Epilogue

April 1990

T he years slip by, though memories remain. While their form grows fuzzy, their outline blurred, they remain deeply rooted, roots that will thrive until the end.

Decades pass. Each Remembrance Day, they gather together at an old airfield, somewhere in England. They fly in from all across the United States, and a coach delivers them to Bassingbourn, the former home of the 91st Bomb Group.

Sometimes the sun shines warmly upon their gathering, casting long shadows that reach across the tarmac like echoes of the past; more often, it is raining, as if the skies themselves weep for the days gone by. Yet, always, a breeze blows through, a constant whispering reminder of those who are no longer there. The wind carries familiar voices, distant laughter, ethereal, as if the spirits of old friends have joined them once more on this day, their presence quivering in every whisper, every rustle of air.

They gather in the grounds by the memorial, seated in chairs arranged in neat rows, facing the padre who reads the service. The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and old stone, mingling with the sombre notes of the prayers that rise like a chorus to the heavens. Wreaths are laid with trembling hands, as old friends are remembered. A soldier steps forward and raises a bugle to his lips. The haunting notes of the Last Post pierce the quiet, climbing upwards, as if they too seek the company of those who once flew so high.

Later, they walk slowly across the old airfield and pause for a few moments out on the perimeter track, embracing the wind that blows in their faces where spirits seem to soar. The breeze stirs up old recollections, bringing back the sounds and smells of the past: the roar of engines, the acrid bite of oil and fuel, the sharp tang of cordite in the air. Nostalgia swells, washing over them like a tide as they breathe in the familiar scents.

Memories resurface, vivid and immediate, blossoming with the breeze like wildflowers on a forgotten battlefield, as tangible as ghosts. The procession of Flying Fortresses returns to them, one by one, their forms etched against the sky, screaming down the track into the wind, hurtling into the blue with a determination that once carried them through the war.

John Mackenzie drifts a little further out, his gaze fixed on a distant corner of the field where he once brought his B-17 down, where an old friend lost his life. The field stretches before him, a canvas upon which the past is painted in stark relief.

He drinks in the scene, recalling the faces of those who returned and those who did not. A heaviness settles in his chest, an ache he has carried for as long as he can remember. His wife’s presence lightens the burden, but here, today, it presses down on him, reopening old wounds that never fully healed. He catches Stella’s eye across the field and forces a smile, one that speaks of shared pain and enduring love.

Age has worked its miracles on him, softening the scarred cheek that once stood out in stark contrast to the rest of his face. Now, it blends into the weathered skin, marked by new, deeper lines carved by time. He wears his age like a mask, one that hides the boyish pilot he once was. Here, at Bassingbourn, the breeze carries familiar words to him, whispered by a voice from long ago. Words spoken by a nurse who patched him up when he was broken, both in body and in spirit. Time’s a healer. He sees her face in his mind’s eye and smiles to himself, a small, private smile that holds a world of meaning.

Red Swanson walks slowly with the aid of a cane, the old leg injury nagging at him like an unwelcome companion, a daily reminder of the air battle that nearly claimed him. Val stands tall beside him, though his left sleeve hangs empty, a silent testament to the price they all paid. Together, they examine the stretch of old concrete, a relic of their youth, and Mike Wilson taps it with his foot, a grin spreading across his face as he remarks on how it has stood the test of time, just as they have. Their laughter rings out, momentarily banishing the shadows that hover at the edges of their memories.

Before they leave, they turn their faces to the sun, squinting into its golden light, seeking one last glimpse of those mighty cruciform shapes as they cut through the sky with their thunderous roar. For a brief moment, the airfield is silent, save for the soft rustling of the wind. Sadness touches their faces, gentle as a caress, as they search the heavens where they once soared, perilously close to hell. Deep in thought, they turn away, leaving the past to rest, if only for a while.

Their movements are slower now, weighed down by the years and the memories they carry. The wives gather in a small cluster, their voices low and their smiles gentle, leaving their men to the brotherhood that binds them. This is their day, after all.

Some of the men have brought their grandchildren along, eager young faces looking up at them with wide eyes as they listen to stories of bravery and camaraderie, of fear and triumph. The younger ones draw close, captivated by the tales, their innocent curiosity a balm for the old warriors’ souls.

When Mac leaves this place, he will take Stella to East Grinstead and revisit the Beauty Shop at the old hospital in the town that did not stare. The hut that once housed Ward III still stands, a small, unassuming structure that holds a world of history within its walls. His friend and surgeon, Archibald McIndoe, is no longer among them, having passed in 1960, but his spirit lingers in the lives he saved and the legacy he left behind. There is talk of a memorial to him and the men he helped, a lasting tribute to their courage and resilience.

Afterward, Mac and Stella will stay with Pete and Bea for a few days before they fly home to Montana, back to the quiet life they have built together, surrounded by their family.

As they prepare to leave, Mac joins Stella, taking her hand in his and brushing a kiss against her lips. She is still his light, the beacon that guides him through the darkness, just as he is hers. Together, they stand at the edge of the airfield, two fireflies hovering at the beacon of Bassingbourn, the place where their journey began so many years ago.

The End