“Jampot to Cocoa and Snaffle Leaders...We’ll go straight in...Oxtail Leader, bring your chaps in when we’ve engaged them. Tallyho!”
Two squadrons followed James down steeply to cut the enemy off before they were within cannon range of the nearest B 17s. The third held back to jump on the Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs as soon as their pilots’ attention was distracted.
James, recalling the many times he had flown in a formation of only squadron strength over Kent and Sussex while four or five times their number of Me 109s came hurtling down to try to drive them away from a mass of Heinkels, Dorniers and Junkers, coldly planned his kill. He loathed the arrogant, insolent swastikas and white-edged black crosses on the fins and fuselages of the German air fleets. Every time he went into action they filled him with anger. They were symbols of brutality. They reminded him of the times, in the summer of 1940, when he had seen German pilots shooting British pilots as they parachuted out of Spitfires and Hurricanes. They inflamed his hatred for what the Nazis were still trying to achieve, the defeat and domination of Britain. He had transferred his feelings long ago from the aircraft which bore those symbols to the men who flew them. There was no evil in inanimate machines. It existed only in those who controlled them, fired their guns and pressed the buttons that released their bomb loads. In his view it was cant to say that one fought impersonally, aircraft against aircraft. For him it was man to man and he relished every kill he made.
One of the frequent aberrations to which radio was subject at high altitude caused a momentary breakthrough from the B.B.C. in his headphones. For a few seconds, instead of the steady mush that usually formed the background noise, he heard Ambrose and his orchestra accompanying Anne Shelton in “Coming Home On A Wing And A Prayer.”
He thought it timely as he adjusted his reflector sight, calculated the necessary amount of deflection, and, with a three-second burst of fire, sent a FW 190 tumbling down the sky with huge pieces torn away from one wing and flames gushing from its engine.
The sound of The Inkspots singing “Bless You For Being An Angel” was coming through the window of James’s office when he picked up the telephone.
“Wing Commander Fenton.”
“It’s St. George’s Hospital For Officers, in London, here, Wing Commander. I’m the Matron.”
The words of the sentimental song brought Nicole to mind each time he heard it. The words in the earpiece of the telephone brought a chilly premonition.
“Good morning, Matron.”
“We have a patient here who has asked me to get in touch with you...”
“Nicole! Lieutenant Girard?”
“Yes, Wing Commander. You may come and visit her at any time you wish.”
“How long has she ...?”
“Only a couple of days.”
“Is she...how is she?”
“Miss Girard...Lieutenant Girard is well enough to see you now, but she hasn’t been very well.”
James knew that he would extract no more. His thoughts raced over all the ugly possibilities that lay behind the cool words.
“I’ll be there at about six this evening, Matron. Will that be all right?”
“Perfectly all right. You’ll find her very tired, and perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes will be enough for a first visit.”
“I understand. And thank you for letting me know.”
It was a year since Nicole had made her second return to France. Roger, talking guardedly, had given him a good understanding of what it must be like to live clandestinely under German occupation and work with the Resistance. What had the Germans done to her? What sort of a human wreck awaited him in the hospital?
The wing had been released on return from seeing the B 17s safely home. James flew to Hendon and a Service car took him in to London.
The Matron left him at the door of Nicole’s room. Her face was turned towards him when he went in. She smiled and her joy at seeing him brought life and ardour to a face so pale and thin that if she had been asleep he would have doubted that there was any spark of vitality there at all.
He went on his knees beside the bed and took her in his arms. She was trembling. He could feel tears on his cheeks and they were not all hers.
When he could control his voice, he said “I’ll never let you go back again.”
“I can’t, my darling. They know my face too well.”
“We need only a little more time, and I can take you back in safety. The tide has turned already.”
She clung tightly to him. “I am in no hurry.”
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Table of Contents
Trial by Fire
A Time for Haste
Too Late The Morrow
The Sure Recompense
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 72