03/02/2026
The cold presses in, polite at first, then insistent. It crawls through the seams of my gloves and into my fingers, turns them clumsy. I flex them anyway. I need them steady. The Norden sits in front of me, heavy and serious, its dials calm in a way I cannot be. I trust it more than my own heartbeat.
The intercom crackles. The pilot’s voice sounds older than he is.
“Two minutes.”
I nod though no one can see it. Oxygen hisses. My breath fogs the glass and vanishes. I think about home in flashes. A kitchen window. A cup left on a table. My mother’s hands, always busy with something that mattered more than this.
Flak begins as a rumor. A distant punctuation. Then the sky hardens.
Black bursts open around us, sudden flowers with iron centers. The aircraft shivers, and the vibration runs straight through my chest. I wonder if this is what a bell feels like when it’s struck. I wonder if bells know when they are about to crack.
I press my eye to the sight. The target steadies itself, obedient now, as if agreeing to be chosen. I tell myself this is geometry. Wind. Speed. Altitude. I tell myself I am solving a problem, not deciding a fate.
The bombardier before me did this too. I imagine his hands, maybe steadier than mine, maybe just as afraid. I imagine the space where he stood and how easily another man filled it.
“One minute.”
My mouth is dry inside the mask. I swallow and taste nothing. Somewhere behind me, men I know trust me with their lives. Somewhere below me, men I will never meet are eating, working, waiting. I do not let myself imagine their faces. Faces have weight.
The plane lurches. A hit nearby. The glass vibrates like it might give up and leave. For a moment, I am certain we will not make it to the release point. For a moment, I am relieved.
Then the crosshairs settle.
“Bombs away.”
I press the toggle. The aircraft rises as if surprised by its own lightness. I feel it in my stomach, the sudden absence, like a sentence cut short. I do not cheer. I do not pray. I just watch the city slide away beneath us, still pretending to be calm.
On the way out, the fear changes flavor. It sharpens. Survival feels personal now. Earned. I think about how thin the line is between finishing a job and becoming a name someone else will speak carefully.
When we turn for home, the sky looks almost gentle again. I know better now. I keep my eye on the glass anyway, on the world rushing past, and wonder how many missions it takes before a man stops feeling this and what it costs him when he does.
