"Hey, Kinch," Carter asked one slow summer's day. "Where did you get that scar?" He pointed to his own forehead to indicate what he meant, squinting at the bright sunlight.

Kinch had joined Carter sitting out in the sun that day, watching a game of football being held between Barracks 6 and 14. It was the middle of the day, and, as London hadn't asked for any miracles the last few days, everyone had found something around camp to do. Hogan was catching up on paperwork, LeBeau, having just gotten a fresh, generous shipment of ingredients from the black market between his bargaining and Newkirk's card winnings, was busy perfecting a new tarte tatin recipe, Newkirk was holed up in Barracks 22, dominating a much anticipated poker game, and Carter and Kinch had elected to enjoy the sun while it was around these summer months.

Now Kinch found Carter asking him the sort of nonchalant question curiosity tends to bring about in the absence of anything to do, worry over, or think about.

"Got it when I was shot down."

"You mean before you got to camp?"

"Right before."

A touchdown interrupted them for a moment, cocky jeers and sour complaints playfully exchanged between teams. They listened for a moment before Carter spoke up again.

"I never really thought about that," he mused. "I guess you had to get here somehow, huh? So you were shot down and got that scar and they caught you and brought you to Stalag 13? Or did they take you somewhere else and you escaped, like me?"

"The Germans never caught me. Well, not exactly."

"What? Then how did you end up in here?"

Kinch looked around the compound languidly once more. There was nothing else to do. Why not? "Why don't I tell you the whole story, Carter?"

"Really? Oh boy!" Kinch smiled at Carter's eagerness as he pulled his legs up onto the bench Indian style to face Kinch, big eyes shining intently. "I really want to hear this one!"

Kinch leaned easily back against the barracks wall and obliged, submerging himself in old memories.

~~HH~~

Kinch was gazing peacefully at the night outside the window when the first shells rocked the plane. He was thrown from his seat, and might have fallen into the bomb bay if Fenman hadn't closed the door but a minute ago, the Shoo Shoo Baby* having released its bombs and turned back towards base. He could hear yelling over the now sputtering roar of the four engines, and scrambled back to his seat, grabbing the headset that had slipped off and repositioning it on his head. "Mayday! Mayday!" he heard his commander yelling. "Engine 2 is out! Where's the attack from?" They were too far from base for the pilot's radio to work. He had to make contact with his more hefty equipment in the middle of the plane. Maybe they could get reinforcements from some nearby fighters. Another blow drowned out his CO, and then he saw Johnson, one of their waist gunners, stumble through, headed for the cockpit.

"The tail's been hit!" he yelled. "Banner's gone!"

No. Banner— he couldn't think about that. "Why aren't you in position?" Kinchloe shouted back.

"They're anti-aircraft!"

Oh great. Tail damaged, losing altitude, and anti-aircraft guns right under them. It wasn't a Messer or three that they would be able to take out. They were nearly defenseless, and this flack was heavy. As Johnson opened the door to the bomb bay, he set the frequency to London and sent a message he prayed they wouldn't need. Hopefully their CO could fly them out of this. He was hardly listening to the yelling in his ears except to keep tabs on their damage. He had a message to get through, and most of the instructions were for the other 9— 8 crewmembers in the plane. He risked a quick glance out the small window next to him and could see the smoke lit by the flames from the engine below. He could hear the steady explosions of shells.

Between the plane shaking and pitching and the shaking of his hand, his message was all jumbled. He gritted his teeth and tried to steady himself. London would never get their approximate coordinates with any useful degree of accuracy if he didn't get this just right. He tried several times and failed. If only there were Allies close by to get in contact with by voice. But he couldn't very well broadcast their coordinates and situation to any German in the area.

Another explosion, and the wings tipped. His ears popped as they involuntarily banked and he pressed against the frame of the fuselage. They were going down.

He had to do something. He turned on the short-wave, scanning through the frequencies in sheer, dumb hope. Almost immediately, a different sounding voice came through. English. The connection was so poor, he could hardly hear the words. And they were not following protocol. "'ello? Who's getting shot out of the sky up there? Do you read me?"

He was hesitant to answer. It could be a German trap easily, and he hadn't identified himself.

Ominously, one of the voices on the intercom went silent. They were going down in the middle of Germany. They'd be caught anyway. He made his resolve and replied, "I read you!"

With a response, the voice got faster and louder, realizing they could and had gotten in contact and the plane was in a crisis. "Where are you?"

The coordinates were probably useless now. And whoever it was was close. He needed a landmark. He looked out the window again, but it was dark, and any town nearby was on blackout. Then he was surprised to see the moonlight shining from the ground. It was reflecting off a river. That must be— "The Main River!" he shouted into the headset.

"Right! Main! Anything else—"

The radio went dead. He cursed. And then the door to the bomb bay opened and the air and noise rushed through, disorienting him. With nothing left for him to do and the wind roaring around him, buffeting him, the fear hit him. He barely registered Johnson yelling at him and gesturing this way and that. Johnson grabbed the back of his jacket and then he had something to focus on. He took a breath, and he was being dragged toward the bomb bay. He could see the night opened below them. The bomb bay doors were open. They were bailing. Johnson set him upright on his own two feet, but the erratic rocking of the plane didn't make that easy to maintain. He never did find out whether his teammate threw them both out of the plane or he fell off the catwalk, dropping them both into the sky together, but then it was cold, cold air deafening him and the Gs* were pulling his stomach up into his throat. Then it dropped all the way to his toes when his chute deployed. He blacked out.

*There was a B-17 called Shoo Shoo Baby, but I have created a fictional crew to man it. Kinch wouldn't have been flying in it, as, from what I can find, the black bombardment groups in WWII flew B-26s, but I couldn't resist naming it that. :)

*Gs is short for g-force. 1 G is the force of gravity on your body. With acceleration, you pull more Gs and feel more heavy. Pull enough Gs and your blood drains down to your feet, causing you to black out. This was a big problem for fighter pilots as planes became faster and could turn more quickly come WWII. The first g-suits, which constrict your legs to prevent all of your blood from pooling there, were created in 1941 and used in combat in 1942. Kinchloe, being in a bomber rather than a fighter, would not have had one.

A/N: Thanks to my mom and grandpa for being my flying/pilot consultants (and childhood aviation storytellers) and clearing up some altitude and pressure issues, though unfortunately radios still perplex me to no end (sorry for any inaccuracies!). Thanks to the group at Urbana airport building a B-17 for giving me some idea of what they look like inside (as well as the movie The Memphis Belle!).