The K-Rations

He was Fighting Two Wars...

         He was fighting two wars.

          One against Hitler and the madness he had wracked upon the world, the other barely two feet away from him.

          "You need your ears waxed, boy? I said, you can't come in here. No nig...folks of your kind allowed."

         It was easy to allow the flames of rage within him to flare to the surface. He could almost see the dare in the officer's narrowed green eyes, mocking him - Come at me, boy, it seemed to say, and I'll have you court-martialed so fast, it will knock the black off you.

          "What you looking at?" the officer sneered and took a step forward.

          "Nothing...much," Robert mumbled beneath his breath. "I ain't here for no trouble. I jus need to speak to the Cap'n."

          It grated on his nerves that he was in higher rank than the PFC and yet he was treated as if his stripes meant nothing. He hadn't spent nine months at the Tuskegee Institute for nothing. As if that wasn't good enough, they had made him take a series of 'intelligence' tests. You know, just in case he wasn't smart enough to fly the goddamn plane. He was tired, not just of the hours he had spent working on his P-51, going over co-ordinates and flight plans with the captain, but also of the simmering stench of prejudice that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

         We're fighting the same fuckin' war, he thought bitterly. You'd think they'd at least show us some form of respect.

          The officer snorted and eyed the patch on Robert's flak jacket. "One of them Red Devils, eh?"

          For a moment, Robert allowed a feeling of smug superiority to fill his insides. He could barely restrain his smirk. "Sho am."

          Being a member of the 332nd Fighter Group was a big enough task as it was. They were to escort several B-17s, whose role was to bomb a Daimler-Benz company in Berlin. It was going to be a long excursion and one that had many of the pilots nervous even though they did their best not to show it. Having cold feet at this point, was definitely not an option.

          "Ah, Robert, you're here," came the familiar voice of Captain Wilson as he stepped out of the officer's quarters with a pipe stuck in his mouth. He saluted and patted the younger man's shoulder. "Ready for combat, son?"

          "As ready as I can be, sir," Robert replied with a small smile, grateful that Wilson had at least ignored the PFC in a show of solidarity. Captain Wilson was a nice enough fella. He didn't treat Robert like an object and was willing to work with the young pilot. It also helped that Robert's fighter would be on Wilson's tail throughout the flight. Robert was determined to protect the Captain at the cost of his life.

          They marched towards the waiting deck, where all the planes were assembled, engines running as the WACs, mechanics and details made sure the machines were ready for flying. Robert spied members of his squadron and excused himself to have a last smoke with the crew.

          "There he is," Left Foot Joe cried out from his hunched position. "Figgered they'd beat the tar out o' you. Didn't tha' incident teach you nothin'?"

          That incident was in reference to the hundred plus pilots who had tried to get into the mess hall - the 'white' mess hall - and were arrested. Robert wasn't there, but the news had filtered into their camp. There was a quiet resentment in the air, bottled up and held as their leader, had called them together for a 'briefing'.

          "We'll let our planes do the talking," the Colonel had said. "We'll show them how important we are and how much they need us."

          Robert's cheeks heated at the light-hearted reprimand and accepted a cigarette from Smoky, a man who could pelt out the Blues like no man's business. Robert enjoyed listening to him on evenings when they had a little downtime. He leaned against the side of the plane and watched the white officers...and the Colonel convene in a huddle as maps were opened and final details hashed out.

          "Las' nigh', I prayed to ma Lord Jesus," the 'Reverend' piped up with a heavy sigh, "an' I had me a vision."

          "Again?" someone drawled, eliciting a few chuckles. Reverend, whose real name was Jerome Baker, liked to talk about his parish back in South Carolina. He was still upset that he hadn't been made chaplain, even though he had shown his 'credentials'. He bitched and moaned about it to anyone who cared to listen.

          "This one ain't no joke," he insisted while tugging on his flak jacket.

          "What was the vision?" Robert asked, curious in spite of himself. The Reverend looked pleased at the question - at least someone gave a shit about his stories.

          "Well, look here, Robert," he began, but was mercifully cut off as the Colonel approached with a firm wave of his arm.

          "Let's roll out, boys," he ordered as the men threw away their cigarettes and stood at attention. "Remember your formation and keep your eyes peeled for those Me's. Got it?"

          "Sir!"

          "Good luck."

