The Ragged Irregulars:

By Cheryl Pula

This is the second book in the series and it follows the story line from book 1, The Children's Crusade. The Ragged Irregulars is a fast-paced, suspenseful and often astounding novel about B-17 bomber crews in action over Europe in World War II, buttressed by enlightening technical details and multi-dimensional characterizations of pilots, bombardiers, navigators, gunners and ground crews -- all based on first-person interviews with USAAF veterans who experienced many of the actual events. It is a gripping book that I found impossible to put down, as my emotions ranged from the merely expectant to the overwhelming. It has a perfect match of idiom and tone for the historical era and for the situations that young American airmen faced.
REVIEW: Book 2, The Ragged Irregulars, takes up the story where Book 1 (The Children's Crusade) leaves off with young bombardier Kelly being shot at in the woods of occupied France. We were amazed that the young man was able to withstand his ordeal and return to active duty.

We were horrified when pilot Jack was injured and Matt had to complete flying the plane to safety and bring Jack to the medical help he needed.

Book 2 left us feeling anxious for the crew of FULL HOUSE and almost wishing they would not have to return to active duty. Matt's flying ability paid off when he was awarded his own plane. Thank goodness he finally got what he so much deserved. We could not stop reading until the end, when young Jesse went through his initiation as the bombardier of FULL HOUSE. Our hearts flew with them on that mission.

We knew the war was bad, but we had no idea of the hardships our young men endured during that time period. We look forward to Book 3 and the new adventures of the characters in the story. We feel like they are a part of us. Phyllis and Dale Robinson, Plain City, Ohio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Pula
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311132499

Cheryl Pula

Biography: A native of New York Mills, New York, Cheryl Pula is a retired Reference Librarian with a B.A. degree in Russian Language and a minor in German. Though officially retired in August 2011, she now works part-time at the New York Mills Public Library in New York Mills, NY. Cheryl also does extensive speaking engagements throughout New York and is available to speak at your next event. For more information, e-mail [e-mail] or visit her website at http://www.8thmilitary.com. She has taught courses on unsolved historical mysteries; the American Civil War; World War II; The Titanic and several other topics. A founding member of the New York Mills Historical Society. She is also the founder, current secretary and newsletter editor of the General Daniel Butterfield Civil War Round Table in New York Mills. She is an honorary member of the Memphis Belle Memorial Association of Memphis, Tennessee. Cheryl is also a charter member of the Writer’s Club of Bridgeport, New York. She is known around central New York for presenting a number of historical lectures (90 to be exact!) on topics from the Titanic to the first moon landing in July 1969. Cheryl was elected “Historian of the Year” by the Oneida County Historian’s Association in 2006. In 2010, she was listed in Who’s Who In America. She is also the author of the series of novels about Eighth Air Force B-17 bomber crews in World War II England. The first book in the series is, The Children’s Crusade, published by Whitehall Publishing. This is the seventh in the series. She has also compiled a series of books that bring together some of the most compelling and interesting mysteries in our history. The series is called, It’s A Mystery with the first and second volumes already published and more to follow. Cheryl is also a national speaker. To learn more about Cheryl Pula or to schedule her to speak at your next event, we invite you to visit her website at: http://8thmilitary.comTo arrange to have Cheryl at your next event as a Keynote Speaker, e-mail [e-mail] or visit her website at: http://www.8thmilitary.com.

Book preview

The Ragged Irregulars:

The Eighth Air Force Series,

Book Two

Written By:

Cheryl Pula

REVIEWS

"The Ragged Irregulars is a fast-paced, suspenseful and often astounding novel about B-17 bomber crews in action over Europe in World War II, buttressed by enlightening technical details and multi-dimensional characterizations of pilots, bombardiers, navigators, gunners and ground crews -- all based on first-person interviews with USAAF veterans who experienced many of the actual events. It is a gripping book that I found impossible to put down, as my emotions ranged from the merely expectant to the overwhelming. It has a perfect match of idiom and tone for the historical era and for the situations that young American airmen faced." Lawrence A. DeLong, Lieutenant, U.S. Navy (ret.), Former gunnery officer, USS Newport News (CA-148), heavy cruiser, Vietnam

I found the book to be as exciting as the first one. The characters just get under your skin and you can’t let of them go. I would recommend this book to anyone, whether they like war stories or not. The people are so easy to connect to. Steve Rowlands, Oneida NY, Served U.S.A.F 1973-1977

This second story was just as good as the first. With all its twist and turns, I was on the edge of my seat most of the novel. Cheryl truly has a way with words to make you feel you are sitting right there with the crew. She also writes characters you truly care about and connect with. I read the book in just over a day. Not easy with two small children, but it was almost impossible to put down. Jen Abrams, Columbus, OH.

