by Lucy Oliver
A cool breeze brushed her naked body when he moved. He lay still, a hand in hers, breathing hard, staring at the sky. She gripped his fingers, throat tightening and eyes moistening as she gazed up too, unable to let him go.
“I won’t forget this,” he said.
She nodded, thankful he couldn’t see her tears, knowing that every time she caught the scent of summer poppies or saw the stars, she would be back on this hill. And for that short time, he would be hers again.
****
Blinking up at the morning sun, Billy moved his head on his rolled up jacket, breathing in the scent of Lynne’s bluebell perfume from the previous night. Someone retched and he glanced over. A new recruit stood doubled over in the grass beside the tent, clutching his stomach. Billy didn’t go over to help. Even an eighteen-year-old had pride.
Watching the youngster, he frowned. These young men deserved a chance of life; he needed to find out why the death rate was so high here. Before his shift started, he’d walked around the planes, checking the engines and watching them being refuelled. Nothing wrong there. The craft he flew yesterday responded well to the controls. The problem wasn’t the planes, but—he suspected—a delayed call to scramble. The enemy planes were in position before they got up to them, which could only be blamed on the control tower and the Head Radio Operator, Lynne.
He might have to report her for incompetence. It would destroy her to know she was responsible for so many deaths, but if she wasn’t up to the job, she’d have to be removed. Sighing, he punched his jacket with a fist. He never should have slept with her, but he’d been desperate to know how her skin felt to touch and her mouth to kiss; to forget about Charles.
The telephone rang and he tensed, but there was no cry to scramble and he relaxed, looking at the blue sky as crickets chirped in the long grass. A white cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the heat on his bare arms. Shielding his eyes, he squinted up—soon he would see the shapes of planes, hear the rumble of engines. Smoke, black and deadly, would streak across the sky and bombs would explode in flashes of yellow fire, triggering violent eruptions of hot mud and brick. How many more sorties until a bullet hit him? How much longer could they fight to protect the beautiful land that was their home?
“Cigarette, Billy?”
He jumped. Arthur stood beside him, face pale and eyes rimmed with red, a look he recognised from his shaving mirror.
“Thanks.” He took the cigarette and reached to borrow the lighter. He rarely smoked, but today needed the distraction.
“Glamour pants on her way,” Arthur said. “If she’s the last thing I see, I’ll die a happy man.”
Billy sat up. Mounted on a bike, RAF skirt pushed high to show long slender legs, Lynne cycled along the airfield path. A white letter poked out of her basket and a military hat covered her hair. Arthur whistled and Billy cursed, not wanting her to think he flirted with passing girls. She halted the machine a few feet away and he was sure her cheeks flushed, but it could have been from cycling.
“Hello,” she said.
“Off duty?” Billy said. He’d be sorry to go up into the air without her calm voice speaking in his headphones.
“Until lunch time. I’m posting a letter to Mother.”
“What time do you finish tonight?”
“Late, and I’ll be tired.”
He frowned. She glanced away and a pain clenched in his chest. She said last night was a one off, but he hadn’t actually believed her. Was it a common habit of hers? How many other pilots had she comforted?
“How does it look in the skies today?” Arthur said.
“Not too bad. Duxford’s been hit and Biggin Hill…” She stopped.
Billy glanced away; even the name hurt.
“I’m going to fetch my jacket,” Arthur said, and strode off.
“I must go,” Lynne put her foot on her pedal.
“Do you remember last night?” Billy said.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why act so cold?”
“I have to go.”
“Don’t avoid the question. Last night you lay in my arms, but this morning you ignore me. We agreed not to have a relationship, but it doesn’t mean you can treat me like a stranger.”
Lynne looked at the gleaming Spitfires on the runaway.
“I’m afraid,” she said. “I count the planes out and count them back home, and my two tallies never match. The men talk to me as they collect their orders, young men—boys some of them. I watch them fly off, knowing they won’t all return.” She stared at him, her mouth set. “I keep my distance to retain my sanity. I have a job to do, a vital one, and if I make a mistake then more telegrams will be sent home. I talk to you over the radio, I control your plane from the ground. I have to be independent. I can’t feel any more for you than I do for any other pilot.”
