The men sat in the belly of the C-47, covered in darkness, listening to the steady growl of the propellers. Rosaries hitched through fingers one bead at a time. Lips mumbled unheard prayers. Eyes stared, lost in the thunderclouds of the near future. They all had different ways of praying. Lipton’s was song.
“Mighty Lord,” he sang, “preserve us from jeopardy . . .”
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