Uncle Todd sped up and headed out onto the small track created by the plastic pylons. As he steered into the first corner, Dylan knew they were going too fast to make the corner, especially on wet pavement. “You’re going too fast,” he said loudly.
As they entered the corner, the car spun out. The Corvette left the course, sliding backward until it came to a slow stop.
“I knew we were going too fast,” Dylan bragged.
“We were going exactly thirty miles per hour — too fast for someone who doesn’t know their butt from a banana. Now watch this.” Uncle Todd shifted and drove around until he approached the corner again. “We’re going thirty miles per hour again,” he commented.
“And we’re still going too fast,” Dylan said.
“You would sure think so, wouldn’t you?” Uncle Todd answered smugly.
Just as they entered the corner, Uncle Todd shifted down hard and hit the gas pedal as if to speed up. Was he crazy? The car began sliding, but this time Uncle Todd steered sharply in the opposite direction, away from the turn. As if held by a huge hand, the car drifted magically around the corner, turning at a sideways angle almost the whole way.
“This is drifting,” Uncle Todd said. “A Corvette isn’t the ideal car to use, but it’s okay because it has rear-wheel drive. Racers use this technique all the time so they don’t have to slow down for a corner.”
“Can I try it?” Dylan exclaimed.
Uncle Todd nodded. “First I want you to practice a few things. We’ll start by cutting donuts — you have experience with that.”
“That’s easy,” Dylan said.
“We’ll see,” Uncle Todd said. “The night you broke into the junkyard, I’ll bet this is how you cut your donuts.” Uncle Todd floored the gas pedal and cranked the steering wheel to the left. Soon the car spun its tires on the wet pavement and rotated around in circles as if the front bumper was glued to a post. Uncle Todd leaned casually against the door and looked over at Dylan. As the Corvette continued to whip in circles, Uncle Todd said, “See, this is simple. Any knucklehead can get a car to do this.” He winked. “Even in a plowed field. But now let’s make the donut bigger.”
Instead of keeping the steering wheel cranked left into the turn, Uncle Todd turned the wheel to the right and let up slightly on the gas pedal. Slowly the car quit spinning around its front bumper and started to drift forward. “Okay, I’m going to keep the steering wheel just like this to the right, but I’m going to control my drift and the size of our circle with only the gas pedal. Watch.”
Dylan stared in amazement as the Corvette drifted in a bigger and bigger circle.
“Okay, I’m letting off on the power even more. Watch this.” The car drifted into a bigger circle, but still to the left, nearly sideways. The steering wheel was cranked in the opposite direction. As if sitting comfortably in a lounge chair, Uncle Todd spoke casually. “I control everything with power, shifting, and steering. It’s a fine balance that takes years of practice and skill. It’s easier on wet pavement because you don’t have to use as much power or speed. It doesn’t wear the tires as much, and it’s easier to practice. Are you ready to try?”
All of a sudden, Dylan wasn’t so sure of himself. This wasn’t as easy as he had thought. What if he screwed it up? What if he flipped the car? This was no longer a reckless joyride in a junked car. Swallowing his apprehension, Dylan traded seats and pulled his seat belt tight. “Okay, what do I do first?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“Get rid of your pride. Inside this car, no one is trying to show off, be cool, or prove anything. All you’re doing today is learning. Drive around some, changing your speed and going through the gears to get used to the power. This isn’t a junkyard now.”
“Do you have to keep reminding me about that?” Dylan said.
“I hope you never forget. Now get used to the car.”
Dylan obeyed. After a few minutes driving around and testing the controls and shift, he felt comfortable.
“Okay, now shift into first and go about ten miles per hour.”
When Dylan was ready, Uncle Todd said, “Now crank the steering wheel all the way to the left and keep adding power until you’re spinning donuts.”
Dylan felt a huge lump in his throat. This car was no wreck from a junkyard. He was driving a fifty-thousand-dollar classic Corvette. If he wrecked this thing, it would really prove that he was a big screw-up. Carefully he cranked the wheel until the car began spinning in circles to the left.
“Add some power,” Uncle Todd reminded him.
