Sky Scorpion
by Sofia Escobar
The words I found
made other words
their interlocutors.
—Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Surge: Drafts 96–114
I.
You never forget.
Whether you are the you,
I am the you, we are the you, you never forget.
What is it to be a you? Perhaps a collective
you, the joined consciousness of remembrance
and an archive of the mind.
You never forget.
II.
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
TO ALFRED CARMINE BONANNO
(first) (middle) (last)
ORDER NO. 1257
HAVING SUBMITTED YOURSELF TO A LOCAL BOARD COMPOSED OF YOUR NEIGHBORS FOR THE PURPOSE OF DETERMINING YOUR AVAILABILITY FOR TRAINING AND SERVICE IN THE ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES, YOU ARE HERBY NOTIFIED THAT YOU HAVE NOW BEEN SELECTED FOR TRAINING IN THE ARMY.
III.
I’m sent to San Diego, California on the morning of
August 19, 1942, with rosary beads in the back left
pocket of my pants and the future of America on my
shoulders. Mae’s still on my lips, along with the words:
“If I make it back in one piece, I’ll marry you.”
I’m supposed to be a journalist. My dream of Columbia
University waits patiently in a crease of my brain, hoping
when I get back, if I get back, I’ll be the writer I know I
can be. Until then, the leatherbound journal in my bag
accompanied by a dull Ticonderoga will do.
A man sitting next to me on the plane ride there says
he can’t wait to visit San Diego, the utopian dreamscape
that promises clear skies and calm waters. I’m not sure
how to tell him this isn’t the California we’re entering
anymore. The Japanese attacked Goleta earlier in the
year and the coast of Santa Barbara was left intact, but
the beaches are now sanded with fear and a tsunami of
enemy invasion is stirring in the ocean.
Air Force Plant 19 waits for our incoming flock of men
in training. Sawtooth roofs protect the lined-up buildings
and the site covers 2,850 square feet. Dead, brown grass
squares off the corners and dry soil brushes into the air as
we step on it. The dust and pebbles lodge themselves into
the soles of our shoes, which leave modest footprints on
the ground. Basic training looks like high-school educated
boys dressed in slate-blue uniforms bringing Army figures
to life. A gold wing sits on our visors accompanied by a silver
propeller. The garrison cap is centered on my head, pointed
North, and can fold peacefully in half, flat on my bedside table
along with an Army-green Kodak 35.
The B-24 Liberator stretches a wingspan of 110 feet, our
Goliath home for the war in the Eighth Air Force. There’s
up to ten seats in our plane, sometimes filled with only
eight men, as we model a scorpion. We’ve become the
arachnids of the sky, our pincers the ball turrets.
After seventeen weeks of preparation, an Eisenhower
jacket drapes over me, custom made by my uncle,
commissioned by the Air Force. A bronze wing pin is
clipped to the lapel. The beginning of the long war starts
on December 24. We depart to Hethel, England, the
389th Bomb Group suited for combat at Station 114.
I wish last Christmas was here, but this isn’t the same
holiday anymore. The white snow has been replaced with
crimson tears, and we’re expecting a few inches. Half of
our bomber crew are gunners, and I’ve become one of the few
who chokes on bravery as I defend the mission. It’s in
my throat, sits right below my Adam’s apple, and stops me
from saying,
“I’m proud to be here.”
I’m assigned the top turret and Adelbert Earl Dorsett
has become a roly poly of a man in the ball turret. The
dome encapsulating me just skims the leather hat over
my ears and the goggles make me bug-eyed. I begin to
wonder how my new brothers are doing, where they
were placed, whether they’re still alive.
Jack Flynn is in Aircraft #43-38725, a B-17
top-turret gunner, just like me. A young man,
more courageous than I, he’s here by choice,
a continuation of his father’s legacy in the
First World War: a Silver Star of a man, awarded
with the Croix de Guerre, the French way of saying
thank you.
We first met at Plant 19, but his presence feels
like a phantom of the burrows. As a native of
the Bronx, he too recalls City Island and the
Long Island Sound. The smell of sea salt still
lingers every now and then. It’s at breakfast
where the biscuits have gone cold, and the beans
have turned bad. It’s the sugar in my bitter sip of
coffee when I fantasize too long about home,
drop my hand, and the coffee spills onto my lap,
the heat jolting me back to reality.
Our meal concludes with a priest bestowing his
blessing on us.
Take this, all of you, and eat it. Take this, all of you,
and drink from it.
Pleas for forgiveness are murmured under every
man’s breath, urging God to place His ear to our
mouths and listen. The Holy Water on my forehead
slowly dries and seeps into my skin as we begin
formation. We’re only bombing cement factories,
until we aren’t.
