Risking It All (2 page)

She remembered Billy and her stomach clenched. Would their incompetence result in the death of the man she once loved?

****

Billy stretched out on the grass by the runway, flicking through a copy of
Picture Post.
Flies buzzed above him, attracted by the thin film of sweat on his forehead. Folding the magazine, he fanned himself. He was tempted to take off his flying suit, but the call to scramble could come any moment and running to the plane in your vest never looked good. He was out of practice, but not that green. Hopefully not, anyway.

Raising his head, he looked across the field. At the far edge of the landing strip was the square control tower, its large windows facing the field. Lynne would be in there, hot in her uniform too, headphones on her ears. Seeing her last night had been a shock and for a moment he thought his cover was blown, but she didn’t query him being RAF. There was no reason why she should; it had been a long time since he last saw her.

What a fool he’d been at her brother’s party! Wanting to play the field, he’d ignored her, confident he could return to her in a couple of years’ time. But the war had put an end to his arrogant intention. He couldn’t date now, not a girl he liked as much as Lynne. His job was too dangerous; if he wasn’t flying fighters, he was parachuting into France. He loved flying, but after his initial tour of duty was finished, he hadn’t been able to settle into life as an instructor. When Special Ops offered him a position, he jumped at it; maybe that had been a mistake.

A midge buzzed at his face and he swatted it with the magazine. A few yards away, his team sat together talking. He wasn’t going to join them; their chatter made his head ache. Trying to straighten the magazine, his hands shook, so he flung it to the ground. During the Battle of Britain, his legs had trembled, too. His brother, Charles, had been worse, but he refused to report sick, no matter how many times Billy tried to persuade him.

Lying back in the grass, he stared at the white, wispy clouds. At home, he used to lie on the lawn with Charles, relaxed and carefree. He punched the ground hard, hurting his hand. His boss hadn’t wanted to send him to Shore-Lee to investigate the plane crashes, but he had pleaded for the job—it was all he could do now for Charles. Sitting up, he shook his head. Best not to think about that; too much emotion would cloud his judgment. Staring at the control tower again, he pressed his lips hard together. Shore-Lee was a blip on the airfield statistics. With the chain radar stations working so efficiently, there was no need for so many deaths. Was Lynne not doing her job properly?

His stomach rumbled and he glanced at his watch. Two minutes to twelve. Did he have time to grab some food? Then a telephone rang in the tent pitched by the planes.

“Scramble, scramble!” a man shouted.

Billy threw the magazine down and raced across the grass as the throaty roar of Spitfire engines echoed and propellers began a frantic whirl. Jumping to avoid the spluttering yellow exhaust flames, he grabbed his parachute pack from the plane’s wing, coughing from the thick sooty smoke. Beneath his boots, the ground vibrated as if in terrified anticipation of bombs.

Climbing into his single-seater plane, he dropped into the cockpit, glancing back at his fellow pilots jumping into their own machines behind him. Their faces were pale, lips tight, and his heart wrenched; little more than children, some of them. How many would return this time? Would he?

Hands moving fast, he plugged in his intercom and oxygen. The ground crew stepped back and he raised a thumb to them before pushing the throttle and taxiing down the runaway. Four minutes since the call—an excellent chance to get up high, but how soon did they get the call? So much depended on the radio operators; he wanted to trust them, but here he could not.

There was a crackle in his headphones and Lynne spoke in his ear. He jerked the steering then hastily straightened.

“Lorag leader, vector two five zero, bandits seventy plus, angels two five zero,” she said. He nodded; course 250 degrees, seventy enemy planes at a height of 25,000 feet. It was all coming back.

The Spitfire rose into the air, engine roaring. Come on, faster, higher! He pushed the controls, watching the dials climb, the other planes in the squadron casting dark shadows against the hazy clouds.

He scanned the horizon for vapour trails or distant moving forms. A black spot hung in the air to his right, but when it didn’t move, he shook his head. A mark on the cockpit shield. Had they missed the bandits? Were they dropping their bombs while he coasted through the clouds?

