The Link, Vol. 5 (Classic Reprint)
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|Excerpt from The Link, Vol. 5
"He sure did," further assured the Deacon. "He tripped me as sure as I'm sitting here telling you this."
The Deacon - that was our GI name for Walton Rhoden - almost pleaded with me to believe his story. I didn't think too much of it then, but now that the big bang-bang is over, the story comes back to me, just as if it were trying to convince me that it was on the level. After all it could have happened - all the others on the plane swore the Deacon was talking the truth. Here's the way it was, just as it happened:
It was overseas, during this last war to do away with all wars, daylight was commencing to erase the splotchy night when the combat men of our Fortress outfit were shaken out of their dreams of apple-pie and milk and warned that briefing would be in less than an hour.
The Deacon, a lanky, slow-motion sorta guy from Jacksonville, Florida, peeked from under the warmth of his GI blankets and poked his sleepish face at the Operation's sergeant, who was shaking him with the gentleness related solely to a cement mixer.
"Git up, Deacon, ya gotta go callin' on Axis Sally today - ya hear me laddie?
"Okay, okay, I'm awake. I was only asleep, not dead!" The ire in the Deacons voice was muffled by the layer of blankets he had pulled up over his head.
Getting up from under warm blankets, in a pyramidal tent even in sunny Italy, in the wee hours of the morning is comparable to zooming down a ski-slide in only the most abbreviated attire, and the Deacon, hailing from the land of sunshine like he did, vehemently rebelled against even the thought of it.
After vituperating Hitler with an elaborate array of pool-room expletives for being at the bottom of this whole mess in the first place, and the Operations sergeant for his enthusiastic arousing, the Deacon absorbed a few additional minutes of blissful repose, then sprung out of his sack with inspired haste a haste - which only the frigid morning atmosphere was capable of extracting from him.
The target that day was an airdrome in Greece where Jerry had bee-hived a huge concentration of his planes.
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