Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (17 page)

Kath snuggled against him and in an innocent voice replied, ‘I told you, I never saw that chap before, I never heard of no Larry. He was upset because his friend was dead, he got me mixed up with someone else that's all. Happens all the time, we English girls look the same to you Yanks.’

‘D—don't say that, Kathy,’ the airman said, sounding wounded. ‘I ain't one o'them no-g-good rats. Aw, he was just bellyachin’ ‘cos I was dancin’ with the prettiest girl there.’

‘Charmer,’ she giggled. ‘I wish we could've stayed till the end, I'd liked to have had another go at jitterbugging.’

Frank scratched his head awkwardly. Well, I weren't no g—good at it, anyways,’ he admitted. ‘Angelo's the expert, he can d—do all that kinda stuff, real pop'lar with the land g-girls near the base, he is.’

‘At least him and Jean aren't at each other's throats all the time now,’ she said. ‘Oh, I wish you didn't have to go back to camp tomorrow.’

That g—goes fer me, too, but don't you worry none, soon as I get my next leave I'll be knockin’ on your d—door.’

‘I hope that'll be soon,’ she murmured. ‘I had a grand time tonight.’

‘Yeah, well here's hopin’ I make it through the n—next mission. Heck, I ain't lookin’ forward to it—not one bit. Hope I can handle a raid over the Big B.’

'They won't send you over Berlin, will they?’ the girl cried, staring at him in alarm. They wouldn't think of doin’ that, surely?’

Frank popped a stick of gum into his mouth and chewed pensively.

‘I said too much already,’ he answered. What do them posters say—about careless talk?’

‘Be like Dad, keep Mum,’ Kath added with a titter. Well, if they do send you out there I hope it won't be for a very long time—if ever.’

‘How's the d-day after tomorrow grab you?’ he muttered.

Kath stared at him in shocked surprise. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Not so soon—that isn't fair.’

‘Forg-get I said that,’ he quickly told her. ‘I could be thrown into the slammer for lettin’ that slip.’

‘But how can you be certain?’ she pressed him.

‘I got a buddy in Intelligence,’ he murmured in a hushed voice. ‘Come Monday mornin’, we'll be halfways over Germany. I sure hope I d—don't let the rest of the guys d-down.’

‘A fine, strappin’ bloke like you?’ Kath exclaimed, as they turned into Barker's Row. ‘Not on your life! Here—give us a kiss.’

Outside number twenty-three, Jean was saying goodnight to Angelo and thanking him for a pleasant evening.

'There's one thing I never did find out,’ she told him.

‘What's that?’

‘Why does Frank keep calling you Voo? You didn't tell me last time.’

Angelo dug into his flying jacket and brought out his toy dog. ‘Jean,’ he began importantly, ‘I'd like to introduce you to a real good pal of mine—meet Tex.’

The woman laughed. ‘Hello, Tex,’ she said.

‘Likewise,’ Angelo barked out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I got him the first night I was in England. Boy, was that dame a hot tomato!’

‘What has that to do ... ?’

‘Hold on,’ he declared, pulling a silver chain from under his collar. This is a St Christopher's medal, and in this pocket I got me a bottle top, a watchstrap, a broken lighter, a picture of the Empire State—kinda crumpled by now but that don't matter.’

‘What's it all for?’ she asked, bemused.

‘Hey, I ain't finished, there's three more pockets yet.’

‘Don't tell me,’ Jean said, ‘they're more lucky pieces?’

Angelo winked in affirmation.

‘Most people are usually content with a rabbit's foot, you know.’

‘Ain't that kooky?’ the American replied. ‘What luck did it ever bring the rabbit? Naw, I'll stick to what I got already, every one of these charms has been with me since the first mission. I done flown out on twelve now and I'm still here, so one of them's gotta be doin’ somethin’.’

‘Ah,’ she muttered in mock solemnity, ‘but what’ll happen on the next one? That'll be number thirteen.’

Angelo's face changed dramatically and he crossed himself at once. ‘You tryin’ to put a hex on me or what?’ he cried. ‘Don't fool around like that! It ain't funny.’

‘I'm sorry,’ she apologised, distressed to see the effect her words had had on him.

Sullenly, the airman looked away from her but he recovered quickly and even managed to turn on his mischievous grin.

