Name	Rank	Position	Date of Assignment	Status	Missions	Kills	Notes
Murphy (Owen) O'Conner	CPT	Pilot	09 Oct 42		12	0	Purple Heart on mission 10. Promoted 03 Mar 43. (Texas)
Marion Sweeney	1LT	Co-Pilot	09 Oct 42		13	0	(Texas)
Barry Segal	1LT	Bombardier	09 Oct 42		12	0	Received the Air Medal on mission 10. (North Carolina)
Jim Bentley	2LT	Navigator	23 Jan 43		5	0	(Alabama)
Kevin Douglas	2LT	Navigator	19 Nov 42	KIA	3	1	Purple Heart on mission 7. Shot down - 109. (Utah)
Sal Felluci	1LT	Navigator	09 Oct 42	invalid home	4	0	Sent home due to wounds after mission 4. (New Hampshire)
Michael Bambace	SGT	Nose Gunner	12 Sep 43		0	0	(Phoenix, Arizona)
Terry Kilpatrick	SSG	Engineer	28 Aug 43		0	0	(Guntown, Mississippi)
Ben Krengel	SSG	Engineer	23 Jan 43	KIA	5	1	Purple Heart on mission 16. Shot down ME-109. (West Virginia)
Chuck Philby	MSG	Engineer	09 Oct 42	KIA	7	1	Purple Heart on mission 7. Shot down ME-109. (California)
Adrian McKnight	SGT	Radio Operator	23 Jan 43		5	0	(California)
Mike Lewis	SGT	Radio Operator	09 Oct 42	KIA	7	0	Purple Heart on mission 2 and mission 7. (Michigan)
Greg Mason	SGT	Waist Gunner	23 Jan 43		5	0	(Florida)
Ike Comrey	SGT	Waist Gunner	19 Nov 42	KIA	4	0	Purple Heart on mission 7. (Indiana)
Joe "Ski" Kowalski	SGT	Waist Gunner	09 Oct 42	invalid home	4	0	Sent home due to wounds after mission 4. (New Jersey)
Nuno Berolski	SGT	Belly Gunner	23 Jan 43		5	0	(New York)
Joey Santiago	SGT	Belly Gunner	09 Oct 42	KIA	7	0	Purple Heart on mission 7. (Florida)
Freddie Ortiz	SSG	Tail Gunner	09 Oct 42		12	6	Received the Air Medal on mission 6. Promoted 03 Mar 43. Shot down ME-109. Shot down ME-110. Shot down ME-410. (Florida)

*** Diary ***

The beginning...

A fly buzzed lazily through the thick air, sunlight – the first in days – breaking through the window of the officer’s mess. Cap down over his eyes, feet up on the nearest battered coffee table, Murphy O’Conner was oblivious to the goings-on around him. Cynical at the best of times, O’Conner was contemplating how his next 48 hour pass to London might be snafu’s by the brass. Memories of Peggy, a pale-skinned beauty with big, doe-eyes had kept him active last time round and he hoped nothing would stop him getting back to her. His reverie was shattered as the door to the mess crashed open, allowing a blast of cool air to ruffle tattered copies of Stars and Stripes on nearby tables. A Texan, O’Conner was more accustomed to warmer weather and grimaced as he lifted the peak of his service cap to see who the sonofabitch was that ruined his sack-time. Framed in the doorway, and clearly bursting with energy was O’Conner’s co-pilot of Hellzapoppin’ and fellow Texan, Marion Sweeney.

Besides, thought O’Conner, he also owed Dollins of Silks-a-poppin’ a drink or two. Maybe he’d make a night of it if they weren’t going to be flying anytime soon…

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PS Please send me more warm socks in your next parcel! This weather is killing me!

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29 DEC 42
There wasn't a day that went by that Murphy O'Conner didn't think back to the life that he'd had before this whole god-awful mess had started. His father was a lawyer, as was his older brother and it was expected - if never actually stated out loud - that he'd follow in their tradition and join the family firm. O'Conner and Mulcahey - Attorney's At Law. He'd never given  much thought to his future until his final year at high school, when suddenly the prospect of being stuck behind a desk all day began to terrify him.

