The War Wheel

The landing was rough. Chuck tucked and rolled like he had a hundred times before, but hit his head on something hard and blacked out. When conscious returned, a blurry figure stood over him. As his vision cleared, he saw someone had moved him into the shelter of a ruined farmhouse. His chute was nowhere in sight. The stranger wore a ragged Russian uniform, but Chuck noticed that the Russian's boots were German and almost new. His rescuer, if that's what he was, moved to the other side of the room and leaned against the remains of a stonewall with his arms crossed across his chest.
“You're a Blackhawk, right?” the Russian said in perfect English. “I've seen you in the newsreels.”
“Yeah, I'm a Blackhawk. Chuck Wilson, from Texas. Who are you?”
“Call me Kilroy.”
“Kilroy? That's not a Russian name.”
“That's because I'm not Russian,” Kilroy said. He plucked at the uniform tunic. “Don't go by this. The uniform made it easier to get around here. I work for Wild Bill Donovan.”
“You're OSS.” Chuck said. The Blackhawks had experience with General Donovan's Office of Strategic Services, not all of it good. “What are you doing here, if you can tell me? And before I forget, thanks for getting me into cover and hiding my chute. You did that, right?”
“No thanks necessary. Wild Bill would have my hide for a rug if I didn't help a Blackhawk when I had the chance. Despite your differences in the past, he respects what the Blackhawks have contributed to the war effort. Besides, I may need your help. How are you feeling?”
Chuck noticed Kilroy had avoided the question about his mission. Gingerly, the pilot pushed himself up from the hard dirt floor. On his feet again, he stretched and twisted. “Nothing broken, I'll live” he said.

By Don Secrease

Click anywhere on the picture to see a larger version (139 Kb)
Suddenly, his vision dimmed as if he were feeling high G again. He felt himself start to fall but couldn't do anything to stop it. A pair of hands gripped his shoulders and lowered him to the ground. His dizziness cleared and he saw the agent's arms stretched out of his sleeves from twelve feet away.
“What the Hell!” Chuck exclaimed. “That's impossible – unless – there's only one person who can do that. You're Plastic Man!”
“Not anymore. I stopped being 'Eel' O'Brian when I fell into a vat of chemicals that turned my body stretchable. I stopped being Plastic Man when my pal, Woozy, was killed by Nazi saboteurs. We were working for the FBI then, tracking down a Nazi sabotage ring. Woozy thought he was invulnerable, and he was to physical damage like bullets, but he still had to breath and they got him with poison gas.
“After that, things didn't seem so funny anymore. I decided to take more direct action against the Nazis. My special abilities made me a natural for intelligence work and Donovan was glad to enlist me. Even gave me a direct commission to captain. I put away the Plastic Man identity when I traded the red tights for an Army uniform. My codename is 'Kilroy' and that's all the name I need.”
“I'm sorry to hear about your pardner,” Chuck said. “I reckon we've all lost someone in this war, but that don't make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn't. But we can make the bastards' responsible pay for it. That helps me.”
“Yep, that works for me, too,” Chuck agreed. “Did you see how I got here?”
“Sure, you lost a dogfight with a Me 263.”
“True enough, pardner. I got in some licks but he whupped me where it counts. What's important, though, is where the Komet came from. I didn't see it, but I'm betting it came from a God-awful big machine I saw rolling across the country. We call 'em War Wheels.”
"War Wheel, huh?" Kilroy said. "Yah, it fits. I know the machine. I've been tracking it, looking for a chance to stop it or, at least, divert it. It's heading for Stovropol, the linchpin of the Soviet line in this sector. If that 'War Wheel' takes out Stovropol, the Soviet defense will collapse and the Nazis will push them back to the Urals."
"We beat two of them back in '40, but that was as much luck as anything else. I called back to my base but the rest of my team is gone. I don't know when I can get some support. The slugs from my ship's .50s bounced off that thing like rain off a tin roof. What we gon'ta do with a couple of handguns?"
Kilroy's neck stretched till his face was only a foot in front of Chuck's. "You mean a Blackhawk and the original rubber man can't take out one Nazi war machine? Read the papers or watch the newsreels. We're super-heroes, boyo, so we can do anything!" His neck shrank back to normal and he smiled mischievously, a momentary glimmer of his former, famous happy-go-lucky attitude. "Besides, I did a little recon while you were napping. The Me 263 landed about a mile from here. Looks like you did damage it since it probably was supposed to set down close to its launcher. That means the War Wheel will change course to retrieve its fighter. And that will be our chance to get aboard."

To advance to the next page, click the "Forward" button below.

Back to the New Blackhawk Adventures Page

All characters, pictures, and related indicia on these pages are the property of DC Comics. All text is ©2004 Dan Thompson, except where otherwise noted. This homepage is not intended to infringe on the copyright of DC Comics to its characters, but was created out of gratitude to all the wonderful writers, artists, and editors who created the Blackhawks.