T+ 5 Hours, 30 Minutes and Counting
Seventh Draka Army Field Headquarters
“All right.” Eric rubbed his eyes and looked across the conference table at the collection of faces that appeared to constitute what was left of the Draka State’s leadership in Europe. They all looked washed out, pale except for bags under their eyes and the men’s faces starting to sprout an overnight growth of beard. Well, he probably didn’t look much better. “The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be any organized pursuit of our front-line formations as they disengage. The Euros are probably the only army on the planet right now in worse shape than we are.” Grim chuckles at that. “And we’ll be back over the mountains in-“
“A day or two, Sir.” Thunorssen shrugged. “That’s a best estimate, though. There’ve already been reports of guerilla activity steppin’ up, and I’m not sure it’s just native bushmen, either. Some of them been pretty well armed for goat herders. If we could continue our liquidation-“
“Absolutely not.” Eric glared at her- she’d just sat through the same logistics briefing as he had, for Loki’s sake! Probably that was more frustration than anything else talking, but she should still know better than to ask. “We don’t have the fuel or spare ammunition to go around looking for every cottage within ten miles. Hell, we may not even have the manpower.” One of the Draka nightmare scenarios had always been a mass mutiny of Janissary forces. It had never happened, but nothing like this situation had ever happened either, and every Citizen in the army was looking over their shoulder for the first sign of trouble.
“Bad.” Admiral Roundbush, their Naval man, spoke up. “We lost everything but Genoa round here, and that Yankee carrier is still somewhere off the coast of Italy. They hit Palermo this mornin’ and screwed up our airbase pretty badly, but we still expect to localize ‘em sometime today. When we do, we’ll hit ‘em with all we got.
“With what they sailed in with we can probably wipe ‘em out. For all the good it’ll do.” Eric sighed and nodded. Generations of Draka had dismissed the country they’d left behind, saying over and over that the Americans were weak, soft, and unable to sacrifice what was needed to truly ensure victory. They had been wrong, as witness the newest ships in the American navy sailing to certain destruction.
The Admiral continued. “From what we’re hearin’ out of the Police Zone, the other Gods-damned one is headin’ up the east coast of Africa. She’ll be in range of Abyssinia Province province inside 36 hours.” Which had three more of the Draka’s precious few remaining cities, Ithaca Nova at what had been known as Nairobi, Smithville at Addis Abbaba, and Easthaven at what had once been called Dar Es Salaam.
“Chances of stoppin’ em.”
“Fuck all.” The Navy man’s voice was flat. “We don’t have much to start with, and the Yankees sent one of their fleet carriers with that one. What we’ve got down there can’t get near it, and yo’ know what the air defenses are like down there.” The Draka could not be strong everywhere, and until now there had never been a serious air threat to the African heartland. “Radio says they trying to implement evacuation plans, but there’s not enough time. When she gets in strike range, I’d lay my life and soul we lose all three of those cities.” Murmurs all around, a barely suppressed groan. Better move on before that sunk in too deeply.
“Strategos Vashon, yo’ report.”
The Security man cleared his throat. “So far no major incidents, but we’re already seeing increased partisan activity, at least on the part of the better organized groups. Ambushes, train tracks blown up, that sort of thing. Our people in Paris, Vienna, and Munich already say they’re overloaded responding to calls for help from rear-area units and some of the camp follower types.” Wherever Draka armies went, loot-buyers and slavers followed, and there were always some willing to gamble with a not entirely pacified territory in order to get first pick of the spoils. This time, Eric thought grimly, it was going to cost them. “Italian occupied zone’s not much better. Lid’s on for now, but we’ve already had to disperse a riot in Milan with nerve gas. That kind of measure won’t last.” Eric sighed.
“Good news travels fast, hey?” Vashon looked uncomfortable.
“Ah, sir…for the last six months or so, Security has been trackin’ fairly intensive efforts by the Yankees to smuggle some of their new transistor radio sets into Europe. We think they’re in the hands of the better-organized partisan groups and military remnants.”
Eric stared for a moment, then just leaned forward and let his head come down on the table with a fairly loud thump. With arms around his head, he still managed to make himself clearly heard. “Wotan All-Father have mercy on us. Strategos Vashon, yo’ didn’t think this was perhaps worth mentioning to the rest of us?” Judging from the sounds he was hearing, Eric wasn’t the only one asking that. Vashon cleared his throat again, nervously.
