Chapter 11
May 30, 1948
Fingers were prodding his shoulders. Cracking an eye open, he saw the shadowed face of Arthur beside him, looking half awake himself. The sun hadn't even peeked through the curtains.
"Wake up," Arthur murmured, his green eyes closing after a heavy blink. He wasn't very convincing.
Alfred groaned a reply, something along the lines of 'in a moment,' and felt Arthur's legs kicking against his.
"We'll be late."
Suddenly, everything that had happened the day before came crashing into Alfred's memory- Sefi, Eddie, Lou, Milton, Modi, Arthur.
Alfred felt like shrieking, a giddy feeling coming over him when he remembered he had kissed Arthur's nose and Arthur hadn't pulled away-
An airy laugh made his eyes fly open. Arthur was biting the pad of his thumb, trying to contain his grin. "You're making faces."
Flushing, Alfred sat up, rubbing his eyes and inwardly berating himself: You're acting like a ditzy high-schooler. You need to calm down. You are a brilliant mathematician who does not fall prey to... whatever this feeling is. "It's too early." He made a half-hearted attempt to stand, and instantly fell back onto the bed. "Is the cafe even open?"
Arthur sat up, unbuttoning the white shirt that he had worn the day before and hadn't bothered to take off last night. Alfred caught himself staring as the shirt was fully opened and Arthur's smooth skin contrasted the pale white framing his shoulders. It's like he knows he's sexy. Studying the ceiling intently, Alfred attempted to steady his breathing as Arthur murmured, "It is."
Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred watched as Arthur's shirt pooled off of his shoulders and arms onto the pillow behind him. All attempts to retain his dignity were thrown out the window as Alfred briskly hobbled out of the bed and sprinted toward the bathroom, red as the tomato he had been compared to last night.
Damn you, Arthur Kirkland. Fine. You wanna flirt with me? It's on.
—
Tolkovsky was watching Alfred like a hawk. "That coffee does not come with you."
Groaning, Alfred threw his head back. "But it'll get cold!"
Eventually, the cup was wrestled from Alfred's grip, and he hopped into the Airacobra, grumbling curses. There was a knock on the side of the cockpit- Modi was grinning at him and mouthed, good luck! Giving him a thumbs-up, Modi raced out of the hangar, and smiling, Alfred strapped his goggles on. Static voices reported over the radio.
"This is Red 1. All clear."
"Red 2 is clear."
"Red 3 clear."
Alfred drummed his fingers on the radio for dramatic effect, and then reported, "Red 4 is clear as mud."
"You are clear for take-off." Tolkovsky's tone indicated he was most definitely grimacing at Alfred's oxymoron.
Take-off was smooth- once they were in the air, Alfred came up to Arthur's left wing and glanced at him through the windows of the cockpit. Of course, Arthur stubbornly wouldn't look back. Everything seemed so much more organized than the last flight. Squadron 101 was actually a real, organized group of pilots. Alfred wasn't sure if he liked it.
The radio crackled, and Arthur's voice washed over. "Red 3 to Red 2. What direction are you coming from?"
Milton replied, "East to southwest. Over."
"Copy that. Red 4 and I will take over the east."
Alfred felt his stomach growl. "Red 4 needs coffee."
Milton laughed. Ezer snapped, "You're just as bad as Lou."
Veering off east with the Spitfire at his side, Alfred glanced down. Despite poor visibility, he slowly eased the Airacobra to 400 feet, and spotted large buildings. Before he could even ask, Arthur commanded, "Open fire."
"Yes sir." Shots rang out as Alfred dove, hitting a few tanks and buildings that looked important. He jerked up, almost level with Arthur again, giving a thumbs up and a cocky smile. Arthur, in return, gave him the finger.
Circling northeast, the two aircraft passed over Israel into enemy lines, where they surely would be fired at. Alfred muttered over the radio, "You're the one in charge. What are we hitting?"
"Strafing Tulkarm. You strike east, I strike south. We'll rendezvous at 06:30. Copy?"
"Your wish is my command, baby."
He heard Arthur splutter an indignant, nonsensical reply, and smirked. Don't like the taste of your own medicine, Kirkland? Deviating the Airacobra east, Alfred tightened his grip on the throttle, breathed out, and started into a steep dive. He grunted, the forces acting on him pulling at his face, a sharp, uncomfortable feeling spiraling in his gut. "Shit!"
He jammed the fire-button a little too harshly, and pulled up with all the force he possessed in his arm muscles. There was a loud, satisfying blast that made the uncomfortable feelings of G-forces all worth it. Alfred prepared to make another run, when Milton Rubenfeld's urgent voice streamed over his radio.
"This is Red 2. Requesting backup."
Without hesitation, Alfred replied, "Copy that. What's your position?"
Milton relayed the coordinates, and Alfred pulled southwest, hoping Arthur would be ok without him. He hadn't protested over the radio, so Alfred assumed he was cleared. Of course he'll be ok. He's an incredible pilot. Wait- what the hell am I saying?
Whatever he was thinking was interrupted by Rubenfeld. "Good to see you, Alfred. See those 4 tanks under us?"
Glancing down through the fog, Alfred could barely make out the shape, but did spot them. "Yeah."
"They're feisty. Shooting back and all."
"Roger that. You fire first, I'll follow, and then we'll loop."
