The resulting massive celebrations left all of B-Flight (and more than a few friends and girlfriends) with tender heads the following day, and finally waving off their friends was a bittersweet moment.
Clark and Jones had more than earned their rest, and it would be one of performing administrative duties at Group.
In his heart Rose felt that their skills would be far better employed in training new crews, but the veteran crew had faced more than enough danger already.
It would be unfair to strap them along with a student or two into an aeroplane that was not the easiest to fly at 81 Group, Fighter Command’s training component.
The fact that many of the training Beaufighters were underpowered with Merlin engines made the aircraft that much more of an undertaking to fly relative to the Hercules-powered Beaus, and consequently made night fighter training more fraught and complex for students and staff alike. Whoever was behind it, the decision to use Merlins in the Beaufighter II was a badly thought one.
Indeed morale on these units was at rock bottom and the Beaufighter was getting an undeservedly bad name amongst the trainee crews.
Nonetheless, trained crews of quality with operational experience needed to be assigned to train the newcomers for long term success.
In a field of warfare that was continuously developing, experience would pay huge dividends in the production of future night fighter crews.
Molly put down the piece of paper, and rubbed her eyes tiredly.
The CO, Wing Commander James, wanted a badminton competition organised between teams from the various units at RAF Dimple Heath, and the competition was to include at least one (but preferably more) WAAF team.
Molly sipped from her cup but the tea had cooled and she grimaced at the taste.
Unbidden, the memory of the morning they returned to her friend’s London flat after a night sheltering on the London Underground platform, their bodies stiff and dusty, the memory of humanity packed tight together on the platform of the dank and reeking Underground station stark and still fresh in their tired minds, the stench seemingly permeated into their clothes and skin.
Following the bombing, there had been a gas mains leak nearby, and there could be no lighted flames that morning.
The exhausted couple breakfasted on cold, and stodgy powdered egg, crusts of bread and cold stewed tea, their nostrils filled with the smell of brick dust and bitter smoke, but grateful to have escaped the dank enclosed space, and that they still had somewhere to stay.
At least for one more day.
The experience unsettled them both, and Molly was unable to forget the sight of the frightened little children, apprehensive and pasty in the poor light as the earth shook and rumbled.
How did Humphreys do it every night? What kind of superman was he?
Another everyday hero who gave everything they had for little, if any, recognition.
She yawned hugely, jaw popping, then covered her mouth delicately, and wondered wistfully if it might be possible to arrange some leave for Harry and herself.
How she yearned to have him all to herself, away from all this, just the two of them, even if it were only for a few days.
It would be just wonderful to see the Isle of Skye again. This time she’d get that wonderfully naughty boy of hers to visit and enjoy the sights properly.
And then another vivid memory flashed suddenly into her mind.
Early evening in a candle-lit Portree hotel bar, the ravening wind howling angrily and rain slashing and thrashing viciously at the windows, dimming the greyness of the day with its intensity, whilst the two of them were comfortably ensconced before a roaring fire, a delicious dinner of rich mutton and barley broth with fresh-baked bread laying comfortably warm in their stomachs.
At the bar, one of the patrons was reciting John Stuart Blackie’s epic poem ‘The Death of Haco’, recounting the fate of the raiding expedition by King Hakon’s massive fleet.
His face lit eerily by the flickering light of the roaring fire in the hearth, the bar silent except for clink of glasses and the logs crackling and popping in the fire, the angry sound of the weather muted outside.
The man was as drunk as a lord, but fervent and tearful with emotion, he enunciated every word slowly, clearly and loudly.
Molly listened with frank interest, immensely enjoying the classical verse, but a sleepy Rose was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.
“They took the body of Haco, in a ship across the sea–“, intoned the well-oiled narrator solemnly, and he raised a filled shot glass blearily to Rose and Molly.
