circled their steeds like feeding sharks. Every bolt and rivet accounted for. Every steel cable; every bit of engine plumbing. The gentle sweep and taper of the prop blades: not one chip or notch. Smooth like the curves of a woman, the other flyboys said. Awhile she’d thought that might be some kind of a pickup line, but she’d kept hearing it. In time she’d picked it up herself, happy to be one of them. But that morning had been very quiet. For a few of them, herself included, it was the dawn of the first day they couldn’t tell themselves that it was all just practice, and that the dot on the horizon wasn’t a real Messerschmitt, and didn’t have a real Kraut at the helm. Today it could all be real. Someone might really try to kill them, and they might really have to kill. Certainly, it wasn’t a day she wanted to feel like a stupid, scared little kid, but now here she was sitting in the cockpit of a Hurricane, canopy back and morning breeze on her muzzle, doing her best not to hug her tail as the first of the engines broke the silence. Another followed, and then another. The pattern was the same as always: A bark, a clatter; a flash of bright blue fire, and then a roar. And then the shout of the exhaust and howl of the propeller would dull to a low and even snarl, and the next would come, and then the next. And then it would be her turn. One more once over. Voltmeter. Radiator flap. Pitch and Roll trim neutral. Rudder trim to the right stop. Throttle tight. Prop control, and mixture too. Fuel tanks, supercharger, magnetos. The battery’s on. Magnetos come on. Stroke the primer. Five strokes, maybe six ‘cause it’s cold out. Stroke it just right, don’t be the first one in the line to fuck up and have to start over. And then the starter, only the airframe shuddered beneath her and she stopped herself short. She glanced to her right and met eyes with Flight Lieutenant James Williams, who was a human, and the first and best friend she’d made since she’d first set foot in a Hurricane. He stood on the root of her wing, looking as cool and confident as he had when he’d offered to light her cigarette the night before. For all the work she put into never coming off scared, she was pretty sure he could tell anyway. But he didn’t make her say it. “You’re ‘gunna be fine, Kid. I’ll be right behind you. We’ll come back and have a good smoke same as always, alright?” He patted her jacket shoulder twice and jumped back down before she had a chance to reply. The starter flicked beneath her paw; the engine jolted and turned and hacked under advancing throttle, and then it caught somewhere, barked, and roared. The last bastion of peaceful morning air shattered like the glass vase she’d accidentally broken with a cricket bat when she was twelve. She hauled the canopy forward and sealed the errant shards away. The bulky pads of RAF headsets had never fit very nicely in Doug’s ears, but she was grateful for anything to muffle surge and tumble of the engine. There was no bringing the quiet back, but at least it wasn’t loud enough to hurt anymore. Besides, once she got airborne, that drone would be the most soothing thing she’d ever heard since her mother’s breathing. Least it would be so long as it kept running the way it was supposed to. The radio calls went as they always did, and the taxi and runup. She’d overbraked a little on a turn, but caught the tail before it slid far enough for anyone to notice. She was number six for takeoff, then before she knew it, number one, and there was nothing to tell the day from any other but the subtle, anxious bottlebrush of her tail. She eased the throttle in, massaging the rudder with the heel of her right boot so the tail would jolt and shimmy in just the right ways, surfing the fickle balance that held it out behind her instead of in front. The air built up around her. A whistle at first, just enough to hear over the tick and churn of the engine. Beneath her the awkward yank and roll of the shocks developed into a steady tremor. The tail shimmied more and more behind her, sweet spot on the rudder narrowing until it was all but gone. She danced and fought to hold it there, and then the last knot she needed slipped by. She hauled the stick out of her lap and dragged the vertical stabilizer up into the airflow by the nape of its neck. The wind caught it then and threatened to haul it around, but she kicked it away. The shaking of the airframe tamed to an even stutter, and then it was gone. The ground fell away like a lead weight, the gear lever notching comfortably under her paw. The sun had risen some since she’d latched the canopy, and now hung low over the meadows out to the East, the prop chopping it into a flicker that made her squint a little. The English countryside spilled out in