The Ragged Irregulars

Cheryl Pula

Copyright Cheryl Pula 2015

Published by Whitehall Publishing at Smashwords

http://www.8thmilitary.com

For More Information Contact:

Whitehall Publishing

P.O. Box 548

Yellville, Arkansas 72687

http://www.whitehallpubilshing.com

mailto:[e-mail]

Cheryl Pula

http://www.8thmilitary.com

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Cover Design:

Ascender Graphix

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Friday, 11 September 1936

Michael Davenport Residence

Sunday, 20 December 1942

Near Romilly-Sur-Seine, France

Thursday, 24 December 1942

Christmas Eve

Thursday, 11 March 1943

United States Army Air Force Station #121

Saturday, 13 March 1943

Silver Spring, Maryland

Friday, 4 June 1943

Bombardier Training School

Friday, 2 July 1943

United States Army Air Force Station 121

Saturday, 3 July 1943

Bremen, Germany

Bassingbourn, England

1600 Hours (4:00 PM)

Monday, 5 July 1943

Bassingbourn, England

Wednesday, 7 July 1943

East Anglia, England

Saturday, 10 July 1943

Buffalo Central Railroad Terminal

Tuesday, 13 July 1943

Cambridgeshire, England

Wednesday, 14 July 1943

At the Waggon and Horse Pub

Thursday, 15 July 1943

Author’s Note

Other Books by Cheryl Pula

Dedication

Dedicated to the Bombardiers

of the United States Army Air Force.

1941 - 1945

"I want you to know about a new kind of American soldier,

the most important of all our fighting men today.

He is the most important because, upon him…

depends the success of any mission…The greatest bombing plane

in the world…takes him into battle, through weather,

through enemy opposition, just so he may have thirty seconds

over the target. In those thirty seconds, he must vindicate

the greatest responsibility ever placed upon an

individual soldier in the line of duty…"

—-Eugene L. Eubank. Major General USAF (Retired)

19th Bomb Group Commanding

Speaking on the role of bombardiers.

Introduction

The Ragged Irregulars is the second book in

The Eighth Air Force series.

All events in this series are based on actual occurrences

experienced by people I personally interviewed

while conducting my research.

It was my privilege to spend time with these

Veterans and my honor to share their stories in

this fictional work.

At twelve-years-old, Kelly Davenport was advanced from the seventh to the tenth grade, the first student in the history of Montgomery Blair High School to achieve such a feat. The surprise child of a Washington, D.C. police officer and a Dutch immigrant mother who together had already raised three children in their Silver Spring, Maryland home before Kelly arrived. The couple believed their young son’s advanced intellect was a gift but as was true with many gifts in life, it came with a high price tag. For young Kelly, that included being taunted daily at school, not just because he was smarter than the rest of the kids but because he was born with a terrible stutter. While his teachers called him an academic prodigy, it was due to his awful speech impediment that the kids called him The Freak among other derogatory names. After years of enduring verbal abuse from the other children at school, one day he was physically attacked by four students, all older and a lot bigger than he was. That day was the turning point in Kelly’s life.

His parents spent their life savings going from doctor to doctor, attempting to get help for their son, but to no avail. On the same day Kelly was attacked at school, his mother received a call from the top specialist they had gone to most recently, only to hear once again that there was nothing they could do for him…..

Friday, 11 September 1936

Michael Davenport Residence

Thayer Avenue

Silver Spring, Maryland

Kelly sat at the dinner table, his emerald green eyes downcast, studying his plate. Since his father arrived home from work, his parents had been trying to get him to relate what happened at school. But he remained silent, keeping the humiliation of the beating tucked away inside. It wasn’t the beating per se that was humiliating, but the fact he tried to defend himself and failed miserably. The four other students were older and bigger than he, and Kelly hadn’t inflicted much damage on them, though they gave him bruises, a bloody nose and a black eye.

