Open Space
by Joshua "Dante" Epstein
CHAPTER I: GROUNDED
December 6th, 1941
Benjamin Kenneth Lloyd was 18 years old when he joined the army. The eldest child of a famiy with a military tradition stretching back to before the dawn of the country, Benny's mother and father had been infuriated when he had failed to gain acceptance to West Point. The only thing that he could have done that might disappoint them further, he had. When the war in Europe really began to look bad, he'd enlisted in the Air Force, hoping that, if he waited long and worked hard enough, he might make his way up through the ranks and see combat. That was two years ago, and Benny had been detached two years ago to the base at Pearl Harbor to help maintenance the fighter squadrons stationed there.
"Lloyd! Move your ass with that truck!" The bellow of the non-com airfield commander sent Benny scurrying for the fuel truck's driver seat.
As he drove the sluggish fuel carrier across the tarmac, he watched the pilots climbing in and out of the cockpits in their sleek Mustangs. He felt a pang of jealousy as he watched, knowing that he couldn't join their little circles at mess, being just a lowly fuel-jockey. He knew everything there was to know about airplanes, but he'd contracted a mild form of polio in his youth, leaving his body with a reaction time slightly higher than that of molasses. The damage to his spinal cord wasn't enough to keep him from grunt work, but did a more than adequate job of keeping him away from the controls of a fighter.
He spent the better part of the afternoon moving about the field, refueling fighters, bombers, and the occasional officer's Jeep. When the sun had been down for an hour or so, he was finally dismissed. He poured himself into a booth in the bar and ordered a beer as he lit up a Lucky Strike. He poured crew after brew down his gullet as he watched the grinning, laughing flyboys flit in and out, as fast and erratic on the ground as they were in the air.
"Hell of a way to spend a way." He muttered to himself. He paid the check and staggered back to the barracks, where he passed out in his bunk.
***
Several hundred miles away, a flotilla of Japanese Carriers made their way toward the tiny islands; their goal: an attack that would go down in the history books.
by Joshua "Dante" Epstein
CHAPTER I: GROUNDED
December 6th, 1941
Benjamin Kenneth Lloyd was 18 years old when he joined the army. The eldest child of a famiy with a military tradition stretching back to before the dawn of the country, Benny's mother and father had been infuriated when he had failed to gain acceptance to West Point. The only thing that he could have done that might disappoint them further, he had. When the war in Europe really began to look bad, he'd enlisted in the Air Force, hoping that, if he waited long and worked hard enough, he might make his way up through the ranks and see combat. That was two years ago, and Benny had been detached two years ago to the base at Pearl Harbor to help maintenance the fighter squadrons stationed there.
"Lloyd! Move your ass with that truck!" The bellow of the non-com airfield commander sent Benny scurrying for the fuel truck's driver seat.
As he drove the sluggish fuel carrier across the tarmac, he watched the pilots climbing in and out of the cockpits in their sleek Mustangs. He felt a pang of jealousy as he watched, knowing that he couldn't join their little circles at mess, being just a lowly fuel-jockey. He knew everything there was to know about airplanes, but he'd contracted a mild form of polio in his youth, leaving his body with a reaction time slightly higher than that of molasses. The damage to his spinal cord wasn't enough to keep him from grunt work, but did a more than adequate job of keeping him away from the controls of a fighter.
He spent the better part of the afternoon moving about the field, refueling fighters, bombers, and the occasional officer's Jeep. When the sun had been down for an hour or so, he was finally dismissed. He poured himself into a booth in the bar and ordered a beer as he lit up a Lucky Strike. He poured crew after brew down his gullet as he watched the grinning, laughing flyboys flit in and out, as fast and erratic on the ground as they were in the air.
"Hell of a way to spend a way." He muttered to himself. He paid the check and staggered back to the barracks, where he passed out in his bunk.
***
Several hundred miles away, a flotilla of Japanese Carriers made their way toward the tiny islands; their goal: an attack that would go down in the history books.