Date: Tue, 30 May 2000 15:11:42 -0500
From: Willy B <haztech@email.msn.com>
Subject: Flak Bait part 1

I honestly don't know if this story is acceptable. The violence is not
sexual in any way but it does take place during WW-2.
As to which catagory it falls under, I leave that to your best judgment. It
is a very different story and I admit doesn't really fall into an easy
description. I can say that the core relationship will be between two
"almost" sixteen year olds.
Please tell me if I need to edit anything out!   I will.

Thanks, Willy B


Flak Bait

Part 1



	"A'right boys, move your asses!" the ground crewman, sent to waken
the crew of 'Double Trouble' at four A.M., yelled cheerily as he turned on
the lights.

	"Michael Goldman yawned and kicked himself upright, ignoring the
round of profanity muttered by his crew mates. "Shit! It's cold." He pulled
his blanket around his Five foot seven, thin bordering on skinny, frame and
stood to retrieve his olive drab coveralls as quickly as possible. Looking
around at his nineteen- to twenty-year-old bunkmates, he noted again how
everything was drab and green, not just their clothes. "Long night at the
club?"

	"Yeah, until I started losing," Robert said under his half-lidded
bleary eyes. "We must really be desperate to have you here!" He playfully
flung his pillow at Mike who ducked easily. "How old are you again,
Shorty?"

	"Eighteen!" Mike replied loudly to his friends who didn't believe
it for a second. Actually he was an older looking fifteen, but he and his
dad had been able to convince the overworked and tired recruiter that he
was a babyfaced eighteen year old. His dad had reluctantly agreed to help
him after they had heard the rumors about what the Nazis were supposedly
doing to the Jews in Europe. He had been surprised by the lack of
information in the papers, but then the paper was always filled with what
had to be more pressing war news.

	Mike considered himself lucky to get posted to gunnery school after
basic, and had even embraced his training in the Sperry ball turret which
he now called home. He'd smiled at the shudders of the others at the
thought of being locked in the tight little bubble in the belly of their
Fortress. He had been brutally shaken out of his feeling of invincibility
when he and some others had helped scrape the remains of a fellow ball
gunner off the insides of a turret after their second mission. Today would
be his fourth mission. The others had all been considered `practice runs'
for the rookies.

	The crew of `Double Trouble' proceeded to their breakfast and the
coffee that waited to help clear the cobwebs out of their heads. The others
continued to tease Mike about his lack of interest in the bars and local
women the others found so interesting. He had naturally gravitated to the
ball games the local kids, many his own true age, played around the town
when he had the time to visit. They had accepted him as their own and
included him in whatever they were doing. Mike had thought he was going to
die when the mother of one of his English friends had guessed the truth
about his age, but had promised to remain silent as long as he promised to
`look after himself'.

	He had curtailed his activities around that youth immediately after
the meeting with his mom. He was too confused by his feelings. He had
increasingly found his new friend more and more attractive, to the point he
thought of him as beautiful. He couldn't put it into words, but thought the
friendship was becoming more than that and couldn't admit that was
possible. Those kinds of feelings weren't allowed by his upbringing and
family, but he felt the loneliness press down hard on him.

	Mike was brought out of his private thoughts by the command that
brought the room to attention and the unveiling of the day's target. It was
a factory on the outskirts of Berlin. His stomach did somersaults; they
were going to the heart of the beast (as his dad would say). `Keep your
bursts short,' he thought to himself. `This is going to be a long trip!'


	'Double Trouble' clawed through the cold February dawn sky. They
were in their slot in the formation and proceeding over the English
Channel.

	"Don't get lonely down there!" James, one of the plane's waist
gunners yelled over the roar of the engines and the wind noise. "Stay
alert! I'll see you later!" He helped Mike get folded into the turret and
closed the hatch over the kid.

	James shook his head as he returned to look out from his position.
He really should say something to his superiors. They were supposed to be
fighting for kids like Mike, not with them. But, as far as the Air Corps
was concerned, the kid was eighteen and, he had to admit, the kid did know
how to shoot. Mike had been credited with one `probable' kill although it
couldn't be confirmed. Still he couldn't stand the thought of losing their
little virgin brother. The chance of their making it through all twenty
five missions of their tour was slim, all the members of the squadron knew
that. He hoped Mike wouldn't wait too long to find some woman to fuck his
brains out with. He deserved that before it was too late. Besides, it might
help clear up his acne.

