Historical fiction, Part 1

(Untitled)
by Jack Watkins

16 Oct 1944
13:22
Southwest of Munich Germany

Captain Robert Henry (Hank) Sawyer, USAAC looked down to his left. A flash of white caught his eye. He looked over at his wingman 1^st Lt. Jeffrey R. Davis and pointed down to his left. The deep blue sky was clear and peaceful. What a beautiful day. What I am doing here fighting this crazy war? I should be home baiting a hook.

[Almost every book I’ve ever read starts out by naming their character, first and last name. I’m a little torn here, because including his title gives a clear identification for your character, but it’s a little long. And including the name he actually goes by in parentheses makes it even longer. Plus parentheses aren’t really done these days.

Then, look at the first sentence for its ability to hook your reader. If you didn’t have his title, it would read, “Hank Sawyer looked down to his left.” No offense, but that’s not exactly gripping. He’s an Air force pilot in a fighter plane. Craft a first sentence that’s exciting.]

Hank and Jeffery were flying their North American P-51D Mustangs at fifteen thousand feet with reduced power on their Rolls Royce Merlin engines to save fuel. Their mission that day was to look for targets of opportunity, and be available for ground attack in support of Patton’s Third Army troops. The briefing that morning at the base in Orconte, northeast France, had not indicated any Luftwaffe activity in the area, so the chances of downing another FW-190 or ME-109 were pretty slim. They had received no calls to support troops so they had drifted east towards Munich behind the German lines. With the forbidden Black Forest behind them to the west and the beautiful Bavarian Alps to the south the chances of spotting troop concentrations increased. Rumor had it that the Germans were building up for a last counter-offensive.

[There are a lot of specifics in that paragraph. That might be just fine if we were given a longer look at Hank as a person before you get into the details of his mission.]

Hank rolled to his left, and now saw the billowing smoke of a German steam locomotive and what looked like a troop train heading west towards the front. This was the first time he had seen a troop train, and although he was an ace two times over with eleven kills, his stomach turned at the thought of strafing troops on the train. Better them than me. He had heard reports that some German units were down to conscripting boys and old men to fill out the ranks. When will this insanity end? Hank hated the killing, but he knew the GI’s on the ground would appreciate eliminating any German troops he could, especially if they were the hated SS Troops. This is for you Joey! Avenging his younger brother Joey was always on his mind. He was still listed as Missing In Action ( MIA) [Just say MIA. I’m willing to bet your target audience knows what it means.] after jumping with the 82^nd Airborne on D-Day. It was rumored they had landed right in the middle of an SS Panzer group. His dad would never forgive him for that. Hank remembered the day he came home on his first leave after completing basic flight training.

[The length of your first paragraph is just about perfect. No paragraph should be more than a line or two longer than that one. Your second paragraph should be broken in two, and your third maybe even three.

Also, reach for the emotions in that scene. You give a hint of it, but it’s telling instead of showing. “Hank hated the killing, but he knew the GIs on the ground would appreciate…” Kind of dry.

I understand what you’re going for. It’s a troop train. He’s not in combat with these men—they aren’t trying to kill him. They seem for a moment like innocent passengers. But they’re heading for the front. When they reach their destination, they’ll start killing Americans. Better them than me isn’t quite accurate and it doesn’t go deep enough. That’s the problem with some direct thoughts—they skim the surface and can end up sounding trite.]

15 May 1943
Caldwell County, Texas

The all night bus ride from Sherman, Texas had stopped in San Marcos where Hank got off. After washing his face and straightening his tie, he stepped out of the bus station a little disheveled and tired. He swung his bag over his shoulder and had walked no more than a block from the station when an old farmer in a beat up Ford pickup stopped and offered him a ride.

“Where you headed, sonny?”

“Oh, to my folks place near Fentress, just this side of it about a mile.”

“Well hop in, and throw your bag in the back. I’ll be drivin’ right near there headed back to Prairie Lea.”

