Part 1

"A'right boys, move your asses!" the ground crewman, sent to waken the crew of 'Double Trouble' at
four A.M., yelled cheerily as he turned on the lights.

"Michael Goldman yawned and kicked himself upright, ignoring the round of profanity muttered by his
crew mates. "Shit! It's cold." He pulled his blanket around his five foot seven, thin bordering on skinny, frame and
stood to retrieve his olive drab coveralls as quickly as possible. Looking around at his nineteen- to twenty-year-
old bunkmates, he noted again how everything was drab and green, not just their clothes. "Long night at the
club?"

"Yeah, until I started losing," Robert said under his half-lidded bleary eyes. "We must really be
desperate to have you here!" He playfully flung his pillow at Mike who ducked easily. "How old are you again,
Shorty?"

"Eighteen!" Mike replied loudly to his friends who didn't believe it for a second. Actually he was an older
looking fifteen, but he and his dad had been able to convince the overworked and tired recruiter that he was a
babyfaced eighteen year old. His dad had reluctantly agreed to help him after they had heard the rumors about
what the Nazis were supposedlydoing to the Jews in Europe. He had been surprised by the lack of
information in the papers, but then the paper was always filled with what had to be more pressing war news.

Mike considered himself lucky to get posted to gunnery school after basic, and had even embraced his
training in the Sperry ball turret which he now called home. He'd smiled at the shudders of the others at the
thought of being locked in the tight little bubble in the belly of their Fortress. He had been brutally shaken out of
his feeling of invincibility when he and some others had helped scrape the remains of a fellow ball gunner off the
insides of a turret after their second mission. Today would be his fourth mission. The others had all been
considered `practice runs' for the rookies.

The crew of `Double Trouble' proceeded to their breakfast and the coffee that waited to help clear the
cobwebs out of their heads. The others continued to tease Mike about his lack of interest in the bars and local
women the others found so interesting. He had naturally gravitated to the ball games the local kids, many his
own true age, played around the town when he had the time to visit. They had accepted him as their own and
included him in whatever they were doing. Mike had thought he was going to die when the mother of one of his
English friends had guessed the truth about his age, but had promised to remain silent as long as he promised
to `look after himself'.

He had curtailed his activities around that youth immediately after the meeting with his mom. He was
too confused by his feelings. He had increasingly found his new friend more and more attractive, to the point he
thought of him as beautiful. He couldn't put it into words, but thought the friendship was becoming more than that
and couldn't admit that was possible. Those kinds of feelings weren't allowed by his upbringing and family, but
he felt the loneliness press down hard on him.

Mike was brought out of his private thoughts by the command that brought the room to attention and
the unveiling of the day's target. It was a factory on the outskirts of Berlin. His stomach did somersaults; they
were going to the heart of the beast (as his dad would say). `Keep your bursts short,' he thought to himself. `This
is going to be a long trip!'

'Double Trouble' clawed through the cold February dawn sky. They were in their slot in the formation
and proceeding over the English Channel.

"Don't get lonely down there!" James, one of the plane's waist gunners yelled over the roar of the
engines and the wind noise. "Stay alert! I'll see you later!" He helped Mike get folded into the turret and closed the
hatch over the kid.

James shook his head as he returned to look out from his position. He really should say something to
his superiors. They were supposed to be fighting for kids like Mike, not with them. But, as far as the Air Corps
was concerned, the kid was eighteen and, he had to admit, the kid did knowhow to shoot. Mike had been credited
with one `probable' kill although it couldn't be confirmed. Still he couldn't stand the thought of losing their little
virgin brother. The chance of their making it through all twenty five missions of their tour was slim, all the
members of the squadron knew that. He hoped Mike wouldn't wait too long to find some woman to fuck his
brains out with. He deserved that before it was too late. Besides, it might help clear up his acne.

Mike spun his turret around to doublecheck the function and fired a quick burst from the twin fifty-caliber
machine guns he controlled. Satisfied that everything was working, he began looking out between his drawn up
legs through the sight for the targets he was sure would appear as soon as their escorting fighters had to leave.

"OK, our little friends are peeling off, we're on our own," the pilot's voice came through the intercom.
"Keep your eyes open." Mike picked up his scanning of the space below. Despite the cold, he was sweating
profusely in his heated, heavy flight suit. He always seemed to weigh five pounds less after each mission, no
small feat for someone who was only one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, like he was now.

