textfiles/magazines/TWILIGHTWORLD/twilight.world-3.5

= TWILIGHT WORLD - Volume 3 Issue 5 (September 16th 1995) ===================


 You  can do anything with this magazine as long as it  remains  intact.  All 
stories  in  it  are fiction.  No actual persons are designated  by  name  or 
character and similarity is coincidental.
 This magazine is for free. Get it as cheaply as possible!
 Please refer to the end of this file for further information.


= LIST OF CONTENTS ==========================================================


 EDITORIAL
 by Richard Karsmakers

 WILD HORSES
 by Mark Knapp

 FATAL FAM
 by Martijn Wiedijk


= EDITORIAL =================================================================
 by Richard Karsmakers


 Another  issue,  the 14th in total,  this time containing the  first  rather 
larger story written by people other than,  well, me. I hope you like it, for 
I  did  too.  In  the next issue I am planning to do another of  my  own  big 
stories  again.  If you shudder at the thought,  please feel free to send  in 
your own stuff!
 Anyway, nobody reads these editorials anyway so I suggest you get going.
 So spread the word, and the file, and have fun reading!


 Richard Karsmakers
 (Editor)

P.S.     If you no longer want to receive "Twilight World", *please* 
         unsubscribe; don't let me wait for the messages to bounce instead, 
         totally flooding my email box! This especially goes for people on 
         AOL, about 1 out of every 5 direct subscribers.


= WILD HORSES ===============================================================
 by Mark Knapp