As Dylan added power, the car spun faster and faster, its front end holding to the inside.
“Okay, now crank your wheels all the way to the right. If you start to straighten out, don’t let off the gas. Add power!”
Dylan sucked in a deep breath and cranked the wheel right. This went against everything his brain told him. You didn’t add power and steer to the right to make bigger circles to the left. But that was exactly what he was doing, and as if by magic, the red Corvette started carving larger circles to the left on the wet pavement.
“Your power is overriding your steering,” Uncle Todd said calmly, his voice as casual as if he were explaining where the milk was in the refrigerator. “Keep it just like this until you feel comfortable with what’s happening.”
After the car had made five or six big circles, Uncle Todd said, “Okay, now back off a little on the power and make an even bigger circle. If you have to, steer a little to keep from spinning or going straight.”
Dylan obeyed, and soon found himself struggling to keep the high-powered Corvette under control.
“Okay, make the circle tighter again,” Uncle Todd said.
Scrambling to think, Dylan slowly pushed on the gas pedal and felt the car start to drift more. He purposely oversteered as the car slowed and slid nearly sideways into a tighter turn.
“This is awesome!” Dylan exclaimed.
After half an hour of practicing, Dylan felt like he had run a marathon. Sweat dripped from every pore of his body, and his arm muscles cramped. This was way harder than spinning donuts in some farmer’s field.
Finally, Uncle Todd said, “Okay, that’s enough for today. Tomorrow, we’ll practice this some more, and maybe practice entering a drift going faster.”
Dylan was thankful the day’s practice had ended. This hadn’t been as easy as he had expected. Driving a powerful car this way was super hard. His body trembled as he stopped the Vette and let Uncle Todd back in the driver’s seat.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You did a good job,” Uncle Todd said. “A few more years of practice and we’ll have you driving sprint cars on some dirt track.”
“Maybe I should stick to farmers’ fields,” Dylan said.
“I was hoping to get you away from that,” Uncle Todd said, grinning. “Let’s go get us some cheeseburgers.”
As they drove off the big lot and out of the industrial complex, Dylan struggled with his feelings. On one hand he was still mad at his mom and Uncle Todd and at the stupid world. On the other hand, he wished all of the boys at school back home could have seen screw-up Dylan Barstow today drifting an expensive Corvette.
The next morning, running in pouring rain, Dylan made sure to beat his uncle — he didn’t ever want to eat burned toast and grits again. As they finished breakfast at Perkins, Uncle Todd informed Dylan, “I have someplace I want to take you today. We’re driving up to Vancouver.”
“What for?” Dylan asked.
“You’ll see.”
Uncle Todd’s surprises made Dylan nervous. With the rain still heavy, they drove the Corvette north from Portland. Even when they pulled into a nursing home called Garden Acres, Dylan still didn’t know what was happening.
“There’s somebody I want you to meet. His name is Frank Bower. Frank flew twenty-five missions during the war.”
“I’ve skipped school more times than that,” Dylan bragged.
Uncle Todd gave Dylan one
of his “you just said something stupid” looks. “During the war, the average number of missions flown before you were killed was seven,” Uncle Todd said.
“Seven?” Dylan said. “That’s suicide!”
Uncle Todd nodded. “Thousands of young men risked their lives so you and I could live as free people. Their regular missions were bad, and their bad missions were hell. Not many survived. Because of that, there aren’t many of these old guys still living. I called up Frank and asked him if he would tell you about some of his missions, and he agreed. He was a waist gunner on a B-17 in Europe during the Second World War. Waist gunners shot machine guns out the sides of bombers at attacking fighters.”
Dylan didn’t really want to go hear some old guy talk about being in the war, but he knew he had no choice. He shrugged and almost said, “Whatever,” but then bit his tongue and said nothing. Reluctantly he followed Uncle Todd into a nursing home filled with old people sitting in wheelchairs. Some wandered about with long-distance stares like zombies.
“This place freaks me out,” Dylan mumbled.
“Someday we’ll all be this age,” Uncle Todd said. “Native Americans revered elders instead of throwing them away. Every person here has a story to tell. If you knew their past, you would want to talk to every one of them.”
