Bombers Moon

Newell, Oklahoma, is a town so small that the kids' summer bike speed races are divided into sections, and no one knows this better than Chuck, who has been the champion for several years, Until he decided he was too old to take part in children's games.

Chuck's full name was Charles Sinclair, but no one called him that, not even his parents. "Charles Sinclair" is only used when he's in trouble, like when he nearly burned Mr. Golding's barn next door to the ground three winters ago, or last week when he When the stone hit the vicar on the back of the head.Chuck himself contends that it was an accident and that he wanted to hit a spider that no one had seen on the wall behind the altar.Everyone knows that Chuck and the pastor have had a long-standing feud, and that Chuck hasn't been in church since, and the pastor delivered an angry sermon about it, scaring his six-year-old sister into tears, worried that Chuck would Ke's soul will burn forever in the pit of hell with no dessert to eat.

In the summer of 1939, Chuck got his high school diploma. This diploma was very rare in the small town at that time, because more than half of the students dropped out of school to work in the first year of high school, and halfway through the second year of high school. In the last year, there were only a few students in the classroom. There are a few people.Chuck was going to drop out of school, too, because Dad had sprained his back in the tobacco field and couldn't work for a month, and the only grocery store in town wouldn't let the Sinclairs keep their credit.Luckily, Chuck saved a little extra money while working at the lumberyard the previous summer, and only gave half of it to his mother. The rest was hidden in the tool shed, plus running around town helping people trim hedges. A few crumpled banknotes, just enough for him to finish his last year of study. "Frogman" went on and on about this for a long time, unable to believe that anyone would waste real money at school. The "frog man" is named Billy, who lives across the road, and Chuck has known him since he was a child, and got this nickname because of his frequent hiccups.Billy himself left school early to work in a bearing factory 10 minutes away, dreaming of moving to New York. "That money could have bought a bus ticket," he lamented, arguing that Chuck had been shamelessly ransacked by the public education system.

Billy might have a point.Tobacco farming does not require a high school diploma, and the lumberyard and bearing factory are not the places Chuck wants to go. This makes Dad very unhappy and asks him "does he think he is something?"For three whole months, the young boy had nothing to do, either shooting hares and mice in the tobacco fields with the family's old shotgun, or wandering around town, stealing five purses in just one month and being caught once , squatting in the police station all night, Dad came in a rage, punched Chuck to the ground in front of everyone, kicked him hard with his tin-tipped boots, and then beat his bruised son Stay in the dusty square.Later, in the very same square, the townspeople erected a bronze statue of Chuck: in full Army Air Corps uniform, looking solemnly ahead, goggles and parachute bag in hand.His full name and title are etched on the pedestal: "Captain Charles Sinclair, Eighth Air Force".The bronze statue must have been cast with reference to a photo of Chuck when he enlisted, with his hair too neatly combed and his expression too serious.Anyone who knew Captain Sinclair would say that Chuck was the kind of poster boy, chiseled, with dark brown hair and hopeful blue eyes, likable enough.It's a pity that he is too active, like a shepherd dog with excess energy.However, after all, the bronze statue was ordered by the city hall after more than 30 years. It needs to satisfy people's imagination of wartime heroes, and fidelity is not the primary consideration.At this moment, the place where the bronze statue was located was just a small piece of empty mud. Chuck spit out bloody saliva, got up, raised his middle finger at the gloating onlookers, and limped away.

Chuck finally found a job sending and receiving telegrams in the post office. The small counter was like a shell, and he was an overgrown hermit crab, huddled in it aggrievedly.In a place as remote as Newell's, there were not many incoming and outgoing telegrams, three a week would be good.The radio in the office was on all day, and Chuck bit his pencil, put his feet on the counter, and stared at the ceiling, listening to the static noise of the war that was so far away from him, carrying the sinking ship, burning planes, death and refugees, Churchill and Roosevelt.

The summer of 1940 was like any other summer in Chuck's memory, only duller.But the tedium was broken at the end of July, when a flood of recruiting letters poured into the post office, keeping Chuck and the red-haired boy sorting the mail busy for a while.Chuck himself didn't get the letter, but the Frogmen and a quarter of the young boys in the bearing factory had been conscripted, and for a while the town pubs were packed with new recruits in their new uniforms.Billy shows off his hat badge and well-polished shoes to Chuck, reassuring him, "Don't worry, it'll be your turn."The church rang the wedding bells almost every two days—the boys were in a hurry to put their rings on the girls they loved before they left.On the day the army trucks drove into Newell, girls with swollen eyes from crying stood on the side of the road, watching their new husbands leave, and the whole town was filled with a delicate atmosphere between an outing and a funeral.Trucks full of recruits raised long-lasting smoke and dust on the uneven and dry dirt road. Chuck stared at the khaki dust in the post office office for a while and closed the shutters.