patchwork before her, shining a warm shade of emerald as it shed its thick blanket of radiation fog to greet the morning light. Mornings like that, it seemed hard to believe there was a war on at all, and she was grateful for the reprieve. At night you could see the sky over London glow red with fire and billowing smoke, so bright you might think the sun was setting there but for the tracers that tore it apart at the seams. Her mother still lived there, and her little brother too. Every letter she sent, she urged them to move, to run away, though she never called it that. But they wouldn’t. They were a stalwart sort. Too much like her. They’d never run. And even miles away she felt, in the depths of her heart and gut, the thud of each and every bomb that struck the city. Every night she hated herself for not being there to stop them. Now maybe she would be, though she wished she still felt like half the superhero she had when they’d first stitched wings into her jacket. She figured all that probably had something to do with the tail-hugging last night, but took the opportunity not to dwell on it. They leveled at nine thousand feet, formation tight and staggered. She eased the trim forward until the pressure was gone from the stick, and then yawned to clear her ears. The air was rarer up there, and the daylight sharp and dazzling. The engine purred with a shallow treble, and the breezes that stirred under the canopy shed their salty seasoning for a sharp, crystalline purity that tasted of fog and rain. It was a cold flavor. It bit at her eyes and throat and tongue, and thrust blunt, icy daggers in along the seams in her jacket. She wrapped her tail about herself and warded it away as best she could, wondering as she did how it was that human pilots managed. She’d have liked to talk. About anything, really, and anyone would have done to talk to. Of course if she’d had her pick, she’d have taken James in a heartbeat. She’d have guided him carefully into saying something reassuring without telling him she needed it. She didn’t have that luxury though, and the radio was dead anyway. Nobody talked who didn’t need to, even if the silence got awfully heavy, and despite the guy on your wing, you got to feeling pretty goddamn alone. Maybe it was just her that felt that way. Maybe she was being a little feminine despite herself. She didn’t think so though. The more time she’d spent working with the others, the less convinced she’d been that she needed to do any pretending at all. It might have been different for someone else, but she didn’t find she had to fake much. Less than she had in the city, even. Hell, they seemed to appreciate it. Point being, she knew them pretty well, and she was sure she wasn’t the only one pretending not to be afraid, or pretending not to feel the profound solitude that sets in with the tick of an engine at altitude. It’s not something you talk about, but rather talk around, ferreting away into jokes and comments. But everybody knows what you mean, and it does you good to say. She’d have liked to, but she made do with giving her engine gauges a particularly detailed once-over. Tach nominal, manifold nominal, oil temperature nominal, oil pressure nominal, water temperature nominal. Plenty of fuel, and nothing to note. She glanced off her right wing to James, who flew beside her. There wasn’t much to see of him beneath all the flight gear and the glare on his canopy, but he must have noticed her looking, because he nodded and knocked on his canopy glass the way he had her shoulder. It was the top of the fifth hour when the silence finally broke. It was number two who spoke, a tall German Shepard by the name of Ed Wheeler, whom Doug liked to tease for being German. The best part was he still had most of the accent, though the radio squelched it too much to really notice. “Black Ball lead, Black Ball two, bogeys angels 1-0, three o’clock.” Doug’s heart skipped hard enough that she forgot to breathe a second. She reminded herself “bogey” wasn’t the same as “bandit”, and crossed her fingers. It could still be nothing. It was probably nothing. Then again, to run into something on the first patrol would be just her luck, wouldn’t it? And hadn’t it been what she’d signed up for? If it really was Krauts Ed saw, then it was the same fuckers who doused London in flame every night. The same fuckers whose throats she imagined tearing out and gnawing on during those long nights she couldn’t sleep, and you could hear the bombs going off. Distant little thuds, like books falling off a shelf in a room across the hall. Over and over again; as long as you were willing to listen. And every single one meant she might never see her family again, and it would all be her fault, because she was a big, strong