“Is this revenge because I treated you badly before?”
“No.” She spat out the words. “Do you think I’m that shallow? When I know the job you do? The risks you take?”
A telephone rang and he glared at the tent, muscles tensing. Not now!
“Scramble, scramble!” a male voice shouted.
He leapt to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the floor, taking two steps towards the waiting planes. Where was Lynne? The enemy planes would aim for the airfield. She stood clutching the handlebars of her bike, face pale.
“Go to the shelter!” he said.
She shook her head and pointed to his plane. “Go, don’t worry about me.”
“Jenkins! Get a move on!” the Squadron Leader shouted.
It was his job and it came first, even before her. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, he raced towards the planes, ground shaking beneath his feet from the roaring engines. Grabbing his parachute from the wing, he dropped into the cockpit and pushed the throttle, taxiing across the runway, coughing from the smoke. But for the first time, his mind wasn’t on the planes in the sky above, it was with a girl on a bike, wearing RAF blue. Was she in the shelter?
No, he mustn’t think of her.
His tiny plane shot into the sky. Where were the bandits? Peering through the cockpit, he cursed—a layer of ice blurred the hood. He had to find a clear spot. Twisting around, he caught a whiff of her scent on his collar and jerked in his seat. Tomorrow he’d wash his jacket. He wanted no memories. She’d made her feelings clear; it was comfort sex she’d offered, likely given to many a soldier, sailor or airman. Well, he wasn’t one of those desperate men and if she suggested it again, he would refuse. He was no woman’s pity fuck.
Chapter Three
Again the call had come too late. Enemy planes hung in the clouds above him, bullets sprayed past him and he stiffened. A bomber, its black curved belly filled with death, rose from below. Would it shoot? He plunged down and came up behind it, positioned his sights and fired. A hit! Smoke poured from the enemy’s left wing and it twisted in a terrifying tumble to the earth.
But there was a second black dot, moving fast, developing wings. Tilting the steering, he aimed up, shooting into the clouds, hoping to hide. The plane flew past and took aim, but not at him. He looked ahead to where another Spitfire slid into the clouds. Arthur.
“Bandits behind,” he shouted into his radio.
Arthur shot his plane right, sun glinting from the metal. Billy slammed on his throttle and went after the 109, but it veered right and his tracers roared past. The enemy bullets tore into Arthur’s plane.
No! He thrust the throttle forward, peering into the mist. He couldn’t lose his best friend, not after Charles. The cockpit swung open on Arthur’s plane. Thank goodness, he was going to bail out, he might make it. Come on, Arthur! Hurry up!
With a ferocious roar, the fuel tank exploded, sending flames and burning metal through the sky. Fragments struck Billy’s plane, knocking him sideways and sending the fragile machine spiraling through the clouds, smoke pouring from the engine. Billy grabbed the steering; he had to level it, bring her back under co
ntrol. The Spitfire jolted again, throwing him sideways, and his head crashed against the side. A searing pain ripped across his scalp and ear, then spots of crimson dripped onto his flying suit.
Hastily, he straightened. Had Arthur got out?
He searched the sky for a parachute, but there was only the burning plane falling to the earth far below him, streaming trails of thick black smoke. His radio crackled and a male voice ordered him to return to base. He dropped low and circled, searching for any trace of his friend. Nothing. With a howl, he thumped the wheel.
****
“Next batch of mission reports,” Barbara said, dropping them onto Lynne’s desk.
She grabbed them and searched for his name, but it wasn’t there; he hadn’t arrived back yet. She slammed the reports down and stared out the large window at the airfield. There was no way she could have sat in the shelter while he fought above her. Snatching up the scramble report, she stared at the time written on the top sheet—the warning had come too late, the bombers were too close by the time they were alerted. Had she not trained her girls well enough? Were men going to die because their system didn’t work?