Rose had sighed glumly and shifted in position, pushing his buttocks comfortably against her, “God! Will it never end? He’s as pissed as a fart, how does he remember it all? I wish someone would take that silly old bugger away in a ship across the sea.”
The ‘silly old bugger’ blinked groggily, before beaming a brown-stained smile at Rose.
And then continued on with his monologue.
Molly giggled at the memory. Those ten days with Harry had been a delightful, idyllic time, and one that she remembered with great pleasure.
Her tears on the last day as they watched the island fade into the mists from the open deck of the ferry were for a wonderful time that might never be repeated, for the war was waiting for them.
Molly sighed and picked up the piece of paper again, she could only hope and pray that one day, some wonderful day, there would be a peace, and they might be able to enjoy the future together without the threat and terrors of war.
Would it ever come? Was it too much to ask for?
Dear God, keep my darling Harry safe. Please grant us our happiness…
Outside, on the parade ground, an NCO began to harangue some unfortunate erks, his shrieks punctuating the quiet with raucous sound; reminding Molly the real world was still out there, wanting to be let back into her innermost thoughts.
Molly leaned back comfortably in her chair, crossed her legs, and scrutinised the partial list she had prepared.
Now was not the time for memories, no matter how wonderful they might be.
They would still be there when she wanted them.
It was time to put them carefully back into the little safe place in her mind, because there was a WAAF badminton team (or two) to organise…
Chapter 22
Their honeymoon had been in Scotland, a perfect and blissfully happy ten days in December, in which Rose discovered first-hand both the beauty and delight of the Trotternish Peninsula on the Isle of Skye, and (infinitely better!) the sheer beauty and incredible delight of Molly’s slim, smooth and shapely body.
The destination had been Molly’s decision, and there had been a method to the madness, as she planned to nurse her beloved new husband onto that final stage of recovery from the injuries he’d experienced.
The ecstatically happy couple stayed at the large and impressive Royal Hotel in Portree (where they were daily reminded by the nice lady on reception that Bonnie Prince Charlie met Flora Macdonald for the last time at the hotel, back when it had still been MacNab’s Inn).
Every morning, Molly coaxed Rose out of their warm bed (no mean feat when all he wanted was to undress her and get her back into it with him), down to a delicious and filling hot breakfast that seemed little affected by rationing, and then out for a gentle stroll around the harbour and onto Thomas Telford’s pier.
All the while, as Molly chattered gaily beside him, her face shining with happiness and her hand in his, she gradually led him further and further afield, the walks longer and brisker, so that his poor leg and his strained mind progressively healed and strengthened.
Rose had never known so much happiness, and as he revelled in the wonder of his good fortune (how on earth had he survived the savage fighting and then gone on to net such an incredible girl as well?), he could not quite ignore the fact that his countrymen and women were fighting and dying whilst he enjoyed this idyll.
As Rose grew ever stronger each day, his bea
utiful wife, herself haunted by the memories of RAF Foxton’s bombing and the losses she had suffered, continued to bestow upon him her complete love, until Rose reached the point where he could manage without the walking stick. Of course she knew that it meant that he would become fit enough again to fly, but understood that he could not stand idly by whilst others fought and died.
On their first Saturday there, a day that promised clear skies and excellent visibility, Molly and Rose hired a taxi cab to take them north to see The Storr, and to marvel at the savage beauty of the jagged rocky outcroppings and the moody great Gyrolite rock formation.
The Storr was almost seven miles to the north, on the road from Portree to Staffin.
As a child she’d visited the Isle of Skye and the sight of the dark majestic ramparts wreathed in the mists, like a mysterious fortification, left a lasting impression on her.
Her father had laughed gently when the fearful eight-year old, clutching his hand so tight that it hurt, had asked him if it was home to some dragon or evil wizard; his reassurances only half convincing her younger self.
It was a precious memory of a magical time in her childhood, and Molly wanted to share the unearthly experience and her memories with the man she loved.
