Bombardier Vince Evans sighed and tried rubbing his sleeve against the plexiglass dome before him. He knew it wasn’t going to do any good, but he couldn’t help himself.

The nosecone of the Memphis Belle was covered in the splattered and streaked remains of a horde of black flies. Spring had come in England, and the flies had come with it.

“Sir, just to let you know, I can’t see a damn thing up here.”

“Can’t help it. The Brits bit that base on a swamp. Something about the morning fog providing a natural cover. Plus, you know, bugs.” The pilot said. There was a brief pause, and Evans hung his head. “Besides,” came the voice again, “aren’t you supposed to be looking down the bomb sights?”

Out of the corner of his eye, something caught Evan’s attention. He turned his head, and noticed a black speck moving along the dome. It was like one of the splattered flies had come back to life.

Four more dead flies started moving. Then a dozen. Then twice that again.

They weren’t flies at all, he realized, maybe too late.

“Contacts! Contacts!” Vince Evans shouted into his radio, as his blood went cold.

Memphis Note
The Memphis Belle was the first B-17 bomber to fly 25 combat missions with her crew intact. She was named for the pilot’s girlfriend, a Memphis resident. The Belle was purchased by the city of Memphis after an extensive bond tour. Unfortunately, the city had issues with maintaining and protecting the aircraft. After changing locations and hands a few times, the Air Force took back possession of the bomber, and installed it in their museum in Dayton, Ohio.

The drills for the wells were arrayed out across the grounds, constant everywhere he looked. If expectations were to be met, then they’d need everyone of them pumping out water every second of the day.

From the deck of his make-shift office, watching the workers swarming like ants over the skeletons of half-built buildings, he had his doubts; about the wells, about the expectations, about it all.

He tossed the dregs of his cold coffee to the dirt, left the tin cup on the wooden railing, and hobbled down the stairs to start his rounds. Checking his wristwatch, he grunted. Pain still shot up his arm every time he twisted his wrist around like that. His wife had tried to get him to change his watch to a different wrist, wear it differently, or even take up his father’s pocket watch.

But he couldn’t do it. That’s how men wore their watches in the trenches of the Great War. That’s how his compatriots had worn them when they’d died, and the pain was necessary reminder of why this new powder foundry was so important.

From here, the fury of war would be born, a war end all war.

Memphis Note
During World War II, one of the largest explosive powder manufacturing points in America existed just north of Memphis, outside of Millington. The factory required more water per day than the whole of Memphis consumed, and employed over five thousand people in a hundred buildings. It was one of the forges from which the American war effort sprung to life for World War II.

“I’m astounded we’re sending a box of these lovely things so far away.”

The cigar box made a soft thump as he dropped it back in with rest of the gifts.

“Those people live on entirely the wrong side of the world to know what a good cigar is.”

Turning around, I saw the former mayor’s thick eyebrows pushed together in consternation, facing down at the cigars.

“All the more reason for them to have them, I think,” I said, clicking my tongue.

Walter didn’t look up at me, he didn’t look at anything.

“You’ve never had to fight, have you, Herstein?”

The question from the former mayor was uncharacteristically blunt.

“No. I was in college during the Great War, and then beyond draft age by the Second.”

“The people in Enshede, they were between Germany and the rest of Europe.”

He paused, contemplating.

“We told everyone that aiding them would bring back one of our largest cotton buyers. But that’s not why I did it. I did it because I remember exactly the sort of hell war is.”

“I know, Walter.” I offered him a hand up from the couch. “Now, come on, they want to give us medals.”

Memphis Note
After World War II, Memphis “adopted” the Dutch city of Enschede, previously one of Europe’s textile centers, and the purchaser of millions of dollars of cotton per year. Enschede was bombed over 30 times during World War 2, destroying much of the city. Four Memphis men, all Rotarians, were awarded the Knight of Orange Nassau from the Dutch government in honor of what they had done for Enschede.

Dearest Jerry,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I never know where you are these days, but I hope it is safe, beautiful and warm.

Resolving an issue from my previous letter, the neighbor and I have reached a level of amity after her dog destroyed our flower beds last month. She purchased new flowers and helped me plant them. We shared lemonade after, and I think we may yet become friends, or at least lonely wives with their husbands off to war.

I’ve taken a job at the Ford Motor plant, machining engine parts. Before you say anything, it was your mother’s idea. She told me there was no point in me staying home all day fretting. If I wanted to get you home faster, I should help out the war effort. Now she watches the children during the day, and I go to work at the factory. Who’d have thought that I’d be the one filling your shoes?

I don’t know what they’ll edit out of this letter. But whatever they redact, I ask that they leave the last line untouched.

I love you, Jerry. Come home safe to your family.

Yours,
Julia

Memphis Note
The Ford Motor plant closed its doors in 1940, laying off over a thousand employees. Two months later, it re-opened, retooled for the war effort. Instead of making cars, it was manufacturing precision parts for aircraft engines.