“Ah, Sir…the Yankees been smugglin’ all kinds of things in since the armistice last year. We thought it would just be an internal Security matter, regardin’ pacification of newly conquered territories.”
“Well. Fucked that one right up, didn’t yo’?” Eric looked up, his eyes an absolutely frozen blue. “Strategos Vashon, I really hope yo’ realize now is the time to come to Jesus.” A murmur around the table- as Christianity had grown more and more taboo over the past few generations, profanity related to it had gotten stronger and stronger. The heir of an Old Domination family would never have allowed such to pass his lips normally. “If there are any other internal Security matters goin’ on among the several million bushmen, some of which are still in battalion-sized holdout groups and have access to military weapons because we didn’t have time to secure our Gods-damned rear areas, whose countries we have invaded and whose culture we have declared to be broken beneath our Yoke, and who are now between us and home, I really fuckin’ hope yo’ don’t wait to surprise us next time. Clear?”
Vashon looked vaguely ill. Well, he’s always wanted to do that to a Headhunter. “Clear, Sir. Ah, I do have the other figures yo’ requested.” It was plain he wanted to change the subject, and part of Eric was sorely tempted to chew the man out a little more. Making him a target for a night’s built-up terror and frustration wouldn’t help, though, and he really did want this data.
“Sir.” Vashon took out a packet of papers and started handing them around. “At the start of hostilities, the Citizen population was approximately 39 million, about two-thirds of breedin’ age. Since then, we’ve taken just shy of 400,000 Citizen casualties, mostly from that group.” Unspoken was the fact that no babies were being born to speak of either, since two-thirds the Draka of child-bearing age were in the army and the rest doing essential war work. “Leaves about twenty-five and a half million Draka of child-bearin’ age. Most of those in the Army, bout three-quarters of those deployed, but still about 8 million of ‘em at home, along with those too old and young to fight.
“Now, we about a third urban population.” Which was about as low as you could go and still have a modern industrialized state. “Unless we catch a miracle and stop that Yankee carrier, we’re lookin’ at about seven million direct casualties from the bombings. Figure we’ll have breakdown of services, uprisings in the compounds, maybe even on the plantations.” Born-serfs were usually meek, but any hint of trouble this vast and all bets were off. “So we can about double that from secondary effects. Leaves about 25 million Draka, 20 million of which can breed.” A couple gasps came from the back of the room. The Race was definitely going to lose at least a third of its population. “Most of them are here in Europe, in Italy and the newly occupied territories. Rest watchin' the Japanese make faces at us, and wonder how long that will last. We’re spread out over half the globe, and our industrial base is gone.”
Those few sentences brought utter quiet to the room. The Draka were not a numerous people, as they often reminded themselves, and nobody loved them. Now they were even fewer, and the factories that had put the sword of death and slave-chain of mastery into their hands were gone.
Eric drew out a cigarette, lit it, watched the smoke climb up to the ceiling. Fuck-all chance of quitting he had now. “Any good news?”
“Some.” Vashon shrugged. “The railways back home are mostly intact, and we’re tryin’ to evacuate as many as we can to somewhere safe. Right now that looks like the Syrian and Araby provinces, with that Yankee carrier runnin’ for Gibraltar, but a lot of those rail lines went through Alexandria. Ditto the line of communication forces in Europe and Russia. Might be able to hold Italy, might not. Wherever we can hold, though, they going to need us.”
Eric looked down at the conference. “We are the largest coherent Domination field force left within range of either of those possible refuge areas. I therefore regard it essential to the future of the State and Race that we reach one of those as soon as possible. Disagreement?” He didn’t wait. “So. We pull back for Genoa, roll up our supply lines as we go. Last port we still have. Air Marshal Vorhees, yo’ will put everythin’ yo’ have into defending that city. Admiral, coordinate with what’s left of the Navy, start makin’ plans. Strategos Thunorssen, contact as many friendly forces as yo’ can. Try to get them to join with us.” Eric pushed back from the table. Thunorssen was the only one to ask.
“What about you, Sir?”
“Me?” Eric chuckled with absolutely no humor. “I’m going to buy us time. I’m going to go see what that insolent, back-stabbin bourgeois pig-fucker of a Yankee has to say. I’m going to talk to Roosevelt.”
