Something I did almost as soon as I got home from seeing Planes for the first time. I'm relatively happy on how it turned out so, here you go.
Skipper's Story
A squadron of 8 planes flew over the Pacific Ocean on a recon operation. These planes were the infamous Jolly Wrenches. The lead F4U Corsair scanned the clouds below and saw that Blair, number 31, and Rush, number 36, were flying lower than most everyone else, "What are you doing 31 and 36?"
Blair looked up, "How are we s'posed to see anythin' through these clouds?"
"Get back up here! If the clouds allow us to see the ocean then they will," just then the clouds cleared up and he saw a single enemy supply ship in the corner of his eye. Please let the others miss it, he thought. The fighter plane knew his young squadron would want to check it out.
But his hopes were in vain. Blair suddenly shouted, "Hey, look at that!"
One of the planes smiled, "Easy pickin's, whaddaya ya say?"
"Negative. Our orders are to recon and report back," he said sternly.
Rush joined in, "Come on, Skip. It'll be a turkey shoot!"
He sighed, there was no use arguing, "All right, let's go in for a closer look." But when they broke cloud cover they were faced with a whole fleet. It was too late to pull back up, the ships had seen them. The squadron was surrounded in antiaircraft fire. The leader watched helplessly as plane after plane was shot down in a ball of fire. What have I done? He was suddenly jolted from his thoughts as something hit him. Pain shot through his whole body but he forced himself to keep flying. Weakened, he was an easy target and another bullet soon hit him. Flames engulfed him and his nose pitched downward, the last thing he saw before hitting the icy water below him was Rush falling, his wing had been torn clean off. When he hit the water it felt solid, crushing his fuselage. Seconds later his wings began to go numb. The pain was replaced by something worse: the feeling of nothing. The last thing he thought before the darkness set in was, I'll drown, drown with my entire squadron and it's my fault. Killed by me… killed by me… by me. Those words repeated over and over as he blacked out.
"Skipper! Skipper, wake up!" the voice was familiar… "Skipper, you're dreaming! Wake up!" Something was pressing against his wing, he shoved it away. "Skipper, it's just me, Sparky!" Skipper opened his eyes; he was not drowning, not even in a puddle. He could feel his wings and they were certainly not in pain. He was in Propwash Junction, Minnesota. His faithful tug, Sparky, was next to him, "You were having a nightmare, a bad one too. I couldn't even get near ya, not with your propeller spinning so madly."
Skipper looked a little guilty, "Did I wake you?"
"Yah, ya did. Ya yelled in your sleep, somethin' about drowning?"
"Sorry, Sparky," Skipper apologized.
"Ah, it's okay, Skip, ya can't help what ya do in your sleep." Sparky knew that planes were known to have restless sleep.
But I could've helped what I did to my squadron… Skipper hadn't just been having a nightmare, it was a memory.