I climbed through the canopy and jumped off the wing. Silver followed, and Chip came behind, climbing out his own hatch forward of the rear gun turret. He stood on the wing, gazing critically at the Australian lads getting out of their plane. Then he exclaimed in his Texan drawl, “Aw, fer cryin’ out loud.”

About an inch off the top of their tailfin was shot away.

“They took a hit,” Silver exclaimed. “We shouldn’t have chanced it with a Messerschmitt!”

“We didn’t have a choice,” I pointed out.

Chip laughed. “The Kraut pilot didn’t do that. I’ll bet that new Australian gunner did it himself. Rookie mistake. You can’t fire straight behind you without hitting yourself in the rear end!”

“Look at the turret,” said Silver grimly, pointing.

One of the Perspex sheets in the dome was missing. The panel was completely blown away.

“Dougie Kerr didn’t do that himself. They took a hit,” Silver repeated.

One of the other turret panels had a small jagged hole in it. It was no rookie mistake. A German bullet had gone through one side of the dome and come out the other.

I’d nearly lost another kid.

I squeezed my eyes shut and steadied myself with one hand against the cold hull of the plane. When I opened my eyes, breathing again, I could feel the blood burning in my legs.

“Steady on, mate,” Silver said, grabbing my elbow. “Not enough porridge this morning?”

But Dougie Kerr, the Australian wireless op and gunner with the gingery hair like a bottle brush, was alive and well on the ground, and so were his tall pilot, Harry Morrow, and his baby-faced navigator, Gavin Hamilton. All three were chattering like excited sparrows to the ground crew who came to take care of the planes.

“They’re all right,” Silver said to me quietly. “Stop acting like an old woman, or everyone will notice.”

Chip leaped off the wing of our plane and scrambled onto the one next to us to get a look at the damage to the turret dome. He let out a long whistle.

“Must have made a hell of a bang going through! That Aussie gunner had a close shave! You know what? I’ll bet he didn’t even notice. Probably too busy kicking himself for shooting up his own plane. If he knew he nearly had his crazy hair trimmed by a German bullet, the whole crew would be up here poking at the hole and patting him on the back!”

We pointed out the damage to maintenance, but they couldn’t sort it, and told me my new lads would have to fly with holes in the tail and turret—or a quick fix of cardboard and sticky tape until the Air Transport Auxiliary could ferry another plane to us and take this one away to be mended properly.