fighter pilot, and a hero to her brother, and should have been able to stop it. And she wanted to kill them for that, didn’t she? Tear them apart whatever it took, even if it was her life. She wanted to protect her brother, her mother, her freedom, her country, didn’t she? It was worth any sacrifice, wasn’t it? She reckoned that would have rung a lot truer to her if she’d been stuck on the ground watching, but that wasn’t so. But Black Ball Lead had turned just the same, and Ed the German, and then number three and four and five. So she stuffed the thoughts away along with her maps and slide-rule and peeled off after them, checking her shoulder once to make sure James was there. He was. Time slowed. She fought again and again with herself over whether the dots were getting any bigger, and then over whether she wanted them to, and what she wanted them to be if they did. This could really be it. They might really try to shoot her. Kill her. And she would try to kill them. And what if she didn’t come back? What would it be like to die? What would her mother think; her brother? He was a kid, the war was hard enough on him as it was. His sister was his hero. What if something happened to her? Could she do this? Was it even right? He needed her! ...But what if something happened to him? What if that’s where they were headed? Maybe it was. Maybe it was, and she’d run them down and kill them like they were buffalo. She’d pluck them one by one like holiday turkeys, and she’d do it by herself, because she was angry and brave and had something to live for and something to protect! She would be the hero she wanted to be and liked to pretend she was, because why else had she bothered coming here, and would it be worth living if she failed? Every bomb they dropped would drop because she hadn’t stopped them-- “Heinkels, twelve o’clock, Westbound. Anyone see any escorts?” A series of negatives rang in sequence, some sounding more confident than others. She did her best not to wonder too much if they were thinking the same things she was. It would have felt better to know she wasn’t alone, but given the option, she thought she’d have preferred to know she was overthinking this, and that it wouldn’t be that big a deal afterall. They did this kind of thing every day, didn’t they? “Well then let’s pluck ‘em before they drop their eggs. Get a good one boys; Tally ho!” Something about the way the Black Ball Lead had said it meshed very smoothly with the image she’d been building for herself in the last few seconds, and together they prodded at an old instinct she’d almost forgotten she had. The hard, cutting edge of the fear struck a little duller, and her eyes grew wide and focused; her heart fluttered with a little shot of anger, or maybe thrill. She’d felt that way once before. She’d been just another school kid, and there’d been some asshole who was always on her case for the hand-me-down clothes she wore, and her old, scuffed, worn-out shoes. She’d put up with it so long and pretended it hadn’t hurt her, even when he got done picking on her, and got around to talking shit about her family. Her mother. Even her father. And what would her father have told her to do if he hadn’t died in that trench in 1917? She’d never known him properly, but she thought she knew. So one of the days he sauntered up to her, she'd felt it for the first time. A little shot of adrenaline; a little dose of fury. And when he opened his smart-ass mouth that day, she’d kicked his teeth in. She’d beaten the shit out of him until he cried. Until he begged her to stop. And then she’d spat on him, and everyone had seen, and it probably hadn’t been right, but it had felt so fucking good. Nobody had talked a lick of shit about anyone in her family ever again. Maybe her mother hadn’t needed protecting from the errant tongues of schoolyard bullies, but she was glad she’d done it anyway. But this wasn’t quite like that. This time there was more to it than honor and ego. People really did need protecting, and would die without her. They would die if she wasn’t the predator she was built to be. Yeah, it wasn’t like that, but it felt like that. Her blood ran white hot in her veins, and she bared her teeth in spite of herself. Every bomb they dropped would be because she hadn’t stopped them? No, she was going to kill those turkeys. Kill them all. As the others peeled off she leaned the throttle in, forgetting to check her shoulder for James, and not entirely sure she wasn’t salivating. It had been the Krauts that killed her father too, hadn’t it? It had, and she reckoned it was time to get even. Heinkel 111’s were tubby, cumbersome things that looked like someone chopped off the first fifth of one of the Yank’s Dakotas. They hung from broad, fore-set wings