Text Leveling System

The Last Mission

RDQ:	2594	Max Word/Sent	102	Total Words	2830		Diff Words	941
Lex	990	Ave Word/.Sent	10	Hi Freq occurs	1994	70.5%	Hi freq	393	41.8%
AR	5.9	Long Sentences	13.9	Low Freq occurs	214	7.6%	Low freq	155	16.5%

"There's a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere' (Words and Music by Paul Roberts and Shelley Darnell, Leeds Music Corp., 1942.)
There's a Star Spangled Banner waving somewhere
In a distant land so many miles away
Only Uncle Sam's great heroes get to go there Where I wish that I could also live some day I'd see Lincoln, Custer, Washington, and Perry And Nathan Hale and Colin Kelly, tool There's a Star Spangled Banner waving somewhere
Waving o'er the land of heroes brave and true If I do some great deed I will be a hero And a hero brave is what I want to be There's a Star Spangled Banner waving somewhere
In that Heaven there should be a place for me.
(October 1944. Alexandria Army Air Field, Louisiana.)
Jack Raab knelt in the shadow of the big bomber. It was early, but hot, and there was no shade anywhere on the airfield except under. the wings of the plane. The six crewmen sprawled out under the B-17 were waiting for their officers. They were here for the last phase of training before going into combat. To Jack, the other enlisted men were everything he wasn't-older, tougher, self-confident. None of them seemed nervous.
Jack rapped his feet together, pleased with his boots' soft dark shine. You're in the Army now, the boots said to him, and it came over him like a shock, the way it did each time. Fifteen years old, and in the United States Air Corps.
Jack pulled his coveralls away from his sweaty back. They'd been waiting for nearly an hour. He
blinked against the gritty Louisiana wind and wiped the dust from his boots. Ankle-high, brown, laced-up, round-tipped GI boots. A solid size 12, double E. He moved his feet so the ox-blood polished surface caught the light. The night before he'd broken them in, GI'd them. Scrubbed them with a brush and a strong yellow soap, then let them dry to the shape of his feet, and finally polished them with ox-blood polish.
He had never really believed he would fool the Air Corps this long. The only reason he had was his size. He had always been big for his age. At fourteen he'd been taller than his older brother and nearly as tall as his father, who was just a hair under six feet. Jack had never been sick a day in his life, but his brother, Irv, had been sick a lot. Irv had been born with a rheumatic heart. Their mother was always after Irv to be careful. Not that she had any. thing to worry about: The only things Irv liked to do were read and argue.
Jack liked action. He was on the street all the time, playing games--stickball, handball, touch football, and war games. Ever since the war started Jack and his friends had been playing commando, dividing into two teams, the Nazis and the commandos. Jack was always a commando, and when he got one of the "Nazis" he really knocked him around.
Jack had been ten in 1939 when the Germans occupied Poland. His parents and their friends had cried. Hitler's name was a curse. For years Jack's mother had sent presents and packages of clothes to their relatives in Poland-aunts, uncles, and a raft of cousins. Their pictures were in the family album
-poor people with wrinkled clothes, the women with scarves around their heads.
After the Germans marched into Poland, his mother's letters and packages all came back marked Addressee unknown. Moved. No Forwarding Address. "Hitler's rounding up the Jews," Irv said. He was the oldest of the three of them, the expert on everything. "He's driving the Jews out of their homes."
"He calls us a sub-race," Marcia, the youngest, said. "He doesn't think we're human."
"I hate Hitler!" Jack clenched his fists. "I curse him." As long ago as that he'd started dreaming about fighting Hitler.
He had nightmares about the Nazis coming to get his family. He'd hear them in the hall outside their apartment, their black boots striking the floor like the clop of horses' hooves. He'd wake up in a sweat, his heart pounding, feeling as if he were suffocating. He could only stop the terror by imagining that he was ready for them.
He was waiting behind the door, feet spread wide, knees bent, arms apart like ice tongs. His hands had awful power. His fingers would snap Nazi necks like green beans. . . .
It was after the Army rejected Irv because of his rheumatic heart that Jack decided he was the Raab who had to go in and fight Hitler. One morning, after everyone had left the house, he took Irv's birth certificate out of the bureau drawer and went downtown on the subway, to Grand Central Palace. He put the birth certificate down in front of the recruiting officer.
"Irving Raab?" the officer said, studying the paper.
"Yes, sir." Jack stood tall and stiff legged, thinking it was good his father had taught him to say "sir" to his elders. "But everyone calls me Jack, sir." He smiled, but he was scared.
"All right, soldier, in that line for your physical." Jack wasn't worried about the physical. He was in perfect health, his feet weren't flat, and he had 20-20 vision. He was only afraid that just by looking at him the doctor would know he was fifteen. But he passed every test that day, and the next day as well.
