Lily 21

This time, must be getting more secret, Col and Gen will type their own comments.
Gen flashes a wicked smile, had us all beat. Even found holes in those stories we didn't know of til now.
Thank you.
Col smiles soberly, assures me deafness is an asset, but he's not at liberty to explain why just yet.
Gen grins, we want to see you play a virtch. Why? Just see what you look like in action.
What sort of virtch?
Full day game, aren't told in advance anything about it, measure your ability to improv.
Next morning, as the virtch helmet goes on, I feel dizzy.
When it clears, I'm standing on a desert airstrip, with two men in USAF uniform in front of an obvious WW2 B24 Liberator bomber.
A quick glance at the clipboard I hold shows me it's August 1, 1943 and today we go calling on the oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania.
Irritated look, Lt starts, "Bobby, quit that daydreaming and pay attention. Now this fellow is authorized 2,400 rounds for that nose machine gun. I caught him with 7,200 in there."
I can hear, sort of. My voice comes out wrong, male American sound, Southern accent. Nodding to the Sgt, I say, "seems a bit much. Please explain why."
Ingratiating smile, "Cap, need I remind you what the briefing said? We'll be 150 feet up. Runup to target will be 35 minutes, passing over some 250 of those 88 millimeters. Intel even estimates 4/5 are manned by real Krauts, not those silly Romanians. Then Lord alone knows how many machine guns. You given any thought to what happens when I run outa ammo?"
I groan, "yeah, friend Jerry ain't taking cover anymore. He has time to focus, aim."
"Good, Cap, knew you'd see it my way."
Lt cuts in, "Bobby, with 4,800 extra in there you ain't gonna get lift. We'll all die at the end of the Berka Two runway."
I drawl, "yeah, we're already overloaded quite bad. Ordinary full bomb load, think 2,100 mile roundtrip. Add in all that extra fuel, it'll be 2,700."
"Don't stop there, Bobby. Any idea how much extra stress on wings? On engines? How much extra fuel that ammo'll burn?"
I ponder a moment, "so, y'all are saying we're dead either way, with 2,400 or 7,200, right?"
Both smile as they catch my meaning. Sgt makes the offer, "ok, how bout I go with 4,800? I promise to be real careful, short stitching, make it last the 35 minutes."
Lt's look softens, "Bobby, ok with you?"
I grin, 'have I crashed it yet?"
And so we unload 2,400. Looking down the line of aircraft, others are engaged in unloading some.
Even then, those four 1,200 horsepower engines are wailing like Banshees when we finally clear ground sullenly.
It's only then the irony hits me, I'm flying "Louisiana Lily".
Lt grins uneasily from the copilot chair, "Bobby, you pulled her into the air with 25 yards of runway left. What's more, didn't even sweat doing it." Pause. "But then, as I recall, you didn't even sweat over Regensburg."
Except for the ill fated Montana Mary ditching into the Adriatic, it's an uneventful trip. That is, til we arrive at Astra Romana, biggest of the refineries, to see a sight Dante would be proud of.
I give the nosegunner orders: ignore MG's, concentrate on flak, make it last. Every spare body I send forward, to fire Thompsons outa windows.
Lt smiles uneasily, "Bobby, we came back from Regensburg with over 300 holes. Reckon we'll beat that today. That is, if we're still alive to do the counting."