	Mike spun his turret around to doublecheck the function and fired a
quick burst from the twin fifty-caliber machine guns he controlled.
Satisfied that everything was working, he began looking out between his
drawn up legs through the sight for the targets he was sure would appear as
soon as their escorting fighters had to leave.

	"OK, our little friends are peeling off, we're on our own," the
pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Keep your eyes open." Mike picked
up his scanning of the space below. Despite the cold, he was sweating
profusely in his heated, heavy flight suit. He always seemed to weigh five
pounds less after each mission, no small feat for someone who was only one
hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, like he was now.

	They flew on for what seemed like hours to Mike, although it had
just been minutes. He punched his left thigh to alleviate the cramp that
always wanted to form there. He barely noticed the four small dots
ascending towards the formation. The flight was too far inland for them to
be friendlies. "Four bandits, eight o-clock low." he calmly reported, using
the clock as a reference, with twelve being directly in front of them.
Thankfully, the four he watched were still too far away to be a threat.

	"Bandits, twelve o-clock high, maybe twenty, thirty!" Lewis (Lew),
in the top turret, yelled suddenly. Mike fought his instincts and kept
himself faced to the rear. His chance of getting a shot at a fighter head
on were slim to none. His Fortress started to vibrate and shake as various
guns on the top and in the nose started firing at the unseen enemy.

	Suddenly a stream of tracers arced by his turret as he tried to
make himself as small as possible. He could hear the ticks made by some
rounds as they struck and passed through the metal above and around him.
The firing stopped just as quickly as it had begun. Two fighters streaked
past, their black crosses clear in Mike's vision. He fired a quick shot at
the second one and was surprised to see some debris fly away from its wing
before it flew away. He knew he hadn't done enough damage to destroy it but
maybe it would think twice before coming back. Actually, he knew he had
been very lucky to hit anything at all.

	"...ilot to belly! Mike?" their pilot's voice came through his
headset. He had been checking on everybody's condition.

	"I'm OK!" Mike replied. They had survived this attack so far. He
did see a trail of black smoke trailing down behind them. One of their
number hadn't.

	"Did anyone see any chutes?" somebody asked. All the answers were
negative.

	"Mike! Three o-clock low, trying to sneak in!" Robert yelled out
from his side.

	Mike spun at a dizzying pace and stopped on the two fighters
curving towards their position in the formation. His balls tried to crawl
into his throat as he stared at the lights winking at him from the wings
and noses of the approaching fighters. The machine guns on either side of
his head started hammering away as he returned fire, hoping to drive them
away.

	"Bob's hit!" James screamed as the plane shook with each hit it
received.

	Still the fighters came on, seemingly oblivious to the combined
fire of Mike and the other Fortresses on the edge of the formation.
Simultaneously, one of the attackers pulled up sharply, flames and smoke
trailing from its stricken form, and a shell exploded near the frame of the
turret.

	Mike's foot was thrown off its control pedal as he was sprayed with
the remains of the Plexiglas on that side of the turret. A sharp pain
streaked up his left leg as he fought to place it back on its rest. When he
was back under control, the remaining attacker was gone. "Did anyone get
the other guy?" he managed to squeak out in his excitement.

	"No!" James said to no one in particular. The pilot sent the radio
operator to check on Robert.

	Mike felt lightheaded. His underwear was soaked but he didn't
remember pissing himself during that last attack! The whole left side of
his face and body hurt but everything seemed to be working. He tried the
controls again and was rewarded as another agonizing wave of pain washed up
from his leg. Realization that his underwear wasn't piss soaked came when
he reached down to his leg and found the tear in his suit. "Hey, hey,
guys?" He fought back his fear. "I think I'm hit!"


	Mike crawled painfully to look down into his position. It was out
of action. The turret's elevation controls were still working, else he'd
have been stuck in it, but it wouldn't rotate. He would have no way to
bring the remaining gun to bear on anything. His oxygen mask stung his face
and his leg was still throbbing unmercifully, but he had only screamed once
and that was when his crew mates had pulled out a jagged piece of metal
from his leg as they applied a dressing.

	He shifted his gaze back. He'd have to bear the pain and help James
man the other waist position. Robert was beyond help. It looked like a
cannon shell had almost blown him in two. He couldn't even cry for his
friend. The searingly cold wind wouldn't allow it. Plus, he told himself,
if he didn't do everything he could to get back into the fight, they were
all going to be in the same position as Robert anyway. There'd be time to
mourn later.

