Looking At The Moon

[Miltone]

This is a closed thread for Why and Yours Truly, but you are all cordially invited to read this story of love and romance set during the Second World War …

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

For what seemed to be the hundredth time, Robert Wilson maneuvered his Hawker Hurricane onto the runway. Pointing the nose southwest he pulled the lever to full throttle and felt the 12 cylinder Rolls-Royce Merlin engine pull him off the line quickly and efficiently. He could see Garner in front already up and away and banking to the left heading out toward the sea.

It was fair and warm, a gorgeous day for an air battle. But they had yet to see any real action other than a few intercepts of German reconnaissance aircraft who quickly fled. Exeter was too far west, away from the Blitz that was threatening London and Birmingham and Manchester. Soon the trundling of the landing gear was silenced as his “Lady Jane” left the ground and he rose up to follow Garner … Garner Sheppard, his life-long friend, who was loafing up ahead, waggling his wings over the house of ill-repute that they had visited the night before.

Garner always was that way, the first with a quick idea or quip, the first to whistle at a girl, the first to say, “Hey! Let’s go to England and help those fellows out!” It had been his idea to drive into town the night before and look for the legendary Blue House that even the local chaps spoke of with reverence. With his short-cropped curly blond hair, Garner had led the way with his Yankee swagger and his American cigarette dangling from his lips. Robert had followed close behind, ready to cover his back, his steely blue eyes always intense, his jet black hair always a bit too long, his dimpled cheeks and engaging smile belying the shyness that kept him in the background.

Of course Garner was the first upstairs, a cute little English girl in tow, while Robert remained downstairs, a pair of girls fingering his leather jacket and silk scarf enticingly while he smiled shyly and declined their favors. Much later, when Garner descended the grand stairway full of bluster, they returned to the airfield, stopping at seemingly each pub they saw on the way. The morning came too early, but that was of little consequence. They were Yanks in the RAF, volunteers anxious for adventure and assigned to what seemed a backwater posting, and when their commander chalked them in for a morning sortie the strapped in and took off.

Now in the brilliant light of day, Robert caught up to Garner just as they cleared the verdant green fields of county Dorset, then the beaches of Torquay, and let the calm gray blue channel form a sleek carpet below them. They assembled and flew for a mile or two in formation scanning the skies for something … anything that would relieve the boredom they had known since June when they had joined up.

Then he heard Garner’s engine sound and he banked off to the right. Robert followed but soon lost Sheppard as the sun and his friend’s lively maneuver blinded him. He knew what this was, a game of cat and mouse that Sheppard loved to play. Kept their senses keen and their instincts sharpened, Garner would always say. One would come at the other and they would bank and turn and chase and fight as if the battle were real. They would have been overjoyed to spot a stray Heinkel He 111 or a Dornier Do 17 bomber or even a whole fleet of them. But it was quiet in the West, even while the skies over Kent were lit up and resounding with the roar of a pitched air battle.

Robert chuckled and came out of his bank heading due east along the coast. He looked about waiting for the sound of arrival of his friend. Letting up on the throttle for a moment and hearing the faint rumble of Sheppard’s “Lucky Lady” from above and left, Robert banked right quickly and came around. They wove an intricate pattern along the coast, feigning and faking, curving up or down, banking away and swinging around to gain the upper hand. As they had for the past sixty days, they played and practiced with each other, a practice strongly discouraged by their wing commander, Captain Wilfred Hyde-Davis. But this day, they played in the skies above the coast off Dorset and did not see the pair of gray aircraft with black marking approaching from the south east at high altitude.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

How did I get here Elizabeth Fitzmorgan asked herself as she emptied the twentieth bedpan that morning. The sluice room was cold and damp even when the weather was not. It had been cold four weeks ago at the beginning of August; God knows, Elizabeth thought, what it would be like in December. A worse thought was; would she still be here in December?

It seemed a good idea to begin with, “doing her bit”. In fact when Hattie Mason, the Squadron Leader’s wife, suggested that they; the “Morris Four”, (as Elizabeth’s husband, George, had christened them, because of all their jaunting around in Hattie’s old Morris Oxford six) actually becoming temporary VAD’s, Elizabeth had jumped at the idea.

It would stop the creeping boredom, that had begun to take over her life for one. Since Dunkirk, the “Morris Four” had done less jaunting, petrol was getting hard to come by, and the increase of items for which one required a ration book put paid to a lot of their “fun” A cream tea on a sunny afternoon, was no longer the event it used to be. Too much tea and not enough cream and scones and as for finding a ham sandwich among the pile on your table, forget it.

No going up to London for a show, concert or shopping on a whim, the petrol wouldn’t stretch to it. As for the train? Well “Is your journey really necessary” was the slogan of the moment, one was made to feel guilty about the simplest things. A night at the local pictures and a beer in the Pub was fast becoming the norm, and rare at that.

And as for dinner parties? The “Morris Four” did still manage to put on one occasionally, but it was only by pooling their resources, in fact the VAD work did help this. And for that Elizabeth was grateful.

For each week from Monday morning till Wednesday evening, Elizabeth, Hattie Mason, Georgia Clarence and Alexandria Cordmartin upped sticks from their rented homes around the airbase of Tangmere. For two nights and three days they were part of the staff of a large military Hospital on the fringes of Portsmouth.

“Doing their bit” by sleeping on cot beds, with forty others, in what, Elizabeth was sure used to be a basement store room. Eating at the hospital canteen, hence saving the ration coupons, for the "dinner parites" and George of course, while she was away ate at the officer’s mess.

Elizabeth spent her time, stripping and making beds, pushing meal trolleys, folding sheets and blankets, scrubbing floors (to the determent of her once soft hands) and helping wounded men use a “bottle” Matron had decreed, that only married “gals” among the VAD’s would do this duty, she did not want the single “gals” being shocked silly. Stupid really, most of the men that needed help had other things on their mind and those that had it on their mind were usually able to use the bottle by themselves.

She placed the rinsed “bottle” on the side with its companions, catching a glimpse of her self in the glass of the doorway. Her shoulder length brown hair was pulled tight up onto her head, hidden under the heavily starched cap. Though one slender red tinted tendril had snaked loose. Elizabeth cursed and tried to tuck it back, if the ward sister caught sight of it? Elizabeth sighed and peered closer at her reflection. She swore she had bags under her wide green eyes, she was only twenty four? It was not possible, was it?

Elizabeth turned, viewing her five foot four inch frame, encased in the plain dull grey uniform and thick woollen stockings that itched like crazy. She had lost weight, she swore she had, she was getting bony hips, damn. George loved her curves.

At the thought of George, Elizabeth sagged a little and continued tidying the sluice room. She wondered where he was at this moment, sitting at dispersal, waiting for the squadron to be scrambled or airborne somewhere, do not think of it she muttered. Yet she did. George was a career Officer, RAF, from before the war. His family were from Kent, like hers gentry, not the upper crust, but good, solid , the backbone of England.

They had met in 1938, when he was stationed near Norwich. Elizabeth had been swept away by his manner, he was suave and knowledgeable about the world. His pale blue eyes, crinkled at the corner when he laughed and his habit of running his fingers through his fine blonde hair, like a naughty school boy, had her in love with him before the winter.

They had married at Easter in 1939, when war was a possibility, not a reality. He had been even then, flying in one of the first Hurricane squadrons. Together they had lived through the phoney war, not really sure if it were a war at all.

The war for both of them started with Dunkirk, George’s squadron had not been sent to France, yet he and others had fought in the skies over that long length of sand. Now her George was doing the same over the fields of England. Elizabeth tried not to think of it, tried not to think that her George might not be home or at the Officer’s mess, when she retuned there on Wednesday night. Tried not to think of one of the base staff Officers walking into her ward and asking to speak to her.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

It happened so quickly, so fast. One moment Robert was pulling out of a looping dive onto Garner’s tail, then the next he heard the telltale rattle of machine guns and the whistling sound of tracing and live rounds whipping past his head. Looking around he caught a glimmer of light, high and near the sun, and pulled up in that direction to limit his profile until he could see exactly what was happening. Within seconds he could see the shape, a gray Messerschmitt 109 darting toward him machine guns blazing. Defensive tactics were instinctual at this point. The only way to survive was to keep at a lower altitude to equalize their performance since the 109 would cut him apart at higher altitudes.

Robert banked up and came around searching the skies for the enemy. Doing so he caught a glimpse of Garner likewise embroiled in an unexpected dance with the devil. His only advantage was a tighter turning circle and the rugged design of the Hurricane. He couldn’t outrace the 109; he couldn’t climb or dive faster or higher; he could only stay and fight. Coming about he drew a bead on the 109 and heard his eight 30 caliber machineguns rattle. He thought he caught the wing tip of the Messerschmitt but it didn’t stray from its banking and leveled off to pass at him. Up and away to his left Robert pulled “Lady Jane” then he darted down and around hoping to come up quickly behind his rival.

When he couldn’t see him a shiver of panic shot through him. Thinking himself to be a sitting duck he maneuvered around scouring the skies for the gray 109. Then he saw him coming down at him from above. He heard the sound of the rounds that ripped into his left wing as he maneuvered quickly to his right. When he came around again he had him square in his sights and laid on the triggers. Sparks flamed from the guns in both wings as he peppered the 109 along the body and engine compartment. The smoke quickly followed by the flames told the rest of his enemy’s story. As the Messerschmitt began to nose down, he saw the canopy open and the pilot bail out. So much for the power of the Luftwaffe.

Had Garner seen this? Then he thought of his friend and came around to search and help if he needed. Then he saw them, the nose of the other Messerschmitt to the tail of Garner’s “Lucky Lady.”

“Pull up for Christ’s sake!” Robert swore. “You can’t out run him!”

When Garner finally pulled up Robert saw the haze of fuel begin to seep from the Lady. He chased after the pursuer. Between the two of them they would be able to finish off the bastard intruder. And they did with a series of runs at the unlucky German each of them strafing the rival aircraft and the 30 cals of Garner’s Lucky Lady finally ripping off the left wing of the Mighty 109 and sending it reeling down toward the channel.

Robert radioed their position for the home defence rescue crews to swing into action. Once acknowledged, they regrouped and headed back toward Exeter. But Garner was strangely silent. Perhaps his radio was put out. Robert flew close and tried to use hand signals but Garner looked straight ahead unmindful of his friend beside him. Then he saw the gaping holes along the fuselage of the Lucky Lady. There was steam and smoke in the cockpit. Garner slowed and feebly cracked open the canopy. Fortunately they weren’t all that far from base, but Robert grew more concerned as Garner flew with an unsteady hand, barely able to bring the Lady to land.

The ground crews were ready as Robert radioed ahead of their condition. He ran and climbed up onto the Lady, tugging the canopy back completely. Then he saw the damage and the blood and the scattered look of shock on Garner’s face.

“Did you see?” Garner gasped weakly. “Did you see me splash him?”

“I saw, Garn … I saw,” Robert said as he pulled at the strapping that held his friend in place.

“I got him, Bobby! He was mine!” Garner cried out deliriously.

The ground crew was all over the plane now, the beeping siren of the rescue van echoing in Robert’s ears as he slipped down from the plane. He watched as they dragged Garner from the plane. He patted his friend on the face and saw the vacant look in his eyes. Then he looked away. He didn’t want to see this. He didn’t want to remember this. He wanted to remember the night before, the arrogant bravado, the laughing swagger, and the jovial companionship.

The lengthy debriefing helped to take some of the edge away but it couldn’t chase away completely what he had seen. The hubbub about confirming the downing of the German planes gave him little comfort. Even the mild reprimand from the Wing Commander for not following correct patrol procedure didn’t settle the uneasiness he felt. Nor did the congratulations from his squadron mates assuage the queasy churning in his belly.

The only thing that helped was seeing Garner later that evening, bandaged and casted up at the hospital in town. He was heavily medicated and sleeping, but he was warm and clean and safe. The staff said that he would live well enough and should regain most use of his right arm, but that his left leg was gone, amputated above the knee.

Damn! What was he to do now? They had done everything together since their school days. They had been inseparable. And now here he was in a land that suddenly seemed very foreign, amongst some people whom he didn’t really know, doing a job that seemed very meaningless. He had no one to turn to now; he was on his own. There was no place to go but back to base and Robert settled into his quarters, trying vainly to ignore the empty bed beside his. He stood at the wash stand and splashed some cold water on his cheeks.

He hardly recognized the face. Sure the steely blue eyes and the thick black hair were familiar, but the face looked old, creased with a new set of wrinkles that aged him far beyond his twenty-six years. He felt weary and tired and plopped his lean muscular frame onto the bed. Maybe in sleep he could reclaim his sanity and some sense of normality.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

Wednesday afternoon was a blur for Elizabeth, she and Hattie spent it trundling patients, well enough to be moved to other hospitals further inland, to what seemed like a fleet of dark green ambulances.

“Going to miss you lot.” Flight Sergeant Conway said as he tried to pinch Hattie’s bottom as she tucked a blanket round what remained of his lower limbs.

“We need to put a sign round your neck Sergeant.” Elizabeth said from behind him as her foot knocked the brake of his wheelchair.

“What sort of sign?” The Sergeant said grinning as he waved goodbye to his ward mates.

“Watch out for rear attack coming out of the sun.” Elizabeth quipped. The Sergeant burst out laughing, drawing a glare from the sister on duty as they passed her desk at the end of the ward. Elizabeth sighed; she would be for it when she returned. And she was. The sister made it plain that men in the Sergeant’s condition need peace, quiet and gentle nursing, not pantomime.

“Silly old trout,” Georgia huffed as she stuffed her clothes into her small case. All four women were packing their few belongings away for another week and were preparing to go home.

Elizabeth knew her friends were thinking the same as she, what would be waiting at home, husbands? A late evening visit from staff? Do not think on it, Elizabeth thought, as she straightened her silk stockings. It was nice to be dressed in her little cotton frock and high heels again, though she swore she still smelt of disinfectant.

“Well, we ready?” Alexandria asked as she placed a bar of chocolate in her handbag.

“Where did you get that?” Elizabeth asked as the four friends walked out of the Hospital and towards Hattie’s black Morris.

“Promised the boys some if they behaved this time for granny,” Alexandria replied as she placed her case in the boot. “That porter Harry, he has contacts.”

“Has he?” Georgia giggled as she got in the car, “Damn that is good to know, what else can he get?”

“It costs…” Alexandria said slipping into the back seat with Georgia

Elizabeth frowned and the others wiggled their fingers at her, chanting “Ride in the front, crank the handle.” Hattie winked broadly and Elizabeth took the starting handle and went to the front of the car.

She slipped the cold length of metal into place and turned it; the Morris chugged and gurgled, then fired in to life.

“One crank Elizabeth, by heck George must take his life in his hands went you…” Hattie laughed as Elizabeth got in beside her. Elizabeth burst out laughing and Hattie swung the Morris down the drive of the Hospital, passing two ambulances on there way in.

The four women fell silent as they approached home, one by one they were dropped off and Hattie chugged off down the road to her own home.

Elizabeth stood for a minute outside the small rented two up two down cottage were she hand George lived. She wished she was home, her real home in Norfolk, standing looking at the half timbered Manor that had been her family’s home for four centuries.

But she was not. She was here. There was a war on and her husband?