Just before she took the long train north with Rose, Molly told her father, a station commander in Bomber Command, of their trip, and again he’d laughed. “It’s a place you never forget, my little one. Have a lovely time and enjoy yourself. Take some pictures with Harry for my album.”
On hearing that they were heading north by rail, and even though the trains were packed and uncomfortable in wartime, Rose rejoiced. He was certain that going by road in Molly’s little red car would be the end of him. There was no way that his heart could survive in the passenger’s seat over such a lengthy journey.
This time, the little red car stayed at home and Rose could breathe easy.
Wisps of mist began to materialise as they made their way northwards, slowly thickening until the surrounding rock faces drifted in and out of the milky skeins of icy haze.
“Wow,” breathed Rose, “It’s like a fairy-tale landscape. It’s a bit scary isn’t it?”
Molly giggled, “Don’t worry, Harry, I’m here, I’ll take care of you.”
“How dare you, Ma’am,” he answered, eyes still fixed to the sights as they came into sight before drifting back into the white, “I’m here to look after you, y’know.”
“Look after your lady well, sir,” piped up the little driver, a man called only ‘Sporran’ by everyone in Portree, bright brown eyes and a ready smile set in a tanned and lined face. “There’re fairies around here, and they can’t always tell the difference from right or wrong. Don’t get too close to the edges either, don’t want to get pushed off, eh? Och, and beware the Glastigs.”
Rose turned to look at him, voice steady and cautiously nonchalant, “Glastigs?”
Sporran nodded sagely. “Oh, aye.”
Rose tried again, “What’re Glastigs?” Molly squeezed his hand comfortingly.
“Ah, dearie me. Glastigs’re howling wee beasties, bit like goats but no’ as friendly. Dinna worry, though, I’ll be wi’ ye.”
Rose licked his lips, eyes flickering between the view outside and the back of the cabbie’s head, “Do they, erm, attack people?”
Molly giggled again, and Rose glowered at her.
The cabbie waved a dismissive hand floppily, “Och, never, sir.” He thought for a moment, “well, hardly ever, that is.”
Bloody hell… Rose fearfully gripped his walking stick tighter.
The cabbie pulled out the knapsack carrying their picnic lunch and passed it to Rose.
“Are ye sure, now?” he sounded disappointed. “I’d be happy tae show you the way.”
Rose nodded, settling the knapsack comfortably over his shoulder. “Yes, thank you, er, Mr Sporran. No need to accompany us. I’m sure we’ll be alright, the pathway looks pretty clear. And it’s just about two and a half miles round trip, isn’t it?”
“Aye, but no need to rush, enjoy the walk. I’ll be waitin’ for ye here. Dinna wander off the path, it’s a bit wet, don’t want ye takin’ a tumble, ‘specially with the gammy leg and all, ye ken? Remember, bear right where the path splits, then left at the next split. Ye’ll see the Old Man as ye go higher.”
He smiled at Molly, then winked at Rose, “Watch out for the Glastigs, mind.”
“I’m not sure you father likes me, Moll.” The wooded area was behind them now, an open gentle slope leading them onwards.
Molly shook her head, her hand warm and comfortable in his. “He’s a bit shy, Harry, always has been. He might seem a bit taciturn, but he knows that you love me and that I love you.”
The path was getting a little rocky and Rose’s pace had slowed. “Plus, you’re a fighter boy. I come from a bomber family. Not quite the Montagues and the Capulets, but you get my meaning.”
“Hm.” His ankle was beginning to ache a little now. “D’you think we could stop for a moment?”
She stopped, concern in her eyes. “Is it your leg? It is a bit rougher than I remember.”
“Ankle’s a little sore.” The bloody thing was sore as hell, but he was a man, and a RAF fighter pilot to boot. He’d be damned if he let the girl he loved know how bad it hurt.
“We’ll find somewhere to sit down, Harry. Can you manage a little more? The path goes left here, let’s go a few more yards and we’ll find a nice rock to sit on.”