 The  wispy clouds slid by his cockpit as Tim climbed to  cruising  altitude. 
'Pepe,'  as his buddies called him in reference to a trip to  Tijuana  during 
training,  could  only think about the three-day leave coming his way at  the 
end of this mission.  As long as Pete,  his navigator and relief pilot, found 
the bomber group,  and Tim kept himself alert during the time they were  near 
the target, everything would be cake.
 Today  the  B-29s  they  were scheduled to  meet  were  hitting  Okayama,  a 
relatively minor city along the coast of the main Japanese island, Honshu.
 It  had been hit before,  and there hadn't been much of importance there  to 
start  with,  but  nowadays  the  Forts were  running  out  of  targets,  and 
everything was fair game.  Except,  of course,  the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, 
but  the rest of that city had been burned out by May of last year,  so  that 
wasn't an issue. Tim wondered why it ever had been. Certainly nobody had been 
too  concerned  about sparing Hitler's life,  and in the history  of  warfare 
capitals and leaders were always fair game. He supposed it had to do with the 
Japanese myth that the emperor was descended from gods,  or some such  story. 
He didn't much care.
 Not that Tim was insensitive to such feelings,  or quite as bigoted as  some 
of the other pilots about the Japs.  He simply wasn't concerned with abstract 
religious theories at the moment. His spiritual thoughts were running along a 
more immediate,  practical line, since they were nearing the coast of Shikoku 
and  could expect a little flak,  at the least.  As they say,  'there are  no 
atheists in foxholes.' He wasn't all that worried;  the flak had been  pretty 
light  lately,  and he hadn't seen an enemy fighter,  or plane of  any  kind, 
since  early  January,  when  a  few Franks had  made  a  feeble  attempt  at 
intercepting the bomber formations during a raid on Osaka.  One of the  other 
Twin  Mustang flights had veered off to wax them,  and he hadn't even  gotten 
close enough to see the red balls on their wings.
 Japan was running out of pilots, or planes, or both, it seemed to Tim.
 Here he was,  winging toward the enemy's home soil,  and they couldn't  even 
make  a serious attempt to stop him.  Maybe they were saving up for  the  big 
event, the invasion of Honshu, which was due sometime soon. Rumors said early 
in March, which put it three weeks away, and that seemed about right.
 He  had seen the ships assembling off Kyushu,  when he flew over on his  way 
North  from Okinawa.  Hundreds,  maybe thousands of  vessels,  from  aircraft 
carriers and battleships to LSDs, LSTs, and the other smaller landing craft.
 Some of the sailors were already cruising off the coast, in battlewagons and 
carriers, doing their part in the softening up of Japan proper.
 The  formation  of  29s came into view to their left,  headed  in  the  same 
direction as his own fighter squadron.  Their silvery, tubular shapes glinted 
in  the  sunlight,  making  them  easy to find and  join  up  on.  That  same 
visibility should have been a major drawback in evading enemy  fighters,  but 
since  there  weren't many of those around anymore the planes had  been  left 
unpainted  to save weight.  His P-82 was bare for the same reason.  Its  twin 
fuselages,  each  based on a P-51,  were joined by the wing and a  tailplane, 
with  the guns mounted in the center wing and a drop tank under it and  under 
each outer wing. The two engines droned along loudly.
 Tim buzzed Pete on the intercom. "How soon do we hit the island?" 
 "About  ten  minutes,  Pepe,"  Pete answered.  "We  make  landfall  at  Cape 
Ashizuri,  then  steer  036 to the north coast of Shikoku." From  there  they 
would begin the run on Okayama.
 Pete was on top of things,  and that reassured Tim. Navigation was never his 
strong suit,  and he enjoyed the ability to just fly the plane and not  worry 
about checking off waypoints.  In the P-51,  the pilot had to do  everything. 
Usually there was a 29 or some other plane to act as pathfinder,  leading the 
fighters  toward their target,  but you still had to keep track of  what  was 
going on. It was easy enough to get separated in a dogfight, or swoop down to 
strafe some target of opportunity - those few still left -and when you looked 
up again,  you had to figure out how to rejoin the formation,  or,  if things 
really  got screwy,  find your way back to base.  The 45th Fighter  Squadron, 
along with the other units in the 21st Fighter Group, had transitioned to the 
P-82Bs  almost  as  soon as they became  available  last  fall.  They  hadn't 
completed  training on the shiny new birds in time to take part  in  Olympic, 
the invasion of Kyushu,  but now, along with the other 82 squadrons and those 
still equipped with the good old 51, they were flying escort missions for the 
big  B-29  Superfortresses  on strikes against whatever  targets  were  still 
intact enough to hit.
 Okayama was one of those. The 29s would dump incendiary bombs on it, burning 
out the flimsy wood and paper buildings that filled most Japanese cities...or 
had filled them,  before the war.  Now almost every town of any real size was 
rubble.  At  least the fighter pilots got to break off once in a  while,  and 
search  the countryside for targets of opportunity,  meaning anything of  any 
size that might conceivably have a military purpose: trucks, large buildings, 
boats,  whatever. Tim got a thrill out of shooting up boats and trains. There 
weren't many of either left,  but he always kept an eye out for them. A steam 
locomotive  spouting a cloud of white after a few .50 caliber rounds  pierced 
it  was  an  amazing thing to see.  There weren't  many  large  ships  around 
anymore;  they had almost all been sent to the bottom, and besides, they were 
usually covered with anti-aircraft guns that could ruin a nice strafing pass. 
But small boats, especially if they were carrying any ammunition, made a nice 
big  fireball  if  you  hit the fuel tanks.  The  waters  were  pretty  empty 
nowadays,  though, after the Navy and the 29s finished laying mines all along 
the  coast.  The  idea  was to cut off food to the  soldiers  and  civilians, 
forcing them to surrender sooner.  It hadn't worked yet,  but surely it would 
help.  Japan lived by the sea.  The place was just a whole bunch of mountains 
right by the water. There were a few flat places, but no one was far from the 
ocean.  And  almost  everything moved by water,  so stopping that  source  of 
supply had to make things rough on them.
 "There's the Cape," said Pete. 
 And  now  Tim could see the rocky outcropping below and ahead  of  them.  He 
answered,  "Got  it.  Turn to 036?"  "Right-o," came the reply.  "Then  about 
twenty minutes to the north shore, and five or ten more to the target."
 Now  it was time to pay attention.  One of the nice things about  long-range 
escort missions was that they gave you time to think, compose letters in your 
head,  whatever you wanted.  Of course that could also be a drawback,  if you 
worried about what could happen.  There was still danger, even though most of 
the  Japanese  planes were gone or hiding.  And besides,  that was  the  only 
redeeming feature of a long,  tiring, boring trip. There was no way to really 
stretch out,  though at least in a Twin the other pilot could relieve you for 
a spell, letting you take your hands off the controls.
 And  speaking of relief,  the tube wasn't exactly pleasant to  use.  On  the 
other hand, the pit toilets on Okinawa were no joy either. And, Tim noted, he 
at least had a fairly warm,  dry place to do his job,  unlike the dogfaces on 
the ground.
 Tim started scanning the skies with more frequency.  He'd hate to be  jumped 
right before a leave. The 29s were closing up formation, and his squadron did 
the same.  Tim's wingman,  Buddy Taprowski, pulled up on his left. The flight 
was in a finger four formation,  laid out like the fingers of somebody's left 
hand.  The flight leader, Major Seymour Bartlett, was in the same position as 
the middle finger of the 'hand.' And what a good place for him,  Tim thought, 
nursing a slight feeling of insubordination.  Major Bartlett's wingman, Terry 
Jones,  was to his right rear .  Tim was to the Major's left and  back,  with 
'Tapper'  off  his own left rear.  Pete,  Tim's copilot,  had  been  Tapper's 
wingman before they transitioned to the 82s. Then he was promoted, or demoted 
depending on your point of view,  to riding shotgun in Tim's bird.  He hadn't 
seemed thrilled about it,  but whoever said the Army Air Force was fair?  Tim 
and Pete had argued about what to name the plane, and what the picture on her 
nose would be. The first time he ever saw a Twin Mustang, Tim had been struck 
with  inspiration:  his plane would be "Double Exposure," with two  scantily-
clad women flying in close formation.
 Not very original, perhaps, but appropriate. Pete, on the other hand, a die-
hard ass man, had wanted to redo the artwork from his old plane, "Tail Wind," 
which  featured  a gorgeous woman in a short skirt bending  over,  the  skirt 
blowing up almost over her head.  In the end, Tim had decided that since Pete 
had lost his plane,  he should at least have his own picture.  But Tim  still 
wanted his own choice.  Well,  the answer was staring them right in the face: 
put one on each fuselage! There was plenty of room on a P-82.
 They had started a trend; several other planes in the 45th now had multiple
nose art.
 "Approaching  north coast," Pete reported.  They had the 29s to follow  now, 
but  Tim appreciated the update.  After two turns to line up on  target,  and 
hopefully confuse the defenders a little,  the bomb run would begin. The Twin 
Mustangs began to separate into individual flights again,  in order to  cover 
all approaches to the seventy-odd bombers.  They would spread out all  around 
the formation (except directly below, of course) to make sure no Jap fighters 
could get close.
 The  wispy clouds a few thousand feet above them softened the sun's light  a 
little,  but it was still a gorgeous day,  and perfect for flying.  The  Twin 
Mustang  was  soaring  along  steadily,  not getting  buffeted  much  by  the 
predicted turbulence.  The weather guys almost never got it right.  When they 
forecast clear skies,  a storm rolled in.  When they called for overcast  and 
rain,  you got this: a thin layer of cirrus, and smooth, dry skies. They were 
lucky if they predicted a sunset correctly...
 A glint off to his left caught Tim's eye. The 29s were low to his right, and 
nothing should be out on the other side.  He buzzed Pete. "Hey, see something 
at  about ten o'clock?" Tim banked the plane a little to let him see  better. 
"Yeah,  I got something.  Looks like...fighters, single engine. Maybe Jacks," 
Pete  answered.  The  planes were climbing,  on an intercepting  course  that 
carried them toward the front of the bomber group.
 Tim  called  on  the open frequency,  so all in the  formation  could  hear, 
"Bandits,  eleven o'clock low. Ten or twelve, possibly Jacks." The Jack was a 
tubby, single-seat fighter, pretty well armed with four 20 millimeter cannon. 
The  Twin Mustangs had six .50 cal machine guns,  about average for  American 
birds,  and in fact the same number as on P-51s.  But since on the Twins they 
were grouped closely in the center section, they did a good job of chewing up 
whatever they hit.
 "B  and  C  flights,  intercept." The squadron  CO,  Colonel  Chuck  Frantz, 
assigned Tim's flight of four,  and another providing top cover,  to get  the 
Jacks  before  they got to the bombers.  All the 82s punched off  their  drop 
tanks, to gain more speed and maneuverability. Banking left and accelerating, 
Tim stayed with Bartlett as the formation headed toward the Japs. Closing, he 
could  see there were about a dozen dark green planes,  struggling  to  climb 
fast enough to reach the B-29s in time. Two of their pilots must have noticed 
the approaching Americans,  as they peeled off and dove for the deck. "Forget 
them," said Bartlett.  "Stay on the main formation.  C flight,  hold back and 
let  us make a pass,  then get whatever's left." Tim made sure his guns  were 
armed, chute tightened, everything ready to go.
 "Hold on to your hat, Pete," he said.
 "Roger that," the right-seater replied.  The flight was closing at an  angle 
with the Jacks,  and Tim waited until they were well within range to open  up 
on the plane he'd picked out of the gaggle of enemy fighters.
 Bartlett shouted,  "Get 'em!" Tim fired, and saw his tracers converge on the 
rear fuselage of the Jack in his sights.  It performed a neat little  outside 
loop,  nosing  over  and  whipping around quickly  before  the  tail  section 
detached  and the plane tumbled down end over end.  Tim thought he must  have 
chewed up the control lines.  He pulled left and tried to line up on  another 
one.  Somebody  else in the flight hit a Jack in the fuel tanks,  because  it 
exploded into flames and debris. "Wooo-wheee!" shouted Terry Jones. The other 
pilots had scored,  too,  because two more planes were smoking and  spiraling 
toward the ocean below.
 The Japanese formation was scattered now; the four they had lost and the two 
runaways  left  six Jacks,  now turning and banking and trying to  avoid  the 
silver  Twins roaring into their midst.  Tim saw one veering down and  right, 
and pulled hard to get his guns on the diving Jack.  He heard Pete grunt over 
the  intercom,  as  the sudden g-forces pushed him against the  wall  of  the 
cockpit. At least Tim knew when such a move was coming. Poor Pete had to ride 
it out,  never knowing what Tim might do next.  Oh well, they weren't up here 
for Pete's pleasure, or for that matter Tim's.
 The Jack was weaving left and right, looking for a way out, any way.
 Tim  didn't think the Japanese were getting much training  anymore,  because 
they didn't seem to have much spirit or skill when it came to dogfighting.
 At least that made his odds better,  he mused.  He touched the gun button on 
his  stick.  The .50s roared,  and he saw the tracers go high and  right.  He 
nudged the stick ever so slightly left, and the Jack helped out by starting a 
climb again. Tim's next burst walked back along the engine cowling and across 
the canopy.  The engine started smoking, and the plane rolled over and headed 
for the deck, out of control with the death of its pilot.
 Tim  didn't  think much about that particular bit  of  information.  He  had 
killed two men today:  this one, and the other Jack's pilot because there had 
been no chute.  Before the war, he would have told anyone asking that killing 
was  wrong,  no matter what the reason.  Now,  reality had altered his  views 
somewhat. He didn't enjoy killing others, but the cold hard truth was that in 
a war,  you had to kill or be killed. He didn't envy the grunts their jobs in 
this case either, as they often were face to face with those they fought, and 
killed them directly,  not to mention seeing the bodies,  enemy and friendly, 
after the fight.  In a plane,  you rarely saw your adversary's face.  It made 
things more abstract,  and,  Tim thought,  more tolerable.  He had shot  down 
seven  planes before today,  and not all of them had gotten a chance to  jump 
clear before they went down.  So he had sent,  say,  five or six men to their 
graves now.  He wondered what his mother or grandmother would think of  that, 
not  to mention Sarah,  his girlfriend.  She hadn't been thrilled  when  he'd 
enlisted in the A.A.F.,  but she had accepted it as inevitable,  in light  of 
the war and Tim's love of flying.
 Well,  now  he was one plane short of being a double ace,  and she'd get  to 
read  about  him in the hometown paper.  Not that making ace  was  that  hard 
anymore.  As the war approached its end,  the enemy was running out of  fuel, 
planes,  pilots...everything needed to put up a good fight.  That meant  easy 
pickings  most  of the time,  though there were still a few good  pilots  out 
there  on  the other side.  And even a brand new flyer got lucky  once  in  a 
while.
 "B flight,  form up on me." Bartlett's voice brought Tim back, and he pulled 
up  to join the flight leader.  C flight was going after the four Jacks  left 
after Tim's second hit and the one Tapper splashed.  Bartlett had only gotten 
one, total, and that meant he would probably be jealous of Tim for awhile. He 
wanted to go after the two that had gotten away, but Bartlett wouldn't go for 
that,  and  they ought to be rejoining the bombers anyway.  And that is  what 
they did, coming in on the left of the big formation just in time to see flak 
starting to blossom ahead,  as the planes neared the target.  Black and brown 
puffs,  like angry clouds,  burst here and there, in front of and below them. 
Then  they seemed to climb,  reaching for the American formation,  trying  to 
pierce holes in it. Tim caught a glimpse of a silver P-82 chasing a valiantly 
twisting Jack down to the left.  One of C flight,  trying for another  rising 
sun  painted under his canopy.  The flak was close now,  only slightly  below 
them  as they came up on Okayama.  He saw the first bombs fall away from  the 
lead 29,  then the rest of the planes pickled their loads.  About seventy  B-
29s,  something like ten tons of bombs in each... around a million and a half 
pounds of bombs, maybe a little less, was falling toward the city below. Many 
were  incendiary,  to ignite fires.  Some were high  explosive,  designed  to 
shatter  solid  structures,  and help spread the fires started by  the  other 
bombs.  As  they  hit,  Tim noticed the shock waves torturing  the  air,  but 
couldn't see much more from his height.  He knew that,  down below,  horrible 
forces  were  blasting everything in the city.  The fires  would  ignite  and 
spread,  heating  the air and making a firestorm that would  burn  everything 
before it.
 Meanwhile,  the flak had found their altitude.  Tim felt the shock waves  of 
these explosives, and tightened his grip on the stick to offset the shudders. 
The anti-aircraft shells were pretty sparse,  and none came very close to his 
flight.  But  he saw one of the 29s start to smoke from an engine,  and  then 
another took a hit in the fuselage,  blasting metal into space. At least they 
had already dropped their loads.  In his P-51,  Tim had seen a  Superfortress 
get  hit  just  before  reaching the target,  and  its  bombs  had  detonated 
instantly.  The plane disintegrated,  seeming to stop dead in the air as most 
of  the  fuselage  and wings disappeared,  the  tail  and  other  extremities 
plunging down toward the ground. There were no chutes. No time.
 Another  Fort  took a hit in the wing,  but by this time the  formation  was 
already clear of the target and turning toward the sea.  They would head back 
the  way they came,  parting from their Twin Mustang escorts when  they  were 
clear  of  the  Japanese coast and heading southeast to their  bases  in  the 
Marianas. Tim relaxed a little. Then he heard the call.
 "Bandits, three o'clock high." He didn't recognize the voice. Colonel Frantz 
ordered three of the other flights after the new threat,  and though Tim  was 
able to follow the fight sporadically on the radio, he never saw the Japanese 
planes.  As the formation cleared the southern coast of Shikoku,  the flights 
that had taken part rejoined the main force,  and Tim saw that they were  one 
short.
 This wasn't the time to ask about that;  he'd find out on the  ground,  from 
one of the other guys.
 "Fuel looks good," Pete reported. "Hey, what are you going to do on leave?"
 "Just  bum  around the base." On a leave,  Pete would have  headed  for  the 
Officer's Club,  or wangled a flight to Hawaii or Manila if he had the  time. 
Tim planned to take it easy, maybe write some letters, maybe even take a trip 
to see whatever sights were left on the island.  The fighting had been fierce 
once the troops had gotten inland,  but there were still some fairly pristine 
areas.  The towns were rubble, mostly, but he'd heard there were some castles 
or something along the southern coast.
 There was about an hour left until they reached base.  Tim's mind  wandered, 
wondering what Okinawa,  and Japan,  had been like before the war.  Were they 
peaceful?   Was  there  any  sign  of  the  violence  coming  so  soon?  Pete 
interrupted. "Hey, Tim, heard anything more about the Tokyobuster?"
  Tim had heard of a superbomb that was supposed to stop the war in  a  week, 
but apparently it had fizzled.  There wasn't much talk about it anymore;  one 
rumor  was  that  a big test had failed,  and they only  had  enough  TNT  or 
whatever for one bomb.  There were stories the generals might use poison gas, 
especially  since the Japs had used grenades with cyanide gas in them  during 
the fighting on Kyushu, but nobody talked much about that either. He wondered 
why. How the heck could anybody hold back something like that, something that 
could  take  out a hundred of the enemy for each  American  soldier?  It  was 
cruel, but so was firebombing; for that matter, so was a bullet or bayonet in 
the gut.  After the fights on Iwo,  Okinawa, and Kyushu, everything was fair. 
Tim had heard about the Japs who ran at tanks with bombs on the end of poles, 
usually dying without accomplishing anything but occasionally blowing a tread 
off.
 When the tanks stopped,  other crazies (the Jap with the pole blew his  fool 
self up hitting the tank) would rush out and try to skewer the  crew.  Others 
slapped  bomb  packs on the armor,  or wore the packs  and  threw  themselves 
underneath the tank.  Some of the tankers had cobbled up special armor:  wood 
planks  to keep the magnetic packs off,  sandbags to reduce the effect of  an 
explosion, nails or other spikes to keep the enemy from climbing on top. Some 
said they'd seen kids and women carrying the bombs,  or rushing the  infantry 
with sharp sticks.
 Of course,  they were crazy and violent in the air,  too.  The kamikazes had 
sunk  dozens of ships,  and other fighters rammed B-29s  occasionally.  There 
were  even rocket planes,  launched from ramps or dropped from  Jap  bombers, 
that were just piloted bombs,  sparking and smoking as they headed toward the 
Navy  boys.  And they had motorboats with bombs in them,  that tried  to  ram 
ships, and little submarines that did the same thing or snuck up and launched 
torpedoes. The Japanese were a very strange people. They didn't seem to think 
about dying.  It was just their duty,  to the emperor or the country or their 
gods or who knew what.
 On Okinawa,  more than a hundred thousand Japs had died,  and less than  ten 
thousand  were  captured.  A  lot  of those  were  caught  while  wounded  or 
unconscious; few gave up on purpose. On Iwo Jima, Tim had heard, only 22 Japs 
actually surrendered,  out of six thousand killed and a few others  captured. 
U.S.  losses were pretty high,  too,  and no one looked forward to what would 
happen on the main Japanese island of Honshu.  Kyushu had been bad, though no 
one was talking numbers. The Army and Marines were still fighting there; they 
had only taken the southern part of the island,  enough to use for bases  for 
the next assault,  on the big island.  They weren't getting much action,  but 
they  were ready for it.  He'd heard stories that whole towns had been  wiped 
out when they rushed the troops, carrying their spears and grenades.
 He  had  to hand it to the Japs,  they were persistent  and  patriotic.  The 
Japanese were as good at defending their homeland as people in the U.S. would 
be, only less well armed and more suicidal. And the strangest thing was, once 
subdued, they stopped.
 They were like misbehaving children,  in a way.  A kid would do anything  it 
could get away with, but once discovered and punished, it usually gave in. By 
and large,  the Japs in the occupied areas accepted the Americans now,  after 
they knew they were beaten.  Tim hoped his friends and neighbors wouldn't  be 
so meek in the same situation,  that they would have always kept fighting. Of 
course, he was glad that the Japs didn't.
 He  told Pete,  "I wish they would find some damn thing to wake the Japs  up 
and  get  them to give up before we have to kick every single  one  of  their 
asses."
 Pete replied that he couldn't wait to do some kicking of his own. "You know, 
it's  awful boring sitting over here,  Tim.  All I do is plot our course  and 
watch for bad guys.
 Maybe I oughta see about getting into a 51 unit up on Kyushu."
 "Well,  you  might  get  your own ass kicked by some granny  with  a  tomato 
stake," Tim answered.
 "Hah, hah," Pete threw back. "You're so droll."
 "Tell you what," said Tim.  "Next mission, if we see anything promising, you 
can  take over for a while.  Maybe you can get a couple more notches in  your 
belt."
 "Sounds great," said Pete. "Hey, we're coming up on Oki now. Let's start the 
landing checklist."
 "Right..."
 When they finished the checklist, Tim waited for Bartlett and his wingman to 
turn  final,  then  rolled onto the base leg.  Coming around behind  the  two 
planes,  now  spread out for landing,  he slowed to 135 knots.  The gear  and 
flaps  were already down,  and Tim let the Twin drift past the  threshold  at 
just over 130. The mains touched about two hundred feet beyond the end of the 
runway,  and  he brought the stick back until the tailwheel thudded onto  the 
ground.  Taxiing  off  onto the steel plate ramp,  he and Pete  opened  their 
canopies.  The  air was cool,  for Okinawa,  about seventy degrees,  and  the 
clouds had lifted.