She let her self in and put down her case and listened, there was a scrape of a boot. “George?” She called. Elizabeth went into the small parlour, noticing George’s blue jacket half on the floor, where he must have thrown it. She picked it up smoothing the fabric with her fingers, the wool smelt of him, of engine fumes of…

“Bad day...” George’s voice came out of the gloom. Elizabeth turned. Her husband was sitting in the over stuffed chair by the fire, a half empty glass in his hand and the bottle of ten year old malt on the floor by his feet.

“Oh no not…” Elizabeth’s mind flew to her friends, had one of their husbands?

“No… the Morris Four’s other halves are alright.” George answered and bent and refilled his glass, “Just lost those two silly wet behind the ears replacements.”

“Oh George,” Elizabeth went to her husband got down on her knees and hugged him.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

The days following were a blur. Robert was given senior wingman and assigned a very young and talkative and most overly confident Brit replacement. Their early morning patrol went smoothly, as did the afternoon. Robert heard the reports from the east, how the Nazis were attacking the airfields around Kent an the Thames Estuary. For whatever reason the Germans had wandered into the 11th Group’s sector escaped him, for after each sortie he returned to the hospital checking on Garner. For two days there was no progress to report. Then after another completely insignificant patrol, Robert heard on his way to Garner’s ward that his friend had come around.

“Mr. Sheppard!” he heard a decidedly female voice exclaim. “Why a man in your condition …”

A smile instantly curled Robert’s lips as he rushed into the room. Surely Garner was all right. Yes, he was no longer ashen and gray, the lively color returning to his cheeks. But there was no mistaking the emptiness beneath the bed covers and the flush bluster was without meaning.

“Bobby!” Garner called out. “Hey, Old Man!”

The nurse gave a sort of curtsey to Robert and quickly exited the room. The other men in the ward were drugged or asleep and Robert’s heart fell heavy into his chest. He grasped Garner’s hand eagerly.

“Hey, you old poop! What’s with this? I need you on my wing!”

Garner laughed then coughed wetly. “Damn fucking Krauts!” He grabbed weakly at Roberts’s jacket and collar. “Make those bastards pay! Make them fucking pay!”

“I will, Garn … I will or die in the deed.”

Garner smiled broadly then his eyes closed and Robert knew just how weak his friend had fallen. He didn’t speak of what the hospital staff had hinted that Garner would be given a quick flight home for further surgeries and recovery and therapy in the States. He spoke softly of future visits to the Blue House and the string of pubs that led the way back to base and his words seemed to please his friend. Garner grasped his friend’s hand and his eyes popped open brightly like flash bulbs.

“I want you to bag every British broad from here to London,” Garner said, his fingers forming a death grip around Robert’s hand. “Do it … do it for me …”

Robert thought of a response but when he saw Garner’s eyes close and his friend slip back into a medicated dream world he forgot about speaking. He only held his friend closely and whispered a prayer intended for his friend but also including his own salvation. As Garner fell deeper into sleep, he left and found his way back toward the base, alone and lost in his thoughts.

The following day brought about a complete change in the 213th Squadron. There was a general officer’s briefing called early before all patrols were organized. As he sat among the rest of the staff, he noted several new faces. They were fully complete, the staff room filled to overflowing. When Captain Wilfred Hyde-Davis stepped to the front the room fell silent.

“Men, I know that you all have heard the rumors for days now. Our comrades in the East have been hit hard. Airfields have been bombed and strafed and the ranks depleted horrendously. We are full staffed and well trained and now ready to defend the realm. Our King and our Country are calling us now. In two days we are transferring to Tangmere, replacing the 266th that has sacrificed all that she can. Make yourselves ready for we are to gain the chance we have all been waiting for, we are to meet the enemy face to face.”

Robert knew what all that meant. They were fatted and plump with pride and ready for the taking. He thought for several moments while the Captain concluded his remarks about his friend a few kilometers away asleep in a morphine dream. But then he thought about himself for once, about what he had come to England for, about the scourge that he thought his own actions could help rid the earth of, and he smiled and felt a strength return deep inside him. This is the chance he had wanted, something he knew by his own actions and bravery that he could accomplish, and he leaned back in the simple wooden chair, glanced over at his wingmate and he smiled.

On the Seventh of September 1940 the 213th Squadron, The Hornets, flew to Tangmere in the East, from the warm safe backwater of Exeter where the only notable action of the past three months had been the intercept of two German aircraft by a pair of Yankees into the flaming cauldron of the 11th Group commanded by Hugh Dowdling. They were primed and ready and completely unprepared for what they were to encounter. But in this war, no one knew just what lie ahead and Robert Wilson embraced the adventure, biding a tearful goodbye to his life-long friend who was hours away from a flight that would take him to the safety of home while he carried the flame for the both of them.

No sooner had they landed at Tangmere then they were ordered to refuel and scramble to the line. The Germans had seemingly changed tactics. Instead of the heavy bombing and strafing of airfields and aerodromes, the fleets of Heinkels and Dorniers were headed direct to London and the Tangmere wing was set directly in the way. The action was fast-paced and confusing but the Hornets gave better than they got and by the time the action had abated and they fell into the officer’s club after dark there was little solace to be found in the watered down English ale they were served.

Robert’s rookie wingmate had bailed out on him as he sought the comfort of his new bed while Robert sought only the bottom of the glass … several times. He was surprised by the jaunty appearance of several members of the 607th Squadron, their ranks having been hit particularly hard yet one couldn’t tell by their demeanor. They were laughing and talking quickly amongst themselves and seemed as if the war were raging on another planet. Robert set down his empty glass and looked over at their ringleader, a lanky blond Brit with a casual smile and a crisp grin. It was late and Robert was tempted to toddle off to his quarters. But for some reason he lingered. Surely there was something to be learned from these jaded veterans of this Battle.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

Hattie cursed as she locked the Morris; then hurried over the gravel to join the rest of her friends at the door to the Officer’s club. Hattie’s husband Thomas had sent word a simple note;

all fine, Officer’s club.

All four of the wives knew what that meant, it had been bad. Not that they needed the message to tell them that. The six o clock news from the BBC, on the wireless, had spoke of raids over London.

Windows had rattled as the Hurricanes had taken off, returned, refuelled and returned to the air. Some of the wives counted the planes leaving and arriving back. Elizabeth never did. If it happened; if George was gone, she would know soon enough. Least she would know. Not like the wives of the soldiers left in France, many did not yet know if their husbands were prisoners of war or lay buried in some field on the way to Dunkirk.

The night was warm and fine. The Morris Four had dressed to the nines, their husbands would expect that. They stood together on the step of the smoky Club and collectively drew a breath, put on their most dazzling smiles and linked arms going in two by two, becoming a foursome the moment they were in the door.

“Ten ‘o’clock high.” Alexandria’s husband, Pilot Officer, Mathew Cordwine called out, twirling the ends of his moustache. Elizabeth watched as their mates raised their glasses as one, toasting the ladies’ arrival.

“Watch the undercarriage Hattie,” Thomas called, as his wife swayed her way to him, “It will blind the new members; can’t have blind men trying to fly.”

“Why not, they allow mad men.” Half the men at the bar whooped at Hattie’s retort and called for drinks for the “gals”

“Errrr excuse me sir,” A small rat faced steward asked and pulled on George’s arm as the women reached a hastily vacated table.

“Yes…” George said, winking at Elizabeth.

“The ladies…” The steward coughed, as if he doubted the four were such. “Have not been signed in, and….”

“Ohhhhhhh…. “George replied in mock seriousness. “I see…. Well, don’t worry; they are only four of Goering’s best spies, sent here to get us blind drunk and into their beds…

“Sirrrrrr,” The Steward spluttered….

“In other words old Chap…” Thomas put his arm round the steward, then frowned, asking “You are new here aren’t you? “ The steward nodded, his head wobbling on his neck at a fast rate. “As I was saying…"

“As you were saying “The rest of the party said in chorus.

“These ladies are the scourge of the county, the infamous...”

“The infamous…” The chorus repeated.

“Morris four!”

“Morris four!” the chorus echoed, banging the tables.

“I see...” The steward gulped.

“No you don’t pea brain.” Georgia’s husband Ralph snapped. “They are our wives…”

“Easy Ralph…” George said softly, as the steward made good his escape.

“Easy, blood ground crawler? Questioning us? Bloody cheek?”

“Doing his job," Thomas huffed and pulled out a cigarette case and offer the contents round.

“Job, we are doing a job... we…. “Ralph continued, Georgia slipped her arm round her husband’s and leant her head against his shoulder, the warmth of her touch brought Ralph up sharp, he mumbled apologies. The banter continued; ebbing and flowing. Faces came and went in the Club, as they did Elizabeth noticed a lot of new ones.

“So many replacements?” She asked George. George too was glancing round the room; he seemed to be marking the faces like she was or one particular face. The man was sitting in an over stuffed chair by himself; watching the watchers watch him.

“No, new squadron come to join the party…” George answered over his shoulder to her

“Oh…” Elizabeth knew he would not say more.

“Yes, supposed to have a yank with them, who has a couple of kills.” Thomas added.

“Yank? Long way from home? “Hattie giggled. “Did he take a wrong turn?”

“No…. some of them are here because they believe in what we are fighting for.” George replied.

“No they don’t, it’s the blooming high pay.” Ralph barked.

“Nooooo… it’s our women!” Mathew laughed.

George shook his head, Elizabeth winced, he was drunk, but serious drunk, in this mood he would not see the funny side at all.

“George…” She began.

“The 213th squadron have come here to give us a hand, we should offer ours.” George said and walked across the room to the lone figure.

He stood by the arm of the man’s chair and offered his hand, saying, “My name’s George Fitzmorgan, Flight Lieutenant Fitzmorgan, buy you a drink? The man’s dark head turned and looked up.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

He had watched the group from the 607th drink quickly and heavily for their day had begun early and lasted late and their long faces bore the ravages of great stress and little sleep. Their mood brightened when the women arrived—their women no doubt—and Robert thought again about leaving. But after finding their humbling of the steward somehow amusing he decided to remain if only to lose himself in another laugh or two. But then Robert was surprised to see the ringleader amble over to introduce himself and extend his hand. He looked up into the pale blue eyes and the easy smile, stood up humbly from the cushy armchair and took the proffered hand.

“Wilson, Bobby Wilson,” Robert said, feeling very self-conscious with his Yank accent. “Pilot Officer Bobby Wilson, 213th Squadron.”

“So I see, Bobby,” Fitzmorgan replied noting the Hornet patch sewn onto Robert’s shoulder. “Irritatus lacessit crabro … 'The hornet attacks when roused.' Hopefully the day’s events were enough to rouse you.”

“Livelier than what we’re used to,” Robert replied. “But that’s good … we’re ready for anything Goering throws our way.”

“Good thing, too,” Fitzmorgan remarked with a sly grin. “I hear the Dorniers were dropping kitchen sinks in Kent just the other day.”

Robert laughed remembering the briefing that described the scrap metal that the Germans had showered along the Thames Estuary. In a very odd way this Fitzmorgan resembled Garner, the easy grin, the light blue eyes, and the totter in his stance when holding down too much drink. The Lieutenant was eyeing him closely. Could he see the loss and hurt in Robert that even a half bottle of White Horse couldn’t assuage?

“You’re the Yank aren’t you?” Fitzmorgan said, gripping Robert’s shoulder tightly.

“Yes, sir,” Robert replied curtly.

“Well, Bobby,” Fitzmorgan said, his hand loosening and easing around Robert’s shoulders in a chummy familiar fashion. “We’re terribly glad to see you chaps show up here. Now about that drink …”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Robert followed him over to their noisy table and tried to follow the introductions; Squadron Leader Thomas Mason and his wife Hattie, Pilot Officers Cordwine and Clarence and their wives Alexandria and Georgia, and finally Elizabeth, Fitzmorgan’s wife. They were all cordial enough, and the men were understandably more impressed with his record than were the ladies. Yet he knew with the first glare of daylight that their names would escape his memory, perhaps with the exception of Mrs. Fitzmorgan. Of the ladies only she extended her hand and Robert felt her small hand disappear inside his. There was a curious expression in her large, green and luminous eyes and a decided tilt to her head as they greeted one another, a lock of her lustrous hair falling over an eye, and her full glossy lips curling into a smile.

“So Bobby, tell us about yourself, where you’re from and all?” Fitzmorgan asked.

“Not much to tell,” Robert began as Cordwine pressed a full glass into his hand. His words came short and haltingly. “Born and raised in Indiana. After the Great War my family moved to Cleveland. My father built a machine tool business for the auto industry. Schooled at Purdue. Learned to fly with an old friend whose father used to work for Stearman.”

“So why come over here and join in our battle?” Mason asked.

“My father’s family came from here. Couldn’t stand sitting around waiting for something to happen,” Robert said then threw down a thick slug of Scotch. “A lot of people back home think that it’s just your war and if we ignore it, it will go away. A few of us don’t … I don’t.”

“So you came over for justice and a bit of glory and end up a real bona fide war hero!” laughed Clarence heartily.

They all joined in the laugh. There were other questions and Robert felt drawn into the circle like a famous celebrity, a very unaccustomed feeling for him. He was so used to remaining in the background while Garner stepped freely into the spotlight. But he was on his own now and maybe he needed to accept some responsibility. Perhaps they could gage his discomfort in his hesitant manner and hear it in the awkwardness of his words.

“So do you always drink alone?” asked Cordwine.

“I lost my best buddy the other day near Exeter,” Robert replied. “And my new wing mate bailed out on me tonight.”

“There’s always room for you at our table,” Fitzmorgan offered.

“So long as you sponsor the next round!” Clarence chided to everyone’s approval.

“Your friend? Did he … is he?” asked Elizabeth.

“Lost only a leg and some of his pride,” Robert said sadly, sure that his face darkened with the thought. “He’ll be sent Stateside shortly.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied.

The mood could have been soured, but they were a lively group and their inquiries resumed. As he listened intently to their questions and spoke his answers, he couldn’t help but notice the gaze of Fitzmorgan’s wife, Elizabeth. Sitting beside her husband, her slender body was coiled up, seemingly swimming inside her dress perhaps a size too large. She listened closely to his every word, passing her judgment with a smile or frown.

“So is there a Mrs. Wilson?” Elizabeth asked finally when the conversation had slowed.

“Um, no … not right now,” he answered, shaking his head slowly.

“Then a girlfriend perhaps?”

“No …”

“Ah, so easy to see since you are such a shy one,” she said getting up and reaching up to pat his cheek. Then she turned toward the Squardron Commander’s wife. “Hattie, I need to go sit on Aunt Suzie’s lap.”

As Elizabeth sauntered with Hattie toward the ladies room, Robert followed the sway of her body in the light cotton dress. Fitzmorgan was a lucky man, very lucky indeed, despite her comment about his shyness. But as the next round was poured, his outlook began to sour. No, it must be the effect of drinking so much. Pretty as she was, she was probably a stiff cool English broad like all the others he had met while here. It was only in the dim smoky haze of the Officer’s Club with his extended state of inebriation that she would look so appealing. He moved to the edge of the loud little circle.

“It’s been a long day for me, boys,” Robert said. “Flying over from Exeter this morning and scrambling all afternoon into the evening. I need to turn in for first light patrol.”

“Oh, come on! Just one more, old man!” ventured Clarence.

“No, no … I really need to be going,” Robert said waving off the full glass being sent his way. “Thanks for the hospitality. Nice to meet you all.”

