Chapter One-Hellfire and the Brainiac
Mike Stoker's Journal
12 Mar 42
Don't let anybody fool you. Mail from home is great. But it also slams you right in the gut. It makes you feel so bad, because you're stuck thousands of miles away from home, smack in the middle of mud, blood, and bombs. In my case, the mud's not as bad, because the damned Army Corps of Engineers finally got our whole airfield drained and evened out. It didn't do a damned thing for the bugs, though. I'm from Trenton, and an Army brat, for crap's sake! What do I know from bugs…except for roaches? Them, I know! Who would have expected marshes and bugs in Wales?!
I decided to keep this journal in case something happens to me, so maybe somebody will get it back to my folks someday. To that end, I copied all my important information on the inside of the front cover, but I'll cover the basics again, just in case the cover rips off. I have my dog tags, of course, so, no need to copy down that info. Here goes:
Name: Lt. Michael J. Stoker, Flight Engineer, U. S. Army Air Corps
Current Duty Station: Gadwick-Almand Airfield, Wales (aka "Gawd-Awful Field)
Born: Trenton, NJ 02 Feb 21, age 21
Enlistment Date: 02 Feb 38, Ft. Roberts, NJ
Graduate, Army Engineering School; Army Engineering Flight School
Parents: Col. James M. and Barbara L. Stoker
Siblings: One sister, Dianne L. Stoker, age 15
I have wanted to be a pilot for as long as I can remember, but it turns out the Army won't let me, because my vision isn't perfect. You have to have 20/20 in both eyes. I am 20/40 in my left, thanks to an old baseball injury I'd forgotten all about. I got knocked in the head in sixth grade. But I have gotten to train as a Flight Engineer on a B-17, and that has been amazing. The one thing I've learned out here though is not to get close to anyone, because the life expectancy isn't too good. We're losing a lot of crews every day, and already our crew has gone through three gunners and two pilots; and we've only been here three weeks!
The only exception to my rule is a guy we all call ""Hellfire Hank." Captain Hank Stanley is almost too tall for duty in a bomber-at 6'3" he beats me by 2" and he's skinny as hell. He's older than most of us, and apparently came up the hard way. Why the hell he chose bombers, I'll never know, but he is the best damned bombardier I have ever seen. His aim is perfect! He has nerves of steel, and I have yet to see him miss any target he's aimed at. He's also kept the crew together when we've been shot to hell, and had to limp back home. We've gotten pretty close, seeing as we've spent a lot of long hours with not a lot to do in the belly of Emily Jean, our baby. He has a wife waiting back home. Lucky guy!
On our last run, he got real serious. He knows the odds, and they're stacking up against both of us. We promised each other that we would never leave the other behind if we could help it—and I showed him where I keep this journal, under my flight jacket, or in my footlocker, just in case. We chatted about lighter things after that, including our ages, him 34, and me 21. I saw the expected look of surprise flash into his eyes; even as he grinned, and promised to introduce me to his little sister after we got home.
After we landed, and once the Flight Surgeon had cleared us; Hank showed me his sister's picture. He's right—she is a looker! I smiled, and he asked the question everybody asks me once they know I'm only 21. "How'd you get to be a Flight Engineer so young?" Usually I hedge the question, but for some reason, I trust Hank. "Simple. I graduated at 16, talked my parents into letting me enlist at 17. My dad is career Army, so he understands. Ma, not so much. I pulled off boot camp, and double training schedules, and graduated from both Army Engineering and Flight Engineering Schools, all in a year and a half." Hank stared at me for a long moment before he let out a low whistle.
"You must be some kinda frappin' Einstein!"
"No," I told him, seriously. "Just impatient to get to where I wanna be!"
He shook his head, looking around at the controlled chaos around us. "This what you had in mind, Braniac?"
"Well," I grinned at the man who was rapidly becoming my best friend, "no, not exactly!"
"Come on kid, let's go get cleaned up, and get some chow."
And suddenly, with Hellfire Hank at my side, I felt invincible. I was on top of the world as we made our way across God-Awful Airfield. Nothing could bring me down!
Hank grinned at my obvious attitude. We both stood a little straighter, walked a little taller that day.
I know now, if I'm ever in trouble, Hellfire will find me. He will never leave me behind. He promised.
Good night.
18 March 42
Nothing to report…It has turned cold and boring. There seems to be a lull in the action, and we are all getting antsy. I have heard rumors things are heating up in the Pacific Theater. That can't be good. Probably won't write much until there is something to report. Did you know they call soccer "football" over here, and their version of football is called "rugby?" It's rough as hell, but we all got into the game pretty quickly. I found out real quick Hank is fast, and a lot stronger than he looks! He mowed some of those English guys over so quick, it was hilarious! I still wouldn't wanna piss some of them off, though.
Good night.
22 March 42
One milk run is on for tonight. Just playing escort for some new fighter planes, Should be real easy, up the coast and back… No problem for the best crew in the business…Hellfire Hank won't even have to lift a finger tonight—the lucky bastard!
See you soon!
Hank's POV
10 April 42
Midlands Army Hospital, County Cork, Ireland
And nobody can tell me fate isn't a bitch with a sick sense of humor, because the whole world went to Hell on our very next mission. A milk run…a goddamned milk run!
Feels weird writing in another man's journal, but I sorta feel like it's what he would want me to do, since he ain't here right now, to do it. Don't ask me why I grabbed this damned thing off his flight desk before I bailed. I couldn't believe he forgot it…or maybe he knew…knew I'd grab it. I will never forget the look on the kid's face when we locked eyes, just before Emily Jean disintegrated around us. His eyes were so…old, and yet confident, somehow…he said, "See ya,"Hellfire, remember, you promised!" and he was gone…he just dropped away.
I never did see what hit us. It could have been a bomb or machine-gun fire, or even another plane. There were so many damned planes all over us at the time, we didn't have a chance in hell… and we all knew it. We were shot to doll rags. Our "milk run" had turned in to a death trap in the blink of an eye. Our last flight. The one where Emily Jean and the rest of my fuckin' crew died…all, except the kid. At least, I hope he made it.
I saw his 'chute open, same time as mine. We were the only ones that bailed—that had time. We had just cleared the plane when our girl exploded in a helluva ball of fire. Shrapnel, flames and pieces of bomber followed us down. I tried to track Stoker, but it was so damned dark and smoky it was impossible. I remember wondering briefly if this is what those fire troops felt like, fighting inside burning buildings… Hell, no, not me! That's when I hit a downdraft and hit a big-ass rock, and the world went black…
12 April 42
It's the not knowin' that's killing me. I mean, I'm an old fart. I've survived more damned missions out here than anyone else around. Why not them? Why not him? Why couldn't I keep track of his 'chute? Why the hell did I have to hit that damned rock before I could see where he ended up? Why did I make it back with just some burns and a busted wing? I even made it back on foot! And he just flat disappeared off the map. And I have to find him. I promised.
Damn that little weasel! He's the Brainiac! Everybody knows that! I immediately tagged him with that nickname, after our talk about his age, and by breakfast the next morning it was all over camp. He accepted the kidding with his usual quiet smile, and immediately moved on, getting Emily Jean's equipment ready for the next mission. If anybody could make it out in one piece, he can. And I have to make sure of it. He has to come back! He has to…he's the only one who knows my wife's name is Emily…
Wasted and wounded
And it ain't what the moon did
And I got what I paid for now
See you tomorrow
Hey Frank can I borrow
A couple of bucks from you
To go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda
You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…
TBC