“Much obliged sir. I’m Hank Sawyer, our place is next to the old Eastwood place on the river.

“Yea, you must be Robert Sawyers boy. I know your place. Hadn’t seen you since you were a boy. I see them there wings, what are you flying?”

“I just finished Basic Flight Training.”

“Well I hope you do well. My boy is leaving for England to fly bombers soon.”

Hank thanked the farmer for the ride and had walked the mile and a half to the house, crossing the old creek bridge and relishing the early afternoon smells and sounds of late spring. Freshly planted corn and cotton were peeking up through plowed furrows. A distant crow cawed its presence. As Hank got closer to the house, he anticipated an exciting reunion with his family. They had no idea he was coming. There had been no time to send a telegram.

Hank cut across a pasture and looked off in the distance hoping to see Pa plowing the back field. No one in sight. The house that he had helped Pa build in 1939 came into view. Squinting his eyes against the bright sun hoping to catch sight of someone in his family. [I’m not a stickler for complete sentences. But this one’s a fragment that’s dressed up to look like a complete sentence. I had to read it twice to make sure I didn’t overlook a noun. “He squinted against the bright sun, hoping to catch sight…” Or “Squinting against the bright sun, he hoped to catch sight…” I eliminated “his eyes”. What else can a person squint? :o)] He had all sorts of things to tell them. Surely they would all want to know about his flying and all of the grand times he was having. I bet Joey will talk my head off. Hank walked around the front of the house and opened the gate to the white picket fence that Ma had always dreamed of.

The house was quiet. The old Model “T” was not in the shed, Dad was probably in town getting some supplies. It was midday and Hank figured he would find his Mom preparing one of her delicious dinners for Pa, Joey and the girls after a hard morning of working the fields. He walked onto the back porch and opened the door to the kitchen. Ma was no where to be found. The wood stove was starved of any fire. No whistling kettle. Glancing into the dining room Hank called out, “Ma, hey anybody home?” No dishes on the table. That’s odd. He completed his walk through the house which did not take long and stepped back outside on the back steps. He looked past the smoke house and wash house, towards the barn. The windmill was slowly spinning in the light breeze.

He took a step towards the barn and glanced toward the chicken coop thinking Ma might be feeding the chickens. Nobody in sight. Hank continued towards the barn, and as he got closer he thought he heard a muffled cry over the familiar creaking of the windmill. The barn was about sixty feet long and had two enclosed storage areas, surrounding an open stall area. Hank had spent many an hour milking cows in those stalls. A slight grin creased his face [For POV clarity, you shouldn’t mention things he can’t see himself.] as he remembered the time ol’ Antoinette the cow kicked him and swatted him with her tail after he had just finished filling up a milk pail. He had tumbled off the milking stool, knocked over the pail, and ended up laying flat on his back, staring up at four huge cow teats.

[The memory breaks the mood and seems out of place, although it’s a touch of humanity and humor that I hope you find another place for. He expected normal, bustling farm activity but the place looks abandoned. Then he hears a muffled cry. Even including the description of the barn after that cry seems odd. For one thing, he’s not in the barn. Narrative is, for all intents and purposes, the thoughts of the character. Why would he think of how long the barn is and of its layout after he hears a cry? That slightly eerie feeling you start to build will be better served by cutting the description and the memory.]

The muffled cry came clearer as he unlatched the gate to the barn yard. Sounds like Abigail. Abigail, or Abby as she was more commonly known, [Just call her Abby from the start. That’s how he thinks of her.] was a gregarious fifteen year old.

“Abby, is that you?” he called out as he rounded the corner of the barn. There, sitting on the milk stool next to the feed trough was Abby, face buried in her hands. Her long, dark hair tumbled across her lap.

***

This is not where the scene ended. So no drama is intended by cutting it off here. It was simply the closest spot to the middle of this chapter, so I split it here, not the author. The second half of this will be posted Wednesday.