He hoped they didn’t catch his stumbling toward the door. After the heat of the day and the flush sweat of the smoky club, the cool evening air felt refreshing. He fell asleep quickly in his clothes and didn’t stir until reveille at Oh-Dark-Thirty.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

“Where has the Yank gone?” Hattie asked as she and Elizabeth returned.

“Lizzy scared him off.” George said sardonically as he crossed his legs and leant back in his chair, the cigarette in his hand dribbling ash on his trousers.

“I did not,” Elizabeth huffed as she sat by his side, things were sliding down, the stress and drink were beginning to tell; she knew the signs and hated them. The man she loved was drowning in both

“Oh yes you did old girl, it was the twenty questions.” George replied wiping off the ash with a brush of his hand.

“I was being polite.” Elizabeth picked up her drink and emptied it. Damn him, she thought, she was only being polite. The American had seemed on edge, his dark blue eyes seemed to be studying the floor more than the faces; she was trying to make him at ease. Bobby, he said his name was, had a nice smile when he allowed it to break out. She was just being friendly; she hoped that George didn’t think otherwise. How could he even do so?

“Another?” Ralph asked nuzzling under his wife’s hair.

“Actually….” Thomas said, his voice becoming serious, “we best follow the Yank’s example and get some shut eye.”

“Home then James; and don’t spare the horses” Mathew said swatting Alexandria’s bottom as she stood.

“Ouch, you beast,” She giggled.

"Can’t go home, can we Thomas, the old man wants all pilots on base tonight, Jerry might decide to come with the dawn….” George said as he swilled his whisky round in its glass, his eyes locked on something far away only he could see.

Elizabeth sighed.

“Now old girl, you need to get it into your head one thing about this war, we have to all do or bit, understand?” George said and took her hand kissing it, yet his voice and eyes told Elizabeth his anger had locked on her as a vent to relieve it.

“I understand it, but I don’t bloody like it… it’s always the same George…” Elizabeth snapped; then regretted her words. The look George gave her made her wish the ground would open up and swallow her. She broke from his grasp and walked to the door, sniffing.

“Domestic… brewing, watch it Lizzy, he comes out of the sun.” Hattie said with a half laugh and pulled her husband close, giving him a long kiss, before she broke away and fumbled for her car keys.

“You going to be safe driving gal?” Thomas asked as he came up for air.

“Not pickled, merely tipsy..” Hattie replied and beckoned to her companions. The other two women followed her into the passage where a tearful Elizabeth stood.

“Oh Elizabeth, he didn’t mean it, you didn’t mean it…. Go back in there.” Hattie began.

Elizabeth did not have too; there at the door was George. “Lass….” He said and opened his arms.

“Oh George…”Elizabeth cried and half ran into his arms, burying her face in the nape of his neck.

“Promise, come hell or high water home tomorrow, beer and skittles in the Dog and Doublet as normal, I will even bring the Yank along so you can continue the twenty questions.”

Elizabeth sniffed back the tears and raised her head for a long lingering kiss.

“Come on” Hattie huffed from outside on the gravel.

Elizabeth broke from her husband’s arms and made her way out side and to the car mumbling, “Some one else can crank to night.”

“Yes madam,” Alexandria giggled and waved to her husband, who had joined George on the steps of the club to wave them off.

All four women kept their eyes locked on the four male figures on the steps, until they had turned the corner and were out on the narrow lane heading towards home.

They were mostly silent as the drive continued each lost in her personal thoughts. Though, Hattie muttered about not being able to see the road ahead well. Due to the blackout regulations the car’s headlights had been two thirds covered, just two faint beams of light trickled out ahead.

Suddenly out of the dark a shape loomed, screamed, hit the right wing and shot into the ditch at the side of the lane. The scream was echoed in the car by all four ladies, followed by the screech of breaks as Hattie pulled up.

“What was that?” Hattie asked, her fingers turning white as she gripped the steering wheel.

“It was a cyclist?” Georgia burbled and tried to see into the ditch from the front passenger seat.

“I think it was wearing a white tin hat..?” Alexandria chimed in.

“Oh my God I have killed an ARP Warden!” Hattie bellowed.

“Hope it was Mr Grimes, silly old bugger, “Georgia retorted. Her three companions looked shocked for a second then all gave a nervous giggle. Mr Grimes considered himself the guardian of the blackout, none were safe from him and his little black book.

“I… Think we better get out and see?” Elizabeth said trying to take command of the situation, “Hattie you got a torch in here?” Hattie nodded. Elizabeth took the offered torch, opened her rear left passenger door and put the touch beam on full. She ran it up and down the ditch and made to get out when something rose from the ditch. It was man shaped, covered it what must be weed and seemed to be dripping water everywhere. It held a twisted front wheel of a bicycle in its right hand and bellowed at the occupants of the vehicle.

“Put that fucking light out, you….”

“Mr. Grimes.” The women said as one. Elizabeth clicked off the touch and threw it under her feet.

“Well sod him, he looks ok and he is not getting me before the justice of the peace…” Hattie snapped and floored the accelerator pedal. The Morris hopped forward. Elizabeth fell back in her seat the door shutting sharply, narrowly missing her legs.

“Hattie….,”Alexandria began, as the car swept onto the main road.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The four women exchanged looks then fell about laughing.

The rest of the ride home was uneventful. Elizabeth let herself in and was soon asleep. She dreamed of WRP wardens looming out of the dark, twisting hurricanes, George’s anger and the dark blue eyes of an American lost in England

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

The roar of the engine was deafening … diving down through the clouds, setting sight on the sleek shark-shape of a Heinkel bomber on the left … “I’ve got the right wing,” came Garner’s excited voice through the grainy earpiece, “Take the left wing, and we’ll meet in the middle!” … Robert sighted along the dorsal canopy … the yellow marking giving him a perfect target through the haze … squeezing the trigger, the eight Brownings sputter to life … tracers looping down, raking the fuselage, the dorsal gunner falling silent … smoke erupts … “I’ve got him!” Robert shouts and sets his sights toward the next one just as he hears the howl from above and behind … “I’m hit! I’m hit!” comes Garner’s voice … Robert pulls out of the dive and comes around to see the front profile of a Messerschmitt, guns flaming, the hot lead ripping through the skin of his Hurricane, shattering the canopy, shards of glass stinging his cheeks … then comes the smoke and the flame, and his feet are on fire … release the canopy … release the canopy … release the …

Robert sat up in his bunk. It was still dark, still a couple hours before reveille. The distant sound of aircraft landing from night patrol ground out on the flight line. Rubbing his sweating brow, he lie back on the damp sheets of the unfamiliar bed, his eyes open wide. The dreams had come every night for the past week since Garner had been wounded. Each night was different. They were over France, they were over London, they were over the channel, and they were chasing down Heinkels or Dorniers but always drawing the fire of the Messerschmitts and Garner kept going down and he would soon follow.

His hand shook as it reached for the rumpled pack of Camels and pumped one out. He needed to settle his nerves down. As he took his first drag, his eyes closed and he felt the dusky smoke fill his lungs. Trying to think of anything but what had been filling his dreams an image of the Officer’s Club flooded his head. Actually not so much the club but someone he had seen there, someone he had met there, the English girl, Fitzmorgan’s wife, Elizabeth. A favorite name of his, a name common in his own family going back several generations on his mother’s side.

He opened his eyes for a moment but when they closed again there she was, curled up on her chair, her trim figure angled so precisely, her pretty face held up proudly, her green eyes … yes, that’s what it was, her eyes … her luminous green eyes that had scoured his face, and now were haunting him. And the smile, the subtle curling of her lips glossed over with what passed for lipstick nowadays over here, her smile haunted him too.

Robert chuckled at his folly. There had been that nurse who had caught his eye while visiting Garner before he left Exeter, but he couldn’t now remember a single distinguishing feature about her other than the shape of her legs as she walked away … but no, that image had turned into Elizabeth too. Shit! This won’t do, he thought as he drew the last precious drag on his smoke and stubbed it out before he burned his fingers.

The flight line. Yes, he’d stroll out to the flight line and check on his Lady Jane to see if Colin and the other lads had finished the maintenance he had requested. The rudder linkage had felt too loose ever since Exeter and the end fitting on the throttle cable needed to be replaced. The air was chill and clear as he strode along the dirt path out to the line. With its familiar AKE L1852 markings rested his Lady. He ducked into the shed and looked over the maintenance log. Sure enough she was fixed up and cleared for flight. Robert walked out to check on her just the same. Scrambling up on the wing and then climbing in to settle into the cockpit, Robert sighed. This was his home now, this was his office, his place of business, the surroundings in which he was most comfortable.

His feet found the rudder nice and tight and his hand jiggled the throttle and found none of the slippage he had felt earlier. But as he glanced out over the runway and watched another wing of Hurricanes wing down from the skies just now starting to lighten … it would be another couple of hours before sunrise … his mind began to wander. “So easy to see since you are such a shy one … a shy one … a shy one …” Her voice reverberated in his head. Robert laughed aloud. The girl had only known him a few minutes and yet she had him pegged exactly.

He shook out his last Camel and struck it up with his Zippo. That’s going to change, Mrs. Fitzmorgan. That’s going to change. I don’t have Garner Sheppard’s shadow to hide within any more. I’ve got a job to do and I’m going after it. I’m going to cast off this damned reticence and start doing things for myself, what I want and when I want. Fuck! Like that’s going to happen! He knew something was about to change, something had to. He hadn’t come all this way in the world … in his life for things to remain the same.

Robert pushed himself up from the cockpit and climbed out onto the wing. His eyes didn’t miss the pair of white swastikas stenciled below the open canopy. His Brit crew was thorough even if they were jumping the gun a bit. He tossed his spent smoke away, slipped down from the wing of the Lady, and returned to barracks. He needed a shower and might be lucky enough since it was way early and he might get to enjoy a little bit of hot water.

Refreshed and fueled with a hot cup of tea—damn! What he wouldn’t give for a strong cup of Joe!—he fell in for the early report and then spent the next couple hours flying first patrol with his new wingmate, a talkative young Brit named Nigel. They had just returned from an uneventful sortie and fell in for chow when the sirens sounded. A fleet of German aircraft, maybe a hundred in total, had been spotted crossing the channel and heading toward the Kentish Costal districts. Both the 213th and the 607th were scrambled in full and headed off to help the 72nd and 79th out of Biggin Hill.

In the next two hours they intercepted a group of about 30 aircraft that broke off from the main attack, struggled to penetrate and chase off their fighter cover, and then ravaged the fleet of Dorniers before they dropped their load on London. No one earned a kill, though a couple of Dorniers and a Messerschmitt were damaged and turned back. It was only well after they had landed that they heard of the loss of two chaps from the 79th over Kent. With their Hawker’s sputtering on fumes and their bellies starving, they were back on land just in time for tea. Robert had just finished a cold meal that left his hunger feeling only slackened when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Fitzmorgan’s grinning face.

“Say there, Bobby,” George said with his grin widening. “The lot of us are off for our usual beer and skittles and I thought I’d see if you’d want to tag along with us.”

Robert thought for a moment. He hadn’t given much consideration to an evening of social diversion. Then he realized perhaps that would be better than listening to Nigel’s incessant chatter and certainly the mixed company of their little group would be more entertaining than endless hands of card games at the club.

“Sure, thanks,” Robert said casually. “Appreciate your asking.”

“Seeing that you’re on the loose, we owe it to keep you livened up,” Fitzmorgan cracked. “Clean yourself up and we’ll pick you up in front of the club in say 20 minutes or so?”

“Sure. Thanks again,” Robert replied and watched as Fitzmorgan sauntered off. Perhaps their ladies had a friend for him. There usually was a hapless spinster hiding behind such invitations. Hell, he hadn’t forgotten his pledge to Garner. Besides his nerves needed some relief from the hell into which this war was turning.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

Elizabeth woke blurry eyed lone in her bed. The war for her, this Sunday 8th September, meant she had been denied her husband’s warmth and his company for another night. The thought that she might not never again have him there made her hand reach out and rub the cold sheet by her side. Her eyes squeezed shut again and a rough sob escaped her lips.

This war was changing George and not for the better. The purposeful and strong man she had admired was turning brutal and callous. He kept telling her she didn’t understand, that she should accept what the war was doing to them, to him, to her, to their relationship; it was a price they had to pay. This had been the root of their small spat last night. She could not accept it, if she did the enemy had won, she reasoned. That was what they were fighting for wasn’t it? Their way of life. It be free, to be British; not just another people bleeding and dying under Hitler’s boot heel?

As she rose and slipped her dressing gown on, pushing her feet into her worn slippers, Elizabeth was not the only one that morning fighting to believe in their way of life, in fact fighting to keep it. For the citizens of London the Blitz had begun. While Elizabeth had slept over 230 enemy aircraft had pounded the capital. The docks on the north side of the Thames, West Ham, Poplar and Stepney were ablaze, as was Southwark and Bermondsey on the south bank.

As Elizabeth filled the kettle in the small damp kitchen in her rented home and placed it on the gas, the wireless hummed as it prepared to burst into life. The precise tones of the BBC announcer started mid word “don was subject to enemy attack last night, casualties were light,” (in reality there were over 230 dead and more than 250 injured, light yes, compared to what was to come.) Elizabeth stiffened as the announcer went on to say that the fires started were under control (This was not so, the contents of the dock warehouses were highly flammable and the smoldering fires would be a beacon for the coming night’s raids).

She brightened when the announcer stated, that the King and Queen were to visit injured in various Hospitals that day. Could not be bad she thought if the royal family were still in London. (In fact in reality the Government were pressing George VI to leave London that day, he refused point blank, a decision he was supported on by his Queen, who stayed by his side. A fact that was to endear them both to their people for the rest of their life times.)

By the time Elizabeth had breakfasted on toast, thinly smeared with butter and jam, washed and dressed, Hattie was at the door.

“Morning..” Hattie announced as she fiddled with the hat pin in her felt hat, stabbing the material again and again in an effort to hold it in place.

“Morning, “Elizabeth replied and shut the door behind her. She pulled her jacket straight and tucked her arm in her friend’s. Hattie smiled and glanced up. The roar of engines, Hurricanes cutting the morning air, gaining height heading South East. Elizabeth wondered if it were the first sortie of the day, or the third. Or was one of those planes her husband’s, her friends’ mates, or the American’s.

“Damn we will be late.” Hattie remarked, as she set off at a brisk pace walking down the road. “Wish the bells still rung then I would know if I was or not.”

“If the church bells rang, we would be doing more than walking to church. “Elizabeth answered laughing.

“That we would.” Hattie replied as the two women turned the corner and saw their friends, Alexandria with her two boys and mother-in-law in tow. Alexandria of the four was a local girl, her father-in-law the vicar into whose church Elizabeth now entered . In fact Elizabeth would this Sunday, like every one, when George was flying, (she tried to think of him flying, not fighting it was silly but it helped,) at the large Vicarage with the other women.

So the day went, lunch prepared with a pooling of rations and a piece of pork acquired from a local butcher as part payment for the christening fees of his fifth child. Alexandria’s two sons even had a bag of boiled sweets to suck, as they raced round the large garden, waving their small arms in imitation of the aircraft souring over head.

“Nice,” Georgia said as she leant back in her cane chair, closing her eyes against the late afternoon/early evening sun.

“What or who?” Alexandria asked, taking a sticky grass covered lump of sweet from the hand of her youngest.

“The dark haired, wide shouldered Yank”. Georgia giggled.

