(prompt: 'wait' April 23, 2021)

"WAIT just a cotton-picking minute!?! Isn't that...?!? Surely it IS... the tearaway twins — old Gene and Danny?" The words spilled out of his mouth of their own volition.

"Except it can't be. It just can't." The words came out as a whisper this time, and Jock rubbed his eyes as if the mist was inside his lids instead of out there on the tarmac. Truth be told, there was indeed an inner mist... a great welling-up of tears he couldn't seem to control. He gulped painfully. Gulped; had several attempts at swallowing; couldn't.

Bizarrely, he wondered for a split second how a mouth could dry up like a desert at the exact same time eyes brimmed like flood plains. Hot on its heels, another ridiculous and random thought flitted through his mind. Why does my heart feel like a spear is going through it? Everyone knows it's only a muscle. Isn't it?

And there was someone else in a suit and airman's 'dress' cap, walking alongside them. If not in flyer's gear, who would it be? The Colonel maybe? He was often amongst the first to be out there to welcome us home. Jock gave a soft snort and his mouth tightened into an ironic grin, thinking how these were the only times he'd seen emotions win over the embattled survivor's usually stoic, perfectly regimented presence and attitude. And then Jock's mouth tightened. The Colonel was no longer in the 'land of the living', either.

Meanwhile, on the tarmac, time stood still. No sound, no wind; mighty propellers stilled, the ghostly flyers frozen in time, meal-boxes in hand, just like any routine return to safety... to home.

Jock reached out his hand, knowing full well they were way far out of reach in more ways than distance alone, but helpless in his wish to touch them just one more time. Like a good luck talisman before he too left for yet another horror-filled sortie. Except, no luck had come their way on their fateful last flight... truly off 'into the wild blue yonder'.

So... how? .... what was this? He rubbed his eyes again. Definitely not a dream. But just before the drifting mist engulfed them, Jock could have sworn the two flyers lifted their arms, with fists clenched and thumbs pointed defiantly to the sky. And they nodded. In unison.

But they couldn't have...

They'd already flown their last mission.

Hadn't they?

Photo/inspiration credit:  Phil Peat - 'Last Ones Home'

Words and photo 'embroidery' credit:  Christine Larsen - 'Men on a Mission'