Temporarily based in Benghazi No. 10 Libya, North
Africa, by late summer of 1943 we join the 98th and
376th Bomb Group to train for Ploesti. I know the hand
placement for the guns now, but nothing could prepare
me for the horrors I am about to witness. In the north,
we bomb the refinery at Campina, the sun shining as
bright as ever; midday nightmares turn to bedtime
atrocity and reconvene for round-the-clock barbarity
in the morning.
Adelbert plans a visit home and asks me to trade his
seat on the plane. I’m happy to see him go, an opportunity
to restore his faith.
“I’ll make you proud on this mission.”
The news breaks three days later that his plane
went down halfway through the ride. I can feel
regret bubble in my stomach, anger whirl in
my palms.
“It should have been me.
God, don’t do this to me.”
On what would become the last walk to the Liberator,
I toss my rosary beads into the garbage. My God
wouldn’t betray me like this.
We’ve won Operation Tidal Wave, we’re a success,
but how can I call this a victory when I’ve taken the
greatest losses along with me? We flee south, watching
the lost cause planes spiral from the troposphere down to
the grass fields, burnt at the tips of the blades. Others
broke the water of the Mediterranean Sea, black
smoke filling the air and the scent of burning bodies
pervading our nostrils. The Sandman flies over the city
as explosions break out and the light from the fires
burns holes in the tarred clouds. One final aircraft
plummets into a women’s prison below, killing
one hundred innocent lives; they were all innocent,
regardless. This somehow feels worse.
Black Sunday honored us with five medals and fifty-
six Distinguished Service Crosses, an eagle puffing
its chest at the center, FOR VALOR engraved on the
rippled ribbon.
I can feel myself become a shadow of who I used to
be. My hair doesn’t look quite the same as it
frames my face, my eyes look darker in color, and
these hands don’t belong to me. There’s some blood
on my tongue, and it tastes like home, tastes like
America, tastes like freedom,
or the lack thereof.
I take some pictures as the days pass and mail them
to Mae. The letters I’ve written over and over form
a mountainous pile on the table, spilling over onto
the floor. Some of the pages are wedged between
sheets in my journal, and I use them as bookmarks
between each entry. Three weeks go by, and I mail
them off to her. I kiss the paper each time, hoping
she feels my adoration for her. I’m making it out of
this war for her, for us, for our future.
Jack flies over New York City in October, preparing for
a mission in Koblenz, Germany. Lieutenant Buthe circles
the Statue of Liberty, offering some time of reminiscence
for what we used to call home. We’re not supposed to be circling,
but it’s the most fun we’ve had so far. We pictured visiting the
city again once the war ended, knowing it wouldn’t be anything
like before. He’s in the 447th Bomb Group that is sent to bomb an
oil refinery. Bullet holes puncture the right wing and the
underbelly, but all the men make it out alive. He agrees that playing
God above the city is threefold. It’s a fine line forked in the middle
with alternate routes: one toward honor, one toward fright, and the last
toward omnipotence. Sergeant Zimmerman says
we’re the best of the best, but I’ve got this badge
of honor that’s heavier than the bodies resting cold
on the ground, and we put them there.
The new year crashes in like the high tide back home
and the missions increase in intensity. I watch a man
in the ball turret lose his life, his blood dripping
from the sky, dissipating from the pressure of the
atmosphere. Hovering over these men has brought me
lower than the ground we patrol.
Big Week starts on February 20, 1944, striking
Luftwaffe fighters for the turning point of the war.
France and Germany worked hand-in-hand for their
aircraft supplies, so we sought out urban attacks in
the night. We needed blue skies: we sat and waited
for better days to come. Sunday rolled around and it
was time to strike. Airfields near Hanover were our target
on Monday. The Luftwaffe changed their strategies on Tuesday,
with accidental bombings in Arnhem and Nijmegen.
Three days later, we finally rested after relentless
fighting. Father Costa comes to bless us as we
reevaluate next steps, but I can’t bear to listen to
the words coming out of his mouth. He reads an
Air Force prayer, palms pointed toward heaven,
his heart on the floor and his stomach in a knot.
O Lord God of hosts, you [stretch out the heavens like]
a curtain. Watch over and [protect, we pray, the airmen
of our country] as they fly upon their appointed tasks.
Give them courage as [they face the foe, and skill in the
performance of their duty. Sustain them with] your everlasting
arms. May your hand [lead them, and your right-hand hold
them up,] through all that is holy.
Amen.
“Amen.”
The ruins left behind were a landslide of bricks and barbed
wire, pouring into the roads and crumbling into rubble. By
February 25, the final day of battle was on the horizon, the
fire from destruction its beacon. Our target collides with
the Fifteenth, and the bell of air superiority begins tolling
in the distance.