When his notice came, he got it from the mailbox before anyone saw it. On the day he left he packed a bag and put a letter in the mailbox for his mother. He told her not to worry, that he was going to be traveling out west, the way his father had when he was young.
Later, waiting in Penn Station with the other recruits, every one older than he, Jack knew he was going to do something great in the Air Corps. He didn't know what, but it was in him, an expanding feeling that made him throw back his shoulders and stand tall.
He had six weeks of basic training in Miami, a week sitting around in San Antonio while the Army decided what to do with him, then ten weeks in Nevada learning to be a gunner on a B-17. Now he was in Louisiana for eight weeks of intensive crew training.
"Got a butt?" Chuckie O'Brien tapped Jack on the arm. His copper-colored hair was streaked black with sweat. Jack produced the pack of Camels he kept in his breast pocket, and they moved away from the plane to smoke.
Jack carried a pack of cigarettes with him at all
times. It made him feel older. Taking a smoke, even taking the cigarette out of the pack, was something he was careful to do exactly right. Clip a comer of the new pack so just one or two cigarettes popped up above the top. Strike the match, cup the flame neatly between his hands, bend, light, inhale.
He lit Chuckie's cigarette, then his own. He took a deep drag and let the smoke slowly out of his mouth. Smoking that way made him feel hard and tough. Commander Raab took a slow drag on his cigarette. Raab's band of Jewish volunteers, mere boys, but all with hearts like lions, were deep in Nazi territory. Their mission: Destroy Hitler.
"Think those officers will ever come?" Chuckie said, fanning his flaming face.
When Chuckie and Jack met in gunnery school near Las Vegas and found out they were both from The Bronx, New York, they had become friends. Chuckie was short, red, and freckled all over like an Irish Setter, while Jack was tall, blue eyed, dark haired, and high colored. Chuckie came from the west Bronx. Jack from the east Bronx. Chuckie's people had come here from Ireland, Jack's from Poland.
"I swiped my first cigarette from my old man when I was ten years old," Chuckie said. "If he knew, he'd have belted me good. But he never found out I was smoking till I was fifteen. He raised holy hell, but he couldn't stop me."
Jack nodded. He and Chuckie were alike in a lot of ways. "Nobody stops me when I make up my mind, either." He wished he could tell Chuckie how he'd gotten into the Army, and what his real age was. What if he just came out with it? Hey, Chuckie,
by the way, I'm fifteen years old. What do you think of that?
It was tempting, but better not. Too dangerous. Even if Chuckie meant to keep his secret, he might let it slip by accident. If the Army found that he'd lied to them, they wouldn't just boot him out and send him back to his family. Maybe in the beginning, but not now, not after all the training they'd given him, and all the money Uncle Sam had spent on him. No, they'd throw him in jail and toss away the key.
A Jeep was approaching. "They're coming," Chuckie said.
"About time-" Jack started to say, but suddenly he couldn't speak. What if the officers took one look at him, and knew he was a fake?
The first officer, the shortest one, came out of the Jeep like a jack-in-the-box. Behind him was another officer built like a bear. The last one, wrinkled, rumpled, and squinting as if he'd just gotten out of bed, came around the back of the Jeep.
All the enlisted men were on their feet now, lined up in front of the plane, not exactly standing at attention, but not slouching, either.
"I'm your pilot, Gary Martin," the little whip of a guy said. "My copilot, Lieutenant Milt Held." The bear smiled. "Our navigator, Lieutenant Sam Seppetone:' Lieutenant Seppetone raised his heavy lids. Lieutenant Martin looked from one enlisted man to the other, his eyes lingering for a moment on Jack.
Jack wiped his hands down the sides of his coveralls, reminding himself of other times he'd been scared and nothing had happened. The day he enlisted-that had been the scariest day of his life.
"This is going to be my first and last speech,' Lieutenant Martin was saying. "We're a crew, at least were going to be one before were done. Were going to fly combat together. All of us are in the same boat. I know there aren't going to be any goof offs on my crew. No screw ups, no gold bricks. I don't have to be an iron pants. None of you has been dragged into this. We're all volunteers, and that means we're here because we want to be. The Air Force only takes the best." He stopped and looked at each man. "And we are going to do our best. Were going to get everything we can out of our training missions."
He counted off on his fingers. "Formation flying. Target practice. Practice bombing runs. Navigation practice. This is combat training. Everything is here, except the enemy. Every one of these training missions is vitally important. What you learn could mean the difference between life and death."
Jack felt as if Lieutenant Martin were talking directly to him. Okay, let's gol he thought. He'd forgotten his fear, he was all fired up. He couldn't wait to get up into the air and start training. He was going to know his job as waist gunner inside and out. More than that!