like horseflies, bellies distended with bombs. Ugly motherfuckers, they were, and when they lumbered underneath her it was everything Doug could do not to haul the canopy open and spit. She rolled instead, easing the throttle out as she dipped her left wing and letting the rush of the wind build up until it drowned out the steady growl of the engine. From the corner of her eye she watched the airspeed indicator wind, fast at first, then slower as the drag built up around her and the rush and whistle of the wind became a howl, and then a roar that tore voraciously at every bolt and warren. Ahead the prop screamed, dragging the engine helplessly behind it. And that wasn’t right. She was stupid. She’d forgotten the prop pitch. She backed it out and the wind took over again. A steady shake she hadn’t noticed building suddenly stilled. Yeah, that was better. They were close now, the distance halving by the time she looked up from the tachometer, and again once she got her claw to the trigger. The trailing aircraft was just ahead now, the glass of its turret canopies gleaming like whitecaps in the morning sun. Her breath fast and shallow, she braced for the tracers. They didn’t come. It was time. One turkey, just a little off to the right of the sight, closing fast. Broad, fat, succulent wings, ripe for the taking. Just a little kick to the rudder. A little tug on the beer handle. The sight slewed a too far, but she brought it to bear again. Another second and it would be gone. She’d shoot below them and go skipping out from under the formation before they had a chance to react, but for now.... She hooked her claw into the trigger. The airframe jolted and shivered sickly, and rang with a dull, hollow note like baseball cards in the spokes of a bike wheel. Tracers leapt forth from the wings like so many little yellow snakes, finding their marks with a flurry of flashes and puffs of smoke. So many there were. A stream so steady she couldn’t see the breaks. They tore into the metal like sharks’ teeth, and then it whipped by close enough to hear the chug of the engines, and even catch a little of the surprise on the dorsal gunner’s face as he flashed by. And was that it? Was it over? Had she torn the wing off; had she killed them? That probably wasn’t the most important thing, because the rip and tear of the wind told her she was about to be going much too fast. The water below rushed up to meet her, sparkling gaily even as her altimeter unwound as if a spring in it had broken. Nervously she eased the stick back toward her lap, her stomach churning as the geforce built until it threatened to tear it from the rest of her altogether, her heart skipping another couple of beats as the airframe issued a low, sickly whimper. But she was still accelerating, and fast. She pulled harder. The whimper built to a groan and the weight crept up from her gut into her chest and tightened around her lungs like a boa constrictor. She fought it with short, sharp gasps, pulling a little less every time as her vision dulled along the edges. But then there was the horizon! She was climbing again. She forced her head up. The turkeys hung listlessly in the sky overhead, scattering in their own lumbering way. Her target trailed a plume of thick, black, smoke. But the son-of-a-bitch was flying. The son-of-a-bitch that was headed inland for the city, where her little brother lived, and everyone like him. If that piece of shit thought he got off lucky, he had another thing coming. She kept on the stick, her vision dimming little by little. Then she was rushing up to meet them. She let the elevator go slack and gasped for a lungfull of air before the rest could be squeezed out of her, her vision clearing as the blood’s return rang her brain like a bell. He was to the left of the sight this time, and just as close. This time the tracers came. They sprayed from the swollen belly and danced around her like blowing tinsel. One for every five rounds, probably. Someone had told her that. Any of them could have come right through the canopy and killed her; it was as likely as they’re going anywhere else. It also probably wasn’t the best to think about, so she didn’t. She kicked the rudder again and hooked the trigger. That same raw rattle shivered down the length of the fuselage and her target lit up again. She dragged the tracers along the length of its wing as her airspeed bled, and this time the smoke burst into a ball of brilliant flame. “Good show, number six!” echoed the radio, but still the turkey hung there, even as its stricken engine tumbled to a stop, rudder swung out left and torn wing dragging. She passed much slower this time, and pitched inverted over the scattering herd as she caught stall buffet. And quick! Hard on the rudder, before