‘Well, I for one am glad,’ said Scarlet, going back to her thick Lincolnshire sausages and fried eggs, ‘but if you two aren’t going to get on with,’ she waved a sausage at them, ‘whatever this is, then Dougie has a couple of single friends in the ministry who he thinks would be perfect for you two.’
Kitty and Gwen rolled their eyes; the Irishwoman had been going out with Sir Douglas Pewtall, the Commander of the Royal Aviator Corps, and while the man was moderately handsome, somewhat dashing and very well thought of, he was also old, at least forty, possibly forty-five and nothing like the bubbly and vivacious Scarlet. Anybody he considered to be his friend was likely to be similar in temperament to him and not exactly someone they’d like to spend romantic time with, even if they had been in the market for boyfriends.
‘I think I might tell him to bring them along next time the three of us come up to London, that way we can go on a triple date.’ Scarlet smiled at them sweetly as she viciously stabbed a sausage with her fork, then used it to point at them one by one. ‘I might even consider having him reassign you both to desk jobs as well. That would certainly teach you to assault a defenceless superior officer with down-filled weapons in the middle of the night.’
Abby managed to appropriate an aircraft for them from the authorities at the Hyde Airstrip for the trip back to RAC Hawkinge on the south coast where they had left their surviving aircraft. It was a lumbering antique Lekker, a Prussian aircraft from the 1920’s with three enormous steam engines. It had been discarded by its owner, a recently rich manufacturer of the fabric used in military uniforms, in a fit of patriotism at the beginning of the war. It had since been maintained by the crown as a pleasure craft and was perfectly serviceable, painted in royal livery and eminently comfortable, having been fitted with every luxury possible by its previous owner.
Abby flew them, not bothering to change into a flight suit for what was little more than a glorified autocar, and less than an hour later they landed at Hawkinge. Then, after a quick check on their aircraft, or at least what remained of them, they took a couple of rather less comfortable RAC personnel carriers to the hospital in nearby Folkestone.
They were met on the steps of the hospital by Lord Bagshot, Penelope’s husband. Lord Bagshot was a tall man in his early forties with a full head of well-coiffed hair. He was fifteen years his wife’s senior and, aside from being a peer of the realm, had been an autocar racing driver until the war had broken out. According to Lady Penelope, theirs had been very much a love match, which had grown out of their mutual need for ever-increasing velocity and excitement. However, a racing accident had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other, which meant that he was ineligible for active service, so he compensated by doing what he could to support the war effort in other ways. Until recently that had included housing a Harridan squadron on his lands.
He greeted them with a smile, but Gwen could see that it was forced and there was a pain behind his eyes.
He shook their hands one by one before addressing Abby. ‘Thank you for coming, I know how busy you must be.’
Abby shook her head. ‘We are never too busy to take care of one of our own, Lord Bagshot.’
‘Please, it’s Basil, but call me Biffy, everybody does.’
‘Biffy Bagshot? I’d rather not, thank you very much.’ Mac’s whisper thankfully only carried to the Misfits immediately around him and Scarlet’s sharp elbow in his ribs put paid to any further comments.
‘How is she, uh, Biffy?’ asked Abby, not quite hiding a grimace at having to follow the Lord’s instructions - she was of a like mind to Mac on the merits of the man’s nickname.
‘She is... well, you know her - she’s putting on a brave face. Perhaps you will be able to get her to open up a bit more.’
Abby frowned. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Lord Bagshot forced another smile, much less successfully than before, though. ‘You’ll see.’ He gestured for them to follow him inside. ‘Shall we?’
They passed through reception then through a sparsely populated waiting area before entering the wards themselves. As they trooped along, they couldn’t help but notice that many of the people - doctors, nurses, out and inpatients alike - stopped what they were doing to stare at them. At first they thought that it was something to do with their RAC uniforms and wings, which had come to be seen over the last few months as the mark of heroes, but they slowly came to realise that it was something more, as whispered conversations were carried out in their wake and people began to rush ahead of them. They began to gather something of a following, until finally they found their way blocked by a group of people, fronted by a small cluster of children who were all clutching newspapers.