Milton agreed and took off. Alfred followed, shots ringing out rapid-fire as he neared the tanks. Sure enough, they shot back, and suddenly, Milton's aircraft shot up into the sky, and he cursed, "Shit! Just got hit." The Avia was out of control, flipping up on its belly, before Milton managed to take control of it- but his left wing was crumpled, and smoking terribly.
And while watching, Alfred heard a loud CRACK!
"Oh, freaking hell," he shouted, jerking the Airacobra up in the clouds. "I'm leaking gas, Milt." The alarms started screeching in the cockpit, and Alfred felt himself panic, fingers shaking with adrenaline.
"I've only got a few minutes. No place to land."
Think. We need to eject, but where?
"The Mediterranean," Alfred hissed. "We gotta bail out over the sea."
There was a brief pause, and Alfred had a split second to realize that this decision meant that he would be losing his plane.
"Copy that."
There was no way around it. The sea came into view- mathematical figures flew through Alfred's head. Ah, shit. We're at least 1200 feet up. I'll have at least something broken... But Milt will have some serious injuries.
It was then Alfred realized that he was terrified of free-falling, and breathed out sharply. Sometimes, the fact that he was immortal didn't ease the irrational fears that sprung up.
He strapped his parachute on, maneuvered the Airacobra on its side, and jettisoned the side door, falling out like a ragdoll. It was one of the most petrifying experiences Alfred had ever endured: he couldn't tell up from down, left from right, he couldn't hear, he couldn't breath-
His parachute shot out, steading him and slowing his rate of fall, and Alfred felt like he was going to puke. Holy hell, his mind repeated. The water was nearing rapidly, and Alfred panicked, because he was going too fast.
He tried to maneuver his body around so that he wouldn't suffer a broken leg- that would be devastating. All at once, he slammed into the water, the impact jostling his body and making him scream out, merely a muffled sound in the water. Everything was blurry and dark, and he felt himself sinking, slipping from conscience, before there was another slap of a body falling into water, and Alfred was jolted from his morbid reverie, eyes snapping open, instantly stung by the water. Lungs screaming for air, he pumped his arms, climbing for the surface, and gasped for air once he broke through.
He wildly looked around, searching for Milton, his body shrieking in protest as he kicked his legs, keeping himself afloat. There was a shooting, burning pain in his ribcage- he most definitely had broken ribs.
Suddenly, Milton's head shot up out of the water, wheezing in oxygen, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. Alfred shouted, "Milt!" and swam over to him, helping him steady himself. Red hair plastered to his face, Milton coughed out water, slumping into Alfred's grasp. He was a deadweight- both started sinking.
Alfred screeched in frustration and fear, the sound muted under the pressure of the water. Struggling, he pulled them both up for air momentarily, and then sunk, before adrenaline kicked in, and Milton pulled away from Alfred, both gasping for air as they broke the surface.
"Are you ok?" Milton shouted, his voice hoarse.
Alfred let out a shaky laugh. "If you're fine, I'm fine."
"The shoreline- do you see it?" Milton pointed east- sure enough, it wasn't far. "We can make it, Alfred."
"We can make it," Alfred repeated, breathing heavily.
Both started swimming as fast as their injuries and adrenaline could allow, and as soon as Alfred felt relief when they were able to stand, waist-deep in water, that relief was torn apart- there were people on the shoreline, all armed with guns.
"Shit!" Alfred cried out, practically tackling Milton under the water as the first shot rang out, too close for comfort. They surfaced, and another shot rang out, barely grazing Alfred's ear. "Why the hell are they shooting at us? We're Israeli!"
Milton was choking on water, but managed to reply choppily, "They don't know. Barely anyone outside of Tel Aviv know about the IAF, and we don't speak Hebrew-" Bullets fired past them, and both hid underwater for as long as they could.
Breaking the surface, Milton continued in a panicked, short breath, "They think we're Arab pilots, Alfred."
"What's a Hebrew word? I don't know any Hebrew, damn it!"
Suddenly, Milton stood up, raising his arms in the air, and screamed out, "S-SHABBOS! Uhh...GEFILTE FISH! SHABBOS!"
Alfred would have laughed at the gibberish if it weren't for their situation, and decided to join in, because whatever Milton was shouting, it was working- the commoners were no longer shooting at them. Standing up next to the other pilot, he swung his arms around and yelled, "GEFILTE FISH! GEFILTE FISH!"
They probably looked like idiots, waving their arms and screaming nonsense at the top of their lungs, but the point came across- they were innocent, english-speaking Israeli fighters. The people on the shore put down their guns, and both Milton and Alfred shouted in triumph, hugging each other, Alfred swinging the human back and forth with relief.
Both were reminded of their injuries at the same time, and Milton slumped forward onto Alfred, groaning, "Damn, my chest is on fire." Leaning on the personification, the two made their way to the shore. The commoners took Milton from Alfred, and Alfred immediately fell on his back on the sand, breathing out, looking up at the sky as the water lapped at his feet.
We are two lucky asses.
Random Update:
GUYS. If you kinda, sorta like this story, and/or are interested in the beginning of the IAF, you should watch the documentary "Above and Beyond." It's absolutely amazing, and the pilots and their stories that are in my fanfiction are REAL. However, there are many spoilers, so watch at your own risk. I highly recommend watching it, but that's just me. I'm a history nerd. XD
Here's a link to the trailer: It's the first website that pops up if you copy this link into your browser. On the website, the trailer is the SECOND one down, not the first.
article/2015/04/28/paul-reubens-father-above-and-beyond-doc