If they happened to be listening to the colonel's parting words, the gods of war, and death, and doom, must have had quite a laugh for themselves!

Shifting to a slightly more comfortable position in the Vultee's cockpit seat, Dave Dawson absently drummed the fingers of one hand on the side of the cockpit and stared down at the sky-blue Caribbean Sea rolling far beneath his wings. Behind him was Puerto Rico, and a considerable way ahead of him was the British-owned island of Trinidad. Several miles off the Vultee's left wing tip were the Leeward and Windward islands of the West Indies jutting up out of the blue water. High above him was a cloudless sky with a shimmering ball of gold in the center.

[Pg 59]All in all, it was a scene that would have made poets rave, and the hardest of hearts melt. However, if the truth must be known, it left Dawson cold. Not because he did not . . . Read More