Flight Recorder

Mythic GME Fueled Fiction

I had a little downtime this afternoon, and decided to do a short story creative writing exercise using Mythic GME and my own WW2 Air Operations Random Table.

Plot Spark from WW2 table: Medical + Truck

Character Background: Pursued + Experience

Character Description: Colorful + Helpful

Character Appearance: Brutish + Professional

Name: Edward Williams

Place: Berwick

No one would call Lieutenant (Lt.) Edward Williams a handsome man. Pitted skin from youthful acne stretched tightly over his angular face. He was an old man now, at least, that is what the new recruits said. At twenty-five, the war had taken what little of his youth had been left. Even now, his hands slick with the blood of his gunner, Corporal (Cpl.) Phillip Davies, his face remained a calm mask.

Cpl. Davies thrashed in pain as the corpsmen desperately tried to stabilize him while the ambulance raced from the airstrip to the nearby field hospital. The man’s abdomen was covered in red, blood-soaked bandages. Edward was thankful he could no longer see the pulsating gash in the man’s belly. He held the Cpl’s hand tightly, the man deviating from saying prayers to calling for his mother. A glance at the corpsman told Edward that the man would not live. They were simply doing their jobs by rote. It was apparent to them the man was lost already.

Edward leaned down close and spoke calmly to Davies. “Hey, after you get out of the hospital, lets check out that new theater troupe in Berwick. I hear they have a real pretty leading lady.”

Davies’ eyes were opened wide, the whites showing all around his brown irises. They cut toward this familiar voice. He choked a little on blood that oozed from his mouth. “Y-y-you hate…the…theater.” He managed to get out.

Edward brushed the man’s hair back from his forehead. It was almost too long for regulation. “Nah, I was just waiting for the right show. As soon as we drop you off, I’ll go pick us up a couple of tickets.”

Davies tried to smile, his blood-stained mouth contrasting against his skin gave him a macabre mask. He was whiter than the unsoiled bandages in the corpsman’s hands. His body shook with a sudden seizure, and then he was silent. His eyes were glassy and looking at something beyond Edward. The roar of the ambulance truck was suddenly very loud in Edward’s ears. He wanted nothing more than to be out of it.

He still wore his fur lined flight jacket, and he was suddenly very hot. Releasing Davies’ still hand, he peeled off his jacket, smearing his friend’s blood over the sleeves. The corpsman went to close the youth’s eyes, but Edward knocked his hand away. This was his duty; Davies was his responsibility.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and closed the staring eyes. As his fingers pushed the corporal’s eyelids closed, he traced a line of blood across each lid. Davies looked like an ancient warrior, bearing his face paint. Only this warrior had entered his eternal rest, his battle finished.

A ragged breath that neared a sob escaped Edward before he could compose himself. The corpsman looked away, busying himself with putting away material. The ambulance was puttering to a stop. Two other medical personnel rushed out to the truck, taking Davies out on his stretcher. Edward sat staring at where his friend had left him.

“You ok, sir?” the corpsman said with concern.

Edward looked up and nodded. “I’m fine, sergeant.”

“Is any of that blood yours, sir?” he motioned to Edward’s face.

The Lt. had not realized the blood of the pilot, Lt. Archie Thompson, had sprayed over his face. The sight of the other man slumped over in the pilot’s seat flashed before his eyes. A jagged piece of shrapnel jutting from his chest. Edwards shook his head.

“No, not mine.”

He stood up from the rear of the truck and began walking back to squadron headquarters for his debrief. He could see his A-20 Havoc, parked just off the runway, surrounded by the fire brigade and maintenance. Of the three crew members, he had been the only one uninjured. Ironically, the plane was hardly damaged. Only a few holes where flak bursts had spread their deadly metal. The soft bodies inside had not been so lucky.

The squadron HQ tent was stuffy with bodies as he entered, chatter filling the area about the latest flight of Havocs returning. Edward received a few pats on the back as he walked to one of the empty chairs. He did not acknowledge them. He barely felt them. He barely felt anything.

When it came his time to regurgitate what had happened during their flight, he relayed the facts back to command. They had flown in at 5000 feet, as ordered, and dropped their bombs on the artillery position. The Germans below offered little resistance, so Lt. Thompson decided to make a second pass, flying low to strafe with the .50 calibers.

A small amount of 20mm anti-aircraft opposed them, but it was light. Thompson scored several hits on the remaining artillery positions. He then began to ascend back to their prescribed altitude when an 88mm opened fire. The flak was heavy but poorly aimed. Thompon held their course. They circled wide around the area, passing over one final time at 5000 feet to reconnoiter the damage, and an 88 mm shell burst adjacent to the plane. Thompson was killed immediately; Davies was severely wounded. Edward flew the plane back across the channel, landing at their airfield near Berwick. The plane was landed successfully, but Davies died on the way to the medical tent.

It was all said with controlled professionalism. No choking sobs here. He was dismissed and was taken off the roster until a replacement crew could be formed. Likely, he would be back on duty in a day or so, with the steady influx of new guys from the States.

He somehow ended up back in his officer’s quarters, not remembering the walk. He washed the blood of his fellow crewmates from himself, then pulled a clean uniform from his footlocker.

He straightened his hat in the small mirror. He was off to the theatre.