March 24, 1945
T+ 10 Hours, 30 Minutes and Counting
Navigation Bridge, USS Reprisal
“Confirmed, Sir.” The young bluejacket’s voice was tight with tension as he stepped forward from the radio shack. “The Watchman patrol has eight contacts coming in, more developing, all headed right for us.” From his chair on the right side of the bridge, Captain Gavin Bledsoe nodded and raised the binoculars around his neck to his eyes. Pointless, of course, since most of Reprisal’s defenses would have shot their bolt by the time the Draka ever got into visual range, but it made him feel better. It was how he’d learned to do it as a junior officer on Langley twenty-five years before, and it still felt comforting.
“Surprised it took them this long.”
Commander Guitierrez, his exec, shrugged his shoulders across the bridge. “We did muck them up pretty good with that dawn strike, Skipper. They didn’t get a good sighting on us until a couple hours ago, and the nearest base they’ve got left is about that far away by air. They must have had these guys waiting on the runway.” Guitierrez laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were mad at us. How many do you think there are?”
Bledsoe shrugged. “Dunno, Jaime.” He thought a moment. “Snakes like fours in the air, two pairs to watch each others’ tails. Their wings usually run about forty planes, and I think they’d send whatever they can scrape up. I’m going to say 35 bombers or so.”
Guitierrez whistled. “Gonna be hot before noon.”
“Yeah.” Bledsoe raised his glasses again, watching the antiaircraft cruiser Altoona cut across his ship’s to the side threatened by the Draka bombers. The Task Force was in a ring formation, six Fletcher class destroyers with Traverse City ahead and just to right of the centerline. Altoona was Reprisal’s designated close-in protection, which required some deft shiphandling from her skipper to stay between the carrier and the current threat. “I think so too.” He nodded slightly to the officer of the deck.
Throughout the huge carrier the klaxon sounded, sending her officers and men to General Quarters.
Ready Room One
The siren caught Julius Rosemont just as he was sorting through aerial navigation charts of northern Italy and trying not to think about the events since dawn. Warhammer 10, which had been only slightly overdue when he had landed, hadn’t come back after dropping her bomb on Naples- which had sent Applebaum, whose place she had taken in the strike lineup, into a quiet but thorough funk. Half an hour before he’d talked the ship’s Communications Officer into sending a message to the signals crew on Traverse City, and gotten a dispiriting reply. No indication from Draka channels of any unusual activity around Genoa, or anywhere else. It looked like Flannery hadn’t made it either.
Rosemont had seen it before, in three different squadrons as they fought their way back across the Pacific. After a while, you realized that the really dangerous cases weren’t the men who had nervous breakdowns and wouldn’t leave their bunks, or ran amok until the medics sedated them. The dangerous ones were the men who stayed sane, but became so used to danger and death that they couldn’t distinguish between the ordinary risks of war and truly foolish chances. They would mount solo patrols further and further out from base, press their attacks home even against the most withering flak fire, and eventually get themselves and their crews killed.
Flannery had been in it since Pearl Harbor, and the longest break he’d gotten from combat in that time had been the nine months they spent training up with VAH-1. If there'd been more time Rosemont could have talked him out of it or gone to the Captain, but there hadn’t. Now the severely reduced VAH-1 was his responsibility.
The pilots and other aircrew tumbled in through the ready room door as the siren sounded. Fujita still had his headband on and gave Rosemont a thumbs-up as he settled into his padded chair, and Walker gave his commander a shaky grin. He had been looking better since they landed, but there was something still unsure about his manner. Applebaum’s crew was already there, sitting around trying to figure out something to say to their pilot. Pablo Saint-Laurence, the improbable product of a marriage between a Quebecois father and the daughter of one of Mexico’s old aristocratic families, settled into the back of the room with his crew and yawned with elaborate indifference. Granted, they’d been up all night bombing Nova Cyrinica and then Palermo at dawn, but Rosemont still doubted anyone could be tired enough to sleep just now. Yarrow, Warhammer 09’s pilot, settled into his chair and looked around the room with the defensive look of a wounded bulldog. Nobody had suggested that he was at fault for a radar failure when called on to back up 08, but he seemed to expect the first accusation any moment. A few of the spare aircrew loitered around the back of the room, not saying much.
