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"Martinez?"

"Check."

"Bailey?"

"Roger, Colonel."

"Montgomery?"

"Raring to go."

Hogan and his men sat in Goldilocks, running through their routine as they prepared for takeoff. Radio operator Charles Ingram had just switched on the intercom equipment and Hogan was making sure everyone could be heard, at least at the outset. Engineer Frank Simmons sat behind Hogan and Montgomery, checking the state of the aircraft at the moment, and nodding his approval at the work the ground crew had done to whip her back into fighting form. The ball turret gunner, John Anderson—known as "Little John" to the others—was behind Simmons, with the two waist gunners, "Dicky" Doolittle and Peter Weller, in place just ahead of tail gunner George Stuart. The nervous energy was almost a physical presence in the plane, but everyone stuck to their jobs, knowing automatically what needed to be done, and pushing their hearts back out of their throats as often as they forced their way in.

The truck ride over to the dispersal point on the flight line had been quiet, a change from the enforced rowdiness of the men in their ritual meeting in the canteen. Now was the time for them to make their own peace and gather their own strength; there would be no time once they were in the air for anything but duty, and, hopefully, survival. When they jumped out of the truck in their heavy flight suits, they nodded to the ground crew and boarded. Hogan noticed as they took their places that the bomb bay was holding its full load of a dozen five-hundred pound bombs, and he nodded his respect to them, hoping they would have a chance to drop them on their target and still get home.

A green flare burst up into the sky, signaling the time to start engines and prepare for takeoff. "This is it, boys," Hogan said, and he hit the switches one at a time for the four, twelve-hundred horsepower Wright Cyclone radial engines to roar into life. And roar they did; Goldilocks started her familiar vibrating, and the cockpit pulsated with adrenalin and repressed fear, mixing with the odor of oil and engine exhaust. The waiting was nearly over.

Hogan maneuvered the plane down the taxiway and into position, and soon the next green flare signaling takeoff drew a colorful arc in the sky. "Mission number eighteen about to begin!" Hogan announced, another ritual the men had insisted on. Countdown to home: twenty-five missions in Goldilocks and most of them were headed stateside. He pulled back on the throttle, applying power to the huge engines, and Goldilocks started rolling, moving faster and faster until she was fairly surging down the runway, and then, just as suddenly as she had begun, she was losing contact with the ground and pulling up into the sky. Hogan banked the Flying Fortress to the right, setting up the formation that the other bombers would follow, and they were now officially on their way to face the enemy.

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Over two hours later, the group was about to hit the coast of Germany. The flight had been mainly silent, with each man watching the horizon, and staring at the clouds on what had turned out to be a beautiful day. The bombers had formed their stacks: six planes on the top, six in the middle, six on the bottom. As Goldilocks carried the Commander of the Squadron, she flew in front of the first formation. Two other stacks were following in formation on each side slightly behind. All were flying a bit loose, as there had been as yet no sign of enemy fighters. But every man flying knew that at the first sight of German airpower, they would tighten the formation again, to make it harder for Luftwaffe fighters to infiltrate their group, and bring planes down.

They didn't have long to wait. "Krauts at twelve o'clock," Martinez announced.

Hogan's stomach tightened. He double-checked that his oxygen mask was firmly in place. "Charlie, call the stacks into formation."

"Right, Colonel." The radio operator called immediately for the other planes to pull together. Everyone was instantly on the alert, forgetting the cold that came with being twenty-five thousand feet in the air in an unpressurized cabin. Forgetting the wandering thoughts they had had of home. And forgetting that at any other time, the sight of the European coast would be a beautiful thing to behold.

Bursts of orange and black were quick to fill the sky; flak was flying everywhere, and Hogan and Montgomery did their best to avoid it as it came up from the eighty-eight millimeter anti-aircraft guns on the ground below. Bailey kept track of where the Flying Fortress needed to be in order to drop its load, and Martinez made sure everything was ready to go. The radio silence normally maintained during night bombing was not necessary during the day, and Ingram shouted warnings to other planes as they appeared. The cabin was rife with noise, shouting from other planes, noise from enemy fire, shuddering thunder from their own engines, and bursts of fire from their own guns.

"Bandits at six o'clock high!" came the call from Stuart in the rear. He fired as the Messerschmitt closed in fast.

Goldilocks gained some altitude as she continued heading for her target destination. "109s flying in from three o'clock!" Weller added, and his .50 caliber guns started littering the sky with shells as well.

"Holy cow!" shouted Bailey, as a B-17 flying on their left-hand side was hit by gunfire from an enemy plane. Its number three engine exploded in flame, forcing the plane to lose altitude and rocking Goldilocks. Hogan pulled their own plane slightly away from the fray, as Dicky Doolittle's left flank waist guns took aim for the German plane's engines. Doolittle's aim was true, and the left wing of the fighter was suddenly shattered, sending the Messerschmitt into a spin of its own toward the earth.

Hogan kept the plane heading toward its destination. "Charlie, it's time for Double Jump to move out," Hogan said, his eyes scanning all around them as he kept his formation aiming for Leipzig.

"Right, Colonel. Papa Bear to Double Jump, it's time to move out, over," Ingram radioed, signaling the stack of eighteen planes covering the rear left flank to start their diversion. Only Hogan's stack of eighteen planes was carrying bombs; the other groups were all along as diversionary cover. The more the Germans were heading for the empty planes, the more chance the Fortresses carrying the bombs had to get to their targets.