He'd take Lieutenant Martin's place if he had to. Every chance he got he'd stand behind Martin in the pilot's compartment and learn how to fly. Just in case they were ever hit in combat and both pilots were hurt, jack would step in. They'd be flying on just one engine, but it wouldn't matter. He'd bring the big ship down to a safe landing.
We owe our lives to you, jack Raab! Lieutenant Martin would insist the Air Corps make him a pilot.
The newspapers would write up the story of the untrained Jewish kid who, alone, brought a B-17 down to a safe landing and saved his entire crew.
"Any questions?" Lieutenant Martin said.
The Jewish Kid straightened up proudly. No questions. All clear and ready to go, sir!
Lieutenant Martin crushed his officer's cap back on his head. "You want to say anything, Milt? Sam? Anybody else?" He looked around. "Who's my waist gunner?"
Before he could stop himself, Jack raised his hand. Kid stuff. He had to watch that. "Waist gunner, Jack Raab, sir;" he said, snapping to attention
Lieutenant Martin looked him up and down "You're a big one, Jack."
Jack started to laugh, then tightened his lips. He thought he laughed too much, something else he had to watch.
"Who's my tail gunner?" Paul Johnson, a sharp- faced kid from Saginaw, Michigan, clicked his heels together smartly. There was a little smile on his face. Jack was sure Johnson was mimicking him.
Chuckle was the radio operator. The nose gunner was Fred Pratt. Old Man Pratt looked older than anyone else on the crew.
Dave Gonzalez, the ball-turret gunner, was from San Antonio, Texas. The other southerner was Billy Eustice, the flight engineer.
"Okay, you guys, let's go," Lieutenant Martin said. "Eustice, go over the plane with me. I want to get out of here, pronto. Too damn hot to hang around."
Jack helped Dave Gonzalez pull the props through. then stood by with a fire extinguisher as each of the four engines was started. When the pilot gave
the signal he ducked around the propellers, into the prop wash, to pull the chocks from the wheels.
In the plane he went forward to Chuckie's radio room for takeoff. The three rear gunners always came forward for takeoff to ease the weight on the tail. Lieutenant Martin took the plane up smooth as silk. Jack caught Chuckie's eye and made the V for victory sign. Lieutenant Martin was an ace pilot.
Once they were in the air he went back to the waist in the big middle section of the plane. Dave Gonzalez went down to the ball through the waist. Chuckie's radio room was directly forward of the waist, and if Jack squatted down he could see Paul Johnson all the way in the back kneeling behind his tail guns.
There was a big window on either side of the waist, and a .50 caliber machine gun on a swivel set squarely in the middle of each window. Jack's job was to operate both guns.
Jack plugged in the intercom and pushed the button. "Waist to pilot." He wanted to do everything right. "Waist to pilot, over."
Martin's voice, thin and reedy, filled his headphone. "Pilot to waist, what is it?"
"Waist gunner in position, sir." "Everything all right?"
"Yes, sir."
Below, Jack could see the Gulf of Mexico, the bluest blue he'd ever seen. He was at the controls of his P-51 Mustang barreling and diving and twisting down through the German squadrons, scattering them like sheep ... he caught an ME 109 in his sight . . . fired . . . and blew it from the sky. . . .
"Tail gunner to pilot." Paul Johnson came on
the intercom. "Target plane coming up at six o'clock low."
Jack gripped his gun handles. The Small AT-6, trailing a long white target, slid up under their plane. Jack had the target in his sights. When the order to fire came, he was ready, thumbs on the trigger buttons. He pressed the buttons and the guns coughed. The whole plane shook as other guns got the target plane in their sights.
Jack sniffed the burnt firecracker smell, bullet casings flew, the heat of the hardworking guns filled the plane. He'd hit the target He was sure of it. Exhilarated, he moved the gun smoothly left and right. Long after they'd flown by the target area, the Jewish Kid swung his gun back and forth, alertly searching the sky for enemy aircraft.
Jack was the first one up every morning. As soon as his feet hit the floor he wanted the rest of the crew to wake up and move. "Come on, Chuckie. " Jack yanked the covers off his friend. "Are you dead or alive?"
Chuckie opened one eye. "Dead."
Jack tightened the sheet on his bunk, making it taut enough to bounce a quarter on, the way he'd been taught in basic. "Your brain rots if you sleep too long, O'Brien."
"Hey, Eager Beaver!" Johnson reared up from his bunk. "Will you button up!" Jack hated being called Eager Beaver, but he couldn't help being the first one up, the first one in line, the first to answer their instructors' questions.
Jack wanted to learn everything the instructors had to teach them. They were spending several hours in the classroom each day. The more he learned, the closer Jack felt to being ready for combat.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Some difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Some Long/Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Several Implications

