Bull’s-eye! He’d hit the center as if he’d done this a thousand times. William was not far behind him and landed on the outer edge of the chalk circle.

William bought them a round of beers that night, as Dick Winters had given them the evening off for a job well done. He also managed to keep Sobel busy so that he didn’t realize that the men had slipped out.

Tom, having come in second place, offered a second round.

A competition between the three had begun.

*  *  *

Tom had stopped counting how many jumps they’d racked up since then, though the number was likely in the hundreds. Every time, he felt the rush of adrenaline as he stepped into nothingness, but the sensation had taken on a comfortable familiarity. It was drilled into them to never become complacent.

“Keep on your toes today, soldiers,” said Winters as they lined up in formation on the airfield. “The wind is going to kiss you like my great-aunt Helga with the mole on her cheek.”

“Tom is going to kiss her right back!” offered John. He nudged Tom in the rib cage, but he could barely feel it with all of the layers that padded their uniforms.

“You heard it, First Lieutenant Winters!” Tom was better at playing along than coming up with the barbs in the first place. “She’s all mine.”

They lined up as usual and took their places on the perimeter of the plane. Sixteen of them would be jumping today. It seemed, sometimes, like a waste of precious army resources to practice and practice and practice as they were, waiting for the inevitable day when they would be called into action. But First Lieutenant Winters assured them that perfection now was perfection in battle.

Winters’s face was stoic, but Tom knew that Sobel had brought him up on exaggerated charges and Winters had requested that a court martial review it. After Major Strayer looked it over and dismissed it, Sobel charged Winters again the following day. And yet, despite the strain their first lieutenant must be feeling, his sole focus was on his men and the jump. He inspired confidence in the troops, many of whom saw him as a surrogate father, despite the closeness of their ages.

Today’s roster listed Tom jumping first, then several more before John took the rear. They sat accordingly.

“Hey, Powell,” said William as he helped them with flight prep. “All kidding aside, if you want to write Margaret a letter, too, I’m A-okay with that. I’m not territorial about my friends.”

Tom shifted in his seat and clasped his hands together. It was silly that a girl’s letters and photograph could elicit such nervousness in him, especially when he was not the intended recipient of either. He shrugged. “Nah, man. I’ll find some English Rose to quell my lonely heart after all.”

“Oh, gawd, you are maudlin, Tom Powell.”