The roar of engines echoed softly inside the large hangar illuminated by the morning light. The sun has not yet risen fully, but the metallic reflection of the steel behemoth's body already glistens like a beast awakening from its long slumber. Amidst the bustle of technicians and ground crew, one aircraft stands out: A B-17 Flying Fortress named Sky Warrior.
The fuselage was riddled with the scars of time, yet it remained as sturdy as the legend that surrounded its name. The crew called it "the bringer of victory." Not a single mission has taken her down yet. Not a single bullet has actually brought her down. Today, the legend will fly again.
From the west of the hangar, bootsteps cut through the cold concrete floor. Alex Brown, the Sky Warrior's lead pilot, climbs the cockpit steps, looking down at his beloved aircraft. His face was hard, his eyes deep, holding experiences and wounds that could not be seen from the outside.
"Still going strong?" a voice behind him followed. It was John Marcush, the copilot who always arrived five minutes earlier than everyone else.
Alex glanced over and nodded. "More than sturdy. She's thirsty."
On the tail, Billy, the rear gunner who always tucked a cigarette between his lips, was checking his ammo belt. "If we go down today, at least I'll go down with 500 bullets and a full complement of sins," he muttered with a chuckle.
Farlan and Peter, the side gunners, were sharing a ration of gum and joking about who would vomit first in the air. They were each other's shadows in battle, shooting from the right and left sides of the plane, eagle-eyed from inside a flying fortress. Up in the upper part of the plane, Larry, the top turret gunner, was polishing his surveillance glass, making sure his view was clear before the sky filled with smoke and bullet flashes. Meanwhile, down in the belly of the plane, Timmy, the ball turret gunner, was climbing into his usual cramped pod. "The tightest place and the closest to hell," he said softly, then latched on his belt and turned on the system. And up in the nose of the plane, in the bomb sight, sat Gabriel, the rarely-spoken bombardier. He was rereading today's target map, his eyes sharp and calm. His hands had memorized the bomb's path, the wind pressure, and the seconds of death he would drop from the sky. Everything moved like clockwork, united in a deadly rhythm they had practiced hundreds of times. Outside the hangar, a military jeep came to a stop, kicking up the morning dust. Out came Commando Arthur Vincent, wearing a long coat with a star emblem on his shoulder. He entered the briefing room and called the entire crew.
"Today's target is a German air base on the French border. Once French, now a German emergency landing strip. We're going to send a message: there's no safe place for them," he said, sharply and calmly. He turned the projector screen. The formation was drawn up. Sky Warrior would be in the heart of the formation, leading the right wing. Around him, a dozen other B-17s would fly along, but all eyes would be on the legend. "Sky Warrior… you fly first, through the clouds, clearing the way, and unleashing the storm. If you fall, mission failure. But I know you won't fall. Not today." They stood, one by one. Not with the zeal of fire, but with the calm of a warrior who knows: every flight could be his last. But Sky Warrior had never greeted the ground with a body on fire. And today, he would fly again.
Flashback
The day before the hangar sirens blared and boots clattered the dusty ground, life on the airbase was still slow, almost like a normal day. The sky was cloudy, the sun refused to break through the haze, and the smell of kerosene mixed with cigarette smoke hung in the air like bad news that had not yet been delivered. Alex Brown sat alone near the barracks, a cup of warm coffee slowly steaming in his hand. In his other hand, a crumpled photograph from an old leather wallet showed a young woman and a small child holding a wooden toy. His wife, and the son he had not hugged since the war began. He had not written a letter in two weeks. Not because he did not want to, but because he did not know what to write. John Marcush was in the small workshop behind the hangar, helping a technician rewire a control panel. He was not a technician, but he knew the ins and outs of the Sky Warrior better than the manual. In his shirt pocket, neatly folded, was a letter from his fiancée in Texas. The letter had never been read twice. Once was enough. Because sweet words would hurt more if they had to be repeated.
In the living room of the barracks, Billy and Larry played cards while teasing each other. Billy had a cigarette between his lips as usual, laughing loudly even though there was a shadow of old wounds in his eyes. Larry, the top gunner, had just received a reply from his little sister informing him that their mother was starting to get sick. He kept the letter inside his helmet, either to read again or to take with him on flights. In a quieter corner, Farlan was doodling in a sketchbook. His hand drew silhouettes of planes and clouds, although he occasionally lost his way, his thoughts drifting to his father who had flown in World War I and never returned. Peter, his partner, sat not far away, writing a letter to his mother in simple, almost childish language—he was only 18, and still trying to look mature. Under the wing of the plane, Timmy fell asleep while hugging his thick jacket. He had lived alone since his family was killed in an air raid on London two years ago. This base was his home, the Sky Warrior crew were his family, and the sky... was the hell he had to face every night. Gabriel, the bombardier who rarely spoke, spent his afternoons in the small chapel behind the warehouse. He sat on the last bench, looking down for a long time, not saying a word. In his pocket, he held the cross necklace belonging to his brother who died in Stalingrad as a volunteer soldier. Gabriel did not believe that heaven was above. Because he himself had brought down hell from the sky.