          Robert felt his hands become damp with sweat - a familiar sensation he had whenever it was time for another stint in the air. This was his twentieth mission, so it was nothing new to him. He had been in combat before, had almost been hit by a German fighter, but was otherwise successful in whatever task assigned to him. He climbed aboard his plane - the 'Sweet Caroline' - a name he had given after his mother, and gave a thumbs up sign to Captain Wilson who was settling into the larger bomber with his crew.

          "Bright and sunshiny. We're in God's country," came the voice from the radio intermingled with static as, under his expert touch, the small plane lifted into the air and right into formation. Robert snickered at the familiar voice of Smoky and glanced outside his window. He reciprocated the good luck sign shown to him and settled back in his seat with a prayer on his lips. He could see the B-17 before him like a giant black bird...several giant black birds actually. The Mustangs looked like dots beside them.

          Someone began to sing, and the Colonel was quick to interrupt it. "Cut the shit, Baker. We've got..."

         WHZZIZUH!!

          Then a flash and bang so loud, it had Robert nearly pissing his pants. "Goddamn! They're here!"

          Grappling with the .50 cal machine gun, Robert's peripheral vision caught sight of the German Me-262's approaching. They seemed to form a solid impenetrable wall, and flak from their machines whizzed past the Mustangs.

          "Oh Lawd, oh Lawd!" someone prayed, but Robert was past caring whose voice it was. All he could see was the plane that contained Captain Wilson and his crew and their response to the sudden attack as bombs and artillery fire erupted from within. Robert weaved and dived beneath the bomber and set off a slew of shots that made him go deaf with its racket. He could barely make out Left Foot's fighter flying past him.

          "Cover him!" the Colonel yelled into the radio and Robert did as he was told. Together, he and Left Foot took the lead and seemed to be right in the line of fire from the German jets. Machine gun fire enveloped them from all sides. It was a goddamn miracle nothing seemed to touch 'Sweet Caroline'.

          "Ah've been hit!" a voice, eerily like that of Smoky's, was heard. "Fuckin' sonsofbitches! Ah'ma kill someone!"

          "Don't do anything rash," came the sharp reprimand, "Keep your heads together, men!"

          Target in sight, Robert's mind whirled as he locked in on of the Me's. With a calmness that seemed to come from nowhere, he fired and watched in mild amazement as it made a direct hit with a wing. The explosion was almost beautiful - a wild flare of orange and red before black smoke filled the skies.

          "Nice shot, boy," Wilson's voice came over the radio. "We're almost there. Time to give 'em hell."

          With most of the Me-262's now incapacitated, the B-17s had a clear shot of their original mission and dropped the bombs onto the buildings below. The rest of the Mustangs continued to fire at opposing Luftwaffes, time losing all meaning as they focused on the task. Eventually, a radio signal from their leader told them the good news.

          "Mission accomplished. Good job, men," the Colonel praised with undeniable pride in his voice. Not one bomber had been lost in this long and seeming endless flight/mission and he reveled in the exhausted but enthusiastic whoops from his crew.

          Back on solid ground, Robert got a bad case of the shakes and had to close his eyes for several minutes to control himself. The last thing he needed was his crew to see him in this state. It was all well and good in the air, when his mind was blank and he could focus on his mission, but when out of combat, his muscles would cramp up, the fear and knowledge that he could have been killed seizing him and almost bringing him to tears. A knock on the pane of his fighter, had him looking up quickly and into the weary, but smiling visage of Captain Wilson. He waved a cigar before the younger man's face.

          "You okay, soldier?" Wilson asked as Robert stepped out of the plane to accept the congratulatory offer.

          "As well as I can be, sir," came the quiet reply.

          "Never seen anything like it," Wilson said with admiration in his voice. He pounded the pilot's shoulder and grinned. "You'll get a damn medal yet, boy."

          "Hey, Wilson! Get yer ass down here! We're having a party at the mess hall!"

          "Up yours!" the man replied jovially at the excited navigator, before sobering up a little. "Ah..."

          Robert smiled and nodded in understanding. "You go'n, sir. Me and my boys, we celebrate in our own way."

          The captain looked apologetic, but said nothing else as he gave another salute and walked away. It's a darn shame, Robert thought as he shook his head and made his way towards the singing group of black men who, he believed, had saved the day. Woulda loved to share a drink with you, Cap'n. Maybe someday, but I ain't holding my breath.