Gil knew Junkers and Heinkels whose synchronized engines called out from the darkness above his farm, the migratory clamor he can hear even now and say “That’s theirs!”
Enmeshed in the metal roaring of every particle of air, he stood at the edge of a field when 3 Spitfires jumped him, and inside the speed-boy-low-pushed-back-hump of the cockpit, the pilot saw him and nodded his head.
He pushed close, cheek touching the brick wall on hearing the droning bee buzz of the V1 cut out, an explosion all vibrato rolling up his legs as if a dynamo had come to sudden life beneath him.
Sitting apart on a Lancaster with others like him, their ferry to North Country safety, he cozied into a mattress, but later, unafraid, crept about the fitfully asleep and found the pilots who swaddled him in a jacket and leather helmet so he might listen to the breaking voices of all those alone with him in the air.