 Tim's pass was for three days. That wasn't enough time to go very far; if he 
could find space on a flight to Hawaii,  he'd only have a day there,  and all 
the flights were full right now with supplies coming in, and wounded soldiers 
and  sailors  going out.  It happened that Pete had a day free  from  flying, 
though  he was scheduled to ride shotgun with a transfer pilot the next  day. 
So  in  the morning the two pilots borrowed a jeep from the  motor  pool  and 
headed off to 'see the sights.' Luckily the weather was good,  for this  time 
of year:  warm,  and cloudy but not raining. Okinawa was a large island, very 
rocky  and with coral reefs around it.  Tim always enjoyed seeing the  reefs, 
those  that  hadn't  been  chewed up and  littered  with  debris  during  the 
amphibious landings.  They were different colors in different places:  white, 
pink,  orange,  and many other shades. The airstrips where the 45th and other 
squadrons were based had been built in the central and southern parts of  the 
island,  because the north end was hilly.  There had been towns in the south, 
but most were destroyed by months of fighting.
 Still,  there were a few landmarks left. With Tim driving, the pair followed 
a  road out of what was once the largest town on  Okinawa,  Naha,  along  the 
coast for about five miles to Urasoe Castle,  a jumble of old walls that  had 
been falling apart long before last April. They got out and walked around for 
a few minutes,  but weren't very impressed.  So they hopped back in the  Jeep 
and  drove  farther,  after a few miles coming to another  castle,  this  one 
better  preserved.  There were some natives lolling along the  roadside,  and 
they came up to Tim and Pete, offering coral jewelry, and clothes and scarves 
made of bingata,  a dyed fabric common in the area. Having seen similar wares 
before,  the pilots smiled and shook their heads. It was almost surreal; here 
they'd been fighting these people a few months back,  and now the place  felt 
like one more tropical tourist haven.  At least,  it felt that way away  from 
the shattered towns and metal-strewn coast.  There had been desultory efforts 
at cleaning up the worst wreckage,  and of course burial details and ordnance 
experts  had cleared the bodies and unexploded shells away,  but  though  the 
coast hadn't seen the heavy fighting (which took place farther inland,)  most 
of the beaches were no good for swimming anyway.
 Pete  asked  one of the locals what this place was called,  and  he  replied 
"Nakagusuku Castle," in heavily accented English.  "Show round?  Show round?" 
he asked.
 "No,  thanks,  we'll walk around ourselves," Pete smiled.  Disappointed, the 
man went back to working bits of coral into a necklace.
 Ambling toward the walls of the fortress, Tim asked Pete when he was due for 
a leave. "Next month, I think. I'm gonna try to get to Manila, see what's new 
there."  He had been based there before the landings on Okinawa,  and  though 
the city had seen its share of fighting,  he never stopped talking about  the 
wonders of the place.
 Tim had always wondered what he liked about it,  and decided to ask.  "Got a 
girl there or something?"
 "Well,  as a matter of fact, yeah," Pete replied. "Name's Maria. She used to 
do our laundry,  and we'd go down to the bay or walk into the  country.  Cute 
girl. Helluva ride, too. She's probably hooked up with some other guy by now, 
though. Hey, how's your fiancee doing?"
 Tim  had  a brief moment of anxiety,  wondering if Sarah might  be  thinking 
about 'hooking up' with anyone else.  "She's okay, I guess. Got a letter from 
her last week.
 She's working in a plant,  making parts for trucks. Not what she had in mind 
to be doing when she grew up, she says, but she seems to like it."
 "When are you two going to get hitched?"
 "Well,  when I get home we're going to set the date.  Prob'ly three or  four 
months later,  so we can get everything organized." Tim had known Sarah since 
they  were freshmen in high school;  she'd moved from another  town,  and  he 
remembered the first time he saw the lovely new girl in her blue dress.
 Pete looked at the ground.  "Man,  I wish I knew when we will be going home. 
Wonder how much longer the Japs can hold on."
 "Can't  take too long,  I figure," Tim answered.  "We've cut off their  food 
supplies,  they don't have gas or other supplies for their planes, almost all 
their ships are sunk...they're beat,  they just don't know it yet,  or  won't 
admit it."
 They walked along for a while in silence, then headed back to the jeep.
 On  the  drive back Pete talked about going up with another pilot  the  next 
day, on a CAP mission to provide air cover to the fleet steaming north.
 "I'm just going to hang around base,  write some letters,  and probably talk 
to Skipper about that trim problem," said Tim.  Their plane had been  pulling 
to the left slightly, and Tim had had to dial in a little trim to compensate. 
It  wasn't much,  but if something was bent it ought to be looked at  by  the 
crew chief, Ernie Skipton.
 "Yeah,  he ought to have a chance," said Pete.  "Hell,  there's nothing else 
wrong with the thing, and I'll be going up with one of the new guys in a bird 
they ferried in. You can remind him to paint on some more rising suns for the 
planes you got yesterday." Tim smiled at that.

