Chapter 1
May 16, 1941
"This is not a B-37". That was my first thought as I sat down in this heavy crate they call the Bristleback.
All I've heard about this plane is true, as far as speed and performance go. There's not that much speed compared to a fighter, and she takes big, wide turns. But once those four big engines get going, she makes a hell of a lot of noise. They sound as powerful as they are, and do a damn fine job of moving this big bird down the runway and into the sky.
When I was at GMI, I got to sit inside this fighter some visiting British officers from the RAF had brought by the Institute. They called it the Hurricane, and when one of the pilots took it up it seemed pretty good, speedy and maneuverable. But its wings, in fact most of the whole body, were just a metal frame with fabric stretched over them.
The Bristleback isn't like that. Frame and skin, inside and out, she's nothing but good old Confederate metal. She's got heavy machine guns everywhere, covering every possible attack direction. Two in the "chin" in the nose with another two mounted in side windows for the bombardier and navigator. Two in a dorsal turret just behind the pilot and copilot's seats. Another two in a ball turret underneath the bomber, one for the radioman in his compartment, two more to either side in the bomber's "waist", and yet another pair of twin guns in her tail-gun position to the rear.
My first day here at Orlando Airfield, I took a walk-around of her before we took off. Eleven guns altogether, all of them the heaviest caliber the Army uses. Any Yankee fighters that want to have a go at us better be ready for it. A bird like this won't go down easy.
I've been paired up with First Lieutenant Trevor St. Croix, rich guy, hardly a year older than me. But he went to The Citadel and he's from one of the most prominent Old Families in the Confederacy, so even if I flew better he'd still be in command of the bomber they assigned us.
Found out the other day that LT St. Croix likes to volunteer for a lot of extra flight time. He likes to train all the new guys in the 194th, and the Wing Commander tells me he's one of our best. All I know is, so far, he just seems like a stiff-assed Old Family aristocrat to me.
Since I got out of GMI, all I've been doing is training. Going here, going there, qualifying on this or getting ready to do that. I had to beg, borrow and steal just to finally get transferred to the heavy bombers. Now I'm here and all they want me to do is train some more. I just want to prove myself and get out there where I can make a difference.
I'm scheduled to go up on Aluminum Overcast with LT St. Croix in just a minute. Our whole squadron is going up, practicing maneuvers, and St. Croix says he's gonna have me take the pilot's seat for a while once we're up. Let's see if this iron-assed bird holds up to how I fly.
XX
May 18, 1941
Well, the Bristleback is a fine bird. After the hell-raising hours of practice dive-bombing runs in the B-87, the Mule or Asskicker depending on which officers are around, I didn't think a plane as huge as this one could hold up to Birmingham engineering. The B-38 is made by another company, Davis Aviation- the airplane-making division of the luxury auto manufacturer Davis Motor Company. She's a heavy bird, a lot less maneuverable than even the Asskicker, but I like the feel of her. She's a solidly-made plane, flies straight and steady.
The navigator and bombardier are both officers like me and St. Croix, in their early twenties too. The gunners, on the other hand, are all kids who look like they all just escaped from junior high. But they can shoot, St. Croix says, and every one of them had to be able to hit a target consistently while being jerked around in the training seats before they'd even let 'em near a plane. With so many guns sticking out some of the aircrew call the Bristleback a "Flying Fortress", but the word hasn't caught on off the airfield.
President Featherston has a strict black-out of media chit-chat on the military these days, so interesting nicknames for planes we've got may not make it into much public use. I understand the decision, actually- a damn Yankee or a damn Yankee sympathizer can read a newspaper telling all about the Bristleback or the Mule just as easy as a good Confederate can.
St. Croix says, if I'm ready, the Squadron Commander's got a little "clean-up" assignment for me as lead pilot of Aluminum Overcast. Sounds fine, but I get the feeling he thinks I'm still too green.
I also get the feeling he's just a little smug about being a Citadel man. Maybe it was the phrase "I think a even GMI man can handle this one," that tipped me off. Story goes, out there on the live-bombing range, there are some 'dangerous' crates and barrels that need destroying. I'm gonna have St. Croix next to me the whole time, smugly saying "Almost as good as me" to avoid having to actually admit I did a good job. But it's my first run with live bombs in this outfit. And target practice in this lady should be a pleasure.