Kelly could not meet his father’s gaze because he was unable to put up much of a fight against his attackers. His father was a policeman for many years, and before that, in the U.S. Army during the Spanish-American War, and made the famous charge up San Juan Heights as one of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. He was a combat veteran, yet his father continually drummed into his head that violence was not the way to handle arguments or disagreements. Now, Kelly thought his father was ashamed of him, not because he fought back against kids considerably bigger than he, but because his attempt was so ineffective.

…I know we’ve always taught you fighting is not the way to settle anything, Michael Davenport was saying. "However, there are times when you have to fight. When someone is attacking you, I want you to know it is all right to defend yourself. But it has to be when you are in danger of really being hurt, or your life is threatened, then you do whatever it takes to save yourself. And never…never be the one to start it. Do you understand?"

Kelly nodded.

Those kids meant to hurt you today. When you fought back, you were defending yourself, so it was okay. All right? Michael asked, attempting to sound soothing, reassuring.

Kelly thought about that for a moment, then nodded. After a short pause, he looked at his mother and asked, Wh…what di…did the…d…doc…tor say?

Helen Davenport was surprised. She did not know her son knew the physician called. Obviously, he heard the telephone ring, but it could have been anyone. She did not want to tell him. She knew Kelly was waiting for Dr. Preston Norton to call, since he was one of the foremost specialists in the country who treated speech disorders.

M…mom? Wh…what did…he…he…say? he asked again.

Kelly…

Helen…tell him, Michael instructed quietly.

She did not want to say it, but she had no choice. Dr. Norton said there’s nothing he can do.

Kelly didn’t say anything, but mulled the verdict over silently. He was tired of being dragged from one specialist to another, month after month, year after year, only to hear the same verdict over and over again. Nothing can be done. He learned to accept the fact. Even at his age, he was mature enough to know Dr. Norton was the last hope, the last straw. He once overheard the doctor and his parents talking in the physician’s office, something about a Depression and the fact there wasn’t a great deal of money. He knew his parents were being bled dry of what little they had trying to locate someone to help him. His mother went without new clothes and his father rode to work with another police officer because their car needed repairs he could not afford, as the money was going to the doctors.

That day Kelly made a decision that would change the course of his life. He had been thinking about it for a long time. He would no longer be the reason why his parents deprived themselves of what little they had in a futile attempt to help him. If the doctors couldn’t do anything, he had no recourse but to take matters into his own very young hands.

I…I’m g…g…going to….to t…talk. So…someday I’m…go…going to…ta…talk like…y…you, he asserted quietly.

Michael sighed indulgently. You know what the doctors said. If they can’t do anything, who can? He did not want to be cruel, he was just stating the obvious.

Kelly did not answer for a moment. He was trying to formulate his answer in such a way as to leave no doubt in their minds of the sincerity of what he was about to say.

His parents watched, knowing he was trying to put everything together, his thoughts and his voice. He did that when he wanted to say something and have them take it seriously. When he finally spoke, it shocked them completely.

After several long, expectant seconds, he gave his answer, very slowly, but very deliberately. I’ll…………teach………….myself.

Michael’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t what his son said, it was how he said it. He did not stutter. It was only three words, with very lengthy pauses in between. It was obvious it took a great deal of concentration and control to utter them, and it was a struggle to do so, but there was no stutter, no stumble over the consonants. All three words were perfect.

Helen heard the simple yet almost unbelievable sentence. It was now her turn to stutter. Wh…what did you say?

Kelly took a deep breath, obviously struggling with himself to make the words come out correctly, but determined to do it. I’ll……teach…….myself.

The pauses between the words were not quite as long this time, and the way he’d said it was almost as though he was trying to convince himself along with them.

Without another word, Helen rushed around the table. She put her arms around him, hugging him. That is the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard anyone say!

Michael finally found his own voice. But how can you…?

Kelly said, I r…read…a bo…book ab…about H…Helen K…eller. She was d…deaf and …b…b…blind. She’d ne…ver heard an…other p…person…sp…speak. She…she learned to…to…talk. S…so…so can I.

But she had a teacher, Helen protested.

I d…d…do, too. Me, he answered with determination. "I ca…can…do…do it. I w…will do it. After a second, he looked away from her and to Michael. I…know…y…you want…me t…to go t…to college…I’ll study…I…I’ll l…learn to…talk and…and g…get the mo…money…somehow…I’ll do…it. I…promise…"

Seeing his expression, the sheer determination on his face, in his eyes, they knew that somehow he would keep that promise.