“Hmmm, he was rather nice, wasn’t he.” Hattie added looking at her watch.

“Tut, tut,” Elizabeth huffed as her friend’s reflected her own thoughts of the previous evening. He was tall, as tall as George, but more solid. A wide chest, narrow hips, strong face and deep blue eyes. Individually they could be part of any man, but the way they were put together in this Bobby it gave him an air Elizabeth couldn’t quite pin down.

“Tut nothing,” Hattie retorted, “I am married not dead, nothing wrong with looking and speaking of which, if we are going to get another look, best get our rears into gear and stroll down to the Dog and Doublet.”

“He is going to be an odd one out, we should have snaffled a WAAF or a local girl for him?” Alexandria remarked as she kissed her youngest on the cheek.

“Next time,” Hattie said and made her way to the garden gate. “Besides, I think I know why George asked him, it is so he sit out and rig the betting, damn his eyes.”

Elizabeth laughed with the others and wondered why George had really asked the American.

The Dog and Doublet stood on the corner of Vine Street and Tipping Lane, it had once been a coaching Inn. The two halves of the establishment separated by a large arch through which a hundred years before the mail coaches used to sweep into the yard behind. Here horses would be waiting ready to be hitched to the large vehicle so it could continue on its journey.

Now chickens in numerous pens occupied the cobbled area, pigs, three goats and two bullocks the once fine stables. The proprietor doing his bit for the war effort and his profits.

The four women settled them selves in the corner of the smallest of the two bars, not the large public one, but the small side one that nestled close to the “Ladies lounge Bar”. The proprietor knew which way his bread was buttered. He prided himself on looking after the “Boys in Blue” and their ladies and the Morris four were not the only wives in the bar that night, some with their husbands and some with others than their husbands.

“You will be wanting some beef sandwiches, then? “ The proprietor asked with a wink, as Hattie ordered the first round.

“You have beef…?” Elizabeth squeaked.

“Shush!!” The proprietor hissed. Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth, just as her husband and the other men entered.

Greetings were exchanged and hands shaken and Elizabeth found herself again face to face with the tall American, he like the others was tired, yet his good natured smile seemed not to forced or false. His eyes flickered round the party and Elizabeth said, “Don’t worry we haven’t found anyone suitable yet?”

“But you are working on it?” Bobby said grinning.

Elizabeth returned the grin and nodded, he didn’t seem worried by the fact and it added to her liking of him. Bobby was a likeable man, a handsome man, manners and ways different, yet attractive. He would have a following very soon among the local girls and for some reason Elizabeth found that thought annoying.

“Ok, time to start the game, as we are odd numbers I will keep score and handle the money.” George announced rubbing his hands.

“Told you” Hattie laughed.

“What am I doing?” Bobby asked taking a large swig from his beer.

“Dangerous operation,” Thomas answered, “You are going to partner Elizabeth, but don’t stand too close when she takes her go, she will have your eye out with the ball”

“Or other part of your anatomy,” Mathew added pointing to his groin.

“Oh you lot..” Elizabeth said, blushing as her friends laughed at her bad aim.

“Still don’t know what I am doing?” The American said scratching his head and laughing along with them.

“Well,” Elizabeth took his hand and lead him over to a table in the corner. Why did you take his hand? she thought, as the warmth of his palm crept into hers. She released it quickly and pointed to the device on the table. A board roughly 12 inches by 14 was set with nine skittles some 5 inches high. At one corner was a thin pole some two feet high attached to the top was a thin rope. On the end of this rope, which was some 19 inches long was a wooden ball. “The idea is you swing the ball and knock as many skittles down as you can. Both you and your partner have one go each, then the joint scores are totaled and the winner declared for that match.”

“You of course make a bet, before you start as to winner/winning score or loosing score, or if Hattie’s bloomers are pink or yellow..” Thomas added, warding off Hattie’s handbag as she swept it sideways at him.

“I see… “ Bobby answered rubbing his chin.

“Here,” Elizabeth said and placed the ball in his right hand and then taking hold of him round the waist she pushed, pulled and moved him into position. Then standing behind and slightly to the side of him she took hold of his hand in her right hand and brought his arm back.

As she did so his arm brushed her breast and sent a tingle through her. She glanced up and saw he was looking over his shoulder at her, his eyes pouring into hers. Elizabeth gulped, her mouth went dry and her knees weak. “Stupid girl” she thought it was nothing, just a physical reaction. She was married, it was embarrassing, it was… very nice to see the look in his eyes. It made her feel very feminine, very attractive. Like Hattie had said, married not dead. She blushed again and Bobby released the ball sending the skittles flying.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

“Does that count?” Robert asked in his complete innocence. “I haven’t yet made my bet.”

“Dare we chance a Mulligan, Old Chap?” called out Cordwine.

“Take pity on the poor boy!” remarked Hattie with a rolling laugh. “He’s quite not amongst his equals yet.”

The others entered in their replies, all adding up to allowing another practice round whilst Robert learnt the basic art of playing Skittles. But for him, this was no barroom diversion. There was a definite warmth to the touch of this little Englishwoman as she maneuvered him into place, guiding his hands and hips just where they needed to be. And the closeness of her body to him sent an awakening rush through his frame.

The others chattered and George added up the wagers, while Robert exchanged a look with Elizabeth that sent a twinge shuddering down his spine. Her hands rested ever so lightly upon his, her body was nestled up close, almost too close for he could feel the lightly encumbered soft and gentle curves of her body push up against him.

“A practice frame,” George called out, quite officious in tone. “That is what we do for all rookies, is it not?”

“Just one more,” pronounced Thomas.

“I think I have this,” Robert remarked, still looking back at Elizabeth. She lingered for a moment, a moment that lasted only long enough for the two of them to notice.

“Oh, yes! Quite right,” Elizabeth said as her hands slipped slowly from his and her body eased back. “My partner needs his air … err, room … yes, he does!”

Robert couldn’t take his eyes from her as she patted her hand on her temple and back. She had lovely hair, a rich color of brown with the most scintillating highlights of red. Her eyes were on him then cast down and away, almost shyly as if she could read his very thoughts. Physics and engineering had always been Robert’s main suit. As he placed the skittles into position, he eyed their placement and hefted the mass of the ball. Pulling it back carefully, he let it fly and watched as it took down all nine pins.

“I knew it!” Cordwine exclaimed.

“Yes, we have a ringer!” Clarence pronounced.

“Aah, beginner’s luck,” grumbled Fitzmorgan. “Enough of this. Bets down, gents!”

“I bet eighteen,” Robert said coolly, letting Elizabeth move in to handle the first toss. “And … that those bloomers are pink.”

“Bobby!” Elizabeth said, apparently surprised by his confidence.

“Oh, my,” added Hattie Mason with a delightful titter.

“Come on,” called out Fitzmorgan. “Your bet?”

“I dunno,” Robert said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out some still unfamiliar notes. “Is this too much?” he asked Elizabeth.

“Oh, heavens!” she said extracting just one bill and leaving the rest crumpled in his hand. Yet even as she smacked her hand down in front of George, he and the others popped their eyes. Robert shrugged, but watched as Elizabeth assumed her studied position. He leaned forward and let his head drop near her ear.

“You can do this, Liz!” he whispered. “Mind over matter.” Elizabeth Fitzmorgan glanced back at him with a look filled with questions. Although the rest of the pub burbled on, their own little group had fallen quiet. Robert placed his hand on hers. Slowly he drew her hand back. He was aware of her look glued to him but he concentrated on her hand. “Just a matter of direction … mass … and velocity …” He let go of her hand and she moved it freely back and forth.

“Direction … mass … velocity …” she repeated, moving her hand as he had pulled it seconds before. “Direction … mass … velocity …”

When she let it go Robert knew that it was destined to score fully. The nine pins scattered loudly to the applause of their little group.

“Good Lord!” announced Mason.

In a brief moment, Elizabeth hopped up and down clapping her hands, then moved into the warm embrace of her partner. Robert tried to give her a hug that said, “Thank you, partner!” But as she sank for that sweet short moment into his waiting arms something else was communicated, something that he didn’t quite understand, but something that he thoroughly needed and enjoyed.

“All right!” Elizabeth laughed, as they parted and Robert took up his place at the table. “Direction … mass … velocity …”

Robert grinned then took a deep breath. Hell, this was only a pub game, a simple diversion to take their minds off the hard cares of the day. Pulling the ball back, he let it fly and watched as all nine pins tumbled askance. Elizabeth squealed and jumped into his arms again. For the briefest second, Robert felt her body press and rub up against him. Fuck! Surely, he knew that this was all innocent fun, yet something in the release of her emotions while her husband sat calmly, one hand resting on the pot of wagers and the other tapping the ash from his smoldering Dunhill, said something quite different.

“And now the Home Team takes up,” announced Mason as Hattie surged toward the table.

“I’m not so scientific as these two here,” she said with a wonderful long loud laugh. “I just take it up and let it fly!”

In one fell motion she drew up the ball and let it go, watching it smash into the skittles and seeing them all tumble down and away. The entire group erupted as Mason scrambled to retrieve the pins.

“Looks like we have some sharp hands and some keen eyes, tonight,” George remarked. “For sure we all will have those tomorrow when Jerry sets his sights on us.”

Wing Commander Mason moved around the table and took hold of the ball as Hattie coaxed him on. Eyeing the heft of the ball and its angle of approach to the reset pins, he let it fly, knocking them all down quickly save one that wobbled in its placement several times before tumbling over to the ecstatic applause of their happy little group.

“We seem to have a tie score in pins,” George announced. “But … a decided difference in the second part of the wager. So what say you, Hattie? Are they pink or yellow?”

“Thomas, you should know,” Hattie said her face barely showing any signs of blushing. “What were you thinking?” In a simple motion she quickly raised her skirt and held it up only long enough to reveal her lovely bloomers, an older pair, perhaps worn and faded, but decidedly pink and silken.

“Yeah!” Robert shouted as Elizabeth fell into his arms most celebratory. They quickly parted, each one arranging themselves though there was no rearranging to be done. But the look they exchanged explained everything. While George distributed the winnings, they couldn’t peel their eyes from one another. Robert let his glance graze up and down along her body, memorizing each little curve and nuance. He liked what he saw and he liked what he read in the expression of her eyes.

The game continued as each couple took turns over and again and the ale flowed. Robert tossed down notes on the least whim and won perhaps as much as he lost. But with each match he drew closer to Elizabeth, reeling in the warmth of her glance, enjoying each and every brushing touch, and reveling in the way she whispered in his ear each time he held the striking ball, “Direction … mass … velocity …”

The game was largely over and was down to a final match between the Cordwines and the unmarried pair. But as Cordwine and Alexandria argued over who was to be the first to play their set, the dreaded sirens wound up and howled loudly and unabated.

“Damn, those fucking Nazis!” George grumbled. “Don’t they ever rest?”

“I hate these midnight scrambles!” Mason grunted. “Men!”

They knew what this meant and bid adieu to the ladies whose disappointment was enormous. There were hugs and kisses among the wives and husbands and all were moving to disperse leaving only Elizabeth and Robert with things left unsaid. He looked at her feeling an uncomfortable sense of interrupted longing and desire.

“Thanks for being such a swell partner,” Robert said, then regretted sounding so trite.

“My pleasure!” Elizabeth replied, then added, “Be safe, all right?”

Robert grinned and winked. “I will.”

With that the men were off, all to hurriedly scramble up to God knows what. But God did know of the steady streams of German bombers and fighters sweeping in from Cherbourg and Dieppe up toward London, setting the factories and the businesses and the homes and the wharves on fire from dusk till later than 0500 the following morning. And the women were left to mop up and go home, but how were they to know of the hell that their men encountered in the dark? Maybe some did and maybe some ignored it all. But as Robert Wilson took flight and rose with his wingmen into the clear night over Tangmere, he carried with him the warm touch of the little English lass, his skittles partner, Mrs. Fitzmorgan, and her lush emerald gaze.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

The good weather had been fooling most that summer had not really gone. But as the four women made their way home, the night’s chill crept round them, warning of autumn or perhaps something else.

Elizabeth counted the click, click of her heels, as she walked arm in arm with Hattie. It had been fun tonight, for a while she had forgotten about the war, been as silly as a schoolgirl and, well it was only a friendly hug, wasn’t ? Married not dead. Still attractive, still attracted. Yes she was, but it wasn’t like that Elizabeth thought, it was just… she sighed.

“Good sport the Yank,” Hattie said as she came to a stop by the vicarage.

“Nice bum.” Alexandria said as she hugged each of the other three good night.

“How do you know?” Georgia giggled and pulled at the hedge by the gate.

“Saw it clearly when Lizzy squeezed it,” Alexandria winked at Hattie.

“I didn’t” Elizabeth blustered she had not, least she did not think she had, she remembered the surprise the feel of him had given her, when he hugged and twirled her. It had made her feel special, a little more alive and the twinkle in his blue eyes had been just for her, she was sure of it. It had flattered and excited her, but that was all, it was nothing… just… “I just… Oh Alex….”

“Got you…”Alexandria replied and tripped up the path and into her home, the door shutting softly behind her.

The three women that were left linked arms and continued on their way. Overhead the drone of engines cut the night sky. Elizabeth shuddered as one of the engines seemed to splutter, then fall away into nothing.

“Theirs or ours?” Georgia asked sniffing.

“Couldn’t tell,” Hattie answered as their walk brought them closer to Elizabeth’s house. “You should have you know?” Hattie changed subject mid-sentence

“Should have what?” Elizabeth frowned and peered through the dark at her friend’s face.

“Squeezed the Yank’s bum, then you could have told us how it compares to a British male bum.”

“Oh Lordy you are a one Hattie,” Georgia laughed.

“Aren’t I though..”Hattie sighed… “Lizzy???”

“What?”

“Don’t want to be alone tonight…” Hattie gave a small sob.

“Me neither,” Georgia added.

“Same here.” Elizabeth said.

“Settled then you two sleep at my place, bloody bed is big enough for four anyway.” Hattie nodded firmly. “Pick up your stuff for the Hospital in the morning, plenty of time..”

“You ever had four in there Hattie?” Elizabeth asked as the three women increased their pace.

“No, never found two other men Thomas was willing to allow in…” Hattie remarked, setting them all laughing again.

>>>>>>

Elizabeth woke with a start. It was still dark. Georgia was curled up on the far side of the large bed, yet of Hattie there was no sign. Elizabeth slipped out of the sheets and reached for her dress jacket, slipping it over her petticoat. She inched he way down stairs, trying to not make the creak and into the kitchen. As she entered the room she saw the back door was open and Hattie was standing there her hand cupped round a mug of tea.

“Pot’s still warm.” Hattie softly said. Elizabeth nodded and fumbled for some milk out of the pantry. She sipped the half warm brew and came to stand by the side of her friend, her arm slipping round Hattie’s waist.

“You alright?” Elizabeth asked.

“Just thinking, won’t be able to let this dress out much more and the work at the Hospital will have to stop.” Hattie turned and smiled.

“Hattie…What are you saying?” Elizabeth was stunned. “You are not are you?”

“Four bloody months and counting.” Hattie turned in Elizabeth’s arm looking hard at her and half sniffing, half laughing.”

“Oh of all the.. “ Elizabeth retorted, she was angry, surprised, delighted and as jealous as hell. She nearly dropped her tea, but managed to lean and kiss her friend softly on the cheek. “Does Thomas know…?”

