May 20, 1943: Bassingbourne, England:
"Hey Slocum! You're famous!"
James shook his head and chose to ignore the shout of fellow pilot Charlie McGuire.
"Slocum! You deaf?"
James sighed and said, "Stow it McGuire..."
"Get a load of this guy..." James heard McGuire tell one of the other men in the Quonset hut that served as the Mess Hall for the pilots of the 324th Bomb Squadron. James was eating and thinking about a letter he had started... and stopped several times. The letter was to his mother. James had been thinking lately - flying long missions that often boiled down to hours of boredom sandwiched around minutes of sheer terror when German anti-aircraft weapons and Luftwaffe fighters were tangling with the bomber stream... well, that left a lot of time for thinking.
What he had been thinking about was the fact that he was dropping bombs on Germans. And his mother had been born and raised in Germany. For all he knew some of the Luftwaffe fighter pilots trying to shoot him out of the sky - and whom his crew was trying to shoot down themselves - could be distant relations. Simply put: James felt a little guilty.
"Aww, leave 'im be McGuire," one of the other guys said. "He had a tough one."
"Yeah, yeah, that's what I'm saying!" McGuire said loudly.
James had finally had enough. "What are you talking about Charlie?" he asked, turning to look at the other man.
"This!" McGuire waved some papers at him.
"I think the Army can find you better toilet paper than that, McGuire," someone said and there was some subdued laughter.
"Shut up," McGuire said in a surprisingly good-natured tone. "What I have here," he waved the paper again, "Is the squadron newsletter our Army overlords think our English hosts want to read about our brave flyboys.
"So what's it say?" someone asked.
"Well, apparently whoever Ned Rawlings is," McGuire said and halted when someone piped up, "He's a sergeant in the motor pool."
"Thank you, Lieutenant Villers," McGuire said, rolling his eyes. "Well... apparently Rawlings is also a budding newspaperman because he wrote an article about our friend Jimmy."
James frowned; he hated being called Jimmy. That's what his uncles called James' father and he had always felt he should keep himself distinct from the father he never knew.
But curiosity got the better of James. "Really?" he asked. Then he remembered talking to some eager beaver sergeant asking for details about their most recent raid on the French city of St. Nazaire.
"Yeah, really," McGuire said as he walked over and tossed the paper on the table beside Jimmy's mashed potatoes. "Here, read..." he said and walked away.
The headline read "Youngest Pilot in the 324th Branded a Hero" - Jimmy groaned, knowing he'd never live this down.
He read:
James Slocum is a young pilot with the 324th Bomb Squadron - in fact the youngest pilot currently stationed at Bassingbourn. Since his boyhood in Brooklyn he has always been fascinated by flying, and since joining the Army Air Forces, he's worked tirelessly to become a skilled B-17 pilot.
Last week, Slocum and his crew were assigned to participate in a bombing mission over St. Nazaire, a key industrial target in German-occupied France. The mission was considered high-risk, as the Germans had heavily fortified the city with anti-aircraft defenses and fighter planes.
Despite the dangers, Slocum and his crew were determined to complete the mission. They climbed aboard their B-17, which had been carefully loaded with bombs and ammunition, and prepared to take off.
As they approached St. Nazaire, the plane was hit by heavy anti-aircraft fire. Slocum fought to keep the plane flying and on course, but it was clear that they were taking serious damage. The plane's engines began to sputter, and the crew could hear the whine of bullets and shrapnel ricocheting off the metal fuselage.
Despite the chaos and danger, Slocum remained focused and calm. He made sure his crew was aware of the situation and gave them instructions on how to react in case of an emergency.
With smoke pouring from the engines and holes in the wings, Slocum decided to head back to England. The trip was long and nerve-wracking, as the damaged plane struggled to maintain altitude and speed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the B-17 made it back to Bassingbourn. Slocum carefully brought the plane in for a landing, using all his skill and training to keep the damaged aircraft under control.
When they finally came to a stop, the crew was overcome with relief and gratitude. They climbed out of the plane, shaken but grateful to be alive. Slocum was hailed as a hero, praised for his skill and bravery in bringing the plane and its crew safely back to England.
Despite the harrowing experience, Slocum was eager to get back into the air and continue fighting for his country. He knew that the war was far from over, but he was determined to do his part, no matter the cost.
"Wow, Jimmy, you're a hero!" one of the guys said in a falsetto, having read over James' shoulder. James groaned again and had a brief daydream that involved beating Sgt. Rawlings over the head with a wrench.
"Oh well, no time to bask in the glory of Jimmy's achievements," Villers pointed out. "The old man wants us on the ballfield. We have a game with the 401st tomorrow."
Good, James thought, he could take out his frustrations with a bat and ball.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
James Slocum, at RAF Bassingbourne, 1943