Because of the lack of manpower, the bearing factory offered higher hourly wages, and rumors that Roosevelt wanted to go to war were rampant. Boeing and Lockheed Martin received orders for underground bearings one after another, and their appetites grew to meet the rapidly rising demand. Fighter needs.After hesitating for less than a week, Chuck quit his post office job and joined the assembly line of the bearing factory.I leave home at less than seven o'clock every morning and come back after dark, when dinner is usually finished at home.Dad is very happy about this. In the eyes of this tobacco farmer, only work involving workshops and farmland is called real work.

Chuck didn't spend long on the shop floor, however. On November 1940, 11, the dust of the presidential election settled, and Roosevelt safely returned to the Oval Office. In less than a month, another batch of conscription letters were sent out one after another.When Chuck came home from the factory, a familiar envelope lay on the dining table, next to a plate of cold meat and mashed potatoes.The two younger sisters were sprawled on the living room rug playing with blocks without even raising their heads.His mother was washing dishes in the kitchen with his back to him, and his father was sinking on the sofa smoking, spouting smoke continuously, like an angry kettle.Nobody looked at Chuck, but Chuck knew everyone's attention was on the letter.He sat down, opened the letter, and read it twice.

"What did you say?" asked Dad aloud, biting his pipe.

The sisters fought over a red block, Meggie knocked her elbow on Susie's chin, and the youngest fell on the rug, crying.Mom slammed down the scum-covered saucepan, wiped her hands on her apron, and came to separate the two little girls and sweep the blocks away.Chuck walked over, picked up the doll rabbit that was thrown on the sofa, and teased Suzie, who was flushed from crying.

"What did the letter say?" Mom asked.

"'Report to the local enlistment office by the appointed time,'" Chuck said, and his sister was not interested in rabbits, and continued to scream, "'The appointed time' is next Friday."

"You can't go, can't you? Burn the letter," Pa grumbled, blowing a puff of smoke from his nostrils. "This battle has nothing to do with us."

"Dad, this isn't prom, and I can't say I won't go."

Dad went on talking to himself, complaining about this stupid letter, saying that Roosevelt was just putting on a show, not really sending American soldiers to Europe, and that young people should be in factories and fields instead of being fucked To the other side of the sea, and so on.Chuck had been distracted, for the first time in his life, looking at the living room and its occupants with a stranger's gaze. He had never noticed the peeling plaster on the walls and the ugly linoleum covering the damaged floor. The living room doubled as the dining room. , always filled with a smell of grease and boiled kale, mixed with tobacco and a slight spicy pepper. The middle school football championship trophy I won when I was 16 sat on the chest of drawers and was spotlessly polished.

I'm going, Chuck thought, and the thought brought a surge of fear and joy so intense he was almost ashamed.

-

Some 7600 kilometers from Chuck, southeast of England, a lone Spitfire I took off from its base at Beacon Hill and glided into clear, cloudless skies.

It can be seen from a distance that this is a modified fighter jet, painted a special pink to hide it in the clouds.It was Louis Linden who was driving the fire-breathing plane. Unlike Chuck, Louis came prepared.Like many aristocratic sons at the time, the young heir to the title began to attend flight school intermittently during the holidays in 1938. He joined the Royal Air Force in the early spring of 1940 and was incorporated into the 610 Squadron at Beacon Hill Base.

This is Louie's third reconnaissance mission, which is not an auspicious number, so Louis hangs his lucky charm on the rearview mirror. The small round piece of metal comes from the wreckage of his first fire-breathing plane. That was four months ago, he was hit over Dover, the propellers stopped completely, the cockpit was filled with smoke, and even the instruments that were close at hand could not be seen clearly, in order to judge the altitude, Louie had to directly open the Canopy, poke your head out.Later, when talking about this incident in the lounge of the Air Force Base, Louis would say that this was the moment he believed in God the most. A scorched streak across the stony wilderness.Louis took off his seat belt and quickly jumped out of the cabin. Before running 30 meters, a ball of fire burst out of the cockpit, debris splashed everywhere, and the whole plane burned like an oiled firewood.The base sent mechanics to recover the fighter the next morning, but the mechanics decided the damage was too bad to be worth repairing and left it where it was.Louis picked up a splinter with scorched marks, smoothed the sharp corners, and carried it with him all the time.

At this moment, the piece of metal shook slightly with the tremor of the plane, and the coast was far away. Louis glanced at the instrument and recorded the distance, altitude and speed on the writing board.No radio was allowed for the entire reconnaissance mission, and all he had to rely on were his notes and his own judgment.It was a sunny day with high and sparse clouds, which would not hinder photography, but the downside was that the anti-aircraft fire on the ground could clearly target the reconnaissance aircraft.He put the tablet back in place, slightly pulled back on the joystick, and continued climbing.