The air was tense. The mood was ugly. Usually it made sense to have pilots in their ready rooms at battlestations- it kept them safe and ready to respond to any emerging threats. The problem was, the Revenants didn’t have a tactical role. All that these men could do in the upcoming battle was to be targets for the wrath they had called down on their own heads.
“Here they come!” Captain Bledsoe swung his binoculars around, catching a hint of silvery wings glinting against the sun. Reprisal’s fighters had done their best, but she had only one squadron each of day and night fighters and the Corsairs had been used hard already. They had shot down a good third of the Snake attack force, but that still left twenty-odd bombers making their way in towards the battle group.
“Evil Eye type radio emissions, Sir! Traverse City advises they’re responding.” Bledsoe grunted. The latest intelligence said the Snakes were starting to use radio-guided bombs against what was left of the Spanish Navy, and he wasn’t surprised to see them making an appearance here. Ahead of his ship, Traverse City was forging ahead at high speed, and Bledsoe could see antennas in her upperworks stop spinning and point off in one direction. The whole point of the Texarkana class cruisers was to carry all the flag, communications, and electronic self-protection gear that carriers normally carried but wouldn’t fit on the cramped United States class design. Now they were about to find out if her designers had wrought well. Overhead, he could see a shimmering up high as the Draka bombers released their loads, still arrowing in to guide their projectiles home. Any moment now.
“Radar warning!” The young talker’s voice had gone up several octaves since his last announcement. One of the bombers up there had broken through the jamming and painted Reprisal. Now there was a slim black bomb silently dropping through the air somewhere above them, its fins swiveling in response to corrections from its launching aircraft, getting precise range data from the radar.
“Hard a-starboard!” The helmsman pushed his wheel over, and Reprisal heeled over into her turn, the island tilting crazily towards the sea as its sponson dipped towards the water. Bledsoe knew that Guitierrez would be watching the inclinometer carefully- his ship’s designers had done their best to balance the weight of the island, but if they heeled too far over they still might bend the rudder post or warp a shaft getting her back up. That would be certain death for the ship, and most if not all of the men aboard her. “Chaff and smoke, full pattern!” Around the carrier, her escorts were doing the same, and for a moment the sky criss-crossed with a crazy web of white vapor trails as hundreds of unguided rockets shot up from the task force’s decks. Then the warheads burst, burying the task force in a layer of overcast mixed with fluttering metal strips. The message canceling the radar warning had barely reached the bridge when there was a massive explosion of spray off Reprisal’s port bow. The carrier’s hull shuddered, but there were no other near misses.
Bledsoe let out a breath. “Allright, looks like we got through the first one. Helm, start bringing her back up, slowly.” The ship began to ease back to an even keel, and he looked over at Guitierrez. “That wasn’t so b-“
The last four bombs the Draka Vulture bombers had released were an experimental type, delivered to a few units by Technical Section but not yet cleared for field service. The wing commander hadn’t cared when the word came down about what had happened the night before, though, and ordered every piece of guided ordnance they could fit loaded onboard the first strike against the Yankee carrier. Two of them failed to function, the delicate electronics of their seekers wrecked. The other two worked perfectly, finding the biggest source of electronic “noise” their seekers could acquire and dropping down on it. One was still off, dropping just off Traverse City’s stern, but the other struck true. It impacted just forward of the command cruiser’s bridge, pierced her armored deck, and then the one-ton warhead detonated just outside the number two turret barbette.
There was a yellow flash, then an ear-splitting roar on Reprisal’s bridge as Traverse City vanished in a massive white fireball, a curling mushroom cloud pushing up to the heavens for an instant. The junior lieutenant who had the deck had been watching her through binoculars, and dropped to his knees, hands over his eyes. When the flash cleared, there was only a bit of wreckage still visible, already slipping under the sea.
“My God.” Bledsoe just stared for a moment, frozen. Next to him, Guitierrez crossed himself in response. After a moment, he knelt down next to the young lieutenant.
“Sir?” The boy’s voice was high, quivering. “Sir, I can’t-“
“I know, son. Don’t worry about it.” Bledsoe motioned a seaman messenger over to take the boy to sickbay. No need to call a replacement. He somehow doubted he would leave Reprisal’s bridge soon. Perhaps not ever.
“The Captain has the deck.”