‘My fault,’ he said, ‘it's just that I'm kinda jumpy about the whole set up. Still, I got me the two most potent hocus-pocuses a dope could wish for. One is Tex, I put him up there above my radio when I'm in the bomber an’ he keeps an eye on me, the other is the jacket—I told ya’, nothin’ but nothin’ can happen to me while it's on my back. You wait an’ see, I'm gonna come through this war— I might get put straight into the bughutch but who cares?’

Jean folded her arms and tutted. ‘I'm none the wiser,’ she said. ‘Voo—remember?’

‘I was just comin’ to that. Don't you get it? All the guys call me Voo, it's short for Voodini—as in a mix of voodoo and Houdini. Some joke, huh?’

‘Actually, I think it suits you.’

That's the shame of it, I reckon I deserve it.’

The amusement faded from Jean's eyes as an almost imperceptible whine sounded in the moonlit sky.

‘Here they are,’ she moaned, ‘I better get to the Anderson. I really did have a nice time, Angelo, thank you.’

‘You just gonna turf me out in the middle of an air raid?’ he taunted. ‘Real cruel, that's what you are. When they find iddy bits of me from here to London Bridge, I hope you'll be happy. Don't I even get a cup of coffee?’

Jean considered him uncertainly. ‘I really don't know,’ she said.

‘Here,’ Angelo declared, thrusting his toy dog into her hands, ‘to demonstrate that I have only honourable intentions, you can keep Tex hostage the entire time, but I gotta have him back, OK? Don't want you two fallin’ for each other.’

Relenting, the woman accepted the mascot and tucked him in her belt whilst she took a key from her purse. ‘Just one cup,’ she warned, ‘and it'll have to be tea.’

‘Hey, any more than that an’ I'll be yawnin’ in Technicolor,’ he assured her.

Inside the house, a small, furry figure stood upon the stairs with both ears cocked towards the front door. Listening to the light-hearted conversation taking place out on the doorstep, Ted chortled to himself and prepared to clamber back up to the boxroom.

Suddenly, the door opened and before the bear could take cover, Jean and Angelo entered.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ the woman said, walking to the kitchen.

‘You do that,’ Angelo answered, gazing with interest about the hall.

Upon the floor, where Mrs Stokes had discarded it, was Daniel's off-white teddy and there, lying inert on the stairs, was Ted.

‘What d'you know?’ Angelo sniggered, picking both of them up and following Jean into the kitchen. ‘I guess this means my oath ain't valid no more.’

Filling the kettle from a spluttering tap, the young woman turned around when he entered. ‘Didn't catch that,’ she said.

Twiddling his eyebrows, Angelo dangled the two teddy bears in his hands. ‘Look what I found,’ he proclaimed.

That one belongs to my son,’ she laughed, ‘and a poor bombed-out boy my dad brought home owns that one.’

‘Kinda scruffy lookin’, ain't he?’ the American scoffed, failing to notice the insulted frown now furrowing the bear's fleecy forehead. ‘Still, you know what it means, don't you?’

Jean smiled doubtfully. ‘What does what mean?’ she asked.

‘I got me two hostages of my own!’ he cried, placing the toys on the cupboard and moving towards her with outstretched arms.

‘Don't be silly,’ she said, ‘the kettle won't take long.’

‘Just one tiny kiss, Jean,’ Angelo pleaded. ‘You wouldn't deny a man about to leave on his thirteenth mission that, would you?’

Sitting alongside a chipped cup and saucer, Ted grimaced at the man's crass stupidity. ‘Bozo!’ he whispered scornfully.

‘I think you'd better leave,’ Jean said, dodging Angelo's arms for the third time.

‘Listen to the lady,’ Ted muttered. ‘Eech! I can't watch.’

Sitting on the cupboard, the bear pulled a face and looked away as the airman kissed her.

‘Stop!’ Jean cried suddenly, pushing Angelo away. ‘I can't—get out. Go on!’

Grabbing a saucepan, she threw it at him and the airman leaped back in surprise.

‘What's the matter?’ he yelped. ‘I didn't do nothin’ you didn't want. You gotta face it, Jean, the guy you married ain't never comin’ home, you're too young an’ pretty to waste your life on somethin’ that ain't never gonna happen.’

‘I've got three more pans here,’ Jean snapped vehemently, as she reached for another. ‘If you don —’

At that moment, there came a tremendous thud and clatter from the garden and, ignoring the blackout regulations, Jean drew the curtain aside.