“Doubt that,” Dylan said as he followed Uncle Todd.
Nobody was at the receptionist’s desk, so they walked down the hallway to the nurses’ station. A red-haired nurse greeted them and pointed them to the lounge, where they found an old man with a blue flannel shirt sitting near a window, staring out.
“Frank, how you doing?” Uncle Todd said loudly, announcing their arrival.
The old man turned his head and smiled. “I’m still breathing, if that tells you anything.”
Dylan glanced around. He really didn’t like being here. The old people made him feel like he was in some nuthouse. The smell in the air was like somebody had sprayed perfume in a bathroom after a bad fart.
Uncle Todd pulled up two chairs. “This is my nephew, Dylan. He’s going with me to Papua New Guinea to help me look for that B-17, Second Ace, the one I told you about. I thought it would be great for him to hear right from the horse’s mouth what it was like being a waist gunner during the war.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if sometimes I have a short circuit between my ears,” Frank Bower said. The thin, silver-haired man laughed aloud at his wit, then explained. “I can tell you how many cows my dad milked during the blizzard of 1932, but sometimes I can’t even remember my middle name. Time and war have scrambled my brain. I’ll remember what I can. Did your uncle tell you I flew twenty-five missions?”
Dylan nodded. “He said most crews only lived through seven.”
The old man nodded. “You already know more than most people. If you flew twenty-five missions, you got to go home. We called it the ‘Lucky Bastards’ Club.’ Every crew member wanted to join that club, but most weren’t lucky enough bastards.” Again Frank laughed, then looked down at his lap. He twisted at his shirt with gnarly hands. His fingers had big knuckles. “You ever smelled death?” he asked Dylan, looking up suddenly.
Dylan really didn’t like sitting here being questioned by this old codger, but the man’s riveting glare couldn’t be avoided. “Y-you mean like a dead cat?” Dylan stammered.
“I mean like your best friend drowning in his own blood as you hold him in your arms.”
Dylan scuffed his shoes on the floor and looked out the window to avoid the old guy’s stare.
“Most of my missions were in a B-17 called Miss Audrey. On my third mission over Germany, my ball turret gunner, Jamie, took a twenty-millimeter round through the stomach. It didn’t kill him right away. His beating heart kept him conscious for about ten minutes, the longest ten minutes of my life. Bled all over everything.
“They could never wash away the blood, and I didn’t like flying in Miss Audrey after that, ’cause she always had the smell of death. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. When you died, you really died.” Frank stared out the window as if remembering, but then shook his head. “Uh, where was I?”
“You were talking about your crew members,” Uncle Todd said.
“Yeah, well, our crew, we were a family. I still remember the boys like brothers. Big Sam, the pilot. Andy, the copilot. Billy, the navigator. The bombardier, a farm boy called Luther. Mosley, the tail gunner. I was a waist gunner. The other waist gunner was Max. After Jamie died, we got another ball turret gunner. We called him Shorty, ’cause he was small enough to fit down in the ball turret. The top turret gunner was Sonny. Luke was the radio operator.”
“Did you ever want to be a pilot?” Uncle Todd asked.
Frank shook his head. “If I’m going duck hunting, I don’t want to row the boat.” Frank laughed and coughed at his own joke. “What else do you want to know?”
“If it was so dangerous, why did you join the air force?” Dylan asked, his voice accusing.
“I guess I joined because I was patriotic, and at the beginning it was this great adventure, being flown across the Atlantic Ocean. We were stationed in England and drank warm beer in pubs with guys who talked with funny accents. We ate weird foods and drove on the wrong side of the road in fog as thick as soup. But the main reason we were there was to stop a madman called Hitler from taking over the world. After that mission when Jamie died in my arms, it wasn’t patriotism anymore. It was revenge, and we were just trying to stay alive.” Frank shifted in his wheelchair. “Let me explain something. I was twenty-two years old when I enlisted. Most of the boys were just kids, barely eighteen years old. But if you survived the war, you returned as a man who had been to hell and back.”