	The fighter attacks had finally slackened as they approached the
target but `Double Trouble' was having a harder and harder time keeping up
with the formation. They had one prop feathered and the other three engines
were undoubtedly overheating in their effort to stay with the group for
protection.

	Mike heard the rain of metal as it washed over the skin of the
Fortress. The flak that appeared was heavy but relatively inaccurate and
very few pieces of shrapnel pierced the skin. He grimaced as he struggled
upright. He knew he'd probably reopened the four inch jagged tear in his
thigh but the cold that found its way through where his suit had been cut
open did its job, making him numb. He took over Robert's position, plugged
himself back into the intercom, and looked at the clear sky dotted with the
hundreds of angry black puffs sent from the flak guns miles below them.
There was nothing to shoot back at, so all they could do was continue on
and hope they didn't run into one at the wrong time.

	"Bombs away!" The plane lurched upwards suddenly as the bombardier
sang out and released the two tons of high explosive they had fought all
that way to deliver. Mike knew they couldn't relax yet. Those fighters that
had chewed them to bits already were waiting outside the flak zone. He
didn't know if any of them would come home tonight; only nine of the
original twelve in their squadron were still there. Mike moved the
fifty-caliber around as best he could, battling the slipstream as it
continually tried to wrench his grip from the gun. He hoped he was ready
for this, he thought as he kicked a piece of Robert and empty shells out of
the way so he wouldn't trip.


	The fighter attacks came fast and furiously. The factory they had
bombed must have been important to the Germans. Mike looked around
nervously when 'Double Trouble' was finally forced out of the formation as
another engine failed. They were sitting ducks, and knew it! The pilots
came on the intercom and told them they would try to make it as far as they
could into France. Mike barely heard as he continued to fire at the
fighters that took the opportunity to swarm around the stricken bomber.
Their fire did no good as the shells slammed into the wings and fuselage.
`Double Trouble' was dying but dying hard! Finally the wing caught fire and
the remaining pilot gave in to the inevitable and gave the order to bail
out, as he tried to hold the remains of the airplane together.

	Mike bent to help James get to the window, when he heard the
violent grinding tear of the wing folding up and spinning the bomber onto
its back. He suddenly found himself thrown out of the plane, hurtling
towards the ground far below.

_________________________________________________________________________


	Paul watched the airbattle overhead with resigned indifference. The
Germans always seemed to be winning, regardless of what the French language
broadcasts from the BBC said over the secret radio his family had hidden
away. They had been under occupation since he was twelve, and now, just
short of his sixteenth birthday, he didn't see any difference in the way of
his world. He had long ago stopped his English lessons and wasn't about to
learn German either. That was the same as collaboration in his young
mind. He knew his father had often disappeared at night, but forbade them
from ever talking about it to anyone. If his dad was part of the local
underground cells, which he dearly hoped (he couldn't stand the thought of
him being with the Germans), he didn't see where it was going to do any
good.

	His shoulders slumped as he watched the flaming wreckage plummet to
the ground a few kilometers from his farm. The Americans didn't seem to be
doing much better than the English had!

	He saw the fighters circle an object briefly before flying away. He
felt his stomach tighten when he saw it was a parachute. His eyes kept
straying towards the man in the chute as he finished the last of his chore
he'd been engaged in. He dearly wanted to see this man who had probably
flown over his head day after day. He only hoped that the airman wouldn't
be dead. Maybe, just maybe, he could do something, make a small difference.
His mind made up, Paul cautiously began trotting towards the woods where he
figured the man would land.


	Michael screamed involuntarily when he landed hard, his bad leg
absorbing most of the impact. He lay in the snow on his back, ragged
breaths visible as the pain slowly ebbed away. Despair slowly permeated him
as he began to realize he was alone. He was the only one who had made it
out. Everybody else was dead. He didn't know if he would be able to walk
very far, much less run if he needed to. Besides, he admitted to himself,
he wouldn't know where to run to. He didn't even know what country he was
in.

	He heard the trucks before he could see them, and rolled into the
trees by where he lay. He hoped they wouldn't be Germans. He didn't know
what would happen if it was. It couldn't be good to fall into the hands of
the people who you had just bombed. He dropped his face into the snow and
tried to put the tree between him and the footsteps he heard crunching
towards his landing site.

	"Come out, young man," a heavily accented voice said calmly. "You
are now our prisoner. We won't hurt you!"

	Mike looked up into the face of the German officer standing to one
side. His shoulders slumped. "I can't," his voice broke. His voice hadn't
broken like that since he was eleven years old but he seemed to have lost
control of it. What would his squadron mates think? He winced as he felt
two sets of arms drag him out in the open and force him upright, which he
was able to maintain, barely.