 The  next morning Pete left early,  rounding up a captain named Rogers  from 
the barracks next door for the flight.  Tim had breakfast at the  mess,  then 
went to the PX to get some paper for his letters.  First he wrote his parents 
and sister, telling them he was fine.
 Then he sat down in front of a blank piece of paper, wondering what he could 
say to Sarah.  He couldn't tell her much in detail of what he was doing  over 
here,  because it would never pass the censor. So he started out, after a few 
sentences about how much he missed her, describing the few sights on Okinawa. 
He knew she would love to see it,  battle-scarred and all.  Until he  entered 
the service,  Tim had never been out of his New York state,  and Sarah  still 
hadn't had the chance.  Sure,  working in the plant in Buffalo let her see  a 
little bit of the world,  and the papers and radio helped, but actually going 
to a foreign place, a tropical island, would thrill her. He tried to make his 
words  into images of the sights,  the smells,  the feel of the wind and  the 
downpour of the monsoon.  The last part wasn't hard,  as the rain had started 
up  again  soon after Pete had left.  Hopefully the mission  would  go  okay. 
'Sarah,  you know how after a storm, the breeze usually feels cooler, and the 
air  is more dry,  as if the rain washed all the water and  heat  away?  That 
doesn't  happen here.  It's hot and humid before the rain  starts,  and  even 
worse after. At least this time of year it's a little cooler than the summer, 
but it's still warm,  and so wet that it's never comfortable.  Still, when it 
clears up, the place is very nice.'
 He finished up the letter, then lazed around inside, waiting for the rain to 
let up.  When it didn't ,  he threw on a poncho and ran to the mess hall  for 
lunch.  SOS,  the usual chipped beef on toast, was the highlight. Things went 
downhill from there, taste-wise.
 He stayed awhile and talked to some of the other pilots,  catching up on the 
latest  gossip.  Then he trotted over to the PX again,  and picked up  a  few 
books to pass the time. One, a short history of the Battle of the Bulge which 
had  been fought more than a year before,  had a cover picture that  reminded 
him what snow looked like.  The other was Mark Twain's A Tramp Abroad, one of 
the few Tim hadn't read by the humorist. He stuffed them under his poncho and 
scurried back to the barracks.
 About three o'clock,  tired of reading and bored,  he noticed that the  rain 
was  letting  up.  Carrying the poncho just in case,  he walked down  to  the 
flightline.  Pete should be back from the flight soon,  and Tim wanted to see 
what  it  had been like.  After stopping by the maintenance shack  to  remind 
Skipper about the trim problem,  Tim walked along the line of his  squadron's 
P-82s,  then on past the P-51Hs of the 457th.  The base was huge, with planes 
everywhere.  51s were the most common,  but there were two other Twin Mustang 
squadrons,  some transports, a reconnaissance wing, and even a few of the new 
helicopters,  the  flimsy contraptions called eggbeaters by everyone who  saw 
them.  These were used mostly to fly VIPs around, but Tim heard they had been 
used  to  fly  in supplies and even a few troops to hard to  reach  areas  on 
Kyushu,  and in Burma and other mountainous areas. He didn't want to go up in 
one;  they took a very skilled hand to hold steady,  and Tim didn't like  the 
idea of a blade coming loose.  In a plane,  even a single-engined one, if the 
engine failed or threw a blade you could at least glide a fair distance.  The 
eggbeaters had no wings;  if a blade came off,  you were doomed because  that 
was all that held it up.  And even a tail-rotor blade flying loose could make 
you spiral in.  No,  Tim wasn't interested in that kind of thrill.  The jets, 
though...the gray P-80s had flown in last month,  right after two C-54s  with 
MPs on board had landed and cleared an area of the flight line.  These  sleek 
planes  were  faster than any fighter on either side,  and they  didn't  even 
look,  at first glance, as if they had engines at all. The jet was run by air 
pulled  in the front,  mixed with fuel and set on fire,  and pushed  out  the 
back. Tim still didn't see exactly how it worked so well, but he ached to try 
one out. The Shooting Stars were so fast, so new, that he dreamed about them, 
dreamed of flying over Mount Fuji and shooting down anything that came up  to 
oppose him.
 Well,  their pilots would have that chance soon.  So far they had just  been 
training, occasionally flying out to practice dogfighting with each other and 
even some of the Mustangs.  But the invasion was coming,  and surely the best 
fighters available would be put into service along with everything else.
 Tim broke his stare when he heard the roar of big engines to his left.
 An F-15,  the recon version of the P-61 night fighter,  was rolling down the 
runway, its massive silver shape with booms and wings spreading almost to the 
edges of the strip lurching a little on the pierced steel planking. It lifted 
off and climbed into the lowering scud.  It started to rain again,  a  steady 
downpour.  Suddenly a P-82 appeared out of the clouds at the opposite end  of 
the runway and came in to land.  It was one of his squadron's planes, and Tim 
walked  back to the line shack to meet the crews.  Pete and Rogers  were  the 
fifth  to  land,  and Tim noticed that the drop tanks were  still  under  the 
wings.
 "How's it going, Pepe?," Pete called out.
 "You ought to see all the ships we flew over.  It looked like you could walk 
across the ocean on troopships."
 "See any Japs?," Tim asked.
 "Nah. Nothing. I'm telling ya, I want to get in there and flame some.
 The war's going to be over before I get my own plane again."
 "Okay,"  Tim  laughed.  "You'll  get  your  chance  tomorrow,  if  the  Japs 
cooperate."
 And  they  did.  Flying CAP for the fleet,  as Pete and Rogers had  the  day 
before,  Pete  and Tim were flying high cover when Tapper spotted planes  low 
and to the left.
 "Bandits,  ten  o'clock low!  Tons of 'em!" He was right.  It looked like  a 
kamikaze  attack,  with  dozens of planes  clumped  together,  surrounded  by 
fighters providing cover. Colonel Frantz called out, "Break and engage!"
 Tim told Pete,  "You got it," over the intercom,  and Pete flashed a  thumbs 
up.  He punched off the drop tanks,  and heeled the plane over hard left in a 
steep dive. Tim was amazed to see Pete fly this way. Sure, he had been in 51s 
and  was used to throwing planes around,  but since Tim had been flying  with 
him  he  had only seen Pete fly as a relief  pilot,  sometimes  handling  the 
landing.  Tim felt guilty,  now, for not letting Pete have a chance to really 
fly more often.
 The  Japanese  fighters  saw  the group of Americans  closing  in  on  their 
charges,  and peeled off to intercept.  Tonys,  from the look of them:  long, 
pointed nose,  mottled green camouflage. Tim tried to relax and let Pete fly, 
but it was hard not being in control.
 He swiveled his head to check behind them.  It was so easy to get caught  up 
in  chasing your target,  and not notice another plane coming up on your  six 
o'clock.  At least the 82 had room for two sets of eyes.  He saw the rest  of 
the  squadron,  spread  out in pairs,  heading toward  the  enemy  formation. 
Turning back,  he saw the Tonys climbing to meet them, and then tried to find 
the bombers again. They were the important thing here: if they got through to 
the fleet,  they could cause tremendous damage and death. Tim didn't envy the 
sailors,  sitting almost motionless on huge targets,  waiting to get hit by a 
lucky kamikaze,  hoping the AA guns and fighters kept the Japs far  away.  At 
least up here you could chase after your adversary.  Squinting,  Tim made out 
the formation low and to the left rear, heading steadily on toward the ships. 
They looked like Peggys,  but with no turrets.  And there seemed to be  long, 
pointed  antennae  sticking out from their dark green  noses.  Some  kind  of 
radar?  Who  could tell?  But the lack of turrets suggested to him that  they 
might  have  been removed to make room for explosives.  Lately the  Japs  had 
taken to stuffing planes with dynamite,  not just hanging bombs beneath  them 
and  crashing into the ships.  Piloted bombs was all they were  now.  It  was 
sick.
 Pete cranked the plane hard left,  and Tim hoped their wingman wasn't in the 
way.  Tapper was off above them,  though,  angling for one of the lead Tonys. 
The "Double Exposure" --actually, the "Tail Wind," Tim corrected himself, now 
that Pete was flying-banked hard right now,  and Tim felt the bottom drop out 
as  Pete pushed over and dove,  almost straight toward the  enemy  formation. 
Lining  up on one of the Tonys on the right edge,  Pete fired.  Tim felt  the 
plane shudder, and watched the tracers arc slightly as Pete walked the rounds 
onto the Tony.  It seemed to jump,  then pieces of the tail came off,  and it 
whipped around in a spiral to the right, out of control.
 Tim  didn't  have a chance to watch for it to hit,  or see if  there  was  a 
chute. Pete rolled left, and lined up on another Tony. Tracers whizzed by the 
canopy,  over  Tim's head.  One of the other Japs was shooting at  them,  but 
Tapper blasted it a second later,  apparently hitting its fuel tanks  because 
it disappeared in a ball of smoke and flame. Pete was driving down on another 
one, whose pilot was jinking and diving as he turned away. As the Tony pulled 
hard left, Pete let the guns loose, and caught the Japanese plane in the wing 
and fuselage.  It heeled over and dove straight down.  Tim watched it  splash 
into  the ocean,  as Pete rolled inverted and pulled through in  an  Immelman 
turn,  reversing course.  Looking up when they returned to level,  Tim saw  a 
chaotic dogfight, a mix of 82s and Tonys, all turning and climbing and diving 
to get the edge on their adversaries. The Tonys were getting the worst of it, 
although he saw one silver Twin Mustang break off with flames coming from its 
left engine.  Two Tonys dropped out of the fight after it, hoping for an easy 
mark.  "Break  left!" Tim screamed into the  intercom.  "Two  bandits,  eight 
o'clock!"
 Pete rolled toward them,  and another Twin flashed past in that direction as 
well.  Catching  sight of the "Thunderbird" Malloy and Siegel had painted  on 
their bird,  Tim wished them luck.  They continued their own  pursuit;  while 
there were two pilots in each P-82, you could still only shoot down one plane 
at a time,  and Tapper had disappeared during the first part of the dogfight. 
"Thunderbird's"  wingman  was  gone,   too,   probably  chasing  one  of  the 
stragglers. They took the lead Tony on the wounded 82's tail, and followed as 
it broke off.  The other one stayed on,  though,  gaining on the now  smoking 
bird.
 Tim  yelled at Pete.  "Come on!  Let's get him!" Pete climbed a  little,  to 
avoid hitting the American plane with a burst at the Tony. As he pitched over 
to line up, the Tony let loose a volley of cannon and machine gun fire at the 
now descending P-82.  It ripped into the left wing,  breaking off a chunk  of 
the  tip and mangling the aileron.  The silver American plane rolled  to  the 
left,  barely under control.  Tim saw the pilot drop the flaps to slow  down, 
getting ready to bail out. The Tony closed, ready to finish off its opponent. 
Luckily Pete was in position now,  and as Tim watched the 82's canopies slide 
back and the Tony line up, Pete triggered the six .50s in the center section. 
First the Tony's cowling exploded into dozens of pieces.
 Then  the  canopy  shattered,  and  the rear  fuselage  came  apart  as  the 
concentrated  fire tore into it.  The Tony suddenly broke apart  in  mid-air. 
Pete pulled up to miss the debris. The Twin Mustang's crew had bailed out and 
were settling toward the rolling water.
 Tim  was  already on the radio to  air-sea  rescue.  "Dumbo  control,  Dumbo 
control,  this is Panama four.  Two pilots down, approximately one-five miles 
southwest of the fleet. Request assistance."
 "Roger that, Panama. Help is on the way."
 Tim was glad they were so close to the fleet. At least if you got waxed, you 
didn't have to float around forever waiting for rescue.  Also,  it meant that 
the Navy's flyboys were around to help out too. He saw a flight of Tigercats, 
the  new  twin-engine Grumman,  heading north to intercept  another  kamikaze 
attack.  That meant one of the big carriers,  like the Midway or FDR, was out 
here with the other flattops. The Tigercat needed a long deck to get into the 
air.
 Pete  was  angling back toward the bomber formation,  which was now  only  a 
dozen  miles  or so from the fleet.  They didn't have much time to  down  the 
Peggys  before  they  started  their  attack.  Tim  braced  himself  as  Pete 
firewalled  the throttle and angled toward the bombers.  He counted at  least 
twenty of the ominous,  dark green twins.  Looking over his shoulder he saw a 
few 82s mixing it up with the remaining Tonys,  but most of the squadron  was 
now  following  "Tail Wind." They closed up and reorganized  themselves  into 
flights as much as possible.
 Tapper reappeared off their left wing.  "Where did you get to?," Tim  called 
to him.
 "I had a little fling with one of them Tonys," Tapper replied.  "He tried to 
knock on my back door, but I wouldn't let him in. Had to rough him up a bit."
 "You're a pervert,  Tap," Pete laughed. "Now pull it in, and let's get these 
bastards."
 Pete dropped his nose and swooped toward the Peggys, opening fire as he came 
within about three hundred yards.  He flew across the formation at an  angle, 
from  the left rear to right front corner,  firing  almost  continually.  The 
others followed him,  and then each doubled back for another pass. The Peggys 
slogged  determinedly toward the fleet,  not trying to evade the  82s  racing 
back  and  forth above them;  with nowhere to go,  and no turrets  to  defend 
themselves,  the  medium  bombers simply tried to get through  the  storm  of 
bullets.  But  one by one they dropped out of formation,  crashing  into  the 
water,   or  fireballed  as  the  American  fire  hit  their  explosive-laden 
fuselages. Tim, basically along for the ride, counted as they were destroyed. 
Eighteen of the Peggys went in,  leaving only three headed for the fleet. The 
Twin  Mustangs pulled off then,  unhappy about not finishing  them  off,  but 
knowing that they had to skedaddle before the sailors started throwing a wall 
of lead up around the ships.  The Navy boys weren't too concerned about  what 
was flying towards them,  just that it didn't come near,  and they were known 
to knock down American planes that got too close in the heat of battle.
 Almost  out of ammunition,  and reaching bingo fuel,  the 82s formed up  and 
headed back to Okinawa. The Navy's planes could handle the rest of the fight. 
Tim  took over from Pete,  who was worn out from the work of the  battle.  He 
almost wished they could land on one of the carriers they passed as they flew 
south, because he hated the long trip home.
 He counted four,  plus the Midway-class he figured was out there  somewhere. 
And  the  Brits  had some boats out here too,  because he  saw  a  patrol  of 
Seafires and Avengers circling,  probably waiting to spot survivors from  any 
ships  that  got hit,  or watching for the Japanese suicide  boats  that  had 
appeared  during  the battle for Okinawa.  Small motorboats  with  big  bombs 
inside,  these were easy to pick off, but if they came in all at once, one or 
two  might get through.  Tim decided he didn't want to be on a  carrier  that 
much after all.
 After landing and debrief, Tim and Pete wandered over to the O Club to get a 
drink. They ran into a group of pilots from the 46th squadron. Benny Weisman, 
a huge dark-haired copilot,  stumbled over. Their sister squadron's crews had 
been here awhile,  from the smell of beer on his breath. "Hey, youse guys had 
a helluva day.  We saw you working over that Jap bomber fleet, galloping back 
and forth like a bunch of wild horses. How many did you get?"
 "Pete got three of the bombers,  and three Tonys earlier.  Guess I ought  to 
let him out of the cage more often, right Pete?" Tim smiled.
 "Well," said Pete. "I guess I don't mind showing you how it's done once in a 
while. Maybe you could learn something."
 "Hah, hah. Very amusing."
 The banter went on for a few minutes,  then Benny raised his glass.  "To the 
45th,  the  Wild Horses who sent eighteen kamikazes to wherever the  Japs  go 
after they die.
 May you always have a sturdy plane, sunny skies, and good hunting. Cheers!"
 "Cheers!" The toast went around the room,  and Tim decided things didn't get 
much better than this: happy, loud pilots after a good flight.

