Through a Pilot's Window

A stick of five bombs left the lead ship. I concentrated on our own bomb-release signal. It should flicker now -- no -- now! What in hell was the matter?

Just as the Major swung into a 90-degree turn, our ship jumped. The bombs were gone! The electric releases must have frozen, and now the bombardier had salvoed. Some spot of open water would be broiled up. I whipped a glance at Ed's face. That was all I needed: I wondered how much it would take for a man to explode at 24,000 feet - and what a mess it would be for the co-pilot to work through! I was too mad to talk, but Ed was trying, and the words that spouted from his red face into the green oxygen mask fairly blew the mask off his face. The garbled mess the throat microphone allowed to boil into the interphone must have thawed out those rear gunners! Now the two right motors dropped earthward in a wingover as we held our place in formation. We twisted and dived for three thousand feet to avoid the black puffs now spouting around us.