Complexity: Several ideas - closely related

Concepts: Abstract/Complex Social

Author's purpose: Implied

Prior Knowledge: Familiarity

Sequence of Events: Chronological

Mature Concepts: With some uncommon experiences

Features

Character traits

Integral Setting - Historical

Simple Plot

Topic

*History

Death

War

Fighting

Lying

Airplanes

*Feelings, Behaviors

Low Frequency Words

addressee	airfield	alertly	approaching	belted
bluest	breast	bureau	burnt	caliber
casings	certificate	chocks	cigarette	cigarettes
comer	commando	commandos	compartment	confident
copilot	corps	cousins	coveralls	crewmen
curse	drawer	ease	elders	engineer
engines	enlisted	eustice	exhilarated	extinguisher
eyed	flaming	flown	formation	forwarding
freckled	gary	german	germans	gi'd
gonzalez	gripped	gritty	gunner	gunners
gunnery	haired	hale	handball	hardworking
headphone	hell	heroes	hitler	hitler's
hooves	imagining	inhale	instructors	intensive
intercom	irish	kneeling	knelt	laced
legged	lied	lieutenant	lingering	louisiana
marcia	martin's	mere	miami	michigan
milt	mimicking	mission	missions	mustang
nathan	navigation	navigator	nazi	nazis
nevada	nightmares	o'er	occupied	operate
operator	owe	penn	phase	physical
pilots	poland	pronto	propellers	props
raab	raab's	reared	recruiting	recruits
rejected	relatives	rheumatic	roberts	rounding
rumpled	saginaw	scarves	section	seppetone
setter	slouching	smartly	smoothly	soldier
southerner	spangled	speech	spending	sprawled
squadrons	squarely	squatted	straightened	streaked
suffocating	sweat	swiped	swivel	takeoff
taut	territory	terror	tightened	tongs
trigger	turret	unknown	untrained	vision
vitally	volunteers	wrinkled	yanked	youngest