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I had spent a lot of guilt and grief over the death of those dratted cats.

Not sure how I actually managed to get the dratted thing down.

“Dratted antiaircraft guns in Angers. The tail’s been hit. I think it was flak, not a night fighter, or we’d be dead. We don’t stand a chance against a Messerschmitt 110.”

Was also developing a splitting headache, anxious about Julie, and wondering why they didn’t just set the dratted plane on fire and get it over with.

I am still unbelievably sore—not from the crash but from holding the dratted plane in level flight all during that final hour.