He smiled back, squeezed her hand (God what a pleasure it was to touch her again!). “Nothing would please me more.”
“Good.” Then, she smirked, “Don’t forget your sauce-pan.”
Rose looked down at the black and yellow-brown stained steel pot near his feet, then back at her, and rolled his eyes.
When they had been walking down the lane earlier on the way here, a little boy had shot out of a nearby cottage, holding it out to them. Eight or nine years old, with grimy knees and a snotty nose.
“Hey, Commander, ‘ave this for yer Spitfires.” The little boy’s face was flushed, and Rose did not have the heart to decline. He had tucked it under his arm, saluted the boy solemnly, and thanked him. The warmth of the boy’s smile had been palpable, Molly’s even more so.
“You are nice, Harry.” Then, “But don’t bring that pan anywhere near me. I don’t think it’s ever been washed. Now we had better run, because his Mum may not know he’s given it to us, and I don’t want to be accused of theft!” she’d laughed as he’d looked at it. “You are nice.” She’d repeated.
And better still, she had held his hand for the rest of the journey here.
He could smell her, clean and fragrant. Unbidden, the popular slogan ‘Elizabeth Arden soap really washes away the day’ flashed into his mind.
She got to her feet in a single fluid movement, like a ballerina gracefully rising, patted her skirt and tunic. She offered him her hand again. He took it and stood, making a great show of using her assistance.
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
She looked at him silently for a moment, and then she made up her mind. God help her, she would give it to him after all, even though she had resolved not to, the moment she had bought it. She opened her respirator box, and drew out the red and white striped silk scarf. It shone brightly in the sunlight.
“I want you to have this, Harry. You belong to Excalibur squadron, and I’ve heard the groundcrew call you all Donald’s ‘Knights of the Air.’ I think his people have painted ‘Arthur’ on the side of his aeroplane.”
He stared at the square of shining silk, wondering where Molly was going with this, “Well, every knight has a warhorse, and yours is that Hurricane you’re so attached to. A knight usually has a lady too, whose colours he wears, and whose honour he upholds.” She looked away, blushing in embarrassment, “I’d like it if you thought of me as your Lady.”
Rose grinned, and croaked, “I’d be honoured, m’lady!” He bowed deeply, almost losing his balance, and tugged his forelock theatrically.
“Well, I thought I should have some colours, and I’ve chosen these as mine. I thought you could wear this as my banner into battle?”
He took the scarf from her, discarded his own, and wrapped hers around his neck in its place.
She was looking at him, her eyes suddenly glistening with unspilled tears.
“I suppose you think I’m being terribly silly?”
He smiled. “No, no, not at all. I think it’s a wonderful thought, and I’m glad you picked me to wear your colours. I’d be honoured to take your standard into battle with me.” His throat felt tight, and for some inexplicable reason, his hands were shaking. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me. Thank you, Molly.”
She sniffed, “You’re very formal, all of a sudden, Pilot-Officer.”
Greatly daring, he took her hand between his, and brought it to his lips. He held it there for a long moment. He waited for her to pull it away, but she just stood motionless, a slight, strange smile on her lips, her cheeks colouring a delicate coral pink, and her liquid eyes on his.
Her palm was dry and fragrant. He closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the scent and the touch of this lovely woman.
Elizabeth Arden soap washes away the day.
The scent of her, the sound of her voice, washed away all his tension, all his worries.
“I’ve nothing to give you in return, except…would you like my old scarf, Molly?”
“Yes please, I’d like that very much.”
She took the scarf from him, folded it carefully, and placed it carefully into her respirator box.
Then she placed one finger on his chest, just below his wings. “Perhaps you could tell me about the medal, as we walk back? It’s the Air Force Cross, isn’t it?”