	"How old are you, boy?" The officer looked his battered captive
over appraisingly. "Your mommy and daddy know where you are?"

	"Eighteen, and, yes, they know," Mike responded wearily, "Sir."
This guy was an officer; he seemed to smile at that anyway.

	"I think that is your first lie." One of the soldiers struck out
with his rifle butt at Mike's wound, at the direction of the officer. Mike
hit the ground with a yelp! "Come with us," the officer said as he motioned
to his men to grab the boy again. "You need a doctor."


	Mike sat shivering in the cold bare room he'd been placed in. He
tried to pull the threadbare blanket tighter around his naked body. They
had taken everything from him, including his dog tags, but they had treated
his leg and even cleaned most of his blood off of his skin. He tried to
forget the experience of being treated without any painkillers or
anesthesia. They told him those things were too tightly rationed to use on
gangsters like him. He'd been scared when they started to ask him
questions, but they had only roughed him up a little, and had left his leg
alone, when he didn't respond the way they wanted him to. He'd been
expecting and fearing torture, but had been through worse school yard
beatings as a child. Maybe they thought he was too insignificant to waste
time with. He lay down on the concrete floor of the cell. They hadn't
killed him, and had treated him. Maybe he'd be sent to a P.O.W. camp soon.


	The officer got off the phone with his superiors. This boy was a
Jew. His identification said as much. You couldn't really be sure with
Americans; circumcision was just too common amongst them. But this one was
Jewish. They shouldn't have bothered treating his wounds. He thought of
calling his interrogation specialist back, but this boy he had wouldn't
know anything of true value. He saw no need for hours of torture for so
little return. No, in the morning he would take the boy out and shoot him
himself. He needed the practice and would enjoy watching one of those
Americans who bombed his home die at his hand. Maybe it wasn't so bad
treating his wounds, it would make the boy easier to handle, more trusting.
The officer smiled, thinking of the boy's reaction when he learned he was
about to die anyway. Maybe he could get him to beg for his life before he
pulled the trigger. He nonchalantly returned to polishing the death's head
insignia on his coat.


	Paul had watched in dread as the soldiers dragged the American to
their truck. He shivered and retreated slowly, careful not to be seen. What
he was doing could get him mistaken for the Resistance and lead to his, and
his family's, torture and execution. He was almost out of the woods and
back on his father's land when he heard the voice behind him.

	"Paul?" his father spoke in his usual perfect French (he'd been a
diplomat in the Twenties). "What were you doing out there?" His dad stepped
out of the shadowy underbrush, a British-made Sten machine pistol around
his neck.

	"Papa, I was just out for a walk," Paul began.

	"And you just happened upon the American," his dad finished. "You
are very lucky the Germans did not see you! Are you out of your mind!"

	"I just wanted to see." Paul knew his father was right. It had been
a stupid risk. "Where did you get the gun? Were you out there, too? What
will happen to him? The American, I mean."

	"One at a time, please! Yes, I was out looking for the American. We
have been protecting as many as we can get to before the Germans. Second, I
do not know what will happen to him!. Most they send to prisoner camps, but
a few they kill," his dad said matter-of-factly. "They do it at a favored
place deep in the woods. I have been told it is mostly the Jews they manage
to capture, but others as well."

	"They can't kill him!" Paul was getting excited. "He's just a boy
like me! How will we know? Where do they do it?"

	"Remember, that `boy' is a soldier. He has probably killed as well,
maybe even children like himself. If he is accompanied by the pig who
captured him, then he will die." Paul's dad spat out the word `pig'. "We
have discovered where they do it. We discovered some unburied bodies. But
Paul, we can do nothing! There would be reprisals! The choice is simple,
sacrifice one American or many of us."

	"But, papa, we must do something! I don't care what he may have
done, he's on our side!" Paul couldn't believe they were helpless. His
plans to finally try to change his world himself came crashing down. His
mind clutched at straws for a solution. "What if we made it look like the
American killed them. Then they couldn't blame us!"

	Paul's father just shook his head and grabbed his son by the scruff
of his neck and started to walk back toward their home. Halfway there, he
thought again about what his son had said. It would be tricky to do, but it
could give them the opportunity they had been looking for. "Paul? We will
watch tomorrow and follow with word if it looks like they will kill him. If
we can get there in time, we will see if we can save him for you. He will
need a place to stay. Clean out the back of the cellar and promise me you
will stay here. I will not promise we will be able to do anything, but we
will try.