Would he die?
The damned air raid siren howled again. Snatching her hat from the floor, she thrust it on her head. A huge explosion rocked the tower, flinging her forward against her desk, the hard edge driving the air from her lungs. White walls glowed with flashes of yellow and red flames, a sharp smell of smoke filled the room. Lynne straightened, hand to her stomach. Broken glass lay in glinting piles across the floor, mixed with traces of dark soil and rocks.
“Crikey!” Barbara said, face white. “There’s a huge hole in the field outside. How soon do our shifts end?”
“Down! There’s another one coming!” a woman shouted.
Lynne crawled under her desk, mission reports clutched in her hand. A second bomb exploded, jolting the building, sending a spray of broken glass into the room, plaster breaking from the ceiling and filling the air with choking white dust. The drone of a plane sounded, and coughing, she climbed out from under the desk to look through the shattered windows.
Was it him? The Spitfire landed on the runway, smoke pouring from a wing. She stared at the number. No, it wasn’t his. Bells ringing, a fire engine raced across the field, swerving left and right to avoid craters. A second plane came in, roaring across the damaged airstrip. A hurricane fighter. Damn it! Where was he? Why hadn’t he returned? Grabbing a pencil from her pocket, she ticked the plane off and remembered his whispered words of last night.
Had he really said he loved her?
An engine throbbed again and a Spitfire broke through the clouds, circling to land. One wing hung at an angle and the landing carriage was jammed. Lynne narrowed her eyes to peer at the number and her muscles went weak. It was Billy’s plane.
She grabbed the window frame and shards of glass bit into her hand, drops of blood sliding down her fingers. He was going to have to crash land. Behind her, the controller shouted a warning and the fire engine and ambulance raced again for the landing strip.
Lynne ran to the door, tore it open and ran down the stairs. Her bike lay on the floor, battered but intact. She threw her leg over it and sped across the field. Hot smoke poured from a flaming crater and as she jolted over a hole, her hat flew from her head but she carried on. She wasn’t stopping—if a bomb dropped now, the tin hat wouldn’t save her.
She pounded up the runway. His plane dropped low over the trees, scraping on the branches, propellers roaring. Thick smoke filled the airstrip and she squinted, eyes stinging. Throwing herself from the bike, she raced towards the Spitfire as it dropped towards the ground. The plane crashed into the earth and sent mud cascading into the air. She couldn’t lose him now.
“Keep back,” a fireman shouted. “It’s going to explode!”
The man grabbed her waist and hauled her back; she struggled, but he grasped her fists and held tight.
“Let me go!” she yelled.
The cockpit pushed open and a hand emerged, grasping at the side of the plane. She jabbed her elbow back, struggling.
“Billy!” she shouted.
He tried to climb out, the plane rocking on its broken undercarriage and the sharp, chemical reek of aviation fuel filling the air.
“Billy, get out!”
He climbed onto the wing, rolled, and landed with a thud on the ground beneath the plane. She jerked a hand to her mouth; his flying jacket was splashed with red. The strong odour of petrol drifted over again as Billy pulled himself onto his knees. The plane burned above him; any second it could fall down, trapping him beneath.
“Get back! All of you,” the fireman ordered. “It’s going to explode.”
There was a loud swoosh and Lynne screamed as hot air burnt her skin, but she ran forward, grasping Billy’s arm.
“Billy, move!” she shouted.
He staggered a few yards and the plane exploded in a deafening roar, spraying them in chunks of scalding metal. Lynne dragged him across the grass as the fireman ran up to support his other side. The tinder-dry grass ignited behind them.
“Hurry, Billy,” Lynne said. The flames were moving fast behind them.
“Bring him here,” a woman shouted.
The ambulance crew were running towards them, a stretcher between them, shrapnel clanking off their hats. A piece struck Lynne’s bare head and she yelped.
“Get him on,” the woman said, dropping the stretcher to the ground.