He'd always been active as a kid, much more so than Brian, his brother. Brian was on a staff appointment in the Pacific, no doubt shuffling paper fast enough to scare the Japs to death! Brian had been on the debating team and involved in school dramatic productions, while Murphy - a nickname he'd picked up from his uncle, but better than his real name Owen - was playing football and skinny-dipping. So long ago...

Strange how the mind wandered when there were so many reasons for it to stay focused on the task at hand. The last few hours had been hair-raising, what with the flak and the fighters. Hell, it'd almost ended before it'd even begun with that take-off. Landing wasn't much better either, with no nose-wheel.

He'd avoided the other crews since de-briefing. Dollins was in high spirits, as usual, going on about what a wonderful bombardier he had. Wanted to put him in for a medal, he'd said. The Dollins crew loved their shiny tin trinkets, O'Conner thought wryly. Mind you, unlike them he wouldn't have anything to show for his time over here. If he ever got to finish his tour,  that is. He'd started to become even more taciturn and cynical with each trip. Five down, 20 to go. Such a long way.

His mind turned to Peg, and her delicious curves... That's take his mind off this damned mess! Perhaps a drink or two in the OC, then he'd ring her up and see if she had any time owing to her soon...

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31 DEC 42

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02 JAN 43

"I hear there might be a trip on again soon, Liam my little leprechaun friend!" Reaching across the bar for his pint of beer, O'Conner grinned at O'Neill. The Irishman's face was flushed, both with alcohol and with the recent success he'd had chatting up the bar-lady.

"Too true, you Texan spalpeen, too true!", O'Neill said, draining the last of his pint. "Time we was gettin' back ter base then, I think!" The pair, along with O'Conner's co-pilot Marion Sweeney ("I'll come out for one drink, Murphy, just to keep an eye on you!"), had taken a ride into the village on their bicycles, and had been propping up the bar at the Golden Swan pub for the past two hours. They didn't drink much these days. You needed a fresh head to fly combat trips deep into Krautland. More importantly, though, O'Conner mused, once you started drinking to deaden the nerves you may never stop.

Out in the cold and on their way back to base, the fading light turning the English countryside into a mish-mash of odd silhouettes, O'Conner's mind turned to earlier that day.

He and O'Neill had been on the way to the officer's club to find Chris Dollins when they saw him come stomping out, a look of thunder on his face. They'd called out to him, but he'd not heard them. It was a pity, because he was far better company than Sweeney. Sighing they'd had no choice but to ask the irritating Hellz-a-poppin' co-pilot to join them instead.

Oh, well. Next time they'd get Dollins to join them. Perhaps he'd had bad news, with a look like that on his face. They'd talk about it before the next trip. No use leaving things unsaid, thought O'Conner....

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10 JAN 43

The moonlight played along her soft, pale skin making it seem transluscent. Ethereal, almost too fragile to touch. Lying with her back to him, Peg seemed unreal, not a part of a world that just hours before had included blood and screams, gun fire and flames. He  had counted his blessings that peg ad managed to get time off, and that Amsterdam had not been too demanding. Rolling over to take a sip of the whiskey that was on the night-stand, O'Conner reflected that he had been lucky to find an angel such as this, amidst all the carnage and suffering of this crazy war. Breakfast, combat, flak and making love to a beautiful woman all in the space of a day. What kind of war was this?

He HAD been lucky today, no doubt about it. Those pieces of 20mm cannon fire could just as easily have torn his head off. Instead, they had scratched Sweeney's arm. The whiskey suddenly tasted bitter, acrid in his mouth. He remembered Sweeney's screams, sure that he had lost his co-pilot in that moment. He was a pain in the ass, was Sweeney, but they had come to rely on each other in recent weeks. Had to, really. They shared a room, were woken up at the same ungodly hour and underwent the same trials and tribulations every mission.