Sunday, 20 December 1942

Near Romilly-Sur-Seine, France

Eighteen-year-old First Lieutenant Kelly Davenport, United States Army Air Force, kept that promise to his parents six years before. Though it took several years of incredibly difficult work, he did what the experts said was impossible, and taught himself to speak without the stutter. Because of that, he graduated valedictorian of his class at Montgomery Blair High School, with a scholarship to Princeton University to study nuclear physics. He entered that august institution at the age of fourteen, and graduated three years later, the seventeen-year-old valedictorian of that class as well. He was awarded a fellowship to continue for his advanced degrees, but it was taken away and given to the son of a Maryland politician instead. With no other options available to obtain the money necessary to continue in school, he joined the United States Army in the summer of 1941 to earn enough to return to college. It was because of that promise made to his parents six years before, that he found himself in his present predicament.

A bombardier with the United States Eighth Air Force, 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy), 324th Squadron, he ended up in Nazi occupied France when his aircraft, a B-17 Flying Fortress named American Beauty, was hit by flak at 26,000 feet. He was thrown free, managed to deploy his parachute, and landed in a tree, his face and hands cut and bloodied by broken branches. When he freed himself, he plunged to the ground, breaking his right foot. Kelly analyzed the situation, and decided to walk to safety, or as close to safety as his broken foot would allow. He began to walk toward Switzerland many miles away, knowing if he could reach the border and get across, he would be safe in a neutral country. But after three painful hours of trudging through the snow on the broken foot, everything was about to take a very bad turn.

Kelly stood cautiously in the woods, listening intently. He stopped walking because his foot was hurting so badly that he knew he could not walk any further. But the pain was not what concerned him at the moment. It was an eerie feeling, the sensation that he was not alone, that he was being watched.

That thought no sooner crossed his mind when a loud report boomed in the woods. Kelly hit the hard, snowy ground, pulling a .45 automatic pistol from a holster on his left side. A second shot hit just in front of his face, kicking up snow and dirt. The debris hit him in the eyes and he couldn’t see. He blinked as the unseen shooter took another try. There was a muzzle flash, a little to the right and perhaps fifty yards away. The flash was too big for a handgun, so he knew the man had a rifle. Kelly had only seconds to analyze that when he felt someone grab the collar of his fleece lined B-3 jacket. With a strong heave, he was pulled over onto his back. He found himself looking up at a German Lieutenant. They outflanked him. His attention went to the insignia on the man’s collar, double silver lightning bolt runes.

Not the SS, Kelly thought. Please…not the SS…

American, the German demanded in English, then he noticed the silver bars on the collar of Kelly’s flight suit, beneath the top of his B-3. Lieutenant.

What do I do now? Kelly wondered fearfully. He decided to keep his mouth shut and pray for the best.

The German SS Lieutenant held a very deadly steel blue Luger pistol. He gestured. Hand over your weapon.

Kelly hesitated. His father, a retired Washington, D.C. policeman, taught him to shoot a handgun. One of the cardinal rules he drilled into his son’s head was, Never give up your weapon.

The German noted the hesitation. Hand it over or you die right now.

Kelly reached up from his prone position, handing over the .45.

The SS man took the .45 in his left hand. Get up.

Slowly, Kelly rose. His right foot was in agony, so he tried to balance on his good leg.

The SS Lieutenant spoke again in very good, American accented English. You’ve injured your leg. The German noted his expression. I see you are trying to decide how I learned to speak English like an American. Rutgers University, class of 1934. He slowly studied Kelly as he silently stood before him. A small grin came to the German’s face. Well, we must be winning the war. I see the Americans are drafting babies and making them officers. He paused, We saw you come down, and could have taken you, but I decided to wait. I was curious to see how far you would get on that leg, he motioned to the bombardier’s fractured foot with the barrel of the Luger. I will give you credit. You must have high tolerance for pain. You made it a lot further than I expected. There is a road only a few kilometers that way. You could have followed it to the Swiss border. I couldn’t let you get that far.

Kelly stood quietly, waiting.

The German studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, without warning, he slammed Kelly across the face with the Luger. You son of a bitch!