‘Excuse me, miss.’ The smallest of the children, a thin waif of not more than five years, stood in the way of the diminutive Scarlet, picking the least intimidating of the Misfits to approach. ‘Is this you?’
The child held out his paper, the News of the Empire, one of the more popular tabloids, in hands that were grubby from the print and Scarlet took it from the girl and the pilots gathered around to peer at it.
Taking up most of the space on the front page under the banner “Misfit Squadron Triumphant” was a reproduction of the photograph that they had taken over the summer to commemorate Gwen’s incorporation into the squadron. It showed the twelve pilots lined up in two ranks in front of Wasp, which was parked in front of the hangar at Badger Base.
Scarlet frowned at Abby. ‘I thought the papers were keeping our names out of things? Look!’ She pointed at the bottom of the picture where their names were clearly printed as if it were some kind of team photo.
Abby took the paper from her and quickly scanned it. ‘The Misfits, led by Wing Commander Abigail Lennox, today achieved a momentous victory...’ Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning it like she did the sky. ‘Special note must be made of the efforts of Aerial Officer Gwenevere Stone, pilot of Wasp, who managed to defeat the notorious leader of the Barons, Hans Gruber, in single combat and force him from British territory with his tail between his legs.’ Abby looked up at Gwen with a wry smile. ‘Looks like you’re famous, Gwen.’
‘We all bloody are,’ grumbled Owen.
Mac and Bruce, however, rubbed their hands together and shared an eager look, already thinking of the drinks they were likely to get bought for them.
‘Can I have me paper back, please?’ Forgotten, the child had been watching his paper pass from hand to hand, growing more and more agitated.
Scarlet smiled down at him. ‘Of course.’
She held it out to him, but he didn’t take it, instead he held out a pen. ‘Would you sign it first?’
Scarlet blinked at him for a second, nonplussed, but recovered quickly. ‘Of course!’
On hearing her answer, the other children surged forwards as one, brandishing their own papers and pens, joined by many of the adults.
Chaos ensured, along with an awful racket that annoyed the doctors and nurses, until eventually Abby called for quiet and organised a kind of production line with the Misfits lined up along a wall, each armed with a pen, and the autograph hunters moving from one end of the line to the other in military precision. After about ten minutes, when everybody present was satisfied and it seemed that every newspaper in Folkestone had been signed, the Misfits were finally free to continue with their mission.
Lord Bagshot had left them and nipped ahead to prepare Penelope for their visit, so when they filed into her room and gathered around her bed, she was propped up on pillows and wide awake, with her hair presentable, if not decent.
She was deathly white with a waxy sheen to her skin and smiled weakly at them, waving regally with the hand that wasn’t filled with needles leading to tubes. ‘Hello, everybody.’
The Misfits were enthusiastic in returning her greeting and immediately bombarded her with comments on how pleased they were to see her and remarking on how they wanted her to be back with them as soon as possible, but Gwen didn’t
hear any of them, she just stared at the bed with her hands over her mouth and tears welling up. ‘Oh no...’
The other pilots fell silent and looked at her, wondering what was wrong, but Gwen didn’t look at anyone except Penelope who sadly smiled back at her.
‘I’m so sorry, Penny.’
‘Thank you, dear.’
‘What? What is it? What’s wrong?’ Scarlet was frowning, looking back and forth from Gwen to Penelope.
It was Penelope herself who answered her and pointed out to the squadron what only Gwen had noticed. ‘My legs, Ophelia, darling. I lost my legs.’
Everybody looked down at the bed, for the first time seeing what should have been obvious to all of them right away - that the sheets were flat where Penelope’s feet and lower legs should have been.
