Smith enlightened him, “You are a silly, ignorant sod, Harry Rose. It’s a ribbon, a medal ribbon. I have the honour to inform you that you have been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for gallantry in the air. You earned it. Bloody well done, Harry!”
And then, a little self-consciously, “I got a DFC too, and Stan, though God only knows why, mad bugger. Dingo got a DSO to add to his half-stripe, Dolly’s going to have to get one hell of a big stick to beat the crumpet off him.”
Rose reached out to grip Smith’s arm for a moment, sharing the emotion. “Good God.”
The Distinguished Flying Cross?
He didn’t know what to say.
He was now Pilot Officer Harry Rose DFC, AFC, RAF.
It sounded good.
Good? It sounded bloody marvellous!
Just a few short months ago he had been a scared young man being thrown around the back of a lorry on his way to his first operational posting, and now he was here, a veteran and victor of great air battles, a killer of his enemies, a survivor with a DFC to add to his AFC.
Smith cleared his throat, surprised to find that his cheeks were wet. “You’re going to need time to recover, Harry. Don’t rush back, chum. You’ve done more than enough. The bastards will post you wherever they want you, soon enough.” He turned away to wipe his face even though Rose couldn’t see his tears.
“So many have gone now. I was at Donald’s funeral this morning. I think the Old Man never got over her death, but he’s with her again, now. He’ll be at peace. He was a good man. There’s a posthumous DSO for him. He more than earned it. Ten times over. I’d have given him a VC if I had anything to do with it. He did a good job with Excalibur. The best.“
They were silent for a moment, remembering the dead and the wounded. At least Billy, Ffellowes and Carpenter had survived. It had been a cruel, harsh summer for Excalibur Squadron.
And then the old Granny was back. “Get the ribbon sewn on PDQ, matey, all the girls love a hero, and what with your DFC, AFC and the Mention, well, the knickers will be dropping wherever you go, even though you’re such an ugly bugger. I’ve already put my ribbon up, and to be honest, I think my poor old todger will be glad for a totty-free time in Scotland. But don’t tell anyone, I’ve got a reputation to keep, and I can’t stand to see the girls cry.”
“Granny, you’re incorrigible, you know those Scottish girls are gorgeous!”
They chatted for a few minutes, and then Smith suddenly smacked his forehead.
“Cripes, I forgot! I had to give you the other thing.”
For a moment he searched fruitlessly through his pockets, “For Gawd’s sake, where is it?”
Rose chuckled to himself, same old Granny!
Granny tut-tutted, “I must have left it outside, Harry. Sorry, mate. Give me a moment to go and get it.”
“Granny, honestly, you’re hopeless!”
“You’ll get nowhere in this air force if you don’t know how to address a senior officer, you cheeky little bugger,” and Smith swept haughtily out of the room.
Almost immediately the door swished open again, but the steps were lighter than Smith’s. Iris must have returned with his biscuits, “Did you manage to find any, Iris?”
He put the precious DFC ribbon in his trouser pocket and held out his hand.
But instead of some biscuits, a slim, smooth hand slid into his.
A familiar fragrance that he’d feared he’d never smell again filled his nostrils and his heart hitched painfully for a second.
She was here! He gasped in thrilled disbelief and wonder.
The hand pulled him forwards into a ferociously tight bear hug and the air was almost squeezed out of him by the girl’s powerful embrace.
Elizabeth Arden soap really washes away the day.
Soft lips brushed lightly across his, leaving a wonderful smear of lipstick and sweet wetness.
He gasped again. Rose’s heart racing as he felt her pressed against him. Her hair was wet against his cheek, breasts delightfully pressing against his chest, her back firm and sweet beneath his fingers (don’t press too hard, remember that awful wound, it must still be sore).
He kissed her back and could taste the salt of her tears on his lips.
Rose tried to speak, but his throat felt tight, and no words would come.
He could hardly breathe, a song of purest joy thrilling through him. He felt as if his feet weren’t touching the floor, that he was floating in a cloud of bliss.
And then Molly spoke, her voice sweet, her breath fresh and delightful. All his dreams made real, the incredible miracle of his beloved in his arms.
The voice he had yearned to hear. The first words he’d heard her say for so long.
“So…who’s Iris?”
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Author’s Note
I would like to thank my lovely wife, Zakia, for the love and support that made it possible for me to write this book, and my wonderful children Adam and Saphora for all the hugs, kisses and sticky sweets.
And to my wonderful little sister, Mursila, I thank you with all my heart for your invaluable guidance, advice and assistance. You made all the difference.
To So Few is a story of a young man’s experiences at a dark period of time when the future of Britain looked extremely bleak.
A number of campaigns and battles during World War Two were key stepping stones in the long and difficult journey to the final victory in 1945, and the Battle of Britain was one of these.
To me, it is the most important of them.
Had the Luftwaffe been victorious, and had Britain fallen, with the resulting capitulation of all British and Commonwealth forces, Hitler could have invaded Russia in 1941 secure in the knowledge that his only front was to the east.
With the full might of his forces concentrated against it, might the USSR have also succumbed? Our world could have been very different from the one we know.
Some believe that the Royal Navy could have prevented the invasion, but I believe that had air superiority belonged to the Luftwaffe, it would have been a very different story.
As the evidence of history has repeatedly shown, determined air attack is cruelly effective against naval vessels.
The Royal Navy alone would not have been enough to save Britain from invasion (sorry, Jack).
But, of course, the Battle of Britain was only one of the many stepping stones to victory, and many more sacrifices would need to be made by so very many to achieve it.
The wartime generation was one filled with countless heroes and heroines, incredible people who paid for the freedom we enjoy today at great cost.
Nonetheless, my greatest champions will always be the extraordinary men and women who defended Britain in the desperate months of that long ago Summer in 1940.
This is my tribute to them.
To So Few.
To So Few Page 48