XX
May 19, 1941
I've been thinking about when Willy Knight tried to kill the President in 1938, and when that nigger tried it at the 1936 Olympics in Richmond. In the span of two years, we have a nigger selling frankfurters try it at the Olympics, and a bunch of Freedom Party stalwarts try it on orders from Knight. The nigger I can almost understand. I remember what they taught us about them in Negro History at GMI.
It almost ain't their fault. They think on a lower level than whites, think slower. They believe lies easily. Somehow, somebody convinced them all to forget how good they've had it here and to turn traitor on us during the Great War. They probably don't even know why they try these things, they just know somebody they think they can trust told them to do it. The black bastards are so stupid, they don't even know they're stupid.
But the God-damned Vice President! Jesus H. Christ! I could have sunk through the floor!
Word is he's been thrown in prison somewhere, and that he's gonna be staying there for a long, long time. Me, personally, though? I think that's too good for someone like that. The man is a traitor. He should've been stood up against a wall and shot.
May 20, 1941
St. Croix likes to push buttons, just like my Dad. But, I get the feeling he does it in a friendly, "Let's see what you're made of," sort of way. You'd almost think he was one of my cadre from GMI or one of my instructors at flight school with all the grief he gives me.
Thank God the 194th is stationed in Florida. I'm told the Yankees have been getting increasingly curious about what's going on in the skies above our airfields, and they have somebody peeking over the border with binoculars any chance they get. We're pretty safe. Passing ships can be a problem when we fly out over the ocean, but the Navy is getting almost as strong as us these days. St. Croix says at least one battlecruiser, the Mississippi, patrols up and down the eastern Florida coast with some escorting destroyers almost every day, to make sure the damn Yankees mind their own business.
Command wants us to try out attacking ships, see how good a torpedo-bomber the Bristleback makes. There's going to be some old ships, sold to the Navy for scrap, anchored at a few points off the coast, mostly near St. Augustine. The 194th Bombardment Squadron is to go out and hunt for them, and engage any of these target ships we encounter on patrol.
Lieutenant St. Croix has assigned me as lead pilot again, and I'm going to be playing 'veteran' this sortie- in charge of everybody on Aluminum Overcast and the other three Bristlebacks in our flight. Something about "If the GMI man is to command others, he must learn restraint". I should've known. St. Croix isn't good enough to have gone to the Institute. Far too Carolinian.
XX
May 26, 1941
I'm finally getting some seniority, right in the thick of things. The 194th is growing, as is the entire Confederate military. Conscription's coming back, but it's not just them that's boosting the numbers. Volunteers are coming in just as fast.
Everybody- the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines and the new Freedom Party Guards- is getting ready. What for nobody with stars will tell us yet, but it's pretty obvious to all the pilots in the squadron. We're getting ready to head up North and show the Yankees what we're made of. We're gonna take back the land they stole from us at the end of the Great War, and kick their tails good while we're at it.
I'm still flying mostly as co-pilot to Trevor St. Croix. He's a good pilot, I'll give him that. And I hope to learn a lot from him, if I can get past his upper-class smugness.
Across the Atlantic, though, things are going very badly. The French are demanding the Germans give Alsaice-Lorraine, a section of their country the Germans took the same way the Yankees stole from us, back to them. But word is even with the Kaiser dying, he's telling his ministers to stand firm and give nothing back. Damned thieves. Doesn't matter if they're wearing Yankee blue or German gray. They think anything they steal is theirs by rights, and theirs for the keeping.
The British, French, and the CSA all have one reply, I think. "We'll just see about that!"
The Brits are sending guys over to work with us, train our fighter pilots on our copy of their beautiful new fighter- the Spitfire. The Navy is even gonna get a version of it with folding wings, the Seafire. Air Force is planning on calling it the Hound Dog, but I don't buy it. Spitfire, Seafire- names are as pretty as the plane is.
We're gonna be going up with some guys from the 322nd Fighter Squadron, plus this special RAF fighter unit, No. 644 Squadron, the Battlehawks. Idea is for the Confederate fighter pilots to learn to fly the new fighter while the Brits teach them, and for the fighters and bombers to learn how to work and fly together. The Brits are mostly along for the ride, but I hear they've got senior officers from RAF Bomber Command observing us. They want to see how our mighty Bristlebacks compare to the Lancaster.