They made their way a little further uphill, a tad more slowly, and Molly espied a likely looking rock.
“Here we are. Pass me the knapsack, my love. I’ll pour us a cuppa. Would you like a sandwich?”
He placed an arm around her. She felt so good.
“No thank you, lovely. A cuppa would be nice, though.”
“I’ll pour then, and you keep an eye out for the fairies and the Glastigs.” There was a mischievous smile on her lips and he leaned forward to kiss her.
Her lips were cool and supple and delightfully responsive, and his penis twitched involuntarily with desire. “He was pulling our legs, the old rogue.” He shifted position to ease the pressure on his groin.
Molly passed him a little tumbler, steaming in the cold air, the aroma of hot tea mingling with the fresh scent of earth, wet rock and grass.
She sighed. “Isn’t it quite beautiful?”
The mist drifted across the landscape before them. “I’ll say. Is that The Old Man, over there, to the right?”
She sipped carefully from the tumbler and nodded. “Yes, that conical rock, set between the jutting rocks? Apparently, legend has it that the Old Man was a giant who once lived in Trotternish. Isn’t it just grand?”
She sighed again contentedly.
Whilst it was impressive, Rose was more aware of her nearness, the softness of her lips and the fragrance of her body merging with her perfume. “It is lovely, just like you said. It’s made a great deal lovelier by you being here, though. You are so very beautiful, my darling.”
She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Hm. I know that wheedling tone. What’re you after, you cheeky boy?”
“I was just thinking, what a beautiful place this is and what it might be like to make love with you here.” His penis throbbed urgently.
She smiled. “My, my, young man, your poor leg seems to have recovered a bit. I think it would be lovely, my darling, but it’s a bit chilly, this rock’s a bit hard and wet, and the floor’s a bit rocky. We don’t have a ground sheet and I’d rather not have a badly lacerated bottom. You can be quite potent when you get going, not that I’m complaining. It’s really rather agreeable.”
The beautiful smile widened mischievously, “I’d rather lie on something a bit softer, and I’d like it if you lay on top of me. Fancy heading back? We could have a picnic in our room.”
His penis was already engorged and stiff with desire, and a part of his mind wondered if the sight of The Old Man jutting proudly upwards had been a sugg
estive influence.
“D’you mind, my honey? I know how much you looked forward to seeing Storr again. Wouldn’t you like to stay a while longer?” he looked at the barren rocks, “We could sit here for a while, yet?”
“No, I love it here, but I love being wherever you are. I love you so much, and you make me feel so happy.”
She lowered her voice and leaned close, quickly glancing around, even though they were quite alone, to breathe into his ear, “And I simply love it when you fuck me.”
His breath caught in excitement, as it always did when she spoke words like that one, and he hobbled to his feet eagerly, shifting his penis carefully to one side with his free hand to ease the tightness of his groin.
And then he stopped.
“What on…?” He peered uncertainly into the mist uphill, “Did you see that?”
She turned to look, “See what?” the path ahead was empty, just mist rolling fitfully.
“I thought, um, I thought I saw someone up there…” just for a moment, Rose could have sworn there had been a grey and shadowy figure standing still and unmoving in the ebbing and flowing mist, further up the pathway’s steep gradient, quite near to the rock face.
But now there was nothing. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. This place was so spooky…
“I can’t see anything,” she said uncertainly. “Are you quite sure? One of Sporran’s Glastig’s?” Molly laughed nervously, still eyeing the spot Rose indicated, “You’re pulling my leg. Don’t mess about, Harry.”
His heart was thumping, “No, love, honestly. I’m sure I saw someone standing there.”
What was it that he had seen?
She gripped his arm, “Come on, then, let’s go Harry.” She reached for the flask and the tumbler, still half full.
Above them there came the faint sound of gravel shifting and slipping. Rose felt a sudden overwhelming feeling of foreboding and menace slip heavily onto him. It was as if they were being watched by invisible eyes.
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