 The next day was damp and cloudy,  and Tim woke late,  his head feeling like 
there was a vacuum inside.  Luckily they weren't scheduled to fly until after 
noon. He walked outside to clear his head, then back in to clean up and write 
a couple of letters. At 1030 he met Pete for lunch at the mess, and they went 
to the briefing afterwards. Colonel Frantz started off by congratulating them 
for the mission yesterday.  "Things went really well. Let's keep it that way. 
I have some news from the fleet.  The Peggys we couldn't get were all  downed 
by  AA  from the destroyers.  However,  another attack to the  north  slipped 
through  the Navy's screen.  A formation of Bettys with Bakas under them  hit 
the fleet, sinking the Oriskany and severely damaging one of her escorts. The 
Japs still have plenty of fight left in them,  so be on the ball.  We're  off 
the fleet run for today, though. The mission is escorting B-29s to Hiroshima, 
where  the intel boys suspect the Japanese are gathering suicide boats for  a 
massive attack. They will be bombing the waterfront and rivers, hell, most of 
the  town,  because  of  the way it's laid out.  Hiroshima  sticks  out  into 
Hiroshima  bay.  It looks sort of like a hand out in the water,  and a  river 
cuts across it in several places.  We don't expect much fighter activity, but 
watch for flak over the target.  After the 29s are through, our squadron will 
be released to search for targets of opportunity, especially the boats, while 
the  46th  escorts the bombers back to Oki." Though most of the  bomb  groups 
were still based on islands to the east,  some had moved to Okinawa, on other 
fields  that surrounded the one the 45th was based at.  Tim wondered if  this 
meant the fighters would be moved up to Kyushu,  to give them more range  for 
the final invasion. You never could tell in the army, with all the rumors and 
secrecy.
 After returning to their barracks to get some equipment, Tim and Pete walked 
out to the flightline.  "You know,  you can have it this time,  Tim.  Doesn't 
sound too exciting."
 "Gee,  thanks," Tim replied sarcastically.  "Don't let yesterday go to  your 
head. The bombers were sitting ducks...although you did do a damn good job on 
the Tonys."
 "Thanks," Pete said.  "Anyway,  I know how you like shooting up stuff on the 
ground. Sounds like we might get a chance today."
 "Yeah." They did a walkaround and read off each item on the checklist,  then 
climbed up to their cockpits and strapped in.  The ground crew performed some 
final  checks,  then backed off.  Pete read the engine start  checklist,  and 
Tim's hands followed each step.
 Flaps  up,  carb air in  "ram,"  trim,  fuel,  magnetos,  props,  throttles, 
starters...The  two Merlins roared to life,  the propellers spinning as  more 
checks were carried out.  Finally Tim signaled to Skipper to pull the chocks, 
and returned the sergeant's salute as he advanced the throttles to pull away.
 On  the  taxiway  behind Major Bartlett and  his  wingman,  Tim  tested  the 
controls and ran up the engines as he did before every flight,  checking  the 
oil pressures,  mags,  and rpms among other things.  Bartlett rolled down the 
strip,  Jones on his wing, Tim turned onto the runway and let Tapper take his 
position.  Formation takeoffs were work, especially for the wingman, but they 
cut the time to launch a whole squadron almost in half.  Once airborne,  each 
flight  formed up on the lead,  and the 45th entered a holding pattern  until 
the 46th got into the air as well.  Then the formation headed east to join up 
with the slower B-29s that were already in the air.
 They headed north toward Shikoku,  following the same path as on the mission 
to  Okayama.  But instead of turning northeast after crossing Cape  Ashizuri, 
they headed north-northwest,  to come over Hiroshima from the south,  seaward 
side.  It was only one hundred miles from the cape,  less than twenty minutes 
flying time. As they passed over the Inland Sea, between Shikoku and the main 
island,  Tim  and  Pete armed the guns and dropped the gas  tanks  under  the 
wings.  Ready  for  action,  the squadron spread out around the 29s  as  they 
crossed  some small islands in the bay.  No fighters had  been  sighted,  but 
better to be ready.  Besides,  Tim thought,  if the Japanese are aiming their 
flak at the 29s, the farther away we are, the better.
 It  started  just  before they reached the  city.  Small  brown-black  puffs 
reached  slowly higher,  trying to find them.  Suddenly the sky erupted  with 
flak all around the formation, and Tim saw a B-29 explode in a storm of fire. 
The  other  bombers  dropped their payloads  almost  simultaneously,  and  he 
wondered briefly if they had reached their aiming point,  or just dumped  the 
bombs to avoid their companion's fate.  He put the thought out of his mind as 
he climbed with the rest of the squadron,  trying to avoid the shells. Frantz 
called  for  a turn to the west,  as the bombers and the other  Twin  Mustang 
squadron veered off to the southeast.
 Starting a steep dive,  the Colonel ordered a general search for the  boats, 
and  every flight went off on its own.  "Rendezvous at Cape Ashizuri at  1500 
hours," Frantz added.  Tim turned north,  trying to put some distance between 
his  plane  and the city.  He noticed nobody else had headed  back  that  way 
either;  though the suicide boats were likely to be along docks near the bay, 
no one wanted to fly through that flak again.
 He  and  Tapper headed along the Ota river,  following it  and  looking  for 
anything promising.  After about ten minutes, Tapper called out that he saw a 
factory,  and  veered  toward  it.  They were supposed to  stay  together  in 
flights, but both pilots preferred to hunt alone, and there didn't seem to be 
any opposition out here in the country. Tim kept weaving along the river.
 About five minutes later,  the river entered - or rather,  left,  because he 
was  flying upstream - a gorge,  its steep rocky walls rising from the  swift 
stream. Pete yelled, "Boats in the river! Just below the gorge!"
 There they were: dozens of small, wooden motorboats, each big enough for one 
crewmember  and  a  ton or so of explosives.  Tim wondered if  he  should  be 
surprised that they were so far upstream;  surely it made sense for the  Japs 
to hide them away from the obvious dock areas of Hiroshima. No time to ponder 
that; they were already flashing by below, and Tim pulled up and left to make 
a strafing pass.
 Just then tracers whizzed by his cockpit, and Pete called out again.
 "AA guns, seven o'clock! Let's hit them first."
 "Right," answered Tim.  He continued to yank the plane around,  losing speed 
in the tight turn, as Pete radioed Tapper and the others about their find. As 
the nose of the big fighter settled on the clump of trees where the fire  had 
originated,  Tim depressed the gun trigger on his stick. The six fifties tore 
into the brush and leaves,  and a small explosion,  probably ammo, popped off 
amidst the dust. The anti-aircraft guns ceased firing, and Tim pulled right a 
little to line up on the boats lying along the banks.  They had been  covered 
with  netting and branches,  but still stood out as man-made,  strung  beside 
each other.  Tim fired again,  and there was a series of satisfying fireballs 
as the boats erupted, each prematurely-detonated bomb hopefully saving a Navy 
ship and her men.
 Another set of explosions off to the left announced Tapper's presence.
 He  broke onto the radio net with a shout and announced that he had shot  up 
some kind of factory down the river,  and seen people scattering from it like 
ants.
 Both pilots pulled up after their runs and circled for another pass.
 Tapper  dove in and raked the boats again,  and as he pulled off Tim  rolled 
in.  The air ahead turned black-grey,  and an instant later he felt the plane 
jerk.  Flak! This was bigger than the earlier gunfire, and just as Tim jinked 
to present a harder target,  another burst blossomed off the right  wing.  He 
felt  a pull to the right,  and noticed with a heavy feeling in his gut  that 
the  right engine was smoking,  the power loss causing the plane to  veer  to 
that side. Then he noticed the holes.
 Pete's canopy was shattered in several places, and jagged holes marked where 
pieces of the AA shell had carved through the metal skin of the plane.
 "Pete, what's the damage like?," Tim called over the intercom. "Pete?"
 Maybe the intercom was out.  Maybe...but Pete's head was slumped against the 
side of the canopy, and he didn't seem to be conscious. Tim looked away as he 
jammed  the left Merlin's throttle forward,  pressed in more left  rudder  to 
counteract the torque, and pulled back on the stick. Tapper was on the radio, 
talking about strafing the new gun site, but Tim ignored him.
 "Pete? Answer me!" Nothing.
 He keyed the radio. "Tapper, I have engine damage, and Pete's not answering. 
I'm going to head for the sea."
 "Roger," his wingman replied.  "How bad is the engine?" "Can't tell, but I'm 
losing oil pressure," Tim said. "I'm going to feather it. Where's the nearest 
base?"
 "Hang on." Tapper's rightseater, Jim Murphy, was probably checking.
 "Probably  Nobeoka,  on the east coast of Kyushu,"  Tapper  answered.  "It's 
about a hundred miles.
 Can you make it?"
 "Yeah,  sure," Tim said. "The left engine's okay, and I have good control. I 
hope Pete can wait, though."
 "That's  the  best we can do...get it going as fast as you  can,  and  we'll 
guide you there," Tapper stated.  Tim was thankful for that. With Pete unable 
to navigate,  Tim would have to rely on his own map,  and he hadn't looked at 
it in a few weeks.  There hadn't seemed any need. Now, he was very interested 
in what lay between him and Nobeoka.
 Slowly  he  increased the throttle,  until the airspeed indicator  read  two 
hundred  and eighty knots.  "I don't want to take it much faster,"  Tim  told 
Tapper.  "The torque is pretty strong,  and I need to hold it hard over as it 
is."
 "Roger.  Should take about twenty, twenty five minutes, according to Murph." 
Tapper was on his right,  now,  checking out the damage. "You have some nasty 
holes,  and there's oil all over the cowling," he reported. "I can't tell how 
Pete's doing, because the canopy is crazed."
 "Roger that," said Tim.  "Just get us down as fast as you can." They flew on 
for  five  minutes,  then veered slightly southeast to avoid  overflying  the 
still Japanese-held northern end of Kyushu. Flying down the Bungo Strait, Tim 
noticed that it was empty of ships;  the Navy and Army Air Force had mined it 
to restrict Japanese resupply efforts.  Coming to the open ocean they  turned 
back  to  the southwest,  and Tapper called Nobeoka control to  report  their 
emergency.  Receiving clearance to land,  the pair of Twin Mustangs cut north 
briefly, then turned almost due south on a straight-in approach to the single 
runway at the advance strip.
 Closing  in on it,  Tim wondered if the dirt strip would be long enough  for 
the heavy,  fast-landing P-82.  He lowered the flaps and gear, going over the 
checklist in his head briskly. Pulling the throttle back as much as he dared, 
he saw Tapper shoot past on his left, then pull into a steep climb.
 "Hold on, buddy," he muttered into the intercom. "This is going to be bumpy, 
but we'll be down soon."
 As  the  silver plane crossed the end of the strip Tim pulled  the  throttle 
back even more, and raised the twin noses to flare. "Double Exposure" settled 
onto  the  hard earth with a jolt,  and Tim held the stick  hard  back  while 
applying  the foot brakes.  The plane started to pull to the right,  into  he 
dead  engine,  and he had to let off on the right brake.  As he  straightened 
things out, the 82 rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust, which was added to by 
several crash rescue trucks and jeeps rolling to a quick halt beside it.
 Pushing his canopy back, Tim pointed to the other cockpit and yelled for the 
medics to help Pete. They clambered up on the far side as Tim jumped onto the 
center  section  and rushed to the canopy,  trying to  open  it.  "Back  off, 
captain. We'll get him out.
 You're  just in the way." The corpsman was concentrating on  Pete,  and  Tim 
glumly  lowered himself off the back of the wing,  went under the  tail,  and 
stood  back  by  the crash trucks as Pete was hoisted from  the  cockpit  and 
carried on a stretcher to another truck,  an ambulance. It sped away, and Tim 
was left wondering what to do next.  A corporal walked up to him, and offered 
Tim a ride to the line shack.  "We don't get many 82s here," he said. "Mostly 
we get the little stuff.  How does she fly?" "Like an eagle...on two engines, 
anyway."  Tim  didn't  feel like talking,  but he  asked  the  soldier  about 
conditions up here, on the edge of the front. "Well, it's quieted down some," 
the  tall  New Englander replied,  "but the Japs're still doing  their  crazy 
stuff,  sending kids to jump under tanks and trucks,  pretending to surrender 
then setting off a grenade when they get close.  To tell you the truth,  sir, 
we don't take prisoners anymore.  The few Japs we see,  we shoo 'em away,  or 
shoot 'em if they come too close. Can't take any chances." He dropped Tim off 
at the line shack,  then scooted back to the plane,  which was being prepared 
for towing.
 Tim  waited  around  the edge of the strip for almost  an  hour,  until  the 
corporal came back.  "We got your plane over by the maintenance shack, there. 
Looks  like it'll need some work.  New engine,  lots of patches,  and  a  new 
canopy, at least," he opined.
 "Yeah," Tim responded.
 The corporal continued.  "They'll send somebody else to fly it out when it's 
fixed. Talked to the lieutenant, and he says you got orders to catch a flight 
out  of Kagoshima back to Oki.  Next supply truck should be here in three  or 
four hours, and you can ride it down there."
 "Okay. Thanks," Tim said.
 "Sir..."
 "Yeah?"
 "Your buddy didn't make it.  Doc said he was dead when he got here, but they 
tried anyway."
 "I'm sure they did. Tell them thanks for me, will ya?"
 "Sure.  Want  a  cup of coffee?  That's all we got in the way of  hot  food; 
mostly  we  eat  C rations,  unless we got an excuse to  go  to  Miyazaki  or 
Kagoshima for somethin'."
 "No, thanks," Tim replied. "Let me know when that truck gets here, though."
 "'Kay, sir."
 The NCO walked away.  Tim sat for a minute,  then got up and walked down the 
edge  of the strip to the maintenance shack.  It was a long,  low  corrugated 
steel hut,  open at both ends.  "Double Exposure" sat beside it, along with a 
P-47 and two artillery spotters, probably Taylorcrafts. He ran his hand along 
the smooth skin of his plane's tail,  then stepped back to survey the  damage 
on  the right fuselage.  Fierce-looking shards of metal stuck out from  holes 
gouged by the flak. They peppered the area around the engine and cockpit, and 
there  were some on the right wing,  too.  The engine had apparently taken  a 
chunk  of metal right through the case.  Oil was everywhere,  and two of  the 
exhaust stacks were blown off.
 Looking back up at the cockpit,  Tim saw that Pete hadn't had a chance.  The 
holes were right where his torso had been inside, nearly as many as along the 
cowling. The canopy was shattered and cracked, and Tim was amazed it had held 
together for the flight here.  He paused.  Heavy gunfire carried on the wind, 
telling  of  fighting at the front that was now about a dozen  miles  to  the 
north. He sat down under the wing and closed his eyes.
 He  woke to the sound of a truck crunching across the dirt near  the  shack. 
Several soldiers from the truck,  and two mechanics,  started unloading parts 
and supplies from tarp-covered back. The sun was setting, and Tim walked over 
to watch.
 "Where ya been?," one of the mechanics asked the driver.
 "You know damn well where I've been," he replied.  "Runnin' junk around  for 
your boys. Now it's so late I can't get back home."
 "What do you mean, sergeant?," Tim asked.
 "Well,  sir,  we can't drive after dark.  General's orders. Too many snipers 
and saboteurs still around." Tim was disappointed. Now he'd have to spend the 
night here.
 The  corporal  fixed  him up with a cot in  the  barracks.  He  didn't  have 
anything except the clothes on his back,  so a locker wasn't a problem.  Cool 
air flowed into the building,  though a wood stove had been set up to provide 
heat.  He  needed a shower,  but didn't want to subject himself to  the  only 
available water: it was in a raised tank alongside the barracks, with gravity 
feed for something resembling running water,  and,  sitting outside,  it  was 
surely frigid.  He laid down on the cot without taking off his boots, and was 
quickly asleep again.
 In the morning the driver roused him, and they got coffee at the line shack. 
Taking on some letters from the soldiers, a few aircraft parts sent south for 
reconditioning,  and  Pete's body,  the truck lurched onto the dirt  road  to 
Kagoshima. The driver, another corporal, named Steve McCallister, had come to 
Kyushu  right after the beachheads had been secured last fall.  "They  pulled 
the LST right up on the beach near Kushima and we just drove ashore.
 Could hear the firing just inland. Wasn't much of a beach; lots of crags and 
caves,  and  I guess the Marines had a helluva time clearing the Japs out  of 
those.  My unit was carrying 155 shells, and we had to work our way up to the 
batteries,  unload,  and get the hell out while they were firing and all.  It 
was rough for a while." He pulled out a little pistol; it looked vaguely like 
the famous German Luger.  "Got this off a dead Jap officer when we stopped at 
a burned-out village for lunch.  It's a Nambu.  Pretty thing,  but don't fire 
worth a damn.  The Nip was leading a charge of old women,  all of 'em holding 
pointed sticks.  Sticks!  Back then I'd never seen a body before, and I puked 
when I saw all those old ladies. Couldn't eat anything." A flight of Corsairs 
roared overhead,  on some unknown mission.  "After that,  though,  it got  so 
common  that  I just ignore 'em," the driver continued.  "Damn Japs  used  up 
every single person on this island, trying to fight us. I guess there's a few 
still  up north,  and there's the snipers,  but we pound the hell out of  the 
place every so often just to keep them in their holes."
 The truck came to an intersection, and an MP in jungle camouflage waved them 
to a stop.
 "Howdy Fergie," Steve called. "Got stuck overnight."
 "Yeah, I figured. Sir," he nodded to Tim. "Go on through. Can you pick me up 
some Coke on your next trip?"
 "Sure," Steve answered. He put the truck in gear and pulled away.
 "Always stay on the right side of the cops,  I always say," he said to  Tim, 
grinning. Tim smiled.
 "Anyway," Steve went on,  "the Japs put up a helluva fight. They didn't give 
up till they were dead.
 And  now we gotta do it again,  on the big island.  I hear they  were  gonna 
surrender,  but  then some hardhead officers killed the government  and  made 
sure  the civilians were ready to keep fighting." The truck eased  over  onto 
the shoulder, as a convoy approached from the other direction.
 Several  Shermans  led the way.  Following the M-4s came a  few  Alligators, 
tracked amphibious carriers that were used to haul troops and supplies.  Then 
there were some M-3 half-tracks,  and half a dozen 4-ton trucks like the  one 
Tim was in.  All were filled with troops,  who waved as they passed.  Tim and 
Steve waved back,  then pulled onto the road.  It was only fifty miles or  so 
from the airstrip to Kagoshima, but the trip took more than three hours. They 
passed  several more convoys,  and many burned-out vehicles,  both  U.S.  and 
Japanese: tanks, jeeps, 3/4 ton trucks with rocket launchers mounted in back, 
artillery  tractors...the  only  Japanese ones were a few  trucks  and  light 
tanks,  frail  things that hadn't stood a chance in the path of the  numerous 
American Shermans and Pershings.  Planes continued to fly overhead,  sweeping 
the  area for holdouts or going north to strike whatever was left  to  strike 
at.
 About noon they reached Kagoshima,  the main U.S.  base on Kyushu.  The town 
had  been obliterated in the fighting,  but everywhere buildings and  hangars 
sprouted  like  new  grass in the spring.  Airfields  were  scattered  around 
Kagoshima Bay,  and a fair number of ships lay at anchor.  Most of the bigger 
ones were laying off the coast,  or moving north,  Tim knew. But many smaller 
ones were here: destroyers, transports, oilers, LSTs and LSDs.
 The  sheer  number  of ships and planes,  and  amount  of  supplies  stacked 
everywhere,  told him the invasion must be near. He thought about what he had 
seen,  and what it would be like in the months ahead, when the invasion force 
struck  at  the  heart of Japan.  A lot of people  would  die:  more  pilots, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of soldiers on both sides,  and  untold  numbers  of 
Japanese civilians. Tim saddened at the thought that Pete's death counted for 
very little,  in the big scheme of things. He had been a friend, and Tim felt 
partly  responsible for his death.  If they hadn't been chasing up the  river 
like that...
 Steve  swung  off the main road and onto one of the  airfields,  a  bustling 
transport facility.  C-47s and C-54s were lined up to one side of the runway, 
and  a  steady stream arrived and departed.  Tim got out  at  the  operations 
center,  and thanked Steve. "No problem, sir. Had to come here anyway to drop 
off  the mail.  And,  don't worry,  your copilot will be taken care of."  The 
truck rumbled away.  Tim regretted that he couldn't help bury Pete,  but  his 
orders  were to report to Okinawa as soon as possible.  There were plenty  of 
experienced burial details around here,  Tim knew. He looked on the board and 
found the next flight to Okinawa,  a cargo trip on an old C-47 that had  been 
an Eastern DC-3 before the war.  He introduced himself to the crew and took a 
seat on a box in back.
 As  the  ex-civilian  plane took off and headed  south,  Tim  found  himself 
wondering  what tomorrow would bring,  and thinking about that superbomb  the 
rumors talked about.  What would have happened if it had worked? What if they 
got it to work now?  All he wanted was for the war to be over, so he could go 
home to Sarah,  maybe get a job with an airline so he could keep flying. When 
would that be?