she spun! Dive for airspeed! The buffet faded, but their tracers lit the sky again, and somewhere to the aft something struck the fuselage like a sledgehammer. Then again, and once more. She rolled knife edge as she sank towards them, then rounded out to level and settled behind her wounded prey as it limped off to the right of the formation, its tail gun conspicuously silent. Once more she keyed the trigger and tracers danced in the air. And once more, and again. The fire burst and spread wildly, dripping from the wing with the spray of oil and fuel. It was rolling sharply now, and descending. She rolled to follow. “They hit the silk, number six. That’s your kill! Break off!” They had? Really? She hadn’t noticed. Shit, how had she missed that? The moment must have gotten the better of her. That would have been a real good way to get herself killed, focusing like that. She cursed herself and swerved away, remembering a little late to shallow the prop pitch back out again. The others dove and wheeled like fishing seagulls, trading tracers with their targets as they bled inertia. One trailed a thin plume of coolant vapor, but didn’t seem to falter. Three of the Heinkels hemorrhaged smoke now, and two more fire. One sank away virtually unscathed, flaps deployed and elevator flapping loosely behind it. She thought to chase it, and then thought better. The two remainders dragged chains of Hurricanes behind them like wedding cans, spitting spurts of machine gun fire into their wakes. Doug let her speed build a few seconds and eased into a climb, prop blades slapping the air noisily as she clawed her way ahead. There was almost a mile between them now. The silhouettes were scrawny-looking, and without the gleam of the glass and the faces of the gunners she felt the churning predatory blood start to ebb a little. She was shaking, she realized, and heavily enough to feel it over the vibrations from the prop and engine. There were too many reasons for that to bother counting. She plucked at her emotions as they bobbed in the receding adrenaline, drowned beyond most recognition. There was fear there. It was a big one, but she hadn’t the energy to resent it. Besides, there were others, too. Love and commitment. Determination and certainty. Bravery she didn’t know she was capable of! And maybe..., maybe a little more hate than she knew she harbored. But she’d done it! She’d shot one down; torn it apart before it could hurt anyone else! She was proud of that, right? She definitely was. But what of the crew? Had they all made it out? Had she killed them? A minute ago she’d hoped she’d had; now she wasn’t sure. But that was what it took, right? She wasn’t a little kid anymore. She didn’t need to hold her tail to sleep at night. She knew what it meant to be at war, ...right? After all, it wasn’t as if they were going to run away just because she’d bared her teeth, even if she’d used to tell herself little stories that worked out that way. She hadn’t really believed any of that, had she? Surely she hadn’t, which was fortunate because she was back in the fray again. One more had gone down while she’d raced to catch them, rolling belly-up like a sick goldfish as it fell away. A single turkey plodded steadily onward, oblivious to the fate of its allies and the smoke spiraling in its wake. Ed had called winchester, and three and four too. Five had tapped out on account of the coolant issue. All but alone, she approached the holdout from below, James silhouetted against the sky just above her. After all that, the fucker was still Westbound. The adrenaline started to leak back into her blood. “Hey Kid.” It took her a second to remember she probably ought to respond. She made sure to steady her voice a little before she did. “What is it, seven?” “I’m almost dry up here, but I think I killed his tail gunner. Can ya’ finish him?” That was what she’d come here to do, hadn’t it? It took her an embarrassingly long time to respond anyway. “Yeah. Yeah, I can get ‘em.” She peeled up, keeping a skeptical eye on the ventral turret. It was still though, and she levelled smoothly on James’ wing. She had to admit that it felt a little better to have him there. The 111 had more holes in it than a cheesegrater. The skin of its right wing was torn and spewing fuel, and the fuselage had been stripped of more than half its paint. A doberman slumped in the dorsal gun, proud ears wilting. She could almost make out his face. She couldn’t see them, but she could swear there was sadness in his eyes. And maybe fear too. He couldn’t have been any older than she was. Toenail on the trigger, she hesitated. “Come on, Kid, this is an easy one. Let’s finish this and go home.” It was easy. That was the fucking problem. She swore to herself, the words