There were gasps and tears sprang up in more than one eye, but Penelope instantly waved their concerns away, putting on the brave face that Lord Bagshot had told them about. ‘Prussian lead did for one, but English soil did for the other. I shattered it when I landed, then all the manhandling and the trip to the hospital just made it worse, so they had to chop it off as well.’
Abby was the first to recover and spoke angrily into the shocked silence. ‘I was told over the telephone that you were fine. This is not fine. I think your doctor and I need to have words.’
‘I’d much rather you didn’t, Abby, dear; they were only acting under my instructions.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘I simply didn’t want you all to worry about me.’
‘Oh, come off it, Penny,’ Mac growled at her. ‘You know damn well we’d want to know this kind of thing as soon as possible.’ Of all of the Misfits, he was the one who had known her longest and had been flying on her wing since the inception of the squadron.
‘A day or two makes no difference, Mac, and don’t you worry; even though the doctors say I’ll never fly again, I’ve already got Biffy contacting some people to make me some peg legs. We’ll be flying together again soon enough!’
‘Aye, we will, lass.’ Mac huffed gruffly and turned away to stare out of the window, but too late to hide the moisture in his eyes.
There was another awkward silence and, being the practised socialite that she was, Penelope filled it. ‘I take it you’ve seen these? Biffy, would you be a darling and hand me those?’
She indicated a pile of newspapers on her bedside table and her husband did as he was asked. She fanned them out on the bed in front of her and they saw that the story had been given to each and every one of them and not just the national papers, either, but the smaller regional ones as well.
‘I’ve read them all; it’s not as if there’s much else to do around here, and I must say I had no idea we were all such bloody heroes!’
The pilots laughed and, just as Penelope had intended, the conversation turned from her injuries to the story. Each publication told the story of the battle with the Barons in its own way, with more or less emphasis on the rest of the day’s fighting and varying degrees of sensationalism. The only thing they had in common was the squadron photograph and the way they matched their names to the various aircraft whose exploits had become so well-known over the summer.
The Misfits remained distracted until a stern-looking nurse came in an hour later to kick them out, insisting that her patient needed rest. They would have protested, but they could see that Penelope was visibly drooping, so they said their farewells and promised to visit, even though they knew that they would most likely be kept far too busy by the war to do so.
They walked out of the hospital far more upset than they had been when they arrived, but were heartened only a short time later when Lord Bagshot caught up with them just as they were getting into the RAC wagons.
‘I say! Wing Commander!’
Abby turned back at the man’s shout and waited for him to jog down the stairs, limping only slightly from his old injury.
‘Penny told me that your secret base isn’t very secret anymore and I heard a rumour that it’s likely to be out of commission for some time, is that right?’
Abby raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems someone has been talking a little bit more than they should.’
‘I have friends in Whitehall.’ Lord Bagshot shrugged. ‘Anyway, I wanted to offer you the use of my estate while you were rebuilding. The Harridan squadron that was in residence have moved back to their original base so I have plenty of room and full facilities and besides, I know that Penny would love to have you all there for moral support while she was recovering. It’s not exactly secret, but it’s right next to Windsor, which is bloody heavily defended and it’s also within spitting distance of London, so the bigwigs can’t complain about you being too far away from the fight if they need you.’
‘I don’t know...’ Abby trailed off. Her initial reaction was to refuse, but the more she thought about it the more it struck her as a good idea. As the man said, it wouldn’t be a secret because, thanks to the press, everyone now knew that Lady Penelope was one of them, but with the change in Prussian tactics it wasn’t truly necessary to have a secret base anymore. It would make sense logistically as well. For a start, they wouldn’t need to waste time repairing the repair facilities before they could repair the aircraft. She smiled and gave him a grateful nod. ‘Thank you. We accept.’
‘Spiffing! I shall let Penny know! See you soon!’ He reached out and pumped Abby’s hand a few times then ran back up the stairs and disappeared back into the hospital.