 Conceived 1993 or so; main body written April 11th to May 8th 1995.
 Copyright 1995 Mark Knapp,  PO Box 360821, Columbus, OH 43236, United States 
of American (markknapp@aol.com).


= FATAL FAM =================================================================
 by Martijn Wiedijk

 To say this story is influenced by Douglas Adams would be to say that  water 
is damp.


 A  small bird stretched its wings and gently landed between a few cows on  a 
pasture.  One cow turned its head while rechewing the grass.  The bird picked 
between some blades of grass in the ground a few times and eventually a  worm 
appeared in its mouth.  The bird didn't swallow,  but kept the worm firmly in 
its beak,  then flew off to its nest. It was very hungry, but still it didn't 
eat  the  worm.  It had to yield it to its wife which could then feed  it  to 
their  kids.  Suddenly an enlightening thought struck our  little  hero.  Why 
bother?  Why not eat the worm and fly away,  far from wife,  kids,  nests and 
complex tax regulations?
 And so it did.
 After flying for several hours,  eating a worm here and there and chatting a 
bit with church bells,  which have the pleasant habit of never argueing  with 
anybody,  it landed on the branch of a tree. An exceptionally large and solid 
tree, one might add. A tree that was truly magnificent and one of a kind.
 Within a few attoseconds, the tree changed from a vertical into a horizontal 
position. This remarkable situation was caused by a rather squarely built man 
whose  rather squarely built and utterly insignificant mind was far too  busy 
producing pictures of a girl so immensely beautiful that even a Vogon captain 
would stop his plans involving the demolition of the earth to make way for  a 
new hyperspace bypass.
 Sure, he'd been in love before. Loucynda, Penelope, Klarine. He had lost his 
mind then,  but this was different.  The feeling that possessed his body  and 
soul  now was so incredibly strong and powerful that whole worlds  seemed  to 
explode. Millions of huge green slimy creatures were killing other huge green 
slimy creatures, but Cronos didn't know and didn't care.

 Cronos walked.  He didn't smell.  He didn't hear. He didn't taste. He didn't 
see.  He  didn't  feel.  Not even did he sense the small bird  that  had  the 
misfortune of having a rather rectangular piece of mobile meat squashing  its 
body from three into two dimensions.
 Cronos  had  solemly  sworn not to fall in love  ever  again.  Loucynda  had 
betrayed  him with a blacksmith,  Penelope had died on him,  and Klarine  had 
merely driven him to jumping off the edge of a ravine into a bowl of honey  - 
the results of which we all know.  But common sense had been knocked out from 
the very moment a certain female had beaten him.  Warchild, Cronos, mercenary 
annex hired gun, the extraordinarilyy strong and effective assassin, had been 
beaten by a girl.  Still he would give his life for her at any time, he would 
even clean the excrements of a Mutant Maxi Mega Monster of Multifizzic  Omega 
for the mere permission of being allowed to kiss her feet.  He would blow  up 
the planet Sucatraps. He would kill his mother for a mere glimps of her eyes.
 Cronos was lost.

