My Invader rumbled down the runway at C84, gaining speed as the pre-stressed concrete flashed under my windscreen. My eyes flickered from the airspeed indicator to the rapidly-approaching end of the runway. One hundred knots indicated airspeed, one-fifty, one-seventy five. Pull up! The nose wheel left the ground and I was airborne at 175 kias in a gentle turn to the right. Gear up, level out now, keep that nose up and watch that stall indicator. My gunner, Dino, was riding in the back seat and checked in. I tuned my radio to the squadron frequency and called my status. Our fighter wing was two sectors east of me and climbing toward the target, a pair of five-fifty pounders slung under their wings for ground attack. I was the anchor at the end of the rope. My job was to hit the big buildings after they had neutralized the anti-aircraft batteries.

We were attacking the aircraft factory at A-Landshaven, the industrial complex buried deep in enemy territory. Earlier that morning the weather report had come back and reported clear skies and unlimited visibility over the target. The order was given to begin mission preparations and we were woken at dawn. After a quick breakfast of powdered eggs we had caught a ride on a jeep out to our planes. Dino climbed up the gangway to check his guns as I made the pre-flight inspection of "The Butcher's Daughter". Satisfied that she'd take me to the target and back, I had climbed inside and begun the pre-flight checks. It was just another routine mission, if there is such a thing in combat.

I clicked the intercom and told Dino my plan: I'd box the compass north to south and gain some altitude keeping C-84 between us and the river. If any enemy aircraft stumbled across the border they'd have to pass over C-84's flak batteries to get to us. At 15k altitude I'd turn "The Butcher's Daughter" to the east and head for the enemy, hoping to cross the river at 20k altitude just north of the mountains. We'd be in the Alphies' radar net by then but hopefully they'd expect us down low and wouldn't be able to climb up to challenge us.

We settled into the usual flight routine at 20,000 feet - keep your gloves on and don't touch any bare metal with your hands or you'll lose some skin. Check your oxygen bottles for low pressure. That sort of thing. I could hear the chatter coming from the radios of the fighter boys. They had found a couple of enemy aircraft over A85 and maybe two of us had gone down to deal with the threat, but I couldn't be certain who it was or what was going on. I was getting closer to A85 and reached for the intercom button just as Dino called Mustang at nine o'clock low. We were at 23,000 feet and that Alphie was right there with us, about 8,000 away and swinging around to our six. The 24th Fighter/Bomber Group fighters were moving away from me, due east, so I had to stick with what I had; eight .50's up front and two pairs of .50's shared by Dino.

I was past A-85 and heading for A-Landshaven in a nearly due east approach, with that Mustang trailing my six. I told Dino to call out the distance so that I could take evasive at 1,500 and buy us some time. 25,000 feet altitude now, 150 knots, and I could feel the chill of the air through my A-2 flight jacket. Or maybe it was just my nerves. I suppose it didn't matter. What did matter was the Mustang gun rounds that would be coming at me in a few minutes.

Dino called 2,000 range and I put the Invader into a sharp turn to port. "Keep it level", he yelled, so that he could target the enemy. With a belly full of bombs and the thin air, "The Butcher's Daughter" didn't want to be put into any maneuvers anyway, so I leveled the wings and waited. I heard a few rounds hit behind me and then my world went black.

I woke up in the base hospital at C-84. Dino was in the hospital bed next to me being attended to by several nurses. Being in the back, he had caught the brunt of the attack. I gave myself a quick look-over and didn't see anything that a few days' rest wouldn't fix, so I hopped out of the bed and grabbed my flight gear from the metal footlocker which separated the beds. Dino looked up at me and I could see the indecision in his eyes. "Should I stay here with these nurses or go back to the flight line with the mechanics?" seemed to race across his mind. As I struggled to get my suit on I could hear the door of his locker slamming shut. We caught a jeep out to the tarmac and checked out another Invader. As I started to climb up the gangway I felt a tug at my jacket. "I put half my ammo load into that P-51, you know," he said. "Yeah, kid. That's the breaks," was my reply.

I didn't bother with the pre-flight stuff this time. The rest of the squadron was already airborne and catching heavy resistance along the flight route. I started the engines, throttled up, and pointed the nose down the runway. My eyes darted between the airspeed indicator and the end of the runway. Something was wrong. I didn't have enough speed and the runway's finish line was coming up quick. I steadied my grip on the wheel and pushed the throttle but it was already against the wall. Green terra firma passed under my windscreen and I pulled the nose up with only 75 knots indicated airspeed. The Invader lurched to the left and the left wing hit dirt, sending the B-26 into a cartwheel across the ground. Aluminum crumpled and the "Rude Invader" ended its life in a haze of dust and smoke.

The post-flight accident investigation revealed that I had failed to start the number two engine, thereby resulting in insufficient thrust to maneuver a fully-loaded B-26. I was disqualified from bomber flights by the base commander and Dino was transferred to a Mustang group.

My Mustang term ended over the AyCee River when a FW found me carrying two five-fifties at 15,000 feet on my way to A-85 for flak suppression. After being fished out of the river by our excellent Air-Sea Rescue teams I was promptly transferred back to bomber duty.

I managed to finagle another Invader out of the base commander and even picked up a couple of gunners, Torrey and RWY. My plan was the same as the first time. I crossed the river at 20,000 and convinced a couple of escorts from the 175th Composite Squadron to follow. Things were looking pretty good and my confidence level was running pretty high. And then the FW found us over A-85.

Balmy and Ginger Lacey, pulling escort, dropped down to engage as the FW pulled within range. RWY and Torrey opened up with their fifty cals as shells began to explode against the bulkhead behind me. We managed to beat the FW back off of our six and Lacey kept on him as Balmy moved up with us. I checked my gauges - no leaks. I radioed my status and condition to Balmy. Just then a second dot appeared at co-alt at nine o'clock. I called the bogey as it closed in quickly. A P-51!

Torrey opened up and Balmy moved across our beam to engage. Too late. A bullet struck home and the "Night Mare" vaporized into a mist of blood and aluminum.

This time I decided to stay with the nurses. In the bunk next to me Torrey was telling his audience about how he had put a few rounds into the Mustang just before our bomber had been sawed in half.