blown away by the churn of the propeller. “Kid? What’s up, are you dry?” Shuddering, she keyed the mic. “Listen, I don’t know if--” Something changed. She couldn’t quite place it, but there’d been movement, and now something was missing. The ears, she realized. The doberman was gone. Just as she was about to finish processing what that meant, a torrent of tracers filled the air. They swarmed about her like fireflies, the world slowing down as her heart leapt and raced. A flurry tore their way through James’ Hurricane; it rolled limply and fell away, engine belching smoke and canopy painted red with blood. That strange, foreign feeling slammed back into her head like someone had hit her with a bat, and even as the hail of bullets tore into her fuselage with sickening thuds and splinters she let fly. The right wing caught alight first, billowing smoke flashing up like black powder. The fuselage came next. She traced the length of it with her left wing, peeling the skin like a tin can and tearing the glass out of the dorsal turret. Within another silhouette jolted, danced, and fell. And then the control cable must have snapped, because her target dove suddenly away, rolling inverted gradually before stalling and flopping into the water. As the wreck sank, the strange, angry blood did too. This time the emotions that went with it were torn and soggy, and there wasn’t much to make sense of. She rolled gingerly for land, checking the function of her controls as she did. The engine fired and missed and rattled, bucking the fuselage like a washing machine. Icy wind howled through holes in the fuselage and canopy and tangled about her, tasting of oil, metal, and smoke. And there was something else too: a warm, wet feeling she couldn’t quite place. It seemed to start somewhere on her shoulder and spread down her breast and side, clumping her fur together in slick dreads. Almost a minute she ignored it as she fought the bucking of the airframe, but finally it got the better of her. She reached her throttle arm under her jacket to brush it away, but it was as slick as it was sticky, and there was an awful lot of it. The punctures in the canopy glass added up for her very suddenly. She nearly froze. Gingerly she drew her hand back, careful not to look. It could still be oil or something, right? From the engine? That would be warm, and slick, and sticky, and besides, she didn’t feel anything.... It was probably oil. Come on, it had to be. Once she looked, she’d know for sure. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. She just had to stop freaking herself out. A quick glance was all it would take. She gathered her courage again and jerked the paw out. It came back slathered in blood. Her stomach turned itself inside out. It couldn’t be. If it really was... If she was really shot, wouldn’t she-- The pain came before she could finish the thought, and with it a wave of dizziness strong enough that she only narrowly kept from fainting. It was a steady, searing burn, and it spread like wildfire down her arm and torso until she could scarcely move the throttle without crying out. Holy shit, it had really happened. She was shot. People died when they were shot. But she wasn’t going to die, was she? She didn’t think it felt like she was dying, but what was that supposed to feel like anyway? There sure was a lot of blood.... Come on, she could do this. She’d done this kind of thing before. Maybe she’d never been shot, but she was a fucking pro at getting hurt. It was just like that time she’d been thrown off her bike into a gully and fucked her leg up enough to send the bone through the skin. She’d about fainted then too, and even cried a little, though she’d nipped that in the bud and never told a soul. But she’d been fourteen, and could handle herself. She’d lit a stolen cigarette, jammed it between her teeth, and found her own goddamn help. Her mother had flipped the fuck out, but she’d had her shit together. This was like that, right? She was going to brag about that gunshot wound. She was going to show the scar to her friends over a pint at the Winchester, and regale them with the story of her first two kills. She’d come off brave and naturally proficient, and they’d laugh at her jokes and buy her a drink. She and her friends, like James. Who was dead. Because of her. Son of a bitch. Guilt probably washed over her, but between the pain and confusion and all the other chemicals surging in her brain, she couldn’t really tell her emotions apart anymore. There was a heavy, foggy weight to them; a dull, ambient panic. It would have been better if only James had been there, but he was dead, and it was her fault. She took the only tack she could think of, and shut them away as best she could. So where was she now? She