Heinrich von Zehntner's hand hovered over the throttle for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
The Me P. 1110 "Hündin" sat crouched at the end of the Sicilian runway like a predatory animal chained in place, exhaust howling at idle, heat shimmering behind the fuselage.
The cockpit canopy framed the world in curved glass, runway ahead, sandbag revetments to either side, technicians already squinting away from the blast they knew was coming.
In the distance, the coastal guns barked again. The horizon flashed dull orange where American shells walked across a hillside.
"Griffin-one, cleared for takeoff. Repeat, Griffin-one, cleared for takeoff. Vector two-one-five after wheels up." The controller's voice crackled in his headset.
Heinrich flexed his gloved fingers once on the control yoke.
The new jet still felt unfamiliar, weight and responsiveness not yet imprinted into his bones the way the PTL-8 trainer had been.