No one liked reconnaissance missions, and the small cabin was so cold at high altitude that he had to wear a heavy jacket with a quilted sherpa lining that would weigh as much as a lead pendant if he fell into the sea.And what is more terrifying than flying over the enemy's airspace is flying over the enemy's airspace with bare hands. In order to reduce weight, this pale pink Spitfire not only removed the radio device and steel guard, but also removed the machine gun and replaced it. A bulky F24 vertical camera.The Germans were said to be building new radar stations, and Air Force Intelligence was counting on this camera to capture clear pictures of the radar stations.

No.907 minutes, the reconnaissance plane flew over the coast of northwest France.The docks dotted between Calais and Brest looked swollen, with new concrete bunkers built around them to store U-boats.This is not news, submarines have never stopped nuisance to the Royal Navy.The bad news is that what appears to be a radio tower has been erected along the coast.This meant that the Luftwaffe could now "see" the convoys heading out to sea from the Thames estuary, and leisurely plan their surprise attack.Louie took a picture of the radio array, glanced at his watch, noted the time and coordinates again, and continued east.

The sun hung high, driving away the last thinning clouds.Now is the most dangerous time. Thirty-five thousand feet lie dormant with the fighter groups and anti-aircraft fire of the Nazi Luftwaffe.He had no backup, not even a way to call for help.Louie listened to his own breathing and scanned the sky, beware of raiders.

The journey went smoothly, and when he arrived at the Franco-German border, he found the same radar station. Louis used up the remaining film in his camera, circled half a circle over Cologne, and flew in the direction of home.The Atlantic showed its elusive nature once again. The Brittany peninsula, which was still clear two hours ago, was now covered by low-hanging rain clouds, and gray fog stretched towards the channel.He relaxed a little, the clouds providing perfect cover, no flak to worry about.However, when he flew to the strait, a team of Me

109 appeared below the starboard side, possibly on a routine patrol mission. Just as Louis weighed whether to hide in the clouds or speed up his escape, two Me

109 suddenly left the queue and rushed towards the reconnaissance plane.

With no other choice, Louis pushed the accelerator forward and accelerated towards the Beacon Hill base. Me

109 bit his back and couldn't wait to fire, but the distance was too far, so it was more of an intimidation than an attack.The altitude difference between hunter and prey was only two thousand feet, and the scout plane had to maintain a zig-zag course in order not to be hit. The little fuel left was descending faster, but he could already see the Thames estuary clearly, and then In a few minutes these two Me

109 will enter the fire range of anti-aircraft guns.

The two single-engine German fighters were now almost parallel to the scout plane, firing continuously at him.As Louis expected, the anti-aircraft fire on the ground responded, but Me

The 109 was too fast for flak to do nothing.His plane was shot again, this time in the wing, sending sparks flying.Suddenly, as if by a miracle, four Hurricanes emerged from the blinding sunlight to greet Me

109 strafed, one of them was hit head-on, dragged white smoke and fell towards the strait, and the other turned awkwardly to escape, the Spitfire chased after it, and quickly disappeared from sight.Louis took a long breath, slowly lowered his altitude, swept across the familiar fields, and landed steadily at the base of Bigen Mountain.Three long-awaited "penguins" ran over and took over the slightly injured reconnaissance plane from him.

"You're lucky, sir, that this plate has lasted this long," said the mechanic, tapping the bullet-ridden wing.

"Better check the tail too, Robbie, got a few shots on the way home."

"Of course, sir."

Louie went under the wing, took the film out of the camera, patted the mechanic on the shoulder, and walked across the tarmac to the command post, the cassette containing the negatives tucked under his arm.Squadron Captain Millston was just coming out of the door as he entered.He was a small, energetic man, a head shorter than Louie, but with three years more flying experience.

"Pinkbirds are back," said the squadron leader in his usual booming voice. "54 Squadron intercepted a group of German fighters a few minutes ago."

"I know. I was just passing by."

"Did you have a good trip?"

"As happy as a picnic." Louis weighed the film in his hand, "Those lunatics built a new radar station on the coast of Normandy, no wonder every time we first arrived in Calais, there was a large group of Me

109 is waiting. "

"If the Americans could send their bombers, it wouldn't be a problem."

"I don't think the Americans will come." Louis shook his head, "But without them, we can deal with the Luftwaffe ourselves."

The second half of the sentence may be true, but the first half of the sentence is later proven to be wrong.It was December 1940, 12, just four days before Christmas and exactly four hundred days before Louie and Chuck met for the first time.

tbc.