THEY PUT off going back to base as long as possible, but finally caught a late train, hitched a ride in a lorry, and arrived back bleary-eyed and exhausted on Monday, very early in the morning. It was still dark, and Jim simply clapped him on the shoulder before stumbling off to his bunk. Frankie crawled into his own bed and caught about forty minutes of sleep before they were awoken for a mission.
But the mission didn’t happen, thanks to a heavy cloud bank rolling in. Foggy Belmont thought it might clear, though, and so they had to remain on call, shuffling around the ready room. A few guys organized a football game, but Frankie was too tired to participate. He couldn’t fall back to sleep, though, because there was a chance they would still go up, and his stomach kept clenching at the thought.
He wandered over to where Jim was working on the Mustang, but Jim, greasy and irritable, shooed him away, saying that he couldn’t have “idiot pilots” hanging about during delicate operations. Maybe Jim’s bad mood had something to do with the fact that they couldn’t touch or kiss. Frankie sure felt bummed. And now that Ed was gone, he didn’t have anyone to talk to about it. No one to share the kind of giddy feeling that had been welling up whenever he thought of their conversation on the bridge.
That night, without Jim sleeping next to him, there was nothing to take his mind off the bad dreams, either. He was hanging in the air, looking over a beautiful green field, parachute drifting on a gentle breeze. But he knew the bullets were about to slice into him. He couldn’t do anything to stop it. He jolted awake, a scream gurgling in his throat.
Shaking, he pressed his face into the pillow, the thin linen gradually soaking through with tears he couldn’t seem to stop.
“DAMN, FRANKIE, you look like shit,” Roy told him the next day as they huddled in the briefing room at 0500 hours. “Didn’t you just have the weekend off?”
“Maybe he needs a visit to the Flak Home,” George said, plopping down next to them. While Frankie had been gone, they’d flown another mission, and George had added another Me 109 to his kill list.
“I’m fine,” Frankie snapped. “I want to go shoot something.”
“Atta boy.” George clapped him on the shoulder.
That day, the briefing officer informed them, they would be going on a strafing mission instead of escorting bombers. As the Army drew closer to Paris, the Air Forces were targeting anything that might soften up the Germans’ resistance, such as trains, trucks, radio relays, and airfields.
He’d hardly slept at all, but he felt angry rather than exhausted—angry at himself for being a damn coward, angry at the goddamned Nazis for starting this war, angry they’d lost Ed, angry that every mission he had to fly increased the odds that he’d get killed and wouldn’t come back to Jim. He held on to that anger, trying to burn away the fear that wanted to overtake it as he strapped on his parachute.
He mustered a small smile for Jim but couldn’t keep it up long. Jim took in his tired eyes and managed to squeeze Frankie’s hand as he got him settled in the cockpit. “You okay?” he asked quietly so Henry wouldn’t hear.
“Yes,” he snapped, sick of people asking him that question. “I’m going to blow up an airfield. Or something.”
Jim was unfazed by the tension vibrating in his voice. “Watch yourself, all right? We just repainted the nose.”
Frankie rolled his eyes, knowing now that Jim hid his concern for Frankie behind his concern for the plane.
“Get off,” he said, waving a hand. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
If it had been another day—hell, another universe where there was no war—Frankie would have enjoyed the flying they had to do. Strafing missions required you to fly close to the ground, and you had to be alert every second, paying attention to obstacles, often using brute force to fight the drag on the stick, constantly adjusting speed and position. But he was so tired, and it dulled his reactions, adding to the looming panic in the back of his mind.
He tried to stoke his anger, following George, who was a wing leader on this mission, into a series of tight curves as they paralleled a river winding along below them.
They did eventually stumble on an airfield. It popped up over the next tree line. The Nazis had tried to camouflage some of the planes, but you couldn’t hide it really, especially not from this close.
“I’ll head left, you head right,” George said over the radio, and Frankie peeled off, already aiming his machine guns at a Messerschmitt, a sitting duck there on the ground. The bullets pinged off the concrete and then hit the plane, chewing into it. The explosion slammed him into his straps, and he pulled up, heart pounding, and aimed his sights at another.
He didn’t see the two men ducking out from under the plane and sprinting toward cover until he had already fired. One of them went down, falling into a limp huddle. The Mustang hurtled past. His sights zeroed in on an Fw 190 that had a crumpled propeller, and he kept firing. Then his damned guns jammed.
He wished they had jammed ten seconds ago. If they had, that nameless German Frankie had just killed in nothing like a fair fight might still be alive.
“I’m picking up some machine gun fire,” George said. “Let’s get out of here.”
They started running low on fuel before they found any other likely targets, so the flight turned back to home. Frankie flew mechanically, most of his mind grappling with his thoughts, trying to force them into order. He wanted to deny the wish about his guns. After all, he was supposed to kill the enemy. And that man had been the enemy. He’d been a member of the German Army.
But he must have been so frightened in those seconds before his death, with the Mustang screaming toward him.