He fought to push those thoughts out of his head, concentrating instead on the inert form lying next to him. Her chest rose slowly, evenly with every breath she took. So perfect, so serene. He could hardly believe he was here, next to her. Already he felt more for her than he knew he should. Time was compressed, not their own, and yet he still felt she was the only thing that made sense to him. He knew his mother wouldn't approve, no matter how much he tried to convince himself. They were too different. Peg was as confident and self-assured as his mother was stubborn and old-fashioned. A teacher, Peg was a million miles away from his house-wife mother in intellectual terms. Something to be feared by his mother. Nonetheless, he knew he loved her, more than life. Strange, that. Suddenly, all his efforts had a purpose. Not defeating the Nazis. Hell. He's never met any. Bombed them, sure. Never known them, though. His sole purpose was to get home to her.

He tried hard to present a devil-may-care attitude in front of his crew, but felt that his cynicism crept through from time to time. The burden of command, some might call it. Show no fear, only confidence in your machinery and men. Crazy, is what it was. Every mission was a battle against the gut-wrenching fear and mind-numbing certainty that today was it. Your last day. There was no heroism here, no Clark Gable smiling grimly at the dashing Jerry as he fought him toe to toe. There was only blood, flame and death. And the five fickle fingers of Fate.

Nineteen missions to go, then he could start to imagine a world where he had a future. Til then he would bury himself in Peg. Rolling back, he reached for her, her soft flesh so warm and inviting. This was where he felt most alive…..

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18 JAN 43

Panic!DarknesswaterrushinginearssweetjesushelpmeIdon'twanttodie!

Fighting with lines, a heaviness pulling the body under. Waves breaking over head filled with noise, panic, fear and thoughts of apple trees. Why apple trees? No time to think about that now, goddammit! Keep head above water, primal urge to keep the organism alive. Light, sweet air, rushing water. Muscles aching, lungs burning. Fingers fumbling with the slippery, cold metal of the release harness. Free of the silken shroud, able to kick upwards. A world of water and noise. Different to the noise of death, flame and screams of anguish of just minutes earlier. More desolate, though, more terrifying. Alone, adrift at sea. Fumbling for the straps on his Mae West, O'Conner kicked frantically to keep his head above water.

He'd landed a couple of hundred meters from another brown-clad body off to his right. To his left and rear, no more than 30 meters or so, were two others. He recognised the white face of Barry Segal, Hellz-a-poppin's bombardier, and Freddie Ortiz the tail-gunner. He shouted at the figure to his right, but with no response. It looked like Sweeney, but he couldn't be sure. Yes, it was! The diminutive Texan was struggling to cut free of his chute, and appeared to be in trouble. No, he was free. Thank God!

Where were the rest, O'Conner wondered. Turning this way and that he scanned the area around him. No-one. Suddenly Segal was next to him, grabbing his shoulder. Too cold to talk, his face said it all. Terror, confusion and desperation. Ortiz joined them, and the three held on as best they could until Sweeney struggled over to them.

O'Conner hoped that Mike Lewis has sent their last fix via radio before bailing out. He prayed for that for the next two hours, until a little sea-plane, a Walrus O'Conner thought, dropped a raft and circled. The four men clawed their way into the boat, still not a word having been passed since they landed. Shock, terror and the cold making talking an effort beyond their means.

If the others didn't get a raft soon, or already have one, they'd be goners. Douglas, the navigator, Philby the engineer, Comrey the waist gunner, Lewis the radio man and Santiago the belly gunner - gone. Philby had jumped with a shredded chute. Comrey was recently a father of two. Just gone. Swallowed by the waves.

They barely spoke as the little Walrus landed and picked them up.Overwhelming relief at being alive, at not being the unlucky ones. Guilty at feeling that. British Air-Sea-Rescue guys plying them with alcohol that burnt their throats. Sympathetic pats on the back, cheery well-wishers, cries of "You're okay now, Yank!" All lost in a wave of noise that was internal, clouded by emotion. Crying, shaking. Cold.

Muddling his way through debriefing, the officer taking notes but sympathetic and understanding when he cried and grabbed him by the lapels. Demanding to know where his men were. Collapsing exhausted. Spinning into blackness. Peg, I need you. Hold me. Don't let them get me too. Please....