was over the beach, with farmland spreading out inland. Any aerodromes? None she could see, but governor and cylinders were making a hell of a racket, and probably weren’t going to stick around for her to find one. She judged at least three of them weren’t firing at all, and governor aside, the temperature was through the roof. Would the beach do? She doubted it; sand was bad news. And what about ditching? No, she could barely swim when her arm worked. The way it was, she’d drown before she got out of the cockpit. So what of the farms? The nearest ones were rutted all to hell, and wouldn’t be any good. There was a bigger one though, just a little further on. It was lush, green, and flat. It would probably do. It would have to do. She nursed the engine along with shots of throttle and mixture, ignoring the pain with everything she was worth. The seconds lumbered by slower than those damn Heinkels, the pain swelling as they wore on until she couldn’t feel much of anything left of her heart. The clatter of misfires, preignition, and detonation grew louder and louder over the sickly purr of the engine, temperature gauge pegged and manifold pressure low and wavering. The prop slapped, whirred, and fought for power, but there wasn’t much to be had. The glass was thrashed and coated with a fine mist of oil. She couldn’t see much of the field, but she could make out the outline. It was closer. Just about in reach. Come on, come on, she only needed another mile. She worked the engine as best she could, but felt another cylinder give out anyway. Suddenly something broke through the clatter over the radio. The signal was terrible, but if she strained she could hear it. “Hey, Kid.” She’d lost track of how many times her heart had stopped that day, but tallied up another anyway. She didn’t think she was ready for any of this guardian spirit kind of shit, especially not so soon, but she would take just about any help she could get. “James?” “Hey Kid! Is that you? I hear an engine.” “James!” Holy shit, it couldn’t be. But it sure as hell seemed it, and by god was she glad it did. “I’m down in the big field, toward the middle. I can’t move so good, and I think I might be on fire. You okay? It doesn’t sound too good up there.” “I’m shot pretty good. Engine’s history. I’m tryin’ to set it down.” “You, or just the airplane?” “Both of us.” He didn’t bother releasing the transmit button to swear. “Well what about you, can you move?” “I think so.” “Okay. I hate to ask it, but I might need your help here. You see the field I’m talking about? The big, green one ahead of you? Reckon you’re headed here already, that so? “I am. Not sure I’m going to make it, but the engine hasn’t quit yet.” “Okay. Now if you get into trouble, you take care of yourself and forget about me. But if you think you can manage it, I need you as close to the middle as you can get. Forget the landing gear. Dirt’s lose, you’ll nose over as soon as you hit it. Just land on your belly and make sure you come up short, okay? Can you do that for me, Kid?” “I’m ‘gonna try, James.” “Thanks, Kid. I’m starting to think I might be in a pretty bad way. It’s real good to hear your voice.” As much as she wanted to, it probably wasn’t the best idea right then to tell him how good it was to hear his. She could fake confidence for him; she owed him that, in the least. And it almost made her feel confident to try. “I’m going to be there real soon. You hang on, okay?” “I’ll see you soon Kid, just follow the smoke.” She could see it now, filtering through the oil like stained glass. A long, flat rut ran down the rows of wheat, smoldering here and there at the edges. It was in reach; close enough to glide. She pulled the throttle just as another cylinder failed and spattered the windows with another coating of oil. Just a thousand feet to go. She’d have been high if she’d been in any decent shape, but the wings were torn to hell and spoiling themselves, and the airframe hemorrhaging airspeed. She nosed down a little and bumped in what was left of the throttle. Just the same as he’d taught her. Don’t let her get the better of you just ‘cause she’s got guns on the wings. She’s just another airplane. Hold that touchdown point in the same place on the windscreen. Pitch for airspeed, power for altitude. It gets too high in front of you, you bring the manifold up. But don’t change your pitch unless you’re fast or slow. Pitch for airspeed, power for altitude. Just like any other airplane. The wheat grew nearer and nearer until it was whipping by just under her wingtips. Now round out! She eased the stick back and felt the wings settle into ground effect, the grains brushing by against the leading edge. Now hold it off as long as you can. You’re slow; you’ve got room. Hold her in