To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  She looked back at him, eyes swimming, “Of course I feel the same. Of course I do. I think you’re such a special and dear person, and I can’t begin to explain my feelings. But the thing is, I care very much for you.”

  Molly shook her head sadly, “But we can’t. I’m too old for you.”

  “You must never say that, lovely Molly.” He said fiercely, “Promise me you’ll never say that again?”

  Instead of answering, she pulled his hand to her, and placed it beneath her left breast. “Can you feel my heart beating? Every time that I’m with you, or when I see you, it thumps so. Aren’t I silly?”

  He was struck dumb. Beneath the material of her tunic he could feel the soft curve of her body, the tightness of it, where the underside of her breast pressed against it. He looked at her as she leaned back; her eyes closed, with her hand holding his against her, and thought he had never felt anything so exciting, even in combat. He could feel the blood roaring in his ears, and he thought he would swoon.

  Her breath was rapid, whilst conversely he, caught in this stunned moment, held his breath without realising he was doing so. He was frozen (in fear? Or was it stunned wonderment?)

  His every instinct screamed at him to slide his hand upwards, to cup the fullness of that lovely breast, to feel her sweet womanhood in his palm, but he was afraid it might insult her to do so, and did (could) not.

  He had never been with a woman, never even kissed one (not counting that kiss cousin Barbara had given him last Christmas, but that had been more of a slobber) before he had met Molly, and now he was here with this beautiful girl, whom he loved, her body warm and compliant beneath his fingers.

  Yes, loved. Why skirt around the truth?

  There was no reason to fear the truth, was there?

  He loved Molly. So it must be alright to touch her.

  Mustn’t it?

  She had taken his hand and placed it on her, after all.

  But he was fearful of her reaction. She might be outraged. Mother always warned him of the girls that picked up men. Of course he knew Molly was not like that, but she mustn’t think that he thought she was that kind of girl.

  She was so gentle and lovely he wanted everything to be right. She was the only thing that brought him peace. She was everything. Nothing else mattered when she was near.

  God, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, Molly.

  Oh, come now. Come on, a little voice whispered, chidingly, you’re just scared she’ll find out you’ve never been with a girl.

  It’s your first time, and you want her, but you’re too scared. You don’t deserve to touch a girl like her. Admit it. You’ve never been so scared. More perhaps than when you faced your first solo flight, or your first combat patrol.

  No. He wouldn’t touch the things that he really wanted to. The things that made his mouth dry, his head spin and his heart race.

  It was important that he did everything just right. He could remember the whispered stories of frenzied and confused coupling that his friends had boasted of during the summer holidays, during OTU, but it held no attraction for him. He had listened with envy, but he did not want a girl like that.

  When he finally lay with a woman, it would be with the one that he cared for, and one who felt the same, for surely love added the special something to the experience, surely the experience was intensified by love? The experience should be special. It would be with Molly.

  Everything had to be just right, to be perfect. He would go slowly, savour each sensation, and wonder at each experience. He wanted to appreciate the sight of her, the fragrance of her, the feel and taste of her.

  But she was lithe and firm beneath his hand, and how lovely it would be to enfold that firm, rounded breast, to feel it as he squeezed it gently, grip it against his palm.

  How easy it would be to touch her, as she lay there before him.

  But he would not. It did not seem right, even though he ached to do so. It seemed almost sacrilegious. She was glorious, and he didn’t want to spoil it in any way.

  He was a gentleman, not some desperate youth, and he would not paw her. Not his perfect Molly.

  Oh, he would touch her and caress her when there were no distractions, when there was just the two of them, alone. Naked and welcoming on a soft bed, clean white sheets, with all the time in the world to enjoy her completely.

  Oh, Molly. I love you. I wish that you could love me the way I love you. I would give everything to be loved by you. You’re marvellous. And I want you.

  In every way.

  After a moment (seconds, minutes?) she brought his hand up to her lips and kissed his fingertips tenderly. Such soft lips.

  “Oh, Molly, I think I’m in love you.”