 The girl meant here, of course, is called Fam. Fam entered the intergalactic 
history books as being the first female ever (that means past and future)  to 
whom an issue of the I.G.C.O.A.K.A.N.K.S.A.H.J. (Inter Galactic Compendium Of 
All  Known  And Not Known Science And Hamburger Joints) had  been  dedicated. 
This had started vicious protests as people feared that the serious image  of 
the Compendium would be violated. The article in the Compendium describes her 
as  the 'Ultimate Combination Of Molecules'.  Cronos had never heard  of  the 
Compendium, but this didn't affect his feelings towards her, nor the feelings 
of the rest of the male organisms in the entire universe.

 Cronos  sat on a tree stump.  His eyes gazed dazily at  nothing.  His  hands 
rested  between his legs and his expression seemed to represent thousands  of 
thoughts in a second.  A red heart appeared above his head. He was chewing on 
a straw, absent-mindedly.

 Fam sat beside a waterfall.  Waterdrops covered her body,  the sun shone  on 
her beautiful hair,  female salmons were hitting their drooling husbands  and 
birds dropped out of the sky. It was all very peaceful and quiet.
 Fam  was staring at her fingernails intensely.  With relief  she  discovered 
that  she  hadn't  scratched  any of them during  the  fight  with  a  rather 
rectangular figure. Not bad-looking either, now that she came to think of it. 
Well,  never mind.  She'd probably never see him again.  And besides,  he had 
probably forgotten her already.  Nobody ever seemed to like her.  Really like 
her.  That's why she had never had a serious relationship uptil  now.  Nobody 
ever seemed to notice her. That had always been her problem in life.
 But  then,  there were a lot of girls who were much prettier than  she  was, 
right?  Fam looked at her body and sighed.  Still, she was probably much more 
intelligent  than other,  pretty girls.  There aren't many women who have  42 
degrees  from  the  very  best of  educational  institutions  throughout  the 
universe.  Strange  enough,  though,  it didn't seem to be difficult at  all. 
While  other  students were studying like freaks,  Fam would go  and  take  a 
hamburger.  But this didn't affect her grades. Of course, the teachers at the 
intergalactic universities were all men,  but this was merely a  coincidence, 
she figured.
 Sigh.
 Big sigh.
 Huge sigh.

 The building had a lovely baroque structure.  Cronos loved buildings with  a 
lovely baroque structure. The building had a small, heart-shaped door. It was 
pink.  Cronos loved pink,  heart-shaped doors.  In fact,  there were very few 
things  he didn't like at the moment.  He squeezed his body through the  door 
and looked around in the entrance hall.
 It was a neat,  clean building. People in white coats were chasing people in 
green  coats.  A robot was strangling someone,  apparently because he  hadn't 
payed a quarter for using the bathroom. More people with white coats and dark 
glasses were concentrating on data, probably that of clients.
 Someone who looking insanely witty passed the scene.
 Some lovely lilacs illustrated the whole thing. Cronos loved lilacs.
 Cronos  adapted his usual behaviour,  acting instead of thinking,  and  thus 
headed  for  the  blonde  female  with dark glasses  who  seemed  to  be  the 
receptionist.  Her round,  wooden desk stood right in the centre of the room, 
left  and right of it stood two palm trees (yes,  Cronos also loved the  palm 
trees).  Her desk was equipped with a fax, a phone (in the shape of a battery 
charger)  and  a battery charger (in the shape of a phone).  Cronos  put  his 
elbows  on top of the desk and bent slightly forward to have a good  look  at 
her  face.  A smile appeared on his face when he discovered that  she  wasn't 
even  remotely as pretty and delicately-shaped as Fam.  The woman behind  the 
desk returned his smile, taking it as a compliment.
 "How may I be of service, sir?" she inquired.
 Cronos sighed, caught once more in the vicious circle of thoughts concerning 
the big F.  The woman behind the counter again took this as a compliment  and 
waited patiently, smiling vigorously.
 A cold scream intruded Cronos' train of thoughts. He peered around to notice 
that a witty looking person had lost the fight with a toilet robot. He turned 
towards the woman.  The little piece of paper pinned on her clothes told  him 
that her name was Natascha.
 "Yes, Natascha, as a matter of fact you can," he informed her.
 Women are always very pleased when men remember their names,  especially  if 
they've never told them their names. Thinking of the fact that her name could 
be  read  by  impudently looking at her left breast  was  not  required  when 
applying for the job, so she fanatically didn't. It was not required, either, 
to be utterly charmed by a handsome male requiring some information,  but she 
was nevertheless. She gave Cronos a waiting look.
 "You see,  there is this certain female I fancy and now I'd like to sign  up 
for one of your courses to enlarge my self confidence," he told her.
 The smile on her face evaporated.
 "Well,  sir,  go to the left,  through the entrance hall and FLUSH  YOURSELF 
DOWN THE TOILET!" she cried.
 Cronos,  being in the mood he was in now,  thanked her politely and went  on 
his way. First he used the toilet, turned some naggin' robot into a few balls 
to  play  jeu  de boules with and finally he arrived at a door  with  a  sign 
saying,  "Mentally-stable  executive office".  He was about to open the  door 
when somebody on the other side opened it for him,  who exclaimed, "Thank you 
again, sir. Now I'm not afrain anymore that my hard disk will crash."
 Cronos entered the office.
 The office was neat and clean,  just like the whole  building.  Nice,  large 
windows  allowed  people to look at other big buildings with  large  windows. 
Executives  could  then wave at colleague executives when  they  had  nothing 
better  to  do.  The idea of all this erupted from the mind  of  a  brilliant 
physician  who  had nothing to do all day and decided to  take  advantage  of 
other  people  who had nothing to do all day.  He advised all  executives  to 
install large windows in their offices to catch more sunlight while  working. 
Every executive, pretending to be immensely busy all day, immediately ordered 
large windows to be installed.  The Terraleaguan Pronto Window Company (owned 
by the physicians's wife) did some great business. Then the physician advised 
the  executives to wave at colleague executives when they had nothing to  do, 
in order to get some exercise. This resulted in long waiting lists for people 
who  wanted  their  physicians to cure injuries  resembling,  but  not  quite 
identical to, tennis arms.
 The executive smiled at Cronos, while tapping on a hard disk.
 "Yes,  I just helped someone who was afraid that his hard disk might  crash. 
Now  he isn't afraid of that any more," he explained while putting the  thing 
on top of other hard disks,  typewriters,  televisions,  computers and toilet 
brushes.
 Cronos looked at the executive and then out of the window.
 "I'm sorry," he said, "but I think that fellow is waving at you."
 "Oh  yes,  so  he  is,"  the  executive  replied  and  started  waving  back 
frenettically  at the man.  Suddenly he produced a loud cry and  grabbed  his 
right elbow.
 "Shit,  f*@k,  hell & verdoemenis," he cursed and rushed past Cronos through 
the  door.  Cronos walked to the door and looked into the corridor,  but  the 
executive was nowhere to be seen.  Warchild shrugged his shoulders and walked 
towards Natascha's desk again.
 "...s,  with  huge muscles and nice eyes," Cronos heard,  "He must  have  an 
infinite libido, I..., I...ehrm...I'll call you back, bye!"
 Natascha hung up the phone and looked at Cronos akwardly.
 "Executive left," Cronos muttered.
 "What?" she said.
 "I said 'Executive left'," Cronos muttered.
 "Oh,  he's probably off to visit his physician again," she  uttered,  "Damn, 
the fifth time today already. Ehm, sorry, what was it you came here for?"

 Fam  opened the door and walked in.  The room was crowded.  People tried  to 
stand  in  line,  but  failed in an almost impossible  way.  People  chatted, 
smoked,  jumped,  nauseated,  screamed,  laughed,  cried,  burped, farted and 
totally  ignored a small man with a large,  red tie informing them about  all 
the  uses and joys they would undoubtedly receive if they would go and  queue 
up.  A man turned his head towards Fam.  He stopped chatting, smoking and the 
rest and started standing there completely baffled.  Other people also turned 
their heads and stood completely baffled.
 Within a couple of femto-seconds a total absence of noise befell the  crowd. 
Every  single living and non-living organism stood there  baffled,  intensely 
gazing at Fam.  She closed the door.  A 'click' noise echoed through the room 
and died. Fam turned around and noticed the crowd gazing, completely baffled. 
She  looked  around to see what they were gazing at.  She  saw  nothing.  She 
looked  through  the window in the door and still saw nothing to  be  utterly 
excited  about.  Fam  decided to let the people gaze at  whatever  they  were 
gazing at and head towards the counter.
 The  people  at the counter shrunk away from  her,  mumbling,  "We  are  not 
worthy."
 "Oh oh," Fam thought, "I should have used that other perfume."
 She looked across the counter and saw the only woman in the room.
 "Ehm, excuse me?" Fam said, "is this where one can get a job?"
 "Yes, my child," the heavily made-up old lady told her.
 "Usually this is strictly for men," she continued,  "The office for women is 
on  the other side of the building.  But I think in this case we can make  an 
exception." Her eyes gazed at the crowd behind her.
 "We were looking for a strong man to tame some untameable wild beasts, but I 
think you have just the qualities we were looking for," she finished.
 Fam  was  very  pleased  that someone finally seemed to  be  glad  that  she 
existed.  In  fact she was so glad that she forgot that any wild  beasts  had 
been mentioned and gladly accepted the job.