	Mike was still awake when a soldier came for him and handed him his
boots and nothing else. "Where are my clothes?"

	"I am afraid your clothes are beyond repair and we have nothing for
you here." The officer appeared, pulled Mike out of the cell, and arranged
the blanket tighter around the boy. "We will provide something appropriate
for your stay when we arrive at your destination. Come, follow me! And
remember, no escapes; that would be foolish and I would hate to have to
shoot you.

	Mike nervously hobbled out, following the German to the car he
indicated that snowy gray morning. He started to get scared when the man
sat next to him and he noticed the driver was the only other man in the
vehicle. He had been expecting to just be thrown in the back of a truck,
like yesterday. He started shivering again and told himself it was because
of the cold.

	"Relax, young man." The officer smiled; this was like a cat playing
with the mouse before the mouse met its end. "We will be there soon. You
will soon be safe. Everyone is too busy. I am going to take you myself." He
stared at the boy. `Meat for the dogs soon,' he thought. `Well, not much
meat. The wild dogs may starve after all.'

	The drive seemed long to Mike. He kept glancing nervously at the
calm man sitting next to him. It was freezing. He hoped that if he was
really going to live, he would receive something warm to wear.

	He felt his hopes dashed when the car turned off the road down a
dirt trail that led into the forest they had been driving through. "You're
going to kill me, aren't you?" Mike whispered, turning to see the small
pistol pointed at his chest.

	"Yes, young man." The officer sounded as cold as the air around
them. "You are going to die. So tell me the truth, how old are you?"

	"Fifteen, almost sixteen," Mike numbly responded, watching his
breath in the cold air. "My dad lied for me."

	"Do not miss him, young ma..., boy," the officer corrected himself.
"After we win this war, he will soon join you, as will all you undesirable
subhumans who infest your country, sodomising each other." He saw fire
rekindle in his captive's brown eyes.

	"Yeah, well the last time I was over Germany it was on fire!" Mike
threw his cares out the window. He was going to be shot anyway. "All of us
`subhumans' are going to wipe your Reich off the map. So fuck you!"

	The officer flushed with rage. This little pup was going to pay a
hard price before he died. He fingered his dagger with his free hand. He
was going to shove this boy's privates down his filthy throat before he
killed him.


	Paul's dad and the two others in his underground group moved
cautiously from tree to tree. He hoped they would be in time to get ready.
If things didn't go exactly as planned, they were just going to have to
watch as the `pig' executed the American. The falling snow would help
shield his team as they approached the site.

	When they finally arrived, he breathed out in relief. There were no
new bodies or blood in the area. Perhaps they were on time. If the German
hadn't picked another spot they didn't know about, that is! He quietly sent
his team members to the positions they had decided would be the best for
what they were going to try to do and settled in to wait.

	He didn't have long, as he noticed the three figures emerge out of
the blowing snow. The `pig' and one soldier were to either side of their
naked captive who moved with difficulty, favoring his right leg. The
remains of a bandage and small streams of blood trailed down the prisoner's
left. He watched as the three stopped short of the place he'd wanted them
to be in. His shoulders slumped. One of his team would be out of position
for this scheme to work. `The American is going to die,' he thought as he
continued to stare in morbid curiosity.


	Mike looked around at the small clearing they had emerged into.
This was it. His young life would soon be over. At least they wouldn't hurt
him any more. He shuddered. They had taken delight in kicking him
repeatedly in his wounded leg to the point the stitches had torn open,
leaving a last bloody boot print on the remains of his bandage. He was
oblivious to the cold now, except for the pain in his feet. The old `died
with their boots on' of the Saturday movie serials he'd enjoyed wasn't
going to be his fate. They wanted nothing to remain of him at all. The
animals would see to that, they had told him.

	He tried to turn to meet the bullet they had for him, but couldn't
when the soldier grabbed his arms from behind and held him in place. The
German officer stepped around in front of him.

	"Now we will see who will be doing the fucking here!" the man
hissed. He had holstered his pistol and now had a knife in his hand!

	"No!" Mike struggled against the one holding him. `Not a knife!
Anything but a knife!' His thoughts were frantic. He'd rejected the idea of
being in the infantry because the thought of bayonets made him physically
ill. He could feel the cold steel of this man's blade sliding through his
intestines before the knife was even near him. "Just shoot me! Please!" he
wailed. He could face the bullet one last time, but not this. "Not this
way! Nooo!"