This was why he had chosen the Air Forces, for God’s sake. Because he didn’t want to be down in the mud blasting a machine gun. Against another fighter pilot, it was a match of speed and skill. The other man had a chance, and you could be proud of a victory.
Gritting his teeth, Frankie slammed a hand into the instrument panel, feeling the shock even through his thick glove. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to let this get to him.
“PAINT LOOKS okay,” Jim commented when Frankie slid out of the cockpit.
But Frankie couldn’t handle their usual banter, not now. “The guns jammed,” he snarled. “Thankfully I didn’t have an Me 109 on my tail. Maybe you should spend less time nagging me and more time doing your job.” It was completely unfair, of course. The mechanics did their best, but they couldn’t prevent every problem, not in combat situations.
But Jim just said, “We’ll fix it.”
And that made Frankie more upset because he wanted Jim to be angry, to yell at him so he wouldn’t feel so badly about yelling back.
Appalled, he realized he was about to start crying, and he turned away, walking and then breaking into a run, ignoring Jim calling after him. He ran into the nearest toilet and splashed some water on his face, stomach roiling with nausea.
“Frankie.” It was Jim, knocking on the side of the wall, carefully avoiding looking at him. “Can I come in?”
He wanted to ignore Jim, but he had to get to the debriefing anyway. George was probably looking for him.
“Hey,” Jim said when Frankie gestured for him to step inside.
Frankie met his dark brown eyes, warm with concern, for a moment, and then looked at his feet. “It was just a rough mission. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Jim nodded. “You look like you could use this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the candy bars he always had squirreled away, then held it out.
Frankie took it gratefully, tore back the paper and bit into the sweet chocolate. It settled his stomach a little.
Jim glanced around and then herded Frankie farther inside, into one of the shower stalls, partially shielded from the rest of the room. He crowded close, reaching up to tilt Frankie’s head down so he could kiss him.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since we got back from London,” he confessed.
“You’re just regretting giving me the candy,” Frankie said, finding he could still smile after all. “Wanted a taste of it.”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “That’s somewhat disgusting. And not true.”
He could still laugh too.
“What happened?” Jim asked softly. “You don’t have to tell me, but maybe, I don’t know, maybe it would help.”
Frankie shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his nose and sniffing.
“All right.” Jim gave him another kiss. “Come meet me after dinner. We’ll play poker or something.”
“Okay.” Frankie cleared his throat. “Thanks. I’m fine. It was just… well, I have to get to the debrief.”
“Yep.” Jim stood aside. “And I’ll get to work on that jammed gun. Maybe I’ll try putting in a whole new one.”
After dinner he did go find Jim, and they settled into a corner of Jim’s barracks. Jim shuffled the cards, and Frankie poured a handful of pennies onto the table to use for betting.
“My mother would say you’re corrupting me,” Frankie commented, taking the cigarette Jim handed him. “Smoking, drinking, cards,” he lowered his voice a little, “sex.”
“That is a pretty damning list.” Jim laid down two cards and picked up new ones. “Although it seems to me, you’ve been a willing participant.”
“Guess I have.” Frankie looked up from his cards to give Jim a smile. “Besides, I’d never tell my ma about all this. She’ll love you when she gets to meet you.” He faltered. “I mean, if you ever wanted to come visit.”
Jim leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Traveling to Kansas, huh? The things we do for love.”
That was the second time Jim had referred to his feelings for Frankie as love. Always in a lighthearted way, of course, that might not be serious, but still, it lifted his heart. But if Jim knew how he could hardly make himself climb into that plane anymore, if he knew how deeply the deaths of those Germans had affected him—he didn’t know if Jim would love him then. Jim nudged his foot. “Are you folding or what?”
“I’ll fold.” Frankie laid his cards down. It had been a bum hand.
Jim swept the little pile of pennies into his palm and then shuffled and dealt. “Speaking of corrupting you,” he said in a low voice, “the next time we’re alone, I think I’d like you to fuck me.”
That made him sit up. He stared at Jim. “Really?” he stammered and then blushed.
Jim smirked. “Yep. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you stare at my ass when I’m bent over the engine.”
“Jeepers, don’t talk about it here,” Frankie hissed, grabbing his jacket and folding it over his lap.
“Awww, poor baby, you getting hard?”
Frankie glared.
“What do you say, though?” Jim asked, and he sounded almost hesitant, a little unsure. “That something you would like?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love that. Just thinking about it….” He took a deep breath. “I can’t promise it would be great, the first time,” he continued, scratching his neck. “I mean, well, it might take a while to figure out.” Not to mention he’d probably only last five seconds once he slid inside Jim.
“Don’t worry. We’ll practice lots,” Jim assured him, smiling.
He groaned. “Torture a guy, why don’t you?”
They played until Jim had won all the pennies, and then Frankie said good night and went back to his own barracks. He was sure they would be up at 0300, as usual. God, what he wouldn’t give for a week of uninterrupted sleep.