 Cronos  jumped  high up in the air and reached for the  monster's  neck.  He 
reached the long, slippery neck and held on tight to it. The monster fiercely 
moved  his  head up and down,  trying to remove its enemy  while  Cronos  was 
jamming  his megaturbulently gigantic butter knife deep into  the  flesh.  He 
slid  down a bit,  but held the butter knife in the  flesh,  and  dark-purple 
blood dripped from the a gaping cut.
 The monster groaned and roared loudly.  It started to run. Cronos climbed on 
its  back  and quickly cut another deep hole.  He reached in his  pocket  and 
grabbed  a small thing and in one swift movement stuck it in the  hole.  Then 
Cronos jumped high up in the air and grabbed the branch of a tree. He climbed 
on  top  of  it and watched the monster run  away  from  him,  still  roaring 
fiercely.  He  took a leaf and cleaned the blood from his butter  knife.  His 
eyebrows lowered and an evil grim slid on his face.  So,  his trained  killer 
ant would take care of it now.
 The ant would produce a tiny amount of acid which would go through the wound 
into the monster's veins.  The acid would hitch a ride from the beast's blood 
and  spread  all through the monster's system.  The ant had been  trained  to 
produce  a  kind  of acid that would be lethal to creatures up  to  42  cubic 
metres in size.
 Cronos jumped out of the tree and landed on the ground. The ant would report 
back to him after the monster's death. Cronos would, in return, draw it a map 
leading to the Grand Bowl Of Honey (otherwise known as The Eternal  Honeyjar) 
and  the ant would fulfill its final quest,  even if that meant  jumping  off 
some very high precipice.
 His  mind wandered back to the moment Natascha told him the  coordinates  of 
the planet where he could follow a course to enlarge his self-confidence.
 "The planet you're looking for is called Suicidium," she had told him.  When 
he walked out and turned around, he noticed that Natascha had reached for the 
phone  (in the shape of a battery charger) and fanatically dialed  a  number, 
presumably  of one of her girlfriends.  Now this was nothing to worry  about. 
What  did worry Cronos was the evil grin she had on her face.  Could it  have 
been? No, she wouldn't.... Would she? But why would she send him to the wrong 
planet? Surely he hadn't done anything to hurt her, had he?
 A squeecking noise.
 Silence.
 A second squeeking noise.
 Silence.
 Cronos awoke from his thoughts and looked around.  Suddenly all his  muscles 
strained  and  he leapt to the right,  behind a tree.  A giant bat  had  only 
missed him by inches. It was furiously flying around, attacking everything in 
its vicinity.  Cronos watched the mighty creature with awe,  while his  right 
hand automatically reached for his improved,  hand-made and extremely  lethal 
nuclear disintegration gadget.  No need for it,  though. The distance between 
Cronos  and the bat increased rapidly.  His muscles relaxed and Cronos  stood 
up.
 He  wondered  if  this was really the right place to  strengthen  your  self 
confidence.  Cronos  had always thought such courses involved  long,  intense 
discussions and parting with lots of money.  But,  then again, it wouldn't be 
the first time Cronos' thoughts would prove to be wrong.  If he could be said 
to have any at all, that is.
 If this would get him closer to Fam,  he reckoned,  he would go through with 
it.  If this would not get him any closer to Fam, he would go through with it 
anyway,  because he hadn't found a way to get off this planet yet.  It hadn't 
been  difficult to get on it in the first place,  as Natascha had  been  more 
than  willing  to give him a ride.  "Just to make sure you get to  the  right 
place," she had said.
 The  three suns decided to call it a day and solemnly started  to  disappear 
behind  a  few mountains in the distance.  Cronos had never seen  three  suns 
disappear behind a few mountains and he stared at it,  baffled.  In fact,  he 
couldn't remember ever having seen a real sun.  He had heard about it,  sure, 
but until now he had mainly seen artificial suns with remote controls -  ones 
where  you  could  make  the day a  bit  longer  or  shorter,  matching  your 
individual preferences.
 Cronos  firmly  believed that the other two suns were  being  recharged  and 
could  be reclaimed by some lonely (and dark) planet anytime  now.  Not  many 
people shared this belief,  but Cronos wouldn't listen to other explanations. 
The  guy at the Newstellar Bar For The Very Very Depressed had told him  this 
confidential  theory  and had also warned him that other  people  might  have 
difficulties  believing it.  The guy could even see three pints  of  Zeastorm 
beer,  whereas Cronos could only distinguish one.  But the Newstellar Bar For 
The  Very,  Very Depressed was no place to question people  or  theories,  so 
Cronos didn't.
 Cronos' thoughts were brutally interrupted by a small squeecking-like noise. 
Cronos  decided  that the time for evasive action had come once more  and  he 
carefully  walked  towards the noise - or at least where the noise  had  come 
from a few atto-seconds ago.  He made sure not to make any noise himself. His 
eyes  were narrow,  but rapidly spied around him so nothing could escape  his 
attention.  His  hands were ready to demonstrate one of the  536,459  killing 
manoeuvres they knew.  His throat was ready to produce one of the 132  deadly 
sounds it knew (42 of which,  however,  would only paralize the victim for  a 
prolonged period).
 His instincts took command and suddenly Cronos dove forward,   his improved, 
hand-made  and extremely lethal nuclear disintegration gadget held  ready  at 
hand (with the safety pin removed,  of course).  A second later his instincts 
handed over the command to Cronos again and he quickly checked his position.
 The situation that his senses came up with was something like the following.
 Right in front of him,  he found the disintegration gadget in his  hand.  It 
comforted  him to see that he was on the right side of it.  It comforted  him 
that the safety pin had been removed telekinetically,  as the ancient  Master 
of  Oriental  Arts had taught him.  It also comforted him that  there  was  a 
monster on the other end of his disintegration gadget.  It didn't confort him 
that the monster was only a baby with a very frightened and upset look on its 
face.  Its big, dark eyes twinkled in fear and its whole body was shaking. It 
looked up,  desperately and straight in Cronos' eyes. Cronos had never killed 
an  innocent  baby creature and he didn't intend to.  A  feeling  of  intense 
sorrow filled his mind.  Here he was,  a fearless warrior,  survivor of  many 
terrible wars and,  until recently,  stone-hearted against any small creature 
which had barely crawled out of its egg.
 "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, BUSTER!"
 Cronos looked up.  Behind the baby dinosaur stood an impressive  figure.  It 
was  Fam,  arms akimbo.  The tree suns behind her (and behind the  mountains) 
made  it seem like a giant shadow with fireballs behind her.  The  sight  was 
magnificent.  The situation was slightly less magnificent.  For Cronos,  that 
is.
 He  quickly put the disintegration gadget in his inside pocket and  stumbled 
over the baby dinosaur towards her.
 "Honey,  I'm sorry,  I can explain everything," Cronos uttered,  and even he 
was aware of the fact that is was somewhat of a cliche.  He fell on his knees 
in front of her, head bowed and folded hands.
 "How dare you frighten little Alex?" she hissed, "I just got him to go for a 
first stroll without his mother."
 "But Fam,  I...I...eh...I...," Cronos continued muttering,  still in  cliche 
mode.
 "I  never  want  to see you again in my  life,  you  stupid  meatball!"  Fam 
groaned, "So get out of my sight!"

 The cathedral breathed rest and peace. The windows were very small, so there 
was  always  little light,  causing a ceremonial  atmosphere  inside.  A  few 
candles burnt, steadily. Suddenly the flame flickered a bit as someone opened 
the door. It hadn't been opened for years and years.
 This was the cathedral where Cronos went whenever he needed to be alone  and 
think about things.  That was why the door hadn't been opened for years.  The 
last  time it was opened,  was when Cronos' Oriental Master showed  him  this 
place. The Master told him that this was the perfect place to be, the perfect 
place to die.
 There  were no seats,  because the only reason why this cathedral was  built 
was that it has been tax-deductable.
 Cronos'  mind  was  a mess.  Not just a mess,  but  a  giant  mess,  like  a 
bachelor's  house.  The world didn't seem to make any sense to him any  more. 
The only thing he could see was an extremely thick sort of mist.  He stumbled 
forward,  tripping  a few times.  He stepped up the three steps  and  kneeled 
before the altar.
 He  looked  up  at  the sculpture of Mary.  His matted  hair  stuck  to  his 
forehead,  besweated.  His  clothes  were torn and dirty.  He  had  scratches 
everywhere, some of them were slightly bleeding.
 Cronos didn't care.
 His big hand reached up and took a dusty but beautiful sword from the altar. 
He  rubbed  the  dust  away  and looked  at  it.  There  were  all  kinds  of 
inscriptions on it,  written in what was probably an ancient language  Cronos 
didn't understand.  The Oriental Master had told him that this sword had only 
one  purpose.  That purpose was to provide Cronos with a way to  escape  from 
this earth,  this world.  The inscriptions had no function at all,  they just 
looked interesting.
 Cronos took the sword from its sheath,  breaking the seal. He lay the sheath 
next to him.
 The sword was beautiful. Very shiny and very sharp. Cronos knew exactly what 
to  do.  This world had no purpose for him any more.  The woman he loved  had 
made it quite clear that she didn't want to see him ever again.  What use was 
it  to kill people for money when you didn't have the girl you love  to  take 
care of you? What good was the world anyway?

 Cronos  held  the  sword in front of  him,  reminding  himself  of  Oriental 
pictures he had seen. With one swift movement he inserted it in his abdomen.

 Written somewhere between November 1992 and February 1993.


= SOON COMING ===============================================================


 The next issue of "Twilight World",  Volume 3 Issue 6, is to be released mid 
November 1995. Please refer to the 'subscription' section, below, for details 
on getting it automatically, in case you're interested.
 Please  refer to the section on 'submissions',  below,  for more details  on 
submitting your own material.
 The next issue will probably contain the following items...

 A CHRISTMAS FAERYTALE
 by Richard Karsmakers

 OBVIOUSLY INFLUENCED BY THE DEVIL
 by Richard Karsmakers


= SOME GENERAL REMARKS ======================================================


 DESCRIPTION

 "Twilight World" is an on-line magazine aimed at everybody who is interested 
in any sort of fiction - although it usually tends to concentrate on fantasy-
and science-fiction, often with a bit of humour thrown in.
 Its  main source is an Atari ST/TT/Falcon disk magazine by the name  of  "ST 
NEWS" which publishes computer-related articles as well as fiction. "Twilight 
World"  mostly consists of fiction featured in "ST NEWS" so far,  with  added 
stories submitted by "Twilight World" readers.

 SUBMISSIONS

 If you've written some good fiction and you wouldn't mind it being published 
world-wide,  you can mail it to me either electronically or by standard mail. 
At all times do I reserve the right not to publish submissions.  Do note that 
submissions  on disk will have to use the MS-DOS or Atari  ST/TT/Falcon  disk 
format on 3.5" Double-or High-Density floppy disk.  Provided sufficient  IRCs 
are  supplied  (see below),  you will get your disk back with  the  issue  of 
"Twilight World" on it that features your fiction. Electronic submittees will 
get an electronic subscription if so requested.
 At all times, please submit straight ASCII texts without any special control 
codes whatsoever, nor right justify or ASCII characters above 128. Please use 
*asterisks* to emphasise text if needed, start each paragraph with one space, 
don't include empty lines between each paragraph and use "-" instead of  "-". 
Also remember the difference between possessives and contractions,  only  use 
multiple  question marks when absolutely necessary (!!) and never  use  other 
than one (.) or three (...) periods in sequence.

 COPYRIGHT

 Unless  specified along with the individual stories,  all  "Twilight  World" 
stories are copyrighted by the individual authors but may be spread wholly or 
separately  to  any  place - and indeed into any other  magazine  -  provided 
credit is given both to the original author and "Twilight World".

 CORRESPONDENCE ADDRESS

 I prefer electronic correspondence,  but regular stuff (such as  postcards!) 
can  be sent to my regular address.  If you expect a reply please supply  one 
International Reply Coupon (available at your post office), *two* if you live 
outside Europe.  If you want your disk(s) returned, add 2 International Reply 
Coupons per disk (and one extra if you live outside  Europe).  Correspondence 
failing these guidelines will be read (and perused) but not replied to.
 The address:

 Richard Karsmakers
 P.O. Box 67
 NL-3500 AB Utrecht
 The Netherlands

 Email r.c.karsmakers@stud.let.ruu.nl
 (This should be valid up to the summer of 1996)

 SUBSCRIPTIONS

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the  address mentioned above.  "Twilight World" is only available  as  ASCII. 
Subscription terminations should be directed to the same address.
 About  one  week prior to each current issue being sent out you will  get  a 
message to check if your email address is still valid.  If a message bounces, 
your subscription terminates.
 Back  issues of "Twilight World" may be FTP'd  from  atari.archive.umich.edu 
and etext.archive.umich.edu.  It is also posted to rec.arts.prose,  alt.zines 
and  alt.prose  and is on Gopher somewhere as well.  Thanks to Gard  for  all 
this!  If  you  want to check out "Twilight World" on the  WEB,  the  URL  is 
http://arrogant.itc.icl.ie/TwilightWorld/.

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 If  you like "Twilight World",  a spontaneous burst of philantropy aimed  at 
the  postal address mentioned above would be very  much  appreciated!  Please 
send cash only;  any regular currency will do.  Apart from keeping  "Twilight 
World" happily afloat,  it will also help me to keep my head above water as a 
student  of  English at Utrecht University.  If  donations  reach  sufficient 
height  they will secure the existence of "Twilight World" after  my  studies 
have been concluded. If not...then all I can do is hope for the best.
 Thanks!

 DISCLAIMER

 All authors are responsible for the views they express. Also, The individual 
authors are the ones you should sue in case of copyright infringements!

 OTHER ON-LINE MAGAZINES

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literature and alternative commentary.  On-line issues are available via  the 
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 eScene is a yearly electronic anthology of the Internet's best short fiction 
and authors from existing electronic magazines. It is available via the World 
Wide  Web  and  in ASCII,  PDF and PostScript formats via  anonymous  FTP  at 
ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/eScene/>.  Contact series editor J.  Carlson at email 
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paragraph of "DESCRIPTION", above). Hail!

 EOF