This was before the war moved into our
own country, the fighting along the edges of the U.S. like flames
crumpling the edges of paper before burning farther inland. I was
flying then, the 123rd’s crack-shot pilot who could hit a target in
a dead spin before pulling up and away—I made the hardest stunts
look easy, and I prided myself in my accuracy. No one shot like me.
No one had the aim, the grace, the sheer luck that seemed to follow
me, clinging to everything I did. In the cockpit of a plane no one
could touch me. My squadron called me “Ace” but I hated that, it
sounded so pretentious. I was just a boy with iron wings who knew
how to fly.
That May evening I managed to snag
some downtime away from the barracks and headed on over to the
Bulldog with Alden, one of the worst bars off post and the
only place to be on warm spring nights. This night was no
different, and by the time we sidled up to the bar, the place was