“Course he does… Though at one time thought you would beat us.” Hattie replied

“Me…no…” Elizabeth said trying to stop the whirlwind of her emotions. George had made it plain, no children, not now too much of a risk. Wait. Be careful. They were careful, too careful. Elizabeth lay alone most nights and when George was home, he often was asleep before his head touched the pillow and the rest of the time their lovemaking was controlled, no longer the passion it had been. The passion Elizabeth knew Hattie had experienced, when Hattie and Thomas had created the baby she was carrying.

Was that what she had seen in Bobby’s eyes the passion she was missing, seen it and felt it reflected in herself?

“Best get you two back to bed.” Elizabeth’s hand slipped into Hattie’s and they both went back in, closing the door behind them.

>>>>>>>>>

Dawn came and with it a banging on the door.

“Hell!” Hattie mumbled and her hand went to her mouth, she looked green.

“You go get rid of what ever is threatening to come back up and I will get the door,” Elizabeth said.

“Most likely Alex, wondering where we are…”Georgia yawned and slipped out her side of the bed.

“Most likely..” Elizabeth said struggling into her dress, fumbling with the buttons along the shoulder as she opened the door to Thomas. A heavy eyed man who was burdened by more than the lack of sleep. Elizabeth’s eyes darted past him searching the empty street. “Nooooo… " She cried and began to ball up as the shock of what she knew Thomas was going to say hit her.

George was gone and she had spent part of the night fooling around with the American Bobby, instead of … instead of…..

“No…” Thomas said sharply, stepping into his home, taking Elizabeth into his arms and holding her tight. “George is alright, is fine… he.. A lot of shuffling round this morning, he has been bumped up to Squadron Leader. He plans to get some shut eye and then come home. They won’t let us fly for a good twelve hours.” As he spoke Thomas’ eyes went over Elizabeth’s head to his wife, coming down the stairs.

“God not the Yank, we haven’t even got to know him yet.” Hattie sighed and sat down.

“No…not the Yank… “Thomas answered as his eyes continued up the stairs towards Georgia

“Noooo not my Ralph… He promised me… he did… he… promised” Georgia’s eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped into a heap at the top of the stairs.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

From the time they rose into the cool dark sky until they landed in early rays of dawn, the members of the 213th, 601st, and 607th Squadrons flying out of Tangmere covered their assigned sectors, rolling, pitching and diving against the relentless waves of German bombers that were devastating the southeast counties, up along the Thames estuary and into the heart of London. Nearly a dozen kills were recorded that night in a ravaging action that stumbled into complete chaos.

Flying largely by instruments and instinct, the dim glow of the cockpit lamps illuminating their faces, they flew half-blind into the fight, savaging the Krauts with their lead, trying to turn away what they could not knock out. Robert and his wingman broke off from the group and tormented a crippled Dornier until it fell in a ghastly spiral toward the channel. They made their way back to the group in time to cover a fellow Hornet who was beset by a fresh squad of Messerschimitts who spent their twenty minutes of cover time fending off the determined pilots of the Tangmere Wing before escaping safely back across the channel.

By 0500 the Germans had returned to occupied France and Holland licking their wounds while hundreds of fires raged in the wake of their passing. The 601st returned intact. The 213th lost only two Hurricanes but the pilots were soon recovered. It was the 607th that was the hardest hit of the Tangmere Wing. Pair by pair they returned and their mates on the ground totaled the numbers silently.

“Wat happened?” asked Colin, Robert's crew chief, as he looked over the Lady Jane. There were two gaping trails of bullet holes ripped through the wing and the fuselage.

“Ain’t nothing,” Robert answered. “Just a flesh wound.”

“Oh, Jesus, we’ll need all morning to patch this up,” Colin said as his fingers located each jagged hole. “You all right, Bobby?”

“Yeah,” Robert replied. “No blood, see?” he said holding up his arms and turning around. In the darkness, Colin couldn’t see the small gash ripped in the sleeve of Robert’s jacket.

Though weary and needing sleep, Robert lingered with Colin on the flight line near the radio shack watching as the 607th returned. Mason had returned with Cordwine, though the latter had lost nearly half his rudder and huge gaps were ripped into his left wing. During the long stretches of time between landing they both looked up scanning the skies for a sound or a flicker of light.

“Why aren’t you off for some sleep, Bobby?” Colin asked offering a cigarette and a light. “I know I could use some.”

“Go on if you want,” Robert said. “I want to see if they all get back.”

“What’s it about them?” Colin asked.

“Met a bunch the other night after getting here and was having a beer with them when we were scrambled,” Robert said, taking a long drag of the weak smoke.

“Ah, that’s your mistake,” Colin chided him. “Best not to get too close, you know. You’ve lost one friend already, mate … the fewer friends you have, the fewer friends you’ll lose …”

“Yeah, I guess,” Robert said reluctantly looking down. He had heard various versions of that venerable bit of wisdom. Then he looked back up to the sky, lightening with just the first barest traces of sunlight. Come on! Robert thought, pumping his fist. The rest have to be returning soon. Why just hours before they had been lost in the vacant pleasures of a game of skittles and now he was standing on pins and needles waiting. The sound of a Merlin engine warbled in the distance.

“It’s Fitzmorgan!” called out an anxious fellow above the static of the radio. Robert looked up to see the Hurricane settle down uneasily. Where was his chum, his wingmate Clarence … Ralph of the raucous laugh and well-lubricated wit? They waited another hour when the rest of the wing had landed and been accounted for before Robert turned away from the line.

“Where you off to?” asked Colin.

“Someplace warm and dark and wet,” he replied. It took Robert less than a hundred steps to reach the club, not that he was in any mood to count them off. Just stepping inside, he found Fitzmorgan tensely gripping the bar railing, pounding down a shot poured hastily from a half empty bottle. “Hey, old man,” Robert said, trying to effect a cheerful voice but expecting it to fall on deaf ears. George glared at him for a moment before tossing back another shot.

“Hell up there,” George remarked, waving over another glass from the bartender. “Bloody stupid fucking hell it was!”

“You boys were hit pretty hard,” Robert said as George poured him a shot.

“Not as bad as we hit them,” Fitzmorgan replied. “Took down three of them for every one of ours.”

“Clarence still isn’t back yet,” Robert ventured mindlessly before realizing that he should have zipped his yap.

George looked over at him, his eyes darkened and glaring.

“I’m sorry, George,” Robert said in complete apology. “I shouldn’t …”

“There was nothing I could do,” Fitzmorgan said, waving him off. “He was always covering my tail … he was always there saving my hairy arse … I couldn’t cover for him quick enough … but I got the bastard who took him down, and I made sure of it.”

Robert didn’t know what to say. So he remained silent and reached over and grasped George’s shoulder. They sat together quietly drinking until Mason came in and told them of the burning remains and tousled wreckage found not ten miles away.

“Damn! Bloody God Damn!” George swore hatefully.

“Now I best get on with my job,” said the wing commander smacking George on the back as he pushed away from the bar. “Hate this part the worst …” He appraised George closely. “They’ll probably bump you up to Squadron Commander, Fitz,” Mason remarked. “I’m sure they’ll get with you later today.”

“Bloody damned lot!” George swore.

“Fitz, you look like you need to be home … ”

“Nah! This is where I need to be,” George replied, pouring the last of the whiskey into his glass. “Right at the bottom of this bottle.” His words were slurred and his body swaying with drunkenness.

“Come on, lad! Get yourself home,” Mason said. “They won’t be calling us for at least twelve hours. Go on home to your sweet Elizabeth. The rest will do you good.”

“Bah!” George replied.

“I’ll help him,” Robert volunteered, putting an arm around Fitzmorgan’s shoulders. “Come on, George. I’ll see you home.”

With a grim smile, Mason left soberly and directly, and Robert struggled to find a way to get George home. He did manage to pry the address from him and had a general idea of the direction to take. With George’s arm around his shoulder, he managed to escort his drunken friend to the motor pool and talked one of the enlisted men into a drive to George’s flat.

“Need any help?” the driver called out as Robert pulled George from the split-back lorry.

“I can manage … thanks,” said Robert as he hefted George to his feet. “Come on, Fitz.”

George felt to Robert mostly like dead weight as he half dragged and half carried him up to his door. George muttered something about keys and tried to reach in his pocket but had a difficult time shoving his hand into the pocket much less trying to extract his keys. As Robert tried to shift his friend’s weight, the door swung open. He wasn’t sure what the two of them looked like slumped together, but when he saw the expression on Elizabeth’s face it didn’t seem to matter. She must have gotten the news for her face was puffy and flushed, and her eyes were red and swollen with tears. But upon seeing George and Robert, she stiffened, took a deep breath, brushed her hair back from her face and looped George’s other arm over her shoulder.

“Oh, George,” she muttered as they carried him into the apartment. “How could you?” George only mumbled unintelligibly.

“Where to?” Robert said, leading toward what he thought was the bedroom.

“Here … the couch will do, thanks.”

Together they shuffled George over to the couch and they laid him out. Elizabeth pulled a small tapestry blanket over him and tucked it around his prone frame. Her hand grazed lovingly over his cheek before she stood. Robert began to edge toward the door.

“Will you be all right, Eliz—er, Mrs. Fitzmorgan?” he asked timidly.

“I … I’ll be fine,” she said, looking over at him with a brave but weak smile. He could see her lower lip tremble slightly. “Thanks for bringing George home, Bobby.”

“Sure,” Robert replied with a nod.

“Oh, what is wrong with my manners?” she said more to herself than to her visitor. “Why don’t you stay for a spot of tea? Something to tide you over till you get home?”

“I dunno,” Robert said hesitantly. Her face looked helpless and woeful and he suddenly didn’t want to leave. “I guess it’s all right … yes, that would be fine.”

Her face brightened briefly into a smile and he followed her out into the little kitchen. He watched as she set about putting on the tea. Once she had the gas set, she sighed and stepped back from the stove, bumping into Robert, easily done in the tiny kitchen. Startled, she glanced up at him. With an almost instinctive reaction, Robert extended his arms and drew her into an embrace. She pressed her face into the flesh of his shoulder and her arms wrapped themselves around his waist. Then he felt her slender body begin to tremble and shake, and she began to cry, in frightful heavy sobs. Robert cradled her in his arms, his hand combing through her hair, and, for some reason that he didn’t really understand, he pressed his lips into her hair, kissing the top of her head.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

Everything after Thomas had told them the news seemed to Elizabeth to move in jerks and sudden lurches.

Jerk; The door shut and Thomas was rushing up the stairs, to help the women lay Georgia on the bed.

Lurch; Hattie got all practical and began to sort things out. She blessed the RAF for the fact they had put a telephone in the house because of her husband’s rank.

Jerk: Ralph’s parents and brother were contacted, his younger brother coming later that day from Portsmouth, Georgia’s mother arriving the next day.

Lurch; Georgia woke screaming and Elizabeth held her, slapped her, cried with her and for her, as Hattie brought them each the British answer to times like this; a hot cup of sweet tea.

Jerk; Alexandria arrived, wondering where they had gotten too. She rang the hospital and braved the Matron’s anger, saying what had happened and that at least two of them would be in tomorrow. The matron made it plain that all four were “letting the side down.” Other women kept on working, when there husbands, fathers and sons were dead or missing.

How could the woman understand the way they had felt about each other, about their small group. They were almost the last of the “peacetime” members of the Squadron. They were or had been the “Morris Four” and their “Boys in Blue”

Lurch; Ralph’s brother arrived and there was nothing more to do, so Elizabeth and Alexandria wandered home. Alex to her husband and children. Elizabeth to an empty and cold place.

Elizabeth sat on the overstuffed chair by the fireplace, her legs curled under her. She held an untouched cold cup of tea in her hands and cried. Cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. The war had finally struck close at her friends. Up to now death had danced round them. They had seemed invincible, despite the worry and the fear.

She wanted George. Wanted to feel his arms around her, to tell him she loved him. But he was not here, he was, where? Still at war. That was all now George seemed to live, the war. He had bit, by bit shut her out of his life hadn’t he? Others lived more, did more. Oh yes George played hard, put on the show; was the same, but he wasn’t Elizabeth knew it. He had stopped living, put everything on hold.

She hated the war, hated what it had done to her, to George, to everything. Oh yes she believed it was right to fight Hitler to try and stop what was happening, but… it hurt so much. It was tearing her life and everything and everyone she loved to pieces.

She had no idea what time it was, when she heard the lorry pull up outside. George, it had to be. She struggled up, placing the cup of tea down. She stamped her foot to return the feeling into it and tried to brush away the tears, but gave that up as a hopeless task. Elizabeth knew she looked a nightmare, red and puffy eyes were the least of it.

She rushed to the door and flung it open. There stood Bobby, the American, George suspended from his arms like a string-less puppet. Her husband reeked of drink, she could smell it from where she stood. Elizabeth felt a flash of anger. He had been getting drunk. It wasn’t “his job” that had kept him from her. It had been him. Thomas had come home, Mathew had and Ralph would have if he could have. George got drunk.

Elizabeth stepped forward and took George’s other arm muttering “Oh, George, how could you?” George’s answer was a burble of words and a half grimace as she and Bobby struggled to get him into the flat.

“Where to?” Bobby asked.

“Here the couch will do, thanks. “Elizabeth huffed and lifted George’s left leg out of her way as his eyes glazed and he slipped into a drink-induced sleep. With Bobby’s help she managed to get George on the couch. Then she covered him with a small tapestry blanket off the other chair, tucking him in like a child. For a moment her hand ran over his cheek as she bit back her anger.

“Will you be all right, Eliz—er, Mrs. Fitzmorgan?” Bobby asked timidly.

“I … I’ll be fine,” she replied trying to smile her thanks, but she knew the tears were breaking out again, she felt so weak, so angry, so stupid, so lost. “Thanks for bringing George home, Bobby.”

“Sure,” Robert replied with a nod.

“Oh, what is wrong with my manners?” Elizabeth blustered, mentally shaking herself, this won’t do “Why don’t you stay for a spot of tea? Something to tide you over till you get home?”

“I dunno,” Robert said hesitantly. “I guess it’s all right … yes, that would be fine.”

Right, Elizabeth thought, tea and I have a small tin of salmon I could make him a sandwich. How very British, Eilzabeth thought giving a short brittle laugh, she even had some cucumber.

Bobby followed her into the kitchen and she fussed over getting the kettle filled and the gas lit, then stepped back and bumped into her guest. For a moment she was startled then she looked up into Bobby’s eyes and she saw he understood. He really did. Understand her hurt, maybe even the anger. She broke again, her fragile hold on the normal again swamped by everything. Bobby’s arms closed round her and drew her close. She sobbed again, long hard, racking cries. Each one toiling a bell for Ralph, for what was gone now, for what she and the others had tried to hold onto and for her marriage, which was crumbling.

Elizabeth clung to his strength, drinking it in, feeling his strong body pressed close to hers, like a rock that would not let her go. His hands ran through her hair, comforting and the soft touch of his lips on her forehead made her burrow closer, not wanting to let go. She wanted to be held like this for a long time. Elizabeth felt safe somehow in Bobby's arms.

Yet she had too. She gently pushed him away, her hands moving to his arms as she began to say thank you. She stopped the words half out of her mouth as her fingers caught the rough tear in his jacket. It was damp. Elizabeth looked at her fingers, they were smeared with red.

“You're hurt?” She asked softly concerned, searching his face.

