"So how does it feel to be an officer?" Redding asked between swallows of beer.

  "Thomas Morris calls me 'Sir' now, instead of John. Says he can't do that anymore."

  "Respect, John. For the rank and for you."

  "I don't like it. It doesn't feel right. It's like a wall's been put up between us."

  "Yes and no. You'll get used to it. It's just one of those things. It's hard to explain, it's just the way the military does things."

  Swanson walked over. "Sub-Lieutenant Pender just asked me why I wasn't an officer like you, since we both have the Air Explorer shoulder title and we're both pilots. I told him we both started out as sergeants, but since you're a bona-fide hero, they made you an officer."

  "I didn't mean anything by it, really," Pender explained. "I was just wondering because Sergeant Swanson said you both trained together and joined the squadron at the same time. I was just curious, that's all."

  "John shot down three 109s and saved a pilot's life yesterday. He was promoted this morning," Redding explained.

  "So yours is the promotion we're celebrating. Please accept my congratulations," Pender said.

  "We're also celebrating the arrival of you and Dale," Talbot replied.

  #

  "All right, they send us up after a recon flight and all we see is nothing. Just blue sky and lots of clouds and not one single Hun. Except for that convoy action a few days ago, nothing is going on. The bastards are up to something. It's just too bloody quiet," Swanson said, as he walked to dispersal along with Redding and Talbot.

  "John—why is everyone smiling at us?" Swanson asked as he looked at the other pilots seated near the hut. Each one wore a broad smile and appeared to be enjoying something.

  "I'm not sure. Any ideas, Ian?"

  "Not a clue. If this was a dream, right about now, I'd be realizing that I wasn't wearing trousers."

  "Two gentlemen stopped by with something for you, Sergeant Swanson. They asked me to give you this letter," Gilmore said. Even he smiled as he spoke.

  "Did they drop off my car, by any chance?"

  "As a matter of fact, they did."

  Unopened letter in hand, Swanson almost ran around the hut to look for his sports car.

  "This doesn't make sense. No sporty two-seater, just that Ford Popular sitting over there." Swanson looked around.

  "What's the letter say?" Talbot asked.

  Swanson opened the letter and started laughing. "It seems my father has a sense of humor."

  Holding up the letter, he read, "The Flying Corps may trust you to fly a fighter, but if you think I’d trust you with a sports car, you need your head examined. Enjoy the Popular. Love, Father and Mother."

  Talbot and Redding both started laughing.

  "It looks like a packing crate on wheels." Redding walked around the car and looked back at Swanson.

  "Well, it’s transportation," Swanson said with an air of resignation, "Guess I'll have to wait for the one I want."

  Returning to the building front, Swanson found himself receiving a loud round of applause from the other pilots.

  "You do realize, old chap, that your vehicle is not the sort to be driven by a pilot of fighters," Ivor Hammond said with a smile. "You'll need to transfer to Coastal Command and learn to fly some old biplane flying boat."

  "Have your fun—at least I've got transportation."

  #

  Talbot washed down the last bits of his tinned beef sandwich with what remained of his chai. It may be filling, but that's about all I can say for it.

  A flight lieutenant accompanied by two men in civilian suits, one with a camera, walked up to the dispersal hut door.

  "We were told we could find Squadron Leader Ramsey here," the flight lieutenant said.

  "He’s in his office. I'll take you to him, sir." Gilmore said.

  A civilian with a camera, on station? That must have taken some doing. He went back to reading his magazine and thought no more about it. A nap was starting to look like an excellent way to spend the afternoon.

  Ramsey walked out of the hut with the flight lieutenant and the two civilians. "Mr. Talbot, may I see you for a minute?"

  Talbot walked over. "Sir?"

  "Gentlemen, this is Pilot Officer John Talbot," Ramsey said. "Mr. Talbot, these gentle-men are from The Times and would like to talk with you."

