A Matter of Time | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: A Matter of Time | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ruth Ann Moore
11/05/09
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It was only a matter of time. He would soon see them standing there as sentinels, issuing and receiving the brave. The expanse of water far below roiled, lashing against the battle ships with the same ferocity in which this war had waged. Captain Tray Andrews held the throttle firmly as the B-52 shuddered beneath his grasp. The vibrations of the aircraft reinforced the harrowing escape they had made, that is if you could call it an escape. Heavy wire already held much of the frame together. Half of his crew lay dead or dying in the riddled shell of this behemoth. His co-pilot, and best friend, lay dead in the seat beside him.

It was only a matter of time. He would bury his men. He would look their wives and children in the eye and be overwrought with sorrow; their pale faces stricken with grief. They would never again embrace these brave men, love them, learn from them, or grow old with them. He would yet again wonder why he had been spared, why the good had to die so young, why their sick and twisted adversary still lived to see another day, while countless millions died senselessly.

It was only a matter of time. He would complete his last two missions and be able to go home. But how could he go home and face each new day knowing the last of so many of his mates? How could he be sure he could make it that far, knowing that each mission was a dance with death? The cat and mouse games in the skies over Germany were not for the faint of heart.

It was only a matter of time. He would warm up again. The bomber was a flying ice chest, the wind whipping in through the myriad of holes left by the Junkers, and Messerschmitts. Tray’s hands rigidly held the controls, his shivers contorting his body in spasms, as he kept his focus on the horizon.

There they were, the White Cliffs of Dover, peeking over the edge of the sea; a beacon to the lost, the wounded, the broken. “Come home my Sons” they seemed to beckon, “Come to where you are loved.” The remaining men rallied, though not in boisterous shouts, but as a unit of valiant men. England was just ahead, it was only a matter of time.

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