Bombers Moon

The summer at the air force base seemed to come later than other places, and the gray-green grass covering the crater took a long time to bloom timidly, thin and wobbly, as if they themselves were not sure whether they should grow here or not.Continuous rains kept the temperature at a chilly 610-[-] degrees, and also nailed the [-] Squadron to the airport. Most of the pilots took advantage of this rare holiday to sleep, and the few on duty played cards in the lounge and sat around all day long. The phone never rang.

Fifty-six new Flying Fortresses and Liberators arrived in this summer shower, and the USAAF seemed determined to show the British how serious they were about the war.These bombers were scattered to the major air force bases in East Anglia, and the Beacon Hill base ushered in sixteen.The dormitory was once again full of people, and fresh blood brought new noise to the tired base.Someone must have retold Chuck's Saint-Nazaire saga again, because the new birds started exchanging glances and whispering when they saw him.Chuck hoped they hadn't heard the confinement part.The young man from Oklahoma became an overnight veteran when Captain Millston assigned him to watch over the new birds.Chuck didn't quite know exactly what to do, so he had to draw out the experience of running a small playground gang in high school: be friends with everyone, find some trivial things to keep them busy, pay attention to the signs of trouble, and kill them in time .

Just like Chuck half a year ago, these young pilots had no concept of war. When they first arrived, they even parked their planes neatly together as they had done during training. They were inevitably ridiculed by the British veterans. Dayton, had to re-disperse the bombers.On the first Sunday in June, although it was still cloudy, but the rain stopped, Chuck and the birds took paint buckets and brushes to the tarmac to paint graffiti and names on these brand new B17s.RAF pilots smoked at the edge of the lawn, watching the group of Americans with interest as if they were watching a half-baked circus.

"Lion," Jody said loudly, looking at Chuck at the top of the ladder with his hips akimbo.Leo sat on a pile of sandbags not far away, neither close to the British nor his American counterparts.Jody walked over, said a few words to him, and pointed to the plane. Leo shrugged and answered something.

"What did he say?" Chuck asked.

"He said whatever, anyway, you're going to destroy it again soon, and kill us all by the way."

"Is he always so vengeful?"

"He said it was his strength," Jody called back. "Can you stop using me as a sounding board?"

So the fuselage was painted with a lion, which didn't look very similar, but Chuck thought he had conveyed the momentum it should have.Some people without artistic attainments, such as Ensign Linden, mistook it for a cat wearing a wreath.So Chuck sneaked into the hangar a few days later with a paint bucket and painted an actual cat on the Ensign's Spitfire to emphasize the important difference between the two animals.Louis tried to wash off the graffiti, but was unsuccessful. The white paint had only faded a little, but it was still conspicuous. The cat's head looked smug from any angle.

The Anglo-American joint command has given up on bridging the differences between the two sides. The Royal Air Force and the Army Air Force are directly operating separately. The former continues to rely on Blenheim bombers to carry out nighttime sneak attacks. The target is changed from the port of Normandy to the industrial area on the French-German border; Or take off during the day, precisely aimed at the submarine base.Now the Americans have a slight numerical advantage, and bombing missions are carried out almost every day. However, to the displeasure of the British, the Army Air Corps is still reluctant to use heavy bombers, because the war in North Africa is in full swing and they have to compete with the battlefields of Western Europe. These precious big guys.The inexperienced recruits flew to France in light bombers and torpedo bombers borrowed from the British, sometimes as many as two hundred, which looked spectacular from a distance.It's a pity that these missions are more imposing than effective. In order to avoid the dense anti-aircraft firepower and German interceptors, Chuck and his little birds were forced to abandon missions halfway or drop bombs early, and the torpedoes and high-explosive bombs fell into the sea or In the empty countryside, there was no submarine dock built of reinforced concrete.It is not so much a strategic bombing as it is to create psychological pressure on the Germans, and at the same time provide radio stations and newspapers with materials that highlight the "advantages" of the Allied forces.

Louis did not participate in the excitement, starting in July he got the first time off in a year and a half.Driving back to Canterbury on a foggy morning.In the summer of two years ago, Canterbury was bombed indiscriminately for more than three months, because it happened to be on the way of the Nazi Air Force to London and the Thames Estuary. Throw it here.Now, as Louie drove across the field, the crater was still clearly visible.In Louie's impression, these forests and wilderness are chaotic, sometimes even a little scary, but full of surprises.When they were young, he and William often went hunting deer with their father, and nine out of ten his father's younger brother Albert would also come. The adults led the horses, and their soft leather boots stepped on the thick rotting leaves without making a sound.Father put Louis in the saddle and William rode Uncle Albert's stallion Columbus.They watched as their father and uncle approached the glade on all fours. In the shadows and moving lights, the boys could not see where the game was, and the hunters disappeared into the bushes.The air in the forest slowly solidified, and it seemed that even the rustling of the leaves stopped. Then, a gunshot broke the silence, followed by a second shot.Father and uncle reappeared, dragging a still warm deer together.