Taken by surprise, Kelly nearly lost his balance but managed to stay on his feet. His face erupted in pain as the gun’s barrel ripped a gash across his already torn right cheek. It began to bleed immediately.

There was hate in the German’s eyes. My wife was killed in an air raid. You could have been the one who killed her! He raised the gun again, pointing it at the center of Kelly’s chest. Where did you come from? What base?

He did not say a word, though inside he was totally terrified.

Where did you come from? the German repeated, barely controlling himself.

Kelly remained silent.

The Lieutenant hit him across the face again. Answer me! Where did you come from?!!?

Kelly hesitated a moment longer, then, Davenport, Kelly M. Lieutenant, 13420917.

The German clearly was not happy with the answer. He hit him again, then looked into his pain-glazed eyes. "You will answer my questions! You will cooperate. If you don’t, I will kill you right now."

It was clear to Kelly that he was not making an idle threat. Davenport, Kelly…

Almost immediately the German threw another punch. Kelly tried to dodge again, but his foot would not hold his weight, and he stumbled slightly. The SS officer slammed his fist into his face, cracking his nose. The force sent Kelly sprawling backwards in the snow. The German raised the Luger and pointed it at the center of Kelly’s forehead. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Out of sheer desperation, Kelly kicked with his good left leg. It caught the German’s right leg and he went down, not expecting it. As he did, he dropped the bombardier’s .45 in the snow a few feet away. It did not take long for him to recover. He tried to aim his Luger. Kelly got on top of him and grabbed his arm with both of his hands, pushing the pistol away. His action caused the cuts on his hands to open and begin to bleed anew. The Lieutenant hit him in the face again, but Kelly did not let go. He knew if he did, he would die. The German jerked his knee up and got him in the stomach. Kelly fell over on his side, his grip on the soldier’s gun hand coming lose. The German was on top of him before he could recover. He was considerably larger than the bombardier and he was very heavy. The German clamped his left hand around Kelly’s neck, squeezing, trying to choke him.

Kelly gasped as the German’s strong fingers dug into his neck, cutting off his air. He could see the Lieutenant’s right hand still held the Luger. Out of the corner of his eye, he could also see his own .45 lying in the snow, just a couple feet away to the right. Kelly put his right hand up, trying to pry the man’s fingers from his throat. With his left, he grabbed the German’s right arm, trying to keep him from pointing the Luger. Kelly struggled with all the strength he had. He would live or die in the next few seconds.

The German kept trying to choke him. At the same time, he was attempting to line up the Luger for a shot.

Kelly held on, fighting to keep the barrel of the pistol from pointing in his direction, but the SS officer was bigger and stronger than he was and ever so slowly, the Luger was coming closer. At that moment, for a split second, the day in high school when the four students attacked him flashed unbidden through his mind. He’d always heard when a person was in mortal danger, his or her life flashed before their eyes. But for him it was that one day, six years before. He vividly remembered not wanting to face his parents, to admit with shame he had not been able to defend himself. Today he was not going to let them down again. His father told him he had a right to defend himself, and that was exactly what Kelly was about to do. He was going to defend himself as best he could, or die trying.

The German concentrated all his energy on the Luger. This American was considerably stronger than he looked. Slowly, with a great deal of effort, he got the Luger closer, closer. It seemed like hours but it was only a matter of seconds. With a final thrust, he forced the gun inward, between the two of them and pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped into Kelly’s body just below the rib cage, tore through his stomach, plowed all the way through him and out his back before burying itself in the frozen ground beneath him. The pain exploded through him. Kelly cried out, letting go of the Lieutenant. The world grew dark for a second, then was back. Along with it came excruciating agony. He gasped, trying to breathe. Each breath was torture. He felt as though he had a load of bricks on his chest. Tremendous pain scorched through his body. Tears of sheer agony began to run down his dirty, bloody, bruised and lacerated cheeks. He clamped his hands against the front of his jacket, trying to stop the pain. His blood flowed out freely between his fingers in dark red rivulets.

The German was panting with effort. He got up, still holding the Luger. Trembling with rage, he studied his victim as he lay on the ground, bleeding, the snow quickly turning scarlet red beneath him. He turned slowly toward the woods.

Korporal…Kommen…Mach schnell.