  The shorter of the two civilians, a mousy-looking man clutching a notebook and pen spoke up. "As the youngest officer ever in the Royal Flying Corps, we’d like to ask you some questions. If you don’t mind."

  The reporter proceeded to ask Talbot numerous questions. "How long have you dreamed of being a fighter pilot?"

  Quickly an audience gathered to watch.

  "Actually, I never really dreamed about that. All I wanted to do was fly. As for being a fighter pilot, the Huns made the decision for me." His mind prayed for a scramble, anything to end this torture.

  "It's my understanding that you scored our first aerial victories of the war when you were still a Royal Air Explorer. Would you like to comment on that?"

  "There's not much to say. Either God was in the cockpit with me, at the time, or the Hun pilots were extremely inept."

  "How do your parents and girlfriend feel about your promotion?"

  "I've just wrote my parents to tell them the news—so I don't know. As for a girlfriend, I don't have one at the moment, but I am working on that."

  "Well, I'm sure there'll be quite a few young ladies interested after this goes to press," the reporter said with a smile.

  While this went on, the reporter's taller companion started taking pictures under the flight lieutenant's guidance. A few were taken with Talbot standing by his Hurricane. There was also one of him in the cockpit with the kill markings visible. The constant smiling was starting to hurt.

  When it was all over, they thanked him and left.

  Talbot looked over at his audience. "So why didn’t somebody call in a fake scramble?"

  "It was too much fun watching you suffer." Swanson smiled.

  "Was it that evident?"

  "No, you hid it rather well. You don't like attention, do you?" Redding asked.

  "No—I'm the type who prefers to blend into the wallpaper."

  "For that to happen, you'd have to stop being John Talbot," Redding said, "and we all know that's impossible."

  Stand Down

  Pilot Officer John Talbot stood near the information counter at the Leicester Square Underground Station in a state of acute nervousness. Once again he checked his watch, convinced himself the second hand still moved, then compared it to the station clock. Exactly the same way he had been doing for the last fifteen minutes.

  The station was full of people heading to their own destinations. Some were going home, some were meeting others or one special other. Perhaps they were on their way to a new posting or starting a life over after losing someone.

  They were just a backdrop as his attention switched between the escalator and his watch.

  Overnight, a weather front had moved in bringing with it low clouds and intermittent heavy showers. Otherwise, it was a heavy drizzle. A deep, soaking rain to make the crops grow and flowers bloom.

  With the squadron grounded all day due to the weather, he now waited to meet Section Officer Lynette Seymour for dinner and dancing.

  Reaching into his trouser pocket, he felt the banknote Redding gave him.

  He was reaching for his gas mask case when Redding shoved something into his jacket pocket.

  "What’s this?" He pulled out a five-pound note.

  "A loan, in case you need it."

  "I do have money, you know."

  "Just in case. O’Bannon’s is reasonably priced so you should be okay. But, to be on the safe side, if you don’t use it, then you can return it. You don't want to run out of money on the first date."

  Now he was here. He was about to spend an evening with the woman who occupied his dreams for the last month. He was also terrified of ruining their date and never seeing her again.

  He watched as she came up the escalator and walked toward him smiling.

  She was, in his humble, short-lived experience, the most beautiful woman he ever saw. Nothing could hide the fact. Not her blue-gray uniform skirt and jacket. Not even the mandatory gas mask case and steel helmet hanging from a strap over her left shoulder. These things only accentuated her appearance.

  He raised his hand to salute her, since she outranked him, but a quick shake of her head and he put it down.

  "I’ve been wanting to see you again for a long time," was all he could say.

  "I’m glad you remembered to call me. You do make a good-looking officer, John."

  "I was thinking the exact same thing about you." After a moment's awkward silence, he said, "Shall we go to O’Bannon’s?"

  When they emerged from the station onto the street, the drizzle showed no sign of letting up. Talbot opened the rainshield he brought, and she took his arm as they walked the few streets to the restaurant.

  "I like your perfume. It’s rather nice."

