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Paris in June The First Mission A bothersome light washes over my face, flushing away my dream. It's persistent and vaguely threatening. The light also has an obsequious voice and a respectful hand connected with it. "Sir," the voice says, "time to rise and shine," and the hand gently nudges my shoulder . Rise and shine. What a damn fool expression! And get that flashlight off my face. As I come to the surface, I remember with a slight visceral tightening that I've somehow gotten myselfcaught up in history's biggest fight, and it's going on right now. The voice says it's 3:00 A.M. We're supposed to be daylight raiders-the Brits do the night stuff- so, what's the big hurry? The Germans are still in the sack. Jesus, it's cold for June. The toilet seat will feel like a stone in the North Sea. The light moves on, and the patronizing voice whispers again, to someone else, "Sir, it's time." My nose-bowl comrade, bombardier John Jardine, mumbles something in early-morning nasal. He hacks a little and lights a Camel. The flashlight moves on relentlessly, and our copilot, Porter Ham, gets it next. He says something very quietly in his gentle southern tone, and then our pilot, Russell Lockhart, is respectfully 24 Paris in June given the message. After that, the light reaches over to Pilot Ken Murgatroyd and his troops at the other end; altogether a strange ceremony , almost a mystic rite. 1sit on my cot for a minute to let the steam slowly rise in my pipes. The visceral disquiet is still there, like a rat in the pantry nibbling, oblivious to outside interference. But anyway, up and at it. I've been sleeping in my long johns, so on with the wool socks, olive drab woolen pants and shirt with official insignias, heavy GI shoes, and that's it. No necktie for the occasion. 1 had shaved carefully before hitting the sack- the ox mask can be pretty troublesome with a stubble; it can give you the noonday itch something fierce-so I'll see how that works. Maybe we'll not be gone too long; they wouldn't send us to Berlin the first time out. Jardine is putting on his heavy GI shoes and occasionally blowing his nose. He grunts and sucks in a deep breath and, with his back to me, says, "Hey, Robert, I've been thinking about it; have you considered resigning and going back to Biloxi? Sort of disgraceful, but it'd be good to be a leftover. This stuff is starting to look pretty real." "Yeah," 1say, "but 1always refer it to a committee." "Maybe they'll let you know this evening," he mumbles with a clucking sound. "How about you, Porter?" "I like flying," he solemnly answers. "Okay," says John. "It's nice to know that everybody is so ready to do his job; gives me a sense of confidence, and we know that Russell is all business up in that left seat." We make our visit to the latrine and come out into the dark to wait for the truck. It's 3:15, and it should be getting light, considering it's June and we're at 52 degrees north latitude; but they've screwed nature up a bit with wartime double daylight saving, so it's only really 1:15. The sky is dark, though not black velvet like it can be in our Midwest; but with all the lights offyou can see the brighter stars through a slight haze, and there's enough light to see the faces of the other guys. 1 still have that strange gut feeling 1 had when 1 25 Return from Berlin was waiting for the day: I think ofVicksburg and my great-grandad with his mangled right arm and of my dead father with a big flag draped over his coffin and the American Legion firing ear-splitting volleys in the hushed cemetery. Other crews are gathering across the road-some with glowing cigarettes- waiting for the trucks that are curving up the hill. You can see their squinty little blackout headlights not much brighter than fireflies. I'd like to have walked to the mess hall by myself to think about the enormity of all this, but we're on a schedule, and it's over a mile. When we get there it's already full ofsmoke...

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