The SS Lieutenant heard a sudden metallic click behind him, he turned back to the wounded American, his gray eyes went wide. He was looking down the barrel of the .45 automatic. He tried to snap the Luger up but he was too late.

Kelly pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the German in the center of the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. Even amid the unbelievable agony, Kelly saw the German turn away, looking for his comrade in the woods. It was the break he needed. Kelly reached his blood soaked right hand over and grabbed the .45. He managed to cock the weapon as the SS officer was beginning to turn back toward him. It only took a few seconds, but it was enough. Kelly had never fired the .45 before, not once in all the time he’d had it. It was supposed to be used to defend the Norden bombsight, not him. He passed his qualifications for handguns in basic training, but his scores were average at best. He never fired a shot at anything but a target, and that was months before. And as a leftie, he never fired right-handed, either.

He was in agony as he lay staring up at the heavy, slate gray sky. It was unbelievable, he thought in painful disbelief. He was spared when his plane exploded, survived a 26,000 foot free fall and was saved by a torn parachute. He made a relatively safe landing, considering everything. Now, after all that, he was still going to die, shot through and through by this SS officer and no one back home would ever know what really happened. Kelly had to grudgingly admit, the guy nailed him good.

He gritted his teeth, crying from the pain. He never hurt so badly in his life. How far away was the other soldier in the woods that the officer summoned? Amid the torture he wondered how much time he had before the second guy came to finish the job. He could not be far away. Kelly knew he could not get up, the wound was too severe, but he would not just lie there and let whoever it was walk up and get an easy kill either.

Obersturmbanfuhrer? a German voice questioned from nearby.

Kelly panted in pain. His right hand shook badly as it held the automatic, and shaking hands threw the aim off. Kelly knew airmen who had nerves of steel, who never seemed scared or nervous. He wished he could be like that, especially now. But he was only human, susceptible to fear and nerves like most humans, and at that moment, he was more scared than he had ever been in his life. The shaking became worse. The footsteps came closer. He had only a few moments. He closed his eyes.

Calm down…calm down. If you don’t calm down, you’ll die…I don’t want to die…I don’t want to die…

He took a deep breath, his wound protesting in agony. He let it out and took another, all the time concentrating, trying through sheer willpower to get his battered body to obey his mental commands. He was concentrating so hard, no other thoughts entered his mind, not the awful pain, not the sound of cautious steps off to the right as the German advanced toward him.

God please…please help me, he fervently whispered the prayer out loud, though nearly inaudibly.

He took two more deep, calming breaths. He opened his eyes. Something very, very strange happened. It was as though a switch inside of him clicked off. The tension was gone, as were the knots in his torn stomach, the intense fear. Even the pain seemed to have subsided somewhat. A strange tranquility settled over him, a calm he never felt before. It was surreal, eerie. Just a few scant seconds before, he was literally shaking with fear, now he felt unnaturally calm, in control. His hands were no longer trembling, not the slightest bit. They were rock steady.

Kelly panted as the pain tore through him. Even with the cold, the pain-induced perspiration ran down his face. Within his limited field of vision, he could see a tree to the right, the base dark with late afternoon shadow. A fallen trunk lay on the ground next to it. The trunk was large and could afford good protection.

Painfully, he pushed himself over on his stomach and began to crawl toward the fallen trunk, digging in with his elbows, pushing with his feet. The pain from the stomach wound and his fractured foot was almost unbearable. He was bleeding very badly and would continue to do so as long as he was exerting himself, but he had to get to the dubious safety of the shadows. The tree was only a few yards away, but it felt like a hundred miles as he crawled painfully along. It seemed an eternity before his hand found the side of the fallen trunk. He crawled around the end to the other side, then lay on his stomach with his raw, torn face against the cold, hard, snowy ground.

Get up! Damn it, don’t just lay here. Get up!

With incredible effort, Kelly pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned against the tree trunk. He was breathing hard from the effort, but not hard enough to keep from hearing the sound of cautious footsteps off to the right, only a few yards away. He held the gun in both hands to steady it, resting it on top of the tree trunk. He tried to ignore the pain and concentrate on holding the gun steady. If he was going to die, he would die facing his killer.