The Hawkinge wagons took them to Folkestone station and from there the squadron caught a train to Canterbury, where they were met by three of Badger Base’s steam autocars. They were the only three which had survived the raid and weren’t entirely intact - one had a deep gash from shrapnel in its bonnet, another a missing door and the three machines had only a single windshield between them, meaning that they would be rather exposed for the journey. The weather was fine enough for that not to matter, though, and they treated the hour-long ride as if it were an outing in the country, shouting occasional comments back and forth between the vehicles and tilting their faces up to the late summer sun. However, the sight that greeted them at the base wiped away their smiles and quietened even the two most boisterous of the pilots.
The autocars dropped them off at the edge of the airfield in front of the officer’s mess and mutely surveyed what was left of the beloved base that they had taken off from only a couple of days.
It was barely recognisable.
Almost nothing remained of the military installations on the far side of the airfield and the wreckage stood in a wide circle of devastation, the trees that had served to camouflage them all but gone. The lovely buildings which had formed part of the original holiday camp had fared slightly better, though, with the officers mess and the administration buildings almost intact. More importantly, though, the landing field was pitted with huge craters and was completely unserviceable. Crews were working to clear rubble and using shovels to fill in the holes in the airfield, but two days had not been nearly sufficient for them to make any real inroads on the repairs.
‘Bastards...’ muttered Bruce angrily. ‘Look what they’ve done to my cricket pitch!’
The Misfits stared at him, momentarily lost for words.
Mac recovered first. ‘Is that what’s most important to you?’
The Australian shook his head. ‘Well, no. Of course not.’ He grinned. ‘But we already know that the beer survived.’
The Misfits laughed, but the mood was still sombre when the man in charge of administration and the day-to-day running of the base, Squadron Leader Algernon Billingsworth, came out of the officer’s mess and saluted Abby. He was a tall and painfully thin man who seemed to be compensating for his lack of corpulence with an overabundance of twirly moustache.
Abby returned his salute. ‘What a bloody shambles, Algy.’
She said it with a wry smile, but the man evidently took it as a criticism and winced. ‘Sorry, ma’am. We’re d
oing what we can, but we’re working with very few resources; all our heavy machinery was destroyed and replacements have been delayed, so as you can see...’
Abby held up her hand to stop him. ‘None of that matters; we’re abandoning the base. Just tell me about casualties, please. I’ve read your report and I know we didn’t lose anybody, but I want to know why anybody was hurt at all if Owen warned you in time to get to the shelters.’
‘We’re abandoning...’ The Squadron Leader’s eyes widened and his moustache twitched in surprise, but he recovered quickly. ‘Casualties, yes. Uh, well, most people were safely in the shelters before the first bombs fell, but the crew of Hummingbird were delayed getting Aviator Lieutenant Flynn off the ground and the staff of the officer’s mess apparently felt it was their duty to rescue some of the more expensive wines.’
Abby sighed. ‘Damn fools... And? What’s the butcher’s bill?’
The man racked his brains to come up with exact figures, twirling one of his handlebars absently as he did so. ‘Um, two broken bones, a concussion, and a few minor cuts and scrapes. Oh, and a case of the Chateau Podreaux ’89 was dropped down the stairs of the shelter when a bomb fell close by and jolted it from the hands of one of the stewards. It’s a complete write-off, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, no, not the ’89!’
Abby glanced towards the listening pilots and gave Derek, whose whine it was that interrupted them, a scathing look.
The tall, thin, balding, well-spoken and usually very serious Derek, was a true gentleman, from a family with old money, but no titles to go with it and had earned his nickname of “Twitcher” in the aviation community long before the Misfits were formed. He was not only a bird spotter, though, but also a wine connoisseur and had used his aircraft, Swift, to fly around the world, not just to see rare bird species, but also to visit vineyards, often killing two of his favourite subjects with one stone. While Bruce would drink anything you put in front of him, Derek was a true connoisseur and the loss of a case of extremely expensive wine was almost as painful to him as the loss of his aircraft would be.
The Russian Resistance Page 2