Heeding their Squadron Commander's wishes, group Double Jump started to fall out of the formation it had made with the other planes. Hogan nodded once, acknowledging the group's response, then immediately turned his attention back to the shouting continuing in his own aircraft.

"Krauts ten o'clock!"

"Bronson's plane is smoking, Colonel; they're going to have to break formation!"

Damn! Hogan thought. He turned quickly, as though he would be able to see the plane farthest back in his own stack starting to fall out of line. "What's their condition?" he called out, distressed. Once on its own, a B-17's defenses were only as strong as the men at its guns; there was little armor to protect them from attack, and without other planes to shield it, a damaged Flying Fortress was as good as gone.

"Fading fast, Colonel, but Jacobsen's got some heavy return fire coming up quick!"

"Keep them together; don't let them end up alone!" Hogan called.

Goldilocks jerked crazily as her right flank was hit. "What the hell was that?" called Montgomery.

"Krauts are upset we didn't tell them about our little surprise party!" called Anderson. He turned to see big dents but no holes in the flank of the plane. "We're okay, Colonel!"

"How far to target, Simmons?" called Hogan. He wiped ineffectually at his forehead that was dripping with sweat. Despite the subzero temperatures, he was hot and breathing hard. A battle for their lives never left him feeling the cold.

"About another four minutes, sir!"

"Martinez, you ready with those balloons?"

"You bet, Colonel!" the bombardier called back.

Hogan looked ahead as Goldilocks continued her straight and level flight toward the Leipzig target. Everywhere, he could see bursts of flak and planes on both sides of the conflict trading fire. He worried as the flak seemed to thicken enough to walk across, then tried to forget about the danger of having the position honed in on by the necessity of their steady flight pattern. Danger or not, they had to proceed this way.

"Bandits coming down from two o'clock," Anderson announced.

"Go get 'em, Little John. We don't have time to stop and chat!" called Montgomery.

"I've already told them they're not welcome here!" the ball turret gunner replied as he let off another round of machine gun fire.

"They got the rudder!" called Simmons, as Goldilocks shook again. "Flak hit, Colonel!"

"Stuie's been hit!" shouted Weller from near the rear. Hogan swallowed to control the nausea he felt whenever someone was injured during a mission. "Shrapnel in the leg; it's not too bad!"

Hogan nodded and tried to focus on their immediate surroundings. "Get some pressure on it! Damage to the tail?"

"We're going a bit astray," Montgomery declared. "Simmons, what's the go?"

"Engines still intact; hold steady!"

"Roger that. Bailey, take us in!" Hogan said.

It was a strange experience being able to see what was happening to the other planes with them on the bombing raid so clearly. It was good, because if they had to, they could help. It was bad, because it was giving the Germans a fantastic chance get the Allies in full view and attack them with as much advance warning as the skies would give them. And while Hogan understood the reasoning behind the daytime raids, he would never get used to the idea of sending planes that weren't strong on defensive armor out in broad daylight to face enemy planes that were just brimming with offensive ammunition.

Martinez's voice suddenly came through the noise. "Lord Almighty, there goes Wildfire."

The stillness in the bombardier's voice filled Hogan with dread. He looked out and around to see a B-17 falling out of its formation on their right flank and starting to drop into a wild spin, smoke billowing heavily from its left wing, its hull filled with holes from enemy fire. "Parachutes—parachutes!" he called.

"No, damn it. No chutes!" Bailey cried.

"Come on. Parachutes!" Hogan urged, as though willing the men in the plane to be well enough to get out would be enough to make it happen. Time stood still for what seemed like an eternity as the men of the B-17 Goldilocks locked their eyes on the plummeting aircraft that had left England with them. After what seemed like minutes but which was actually only seconds later, two parachutes appeared, and the men in them seemed to shrink to dodge the deadly flak as they made their descent into enemy territory. Into capture.

Into God knew what kind of Hell.

"What about the rest of them?" Doolittle asked desperately, turning his attention away long enough to fire at a Messerschmitt that appeared on Goldilocks's left. "We need cover, Colonel. We're not gonna make it!"

"We'll make it," Hogan said, forcing himself to turn away from the scene. One more parachute had appeared. Three men out of ten. Seven men lost. He said a split-second silent prayer that those on board were already dead, not trapped in the doomed plane and spending their last few moments in unfathomable terror as they faced the inferno and impact they knew would come. He thought of the letter home that he had written, and rewritten, and written again: whatever he had put on paper to his parents would have to do. He only hoped no one ever had to send it for him. "How much longer, Martinez?"

"We're there, Colonel. Thirty seconds. Hold her steady and prepare for the drop."

"Handing over to you," Hogan answered.

He and Montgomery left control of the bomber to the bombardier, whose job it now was to make sure the plane was in position to accurately drop her load of bombs. Martinez worked fast and sure, and when the bomb bay doors opened, they could all feel the plane shifting position as the three tons of explosives were expelled from the craft. "Bull's eye!" Martinez called.

Cheers resounded from inside the plane. Hogan took the controls again and banked up and away from the site, all the while trying to take quick glances to see if any more parachutes were floating in the skies around them. He watched as another plane in formation with him also dropped its load. He nodded acknowledgement that their job was finished. "Let's go home," he said.

Turning away from the enemy and back toward England, Hogan only hoped they would make it.