Only a few brief seconds later, the German appeared, dressed in an SS Corporal’s uniform, carrying a Mauser rifle at the ready. He appeared to be around eighteen, Kelly’s own age. He was accompanied by a Private. The Corporal advanced cautiously into the small clearing, the Private hanging back slightly. It took only a second for the Corporal to see his dead officer lying on his back in the snow. He was puzzled. He heard the shots and thought the Lieutenant killed the enemy airman, since that was what they planned when they saw his parachute come down. But they decided to track him for a while, just to see where he might be headed. The Corporal studied the ground, saw the huge bloodstain in the snow leading toward the fallen tree a few feet away, and looked up slightly. He was totally unprepared for the sight of the automatic pointed at him. He began to snap his rifle up for a shot.

Kelly fired. The bullet caught the German high in the chest. A look of shock came into the boy’s blue eyes, but he remained on his feet and kept raising the rifle, determined to finish what he started. Kelly pulled the trigger a second, then a third time. The two slugs hit the German in the center of the chest, slamming him backwards into the snow.

The Private was caught in the open with no cover. He crouched down as he raised his rifle and squeezed off a couple shots. The heavy bullets thwacked into the tree trunk, sending wooden splinters flying in all directions.

Kelly ducked down slightly. He grimaced from the pain of the sudden movement. He took quick inventory. He had four bullets left in the .45, and would have to make them count. Kelly peered cautiously over the log.

The German was on his stomach, the rifle pointed in his direction. He got off a shot. The bullet whizzed past Kelly’s ear.

The German was a small target. Kelly would have to risk exposing himself to shoot. He was not about to do that, so he decided to play dead. He crouched down painfully and waited. Several silent minutes went by. Kelly hardly dared breathe as he listened, trying to detect movement. He heard nothing. He tried not to breathe too deeply lest the German see his breath in the cold air. It was not easy. The pain from his wound tore at him unmercifully. He felt awfully sick.

After a moment he heard it, a cautious rustling not too far away. He listened, the .45 gripped tightly in both hands. It sounded as though the soldier was coming toward him. The German probably thought he was dead by now. Kelly tried to think like him. If he was the soldier, he would be crouched over, his rifle ready for a quick shot. He mentally estimated the man’s height, and readied himself. He waited a moment…then another…

He rose slightly and swung his .45 up, resting his arms on top of the trunk. He had only a second to analyze what was before him. The German was right where he thought he would be. Kelly squeezed off a shot. It caught the soldier in the ribs on the right side. He cried out, but tried to shoot. Kelly pulled the trigger again. The German died with a bullet wound to the base of his throat.

Kelly sat there for a minute, the gun still raised, the sound of the last two shots echoing through the trees. His pulse raced, but his hands were perfectly steady. He could not believe it. He killed three men. Granted, he must have killed many with bombs, but this was different, this was face to face. He slowly lowered the .45. He pushed himself to the base of the tree nearby and leaned heavily with his back against the trunk so he could see the clearing.

Kelly panted, the pain pounding at him. He brought his right hand up, feeling the front of his jacket. The hole was to the left of center beneath the bottom of his rib cage, about where his stomach was. It felt large and there was a great deal of wetness around it. He raised his hand. His palm and fingers were covered with blood, both from the lacerations there and the gunshot wound. Kelly slid his hand around his left side, feeling his back. He found that hole, too, slightly larger than the other, an exit wound.

He felt nauseous. Kelly unzipped his jacket. Almost the entire front of his blue bunny suit was soaked with blood, as was the B-3’s fleece lining. He leaned his head back against the tree and pressed his left hand tightly against the wound. The blood was flowing freely through his fingers. Kelly looked up. Everything was quiet now, an eerie, almost unearthly quiet. He thought if he listened closely enough, he could actually hear the snow falling. He grimaced as a searing stab of pain jabbed him in the stomach.

Why does dying have to hurt so much? he wondered, the tears running down his face, freezing to his battered cheeks.

He felt liquid in his throat and coughed painfully, trying to clear it. He tasted blood. Kelly laid his .45 on the ground and put his right hand up, swiping the back of it across his mouth. It came away red and sticky. He was coughing up blood. He spit it out.

