Fires of Gehenna

“Blue team, stay alert. Whoever sees him, report in.”

We were warned a situation like this could happen. It’s one of those eventualities that, at the time, felt slightly preposterous. You can imagine a fight at a numerical disadvantage, or facing superior fire power, you can imagine rationing of food or water or medicine, but you never quite imagine this—because you’re a trained airman, you’re a fighting machine, you’ve practice day-in and day-out, you’ve dreamt it, you’ve feared it, you’ve occasionally desired it, and so while death is an acceptable hazard, you’ve always believed you would mount a formidable defense. No good squadron ever really considers that they’ll be blind, picked off one-be-one.

Like what’s happening to my wing mate, Blue 3.

A bright light fires from nowhere. On a jarring path, like a lighting bolt, striking a hole straight through the belly of aircraft, the loss of aero capsizing it, the force ripping it in two. Half my night-vision is blinded by the bolt, and what remains loses clarity in the explosion, and I barely make-out the faint imprints of his ejection, seeing no indication of his parachute, simply the slight trace of increasing velocity, on a collision course to the ground.

Him, I knew better.

My turn to speak. “This is Blue 4, Blue 3 is down.”

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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)