Mary Harwell Sayler

DISCHARGING TOGGLE ANNIE
Mediterranean Theatre, 25 March 1945

On her last flight (my 7th mission),”Toggle Annie”
took off slowly over small gardens growing and new-
green fields of barley, wheat, or rye. Oxen stood still
beside a rock-lined ditch, formed well to keep good
earth from washing down the hill and wasting.
Along a narrow road, a donkey pulled a two-wheel
cart then disappeared into the same descending blur
that held the floorless tent where our crew slept with
no stove, no heat, and no light but the candle we’d
snuffed out before rising, rising with the sun.

Five miles up, with my oxygen mask on,
I hoped this mission would be a milk run
for “Toggle Annie.” The old ship had seen
better days with 100 missions more than me
and over 90 sorties, a sort of record for a B-24
Liberator also known as a “Box Car” – a label
that annoys me some. (Nicknamed, “Flying
Fortress,” the B-17 gets better press.) Oh, well.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is meeting up
on time with our hot fighter escorts from the 99th
– and not bailing out. Sometimes, I’ve had my
doubts when we’ve caught flak too close and
heavy. Afterwards, I’ve been glad for those two
ounces of regulation whiskey used to regulate
our nerves, but now? I don’t know. Some days
I hardly feel a thing but numbness when we’ve
flown so low we see too much to dream.

The children here have such hard faces.

Even in “Toggle Annie,” an oxygen mask
freezes up real quick if you’re not careful to keep
the condensation wiped. One mission takes two
handkerchiefs, and wiping makes me woozy.

I do not ever want my face to get too hard.
On every mission, I think about my girls and
how I miss them. Sure hope “Toggle Annie”
doesn’t miss her mark today! Wish I had those
Esso maps from home to pinpoint targets, but
thing is, I’d just as soon my wife not know
how much we need them.

The hardest part is walking through a door
from one life to another.

Flying isn’t hard, but some things you don’t
think about. Like, coming over on the cargo ship,
I couldn’t use my electric razor since it sent out
waves the enemy might detect. Shaving with cold
water carried in a metal helmet doesn’t cut it!
I wonder if my girls will like this new mustache.

It’s hard not knowing if my family is okay. $218.80
a month, including flying pay, won’t go far for them –
and I’m so far away. I send all I can but keep a five
and two tens in my escape kit, just in case.

Some do go down. Some missions fail.

Some need money to buy a stranger’s help and food.
Worry does no good. I figure if flak gets close enough
to take me down, I’ll go down then, but not before.

Some do go down. Some freeze with fear. Some
faces harden.

Flying this high is hard on everyone. At five miles up
and 30 below zero, a person works for merely minutes
and is exhausted for a while – sometimes for nothing
but frostbite if we’re forced back by too much flak.
One day, I saw a close-by crew go down in silver
petals and bright flames.

Some do go down.

I hope this plane outlives its name as Liberator.
Meant to carry 30-caliber guns and nothing more, 50
makes us too tail-heavy. To lift the weight, we have
to bounce then place support beneath – before the tail-
gunner’s hand can catch a wrong bounce, down.
Timing is everything. Like now – we’ll do our job
and lay this ship to rest, one way or another.

We all could use a rest – three missions in four days –
each time on a different, nameless plane, except
for good ole “Toggle Annie.” She’s seen her days
of drawing escorts, catching flak, and dropping bombs,
so she’s more than caught her quota of close calls.

I want to fly until I drop – whatever it takes to stop
this dad-burn war. But hey! We did okay on today’s run –
650 B-24’s and 17’s striking airfields and tanks works.
Took eight hours and fifty-five minutes – not bad for
this old barge. A thousand hours logged: Quite a record,
Annie. You did swell. Tonight, you’ll rest on solid ground
while I’ll sleep well on a nice firm cot, thanking God
I’ve got a sweet-faced wife and good life back at home.
Tonight I’ll dream of daughters.

©Copyright 2002 by Mary Harwell Sayler

From the chapbook: “Winning the Wars”
All rights reserved; used with poet’s permission