On the roof of the outside toilet, a small, rod-like object had landed and already tongues of blueish-white, phosphorous flame were lapping over it.

‘Incendiary!’ she yelled, flinging open the back door and running outside. From his position on the cupboard, Ted watched as she vainly tried to extinguish the device with a bucket of water. But it was no use and the flames grew ever brighter on the toilet roof.

‘Just look at that guy,’ the bear mumbled as Angelo raced out to help, ‘What a hero.’

With the aid of a garden rake, Angelo manoeuvred the incendiary into the empty bucket and threw fistfuls of soil on top of it.

‘Poor sap don't realise that the big brushoff is coming,’ Ted groaned. 'Well, what’d he expect?’

Standing by the smouldering bucket, Jean thanked the lieutenant and said that he had better leave.

‘What?’

‘Just do it!’ she demanded.

Angelo wavered, not understanding what he had done wrong and he took a step closer to her.

‘No!’ Jean cried, suddenly desperate to be left on her own and searching for a way to make him see that she was serious. Taking Tex from her belt, she held the dog in her hand and lowered it dangerously close to the fizzing and crackling bucket.

‘If you don't go now,’ she threatened, ‘then I'll drop him right inside.’

‘You wouldn't.’

The woman nodded earnestly. ‘Yes I would,’ she told him. ‘Please, Angelo, my life is too complicated already, the last thing I need is to make it worse. Just go, I know how much Tex means to you.’

‘That li'l fella's my lucky piece,’ Angelo said, confident that she was bluffing. ‘He's gonna see me through this war—without him, I'm finished. You ain't gonna do nothin’ to old Tex, you wouldn't be so cruel.’

Jean stared at him, hating his conceited arrogance. The American grinned, but too late realised that he'd pushed her too far.

Sobbing with emotion, Jean threw the dog on the charred, glowing soil within the bucket, where it immediately began to smoulder.

‘Hey!’ Angelo roared, lunging forward, but it was too late—eager flames were racing up Tex's body.

‘Get back!’ Jean cried. ‘Just get out!’

Horrified at what she had done, Angelo stared at the flickering bucket and watched helplessly as the fire consumed his mascot's body.

‘You—you got a real problem, lady,’ he uttered huskily. ‘I never meant no...’

With the sleeve of his flying jacket, he roughly wiped away the tears that sprang to his eyes. Without Tex to protect him, he was certain his thirteenth mission would be his last and the horror of that crushed him absolutely. Unable to say another word, Angelo turned on his heel and stormed back into the house.

Shortly, Jean heard the front door slam, then she pushed the rake into the bucket and fished out the burning toy dog which she hastily smothered with earth to quench the flames.

Gingerly, she picked the blackened remains of Tex off the ground and ran back into the kitchen with them.

Only the large glass eyes were worth salvaging, the rest of the unfortunate mascot was blackened and incinerated beyond redemption.

‘You can be a right cow when you want to be, can't you?’ she chastized herself. ‘What'll he hang above his radio now? What's wrong with me tonight?’

Then she noticed that the place where Angelo had put Neil and Daniel's teddy bears was empty.

‘He couldn't,’ she cried, ‘he wouldn't do that!’

Still clasping the remains of Tex, the young woman hurried to the front door and peered down the street, where she saw Angelo's figure already disappearing in the dark distance.

Standing in the porch of Mrs Meacham's house, Frank stared across at her.

“What d—did you do to him?’ he yelled.

Jean made no reply—she was too ashamed and ran tearfully back into the house feeling wretched and despicable—wondering how on earth she could face both Neil and her son.

Frank hugged Kath tightly. ‘I gotta g—get after Voo,’ he said, ‘I ain't never seen him like that before. Listen, Kathy, I'm gonna write as soon as I get back to base an’ you just wait till I get my next pass!’

Giving her one last kiss and pressing a pair of nylons in her hands, the tall American leaped over the gate and vanished into the night after Angelo.

When she could no longer see him, Kath gave a curious smile and stepped into the house.

‘Mrs Meacham?’ she called. ‘You in?’

Assuming her landlady had retired into the Anderson, Kath trudged upstairs to the room that had been allotted to her and threw her coat on to the bed. Then she walked over to the wardrobe and unlocked it. Kneeling on the carpet, the dark-haired girl pulled open a drawer and snorted with mirth at its silky contents.

