"Wilkins!" shouted the co-pilot. "Talk to me, pal!!" Wilkins was slumped in the pilot's jump seat, a nickel-sized hole in clear evidence in the shoulder of his bomber jacket. He wasn't sure, despite the roar of the B-17's twin engines and the whine of the Messerschmidts all around, on whether he was flying a mission or sitting by the country club pool with sleazy Myrtle. Raising his head, he looked appraisingly at Johncox, who had the lapel of Wilkins' jacket in his left hand, as he wrestled for control of the plane with his right. "You ain't Myrtle," mumbled Wilkins, who was interrupted by the navigator who was in a fluster, yanking off his headphones and shouting over the engine noise "the fucking ball turrets gone and the tail section's about to come fucking off and Parrelli says he's got plenty ammo but he needs a chute or he's coming up here with us!"

A distant howling was heard from Parelli, interspersed with the intermittant fire of his machine gun. Johncox said "give him yours!" and the navigator said "kiss my ass, Kilroy! Give him yours!" Wilkins felt like a quick snooze might do him some good, but he was re-awakened by somebody lifting him by his shoulders, and he felt some pillow-like object being removed from under his butt. "Here!" said Johncox, "give the wop Wilkins' chute! He ain't gonna make it anyway!" This remark clarified the situation for Wilkins, and he reached out despite the pain in his shoulder and put a death grip on one of the chute straps. During the struggle over the chute, a German plane raked the fusillage, spent slugs tinkling across the flight deck. Wilcox's grip suddenly loosened, and he gave Wilkins a puzzled look as he slumped against the side glass, a neat trickle of blood forming a rivulet behind his left ear. "Oh FUCK!" yelled the navigator. At this point, the nose of the bomber rose, both engines reached a deafening crescendo, and Parelli could be heard screaming "MOMMMMYYY" at the top of his lungs, as the navigator tumbled backward at high speed, finally coming to rest in the hole left by the destruction of the ball turret, spread-eagled with his ass in thin air and his fingers and shoes clamped on the rim.

Wilkins yanked back on the rudder, saying "hey, I've got it. Stop all the damn whining." Looking out the side glass, Wilkins was amazed to see a Mustang wing-to-wing with him, the pilot giving him the thumbs-up sign, then vanishing in a hard banking left turn.

Wilkins glanced behind him and saw Parelli holding onto a brace in the fusilage while trying to pull the navigator out of the turret hole. The navigator had his hand firmly clasped on Parelli's boot, but was unwilling at first to let go of his other suspension points, but finally swung his other hand over, his legs falling through the hole. Wilkins continued to watch as the suddenexposure of the navigator's legs to the 220 mph wind howling along under the plane suspended both crewmen in a human rope that threatened to slither out into oblivion the second the tailgunner lost his grip. He didn't though. At last, the navigator's thrashing legs gained the edge and he hoisted himself back into the B17.

Wilkins breathed a sigh of relief, then saw the slow malevolent opening of flack blossoms in front of him. The bomber rolled over the first flack burst like a ship scraping hull on a coral reef at full sail. It took two more bursts before the impact finished the job of severing the tail section which the fighter had started. Therewas a loud and sudden ripping sound, a blast of icy wind from the stern, and then the nose rolled down. Wilkins grabbed the chute, trying to walk, then crawl to the end of the bomber, then luckily the plane yawed, dumping him into the air.

With his wounded shoulder, Wilkins had a hard time of it trying to wrestle the parachute back onto his body. The straps seemed inside-out, twisted, and as he struggled to straighten it out, he inadvertantly grabbed the rip cord, which ripped the apparatus out of his hands. He watched the open chute vanishing above him.

He had some time to look around, but not much time. Below him was a thick coniferous forest. Above him he could hear the sound of the passing bomber fleet and their attackers, the pop and boom of flack. Behind he was surprised to see the tail section swirling down, spinning, spinning faster, until helicopter-like, it seemed to rise. By the time he looked down again, he had smashed into a huge Blue Spruce, feeling a series of incredible hammer-like blows which bent, folded, rolled him as he plummeted down through the branches, gradually slowing, the blows duller but more massive, and a final punch to the stomach....then silence and darkness.

At last, he opened his eyes. He was slung across the lowest fat branch of the tree, some eight feet off of the ground. He was wearing a very strange cloth covering, like the skin of a cactus. His eyes focusing, he saw the coating was in fact thousands of pine needles protruding from his clothing. He looked up to see a clear tunnel through the trees branches.

"Holy shit" he said.
"Excuse me?" replied Priscilla.
Wilkins gazed in wonderment at her, at the leather chairs, the coffee cups.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're still right here."
"Oh. Good."