He checked the plug of his earphones. This wasn’t a time to lose contact and Lynne’s calm voice had helped settle his nerves. In the mist, there was a flash—sunlight on metal, an enemy aircraft, slinking away into the clouds like a stray tomcat flashing an arrogant tail. The bandits were behind them! Following them, training their guns, in the daily game of cat and mouse. How good were your chances of survival? Well, how much did you want to live?

“Bombers above,” another pilot said through the radio.

Billy peered, but the thick clouds of blinding fog swirled again and he swore. Circling, he spotted a dark curved belly. It was a bomber and in his sights. Finger on the guns, he shot his machine upwards, but the enemy plane turned like a giant panther, dwarfing the tiny Spitfire. No way was he letting it drop its load—not when she was below. Billy fired and a sharp burst of bullets tore into the malevolent shadow.

There was a loud bang and he jumped. Had he been hit? No, it was the bomber. Thick black smoke poured from its wing, and he fired again, desperate to avenge his brother. The radio crackled with an order from his squadron leader to return, but he wasn’t going to, not yet. Had the bomber crashed?

It was below him trying to hide, flames glowing through the clouds in an eerie yellow light, the sharp scent of burning filling the air. One more blast should finish it. He glanced at his fuel level. He was taking a risk, but he wasn’t letting it go now. The bastard still had a cargo of bombs to drop.

There it was in his sights again. He levelled his plane, but a stream of bullets sprayed past him, tracers glowing in the dark sky. Billy threw the Spitfire hard right, wincing as his muscles burned. A 109 fighter was behind, hidden in the mist. The cat had become a mouse.

Looking down, sweating, he pushed the throttle. His only chance was to outrun it. They could shoot from below. Wait, the bandit had twisted away and vanished into the clouds. He exhaled. It must have run low on fuel.

“Return to base now,” Lynne said through his radio.

There was an edge to her voice. Was she worried? The needle on his fuel gauge dropped into red; it was time to follow orders. Peering through the screen, he tried to add up the planes in front, but the fog was too thick. He’d have to wait until they landed to see who had survived.

A long strip of green and yellow appeared ahead and reducing speed, he circled, wound down his landing gear and bumped across the grass. Ground crew jogged towards his plane and a fire engine raced past, bells ringing, followed by an ambulance. Not for him, not this time.

****

“Billy!”

He continued his stride across the parade ground. What else did they want? He wasn’t going back up—it was six o’clock in the evening and he’d been awake since dawn. Five planes were lost, three pilots confirmed dead, one rescued from the channel, the last in hospital with burns. Three deaths were not abnormal, but maybe they had been lucky today.

“Billy!”

The voice was familiar.

A blond-haired man waved and ran to catch up. Arthur! His training buddy, fellow sufferer of sleepless nights, exam stress and airsickness. He hadn’t seen him since his transfer to Special Ops and wasn’t happy to see him now, not at this airstrip.

“Great to see you,” Arthur said. “You from Biggin Hill?”

“Yes, transferred for two weeks.” He shook Arthur’s hand and they strode towards the base, Arthur lighting a cigarette.

“If you’ve finished for the day, why don’t you come to the dance tonight?”

Billy shook his head.

“Oh, you must, lots of pretty girls,” Arthur said.

Would Lynne be there? He glanced at the closed curtains of his hut; inside his roommate must have already bunked down. Billy didn’t fancy spending the next few hours listening to a stranger snore, not when Lynne danced the night away in the arms of another pilot. No, he would end the day with a beer in his hand.

****

Billy had been drinking.

Lynne stood in the mess hall, squinting through the wisps of white cigarette smoke. Slumped in a chair, his dark hair stuck upwards as though he’d dragged a hand through it, his blue uniform partly unbuttoned, showing a flash of white vest.

The floor trembled from a foot-tapping jive and she jerked to avoid two dancers who leapt with wild abandon. The room, with its closed windows covered in black-outs, reeked of sweat, cigarettes and bluebell perfume.

“I think your friend’s had a few,” Barbara said.

“It’s hard for them,” Lynne said. “Going up several times a day, watching their comrades plummet down, smoke pouring from their planes. I hear them over my radio. I can’t imagine what it must be like up in the clouds playing hide and seek with the enemy, wondering if you’ll be next.”