“Am I?” Bobby replied and pulled at his sleeve, as if seeing the gash for the first time.

“Let me see,” Elizabeth said as she made to slip off his jacket Bobby gave a small grin and forestalled her by slipping it off himself wincing as the fabric came away from his arm. His shirt sleeve had a jagged red hole in and the blood had stained most of the length between the wound and his wrist.

“Ouch,” He said.

“Really,” Elizabeth answered and waved for him to take the shirt off as well, going through things in her mind, hot water, yes, iodine, yes, bandages… she moved past him and opened a drawer pulling out a battered first aid tin box.

Bobby sat, bare-chested at Elizabeth’s kitchen table as she cleaned the long gash on his arm. Elizabeth noticed he was tanned, he didn’t just have the ring round the neck and arms like most British men sported after a long hot summer. He must have lain in the sun, with out his shirt It struck her then how different he was, how very different. He had held her, comforted her, in a manner no casual British acquaintance would have dreamed of.

His tired eyes said something, something that Elizabeth could not quite accept. It was nonsense, wasn’t it. He was just being kind. But she could still feel the strength of his arms round her and the warmth of his kiss. It made her feel better, special. Not alone. She had begun to feel alone, even when she lay in George's arms, because George was not really there with her. He was fighting the war.

“Think my shirt is ruined.” Bobby said as he inched the stained fabric back up over the bandaged arm.

“You will see the medical officer when you get back.” As she spoke for some reason Elizabeth reached out and touched Bobby’s stubble covered chin, running her finger down the line of his jaw. “ I…. thank you… you….” Her words fell away with her hand.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

“Thank me? For what?” Robert asked as he stiffly had buttoned the shirt. How stupid he had been, ignoring the stinging pain on his arm. Fortunately, it looked much worse than it was, little more than a grazing scratch. But there had been something strangely comforting about the way Elizabeth had tended him, her dainty fingers touching him, washing the crease in his flesh, dabbing the iodine, and then wrapping a simple bandage around his arm. And the sensation continued when her hand had touched his face, stroking his chin so gently. His eyelids felt heavy and weary as he struggled to keep them open.

“Thank you for helping George home, for being here … with me,” Elizabeth said softly, her tears slowly fading. She sent a smile his way, it was weak and tender but proud, and it was accompanied by a defiant tossing of her head back. Her fingers brushed over her cheeks, wiping at her fallen tears though she missed a trail that had run down near the corner of her mouth and toward her chin. Robert reached up to brush it away with his thumb, his palm cupping her soft plump cheek.

“Just doing my duty,” he remarked. “He would have done the same for me, I’m sure.” Elizabeth’s smile faded and she tried to look away but he had captured her chin and held it up so that he could look into those terrific green eyes of hers, which had lost none of their luminosity despite the waves of tears. “George is a lucky man … a very lucky man to have you to come home to … and wake up with.”

Elizabeth’s eyes looked long and hard at him, darted away and then came back to him, as if she wanted to move away but was too weak to move. Then there was a long period, several moments, of silence that was finally broken by a distance rumble of thunder.

“Oh, dear, is it going to rain?” she asked vacantly.

“They were calling for scattered showers with a chance of thunder in the East,” Robert reported monotonously what he had heard on base. “Maybe Jerry will have to take it easy on us for a while.” Robert let his hand fall away from her face, reluctantly giving up the soft comforting feel of her cheek.

“One can only pray,” she answered, turning away toward the small kitchen window, looking for the first evidence of rain.

“I should be getting back then,” Robert said moving from the kitchen to the living room with Elizabeth close behind him.

“Not without drenching yourself,” she said glancing out the front window. “Looks like your ride has left without you, Bobby.” There was a slight trace of a giggle to her voice.

“I can walk, Mrs. Fitz,” he answered, snapping his jacket up tight around his chin. “It’s not that far.”

“Far enough to catch your death,” she replied, moving over to block his path to the door.

“But I should be going,” he said, but her hand was quick to reach out and grab his arm.

“Why don’t you stay here? I don’t mind,” she offered.

“You sure?” he asked and she nodded. “You don’t mind?” he asked and she shook her head.

“I can finish making the tea and you can get your rest without getting drenched,” Elizabeth offered.

Robert looked around the cramped but cute little room, at George’s soundly sleeping form on the couch. Then his eye caught sight of an overstuffed chair by the fireplace looked comfortable enough and he began to move that way but she was already pushing him toward the bedroom.

“That’s for me,” she said. “Why try to sleep in a cramped little chair when there’s a nice big bed for you.”

“I can’t … I couldn’t … put you out, that is,” Robert protested.

“I won’t have it,” Elizabeth insisted herding him into the small bedroom. She waved toward the small double bed. “No excuses now. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll be right back with your tea.”

Robert was so tired that he sat obediently on the edge of the bed, slipped out of his jacket and boots, and lie back on the soft mattress, such a far cry from the hard cold bunks he had known for the past months, like sleeping on a cloud and not cement. The linens had a gentle feminine scent to them, her hair, her perfume, and her lovely natural aroma. His breathing quickly became slow and deep. It was when he jarred himself awake hearing the tinkle of teacups on a tray that he realized he had dozed off.

“Falling asleep on me already?” Elizabeth chuckled.

Robert propped himself up and took a couple sips of tea. He grinned up at her expectant face and nodded. Then she smiled and moved out of the room. He remembered setting the teacup and saucer off onto the nightstand and slumping down in the bed. He remembered the warmth of her touch as Elizabeth tucked a blanket up around his face and the sound of raindrops bleating against the windowpane.

It was some time later and he knew he must have been dreaming because when his eyes cracked open, Robert saw Elizabeth moving about the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, and then stand with her back to him and slip out of her dress. She then drew the straps of her pink silken slip down over her shoulders and shimmied it down over her hips. Her slender body was gently curvy and a creamy pale shade of pink. She eased into a robe and his eyes closed again.

He soon heard the sound of water running in the bath and her voice singing softly. He dreamed many other things that day as he slept fitfully, some of the horrible war, some of his faraway life back home in the American Midwest, but the best was when he felt Elizabeth’s warm body lie on the bed beside him and then roll over to place her arm around him. Such dreams in the midst of a war over which they had no control!

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

Elizabeth looked in at Robert, he was fast asleep. She smiled then sniffed. He was nothing like any man she had known, so strange and so kind. She had tidied the kitchen as quietly as she could and laid and lit the fire in the small lounge. The afternoon was well advanced, both her men folk were sleeping as sound as babies. Both? Her mind jumped at the thought, silly thought. Was it? She asked herself.

She looked again at the American and turned back towards the small lounge. George had thrown the cover off and was mumbling in his sleep, soft curses, cries and pleas trickled out of his mouth. He tossed; half tumbled off the couch and snorted. Elizabeth pushed him back on, rearranging his arms. “Thanks lass…” George mumbled. He was aware of her then? she thought and tucked him the blanket round him again.

She sat in the chair for awhile and picked up a pile of mending. Make do and mend, that was the phrase. It was silly, she had plenty of clothes at home in Norfolk, she really should ask her mother to send some more. Elizabeth sighed and put down the sewing looking blankly at nothing.

Perhaps a bath would help and pass the time, maybe more than the regulation 5 inches with bubbles on top of that. She gave a small soft laugh and got up, moving again to the bedroom. Bobby was fast asleep, so she tip toed round the bed and began to remove some clean clothes out. She would get dressed again in the bathroom after. She laid them out on the small chair and pulled it close to the door so she could just reach in and grab them.

Elizabeth made to take her robe out. It was silly she thought; Bobby is dead to the world. A hurricane could fly through here. She shrugged out of her dress and then her slip, catching sight of herself in the long mirror on the dresser as she did so. She was fading away, getting thinner, even her boobs were vanishing.

Elizabeth cupped both breasts and pushed them up slightly, sighed and reached for her robe, slipping it on. She bundled up her dirty clothes and placed them in the washing hamper and tip toed out of the room again.

As she sat in the bath she thought to herself, you were very daring then weren’t you? Did you wish he would wake; “nonsense,” she cursed and ran the soap down her right arm and across her breast and down to her navel. It would have been funny she thought, exciting more like. “Oh stop it,” Married not dead. “Yes married,” to a man that doesn’t know you are there anymore. Bobby knows you are there that is what was in his eyes wasn’t it. “No it bloody well wasn’t”

Elizabeth stood up and grabbed a towel roughly drying her body and slipping on the robe. She moved back into the bedroom to pick up her clothes and noticed Bobby had shifted onto his side. She found herself looking at him closely. Her eyes traced the line of his square jaw, the lids that covered his deep blue eyes and the way his black hair curled round his ears.

Bobby was the same height as George, but more solid. George was lanky, fair haired and dapper. Bobby was broad-chested, narrow in the waist and hips maybe shorter in the leg than George, but he had bigger feet and he had a hole in the toe of his left sock. Elizabeth gave a soft giggle and pulled the blanket down. But Bobby kicked his leg free and shuffled over the bed.

Bobby also felt different. When he had held her, he had held her tight, but gently, he was very aware of her in his arms as she had of being there. It was not casual, not an afterthought, not something he was reluctant to do. Not like it was with George of late.

Elizabeth sat on the bed; then lay on it, just to see she told herself, just to see the difference. She turned on her side and pressed close to Bobby, looping her hand over him. She felt the gentle rhythm of his breathing, felt the warmth of his body and shuddered, her own breath hitched and she shot off the bed, Stupid, bloody stupid. Her heart hammered and her left fist balled, coming up to her mouth as she stood there shaking from what? Need, desire, want?

She back out of the bedroom and shuffled into the kitchen trying to fill the kettle. A cup of tea that is what she needed it was just that it had been a hard day, so much… so.. The Kettle dropped from her hands and clattered

“What the fuck…” George’s voice tumbled out of the lounge. Elizabeth hurriedly placed the kettle on to boil and ran into him.

“Oh sorry George, I didn’t mean too…” She said going down at on her knees. George sat up, took her hand and roughly kissed it, coughed and groaned.

“How did I get here...?” he asked.

“Bobby, the American…”

“Oh yes… gotta thank him.”

“He is upstairs, asleep was in as bad a state as you, you crashed here, he there. I just grabbed a bath and was going to curl up with you…” Elizabeth said in a rush.

“Right, bathroom free then?” George asked still holding her hand.

“Yes…”

“Cup of tea?” George said and stood making his way towards the bathroom coughing as he went, pulling a half squashed packet of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket. As he passed the bedroom George went in and picked up his spare lighter from the dressing table. He lit up a cigarette and looked at the man on his bed. Bobby was on the top of the quilt, he was dressed, a blanket half thrown over him. He looked as if he had just flopped there. George noticed the chair by the door, Elizabeth’s clothes on it, well within arms reach of the passage outside.

George gave a soft sigh and continued on his way to the bathroom. As he came down stairs Elizabeth was waiting for him with a cup of tea, he sat in the over stuffed chair and drank it. Elizabeth frowned and looked at him she felt guilty, yet she knew she had nothing to feel guilty about.

“The Yank’s a good man.” George said.

“I think so…” Elizabeth answered, adding “you want something to eat?”

George shook his head. “Honorable sort?” Elizabeth wasn’t sure if this was a question or a statement.

“Yes he is, very. “She answered and it was true. Bobby was she had felt it when he had held her in the kitchen.

“Thought he was...” George said and reached for her hand pulling her onto his lap. He kissed her softly and Elizabeth began to melt under the warmth of his lips. This was the old George, her George; she floundered for a second under her confusion and then yielded to his questing hands pulling open her robe. His fingers teased her nipples and his mouth made to follow when the door rocked in its frame from the pounding it was under. George stiffened, Elizabeth stifled a sob and a curse came from the bedroom as Bobby staggered out.

Elizabeth got up from George’s lap as the door was pounded again. George stood and walked to door, passing a blinking Bobby and threw it open. An enlisted man was there, a lorry chugging in the road behind him.

“Sir…” the man gasped.

“Sods bloody law, George said then called over his shoulder, “Sorry Yank, no more sleep.”

Elizabeth looked from the half awake Bobby to her husband then walked towards George and hugged him. He hugged her back, the passion he had been showing gone. She held back a sob and stepped back as George went out into the damp street.

“Thanks Mrs Fritz," Bobby said as he pushed his feet into his boots.

“Thank you Bobby.” Elizabeth said and squeezed his arm, trying to not let him see the confusion and pain in her eyes. Both her men folk were off to war again.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

George and Robert packed into the lorry beside the burly private and lurched off hurriedly toward the airfield. Robert had barely had the chance to shake off his sleep and rubbed his bleary eyes as he looked out at the passing scene. The rain had stopped for now and something told him that the Germans would be soon overhead with a renewed vengeance.

He remembered his dreams, the frightful and the faint, the lurid images of men sawn in half as they tumbled through the skies to a certain death, and the lush visions of a woman, rosy and pink and soft and warm. For a moment he thought he could smell the scent of her on his jacket, but dismissed the notion as being only his imagination.

“She fancies you, Bobby,” George chuckled.

“What?” Robert said quickly with flicker of guilt lapping at him.

“My Liz,” George said casually. “Says you’re a right good chap.”

Robert didn’t know what to say and looked back out the window. He knew George as a sharp-minded guy with an equally sharp tongue and didn’t want to say anything that might piss him off.

“Tell you what …” George went on as they bumped their way along. “Should something happen to me … I’d like you to look after her for me … would you do that?”

“What about the others … your friends?” Robert asked, surprised by the request. “Sure they would …”

“Mason and Cordwine are excellent friends, but they have wives to look after,” George said. “But my Liz … she needs someone to see this through.”

“But her family? Surely they …” Robert began to say, but fell silent when George slapped him firmly on the thigh and then elbowed his ribs.

“Looks like it’ll be a high sky tonight,” George remarked, abruptly changing the subject. “Jerry likes that … all too much! And they’ll be all too anxious having been pent up all day.”

They jounced over the approach to the main gate and turned up the long drive that leads to the barracks area. Already the sounds of the 601st could be heard moving toward the flight line and a steady stream of Hurricanes was taking to the air. As Robert stepped out from the lorry and George followed, the Brit grabbed his arm.

“I’m not joking, Bobby,” George said. “I meant what I said.”

“I know,” Bobby replied. “And I will … should something happen.”

“It will … you and I and a dozen other chaps here know it could happen any day ….”

They clasped their hands and shook briefly before heading off in opposite directions. Robert wondered about George, the laconic disinterested smile, the lackadaisical shuffle of his feet. They had hardly met, hardly knew each other and here George was asking him to look after his wife. Did he know just how and exactly what Robert had been thinking about his fair Liz? Robert shrugged it off and made a quick stop at his barracks, enough to change his shirt and splash some cold water on his face.

The briefing room was hot and damp and stuffy when Robert assembled with the rest of the 213th. The plan was the same as other recent days. Radar had picked up a fleet of German aircraft coming in from Cherbourg and Dieppe. They were to come at them from the western fringe.

“Spare them nothing,” said their commander. “We know that London is their target. Morale is holding out well, but we can’t leave a thing to chance. Give ‘em all you’ve got!”

The pilots shuffled out and assembled out on the flight line. Nigel, his wingmate, followed closely behind, relating endless details of his latest successes at cribbage and euchre. Although he smiled, Robert’s thoughts were far away from card games. He was thinking of all the reasons he had come to fight this war and of all the reasons he had to live, especially now that he had another one of the latter.