  "Thank you. I rarely have the chance to wear it anymore. It's against regulations."

  "That's a shame." They stopped at a corner to let a taxi pass by. "Ian suggested the restaurant. He said it's a nice place."

  "I've heard the same thing. I guess we'll find out who to trust for dinner suggestions."

  They entered the front door and passed through the heavy blackout curtains into a brightly-lit room. The two were quickly shown to a table next to the dance floor. Talbot felt the vibrancy and vitality from the room's Art Deco atmosphere.

  She was there, seated across from him. She was beautiful. Her short auburn curls ringed a face that needed no makeup.

  "Would you care to order drinks while you look at the menu?" their waiter inquired.

  "White wine, please," Lynette said.

  "Any special label, miss?"

  "The house wine will be fine, I'm sure."

  "And you, sir?"

  "Chai, please."

  "Earl Gray, Darjeeling, Oolong?"

  "Darjeeling."

  "Very good, I will be right back with your drinks," the waiter said before he turned to go.

  "You don’t drink?"

  "At our local pub, yes. But, I can’t pull off looking older. If I ordered a pint they'd ask to see my Identity card."

  "Yes, you can fight for your country, but you're too young to buy a drink. Great logic there. So what has John Talbot been up to?" Lynette asked, raising her eyebrows and cocking her head to the side.

  "Let’s see—An incredible amount of flying, shot down over the Estuary and wounded, three-day pass, and more flying. That about covers it."

  She laughed. "Is that the Reader's Digest version? You forgot to mention you were promoted or how seriously you were wounded?"

  "I was just nicked in a few places," he said and glanced down at the small bandage on his hand. "I'm just about all healed up. Sorry, I’m rather nervous. What have you been up to?"

  "Why are you nervous?"

  "Two reasons. One, is that I've never been in a place like this before. It's a bit overwhelming. It's just so different from anyplace I've been."

  "Different bad or different good? Would you rather go somewhere else?"

  "Definitely good—yes, definitely good." He looked around and smiled. "No, I'd like to stay right here."

  "And the other reason?"

  "I haven't been on many dates, so I'm afraid of messing up. Usually someone as attractive as you wouldn't give me the time of day."

  "Thank you for the compliment, but you don't need to be nervous. Just relax and be yourself. As for what I've been up to—just an occasional outing with the girls is about it. Other than that, very little. I rarely do anything exciting. It's usually just my intelligence duties."

  "I find it hard to believe that two people who are in the Flying Corps could be leading dull lives."

  "I don't think it's that. I can't talk that much about what I do, and I'm sure you don't want to tell me about patrols or dogfights," she reached over and squeezed his hand. "Have we already run out of things to say?"

  "No—not at all. Would you like to dance?" he asked.

  "Yes, very much."

  As they started moving to the music, he felt her softness through the fabric of her uniform.

  She feels perfect in my arms. This song is going to be the shortest three and a half minutes of my life.

  "John, do you believe things are preordained or that they happen by chance?"

  "First serious question and we’re delving into philosophy?"i

  Lynette smiled. "Answer the question, then I’ll tell you why I asked it."

  "I don't know, I mean I never really thought about it. I think God has more important things to do than bother with me. Why?"

  "I think that at times things happen for a reason. My favorite band is the American Glenn Miller. Our first dance is my favorite song, 'Moonlight Serenade'. Is it a coincidence?"

  "It’s my favorite song, too. I was just thinking how short it is and our dance will be over."

  "Then let's not stop."

  They danced to several more songs before returning to their table and ordering dinner.

  "There's one thing you've left out of your condensed history," Lynette said.

  "What's that?"

  "How did you get promoted to pilot officer so quickly?"

  "During a convoy action, I knocked down three 109s and saved a pilot."

  "My God. Is that when you were wounded?"

  "No, that was when a 110 nailed me, and I ended up in the Estuary. The 109s and saving Bob Miller happened the other day." He went on to explain the fight and everything else about that day.

