A tale of Between Two Cities

by Jordre

Wherein someone learns to be careful what one yearns for. A story in the Hogan and the General AU, written for 96 Hubble's Short-Story Speed-Writing Contest. Written 5-13-12 [at 0330... ;) ]

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; she'd heard that somewhere, and thought that it covered her own situation quite well. It was the best of times because no one was shooting at her anymore as she went about her work. Like any Veteran, she could appreciate that. She definitely didn't miss the feeling of bullets ripping through her skin, like hot rivets through aluminum. Anyone who claimed to miss that was either a liar or downright insane. Also in the plus column was the fact that she could count on a steady support team now; no one went missing suddenly, just as they got used to each other.

But it was also the worst of times. She was a decorated Veteran, with dozens of successful missions to her credit. It hurt to be relegated to mere milk runs now. Sedately traveling from place to place, she no longer had that sense of excitement, of anticipation. Still, she shouldn't complain. Too many of her sisters just waited to be called upon, ignored and half-forgotten, no longer needed for important work.

She pondered her existence, and gave a mental sigh. At least she had HIM, now. HIM, with his strong, knowledgeable hands. She wondered briefly how HE might react in an emergency, but that didn't matter. HE was hers... for now at least.

Her musing was interrupted as she felt a sudden spark of electricity. HE was near, she could sense HIM. That meant that they would be Flying today, a wonderful event, even if it was just another transport run. It was better than nothing; besides, her type had first been used to convey passengers, masking their true purpose until their real work could be begun. She could feel herself come alive as HIS nimble fingers flipped her switches, adjusting this knob, pressing that lever. Softly HE spoke to his Second, comfortable in their pre-flight routine.

Another of the crew spoke behind the bulkhead: her Radioman. Not as confident-sounding, this one; new to his post, still in training, she thought. But her attention came away from him as her engines were fired up and coughed to life, first one, then the other... Her propellers were spinning now, though not fast enough to move her yet, especially with the wheel-chocks still in place. She still had plenty of time to warm up, unlike a fighter who might have to scramble with a still-cold engine at the first sign of danger.

Minutes passed; it seemed to her like her right engine was running a little rough... but there HE was, adjusting her fuel ratio until it smoothed out. Much better, she agreed happily; both engines were purring now in readiness.

Passengers climbed her boarding ladder, laughing and joking quietly in the cool morning air as luggage was stored in what had been her bomb bays, modified for this purpose. She could sense that they, too, had full confidence in her pilot. They were all seasoned fliers now, and distributed themselves evenly throughout her cabin. At last they were settled in place. Her Radioman bespoke the Tower for final instructions, the chocks were pulled away from in front of her tires, and she was allowed to roll down the Taxiway towards the head of the Runway.

She paused there, held waiting for permission from the Tower... Then they were rolling, faster and faster, until HE urged her into the air at just the perfect moment. Gracefully she climbed, her engines singing in pleasure as she finally returned to the sky.

North they headed, and she let herself go easily where HE wished to: from one great city to another. She had heard her Radioman giving their course and destination to the Tower: they headed to London now. She had been there before, and to other places near there, but that had been before she had been retrofitted with passenger seats, before her bomb racks had been removed and her bomb bay doors sealed shut. Then she had flown out of Belgium, not out of the great city of Paris... not that it really mattered now. She would just make the best of things, and enjoy her time in the sky.

Still, there was something niggling at her, a sense of... Something... trying to get her attention. As if something was wrong, a danger of some sort approaching. She let a small shimmy occur to be sure HE knew that there was a problem somewhere...

The fighter dove out of the sun at her, spitting bullets at her, into her fuselage and her passengers. She worried; would HE panic? But, no, HE had her fully in control, sideslipping out of the path of the bullets with an odd little twist. The Airwaves were alive now, first with her Radioman sending out a distress call, then the nearest bases answering as they scrambled their fighters to come to her aid.

She could only pay them scant attention, though, for HE had her twisting through the air, climbing and diving and moving in ways that she hadn't thought herself capable of, and all to avoid the clumsy-seeming attacks of the fighter. It was as if HE knew what the other would do... had HE fought such before? HE flew her as if she were a fighter herself! She gloried in the action, caught up in the moment. And then to her great surprise she was spitting bullets back at the other plane̶; she'd thought that all her guns had been removed ̶ apparently she'd been mistaken.

Still the two of them twisted through the sky, each trying to gain the most advantageous position. She blessed the fact that she carried only passengers, not a load of heavy bombs, and that she could maneuver instead of being held to the straight path of a bombing run. They were over water now, the fight taking them to the west and north. It seemed to be going on forever, but finally, FINALLY, help arrived in a wave of Messerschmitts. In seconds, then, the enemy went down in a hail of bullets.

She was bleeding fuel by then, a lucky shot grazing a fuel line to allow a slow leak. It wasn't all that bad, but between that and the fight, she knew she wouldn't make it all the way to London. With relief she saw an airstrip in front of her, and realized they were going to set down there. It warmed her, knowing that HE valued her as much as she did HIM: HE would not crash her if he could prevent it...

Then they were on the ground, rolling to a stop in front of some small, battered hangers with lumbering British bombers standing neglected on the nearby hardstands. She would need repairs before she could lift again, she knew, but she was confident that they would be forthcoming... And she would carefully not decry milk-runs ever again!

An ambulance came up alongside the grounded Heinkel bomber, the Medics determined to do their duty despite the assumed nationality of the aircrew. Injured men climbed and were handed down from the plane; one would not go anywhere again. At last Hogan and Martins deplaned, all systems carefully shut down.

"Good flying, Hogan," General Mannheim said, his face still pale from the shock of the vicious airbattle. He said nothing at all about the disreputable crush cap that his pilot had apparently forgotten to replace with his uniform cap before leaving the damaged bomber.

"Thanks, mein General," Hogan answered with a deep sigh. "We couldn't have done it without Hilda, here; she's a Great Lady." And he gave a comradely slap to the side of the bomber before going off with the others, to a well deserved rest.

Ende