Reaching the flight line, Nigel scampered to his place while Robert inspected the repairs Colin and his crew had made to the Lady Jane. He chuckled upon seeing another swastika stenciled on the side.

“Just a little premature with that?” he asked Colin.

“The old man told us to do it straight away,” Colin explained. “Says it cheers the boys up to see them strung up like that.”

Robert slung himself into the cockpit and quickly ran through the preflight checklist. The Merlin 12 cylinder roared to life and he was soon waved off. The skies were clearing and he soon heard and saw Nigel joining up with him. In steady formation they made their way eastward. Although they were calm and nonchalant chatter filled their earpieces, Robert felt a sense of dread stemming through him. He tried to submit to the small talk and relax, but his nerves were on edge and he felt a keen tenseness in every limb.

For an hour, German formations had been massing off of Calais and Boulogne and just before 1700 hours an attack in force on the southeast crossed the coast between North Foreland and Cover. The attack included some 300 aircraft amongst which were spotted six four-engined aircraft with strong fighter escort. For another half hour the main trend was towards the Thames Estuary and South London, though one raid of about 35 aircraft penetrated to Central London. The 213th saw it’s greatest action when a general drift westwards developed, and small raids were plotted as far West as Salisbury.

Working in concert with another pair of wingmates, Robert and Nigel attacked relentlessly, all four of them notching another victory and Robert bagging two. Before it was over, as they were later informed, some 24 Squadrons of fighters were scrambled to this attack, inflicting heavy casualties. During the resulting engagements the RAF destroyed 50 enemy aircraft, plus another nine probable and thirteen damaged. For that, their casualties amounted to 20 aircraft of which five pilots were killed or missing.

Once back on the ground, there was little time to eat and rest for by 2000 hours Jerry had decided upon an encore, concentrating his attention almost entirely on London. From then until 0430 the next morning nearly every squadron in Group 11 had been called up into action. Weary beyond reproach, Robert landed intact with his flight group, amongst the last and discovered that the 607th had again been hit hard. Scanning over the flight log, he didn’t see George’s name inscribed and hurried over to their barracks.

“Anybody seen Fitzmorgan?” he called out.

“Not since the afternoon, chap,” answered his bunkmate.

A quick look in the officer’s club yielded nothing more. Then he caught sight of Cordwine.

“Have you seen Fitzmorgan?” he asked.

“Oh, sure. He’s in with the top brass,” Cordwine replied. “Something about a promotion. I think our chap is about to be named Squadron Leader.”

Robert smiled, partly chagrined over his needless concern, and happy for his new friend. He turned and headed back toward his barracks but stopped off at the club to get something to eat and drink before turning in. Just as he had finished a plate of spam and powdered eggs, the door blew open and the Boys In Blue tumbled inside. Drinks were ordered for the house and, as a glass was pressed into his hand, Robert stood with the rest as Cordwine lead the toast.

“We’ve lost a dear friend from our midst just yesterday and we celebrate his memory, even though we are glad to be rid of his god awful laugh … sorry Ralph,” Cordwine said, looking heavenward apologetically. “We also celebrate the elevation of our good friend George Fitzmorgan, the new Squadron Leader of the 607th!”

Shouts of “Cheers!” and “Hurrah!” erupted and Robert joined in. It was George’s moment and he reveled in it, accepting the handshakes and smacks on the back and tossing back a drink with each kind word. For a few minutes Robert wondered if he’d have to escort Fitz home again, but was relieved of that concern when word came down that all pilots were confined to base else the Germans raise another attack. Robert soon begged off and slunk back to his barracks. To the accompaniment of Nigel’s gentle snoring, he lie in his cold bunk and fell to sleep with the soft pink image of a woman on his mind, the image of a woman who was not his, who belonged to his only friend now in the world.

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

The morning came with Hattie and Alexandria to Elizabeth's door; both were going into the hospital. Elizabeth too had decided to go in, she couldn’t bare another day here doing nothing but thinking of George and of Bobby.

They mingled in her mind. The memory of the touch of one, became the wanting the touch of the other. She wanted both, no George, no Bobby. She loved her husband, but the American with his understanding eyes, his actually wanting to hold her, touch her; drove her to crazy thoughts and actions she reminded herself, as she though of how she had lain on the bed and held him for those few seconds.

George pushed her way, shut her out. He was fighting a War, so too was Bobby, but he didn't want to shut her out, he wanted to let her in.

You can’t have both. George is your husband, Bobby your friend, nothing more. You can’t have more can you? Elizabeth shuddered and tried to force her mind to deal with the coming day.

“Where is Georgia?” Elizabeth asked as she pulled on her coat and locked the door behind her.

“Up at the vicarage with her brother-in-law.” Alexandria answered as she opened the rear door of the Morris for Elizabeth.

“Have to pick up Georgia’s mum at about 5.30 this afternoon after our shift, won't be doing more than a month more myself due to this... ” Hattie patted her stomach and pushed Elizabeth’s bag into the boot.

“We are not staying,” Alexandria said, “coming home after our shift till, well till.”

“Lot of petrol?” Elizabeth sighed and settled back for her journey.Would she continue after Hattie finished; would Alexandria?

“Sod the petrol. You can still get it off ration if you have cash, got cash.” Hattie huffed as she got behind the wheel and started off.

“Who is telling matron we are not staying?” Elizabeth said. Both the other women looked at her. My turn I suppose, Elizabeth thought bitterly.

Elizabeth spent the day making beds, scrubbing floors and trotting with bottles. She missed her lunch due to the fact that was the only time matron would see her.

She had stood like a naughty school girl in front of the wide bosomed woman and explained they wanted to return home that night and every night for a while because, because… the words faltered. The matron’s steely gaze had ground into her for what seemed like an age; then the woman nodded. Elizabeth sighed and rushed to tell the others.

Afternoon came and with it news of raids on airfields, adding to the women’s horror. For they had heard more about the air raids over London the past few days, during the day from orderlies and other women.

It seemed that Hitler was indeed coming and it was only a matter of time. This increased the women’s desire to be home, to have one more chance to see their men folk.

They picked up Georgia's mother from the packed railway station and took her to her daughter. The small bird like woman, twittered and moaned and all three wondered if they were doing Georgia a favour by taking the woman to her.

But as they showed the twitting woman into the vicarage, she changed. She put on a soft smile and straightened her back, taking Georgia in her arms and sitting there listening as her daughter poured out her grief to her.

“See you in half an hour,” Hattie said as she dropped Elizabeth off. “Club”

“Club” Elizabeth replied and let herself in; rushing to get washed and ready. She hoped they would be there, both of them. She wanted to see them both, listen to both talk, to… damn she swore as she pulled a hole in her stockings. She fumbled out another pair and took out just one holding them up to ensure the colour matched them slipped both on, tightening her suspender belt. Her “go get’em” silk French knickers followed.

Elizabeth flicked through her dresses and pulled out a scooped neck, red silk dress with a silver belt, classy, smart. She hadn’t worn it since her last trip up London for a show and dancing. Elizabeth pulled it on, smoothing the fabric over her hips and applied her makeup.

Soon Hattie was back, she was also dressed to the nines, again in silk, deep blue.

“Aren’t we a pair or make that three,” Hattie said as she honked the horn at Alexandria coming out of the door, she too was dressed as if going up to London. She was also carrying a large pile of something and her father in law was carrying out a box.

“What the?” Elizabeth said as she got out the car.

“Phonograph and dance records.” Alexandria announced with a wink.

“Bloody good idea!” Hattie laughed and off they went. Hope they will be there, hope all will be there. Hope no scramble; hope just us tonight. As she thought the thoughts Elizabeth still didn’t know which us. All three? Yes all three; think like that, have too, she sighed.

Hattie went in and waved a couple of stewards over. The men looked at each other grinned and began to move back the tables and chairs.

“Trouble at twelve a clock high” Thomas shouted as the women brought in the machine and records.

“Is that what I think it is,” Bobby asked Fitzmorgan.

“Seems so,” George replied as he sipped his drink and watched his wife open the top of the device; allowing Hattie to fix the megaphone horn in place “Can Yanks dance?” He added with a wink.

“Depends who with.” Bobby answered looking in Elizabeth’s direction. She could feel his eyes on her as she wound the handle.

“One crank Lizzy!” Hattie boomed out as jazz tune burst into the room.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

Robert watched the pretty little woman in the red silk dress turning the crank.

“Then go on, lad!” George encouraged him. “I think my lass would like you to dance with her.”

“But don’t you?” Robert asked. “I mean, shouldn’t you have the first?”

“With these two left feet?” George laughed. “Go on, Bobby!”

There was no mistaking the sound of Benny Goodman’s Orchestra, belting out the familiar Stompin’ At The Savoy. Just two years before, he had seen them perform at the Orpheum Theatre in Cleveland. Robert strode slowly up to Elizabeth and held out his hand. She gave him that warm rosy smile that sent a shiver down his spine and placed her hand in his. It took only a measure or two for them to catch the swing beat and they began to dance. Although they were joined by Matt and Alexandria, it felt as if they were the only ones there as they stepped together and then back, twirling and turning to the hot jazz recording.

******

It had been a fitful day following a restless morning of sleep. Unable to rest with the sound of the daily patrols taking off and landing, Robert had finally got up, washed and changed, and gone to the officer’s mess, just in time to fall in for lunch. Nigel soon appeared and they lingered afterwards, sitting in the lounge and exchanging stories about their home lives, anything but the war that was raging all around them.

“So wat you going to do when you return, Bobby?” Nigel asked, his face curled with an unsubtle laugh. “Not much market for hot shot fly boys in the States now is there?”

“I dunno,” Robert replied, lost in the thought. He hadn’t considered much about what he might do after the war. He had to survive it first. “Maybe go back home and join my father’s company. Pops says electronics is going to be big after the war and he’s using the war to tool up for it.”

“But you aren’t involved,” Nigel remarked. “Most Yanks are sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see who’s going to come out on top. Just the other day I heard Lindbergh talking a strong isolationist …”

“But he doesn’t speak for all of us,” Robert cut in. “We know what’s going on, we know Hitler has to be stopped, we know that Britain can’t fall. Sooner or later the war will be at our doorstep and we’ll have no choice but to fight full out. Pops says in another year we’ll be in it, shoulder to shoulder with you.”

“After nights like the last, can’t you push that timetable up a bit,” Nigel smirked. “We could use the extra hands.”

Robert smiled and they finished their weak tea and sugarless pastries. Nigel showed off a portrait of his family arranged formally about a lovely room. There was a calm but cool demeanor in their poses, though not entirely unsmiling. Nigel was careful to point out his older sister, a shy but pretty schoolmistress.

“Nice eyes,” Robert remarked.

“And she is most available,” Nigel interjected. “At least as last word has it … possesses a cool hand when it comes to darts, I might add.”

Robert chuckled.

“So wat about yours, Bobby?” Nigel asked.

Robert pulled out the pictures of his family, a shot of his brothers and sisters at their vacation home near Sandusky and one of his parents taken in front of the GM pavilion at the New York World’s Fair. There was a relaxed and outgoing look to all of them, quite in contrast to the portrait of Nigel’s family.

“My god! This one is a looker!” Nigel exclaimed.

“You must mean Peggy,” Robert smiled. “She is a real heart breaker … has a whole trail of men lost in her wake.”

“But she hasn’t met the likes of me yet,” Nigel replied with a proud laugh.

It was ironic that their talk of family was soon followed by the appearance of a package for Robert from home, arriving over two weeks late but tightly filled with reminders of home. A tin of his favorite macaroon cookies, two pairs of socks knitted by his grandmother, letters from the entire family, a pair of warm leather gloves, and best of all, four packs of Camel cigarettes.

“Say, old man,” Nigel said upon spotting the smokes. “You wouldn’t happen to want to share now would you?”

Of course Robert wanted to keep his rookie wingmate happy and tore off the end and extracted a couple. For a few moments they savored the taste of a real cigarette together. But Robert was anxious and needed some air.

“I’m off to the hangar to check with Colin and his boys,” Robert said standing. “You coming along?”

“No, I think I’ll just stay here and savor this little spot of heaven!” Nigel replied.

Robert made his way out to the hangar just off the flight line and found Colin and the boys hard at work, lubricating the portside guns and readying the reload. After offering them a smoke, the lot stood by the open door.

“Looks like the rain is mostly over,” Colin remarked, looking up at the lightening skies of afternoon. The flight line had been quiet for a while and soon enough the faraway sound of a fighter could be heard.

“He’s coming in a bit of a hurry,” remarked one of the crew.

“Way too fast for a landing, if you ask me,” Colin replied. “Maybe he’s going to do a flyover.”

“Right!” chuckled another. “Just saying hello to his girlfriend at Madame Renard’s!”

“Don’t think so,” Robert said sharply. “That doesn’t sound like one of ours!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth but the sound of the perimeter anti-aircraft guns rose up. As it grew close there was no mistaking the roar of a Daimler-powered Messerschmitt. Coming in low along the tarmac, the German fighter strafed along the flight line.

“Jesus! We haven’t been hit in over a month!” shouted a member from another crew.

Everyone scurried for cover as the ME109 rose up from the field and disappeared past the tree line. For several moments they listened for the next run. Usually they worked in groups of two or three and were certain that the next plane would be quickly trailing. But there was no second plane, only a second pass by the same aircraft, again flying low and harassing the tarmac with mostly ineffective strafing. And then he was gone.

“Maybe a lone wolf on the prowl,” Colin remarked.

There had been no damage except to the relative calm and ease that had settled in over Tangmere. All it did was serve to heighten everyone’s resolve and the crew quickly finished their smokes and went back to work, with a keener determination to finish the job. A few minutes later a patrol from the 601st returned and the airfield seemed back to normal. Robert watched for a while but decided to walk over to the Officer’s Club.

A happy but unfamiliar group from the 607th had formed up and were monopolizing the main lounge. Robert gravitated toward a couple of his fellows from the 213th and accepted their hospitality as he joined them at the bar. It wasn’t long till the doors swung open and some happy and familiar faces appeared. The loud group from the 607th quieted quickly and snapped to attention.

“Wing Commander on deck,” called out one of their group officiously.

“Oh, for Pity’s sake!” answered George Fitzmorgan as he snapped off a lackadaisical salute. “I’m not here to hold rank, I’m here to celebrate!”

And with that, the glasses were filled and the celebration was inaugurated. Robert joined in and raised a toast to George, honoring his newfound friendship. Within the hour, the wives had arrived and set up the victrola. Robert had watched Elizabeth closely as she wound the handle, her slim round body moving sensuously beneath her lovely red silk dress. She had been the woman haunting his dreams, of that he held no doubt. There had never been doubt, really. And when she turned and smiled his way, her full lips and gorgeous green eyes shining brightly, he was draw to her. It had taken little more than George’s suggestion to bring her into Robert’s arms and they were dancing.

*****

“You dance really well,” Elizabeth remarked, as they shagged to Stompin’. “A regular Fred Astaire!”

“Only because you’re doing such a good Ginger Rogers,” Robert answered.

It felt so easy and natural to dance with her, the touch of her soft hand in his, never leaving his palm as they moved, and the look of her body swaying and bouncing to the lively beat. His eyes never left her, stealing sweet glimpses of her backside as she turned away from him, then capturing her luminous eyes when she turned back. After a second tune, an unfamiliar one, perhaps a British dance band, not quite as boisterous, but still very much up tempo, they both had warmed up and needed the drinks that were placed into their hands as they took a breather, joining George and friends at the bar.