They flew on for what seemed like hours to Mike, although it had just been minutes. He punched his
left thigh to alleviate the cramp that always wanted to form there. He barely noticed the four small dots
ascending towards the formation. The flight was too far inland for them to be friendlies. "Four bandits, eight o-
clock low." he calmly reported, using the clock as a reference, with twelve being directly in front of them.
Thankfully, the four he watched were still too far away to be a threat.

"Bandits, twelve o-clock high, maybe twenty, thirty!" Lewis (Lew), in the top turret, yelled suddenly. Mike
fought his instincts and kept himself faced to the rear. His chance of getting a shot at a fighter head on were slim
to none. His Fortress started to vibrate and shake as various guns on the top and in the nose started firing at the
unseen enemy.

Suddenly a stream of tracers arced by his turret as he tried to make himself as small as possible. He
could hear the ticks made by some rounds as they struck and passed through the metal above and around him.
The firing stopped just as quickly as it had begun. Two fighters streaked past, their black crosses clear in Mike's
vision. He fired a quick shot at the second one and was surprised to see some debris fly away from its wing
before it flew away. He knew he hadn't done enough damage to destroy it but maybe it would think twice before
coming back. Actually, he knew he had been very lucky to hit anything at all.

"...ilot to belly! Mike?" their pilot's voice came through his headset. He had been checking on
everybody's condition.

"I'm OK!" Mike replied. They had survived this attack so far. He did see a trail of black smoke trailing
down behind them. One of their number hadn't.

"Did anyone see any chutes?" somebody asked. All the answers were negative.

"Mike! Three o-clock low, trying to sneak in!" Robert yelled out from his side.

Mike spun at a dizzying pace and stopped on the two fighters curving towards their position in the
formation. His balls tried to crawl into his throat as he stared at the lights winking at him from the wings and
noses of the approaching fighters. The machine guns on either side of his head started hammering away as he
returned fire, hoping to drive them away.

"Bob's hit!" James screamed as the plane shook with each hit it received.

Still the fighters came on, seemingly oblivious to the combined fire of Mike and the other Fortresses
on the edge of the formation. Simultaneously, one of the attackers pulled up sharply, flames and smoke
trailing from its stricken form, and a shell exploded near the frame of the turret.

Mike's foot was thrown off its control pedal as he was sprayed with the remains of the Plexiglas on that
side of the turret. A sharp pain streaked up his left leg as he fought to place it back on its rest. When he was back
under control, the remaining attacker was gone. "Did anyone get the other guy?" he managed to squeak out in
his excitement.

"No!" James said to no one in particular. The pilot sent the radio operator to check on Robert.

Mike felt lightheaded. His underwear was soaked but he didn't remember pissing himself during that
last attack! The whole left side of his face and body hurt but everything seemed to be working. He tried the
controls again and was rewarded as another agonizing wave of pain washed up from his leg. Realization that his
underwear wasn't piss soaked came when he reached down to his leg and found the tear in his suit. "Hey, hey,
guys?" He fought back his fear. "I think I'm hit!"

Mike crawled painfully to look down into his position. It was out of action. The turret's elevation controls
were still working, else he'd have been stuck in it, but it wouldn't rotate. He would have no way to bring the \remaining gun to bear on anything. His oxygen mask stung his face
and his leg was still throbbing unmercifully, but he had only screamed once and that was when his crew mates
had pulled out a jagged piece of metal from his leg as they applied a dressing.

He shifted his gaze back. He'd have to bear the pain and help James man the other waist position.
Robert was beyond help. It looked like a cannon shell had almost blown him in two. He couldn't even cry for his
friend. The searingly cold wind wouldn't allow it. Plus, he told himself, if he didn't do everything he could to get
back into the fight, they were all going to be in the same position as Robert anyway. There'd be time to mourn
later.

The fighter attacks had finally slackened as they approached the target but `Double Trouble' was
having a harder and harder time keeping up with the formation. They had one prop feathered and the other three
engines were undoubtedly overheating in their effort to stay with the group for protection.