April rings true as the cruelest month. Showers of
turmoil wash me from innocence. In the morning,
we hear the list of men who have been killed, and
it sounds like losing hope. It’s the roll call of those
not there, those no longer there, and those who will
soon not be there. A hauntology of World War II.
Neal Lenti and Duane Anthony Hall and Daniel
Raymond and Earl Widen and Edward Hesseldenz
and so on and so on.
May flowers into the saddest potted plant, her
petals wilting and slowly dropping off the stem.
Then, it was June.
On the way to Normandy, a Horsa glider is chalked
with the words,
THE CHANNEL STOPPED YOU, BUT NOT US.
Our planes were painted with black and white stripes,
marked so they could be identified. The clock strikes
midnight on the sixth day of the month and we begin
Operation Overlord, paratroopers relinquished from
the sky and landing behind enemy lines. The clouds
blind us and led us low to the beach, parachutes
unable to open, men dead on impact. We bomb railroads
and bridges, sometimes from just five hundred feet off
the ground. The deafening sound of explosions pierce
our eardrums, so loud the world falls almost silent. My
hands go numb from the rebound of shooting, ammo being
fed into the gun. The tails of planes are struck, the body taking
turns from upside down to right side up. Men drop likes flies
on the beach, stepping and falling and running and rolling.
Germans outline the dunes while Americans hold insides
that spew onto their legs, their blood on display for strangers,
limbs washed along the coast. I imagine being one of those
men. I’m lucky to be alive, but how do you measure luck in
this case? Who is considered lucky when the options are death
or witnessing death? I’ve developed such a tough exterior, I’m
not sure I’ll ever return to softness.
We’re sent to clean up the red sea, bodies stockpiled in
a truck, then brought to their graves. Father Flanagan
insists the men be flat in individual placements.
Those are my boys. My boys, my boys.
Later in the year, Zeitz captured Jack, a prisoner of war,
the surrounding city ablaze as a vehicle plows through,
like a mirage, slightly blurred and wet in sight, the fuzz
covering the air and hazing over into an optical hallucination.
Once they arrive to the camp, German spit lands on his eyelashes
in disgust, accompanied by the start of an interrogation. There’s
a bottle of urine under the bed and a loaf of bread on the table,
taking and eating and taking and drinking.
I feel so alone.
There are eight thousand men here.
Three months later, he embarks on the Death March, as he’s
finally released. Jack makes his way across Poland, Germany,
and Czechoslovakia by foot, the malnutrition in his bones dragging
him along. Winter is as cold as ever, women and children joining
hands as they’re forced across the land. The bite of the wind marks
their cheeks, diseases pouring out among each other.
Gangrene and Typhus and dysentery plague them until
their final hours. By May, the Long March concludes.
A total of 321 missions,
116 missing aircrafts,
17,548 bomb tonnage,
and 588 missing men, killed in action
in the Eighth Air Force, and the war finally
draws to a close.
Going home has been the only desire of mine
for four years. Home feels like a foreign land
now. The war may be over, but I’ll be fighting
this experience until the day I die. It’s a job I
desperately want to quit but can’t work up the
nerves to confront the man in charge. Freedom
is blind. I might have my life back now, but what
does that truly mean? This isn’t the life I asked to
have, nor is it the life I meant to leave behind.
I’m only twenty-four.
I feel twice as old, yet somehow younger than
when I arrived.
I pack my bag and wait for the plane to take off,
Mae in the back of my mind and regret at the
forefront of my life. The war follows me closer
than my shadow, making me look bigger than I
am. I feel as small as the day I was born. She kept
a photo album in her bedside drawer of the pictures
and letters I sent her, a collection full of memories
I hope to someday forget. I get the feeling this isn’t
possible for me. I get the feeling I’ll never be the same.
I’m not the man she fell in love with anymore.
I ask Mae for her hand in 1946, our dream coming
true, the first of many. We settle on Long Island,
establish our beginning in Hempstead. Our family
starts with William in 1946. When he turns three, our
Sweet Lorraine joins us on April 24, followed by
Marilyn in 1954. The birth of my children makes me
question my own birth. What did I do to deserve this? What
could I have done differently? In a random lottery of men who
were called to serve, my name seemed to stand out. Was this
always my destiny? I like to think in another life, my name was
skipped over, some gracious hand put me back in the deck, and none
of this would have occurred. When will I not feel this way? Is
it in the cards for me to forget? Some erasure of this couldn’t
even save me. Maybe this is forever in some lock box of a
moment. The last words out of Jack’s mouth before we said
our final goodbyes were,
We’ll never forget.
He knows this may be over, but it’s nowhere near gone.