About a crew of world war 2 soldiers, gathered together to become a Angels, a squadron of bombers who looked out for the soldiers below. They get shot down and have to band together to survive.
Mickey grasped the instrument firmly between his hands, licking his lips to create a film of saliva for to embrace the cold steel of his harmonica. Ever so soft, like a bird gliding on a breeze, he played an old Irish dirge he had picked up at camp. Over the drone of the B-24 Liberator engines, the melody reached each crew members heart, calling out for memories of families at home, or friends lost in battle. Mickey played until his lips were cracked, his lungs empty and tired, and his heart numbly beating away. He played as if believing he would play no more, for tonight was the assault.
The unseen sun still casts a shadow as they fly through an overcast sky. The Captain Henson Salt sits across from Mickey with his chewing tobacco, biting down and sucking the chaw through a shrapnel shrouded face. He chews gingerly, as to not let the leaves find their way to the stomach, for violent expulsion of said organs’ contents might occur. Sergeant Jamie Deerwood paces the cargo hold, not by choice, the bullet lodged in his ass says otherwise. A good thing laying down and shooting people from far away is his specialty. Second Lieutenant Nelson “Matchstick” Mailer sits at the controls of the bomber, checking dials and co-ordinates. The nickname given to him for his twig like figure and hot headedness. Fellow soldiers always saying that he has that fire in his eyes during chaotic times.
The cargo they carried, was set to drop on the bunkers of Johnny Beach 10 minutes before the boats came up to shore. That was if they make it to the bunkers, they knew they had to face a squadron of two of fighter jets. Each man knew his position well, and would all be ready for battle when the time was upon them. But for now they just sat, or paced, listening to Mickey play softly on his harmonica.