When Frank quit talking again, Uncle Todd asked, “Did you know the other crews?”
“We didn’t hang out much with the other crews, because your drinking buddy today would probably be the body bag you helped unload tomorrow. And the Japanese and Germans weren’t our only enemies. The wretched weather killed a lot of us.”
“Was that your worst mission, when Jamie got killed?” Uncle Todd asked.
Frank shook his head. “My worst mission was my last mission.”
“Did you ever get hurt?” Dylan ventured.
“Sure did. But not as bad as Sonny and Mosley.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to hear that story.”
“We do,” Uncle Todd insisted.
Frank turned to Dylan. “You want to hear that story, too, kid?”
Dylan didn’t like being called “kid,” but he managed a nod. “I guess.”
Frank took a deep breath, as if to prepare himself for something very difficult. “Like I said, my mind ain’t so good anymore, but some things you never forget. Cold dark mornings getting up before a mission, looking back into the barracks wondering how many bunks would be empty by nightfall. Breakfast. Suiting up. Briefings. Jeep rides down the flight line to the bomber. The rumble of takeoff. Seeing hundreds of planes, all in formation. The shaking of the bomber as our fifty-caliber machine guns fought off fighters. Anti-aircraft flak thudding around us, thicker than fireworks at a Fourth of July party. The ‘bombs away’ call over the intercom. The quiet flight home wondering how many crews had died that day. The shot of whiskey the brass always gave us during debriefing to calm our nerves — I can tell you it was never enough to wash away the hurt of missing crews. Then we had to get ready for the next day’s mission.” Frank turned and stared out the window. “Yup, it was rough,” he mumbled.
After several minutes, Uncle Todd prodded some. “What happened on that last mission?”
Frank shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs. “Well, the morning of that last mission, we were grounded for three hours by rain and fog that had the ducks walking. I had a bad feeling. We were flying with the Eighth Air Force out of England. We took off with almost three thousand gallons of gas, six thousand pounds of bombs, fully loaded with ammunition and all of our crew and eq
uipment. We used the whole runway.
“Our wing of fifty-four bombers joined up with hundreds of others. We flew upper formation in the number two position at around twenty-eight thousand feet. Because our mission was to bomb the ball bearing factory in Schweinfurt, everybody wore their flak vests. It was one of those days — a day for flak vests, prayers, and good luck charms. Not sure any of them helped much.”
“Flak was the name used for the exploding shells fired by the German anti-aircraft guns,” Uncle Todd explained to Dylan.
“The Schweinfurt factory made bearings for Hitler’s war machines,” Frank continued. “His tanks, cannons, planes, you name it. The German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, knew we were coming that day and threw every fighter plane they had at us. Our own fighter planes kept us company partway. We called them our ‘little friends.’” Frank paused. “You don’t want to hear the rest,” he said, his voice almost pleading.
Uncle Todd reached over and squeezed Frank’s shoulder. “Only if you don’t want to tell us.”
Frank bunched his lips and swallowed hard. “What the hell,” he said. “We crossed Belgium and had almost reached the German border when our ‘little friends’ waggled their wings to tell us they were running low on fuel and had to leave us. They had just left when the German Luftwaffe fighters jumped us. I heard the top turret gunner, Sonny, scream, ‘Bandits ten o’clock high,’ then ‘thud, thud, thud, thud.’” Frank pounded his fist against his wheelchair. “Our plane lurched like a big boot had kicked us, then everybody on Miss Audrey started protecting their side of the plane. With all of the fifty-caliber machine guns firing, you never heard such noise. Some nights when there’s thunder, I can still feel Miss Audrey shaking.
“For the next hour they hammered us, attacking from every direction. Parachutes floated everywhere, but we all fought well that day, never backing down. We didn’t panic like in the movies. That was Hollywood. We all knew our jobs and we did our jobs well. I’m talking to you today because we did. We looked death in the face and handed the Germans some of their own medicine. There were many enemy pilots that day who died wishing they had left us alone. Everywhere I looked there were flames and exploding planes. I saw bodies and pieces of airplane falling like rain. God, it was bad!” Again Frank quit talking.