Sentimental Journey (53 page)

“I don’t know. I’m not arrogant enough to think I know what would be good for him.”

“Then you shouldn’t be an officer if you haven’t learned to take your own experience and use it to make yourself and your men better soldiers.”

That cut to the quick. Sliced right through his pride as a soldier. A damned good one, too. “You’re saying I’m a bad officer.”

“You are risking the lives of your men.”

“We risk our lives from the moment we lift off the ground. We’re pilots in the RAF. You find one of them who doesn’t carry the same feeling of fatalism.”

“When a man keeps everything troublesome inside of him like you are, George, it’s difficult to think on your feet.”

“I would never willingly risk their lives. You should know that.”

“I do, but you cannot keep holing yourself up in your quarters, never going out on the town. You’ve seen it in your men. You said so yourself. Your men were at the local pub, and I wager they’re in town as often as they can get away from the field. Soldiers blow off steam. They must after so much time spent in the air. But you, you’re a kettle ready to blow. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. You might not want to hear it, but you can’t continue this way.”

“I take leave.”

“One in five months?”

“Two, and just who have you been talking to?”

“Henderson, and a few others.”

“They had no right to come to you and tell you anything about me.”

“They didn’t come to me. I went to them.”

“You went to them?” Skip frowned. “Why?”

“For the very reason I called you here.” He leaned back and looked at him directly, his hand rubbing his whiskered jaw.

“I thought you called me here for dinner. Now I see. You must do the dirty deed,” he said sharply. “You called me here to tell me I’m relieved of my command. What is it? You all feel sorry for the man who lost his wife. ‘The sod loved her so much he won’t forget her. So sad, really. Must be mad. Can’t let the chap jeopardize his men, now can we?’ So the kind uncle breaks the news to the poor fellow?”

“No. This is nothing of the sort. Your superior officers and your men have the most remarkable respect for you. They claim there is no one they would rather fly with. Those men have nothing but the best to say, George.”

He didn’t understand. “Then why did you call me here?”

Gerald steepled his hands, resting his chin on them for a brief pause.

Skip wondered what decision his uncle was making and whether he had dismally failed some important test.

“I brought you here to show you this.” He picked up a folder, reached across the desk, and handed it to him.

Skip leaned forward and flipped it open.

Inside were aerial reconnaissance photographs. Written at the top of the first group of photos was “Bruneval,” on the coast of
France
. The series of shots showed German radar defenses. The second, also titled “Bruneval,” showed only the remains of destroyed radar towers and bunkers.

The next group was identified as “Fish Oil Factories—Vagsoy,” an island off the Norwegian coast. The German-occupied herring and cod oil factories produced glycerin, which was extremely valuable for its use in the manufacture of explosives. The after photos showed the burning factories and the storage tanks destroyed, with spilled fish oil sending clouds of dark smoke toward the camera.

“This damage wasn’t from aerial bombing.”

Gerald shook his head. “No. It wasn’t. It’s from Mountbatten’s Combined Operations—special forces units comprised of men from the Navy, Army, and Air Force.
Commando
units.”

“I don’t want to fly photo-recon.”

“I’m not asking you to. We’re short of pilots.”

“For parachutists?”

“No. For butcher-and-bolt raids. It’s hazardous duty and long hours.”

Skip laughed. “Worse than the
Battle
of
Britain
?”

“I supposed I deserved that.”

“I want the job.”

“You’ll have to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“You just finished pointing out to me that I had no life. I’d say that should work in my favor.”

“Not really, but we’ll talk about that in a moment. I need to make you aware of the risks.”

“I don’t care what the risks are. Every time I take off, I’m at risk. Hell, you can be walking down the street and be at risk. I still want it.”

“You’ll be giving up your squadron, and won’t billet with a unit. You’ll be given an allowance and be responsible for your own food and lodging, that is, if you’re accepted.”

“If I’m accepted?”

“Yes.”

“This is conditional? On what?”

“You’ll need my signature of approval. And, George, I feel rather strongly that this duty takes a certain type of soldier—a man who plays as hard as he fights.”

“I want the position.”

“Fine.” His uncle leaned back in his chair. “Then I have a proposition for you.”

“HE WEARS A PAIR OF SILVER WINGS”

“Watch your step, Helen.” Skip pulled his cousin away from
 
some building debris scattered in the dark street. “And for godsakes, keep the light aimed at the ground. Every time you say something, you wave the blasted torch all over the place.”

“Well,
someone
has to say something. You’ve hardly said a thing since we left Father.”

“I’m quiet because I’m trying to decide if this was a conspiracy.” “What? Are you so terribly caught up in yourself that you think everyone is sneaking around behind your back?”

