Here is the full reference card for this book...
If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.
Wings, Women and War
by Benjamin F. Guiles
350 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1292; ISBN 1-4120-0923-5; US$29.95, C$39.00, EUR25.35, £17.57
Sweeping historical novel rich in romance and adventure, about a young pilot from rural America and how the flying, the women and World War Two shaped his character and career.
Read more!
About the Book About the Author Table of Contents and Excerpts Catalogue Info
About the Book
Discover how a young man from the Adirondack Mountains became a pilot in World War II.
Learn how exciting and deadly living on the edge can be, and how, in the end, only a true love and childen can complete a man.
The author takes you from rehearsal halls in Manhattan to the chaotic skies over the Pacific battlegrounds, the lushly romantic Hawaiian Islands, the rarified parlors of the Washington Elite, and the turmoil of Berlin. In every one of these environments there are alluring, multidimensional, vibrantly portrayed women.
Wings, Women and War also brings to life the little-known story of the magnificent heavy bomber, the B-29, and the valiant men who flew them against the Japanese empire from the island of Saipan in WWII.
With a complex and winning hero, this fast-paced and engaging story unfolds with steady drama.
About the Author
Wings, Women and War is a first novel for Benjamin F. Guiles, a son o f the great depression, a veteran of World War II, Korea, Berlin and Vietnam, a career officer of the United States Air Force 1942-1972, and the father of twin daughters.
He has been a fighter pilot, B-29 Aircraft commander 1944-45 on Saipan, flight engineer, air traffic controller, Detachment commander in Alaska, Squadron commander in Berlin, Group commander in Turkey, Chief-of-Staff at numbered Air Force level in the US. He has held responsible staff positions in Far East Air Forces Hq. in Japan, Pacific Air Forces Hq. in Hawaii, and Strategic Air Command Hq. in Omaha.
As with any first literary effort, much of the author's life experiences find expression in situation, action, personalities and culture in his writing. Since this is normal and acknowledged, do not be surprised to find the story thrust its way through real, historically accurate events in the most interesting ways the author could design. True life, when lived on the edge, is far more invigorating and exciting than pure fiction. When these two ingredients, the real and the imagined, are carefully and purposefully mixed, the powerful hold exerted on the reader is a joy, a "joi de vivre" which will stay in the reader's memory a very long time.
The author has also written a screenplay based on the book, which is available directly from him.
Table of Contents and Excerpts
The Raid
Far to the North the clouds were reflecting the burning fires of the Hell below. This was our third consecutive night of fire bombing Japan's cities. Still on autopilot at thirteen thousand feet there was time to look out at the March sky filled with stars. There was time before the tension, the horror, the awful smell filled the cockpit. There was time to think with a clear mind about what was ahead and what was behind. A time to gather the tendons of strength found in the comradeship of the crew, the letters from home, the spirit within that grew stronger with each new demand upon it and the clear vision of hope and invulnerability I had always known.
Ahead it would be much like last night. After the nearly seven hour flight I would call the crew and quietly announce the IP [initial point] for the bomb run, then turn the control over to the Bombardier for the final run. The first night I didn't do that, I kept control and dropped right in the middle of the drop area. Last night we used the regular procedure and it appeared that we enlarged the burn area considerably. Tonight we'll drop on the far edge of the already ignited area and expand the damage.
I left those thoughts and let my mind move out through the greenhouse of the cockpit of the B-29. Out toward the stars - out away from the grinding engines and the smell of gas and oil and sweat. Flying had always been a real thrill to me. It still was. But it was no longer a challenge like baseball or girls. It had changed on that first mission several months ago when we tried to bomb Tokyo from thirty-two thousand feet and were never certain if we really hit it or not. It had become a contest for survival. So many had either been shot down or had run out of fuel and ditched that half of the men in the squadron were strangers. Everyone thought that we were lucky. I believe that if you are prepared for luck it will find you. That's why the first night I went in manually, right at the speed redline and dropped in the middle of the fire. And that is why tonight the Bombardier will do a precision job from five thousand feet. That is why I try to keep connected with the past, the present and the future... and with reality.
Then there is the Fear: Fear is shared in the cockpit by five officers: the Commander, the Co-pilot, The Bombardier, The Navigator, and the Flight Engineer. This is a live thing, this fear. And it moves from person to person. One of the responsibilities of the commander is to capture this live thing and hold it captive so that the crew can get their jobs done. One way they can tell if you have it under control is the quiet confident tone of your voice. Another is smooth certain control of the airplane. And if you can manage a smile or a small jest then they are sure that all is well. Horror is a different beast. It is not shared. It envelopes. It smothers all other emotions like smoke stifles breathing and tries to kill the heart and the spirit. It starts with the clear vision of thousands of people in the agony of death by holocaust. It grows as the awful odor of their burning fills the cockpit and invades your soul.
As we drop our load of incendiaries, adding to the size and intensity of the already awesome spectacle we escape witnessing what we too have done this night by entering a gigantic black chimney of smoke and flame created by the tinder-dry city. The huge plane, now free of its massive load, screams higher and higher gripped by the unbelievable strength of vertical updrafts, almost out of control, almost inverted like a leaf in a tornado- suddenly we are thrown clear, safe in the black clean star filled dome of the sky.
As we turn toward home (Saipan) the guilt that has been hiding in the dark recesses leaps out screaming obscenities. Duty, Honor, Country we scream back! There is a quiet time. Coffee and cigarettes and conversation among the cockpit crew and the crew of gunners in the aft compartment. The intercom is busy with pent up nervous tension being released because we are alive. We are alive when so many are not this night, not, because of us, because of our skill, our courage. Because we conquered the Fear, The Horror, and the Guilt. The Guilt? Did we conquer the Guilt?
Back at the debriefing room on Saipan we counted our casualties, reported our target hits and visual sightings. At mess we had two REAL eggs with dehydrated potatoes and SPAM. Two shots of one hundred proof Green River Rye put us sound asleep.
We took off again at sixteen hundred hours. Climbed out into a beautiful sunset, bomb bays full, prepared to repeat once more the terrible holocaust of the past three nights. This is real I thought, the other is some horrible nightmare I could never tell my parents. How could I tell someone who was not there, how it was? How could anyone who had not seen and felt it understand? I have read that there is a protective mechanism in each of us that protects our sanity. A veil of understanding that does not let "real" become REAL unless it is experienced.. Even then, if it is more than the mind can accept, it remains unreal or the mind snaps. So it is that only the young, the healthy, the vigorous and the fully nurtured have any hope of surviving a war reasonably intact. And if by chance, they don't want to talk about it - let it pass.
Far ahead to the North the fires of Hell were painting the high clouds crimson and yellow with the flickering brush of death.
Catalogue Information
