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too low, and we end up as POWs . . . maybe. We do it your way, and there’s no chance of bailing out anymore.”
    “That’s right,” Shawn said. “But if we can keep this thing together, keep from getting too shot up, I can navigate us to a place I picked out near the coast of Holland. As best I can tell, it’s far away from any German bases. We might just have a chance of avoiding capture, steal a boat and get across the English Channel. But I’m not going to order anyone to do this. You guys have to decide. Anyone wants to play it safe, no hard feelings. You can bail out now, and the rest of us will just take our chances.”
    For several moments, Shawn heard nothing but static and the drone of the three remaining engines.
    “I’m in,” said Manzini.
    “Me too,” said Adams.
    “Not going anywhere,” said Hatcher from the tail spot.
    “We’re with you,” said MacReady, his co-pilot. Davis and Ted O’Reilly, the navigator, weighed in the same.
    “Okay, guys, then let’s do this,” Shawn said. “I’m calling it in. We’re officially pulling out. Look sharp. Things could get pretty rough here in a few minutes.”
    As soon as Shawn pulled Mama’s Kitchen out of formation, as expected, the fighters came pouring in like hornets. They came in groups of three, it seemed from every angle. After their attacks, they’d peel off then come back around one at a time. All the while, their guns blazing. His crew called them out over the intercom—“Two o’clock high, see ’em? . . . Six o’clock, coming in straight and level . . . Nine o’clock, look out, comin’ out of the sun.” Each time, the guns from Mama’s Kitchen fired back. The noise was deafening. Shawn sat alone in the cockpit, trying hard to keep the plane on a steady dive away from the formation, shouting out reminders to his crew to conserve their ammo.
    It was the scariest twenty minutes of his life.
    He looked up and saw dozens of B-17s growing smaller and smaller, fading in the distance. Would he ever see any of them again?
    As he banked, he glanced at the ground below. At least a dozen large bonfires burned across the countryside, heaving thick black clouds into the sky. Shawn realized the fuel for these fires were other B-17s, shot down on the way in to Bremen. The sight soured his stomach. After a few moments, the radios and guns of Mama’s Kitchen went silent. “How’s it looking, guys?” Shawn asked. “Somebody talk to me. Everyone okay?”
    “Seems like we’re in the clear, Cap. For a little while, anyway.” It was Hatcher, back in the tail section.
    “I can see the fighters ripping through the formation, though, to the north of us,” said Adams. He manned the top gun turret and had an unobstructed view.
    “So guys,” Shawn said, “nobody got hurt since we pulled away? No serious damage?”
    One by one, the rest of the crewmen checked in. Not a single injury to report.
    “It’s a lot brighter back here,” said Manzini. “Got several new rows of holes above my head, about six inches apart.”
    “You guys did great back there,” said Shawn.
    “You think they’re gone for good, Captain?” said O’Reilly.
    “No way to know. Most of the fighters will stay with the bombers till they run low on fuel. A lot more targets up there. What we gotta worry about are the ones heading back to refuel. That last bunch that attacked us will radio their buddies about us. Somebody’s gonna want to make us their last kill for the day. I’m going to change course every few minutes to throw ’em off, zigzag till we get closer to the sea. We’re below ten thousand, guys, you can come off oxygen.”
    “How low we gonna fly, Captain?”
    “Gotta get below a hundred feet to avoid the radar,” said Shawn.
    From this point, survival depended on not being seen. He was taking them far off course, to a place on the map Shawn had never been. As best he could tell, it was an area of mostly small fishing villages, very close to the sea. He