Eyes still closed, he said, “The tale of my heroism will take many hours in the telling, for it has many embellishments and praises of my character and nobility.” How easy it suddenly became to talk like this with her! “It will need to be told at some later point, when we have more time. Perhaps over dinner one evening? I always tend to go on about myself. Next time, you must tell me about yourself. And we still have to go and watch ‘Wuthering Heights.’ Come on, you know I’m irresistible! How can you refuse me?”
He could sense her acceptance, feel her smile. He felt her other hand come up to caress his cheek gently.
He opened his eyes, and saw such a look of tenderness on her face that instinctively he took her into his arms and hugged her tightly, as if it were their last embrace, and not their first. She was warm in his embrace, and he felt as if he were as light as air, and might float away at any instant.
He had imagined the first time he held a girl that he would be all fingers and thumbs, but instead it felt the most natural thing in the world.
Standing there, cheek-to-cheek, she felt so right, so natural, curving against him, as she hugged him back. They fit so perfectly together.
He felt at peace, his heart filled with joy, yet her very nearness initiated excitement and treacherous desire stirred in his young loins.
He was embracing her! He could hardly believe it! Already, he could feel the beginnings of an erection, and shifted awkwardly so it would not press against her, but he did not let go of her.
She placed her hands on his face, one on either cheek, and gazed deep into his eyes. Then she kissed him lightly on his lips, soft and moist, just for a second, and he thought that he would pass out from the surprise and the burgeoning delight that thundered through his veins.
She tasted of freshness, cool, sweet, and so very soft.
First kiss.
Such a gentle, chaste kiss, not at all like the frenzied, lustful, hungry kisses he had watched with envy at the train station, filled with fire and passion, but the tender kiss of two people who care deeply for one another, still too shy to show their mutual longing. The caress of her lips was like eiderdown, so light.
It was his first proper kiss ever, and he felt ten feet tall with the experience.
“Will you come for dinner?” He squeaked.
“Alright,” she answered, simply.
As they walked slowly back, not saying another word, hand in hand, Rose felt that should he live a hundred years, he could never experience such joy as this ever again.
She had kissed him, and he had held her in his arms.
And she had given him her colours.
Molly was his Lady.
CHAPTER 18
The following day, Yellow section, flying as ‘Slipper section’, were scrambled to intercept a plot approaching from the south east. They were expertly vectored to the bogie by another efficient controller.
Unlike the previous day, the weather was a grim, with low, heavy grey cloud hanging like a miserable curtain before them. It had rained heavily earlier, but had come to a fitful stop, but the cloud was pregnant with the promise of further rain. Visibility was bad in the grey light, and the three pilots strained as they looked through the murk for the unseen aircraft. Rose thought of the fire in the Mess, and he clenched cold gauntleted fingers.
Come on; let’s go home, he mentally urged Granny.
He thought back to breakfast.
Ffellowes had cocked a questioning eyebrow at him, as he bit into a piece of toast. “You’re looking decidedly chipper, old man?”
Granny had sniffed from behind his usual copy of the Daily Mirror, rustled it, “It’ll be a woman, mark my words. Don’t
believe in ‘em myself. No bloody good to man nor beast. Give me a Pint of Best any day.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, chum.” Denis waved a fork at the hidden Granny. “And I happen to know that you’re incapable of resisting Popsie.”
Granny sniffed disdainfully again but said nothing.
“I take it that the rather glamorous Flight Officer Digby is responsible for that rather silly grin on our young friends face.” Ffellowes smiled benevolently, and crunched another mouthful of thickly buttered toast.
“Poor, innocent sweet boy.” Granny sighed sadly, and continued to leer at the lewd cartoon pictures that chronicled the antics of Jane, as she shed items of clothing in her latest adventure.
They were a good bunch. Rose had merely smiled and remained silent.
His thoughts slowly drifted to Molly, and tendrils of warmth crept over him from within, but they were quickly dispelled as the voice of the controller came over the ether again.
More instructions, but no sight of the enemy in this brooding grey half-light.
Naughty boy, he chided, you’re leaving all the work for poor old Granny and Speedy.
