b17sam
Airman
An often discussed topic of conversation among WW2 combat crews in their off time was that we all had our own personal flak shell destined to meet up with us or miss. As it took a certain amount of time for the shell to reach our altitude, we had that interval of time to move a foot or so in any direction to avoid the fickle finger of fate. Conversely, any movement, or no movement at all might cause the flak shell to go straight up our gluteus maximus, and we'd become nothing but another statistic. This conversation was quickly followed by more important questions that we could deal with, such as girls, sex, and what we did on our last pass.