‘Crammed to overflowing,’ she observed.

Taking her newest pair of nylons in her hands, she stuffed them roughly in amongst the dozens of others as an ugly sneer transformed her features.

The sneer spread into a smirk, as she pulled out from under a pile of clothes a large wooden box which she treated with extreme care and gentleness—she lifted it out and placed it delicately upon the dressing table.

In the early hours of the morning, heavy clouds crept over the clear sky and, when the daylight finally glimmered over the horizon, a dismal and steady rain was drizzling over the East End.

The news of Mrs Meacham's murder shocked and horrified everyone and the local constabulary lost no time in interviewing all those present at the Make-do-and-Mend class.

Arriving back from the Underground slightly later than usual, Mrs Stokes was aggravated to find a po-faced police inspector with spiky eyebrows and a constable who looked more like an all-in wrestler, complete with cauliflower ear and broken nose, standing in her front room, waiting to take a statement from her.

When she first heard the distressing news, not a twitch nor a blink betrayed the old woman's thoughts—she merely peered at the two men through her spectacles and, with a face like a gargoyle, ruminated over what they had just told her.

‘Did you understand what I said, Mrs Stokes?’ the inspector asked unwisely. ‘Your neighbour, Doris Meacham...’

‘I heard!’ she rapped sharply. ‘Don't you talk to me as though I was ripe for putting in a home!’

‘Er... I'm sorry,’ the poor man replied, gazing round at Peter Stokes for support.

That morning the warden looked unusually stubbly as he hadn't had a chance to shave. It had been a bewildering night, having first returned to his post to discover that Neil was missing, then learning that the boy was at the police station, describing how he had stumbled across a dead body.

Unwilling to sit down whilst so upsetting an incident required the presence of the police in the house, Peter stood tense and rigid in his braces in front of the fireplace and looked across the room to where Neil was now sitting.

Dark circles ringed the boy's eyes. He was incredibly tired and his head kept nodding on to his chest.

‘Why don't you go to bed, lad?’ Peter suggested kindly. ‘You've finished with him now, ‘aven't you?’ he asked the inspector.

‘Yes,’ the policeman replied, leafing through his notebook and licking the end of his pencil. ‘The boy was most helpful, very concise—unlike the baker's lad. Ghoulish flippin’ vampire he is, and kept rambling on about everything under the sun, used up most of my pad taking down his statement. Do him a world of good, the army will—ah, beg your pardon, sir. No, no, Neil's done his bit for now, I can always pop back if there's anything else I need to know, but it's more or less routine now.’

‘I’ll get Jean to bring you up an Ovaltine,’ Peter said, as the boy hauled himself from the chair and plodded out of the room.

Mrs Stokes gave a sniff and pursed her lips. ‘So,’ she chirped, her eyes gleaming and hungry for luscious details, ‘how did it happen? How did Doris get it? A fine state of affairs isn't it when a body ain't safe in the streets at night? Where were your boys when all this happened? Not doin’ their job, obviously.’

The inspector coughed uncomfortably and stuck out his bottom lip which was striped by the pencil lead. ‘If you could just begin by telling me...’

‘Was it murder, then?’ the old woman broke in. ‘How was she done in—were it strang'lation or were she stabbed and hacked at, like a scrag end o’ mutton? Were it a vicious, cruel, lingering end? Did the stuck-up old fool suffer with it?’

‘Madam,’ the inspector declared, ‘an extremely serious crime has been perpetrated, I need to know what time you left the church hall last night and if the deceased happened to mention...’

Typical!’ Mrs Stokes uttered in disgust. ‘All this fuss, even when she's dead that Doris has to swank!’

‘Mother,’ Peter murmured.

‘What'll happen about her house and things then?’ she demanded. ‘She didn't have no relatives, you know.’

Suddenly, a loud thumping resounded through the house as Neil stomped down the stairs and came running back amongst them.

‘Where is he?’ he cried racing around the room, scattering cushions everywhere. ‘I can't find him!’

Peter gently caught his arm. ‘What's the matter, lad?’ he asked, ‘What’ve you lost?’

'Ted!’ the boy shouted back, ignoring the astonished faces of the policemen. ‘He isn't upstairs—what's happened to him?’

‘Perhaps Jean knows,’ Peter suggested, ‘she's in the kitchen giving Daniel his breakfast.’

