The Little Gem

The Life and Times of a WWII Bomber

It had been four days since “Brownstone Babe” had reared into view against the setting sun. Randy could still remember turning his head towards the single, sputtering engine. A moment later, the klaxon alarm drowned out the sound.

Watching from the tower, he never felt the pencil snap under his thumb as he recognized the airframe. “That’s Jimmy and the boys. Holy cow, they’re in pieces.”

Streaming ribbons of black smoke and veering into the crosswind, the enormous seventy-four thousand pound pile of aluminum and flesh descended towards the beach like a roller coaster car. Fire-trucks raced line-abreast across the airfield, trailing curtains of sand in their wake.

Randy grabbed his binoculars. “No wheels! No wheels!”

It was unlikely that Jimmy would forget the undercarriage.

Randy’s CO growled from behind his cigar. “He’s lost hydraulics. He’ll only have one chance at this. That engine better stay in one piece.”

Randy was holding his breath. He could see a lone, bloodied figure in the cockpit, lining her up, stomping his feet on the rudder. But a banshee scream heralded a final twist and the engine exploded, showering the air with sparks. The aircraft lurched sideways, as if punched. She flung herself onto the asphalt and vanished behind a cloud of smoke, sand and spinning debris. Randy felt the impact in his feet and the sound of squealing metal rattled the window.

He couldn’t help himself. He threw down his glasses and raced for the door, joining the teeming crowds of firefighters as they scrambled to get to the ten trapped men.

But it was too late. Only one member of Jimmy’s team survived that last flight.

They doused her fires and dragged her shattered body onto the dirt between Strip A and the taxiway. The cockpit had been shot to pieces. Machine-gun fire had transfixed the co-pilot. The nose-gunner and bombardier positions had been torn away; there was no sign of Airman Jones or Lieutenant Figgs. Smoke inhalation and shrapnel had killed the radioman and the navigator. They found both side-gunners slumped in their harnesses, stitched with gaping wounds. The rear gunner position was intact but Airman Mitchell was found halfway up the fuselage. Most likely he had gone to help the others before breaking his neck. Captain James Farley, the skipper, had died with both fists wrapped in fury around the control-column that had crushed his chest.

All that was left was “Brownstone Babe” herself. They stripped out the burnt-out wiring and pulled away the damaged panels. The bullet-ridden seats were stacked outside the hanger. The glass and the engines were replaced and a cannibalized nose-wheel assembly was added. Four days later, she was rolled back out into the Sun and introduced to a new crew, a new family of boys.

Clean-shaven, dressed in pressed fatigues, these boys walked around her, their fingers tracing her rivets and lines. The new skipper, a man barely a year or two younger than Jimmy had been, asked Randy to help paint a new identity on her fresh aluminum skin.

“Do you mind? Me and guys were hoping you’d help.”

“Sure thing, son. I’d be honored.”

“Well, we’d y’all appreciate that.”

“It’s not the first time.” Randy said.

And it won’t be the last, he thought as he watched the young men gather their gear.

“What name did you have in mind?”