They swung his legs up onto it, grabbed the handles and raced for their truck. Lynne ran alongside, staring at the blood spreading across his pillow, a hand to her mouth. His face was pale and dotted with burns. Raising a hand to her own skin, she touched sores and her eyebrows crunched, coming away in her fingers like tiny dry twigs.
“Is he all right?” she said, panting.
“Too early to tell,” the medic said.
They carried him into the back of their truck and dropped the stretcher onto a narrow cot.
“Hop in,” one of them said.
Lynne climbed in and sat beside Billy. The vehicle bumped across the grass and he groaned, his fingers tightening on the stretcher. She took his hand.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said. Her hand trembled and she tensed her muscles, heart still thudding in her chest. She leaned to kiss his cheek, desperate for the touch of his skin, to reassure herself he breathed, but he pulled his head away and stared at her through unfocused blue eyes, ringed with bruises.
“How many died?” His voice slurred.
She shook her head and pulled his blanket up.
“How many?” he shouted.
“I don’t know, I only heard about one. A man called Phillips.”
“Arthur. His name was Arthur.”
She pulled back, startled at his harsh tone. “We’ll talk about it later. You’re injured.”
Lynne touched his face, finding the skin wet beneath his eyes. She traced her fingers across the raised bruises then down to his lips.
“Don’t touch me,” he said.
Lynne jumped.
“This is your fault,” he said.
“Billy, it’s me, Lynne.”
“I know who you are.”
She leaned closer; his blue eyes were dazed, blood soaking into the sheet. Was he concussed? The ambulance stopped with a jolt and he groaned.
“Careful!” Lynne said.
“Haven’t time,” the driver opened the door. “A plane’s coming in on fire. Have to get back out.”
Her breakfast rose in her stomach and she swallowed rapidly.
“You all right?” the woman said.
“Yes.” Leaning down, she took hold of the stretcher and helped lift Billy out of the vehicle. Two nurses took hold of the stretcher handles and raced to the hospital hut.
“Is he badly hurt?” Lynne said, running alongside.
“No idea,” the nurse said.
Lynne hurried ahead to open the doors and followed them into a small
casualty area. Blood lay in drying patches on the floor and a man screamed from behind a green curtain. The nurses lifted Billy onto a narrow bed and grabbed scissors from a table.
“I’m Nurse Connors,” one of the women said. “What’s his name?”
“Jenkins, Billy Jenkins.”
Lynne reached forward to take his hand, but the nurses blocked her. She watched them insert the scissors into the sleeve of his jacket and rip up to his shoulder.
“Please be gentle,” she said.
They tore open his jacket, ignoring her. His chest was covered in dark purple bruises. Lynne raised a hand to her mouth, unable to believe that last night she’d traced her hands over the same skin.
“You need to go now,” Nurse Connors said.
She couldn’t leave him, not like this.
“I want to stay.”
“Waiting room, please. We’ve dozens of casualties, don’t delay us.”
Lynne leaned down and kissed him. A drop of moisture landed on his cheek and lifting a hand to her own face, she stared at the tears on her fingers.
****
The glass of water stood on his bedside table. Billy reached out a hand again, but his bandaged shoulder wouldn’t stretch far enough. He licked his lips, dry skin against his tongue.
Giving up, he dropped back against the hard pillow and looked around the single room, a narrow cupboard holding an iron bed and cabinet. From above came the drone of planes and he twitched, frustrated. Why was he lying here? He should be finding out why so many died, why he’d lost Arthur. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain flared through his head and his stomach churned. Swallowing, he lay back down.
Where was Lynne?
No, he mustn’t think of Lynne; she’d been cold with him because she feared losing him and she was right. In Special Ops, his life wasn’t worth a shilling.
There was a knock on the door and Lynne stepped in. Thick black smuts covered her face and uniform. She’d washed her hands, they were clean and pink, but she could not hide the burns on her cheeks.
“Was the watcher tower hit?” he said.