But his daughter had heard Neil's outburst and was already standing in the doorway. ‘Neil,’ she guiltily began, ‘I’m so sorry...’

“What's happened?’ he cried, alarmed at her shameful tone, ‘What've you done with him?’

‘It's all my fault,’ she said, ‘if I hadn't burned that stupid toy dog!’

Neil gaped at her. “What are you trying to say? Ted's all right, isn't he? I mean, he isn't hurt or anything?’

‘Hurt?’ Mrs Stokes squawked. ‘What's the beggar talking about? It's only a tatty old bear!’

‘I’m afraid it isn't here,’ Jean explained, ‘someone took both yours and Daniel's teddy away—I couldn't stop him.’

A look of fear fixed itself on Neil's face and he felt twice as sick as when he had found Doris Meacham. ‘Who took him?’ he shrieked manically. ‘Where'd he go? Jean—you've got to tell me. Please, you don't realise how important this is!’

‘It was an American,’ she answered, feeling her grandmother's eyes bore disparagingly into her. ‘I think he must have taken it back to his airbase—I don't know where that is, I think he mentioned Essex but I couldn't say for certain. Oh, Neil, I'm sorry, I'll make you another one, I promise!’

The boy's face had turned white and he staggered away from her, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I've got to get Ted back!’ he whimpered. ‘Don't you understand? I'll never get home without him—in two days’ time the gateway’ll appear but he's the only one who knows exactly when and where! I'll never see Josh again! How could you let it happen? How could you?’

Peter put his arm around the boy's shoulders. ‘There now,’ he said coaxingly, ‘what's all this then? Who's Josh? Is it starting to come back? Do you remember where you're from, lad?’

Neil stared up at the bald man in consternation. ‘Josh is my brother!’ he muttered before turning wildly to the two policemen who, by this time, were totally baffled.

‘You can find him for me, can't you?’ he babbled desperately.

The inspector glanced nervously at Peter before answering. ‘Do you mean your brother?’ he inquired, wetting the pencil again. ‘What does he look like? Is he older or younger than you?’

‘Not Josh!’ Neil bellowed. 'Ted! Find Ted! Get everyone on the radio and tell them what's happened. I've simply got to get him back—oh God, you don't have radios do you?’

Pushing past Jean, he ran from the room crying, ‘I don't want to be trapped here for ever!’

The inspector raised his spiky eyebrows. ‘Should've grown out of teddy bears at his age,’ he remarked firmly, as though Peter was to blame.

‘He's as doolally as that Dorkins girl!’ Mrs Stokes commented. ‘I warned you about bringing him into this house, Peter. The boy's insane, well, I shan't be taking him to the Underground with me no more—I might wake up with my throat cut. Wouldn't surprise me if he was the one who done old Doris in. I'd think about that very seriously, Inspector. Loonies like him need locking up where they can't harm no one. Shame that madhouse ain't open no more.’

Licking his pencil yet again, the policeman dutifully jotted down what she had said.

With his nose pressed against the window beside his bunk, Angelo gazed dolefully out at the mizzling rain. Under the slate-grey sky, the airfield was lit by depressing, almost funereal light, mirroring the cheerless depths his spirits foundered in.

‘Hey, Voodini!’ his captain called. ‘You're missin’ one hell of a poker game, you sure you don't want in?’

Angelo moved away from the window and stared blankly around the barracks to where a group of other officers were sitting at a table immersed in the card game.

‘Count me out,’ he replied, flopping back on to his bunk and staring up at the hut's curved ceiling.

‘What's eatin’ him?’ Captain Jimmy Resnick asked, nudging one of the other men.

‘He's just sore ‘cos he struck out with some dame,’ came the cynical response, ‘some Romeo—I lost ten bucks on him.’

‘Musta been some doll,’ one of the men whistled, ‘I never seen him so riled up before.’

A timid rap sounded on the barracks’ door and the captain called out when the visitor failed to enter.

‘You gonna catch a death out there,’ he shouted.

His head and shoulders dripping with rain, Frank Jeffries fumbled with the handle and stepped inside the officers’ hut.

‘Beggin’ your p-pardon, sirs,’ he said formally, ‘would it be OK to have a word with Lieutenant Signorelli?’

‘Dammit, Frank,’ the captain drawled, ‘when you gonna start callin’ me Jimmy? Ain't no top brass round here to hear you. A bomb crew ain't like no other outfit, you gotta loosen up.’