  Oh God, NO! He was appalled. Had he just said that?

  What will she think?

  Oh. My. God.

  The words had come out before he could stop them. She’ll think you say such things without meaning or sincerity.

  That you’re only saying them so that you can have your way with her…

  Oh you stupid fool!

  Bleating out your most intimate thoughts like some silly little schoolboy! He cringed inwardly.

  But it was how he truly felt. So why hide it? Damn it! In for a penny, in for a pound! Fortune favours the brave, and all that nonsense! “I mean it. I love you. I do, honestly.”

  She did not let go of his hand, but just gazed back at him with that wonderful soft smile.

  “I know that you do, Harry. I’ve always known how you felt, and I want you to know that I feel the same.” She kissed his hand again, “I shouldn’t, but God help me, I do.”

  He stared at her, disbelieving. Could it be true?

  She paused, gazing into his eyes searchingly, and then repeated, “I love you. I shouldn’t; but I do.” She laughed at his expression. “I love you very, very much, my darling, with each little part of me.”

  Astonished and joyful, he felt as if a firework had suddenly gone off brilliantly inside him. Electricity tingled and thrilled from his toes to the top of his head. It was a joy even more intense than that when they had shared that first kiss.

  She loves me!

  Dear God, she loves me!

  Oh, thank you! Who could want more?

  She put his hand against her cheek. Despite his growing happiness, he heaved a mental sigh.

  His hand had been very comfortable where she had placed it before, beneath her breast, thank you very much, and he could still feel the warmth of her body on his skin. Please put it back there. I’d rather like it if you did. Wish I had the courage to touch you there myself. But what you think, how you feel, means so very much to me.

  So I daren’t. I want you only to think well of me.

  I’ll never do anything to hurt you. I promise it.

  “I love you, Harry, for your honesty, your kindness, your decency, for your modesty. You are everything I’ve ever wanted, and everything I knew you would be. You are a very, very special, man, Harry. I can’t fight the way I feel about you anymore. I really want to be yours.”

  “Oh, Molly, will you really be mine? I want nothing more in life than that you should be mine.” His voice, sounding stilted to his ears, stumbling with embarrassment.

  So much for keeping your feelings to yourself, you daft twerp. What happened to your ideas about remaining single for the duration of the war, twit?

  But they were his thoughts before he had met her. How was it possible to continue to still think so after meeting anyone as lovely as she is?

  “I will,” a pause, “for as long as you want me.”

  “Forever. I want you as mine always.” He gulped.

  “Then you shall have me, always.” Words spoken quietly, but with great intensity. Powerful words. “I love you, my dearest Harry.”

  “I love you, my lovely Molly,” he said it again, wonderingly, and hugged her as if he would never let go, burying his face into her sweet, luxuriant hair.

  It was like a
dream.

  I’ve been on the squadron for just less than a month, he thought, and I’ve brought down five and a half Huns, made ace fighter pilot already, but better still, I’ve found the girl of my dreams. How could so much happen in so short a time?

  If I die tomorrow, which is more than likely, it will be as a contented and happy man.

  “I’d like it very much if you kissed me, Harry.”

  Greatly daring, heart thumping, “I thought you’d never ask!”

  CHAPTER 21

  The next five days were hectic ones, both for Rose and his squadron. There were more patrols than before, but no successful interceptions.

  On the 26th, following the disastrous loss and damage to half (eleven merchant ships out of twenty-one) of the channel convoy CW8 on the 25th, with only two reaching their final destination, it was finally decided that channel convoys should only use the channel during the hours of darkness.

  It would take some time though, to put decision into effect, and convoys were still at sea the following day. The weather was awful. Low cloud and heavy rain over much of Britain made flying extremely difficult.

  Nevertheless, the Luftwaffe continued in attacks on shipping south of the Isle of Wight, and along the Channel coast, and, although Excalibur did no flying this day, some Hurricanes were sent out. The weather was responsible for more damaged aircraft than enemy action.

