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.
Story Notes:Lyrics from Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture".