by Conor Bender
“Yes.”
“You got balls, mate. I was Baker Leader and we came in right after your run and cleaned up. You set us up nicely to clobber them. Half of them gave chase down toward the deck after you, but had to stop midway to climb back upstairs to defend the bombers from us.” Baker Leader laughed and clapped Faraday on the back, ordering two rounds from the bartender.
“Well, your lot came just in the nick of time. We surely were at the end of our rope.”
“Well, hopefully you can return the favor one day. By the way, we confirmed that your flight shot down three Heinkels. No doubt they would have killed a lot of people had they made it to the city.” The bartender showed up and handed over the beers, which Baker Leader then offered to Faraday.
“Cheers.” Faraday nodded his thanks and walked over to Bailey and handed him one of the beers. “Made some new friends.”
“I know. They’ve been regaling the women in here with how they stopped the bombing raid for the past hour. A couple of them are now eyeballing you with the entrance you just made. You just became the man of the hour.”
Faraday looked around the pub and caught the eyes of a few women. He took a sip from his beer and prepared to walk over to a blonde with inviting eyes, when the air raid siren started to go off.
Faraday swore under his breath.
“Alright, everyone to the shelters, everyone out!” the bartender called calmly. Patrons started to make their way out of the bar. It wasn’t a frantic stampede but a hurried walk as though they were late to work.
“Rotten luck old chap.” Bailey snorted as he watched the blonde steal away out of the bar.
Faraday shrugged and walked over to the bar and pulled out a wad of bills.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” the bartender called in annoyance as Faraday reached over the bar for a bottle of whiskey. He showed the bartender the bills and laid them on the table.
The bartender nodded his consent, realizing Faraday was paying nearly double for the bottle. Faraday grabbed the bottle and rejoined Bailey near the door. “Sod it, I’m getting drunk tonight.” He took a hearty swig from the neck of the bottle and passed it to Bailey. “Call it an early going away party, Pete.”
Bailey hesitated but took the bottle and drank deeply. He coughed and checked the label. “Damn. I haven’t had Irish whiskey in a while.”
“Good, right?” They looked on as they walked outside. Spotlights lit up the sky as they swept the night in search of German bombers. Tracer fire began to stitch upward as bombers were spotted.
“They’re going for the factories.”
Faraday nodded and took the bottle. “I’m not going down into that bloody shelter.”
“Neither am I.”
Faraday took a heavy sip from the bottle and belched. He could hear the whistle of the bombs as they screeched through the air. The ground rumbled and the air cracked thunder as the bombs impacted. Vibrant orange plumes of fire billowed up as West Edinburgh burned. He couldn’t help but feel anger well up in the pit of his stomach.
“Pete, I think I wanna go back south.”
Bailey looked over at him. “You’re drunk.”
“Doesn’t change what I want.”
“You’ve only been an instructor for three months. You can’t just say I want to go back to an intercept squadron. Who would replace you?”
“I’m sure someone would be willing. They’d be getting the long end of the stick.”
“We’ll talk about it when you’re sober,” Bailey said dismissively. He had known Faraday long enough to know that he wasn’t someone you could keep on the sidelines for long. Mike King had warned him that Faraday wouldn’t stay in a training squadron; and Bailey knew from flying with Faraday in the Battle of Britain that he wasn’t one to step aside when he could help. Twice he had nearly run out of fuel while flying because he had refused to leave a wing mate in a fight. Bailey knew his time at Turnhouse was short. He took another sip of whiskey and looked around. The street was deserted. “Christ, fucking Jerry knows how to ruin a good night. I’m going back to the airfield. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Faraday nodded silently and continued to watch the raid, imagining what he would do if he was in an aircraft right now.
***
Cutter shook his head; it hurt as he moved it. He opened his bleary eyes and looked around. His vision was still blurry and took a moment to refocus. He tried to stand up, but realized he was tied to a chair. He looked around and saw that he was surrounded by a large group of people.
“Monsieur Deschamps, apologies for the rugged treatment, but I’m sure you can understand our precautions,” Claude, the baker, said. He walked over to Cutter and crouched down to eye level.
Cutter regarded him and then looked over at Talia and chuckled, “That’s why we went to the bakery.”
“Oui.” Claude nodded and looked over at Talia. “Talia is a clever girl; knew how to cordon you off so we could isolate you and take you somewhere secure.”
Cutter looked around. They appeared to be in a barn. Hay bales cluttered the floor and farm tools hung from the walls. Cutter counted six people, but assumed there were more. “So what now?”
“Well, you certainly walk, talk, and are equipped like an SOE agent,” Claude said in English as he unsheathed Cutter’s F-S knife and inspected the blade. “Question is, are you?”
“Have you spoken with SOE?” Cutter asked, also in English.
“We have. They confirmed that Olivier Deschamps was inserted, but Francois Crevier was the only one who could confirm your identity. You can understand why we are hesitant.”
“A bit of a conundrum.”
“So what do we do?”
“How about untie me, give me a stiff drink, and behave like gentlemen?”
Claude chuckled and shook his head. “I think not, monsieur.”
Cutter smirked, trying to appear in control even while tied up. “Well, you can put me in contact with SOE, and they can prove who I am.”
Claude stood up and thought it over. “I was thinking something similar, but I have concerns.”
“Like what?”
“The Germans are able to not only intercept our radio communications, but are able to triangulate where we are. If we get on the radio, we have maybe thirty minutes before the Nazis get here.”
“So?”
“We’ve already used it twice in the past three hours.”
“Well, I’m not staying tied up the whole bloody night, so let’s do this.”
Claude toyed with the tip of the F-S knife absently and turned to two of his men. “Get the radio ready.” Both of them nodded and departed. Claude walked over and started to uncut Cutter’s bonds using the F-S knife.
“Claude what are you doing?” Talia asked in surprise.
“We need to verify him, and we don’t have time to wait,” Claude said in annoyance. He finished cutting the bonds, but did not hand Cutter his knife.
Cutter stood up shakily and rubbed his arms where the rope cut off circulation.
“Follow me,” Claude said, and started to walk off. Cutter jogged after him, noticing two Resistance members staying close to him, weapons at the ready. They walked into an adjacent room of the barn and found the two men next to a portable radio.
Cutter didn’t immediately go to the radio. He watched as the two men fumbled with the device. He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t a German ploy, and didn’t move to the radio until one of the radio operators started using the proper codes to get SOE on the net.
Without asking for permission, he walked over and grabbed the mouthpiece. “Tackley Station, this is Cartographer. Come in, Tackley Station.” It took Cutter three tries before finally getting a response.
“Cartographer, this is Tackley Station. Send your traffic.”
“Roger, I hav
e made contact with Tempest, but need assistance with proving my identity. Can you assist.”
SOE took a moment to respond, “Roger, Cartographer, stand by.”
Cutter put the mouthpiece down and waited. Claude and Talia stood near him, listening in to the whole conversation.
“Cartographer, this is Tackley Station, come in.”
“Go for Cartographer.”
“Aardvark would like to know how many dates his wife has set you up on.”
Cutter snorted and clicked the mic. “Zero.” Freddy’s wife didn’t like him one bit.
There was a pause on the other end. “Affirmative. Name the counter code to Emerald.”
“Tranquility.” They went through three more challenge and return code words before Tackley Station was satisfied. “Identity confirmed for Cartographer. Tackley Station out.”
The line went dead. Cutter put the mic down and looked at Claude and Talia. “You heard that, right?”
Claude nodded and handed over the F-S knife. “Never can be too sure.”
“I understand. Wasn’t personal.”
Cutter noticed the look of disappointment on Talia’s face but ignored it. “So what now?”
“Run like hell,” Claude said simply, he pointed to the two radio operators. “Break it down and get out of here.” He turned to the two guards. “Make sure they get out of here safely.” He motioned for Cutter and Talia to follow him.
“Where are we going?”
“The safe house; we can talk there,” Claude said and motioned toward a car. “Get in.”
***
Faraday’s head was throbbing and his clothes were wet. He woke up shivering and looked around and realized he was in the middle of a field. He searched the area and spotted his motorcycle leaning against a stone wall near the road. It took him a minute, but he slowly remembered stopping to relieve himself by the wall in the night. He must’ve sat down and dozed off at some point. He stood up unsteadily and looked down. The bottle of whiskey sat at his feet, empty, save for a few stray drops. He checked his watch: seven o’clock. He had half a mind to lie back down in the field and sleep for another hour if he wasn’t so damn cold.
Faraday shook his arms and stamped his feet to try and warm up. How the hell didn’t he die in his sleep from hypothermia? He trudged toward his bike, the hangover hitting him like a hammer with every step. His head buzzed making it all the more difficult to concentrate. As he sat down on the bike, he realized the buzzing in his head was actually above him. He looked up and saw contrails streaking across the sky.
A dogfight waged overhead as bombers vectored toward Edinburgh. “Christ, you bastards are persistent,” Faraday muttered. He watched as Spitfires and Hurricanes tangled with ME109s. Black smoke coughed out of one of the fighters. Faraday couldn’t tell whose aircraft it was, but watched as it went into a nosedive.
The aircraft was losing altitude quickly; as it got closer to the ground Faraday could see that it was a Hawker Hurricane. Flames licked the cockpit as fuel leaked from the engine and ignited. It was only a matter of moments before it would explode.
“Get out, dammit! Bail!” Faraday shouted as he watched helplessly from the ground. When the plane looked to be no higher than three thousand feet, the pilot bailed out. Faraday watched as a chute deployed, and the pilot started to drift back down to earth. Faraday revved the engine and took off toward where he expected the pilot to land.
The pilot touched down a mile away from where Faraday had woken up. He arrived just as the Hurricane pilot was detaching himself from his chute.
“You alright?” Faraday asked as he killed the engine to his motorcycle.
The pilot looked at Faraday and shrugged. “I could be a hell of a lot worse, I suspect.” His thick Scottish brogue was barely understandable.
“Need a lift?”
“Sure. Do you mind giving me a ride to my aircraft? It looked to have crashed a few fields over.”
“Sure, hop on. What’s your name?”
“Flying Lieutenant Seamus Kilgore. You?” Kilgore asked as he hopped on the back of the motorcycle.
“Flying Lieutenant Ian Faraday. Nice to meet you.” Faraday revved up the engine and started off in the direction of the billowing smoke.
“What squadron are you with?”
“One-eleven. You?”
“I’m an instructor at Turnhouse.” Faraday pulled the motorcycle to the side of the road next to the field the plane had crashed in, and killed the engine.
Kilgore hopped off the bike and surveyed the wreckage. Flames licked the airframe as petrol and canvas burned. They both kept their distance in case the fuel tank exploded.
Kilgore ran a hand vigorously through his hair in frustration. “Dammit, I really liked that bird.” He looked over at Faraday. “You’ve any idea how hard it is to find an aircraft that doesn’t have any sort of equipment malfunction?”
“It’s a rare occurrence.”
“Aye, and she was one of them. Now they’re gonna give me some hangar queen who no doubt will have a gun jam in the middle of a scrap,” Kilgore moaned. He kicked a tuft of grass and meandered back up to Faraday’s bike. “What’s your deal anyway?”
“Got drunk and passed out in a field.”
Kilgore laughed. “If it weren’t for your accent I’d swear you were from the Highlands with that tale.”
“I can take you to Turnhouse and you can get a ride back to your airfield from there.” Faraday watched as the aircraft started to blaze.
“I appreciate that.” Kilgore didn’t move for a moment but looked at Faraday thoughtfully. “So you’re an instructor?” a hint of envy filling his voice. “You lucky sod.”
Faraday nodded but didn’t say anything.
“How do you like it?”
Faraday shrugged. He loved not being on standby to intercept at every hour of the day, but he meant what he said last night to Bailey. He was ready to get back into the fight. “It’s the first time my schedule was my own in a long time.”
Kilgore nodded in understanding. “Aye, not having to worry about the enemy for a day is a grand thing.” He took one final look at the burning wreckage that was his aircraft moments before and without another word hopped on the motorcycle.
The ride was short, and as they entered the front gate a few dogfights could still be seen waging over the outskirts of Edinburgh.
Kilgore eyed an instructor briefing his students, a look Faraday recognized as he’d had it in his own eyes a few months ago. He looked over at the flight line and saw Ben Royce prepping his boys to go up. “You know, I’m actually going over to request a transfer, if you want to get a foot in the door.”
Kilgore looked at Faraday in surprise. “You better not be having a laugh.”
“Dead serious. Come on.” Faraday brought the motorcycle to a stop and hopped off. He motioned for Kilgore to follow him to the ready shack.
“Why give this up? Away from the war? You’ll survive,” Kilgore asked suspiciously.
“I’ve spent three months here and have trained nine students. Yesterday my two students and I were in the scrap over the city and I realized how much I missed it.”
“Shitting yourself when Jerry gets behind you in a scuffle?”
“No. I missed being relied on.”
Kilgore nodded in understanding. “It’s one thing to know that you can rely on your mates, but it’s a whole other when they can rely on you.”
“That’s why I want to go back.”
They walked into the ready shack and found Squadron Leader Bailey packing up his office.
Faraday knocked on the open door. “Morning, sir.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Bailey groaned. He looked to be suffering from a hangover similar to Faraday’s.
“I’d rather not say.”
Bailey grunted, and looked over at Kilgore. “Who’s this?�
�
“He’s a stray. Found him in a field on my way home.”
“Shot down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your squadron?” Bailey asked in a perfunctory manner, as if this was a regular occurrence.
Kilgore leaned against the door frame. “One-eleven Squadron out of RAF Acklington.”
“Sir, I was wondering if before you leave you could do both me and Kilgore a favor.”
Bailey stopped packing and looked up. “I have a horrible feeling I’m not going to like this.”
“Kilgore is looking to transfer here, and I’m looking to transfer back south.”
“I thought that was just drunken rage last night when you were blathering about going south.” Bailey sighed and walked around his desk and leaned against it. “Why?”
“I’m rested. It’s time I got back into the mix. I ask that you give Kilgore my slot and send me south.”
“How nice of Mr. Kilgore to take your position. What about your students?”
“If we learned anything yesterday, it’s that Faust and Chambers are ready. I’ll take them with me. Surely there is a squadron in need of a new flight.”
Bailey grunted, crossed his arms, and chewed his lip as he thought it over; his desk creaked under his weight. “I’ll make a few calls. Flying Lieutenant Kilgore, head back to your squadron. You can await word there. Wait outside and I’ll arrange transportation for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Kilgore stamped his foot, saluted, and departed. Bailey eyed Faraday for a long moment. “Ian, don’t make me regret this.” He reached for the phone on his desk and started to dial a number.