the air. Hold her, even as the stall buffet comes! The prop chewed the wheat to dust and spat it angrily; the wings brushed and nearly skidded. She danced on what was left of the rudder. Don’t let her drop yet; certainly not one wing first! A little more, a little more.... She felt the tail strike the dirt below, and then the wind gave out from beneath the wings and the aircraft flopped onto its belly. The jolt lit every nerve she had with searing pain, and by the time it faded, she’d skidded to a halt. All around her towered stalks of wheat, reaching just high enough to meet the canopy. They bowed listlessly in the noon breeze, just as wheat always did. Just like it had that warm Summer night she’d snuck out to meet that one pompous, asshole boy she’d ended up hating that kept trying to get her to wear dresses. With the engine still and the prop folded in on itself, a profound silence settled. A peaceful silence. She almost wanted to sit back a minute. To rest; nap even. But that was probably the blood loss talking, and besides, James needed her. She slid back what was left of the canopy, and hauled herself out onto the wing, left arm limp beside her, and feeling like the veins were swarming with stinging bees. A column of smoke rose over the corn in the near distance. She turned to it, and despite the pain and more than a little dizziness she managed to advance, limping at first, and then an awkward sort of run. A minute or more she staggered through the wheat, swatting it aside with her good arm and pushing forward. Her gait got clumsier and slower until she fell. She rolled through, and forced herself up again. Another few strides and she stumbled into the swath James tore on the way in. His Hurricane lay nose low, one wing all but torn off and dragging. The engine had stopped, but it oozed smoke like a signal fire, little yellow flames licking up from around the exhaust system. Almost every panel of glass had shattered, and when she reached to slide the canopy back, it tore off instead. James looked up at her, face bruised and bloodied. “Kid.” Doug did her best to hide the panic rising in her again. Instinctively she reached in and grabbed hold of his harness. “Okay, Kid. I’m pretty fucked up. I’m probably going to do a spot of yelling when we do this, and you’re going to need to just keep going anyway, okay?” She nodded hurriedly. “Okay. On one.” He counted and she pulled. True to his word he yelled about the loudest she’d ever heard anyone yell, but he managed to clamber free. He fell heavily into her good shoulder and made her stumble, but got an arm around her and managed to steady them. “How far’s your bird.” “Couple hundred feet.” “She on fire?” “No.” “How about there, then.” Doug nodded and fought her way back down the trail she’d made, taking as much of James’ weight as she could. Another few minutes and they fell back against the fuselage, looking out down a gentle hill to a farmhouse in the middle distance. He shifted his weight to the airplane, but kept his arm around her. “How bad are you hit?” “Shoulder,” she whimpered, “I think pretty bad. It hurts so fucking bad.” “I hear ‘ya Kid. Thanks for coming to get me. It was a lot to ask.” Doug swore. “This is all my fault.” “No it ain’t, Kid.” “Yeah it fucking is. I hesitated. I fucked up, I put us here. They’ll drag me over the coals and I’ll deserve every last bit of it--” “Hey! Stop that shit.” He grasped hold of her paw. His voice was weak, but it managed to get her attention anyway. “You know what really happened up there, Kid? The fucking tailgunner lit us up. We thought he was dead, but they got someone in there, and they lit us up while we were finishing ‘em off. We went down making sure not a single bomb went off in London today, got it?” She sighed, squeezing his hand. “Got it.” Silence settled for a minute. A few shouts rang in the distance, and the report of an engine starting. Doug crossed her fingers and brought her tail around, giving in and hugging it for all it was worth. “How long you think it’ll take ‘em to get here?” James shook his head. “A good fifteen or twenty minutes.” She shivered and counted the seconds, feeling dizzy again. She slumped onto his shoulder. “James?” she whimpered. “Yeah?” “I’m..., scared.” “Me too, Kid.” He gripped her paw a little tighter. “...James?” “Yeah?” “You got a smoke?” He smiled a slow, crooked smile, a bit of blood leaking between his lips. “Sure do, Kid.” He fished a pair of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and handed her one. He wedged the other in his teeth and lit the both of them with the same old lighter he always did. She took the longest drag she could manage, and blew the smoke out between her canines and over the wheat. “To your first kill, ‘ayy Kid?” “Yeah.”