Mike heard the rain of metal as it washed over the skin of the Fortress. The flak that appeared was
heavy but relatively inaccurate and very few pieces of shrapnel pierced the skin. He grimaced as he struggled
upright. He knew he'd probably reopened the four inch jagged tear in his thigh but the cold that found its way
through where his suit had been cut open did its job, making him numb. He took over Robert's position, plugged
himself back into the intercom, and looked at the clear sky dotted with the hundreds of angry black puffs sent
from the flak guns miles below them. There was nothing to shoot back at, so all they could do was continue on
and hope they didn't run into one at the wrong time.

"Bombs away!" The plane lurched upwards suddenly as the bombardier sang out and released the
two tons of high explosive they had fought all that way to deliver. Mike knew they couldn't relax yet. Those fighters
thathad chewed them to bits already were waiting outside the flak zone. He didn't know if any of them would come
home tonight; only nine of the original twelve in their squadron were still there. Mike moved the fifty-caliber around
as best he could, battling the slipstream as it continually tried to wrench his grip from the gun. He hoped he was
ready for this, he thought as he kicked a piece of Robert and empty shells out of the way so he wouldn't trip.

The fighter attacks came fast and furiously. The factory they had bombed must have been important to
the Germans. Mike looked around nervously when 'Double Trouble' was finally forced out of the formation as
another engine failed. They were sitting ducks, and knew it! The pilots came on the intercom and told them they
would try to make it as far as they could into France. Mike barely heard as he continued to fire at the fighters that
took the opportunity to swarm around the stricken bomber. Their fire did no good as the shells slammed into the
wings and fuselage. `Double Trouble' was dying but dying hard! Finally the wing caught fire and the remaining
pilot gave in to the inevitable and gave the order to bail out, as he tried to hold the remains of the airplane
together.

Mike bent to help James get to the window, when he heard the violent grinding tear of the wing folding
up and spinning the bomber onto its back. He suddenly found himself thrown out of the plane, hurtling towards
the ground far below.

_________________________________________________________________________

Paul watched the airbattle overhead with resigned indifference. The Germans always seemed to be
winning, regardless of what the French language broadcasts from the BBC said over the secret radio his family
had hidden away. They had been under occupation since he was twelve, and now, just short of his sixteenth
birthday, he didn't see any difference in the way of his world. He had long ago stopped his English lessons and
wasn't about to learn German either. That was the same as collaboration in his young mind. He knew his father
had often disappeared at night, but forbade them from ever talking about it to anyone. If his dad was part of the
local underground cells, which he dearly hoped (he couldn't stand the thought of him being with the Germans),
he didn't see where it was going to do any good.

His shoulders slumped as he watched the flaming wreckage plummet to the ground a few kilometers
from his farm. The Americans didn't seem to be doing much better than the English had!

He saw the fighters circle an object briefly before flying away. He felt his stomach tighten when he saw
it was a parachute. His eyes kept straying towards the man in the chute as he finished the last of his chore he'd
been engaged in. He dearly wanted to see this man who had probably \flown over his head day after day. He only
hoped that the airman wouldn't be dead. Maybe, just maybe, he could do something, make a small difference.
His mind made up, Paul cautiously began trotting towards the woods where he figured the man would land.

Michael screamed involuntarily when he landed hard, his bad leg absorbing most of the impact. He lay
in the snow on his back, ragged breaths visible as the pain slowly ebbed away. Despair slowly permeated him
as he began to realize he was alone. He was the only one who had made it out. Everybody else was dead. He
didn't know if he would be able to walk very far, much less run if he needed to. Besides, he admitted to himself,
he wouldn't know where to run to. He didn't even know what country he was in.

He heard the trucks before he could see them, and rolled into the trees by where he lay. He hoped they
wouldn't be Germans. He didn't know what would happen if it was. It couldn't be good to fall into the hands of
the people who you had just bombed. He dropped his face into the snow and tried to put the tree between him
and the footsteps he heard crunching towards his landing site.

"Come out, young man," a heavily accented voice said calmly. "You are now our prisoner. We won't hurt
you!"

Mike looked up into the face of the German officer standing to one side. His shoulders slumped. "I
can't," his voice broke. His voice hadn't broken like that since he was eleven years old but he seemed to have lost
control of it. What would his squadron mates think? He winced as he felt two sets of arms drag him out in the
open and force him upright, which he was able to maintain, barely.

"How old are you, boy?" The officer looked his battered captive over appraisingly. "Your mommy and
daddy know where you are?"