He closed his eyes, trying to will the terrible agony away. Then he thought of his parents, and what their reaction might be when they received the inevitable telegram. In only five days, it would be Christmas. Even in his state, he fervently hoped to God the Army would be its usual slow moving self, and word would not reach them until after the holiday. Christmas the year before had been difficult for them, just a couple weeks after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. His brother Kasey was in the Navy, and his family lived in Hawaii, near Pearl. His parents were beside themselves with worry until they heard from him that he and his family were well. Even so, they chose not to celebrate Christmas, the holiday occurring so near the beginning of the war. Now him. He did not want to ruin another Christmas.

Kelly opened his eyes. In disjointed reflection, he knew if there was anything he regretted about his life, other than his present circumstances, it was the fact that he had been such a burden to his parents. He was a late child, born twenty years after his brother, when they should not have been raising more children. Ever since he could speak, he was cursed with his terrible stutter, which became progressively worse as the years advanced. He still had it. They used their life savings for doctor bills to help him cope with the impediment. They mortgaged their home a second time so he could attend college. He wanted to go on for graduate study, but did not have the money. He investigated every avenue open to him to obtain the funds, but to no avail. The only option was to enlist. He remembered the agonized look on his mother’s face when he talked his father into signing the papers so he could join the Army, since he was underage. They did everything for him, they were always there for him. He loved them more than anyone on earth, and he would never see them again. With that thought, the tears began to flow even more freely down his bloodied and torn face.

Stop it! You’re an officer. You’re not supposed to cry…What difference does it make? There’s no one here to see it…Just me…

Kelly lifted a blood soaked hand and wiped some tears away, not that it was any use. They just kept flowing. While it was true he was an officer who was supposed to be stalwart and in control, he was still just a kid who was scared, who was badly hurt and in pain, who would never be going home, who within the next hour or so would be dead. That thought was not very comforting. It was absolutely terrifying.

One thing about his death might be advantageous, at least for his parents. When he enlisted, he executed a will leaving them everything he had, what little there was. It was a strange experience, making out a will. It was one thing he never dreamed he would do at the age of seventeen. He also named them beneficiaries of his $10,000 G.I. life insurance policy. He was worth more to them dead than alive. Ten thousand dollars was a fortune, an amount he would never have been able to earn by working. If he died, the money would go to them. It was nowhere near what they had given up for him over the years, but at least it was something, money they could use for themselves, not money they would have to spend on him.

A thought occurred to him then. The insurance policy was worth $10,000. The Norden bombsight he used cost $10,000. It seemed to him that a life, his or anyone else’s, should be worth more than a piece of equipment, yet in the eyes of the U.S. Army, the two were equal, at least monetarily. That didn’t seem right at all.

After a moment, he dug his left hand into the inside right pocket of his flight suit. He brought out a photograph of his girlfriend, Julie McNamara, which he had covered with acetate plastic and tape to keep it from getting dirty or wet. He held it in his bloodied hand, looking down at it. He had not seen her in three months and even though that was not that long a time, it seemed like forever, especially in his present circumstances. He missed her badly. They hadn’t had much time since he enlisted in the summer of ’41. Kelly thought about the last night they spent together. The following morning, she went to the airport to see him off on the flight to Maine, where he would link up with the rest of his crew for the first time. She had tears in her eyes and kept telling him he would be all right, but he knew she said it more to convince herself than him. She hugged him tightly, not wanting to let go. Kelly hugged her back just as firmly, but inevitably he left her to get on the plane. The last sight he had of her was when the C-47 took off, and he could see her out the window, standing with his parents by the fence.

She gave him the picture the night before he left. He carried it with him on every mission. Shortly after arriving at the base, he received a letter, and in it she sent a copy of her favorite piece of writing, typed on a small piece of blue stationery. It was from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s masterful work, The Sonnets From the Portuguese. After he read it, he folded it and put it with the photograph, then encased both in acetate to keep them clean. He knew the writing well. He had memorized it.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace,

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light,

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints.—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall love thee better after death.

It was her favorite passage from Browning’s work, sent to express how deeply she loved him. Though he liked it, he did not particularly care for the last two lines, about loving him better after death. That always seemed so depressing, so final. But now, in his current predicament, it was certainly more than fitting.

Blood dripped from his chin onto the picture. Kelly wiped it off on the leg of his flight suit, then tucked the photo and the Browning passage back into his pocket. He picked up the .45. He never should have looked at the picture. All it did was serve to emphasize how awfully lonely it was in the woods.

Kelly studied the dead Germans. The snow was quickly covering them. He wondered about the men. Did they have families? Did they