Dear Destiny

Short story about a pilot in the war.

It was cold. All around him was cold. Terribly, frigidly cold. There is something about moving at high speeds at high altitudes that makes the insides of a barren, metal aircraft seem like you're racing the Iditarod in Bermuda shorts and a tank top. In fact, Charlie was fully suited up, shivering and blowing puffs of breath into his cupped hands in an attempt to keep the blood warm enough to circulate his numb fingers. Whether it worked or not he couldn't tell, he had given up feeling in his joints hours ago. His ears had seemed to quit as well, attempting to block out the never-ending droning the props produced as they sliced through thick, frozen clouds of swirling mists. He could barely make out what the man in the cabin was yelling to him, nobody had said anything, or had seemed to have said anything for a couple hours. He wasn't really focusing on words his mate's lips were forming, or the apprehensive expression he was wearing. Charlie nodded his head when he saw Franky’s lips had stopped moving. Charlie leaned back in the steel fold down chair on the wall of the plane. It was probably freezing cold too, but his rear was just as cold as anything else in the sky at this point.

He sat there thinking about being back at the barracks, drinking cheap beer and puffing local blend cigars with his childhood friend, Robby. Charlie would probably be holding a hand of cards at a low stakes game of poker and another hand, that of a young nurse he met when he went in to update his physical. Robby would probably be singing some obscure drunken tune until he fell to the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. They both would be having a good time, and they both would be warm. Bunking with that pretty nurse would be a little more than warm.

His thoughts and reflections on the previous week were suddenly interrupted as the sound of ripping metal occurred outside. Almost half a second later he heard the explosion and his mind kicked into action.

"FLAK!" he yelled as he scrambled to his gun post at the tail of the flying fortress, tripping over an empty fuel can in the process. He suddenly understood what Franky was mouthing at him earlier, they were about to enter enemy airspace at the time. Now the danger was all too real and imminent. More explosions, each being received by the aircraft with greater frequency than the previous, started to rip through the air, sending deadly shards of super-heated metal throughout the skies. This percussion of death ruled the skies. Sounds of tearing metal would occasionally sound, and was always followed by the slightly delayed explosion. Small holes of light would occasionally appear in the side of the plane.

By now Charlie's ears were fully alert to every sound; he could hear voices flying back and forth over the radio. The sudden cry of an anguished voice sounded, one bomber lost a turbine. Was that Robby? Another cry, another bomber, this one's elevators were hit and jammed. They go down. More radio activity, that was Robby for sure! It sounded like his friend was a goner, along with his crew. His suspicions confirmed, the first bomber shouted their maydays.

Charlie turned his head away from the front of the plane and looked out his window to see black smoke and flame pouring from the right prop of a bomber flying behind them as it rapidly lost altitude. He wasn't sure but he swore he could see his best friend praying through the cockpit glass as the aircraft dove beneath him. Pray for me too, my friend, that I won't soon meet you on the other side.

Suddenly the explosions had ceased. Charlie's ears were ringing with silence. He strained his ears for a sound, any sound. He didn't have long to wait. Another soft droning... Then lots of soft droning, that made by an engine other than the carrier's were now audible and getting clearer. His adrenaline began once more to pump freely through his heart and he felt no cold. It was the sound of Japanese Zeros.

"This is it boys!" shouted Franky's copilot. Charlie mentally prepared himself for the wave of incoming fighters, gripping the handles of his 50 cal. until his knuckles were ghostly white. A bead of sweat rolled over his brow and into his wide eyes.

"I leave myself in your hands, Fate..."

Author's Note

This is not the completed version... Thanks to "CHARLIE" and all the bullshit of losing my work. The final product was much more visually descriptive.