“If not, then you had perfectly rotten timing, Helen.” “Well . . . not that I need to justify anything, but I had already made plans to go out when Father asked me to join you for dinner. I’d be some kind of fool to pass up a free meal at the Embassy Club. My flatmate and I had a small gathering last weekend and completely depleted both our ration booklets. I’ve have been living on jam and toast for a week.” “Not very sensible a move. Was it worth it?”

“Yes, and I’ve never been sensible. Why should I start now?” She looked up at him. “Regarding dinner, I didn’t see you backing away from that huge steak, or the wine, or the cognac.”

“Military food has about as much flavor as the stove they cook it on. You’re never quite certain what it is they’re dishing out. Every bloody damned meal looks the same. It doesn’t matter what they call it. I seldom bother to read the menu board. Unless they’re serving fish and chips, which they haven’t yet figured a way to make into a dashed mess, at least not yet.”

“Well, it would have been quite rude of me to stand up and leave without inviting you along.”

“I would have been happier.”

“Happy? You? Ha! You’ve been in the doldrums for so long your manner is nothing but morose. You seldom laugh and never smile. And how was I to know that Father is in the process of coercing you off your golden pedestal?”

“You have a smart mouth, Miss Clever.”

“Yes . . . I do, don’t I?”

“You needn’t sound so pleased. It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“I know. However, you can’t be held responsible for your lack of insight into what makes a woman interesting. What could you know? You’ve been out of society for too long. Socially you should be in shambles, but amazingly your absence seems to have added to your heroic mystique.”

He groaned.

“Tonight will be such fun, Skip. And your conversation and social graces are most likely getting quite rusted, hanging about with no one but mechanics and flyers. Don’t look daggers at me like that or sink into one of your sulks.”

“How can you tell how I’m looking at you? It’s dark.”

“Well, I could do this.” She shone the light in his face.

“Damn and blast it, Helen.” He batted it away. “Give me that before you blind me.” He reached for the torchlight, but she tucked it close to her and danced away a few steps.

“I’ve got it. My eyes are adjusted. I can see your face without it.”

“After that blast in the face I can’t see a thing.” He squinted. Flashes of bright light were spotting all over his line of vision.

“It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t see you, because believe me, Skip, when you’re angry at someone, they know it. Your anger is there in your manner and in your voice.”

“I’m not angry at you. Or at least I wasn’t until you stuck that torch in my face.”

“I know because you’re never truly angry with me. But you are angry with Father and you’re sulking about it. He is right, you know. You need a life and, lucky you, I’m just the person to find it for you.”

“What if I don’t want a life?”

“You have no choice in the matter. Your family is taking charge. I don’t know what Father’s using to blackmail you, but whatever it is, you must want it badly. Now stop dragging your boot heels and come along. There’s always quite the crowd at the canteen door.”

“You mean I have to queue up to do this?”

“Mostly likely not. They’ll recognize you at the door, and if not, I shall shout your name and infamous Spit number for all to hear, and then no one will leave you alone all night.”

He looked heavenward. “What am I doing here?”

“You’re here to accompany your favorite cousin.”

“The question you might consider asking yourself is exactly how long you will remain my favorite.”

“I’ve always been your favorite, just as you’ve been my favorite. Now look. Just there. Around the corner.” She pulled him along with her. “Come along.”

“Watch yourself! The walk is cracked. Come this way so you don’t get your heel caught.”

“I know they try to clean the streets, but with so much bombing going about, it’s a bloody mess on these back streets.”

They walked along in companionable silence, passing quite a few people. The cars and cabs moved slowly with their lights blacked out. There were more people pedaling around on bicycles than driving in automobiles. It was dark, with no searchlights crisscrossing the sky, no sirens, no hum of plane engines, no whining bombs.

“I shall be quite the spectacle tonight,” she said. “Coming in on the arm of the illustrious and elusive Pilot Commander Inskip. Only my close friends know we’re related. Every woman in the room will be positively green.”

“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Quite. And you needn’t worry. Just walking into the room will be enough to set the place on its ear.”

“I would rather face Goering himself.”

“Stop your grousing and try to pretend you’re enjoying yourself. The orchestra is usually quite good. Drink a whiskey or two. Stand around in that stunningly fitted blue uniform, with those silver wings and medals, looking like the dashing RAF ace that you are.”

“Helen, for a bright girl, you are a remarkable pain in the ass.”

“I adore you, too.” She stopped walking and faced him, shaking her finger under his nose. “Now you must remember your promise. Five dances. One with me. One with my friend, and the others can be with partners of your own choosing.”