Towards evening, in the half-deserted canteen, they all gathered without planning. There were no commands, no cues. Only silence calling each other. They ate, talked as much as they could, laughed because they had to laugh. As if tomorrow would never come. And when night really fell, a soldier ran from the communication post, holding a folder filled with red stamps. He handed it to Lieutenant Brown in the silence of the night. Alex opened the folder slowly. No need to read it all. He just nodded slowly, then looked towards the barracks where the other crews were starting to realize what was happening. Air mission. Tomorrow morning. They didn't ask where. They just went back to their respective beds, then stared at the ceiling with chests tight with memories and shadows. Sky Warrior would fly again. And they would again be part of the sky filled with the sound of prayers and the thumps of death.
Duty day
The morning sky reflected a gray light from the east, as if welcoming a new day with a cold tone. A thin wind swept across the airstrip, carrying the scent of metal, fuel, and dust that had become part of their lives. Under the shadow of the giant Sky Warrior, the crew gathered in a small circle. Their hands were clasped in the center. There were no poetic words, no grand speeches. Just one voice, heavy and certain. "For the sky that cannot swallow us," Alex said, softly but echoing. "God protect us all," Larry added, quietly. They nodded, looked at each other, then broke the circle with a loud high-five that echoed through the hangar. Each clasped hand held fear and hope. Their first mission together, but not the first for the Sky Warrior. The plane had kissed death many times and always returned with wounds that never killed. They boarded one by one. Gabriel entered the bombardier room in the nose of the plane. Timmy crawled into the ball capsule under the metal belly. Larry climbed into the upper turret, where he would be the first to see the threatening sky. Billy walked down the aisle to the tail. Farlan and Peter manned the gunnels. John sat beside Alex, and with them, the plane came to life. The four Wright Cyclone engines roared to life. The propellers whirred through the morning. The Sky Warrior's body shook gently, then moved slowly toward the runway, flanked by a dozen other B-17s in preparation.
Over the radio, a cold, trained voice came. "All units. This is Command Arthur Vincent. The right wing formation will be led by Sky Warrior. Task: destroy enemy air base in sector 4-B, southern France. Time: two hours. Enemy estimated to have light anti-aircraft guns and several air squadrons. Orders: do not miss. Bring a message from the sky." In the distance, 260 B-17 Flying Fortresses were heading skyward. They formed a cloud of iron that surrounded the horizon. At another altitude, 50 P-51 Mustangs circled in escort formation, their engines slicing through the wind like dancing swords of air protecting the bombers. The sky had become a long corridor leading to a field of death. In the cockpit, Alex gripped the controls. "Climb to ten thousand feet." "Copy," John replied, adjusting the elevation. The Sky Warrior climbed slowly, leaving the land shrinking below. They did not see the land with their normal eyes. They saw it as the finish line, the place to return to... if they could return. And up ahead, two hours away, lay their first target. The airbase that was seized from the allies must now be returned through the flames of bombs and the roar of engines. Today, the sky will speak. And Sky Warrior will be its tongue. At an altitude of ten thousand feet, the radio voice came back on. Command Arthur Vincent's voice sounded flat, but its weight pressed down on the cockpit like an invisible weight.
"Just one message for you guys on the Sky Warrior," he said. "The plane doesn't belong to you. It belongs to history. And history will not tolerate defeat." Alex didn't answer. He just glanced at John for a moment, and the two exchanged silent glances. Behind the controls they held, both knew exactly what those words meant. The Sky Warrior wasn't just a plane. It was a symbol. It had weathered a hail of bullets, returned with its wings punctured and its engines burned, but it had never crashed. But another reality couldn't be ignored: they—Alex, John, Gabriel, Billy, Larry, Timmy, Farlan, Peter—had only been on the Sky Warrior for two months. The old crew that had carved the Sky Warrior's name in the skies over Europe had been killed, some had been transferred, and some had never returned since their last mission over Berlin. To them, the Sky Warrior was a legend. But to the new crew, the Sky Warrior was a test. This was their first long-range air mission. Over the English Sea, through the French mainland, and into the heart of an enemy air base. There was no telling how the plane would fare with its new crew. But one thing was for sure: there was no room for error. "Formation steady. Altitude steady. Heading southeast," John said, jotting down coordinates while keeping his breathing steady. From his perch in the nose of the plane, Gabriel watched the ground slowly disappear behind the clouds. His eyes scanned the target map, but his mind silently repeated a silent prayer.