"Eighteen, and, yes, they know," Mike responded wearily, "Sir." This guy was an officer; he seemed to
smile at that anyway.

"I think that is your first lie." One of the soldiers struck out with his rifle butt at Mike's wound, at the
direction of the officer. Mike hit the ground with a yelp! "Come with us," the officer said as he motioned to his men
to grab the boy again. "You need a doctor."

Mike sat shivering in the cold bare room he'd been placed in. He tried to pull the threadbare blanket
tighter around his naked body. They had taken everything from him, including his dog tags, but they had treated
his leg and even cleaned most of his blood off of his skin. He tried to forget the experience of being treated
without any painkillers or anesthesia. They told him those things were too tightly rationed to use on gangsters
like him. He'd been scared when they started to ask him questions, but they had only roughed him up a little, and
had left his leg alone, when he didn't respond the way they wanted him to. He'd been expecting and fearing
torture, but had been through worse school yard beatings as a child. Maybe they thought he was too insignificant
to waste time with. He lay down on the concrete floor of the cell. They hadn't killed him, and had treated him.
Maybe he'd be sent to a P.O.W. camp soon.

The officer got off the phone with his superiors. This boy was a Jew. His identification said as much.
You couldn't really be sure with Americans; circumcision was just too common amongst them. But this one was
Jewish. They shouldn't have bothered treating his wounds. He thought of calling his interrogation specialist back,
but this boy he had wouldn't know anything of true value. He saw no need for hours of torture for so little return.
No, in the morning he would take the boy out and shoot him himself. He needed the practice and would enjoy
watching one of those Americans who bombed his home die at his hand. Maybe it wasn't so bad treating his
wounds, it would make the boy easier to handle, more trusting. The officer smiled, thinking of the boy's reaction
when he learned he was about to die anyway. Maybe he could get him to beg for his life before he pulled the
trigger. He nonchalantly returned to polishing the death's head insignia on his coat.

Paul had watched in dread as the soldiers dragged the American to their truck. He shivered and
retreated slowly, careful not to be seen. What he was doing could get him mistaken for the Resistance and lead
to his, and his family's, torture and execution. He was almost out of the woods and back on his father's land
when he heard the voice behind him.

"Paul?" his father spoke in his usual perfect French (he'd been a diplomat in the Twenties). "What were
you doing out there?" His dad stepped out of the shadowy underbrush, a British-made Sten machine pistol
around his neck.

"Papa, I was just out for a walk," Paul began.

"And you just happened upon the American," his dad finished. "You are very lucky the Germans did not
see you! Are you out of your mind!"

"I just wanted to see." Paul knew his father was right. It had been a stupid risk. "Where did you get the
gun? Were you out there, too? What will happen to him? The American, I mean."

"One at a time, please! Yes, I was out looking for the American. We have been protecting as many as
we can get to before the Germans. Second, I do not know what will happen to him!. Most they send to prisoner
camps, but a few they kill," his dad said matter-of-factly. "They do it at a favored place deep in the woods. I have
been told it is mostly the Jews they manage to capture, but others as well."

"They can't kill him!" Paul was getting excited. "He's just a boy like me! How will we know? Where do
they do it?"

"Remember, that `boy' is a soldier. He has probably killed as well, maybe even children like himself. If
he is accompanied by the pig who captured him, then he will die." Paul's dad spat out the word `pig'. "We have
discovered where they do it. We discovered some unburied bodies. But Paul, we can do nothing! There would be
reprisals! The choice is simple, sacrifice one American or many of us."

"But, papa, we must do something! I don't care what he may have done, he's on our side!" Paul
couldn't believe they were helpless. His plans to finally try to change his world himself came crashing down. His
mind clutched at straws for a solution. "What if we made it look like the American killed them. Then they couldn't
blame us!"

Paul's father just shook his head and grabbed his son by the scruff of his neck and started to walk
back toward their home. Halfway there, he thought again about what his son had said. It would be tricky to do, but
it could give them the opportunity they had been looking for. "Paul? We will watch tomorrow and follow with word
if it looks like they will kill him. If we can get there in time, we will see if we can save him for you. He will need a
place to stay. Clean out the back of the cellar and promise me you will stay here. I will not promise we will be able
to do anything, but we will try".