  The loss of two Royal Navy destroyers on the same day was yet another bitter pill for the Admiralty. The country could ill afford to lose such valuable ships and sailors.

  Saturday the 27th saw more attacks, as the weather partially cleared. There were further attacks on convoys still at sea, and concerted attacks on Dover harbour and the Royal Navy lost three more destroyers.

  Losses were reaching untenable levels, after the events of the last weeks, and in addition to the losses endured at Dunkirk and in Norway. It was decided by those in Admiralty that something would have to be done.

  Husbanding the remaining destroyers was vital, but it must be without appearing to surrender the Channel to the Luftwaffe.

  For Foxton, there was an invasion ‘scare’. A phone call came from London warning of an invasion fleet landing at Margate, and a flight of 97 squadron’s Spitfires were immediately scrambled. There was complete chaos with half-dressed pilots of Excalibur arriving at the airfield in an exotic variety of cars and bicycles.

  Sirens wailed and trucks brimming with soldiers raced importantly here and there amidst plenty of shouting and swearing.

  The ground crews ran around desperately preparing all the aircraft for combat, and air defence searched the sky alertly for the first sign of approaching enemy aircraft. With his whole squadron available, Donald put up a rota of a Hurricane section for airfield protection.

  Billy authoritatively confided in Rose of huge fires burning on the Channel, and hundreds of German dead were being washed ashore. Rose wondered about this, as Billy was still wearing his pyjamas beneath his flying kit, and had arrived at the airfield after everyone else. How could he know?

  Meanwhile, everything was quiet and peaceful at Margate, and the Spitfires returned frustrated.

  There was no invasion. No German dead. The only casualty was a soldier who accidentally shot himself in the leg as he fell off a truck.

  Apparently it had been an exercise organised at Whitehall. An irate Granny swore to track down the faceless functionary who had phoned the warning, and shoot him on his next foray into London.

  The air fighting was desultory until the 28th of July, when ‘Sailor’ Malan led his 74 squadron into a victorious drubbing of German forces, the Luftwaffe overall losing more than three times as many aircraft as the RAF.

  Even the great German ace, Werner Moelders, was forced to an ignominious crash-landing, with terrible leg wounds that would keep him in hospital and out of the fighting for some time.

  Many believed that it was Malan himself that was responsible for besting the great German ace.

  This day was also significant in that it was the one when destroyers were withdrawn from the exposed confines of Dover harbour to the slightly safer harbour of Portsmouth.

  The Navy were no longer safe in the waters they had so long claimed as their own.

  After the RN losses of the previous days, it was amazing that the authorities had taken so long to act. Unfortunately, with the loss of destroyer protection, the task fell upon the RAF to provide additional defence.

  An increased effort was to be required from RAF Fighter Command.

  Excalibur however, did not manage to take part in any of the fighting that actually took place, although Sinclair and Billy did prosper, adding to the squadron score board, when they succeeded in cornering a Junkers 88 over Rochester, and shooting it down, with the loss of all aboard.

  During this time, a bright spark at Group thought it would be a good idea to take the connection with King Arthur further. They put forward the suggestion that each pilot of Excalibur should have the name of one of King Arthur’s knights on their Hurricane.

  Donald himself, as ‘King Arthur’, was to have a gold crown painted onto his aircraft. It would be an excellent idea that could serve propaganda purposes. The newspapers would have a great story with the modern ‘Knights of the round Table.’ In the hour of Britain’s Greatest Need, blah, blah, etc.

  Donald thought the idea was appalling.

  “Just imagine if I get shot down, Uncle,” he confided to Skinner, “Group can’t really appoint a new Arthur then, can they? And just think what a terrible thing it would be for the public to hear about! If the war carries on, it’s quite likely that we’re going to lose a lot of the ‘knights’ as well. You know what’s what in wartime. No. I shan’t approve the new paintings, or the whole diabolical scheme.”

