Whatever else the captain had said. Tommy Hart had lost in the shuffle, as he quickly crawled back through the narrow tunnel toward the midships, making way for the bombardier to assume his position in the nose. He was aware that the Lovely Lydia was making a slow bank to the right, and knew that their movement was being mimicked by The Randy Duck on their left and Green Eyes off their starboard wing. He returned to the small steel chair he occupied just behind the pilot and copilot and looked down at his charts again. He had thought: This is the worst moment. He wished he had the bombardier's duty, but they were the flight leaders, and that had given them an extra crewman for the sortie. By standing up, he could peer out between the two men flying the plane, but he knew he would wait until the last few seconds before doing that. Some fliers liked to see the target come up. He'd always thought of it as staring at death.

"Bombardier? You ready?" The captain's voice had increased in pitch, but still seemed unhurried.

"Ain't gonna take but one little of' bite at these boys, so let's make it worth our whiles to be here." He laughed, which echoed over the intercom.

The captain was a popular man, the sort of person who could find some dry, tumbleweed humor in even the direst of situations; who defeated almost all their obvious fears with the steady Texas drawl that never seemed ruffled, or even mildly irritated, even when flak was exploding around the plane and small pieces of deadly red-hot metal were ringing against the Mitchell's steel frame like the insistent knocking of some boorish and angry neighbor. The less obvious fears, Tommy knew, could never be completely destroyed.

Tommy Hart closed his eyes to the night, trying to squeeze away memory.

This didn't work. It never worked.