I’m the first American pilot they’ve encountered and they’re curious about what I think of the German air force. I tell them that the FockeWuld 190 is a damned good fighter, probably on a part iwth our own P-51 Mustang: but the Mustang using 108 gallon wing tanks, can escort bombers and dogfight deep into Germany, and that is a tremendous advantage to the American daylight precision-bobing campaign. Although our intelligence has warned us that the Germans have recalled their best fighter pilots from the Russian front to fight against us over Germany, I tell them that the difference between the respective fighters is not nearly so important as the difference between the abilities of the pilots flying them, and that so far, Americans have proved their superiority with a ten-to-one kill ratio.
R translates this and everyone is smiling and nodding at what I’ve said except for one moon-faced guy I didn’t like the first moment I saw him.
This moon-face I don’t like or trust. He asks a question in French that causes R to frown and argue with the guy for even asking it. Finally, Robert puts moon-face’s question to me in English. If you Americans are as good as you say, then why do we see American planes falling out of th sky like hailstones – and why are you here with us?
The SOB!
We eat under the trees, our table a long board. They’ve made a huge kettle of beans and beef from the cow we slaughtered. I look down the table and see moon-face stuffing himself with stew, his beret pushed down to his eyebrows. I get up, walk over to him, take off his damned hat, and put it down on the table.
He’s furious. He reaches to his belt, takes out his Llama pistol, cocks it, places it next to him on the table, and puts on his hat.
I get up, pick up a Sten gun, unlock the safety, and stick the barrel against moon-face’s nose. One flick of the trigger would fire off about thirty rounds. Moon-face turns chalk white. I grab the beret off his head and slam it on the table.
The others choke not to laugh, because moon-face is a general pain in the ass, but finally everyone explodes.
Moon-face manages a sick smile. His hat is on the table and it stays there.
Till several leave again on a mission, leaving me behind with the old man and a few guards.
As I try to get some shut-eye, it starts snowing. Groan. This is not helping – it will delay my getting over the Pyrenees even longer. Wish I could go out on the missions. Wish I had an airplane with loaded guns….
c. GCYI