  "I heard someone telling about a pilot helping another pilot from bailing out. From what I heard, it was a rather riveting R/T conversation. I don't know what to say, except it sounds like you did a wonderful thing."

  "Some reporters showed up at the station to interview me. It was all about being the youngest officer in the Flying Corps. The article was on the front page of this morning's Times."

  "John that’s wonderful. I’m sure your parents will love it. I'll definitely have to see if the station's news-seller still has a copy," she said.

  "They have a picture of me in the cockpit showing my victories." He felt the frown form on his lips.

  "Why the sour look?"

  "It’s like my score is some kind of contest."

  Lynette leaned forward and lowered her voice, "It helps with civilian morale to see some-one hit back at the Huns." She reached over and squeezed his hand. "What you did was special and people need to know about it."

  "I suppose you're right. I hadn't thought of it that way. Would you like to go back on the dance floor while we're waiting on our dinner?"

  He no longer cared how crowded the floor was. He closed his eyes and the world shrank. She was in his arms and nothing else mattered, except for her and the music. His promotion, the war, reporters, news articles, and everything else receded away.

  After a few more songs, their dinner was served. As they ate, they told one another about their families. Her parents lived by St. Albans, Hertfordshire. Her mother stayed at home and her father held a government position.

  Rationing didn't seem to apply to restaurants yet. He thoroughly enjoyed his steak, with all the trimmings, and tried not to think about how the mess cook would have destroyed it. Lynette made the same comment about her lamb.

  They bypassed dessert to spend as much time as they could in each other's arms dancing. Lynette's hand rested by his neck, having slowly moved from his upper arm as the night progressed. When the band took a break, they returned to their table.

  Talbot glanced at his watch, as the waiter brought a fresh carafe of hot water for his chai. Pressing his lips together, he exhaled through his nose.

  "That's a rather ominous sound. Have you sprung a leak?" Lynette chuckled.

  "Sorry." He looked up. "I'm feeling a bit like Cinderella at the moment."

  Lynette frowned. "Are you going to change into a pumpkin or is our evening drawing to a close?"

  "Sorry, they wake us rather early."

  "The Met Report calls for rain again tomorrow"

  "I know. But with my luck, Group will order up a patrol anyway."

  "What time do they wake you?"

  "Between three and four o'clock."

  "Even if it's raining?"

  "Yes, no matter what the weather is."

  "Too early for me." Lynette grimaced. "I'm still sleeping."

  "Too early for me, too, but some of the sunrises I've seen have been fantastic."

  As they walked to the tube station, in the drizzle, arm in arm, Lynette stopped. "John, I need to know something. I'm sure you've already figured out that I'm a few years older than you. I'm twenty-two."

  Even with the blackout, he could see the searching look in her eyes.

  They gazed at each other only a moment longer then kissed. It was a gentle, touching kiss that was quickly followed by another.

  "Is that your answer?" Lynette asked.

  "I'm not sure what your question was going to be, but I don't care about the age difference. I’ve enjoyed being with you tonight, and I really do want to see you again. Does my age bother you?"

  "At first I thought it might, but not anymore. I'd like to see you again, also."

  They continued on to the station. When they entered, Lynette walked over to the news-seller's stand.

  "Do you have a copy of the Times from this morning?"

  The short, white-haired man looked around, then in a thick cockney accent said, "Let me just look in back. Won't be but a minute."

  Less than twenty seconds later, he came out holding one. "Just a few left, miss."

  Talbot paid for the paper and noticed the man staring at him.

  Lynette looked at the newspaper's front page. "That's a wonderful picture, John."

  "I thought so! You're the bloke whose picture that is!"

  'Yes, that's me," Talbot admitted.

  The short man stuck his hand out. "Good job, guv'nor. You just keep knocking them bastards from the sky."

  "I'll do my best," Talbot replied, surprised at the firmness of the short man's grip.

  "That right there is why you were interviewed," Lynette said as they walked away.

 

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