Mike was still awake when a soldier came for him and handed him his boots and nothing else. "Where
are my clothes?"

"I am afraid your clothes are beyond repair and we have nothing for you here." The officer appeared,
pulled Mike out of the cell, and arranged the blanket tighter around the boy. "We will provide something
appropriate for your stay when we arrive at your destination. Come, follow me! And remember, no escapes; that
would be foolish and I would hate to have to shoot you."

Mike nervously hobbled out, following the German to the car he indicated that snowy gray morning. He
started to get scared when the man sat next to him and he noticed the driver was the only other man in the
vehicle. He had been expecting to just be thrown in the back of a truck, like yesterday. He started shivering again
and told himself it was because of the cold.

"Relax, young man." The officer smiled; this was like a cat playing with the mouse before the mouse
met its end. "We will be there soon. You will soon be safe. Everyone is too busy. I am going to take you myself."
He stared at the boy. `Meat for the dogs soon,' he thought. `Well, not much meat. The wild dogs may starve after
all.'

The drive seemed long to Mike. He kept glancing nervously at the calm man sitting next to him. It was
freezing. He hoped that if he was really going to live, he would receive something warm to wear.

He felt his hopes dashed when the car turned off the road down a dirt trail that led into the forest they
had been driving through. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Mike whispered, turning to see the small pistol
pointed at his chest.

"Yes, young man." The officer sounded as cold as the air around them. "You are going to die. So tell
me the truth, how old are you?"

"Fifteen, almost sixteen," Mike numbly responded, watching his breath in the cold air. "My dad lied for
me."

"Do not miss him, young ma..., boy," the officer corrected himself. "After we win this war, he will soon
join you, as will all you undesirable subhumans who infest your country, sodomising each other." He saw fire
rekindle in his captive's brown eyes.

"Yeah, well the last time I was over Germany it was on fire!" Mike threw his cares out the window. He
was going to be shot anyway. "All of us `subhumans' are going to wipe your Reich off the map. So fuck you!"

The officer flushed with rage. This little pup was going to pay a hard price before he died. He fingered
his dagger with his free hand. He was going to shove this boy's privates down his filthy throat before he killed
him.

Paul's dad and the two others in his underground group moved cautiously from tree to tree. He hoped
they would be in time to get ready. If things didn't go exactly as planned, they were just going to have to watch as
the `pig' executed the American. The falling snow would help shield his team as they approached the site.

When they finally arrived, he breathed out in relief. There were no new bodies or blood in the area.
Perhaps they were on time. If the German hadn't picked another spot they didn't know about, that is! He quietly
sent his team members to the positions they had decided would be the best for what they were going to try to do
and settled in to wait.

He didn't have long, as he noticed the three figures emerge out of the blowing snow. The `pig' and one
soldier were to either side of their naked captive who moved with difficulty, favoring his right leg. The remains of a
bandage and small streams of blood trailed down the prisoner's left. He watched as the three stopped short of
the place he'd wanted them to be in. His shoulders slumped. One of his team would be out of position for this
scheme to work. `The American is going to die,' he thought as he continued to stare in morbid curiosity.

Mike looked around at the small clearing they had emerged into. This was it. His young life would soon
be over. At least they wouldn't hurt him any more. He shuddered. They had taken delight in kicking him
repeatedly in his wounded leg to the point the stitches had torn open, leaving a last bloody boot print on the
remains of his bandage. He was oblivious to the cold now, except for the pain in his feet. The old `died with their
boots on' of the Saturday movie serials he'd enjoyed wasn't going to be his fate. They wanted nothing to remain of
him at all. The animals would see to that, they had told him.

He tried to turn to meet the bullet they had for him, but couldn't when the soldier grabbed his arms from
behind and held him in place. The German officer stepped around in front of him.

"Now we will see who will be doing the fucking here!" the man hissed. He had holstered his pistol and
now had a knife in his hand!

"No!" Mike struggled against the one holding him. `Not a knife! Anything but a knife!' His thoughts were
frantic. He'd rejected the idea of being in the infantry because the thought of bayonets made him physically ill. He
could feel the cold steel of this man's blade sliding through his intestines before the knife was even near him.
"Just shoot me! Please!" he wailed. He could face the bullet one last time, but not this. "Not this way! Nooo!"