Up here we refer to that as warm. We're going well below zero, with daytime highs struggling to reach zero. Nice and brisk. Someone snapped a photo of me the other morning clomping up the walk, complete with my own little condensing vapor cloud following me.
This is Africa, 1943. War spits out its violence overhead and the sandy graveyard swallows it up. Her name is King Nine, B-25, medium bomber, Twelfth Air Force. On a hot, still morning she took off from Tunisia to bomb the southern tip of Italy. An errant piece of flak tore a hole in a wing tank and, like a wounded bird, this is where she landed, not to return on this day, or any other day.