In the back, Billy tapped the metal frame lightly three times. His custom before every mission—a little ritual to defy death. Farlan and Peter nodded at each other. Larry turned his turret slowly, his sharp eyes peering eastward. Timmy was in silence, trapped in the steel ball below, like a fetus in a metal womb headed for hell. The Sky Warrior hurtled along with a vast armada behind and ahead. The sun began to break through the clouds, hitting the fuselage like a spotlight on a stage. A stage without an audience. Only bullets and debris would applaud. Through it all, one thing was certain: they were a new crew. But history doesn't care how new the hands that grip the helm are. What matters is whether those hands can bring the Sky Warrior home… once again. The clouds began to thin as the French mainland loomed in the distance. Beyond the white fog and the silent sky, the tension felt like a taut cable. Every crew member aboard the Sky Warrior held their breath, waiting for the familiar signal. And it came—the first bang. Tracer rounds shot out of the clouds, curling like a tail of fire, piercing the left wing formation. The first shout came over the radio. "Contact! Contact! Six bandits on heading twenty-five degrees—high!" Alex punched the controls, steadying himself. "All crews, stand by. Defense active!"
Out of the clouds, a Messerschmitt Bf 109 appeared like an armored ghost, followed by several Focke-Wulf Fw 190s. They were not alone—two Messerschmitt Bf 110s, twin-engine fighters renowned as bomber predators, tore through the formation from below with deadly speed. "Fire coming from below!" Timmy shouted from the ball turret. "Three… no, four Bf 110s up from six o'clock!" Before a full reaction could form, the first attack passed right over the Sky Warrior's flank. The heavy thud hit the outer surface of the left wing, but it didn't penetrate. Farlan and Peter fired back, their machine guns roaring incessantly, sending hot trails into the air. Larry turned the upper turret and dropped a single shell straight into the fuselage of an enemy aircraft that had dared to get too close. "One hit!" he shouted as he reloaded. Meanwhile, in the distance, a silver column came like a flash of lightning. The sound of the P-51 Mustang engines cutting through the air, fast and clean, streaking toward the German fighter formation.
"This is Captain Reddington. We're taking the skies," the voice was calm yet jolting, like a god of war who had just descended from the heavens. The sky was a symphonic mess. The Mustangs danced wildly, locking onto each German plane and mowing them down with deadly precision. For what seemed like an eternity but lasted only sixteen minutes, dogfights raged in every direction. The sky was filled with smoke, bullets, and the sound of screaming engines. Two bombers were hit hard—one from the starboard wing, one from the center of the formation. But their pilots managed to control, drop altitude, and pull back, heading back toward England under emergency escort. The Mustangs remained on guard, none of them down. The Sky Warrior continued its advance, its body shaking but steady, like a battleship unmoved in a storm. "Formation intact. Target thirty minutes away. Keep going," Alex said over the internal radio, and the crews nodded silently, cold sweat dripping from their brow. The sky was calm again, though small wounds hung on every side. But the Sky Warrior remained ahead, leading the bomber swarm like an old archer who had not yet lost his way.
The day was not over. But they knew one thing: they had just proven themselves worthy of being aboard this legendary aircraft. The western sky was beginning to change color. The dusk light washed over the silent iron wings, leaving long silhouettes over the European plains. The formation had loosened, no longer tight and taut as it had been on its way to its target. Now they were back—with results, with breath still hanging, and with a new story to tell in the whirring of the engines. The radio crackled softly, transmitting the voice of Command Arthur Vincent. "Sky Warrior, direct to British military airbase—Sector 9-D. Refuel. Status clear. Continue standard procedures. You've made it." Alex stared off into the distance. "Direction to coordinates nine-delta," he said flatly, and John immediately dialed in the navigation. "Escort formation following," another voice on the radio reported.
The five remaining B-17s from the day's mission now flew alongside the Sky Warrior. Some had holes in their wings, one with a stuttering engine, but all were still alive. Above and around them, three P-51 Mustangs stood guard. Eagle eyes from the sky. "Sky Warrior, you're back in the lead," said the voice from the Mustang. "We're right behind you. It's an honor to fly with you." Billy heard that over the intercom, then chuckled. "Listen there… we're the guardians of the skies now." Larry grinned as he lowered the visor. "They all believe in this plane." Farlan turned to Peter, still holding the machine gun. "We used to be replacements for the old crew. Now we're bringing the Sky Warrior home from a full mission. And it's still intact." Peter nodded, slowly but meaningfully. "This isn't just a plane. It's a responsibility." In the cockpit, Alex and John said little. Both were holding back emotions that could never really be expressed. They knew… today they'd proven that the Sky Warrior could trust them just as much as the old crew did.
The sky slowly opened to the distant horizon of England. The secondary airbase was a tiny dot below—a long runway, a control tower, and a line of refueling trucks waiting silently. When the iron wheels touched the ground, the slight thud felt like a triumphant boom. The Sky Warrior shook once, then glided slowly over the old, dew-soaked asphalt. Along the landing strip, engineers and ground crew stood silently, welcoming their arrival. Some raised their helmets, some just stared in silence. They knew exactly who had landed.
The Sky Warrior—the legendary ship—was back, with a new crew who had proven themselves worthy of being aboard. Inside the ship, everyone was silent. Not because they were tired, but because they knew this was just the beginning. There were twelve more missions to go. There were still skies waiting to swallow them up again. But tonight, for the first time, they were coming home as part of a legend.