  But Granny was vociferous in his protests. He loved the idea and did want artwork applied. But he had no interest in knightly emblems. It turned out that he was rather keen to have the picture of his current favourite female painted onto his kite, and she turned out to be the rather voluptuous Daily Mirror’s Jane. Preferably nude and astride a charger (or, better still, astride something else...)

  Donald had put his head in his hands. “Good grief! The saucy bloody sod. Tell him no. I have it on authority that Jane wasn’t one of Arthur’s knights.”

  Donald did not approve of Jane. And no scantily-clad girl would be adorning one of the planes of his squadron.

  Air Vice Marshal Keith Park, AOC of 11 Group, as he regularly did with all his squadrons, flew in to see the young pilots of his two squadrons on the 29th. He jumped down from his Hurricane, still as sprightly as any of his young pilots.

  He’d swept into the hangers to have a quick word with the Flight-Sergeant, then onto the mess to see his boys. Rose had been standing nearby, talking with Granny, and the lean and hawkish Park spotted them and walked right up to them.

  He’d nodded, stuck out his hand. “Hello, Granny. Nice to see you. Didn’t recognise you there for a moment, thought you were the airman on latrine cleaning duties.”

  He’d frowned, looked Smith up and down, quirked an eyebrow. “I can see your sartorial skills haven’t improved much. My God, man, what d’you wash your uniform with, engine oil? Oh, and well done on that bar to your DFM! Good man, very well deserved! Hear you’re going to paint Jane on your ‘plane.” He shook his head slightly, eyes crinkling. “God help us! The service is turning into a circus.” He turned those probing eyes to Rose. “And this is Rose, is it?”

  Rose nodded, gaping and dumbfounded under the great man’s gaze. The tall New Zealander had placed a finger lightly on Rose’s chest, onto his AFC ribbon. “Well done. Heard all about it. Did very well under very trying conditions. Could do with a few more like you. Hear you’ve managed to knock down a few Huns since? I suppose this grubby rogue taught you a few of his tricks?”

  Rose nodded again, dumbly. Park smiled warmly, his face creasing. “Good lad. Let the others have a few, though. Don’t keep ‘em
all for yourself, there’s a good chap. Nice to see a nice spotless tunic. Good example for Granny, though I fear he’s a lost cause.”

  He’d nodded at Smith. “Try not to let this awful chap act as a model of service discipline for you, will you, Rose, alright?”

  He had sat in the Mess and had a cup of tea with Wing Commander Heart, Donald and Squadron-Leader Cohen, CO of 97.

  The other officers gathered at a respectable distance behind them. He preached the doctrine of attacking ‘Head-on.’

  It had certainly worked against the Stuka formation he had attacked with B-Flight, mused Rose.

  “The bombers have got less forward armament and armour forward, so they’re more vulnerable to a head-on attack. Also, they’re flying in tight formation, so they’ve less room to manoeuvre. If you hit ‘em head on, you’ll likely break up the formation.”

  He’d looked round at the pilots sombrely, “But you must do as you see fit. It’s easy for me to recommend a tactic, but it’s up to you boys, when you’re up there. You’re the one’s facing the bullets.” The pilots thought over his words in silence. It was of course harder to accurately aim at an enemy coming at you head-on, and the danger of collision was uncomfortably high.

  Then Park had made his way back to his refuelled Hurricane, stopping momentarily to have a quick word and a flirt with a gaggle of WAAFs coming off duty from the ops room.

  As the sound of the Hurricane receded, Granny had said simply, “He’s a fine man, that one. I’ll tell you how we first met one day,” and walked back into the mess. Rose wondered how Park had known him. But then, how had he known about Rose? It was the first time they’d met.

  He’d have to question Smith at an opportune moment.

  Anyway, Granny was right. AVM Park truly was a very fine man.

  There were a number of air fights that day, and B-Flight took off, to intercept Heinkels that were stooging around off the Essex coast near Harwich. Sinclair was able to claim a probable, whereas Farrell received credit for one damaged.

  The 30th of July was a day with low cloud and limiting weather. Fighter Command flew a large number of sorties, but there was no air combat on this day.