1100 Hours Local Time
T+ 12 Hours and Counting
The White House, Washington, DC
“We’re ready, Mister President.” The young Army officer gave a thumbs-up from his post in the corner, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt picked up the phone. Various arrangements technical and diplomatic had taken up all the hours since dawn, but now everything was ready- including the wired-in speaker that would allow the rest of the cabinet gathered around him to hear and the tape recorder that had automatically cut in when he picked up the phone. They were through taking chances with the Snakes.
“Mister President?” The voice on the other hand was a strange sort of clipped drawl that was still alien to his ears after a life in public service. “Can yo’ hear me?”
“Arch-Strategos von Shrakenberg.” Roosevelt allowed himself a smile as he settled into his chair. “Strategos, knowing as I do what the Draka think of diplomatic niceties, I suggest we skip over the usual forms and get straight to the point.” He paused for a moment, with malice aforethought. “Of course, should you wish to protest our completely unprovoked and outrageous act of aggression against the Domination of the Draka, our ally, I am prepared to listen. But no more than sixty seconds, please, we have a great deal to do.” Secretary of State Cordell Hull choked back a laugh from his seat on the divan, and General Arnold grinned as he held a light to his cigar. He’d been sulking on and off for months ever since the carriers had been chosen to carry out MONGOOSE instead of the 8th Air Force, but this moment was too sweet not to savor.
The other end of the line was silent for a moment, and when von Shrakenberg responded he was almost spitting out the words. “No, Mister President, that suits me just fine. I’ll certainly admit that yo’ caught us on our backs. But then, it’s not our national mythos that teaches that the white hats never shoot first, is it?” Roosevelt smiled.
“Temper, Strategos. To desire an end is to desire the means necessary to that end- you know who invented that one” Roosevelt searched his memory for a deliberately crude Draka aphorism. “All looks different to the man on the stake, doesn't it?” A muttered curse on the other hand, and Roosevelt’s grin got wider. Anyone who wanted to make politics his profession learned to suppress their emotions as a matter of course, but there was no denying that after years of having to make nice with that arrogant harpy of an Archon while she looked down her very prominent nose at him this was deeply satisfying. Almost as satisfying as the knowledge that the said harpy was probably dead in the ruins of bombed-out Archona.
After a moment, von Shrakenberg mastered himself. “Very good, Mister President. Business, then. What do yo’ want?”
“You. Gone.” Roosevelt’s voice was completely devoid of humor. “The Draka are a cancer, Arch-Strategos. We took a long time to realize that while the tumor got bigger and bigger. Almost too long. We’re not going to give you the chance to grow back in another generation or so.”
1200 Hours Local Time
T+ 12 Hours and Counting
Draka Seventh Army Field Headquarters
Eric’s grip tightened on the radio microphone. He hadn’t expected anything else, really, but it was still a great deal to take in. “Why set this up at all then, Mister President? If’n that’s the case, we’re all dead anyway. Or did the lessons yo’ took from our ‘playbook’, as you Yanks say, include the stress-relievin’ powers of gloating?”
Roosevelt chuckled. “Not quite. You see, Strategos, we may have had to become a bit like you in order to defeat you, but that doesn’t mean that we want to be you. We don’t actually want to kill every Draka Citizen man, woman and child.” Which left unsaid whether or not they would do it, if they thought they had to. “We are prepared to offer you terms.”
“Unconditional surrender. Draka forces are to evacuate Europe immediately- we’ll help you with that, since I understand your logistics situation is currently a bit difficult.” Eric could feel his face going deep-red. The man really was sparing no effort to twist the knife. “Likewise the former Russian territories you’ve taken, and Turkey- we still have the son of the last legitimate Sultan around, and there are enough people there who remember self-government. We understand that things may take longer in the territories further into your Police Zone, but we still have a detailed blueprint for independent states based on tribal groupings inside a decade. The Draka are to disarm, completely. In return, we let you relocate to Madagascar- properly supervised, of course, no atomics or other nasty toys. No serfs, of course, and no activity anywhere off the island. We'll also have a list of individuals we want for crimes against humanity."
“Ah.” Eric bit his words out. “So yo’ really do want us dead, and just don’t want the deed on yo’ own hands.” Goddamn Yankee cowards. “Yo’ want us to give up all we have and go into exile near an Africa that’ll be turned over to our own ex-serfs. Do I need to point out that once they’re freed those people will not be in a gentle mood? Or what happened the last time yo’ tried to get rid of our ancestors by exile?”