Down below, an equally grey and cold sea chopped fretfully, the crests making Rose imagine hungry, biting pointy teeth. He shivered in his cockpit.
Earlier they had passed a convoy, cutting ponderously through the hard sea, a few small barrage balloons straining above some of the small vessels, like banners being carried by knights into battle. Funnel smoke trailed darkly behind before being whipped away, making the grey day even gloomier.
Unlike his mood, or the banner Molly had given to him. Unconsciously he brought up his hand to touch the silk at his neck. He had seen Granny’s eyes flick with interest to his new scarf, but his friend had not said anything, despite the curiosity in those eyes.
The ships looked as grey as the sea, their red ensigns the only speck of colour in the miserable scene, and it made him feel cold just to look at them. I don’t envy you, he thought, tossing around in the freezing wind, soaked to the skin on an open deck or bridge.
If they had to abandon ship, they wouldn’t last long in that freezing, hungry sea.
Nervously, he hummed ‘I’ll never smile again’, the popular tune that Ffellowes had been playing endlessly on the gramophone in the mess.
Even the ship’s barrage balloons looked wet. Thank God father never chose the Navy. I might have been down there now if he had!
He stole a glance at W-Wally, flying to one side and slightly behind him.
W-Wally was being flown by a pilot who would most probably feel right at home, bouncing around down there. Sub-Lieutenant Harold ‘Speedy’ Sampson RNVR was one of the two pilots on loan to Excalibur squadron from the Fleet Air Arm. The other young naval pilot, Grayson, was seconded to Sinclair’s B-flight.
Fighter Command’s ranks had been swelled by over fifty naval aircrew from the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm.
Rose had found Sampson a friendly but quiet young man, unlike the devil-may-care Grayson, who had only flown ‘Stringbags’, Swordfish torpedo bombers, up until this point. He had confided his fears of inadequacy as a fighter pilot quietly to Rose one evening, yet nonetheless, he climbed into his aeroplane and flew every day two or three times on patrol.
And more importantly, he continued to survive.
Sampson would sit quietly by the fire, resplendent in dark blue, with a single wavy gold stripe on his sleeve, occasionally murmuring a sentence or comment. Each word was carefully enunciated, spoken with concentration. He was a man who spoke seldom, but, when he did, it was to say something of value.
Hence his nickname.
Rose found him congenial, as did Granny, who managed to get Sampson to fly with his section whenever possible. He too, had recognised the worries afflicting Sampson, and wanted to keep an eye on the young sailor.
The naval pilot was not always so quiet, though, for now he squawked loudly on the intercom, “Slipper Three to Leader. Bandit at ten o’clock high!”
Two other pairs of eyes wrenched around to see a dark shape disappear into the grey clouds above. It had gone quickly, but not before Rose had recognised the twin radial-engine bomber, on a heading for the convoy they had left behind.
But before he could say anything, Granny cut in, “Slipper Leader to section, I see it. It’s a bloody Junkers 88, and it’s heading straight for the convoy. It’s up to us.”
They turned sharply on an intercept course, but stayed below the cloud. Formation flying in cloud was an extremely unwise and unhealthy pursuit.
Twice, the enemy aircraft appeared before them, wraith-like before fading away again. The second time, it was so close that Granny tried a short burst, but without result. Then, they lost it.
Granny took them back down, cursing the cloud impressively. Rose thought of the WAAFs listening in the operations room, and blushed.
“We aren’t going to find the bastard in this muck, boys. We’ll circle the convoy. If he finds them, we’ll be able to give him a smack on the chops.”
At full throttle, it was not long before the convoy materialised again out of the murk, off to one side.
They circled it, but carefully kept out of range of the naval gunners.
As the crew of HMS Shilton had shown, naval gunners were not always terribly good at aircraft recognition, and were definitely not shy of ‘having a go’ when in doubt.