Frank nodded and looked over to where Angelo was sitting on the bunk.

‘Pay no attention to them,’ he said, ‘What can I do for you?’

“B—bout them toys, Voo,’ the man finally muttered, ‘the ones you told me you took from Jean's house? I know why you did it, but that don't make it right. I think you oughta send ‘em back. Don't you care what them kids'll be thinkin’?’

Angelo leaned forward and in a low growl said, ‘If you know why I did it, then get off my case. I figure my need is greater than some kid's. Twelve missions I been on, Frank, nearly all daylight raids, an’ I ain't had so much as a scratch. That's no coincidence, farm boy, and the more times I come through, the more luck I'm gonna need. Now, tomorrow is an important run fer me—thirteen. You know how many saps make it that far? Well, this goon ain't takin’ no chances. I ain't goin’ up in that Fortress without protection. I'm gonna be decked out like a Christmas tree on that mission; the flak is gonna bounce off my lucky pieces.’

‘But you don't need both toys...’

‘You leave it to me to decide what I need. Them boogers are stayin’ in my kitbag till the morning and don't you say nuthin’ to the rest of the guys!’

‘What have we here?’ one of the men cried, having sneaked up behind them and listened to what was said.

‘Gimme that!’ Angelo snapped as the man wrenched his kitbag from beside the locker.

‘Hey, lookee here!’ he taunted, pulling out one of the teddy bears. ‘Our Voodini's Santa Claus in reverse: he visits kids and takes their toys offa them. That's a rotten thing to do.’

Angelo flew at him, but the man tossed Daniel's stuffed bear across to the captain, who in turn threw it to another.

‘Stop it!’ Angelo ranted, leaping in the air as he darted to and fro, trying to catch the flying toy. ‘Let me have it!’

Baiting him, they raced around the hut brandishing Daniel's bear in their hands, until Angelo could stand it no longer. Thundering to his locker, he snatched up a bottle of beer and stormed from the barracks.

‘Aw,’ the man pouted, ‘ickle Voodini don't wanna play no more.’

Running to the doorway, Frank stared after his buddy and rounded angrily on the officers.

‘I sure d—do hope you're mighty proud of yourselves, sirs,’ he reproached them. ‘Voo might take his cockamamy hocus-pocus a mite far but there ain't one of you, I bet, who d—don't d—do the same. I only been on one mission so far but you can bet that tomorrow morning I'll be d-doin’ the exact same thing I did last time, so as not to break the luck that brought me safe home. Ain't right you makin’ fun of Voo like that, you oughta be ashamed—he's g— got enough on his mind!’

The other men stared sheepishly at the floor; one of the men opened his mouth to retaliate but his captain nudged him into silence.

‘Can it, Pat,’ Captain Resnick said, ‘I seen the way you put on your socks on mission days, you always wear one inside out. I guess you're right, Frank, we shouldna teased Voo like that. I'll go apologise, did you see where he went?’

Frank looked at his watch. ‘It's three o'clock,’ he answered simply, “Voo'll be doin’ his ritual now.’

The officers looked at one another abashed.

Greatly subdued, the bombardier took Daniel's bear and returned it to Angelo's kitbag. Then, in a remorseful humour, they left the hut in single file.

Out on the airfield, the squadron's bombers were lined up on the tarmac in vast, stately rows.

Despite their unwieldy size and olive-drab livery, the B-17s were oddly beautiful and possessed an indefinable, elegant grandeur that the crews of the smaller, pregnant-looking B-24s could only envy.

On the sides of these regal aircraft, a virtual chorus line of delectable and imaginatively proportioned women had been brightly painted alongside garish letters pronouncing the bomber's name. There was Sweet Sue, Darlin’ Daisy, Naughty Katy, Cutelips, Parson's Daughter, Flyboy Dream and a host of others. Several of them bore more descriptive legends, such as Helldragon, Nazi Killer, and Flak Trap, but, standing proudly between Big Momma and Li'l Honey, was The Kismet.

Angelo Signorelli had already clambered up on to the left wing when Frank and the officers found him.

Unaware of anything but himself and the aircraft, Angelo began the ritual he had started as a drunken joke on the afternoon before his first mission and before his superstitions had come to obsess him. Raising the bottle of beer to the leaden heavens, he threw back his head and called out the exact same words he had uttered then.