“Strategos, I’m offering you a choice. If your former serfs don’t exactly love you, that’s hardly our fault. And you will not be allowed to expand again- rest assured that we will be watching you very, very carefully to make sure of that. We learned our lessons from Hitler as well, and at the first sign you’re rearming- well.” Roosevelt cleared his throat. “You know, Strategos, I’ve read your book- the one you couldn’t publish in the Domination without getting a bullet to the head from your own Security people. You said in it the Draka had to conquer or die. The first option is now closed to you. I’m offering you a third- you can change. By the time you’re done, your children won’t be Draka anymore. But you will get to have them.
“Of course, if you don’t like that choice…the second is always open to you.” Roosevelt’s voice was cool again, without the barest hint of the olive brach he’d just offered. “If you think you can regroup your Race in Italy, Syria, or on the dark side of the Moon, you’re welcome to try. Personally, I think you’ve lost a third of your number already and you’d be very, very lucky not to lose another third by the time you secured some piece of territory and got your serfs under control. You wouldn’t have the population base to rebuild your beloved plantations and factories before we came for you.
“And make no mistake, Arch-Strategos von Shrakenberg. If you don’t take my offer, we will come for you.”
Eric’s hand was white on the telephone. “I think you’re optimistic, Mister President. You missed one of our ports. I can move my army as I need to, in order to rally the Race, and your precious carriers have to be running out of atomic bombs. You can hurt us, but I don’t think you have the strength to kill us off. Much as you might want to.”
Another chuckle, but this one a bit weaker, with a cough at the end. “Strategos, my offer stands. It’ll be open for the next forty-eight hours. After that I suggest you ask Odin, or the Will to Power, or Almighty God to have mercy on your people, for we will have none. And if you doubt me…you haven’t even begun to see what we can do.”
Bridge, USS Spiderfish
In the Bay of Biscay
Commander Eduardo de la Playa scanned the sky carefully with his binoculars. He’d never thought to be here when the bombs fell on Pearl- the Submarine Force’s war was in the Pacific against the Japanese. Now, they were ready to practice the trade they’d learned in another place entirely. Their boats were new Balao and Tench class designs, with a couple improvements suggested by German refugees and a good leavening of experienced submariners who had made it out of Germany.
The diving alarm sounded, and de la Playa stood aside to let his men scramble off the bridge and down the hatch. A few moments later, nothing remained above the waves to show Spiderfish had ever been there, and a full minute later a Draka observation bomber swept impotently overhead. They had been chasing phantoms all day, and the word back at their French base was that nobody knew when the next shipment of fuel was coming in. Try as they might, they wouldn’t be able to stop the stream of submarines making their way from English ports towards the Straits of Gibraltar.
Any Draka forces that tried to move over the Mediterranean without permission were going to find that task very difficult in a day or so.
Aboard B-29B 42-6034 “Father Abraham”
Over the English Channel
Colonel Israel Washington rocked his control yoke to wiggle his wings, looking back to see the groups forming up around him for their run on the rail yards at Vienna. They’d flown a couple missions against targets in Germany before they were overrun a few months back- moving rubble around already burnt-out cities for practice, and whenever possible “accidentally” letting a few bombs hit something they knew the Draka wanted intact. Not much, but enough to get his Wing up to speed.
Now they had a chance to take this fight to the real enemy. Washington grinned fiercely behind his oxygen mask. To him, the Draka were the washed-up refuse of the Confederacy, with a lot of like-minded sons of bitches tagging along. Every one in the wing had an account to settle with them.
As he watched the bombers fall in, Washington smiled for another reason. They’d had to fight to keep their color scheme after 8th Air Force Command had said that all paint had to be stripped off to save weight. He’d had to go all the way to General LeMay and argue that removing their colors would adversely effect the men’s morale for no reason, but he'd won. Every B-29 in his sight was finished in bare metal, except for the bright red stripe on their tails.
Behind him, Washington saw the signal that meant Draka Soup and Emancipator, the tail-end ships for his two groups, had joined up. He rocked his wings one more time, then turned his nose towards the European coast. The 32nd Bomb Wing, the Bomber Boys from Tuskegee, were finally going to war.
Lt. Brown, Mr. Grey, and Comrade Syeriy on Let's Play BARIS
Last edited by ChaserGrey on 2010-12-26 02:06am, edited 4 times in total.