Grayson and Sampson, to their endless chagrin, had been teased mercilessly about it.
Within a minute of reaching the convoy again, Rose saw the black twin-engined bomber burst through the swathe of cloud about a mile distant. It noticed the ships, and turned towards them.
“Slipper section attacking! Tally-Ho!”
Within an instant they were closing on the Junkers. Just when Rose began to think they might catch the enemy aircraft by surprise, it turned to starboard sharply, and tracer stabbed at them, bright and deadly in the gloom, before zipping past to port.
“Break formation, and attack in line astern,” ordered Granny, turning with the bomber.
Rose nudged rudder and skidded out of formation. As he did so, he glanced at the raider ahead. There was something strangely familiar… He looked again.
Gazed with disbelief at the red and blue roundels.
“Christ! Break off the attack, Granny! It’s a Blenheim!” But already Granny had seen the markings and was turning away.
Rose hauled back on the stick, noticing how close they had got to the convoy, but there was no anti-aircraft fire from the ships below. They must be wondering what the hell we’re doing, he thought with consternation and more than a little mortification.
With one last quick burst from the Blenheim’s gunner, it fled back into the sanctuary of the cloud, heading for the English coast. There’re three lucky young men, thought Rose. They came within a hair’s breadth of the end.
Doubtless there’ll be a few shaky hands downing pints tonight.
And a pointed telephone call to Fighter Command from their CO.
“Slipper section to Footlocker, be advised bogie is a Blenheim.” Complained Granny. “He’s pushed off. We’ll stooge around for a little while, just to make sure that there isn’t really a Junkers in the area. Why don’t you tell those bods to tell us they’re flying around out here.”
“Received and understood, Slipper Leader,” acknowledged the controller. “Please advise when you end patrol.” Then, surprisingly, “Well done.”
“Understood, Footlocker, and thanks.” Then, to Sampson and Rose, “What a party! Form up, Slipper section.”
They were about to re-form when another black shape detached from the cloud, on the far side, and dived at full speed for the convoy.
Surprised, they banked around again.
“Bugger me with a boot brush!” shouted Granny over the intercom, almost bursting Rose’s eardrums, “It’s a bloody Jerry for real this time!”
Once more, Granny led them in a straggly line after the other
aircraft. It looked as if they may catch it as they bored in at full throttle. It saw them coming at it almost head on, and levelled out of its dive, and turned away.
The enemy bomber dumped a stick of bombs against a small steamer on the flank of the convoy at the same time as it turned.
Lightened of its bomb load, it seemed to bound upwards.
Waterspouts shot up all around the little ship, but when they had subsided, it reappeared, wet and shining, seemingly undamaged, with an almost jaunty air, like a cheerful tramp doffing his cap.
It looked untouched. But appearances can be deceptive and even now there could be men down there coughing up the last of their blood.
Small puffs of smoke appeared in front as the convoy began to fire upon the Junkers with a wide variety of calibre of weapon. Disconcerted by the anti-aircraft fire, the enemy pilot almost flew into one of the barrage balloons, just clearing it by a small margin.
As the Hurricanes took up the pursuit, the gunners targeted them. All around, a fire storm erupted. Dirty grey-black puffs of smoke blossomed suddenly, and tracer lanced upwards for them.
Rather than fly through the naval gunfire, which resembled a lethal fireworks display, Granny and Rose broke upwards and away, but disregarding the vicious explosions, Sampson weaved his Hurricane through it and out the other side, buffeted and stained, but miraculously undamaged.
He seemed determined to close with the German aeroplane, knowing that the enemy could easily escape into the murkiness. Trails of grey smoke streamed behind the Junkers as the German pilot slammed on full power and tried to climb back into the nearby cloud.
But he hadn’t reckoned on Sampson’s tenacity.
Granny and Rose watched disbelieving as the Hurricane shot through the devil’s brew of tracer and explosions, the unscathed emergence.
He closed rapidly with the 88.
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