Barbara’s brow creased. “You’re not falling for him are you?”

Lynne laughed. “No, never a pilot and never him.”

She wasn’t that girl anymore—the fool who hung around for an invite to the flicks. Glancing at him again, she saw his hand fumble for his bottle of beer. Raising it to his lips, he drank, staring into the room with an expression of adult pain in the face of the boy she remembered. She looked away.

“He’s coming over,” Barbara said.

Lynne stood still until she caught a familiar musky scent.

“Dance?” Billy said.

She’d been waiting three years for this offer, three years to throw back in his face. How arrogant of him to assume he could drift back into her life. She opened her mouth to refuse, but under the yellow lights, his skin was pale and his cheeks shadowed. He’d flown many sorties today, battled in dogfights and watched men die. Tomorrow, it could be him. It was no time for petty grudges.

“Thank you,” she said.

He took her hand and her heart jolted at his touch. Billy led her to an empty spot and she let go of him, swaying to the music. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard, unless he touched her again; he was probably too drunk to notice her nerves.

The jive finished and a waltz started—far too personal. She stepped back, but Billy grabbed her hand and lifted it shoulder high, sliding his other arm around her shoulder, holding her tight. Despite the beer, she saw his eyes were focused. Lynne placed her palm flat against his shoulder blade, but he winced and she lessened the pressure. He must have pulled his muscles today. But Billy pulled her close, closer than even a waltz demanded.

Chapter Two

His body flowed with the music, movement quick and agile. His hand tightened on hers and their sweat mingled, heat rising from her skin and the floorboards vibrating to a beat she didn’t need to follow. Billy led her in short, tight steps, his hand squeezing her shoulder as they whirled, her skirt flaring out, the material soft against her bare legs. She breathed in cigarette smoke. Was it his? There was so much about him she didn’t know.

The song ended and he pulled her into his arms, chest breathing rapidly against hers. Lynne panted, the prickly wool of his officer’s uniform pressed against her face. She must step back—these were changing times, but she shouldn’t be in the embrace of a man who was not her husband.

“Come outside with me,” he said.

Did he think she was some tart he could pick up for the evening? She pushed him away and stalked to the edge of the dance floor. A hand touched her arm.

“I just want to talk to you,” Billy said. “And it’s too loud in here.”

The band began a tango. Where he touched her skin, it tingled. He only wanted to speak to her, likely about her family, and it would look odd if she refused.

“All right,” she said, taking her service jacket from a peg by the door. The night was warm, but she wanted a barrier between them.

Billy held open the door and she stepped into the June evening. From the shrubbery beside the door came gasping as a couple took advantage of the dusk.

“Let’s find somewhere quiet,” he said, linking his arm through hers.

Lynne jumped. He was so close her hip bumped against his thigh and he took a deep breath. Of course, he’d been drinking. Her shoulders slumped; the fresh air must have made his head whirl, that’s why he was so close. She hoped he wouldn’t be sick. But his feet trod firm and straight and his fingers danced across her arm, stroking the skin in circles.

No, not that. He was a pilot and she did not date pilots. Twelve weeks was the average life expectancy of those who flew Spitfires. She remembered hearing her mother’s sobs during the night. This war was heart-breaking enough without loving a man who wouldn’t survive. And he did not want her anyway, not really.

“Are you warm enough?” Billy asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Crickets chirped and poppies scented the air. No lights showed and from the mess hut drifted the tune of “The Lambeth Walk,” sounding louder than it should, as if everything were magnified, from the grip of his arm to the long grass brushing against her legs.

“Sit here,” Billy said.

Lynne sat and he lowered himself beside her. Should she tell him she did not date?

“I need to apologise,” he said.

She jerked her head up.

“I didn’t treat you well at your brother’s birthday party.”

“It was such a long time ago.” He must have noticed her tears that night; she lowered her head as her cheeks burned.

“Yes,” he said. “I doubt you recall the evening, but I have never forgotten.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“I didn’t want you to remember me with anger.”

She closed her eyes. This was his epitaph; Billy doubted he would survive the war. Reaching for his hand, she held it tight. “You won’t die,” she said, but she closed her eyes.