Louis was only about eight or nine years old at that time, and he was not interested in hunting animals. He preferred to go into the woods, run with his brother along the thin stream, catch beetles on the grass blades, wrestle in the shallows with gentle current, and have fun. Drenched, mud in hair.Father had repeatedly warned them not to go where the herds were, because Uncle Albert would shoot when he heard something in the grass, and he didn't take the time to figure out if it was a deer or a boy.When they were older, the Marquis began teaching his two sons how to use a shotgun, and since then Louis and his brother have spent most of their vacations tracking wild geese.Most of these golden summers before the war are faded and blurred, and only bright fragments remain: the damp and strong smell of mulch in the forest, the dull ache of the gun butt against the shoulder from the recoil, the excitable hound Their muscles tensed, their pointed ears pricked up, and when they heard the gunshot, they rushed frantically to the place where the bird fell.

The car rounded a gentle turn, the tires kicking up dry sand.On the right front is the former deer hunting ground, the bushes are neglected and look more clawed than Louie remembers.Sharpened stakes were arranged in the wild grass, and barbed wire was stretched between trees to prevent German paratroopers from landing.The shadow of war extended here like long, thin, sharp claws.

In the telegram two days ago, his father told him that there would be "a small cocktail party" today, so when Louis took a shortcut from the garden to the side hall, he did not expect that his father would invite most of London.The eldest son of the Marquis hesitated for a while outside the half-open French window, buttoned up his uniform jacket, adjusted his tie, and walked in.

Many of the guests were in military uniform, some were old friends from my father's former service and some were rising political stars from MI54 and Whitehall.Louis recognized several members of the House of Lords, a reporter from The Times, and Georges Loiseau, the ace pilot of the [-]th Squadron at Hornchurch Base. His father was a small nobleman in Cornwall. Both father and son were fast climbers on the political ladder in London.Loiseau saw Louis and raised his glass to him. Louis nodded, looked away, took a glass of wine from the waiter's tray, and looked for his father in the crowd.

The side hall is a rectangle inlaid with mahogany panels, and the end where the armchair is placed is bent into a softly curved semicircle.As expected, my father was wearing a navy uniform, and he occupied the armchair with three or four people who looked like officers, and a small group of Steller's sea eagles perched on the rocks.

"We were just talking about you," the father said, as Louie approached, unprepared, as if his son had been here all along instead of just coming back from the Air Force base.

"Hope is complimenting my record."

"I remember I taught you what humility is." My father pretended to reprimand, but actually smiled, and fine lines of pleasure formed at the corners of his eyes, "You should remember Mr. Clyde Dawson, you met at the New Year's reception , you were very young then, but Clyde remembers you—how old was he then, Clyde? Ten? Yes, I feel about the same. Mr. Dawson is now on the Air Staff." Louie and the A brown-haired gentleman with a mustache shook hands, "Clyde and I just talked about how difficult it is to find an outstanding young man to work for the staff, especially those with flying experience."

The meaning of this sentence couldn't be more obvious. Louis took a sip of his wine and bought himself a few more seconds of reaction time: "It's conceivable."

"You're on Beacon Hill, aren't you?" the brown-haired staff officer asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Your commanding officer, Captain Millston, was also an exceptional gentleman."

"Indeed it is, sir."

"I went to Westminster with Millston, I was a year older than him, but he was very famous in the rowing team." Dawson lowered his voice, as if it was some kind of secret, but still Enough for everyone in the room to hear, "I should go talk to Millston and see if he'd let his star pilot go. From what your father said, you'd be a good fit for Stanmore (*01) .”

"Thank you." Louis replied mechanically, and glanced at his father, "If you don't mind, I will stay with you for a few minutes."

He put down his glass, passed through the crowd, and fled into the garden.A few minutes later, the father also came out, gently closed the French windows, and sat with his son on the moss-covered stone steps, looking at the garden bathed in the generous summer sunshine, the rose stand was like a pink and white waterfall. The pool in the distance reflects the sky and thin clouds, like a carefully cut drawing paper.

"You all love that pool," said Father, as a wild bee buzzed around the flowering bushes beside the steps, "but only William actually fell in, and frightened the nurse, and you were concerned that he had No small fish were caught."

Louis turned his head and looked at him: "The staff department?"

"The natural path of development, isn't it? It's time for you to leave the front lines, too."

"Meaning I can no longer fly a fire-breathing."

"There are fewer opportunities, yes," said my father gently, "but you don't need to leave the Air Force, and you'll be safer in London."

"Shouldn't this sentence be said two years ago?"

"Think of your poor mum who has had nightmares every night as long as you've been in Beacon Hill. We've lost a son and of course wish you'd stayed in London. There's nothing disgraceful about it, you've done your duty. We all I've done my duty."

Louis didn't answer.The wild bee flew away, and after a while it came back and burrowed into another flower.

"It's not necessary to make a decision now, take some time to consider Mr. Dawson's proposal, and give him an answer before the end of the vacation."

His father patted him on the shoulder, got up and walked away.Louis sat there without moving, stared at the pool for a while, leaned against the warm stone railing, and closed his eyes.

Note 1: Stanmore

HQ, home of the Royal Air Force Command.