It hadn’t taken long for some of the wives present to take advantage and drag their men, reluctant or willing, up to dance. They looked on as the open space was filled with whirling churning bodies, fueled by drink and the urge to work off the nerves caused by the war.

“You two were quite the pair,” George remarked, smacking Robert on the back and slipping his other arm around Elizabeth. He leaned forward to plant a sloppy kiss on her lips. “What a great idea! We all could use a little picker-upper tonight! Ralph would have wanted it.”

Elizabeth curled her arm around George’s waist and leaned into him.

“I’m so proud of you, George,” she said. “Wing Commander!”

“Yes, sure,” he replied, non-plussed. “So how’s Georgia holding out?”

“Her family coming in has helped greatly,” she replied.

All three took a stiff drink and fell silent for a moment. Hattie changed records, gave the machine good crank, and the strains of More Than You’ll Ever Know emanated from the horn.

“Darling,” Elizabeth said, pulling George tightly to her. “Dance with me … please?”

George looked at her, glanced weakly at Robert then relented. “All right,” he said, then tossed down his drink and followed Elizabeth into the crowd.

Robert looked on and sipped his whiskey and water. They made such a nice couple, he could see as they began to dance together. There was George Fitzmorgan, his new best friend, the one who had gone out of his way to welcome Robert and make him feel at home, dancing with his lovely wife. The way she looked up at George adoringly made Robert feel foolish for all the dreams that he had been having, all of the thoughts that had come into his head. She obviously loved her husband.

Robert suddenly felt out of place and moved back along the bar gravitating toward his mates from the 213th. He turned his back to the makeshift dance floor and melded in with the crowd of officers and wives, trying to pick up the lines of conversation. Everyone seemed so excited and spoke so fast that he could hardly keep up. The slow tune ended and another swing tune was started. Robert listened to one of his squadron mates tell a harrowing story of a nasty dogfight.

He tried not to look toward the dance floor, but his eyes snuck back a glance just as the song ended. He watched as George and Elizabeth parted. While George returned to the bar, the kudos of his comrades and the drink that was waiting for him, Elizabeth shuffled through the records, pulled one out, and set it onto the platter with a smile. The strains of Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra sounded through the horn and he looked down into his empty glass of whiskey. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Would you care to dance?”

Robert glanced over to see Elizabeth’s smiling face; her eyes were sparkling, her face glistening and glowing irresistibly. He nodded and set his empty glass on the bar. Taking his hand, Elizabeth led him out into the dancing crowd. She turned and slipped into his embrace, fitting into his arms as if she were made for them. He could feel her soft warm body beneath the sleek silk of her dress. They held hands and began to dance to the rich sound of Frank Sinatra singing the ballad I’ll Be Seeing You. They didn’t speak, they only danced closely and slowly, their eyes locked on one another’s face.

For a few precious moments it felt to Robert as if the war hadn’t happened, that her husband didn’t exist, that is was only the two of them dancing together on a cloud someplace, her soft body pressed up against him, the firmness of her breasts brushing against his chest. Elizabeth turned her head and rested her cheek against his shoulder. His eyes closed as he cradled her in his arm, their intertwined hands pulling close to their bodies. Then the couple beside bumped up against them and they were back in the Officer’s Club and the final strains of the tune were being played. When the song was over, they were the last pair to stop moving, pausing only when the next tune was begun.

“Oh, my!” Elizabeth smiled, fanning herself. “I think I need some air … come with me, Bobby.”

“All right,” Robert replied, reluctantly letting go of her hand.

There was a porch lining the back of the building, too small to be considered a veranda. Elizabeth descended the steps that ran down to a path that led to a small garden. In the center was a small wishing well. The last shades of sunlight were losing their battle with the coming evening, yet they were streaking the broken clouds with delicious shades of pink and red and purple. Elizabeth leaned back against the wishing well, while Robert stood close beside. They could still easily hear the noise of the crowd and the sound of the music.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Elizabeth remarked, looking up and around at the early evening sky.

“Yes, it is,” Robert replied. “Not too cool, not too warm … just perfect. Maybe the company has something to do with that.”

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

Robert came up to Elizabeth and held out his hand, she smiled and took it, glancing across at her husband, George, who was standing by the bar. He winked and mouthed, “Go on!”

Elizabeth felt a small puzzled frown crease her forehead; then it was gone, swept away, by the music and the feel of Bobby’s hand on her hip.

His touch was light but firm and set the “what ifs” bubbling for a second as the warmth of his fingers seeped through the silk and caressed her skin. Yet as his eyes met hers they seemed to be just friendly this time, as if what had been there had gone or was hiding. She smiled back and tried to keep her mind on the dance steps, thinking, silly, all in your mind, you saw things that were not there.

“You dance really well, A regular Fred Astaire!” Elzabeth remarked

“Only because you’re doing such a good Ginger Rogers,” Robert answered, a friendly answer, yes just that. But as they began the next dance, the look started to appear in the corner of Bobby’s eyes. The, I am watching you look, watching your hair bob on your shoulders, tracing the line of your body as it moves under the silk. It made Elizabeth’s heart beat faster and her thoughts race again. It was madness.

They made there way from the dance floor after the second dance, Robert squiring her, his hand pressed into the small of her back. Robert’s hand lingered there until George gave her a sloppy kiss and slipped his own hand round her waist. The affect of the two conflicting, but similar reaction of her body to both men made Elizabeth shudder with confusion. She leaned on George out of instinct saying “I’m so proud of you, George, Wing Commander!”

George’s answer was typical George, brushing it off and reaching for his drink as he asked about Georgia. Elizabeth answered as best she could, feeling the pain bubble up among the three of them, making them fall silent.

Elizabeth dragged George on to the dance floor, pleading with him, holding him close, he was her husband she loved him. She knew it as much as she knew she wanted to see the look in Bobby’s eyes and to find out what was below the look. As she danced in her husband’s arms Elizabeth’s thoughts fractured and rejoined as they had all day, both, no choice. Both; not either, or. It was as if the two men merged in her mind, stood back to back.

For one the war was a wall between them, and he was letting it destroy what they had, while for the other the war was a bridge being built between them, one she had put her foot on and felt the vibration of another’s tread.

The strains of More than you’ll ever know faded away and George held Elizabeth at arm’s length his eyes searching her face. Elizabeth met his gaze and smiled. She tired to guess what he was thinking but could not. His expression was strange; a mixture of wanting and not wanting that tore a little more at their marriage. George gave a crooked smile then let her go; answering the waves from the bar with one of his own as he sauntered back, taking the middle one of the three drinks offered him.

Elizabeth felt at a loss, she went to the pile of records and picked out and placed it on the turntable, lowering the needle slowly. There was a short hiss and a crackle then the music started.
She looked over at her husband, he was lost in the middle of his comrades his voice weaving a tale, Elizabeth gave a half sigh and walked across the room, taking another step onto the bridge as she put her hand on Bobby’s shoulder. He glanced round his eyes for a second hiding the “look” in the blue shadows within as he took her in his arms

I’ll be seeing you;
In all the old, familiar places;
That this heart of mine embraces;
All day through.

Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned over the dancers, the floor was packed, couples shuffled close, talking, giggling, laughing. Yet for Elizabeth at that moment they were washed away by the feel of Bobby holding her. She was in the middle of that bridge. She could feel the beat of his heart as he pressed closer to her, felt it stumble and the pace increase with his breathing. His hand slid round her back, pulling her closer till chest, hip and leg were as one. Elizabeth leant her head on his shoulder, drinking in the smell of him, that lay half buried under hints of cigarette smoke and whisky. A smell that reminded her of lying on the bed with him for those few seconds and her she was again holding him.

But this time is was perfectly safe, perfectly acceptable. She pressed closer, seeking to enjoy every minute, because it was acceptable unlike that moment on the bed.

Another couple bumped them and it was if the bridge gave way under Elizabeth’s feet. Bobby seemed to inch back from her and as the music stopped she felt the colour rush to her cheeks.

“Oh, my! I think I need some air … come with me, Bobby.” Elizabeth smiled to cover the stunned surprise she felt at her own words.

“All right,” Robert replied and let go of her hand.

She turned and made her way through the crowd trying not to look back to see if Bobby was following. Out into the cooler air Elizabeth went, her heels clattering down the steps as she walked to the small wishing well. Strange to have that here, but then wishes were needed badly, good wishes. The sky above was weaving the spectrum of reds from light pink to almost mauve across the tattered clouds.

“It’s beautiful out here,” She said, watching the darkening sky.

“Yes, it is,” Robert replied. “Not too cool, not too warm … just perfect. Maybe the company has something to do with that.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened how should she answer that? “Is that a compliment Pilot Officer Wilson?”

“I think it might be,” Bobby came and stood by her side and pulled out a cigarette and lighting it, blowing soft rings of smoke into the cooling night air.

“I bet you say that to all the ladies,” Elizabeth’s reply was the standard tease, yet she held her breath wondering what his answer would be.

Bobby leaned forward and placed his finger under her chin, tilting her head up, so her eyes were level with his.

“No,”

“I see…” Elizabeth said softly her hand going to his on her chin.

“Do you?” Bobby asked as his face came closer to hers. He is going to kiss me! The thought exploded in her mind, she was cut in half, wanting him so much to do so, to see if his lips were soft, to feel them move on hers, working her mouth open. But she was also terrified of the very thought, she was married. She loved her husband didn’t she?

Suddenly Bobby pulled back and looked skywards. There pale on the horizon was the moon, just rising, in the tattered remains of the day’s light.

Under his breath, barely audible he said “And when the night is new; I’ll be looking at the moon;”

Elizabeth breath hitched and she waited for the last line of the song, but it did not come. Her husband’s voice did, along with the sound of feet on gravel.

“Here you are; there is a shout on, Jerry’s on the move again.”

“Best go then,” Bobby answered dropping his cigarette and rubbing it out with his foot.

“Best...” George said as he came and stood by them, his eyes went from Bobby to Elizabeth and she noticed he gave a small nod before he leant down and kissed her.

 

[Miltone]

Robert "Bobby" Wilson

Looking back at Elizabeth and George, Robert felt sadly out of place, even as the Sammy Fain lyric reverberated through his head.

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day, in every thing that’s light and gay, I’ll always think of you that way …
I will find you in the morning sun and when the night is new, I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you …

He crushed his cigarette out on the gravel walk and climbed up to the porch and strode back into the club. It was half empty as he returned, and the half remaining seemed about ready to leave. A couple of his mates from the 213th were downing the last of their ales as he caught up with them.

“Come on, lads!” Robert chided, “That ale will still be warm when we return.”

It was a mad dash over to the flight line. Most of the planes had been pulled back out to the tarmac and Colin already had the Lady Jane started and warmed for him. Nigel waved from his June’s Bug, anxious for the fight. They taxied out to the runway and were off quickly, forming up with the rest of their wing and heading due East. The waves of German aircraft were coming from Cherbourg via St Catherine's Point and Selsey on to Hampshire, some of which penetrated to London area. This put the Tangmere pilots right in the heart of the attack.

Almost from the time they were airborne, the seemingly endless German formations were overhead. For the next two hours, the 213th, 601st, and 607th did their best to deter the Germans, chewing off and dispensing what punishment that they could. By 2200 hours the wave seemed to disperse, and those who were low on fuel or damaged returned to ground. But the lull was short lived for another series of formations came from the Somme area crossing the coast between Dungeness and Beachy Head, over Kent and Sussex and heading up to London area. By 2230 hours raids again came in between Selsey and Dungeness.

Working in teams of four, the 213th tore into the Germans, harassing them, beating away the fighter escorts and seeking out the lumbering Dornier and Heinkel bombers before they could drop their dreaded loads. Just as they seemed to have an effect and the enemy raids gradually began to cease, by 0100 hours another stream started to come in from the Dutch Islands up the Thames Estuary into the London area, thence out over the South Coast.

Flying on nerve and instinct, Robert and Nigel and their wing bent and dove and came around and through the escorts, preying on the bombers but with their best result being the sight of a German aircraft limping back toward the channel. By 0430 the last of the raids had left the cost by the North Foreland and the whole countryside was then clear.

Gasping back on fumes, Nigel and Robert landed without incident, virtually the last of the Tangmere wing to return. Arm in arm, they wearily helped each other back toward their barracks. Passing the officer’s club, Robert paused for a wistful moment. In the full blaze of moonlight, he could see the outline of the wishing well, and for the moment he could feel the warmth and the brightness of Mrs. Fitzmorgan. He began to hum the Irving Kahal tune, though not as mellifluously as Frankie.

“Wat’s that, lad?” Nigel asked.

“Just a tune,” Robert replied. “That’s all.”

“Lovely,” Nigel replied. “I’ve got a wing mate who’s well on his way to becoming an ace and now he thinks he’s Frank Sinatra!”

“Nah!” Robert dismissed. “I think I sound more like Vaughn Monroe, don’t you think?”

They laughed together and retired to their barracks, their weary feet shuffling along the gravel pathway. There were a few snoring voices and several still awake talking over the nights action, some very animatedly. The two wing mates slung into bed. For his part, Robert tried to push the night’s events from his mind. The hours in the air, the few entangling dogfights were easy to brush away, but the warmth of Elizabeth’s body, her soft gentle curves beneath the red silk, and the rich gloss of her lips lingered. He wondered about what it would be like to kiss her, what her lips would feel like, what her mouth would taste like, what her body would feel like when he touched her here ... and there … and ...

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan

The alarm rang. Elizabeth struggled to open her eyes as she reached out and stopped the clatter. The room was almost total black, just a faint light trickling round the edge of the thick black out curtains. As she woke she became aware of George in the bed next to her. His arm was thrown over her. The warmth of his skin on hers brought a soft moan to her lips and she turned gently till she was facing him.

Elizabeth could she the outline of his face, slack jawed. Feel his breathing slow, shallow. He was beyond tired, totally exhausted. She touched his cheek with her lips, wishing to wake him, but knowing to do so would be cruel. As much as she wanted him to make love to her in the soft morning light, she knew they couldn’t.

She slipped from the bed picking up George’s abandoned uniform and folding it onto the chair before going to the bathroom. She got dressed quietly, pulling her hair up tight and pinning it to her head. For a second she thought George’s eyes were open, watching her or so it seemed in the mirror, but as she turned to look at him, he was still fast asleep. She glanced at her watch and cursed, barely making out side by the time Hattie pulled up. The first part the drive to the hospital was done in silence, for some reason the usual banter between the women was not there.

Then for a few moments a pair of Hurricanes paced the Morris as it trundled down the road, then they banked and climbed. Alexandria’s eyes followed them and she sighed.

“Was that Mathew?” Elizabeth asked

“I don’t know, they all look the same to me. I have trouble telling a Hurricane from a Spitfire.” This broke the silence as the two other women laughed.

“She said the “s” word… Lordy, Mathew will deal out righteous punishment if he heard you say that.” Hattie laughed. The Spitfire was even then considered the “film star” of the RAF, sleek, fast. It had the image that was remembered far more than its sister aircraft. It was a thoroughbred compared to the workhorse that was the Hurricane, yet it was the workhorse that was the backbone of the RAF squadrons, which fought in the greater part of the battles that September.

Half way through the morning all three women were summoned to the Matron’s office. They stood there waiting as the middle aged woman in her starched white bonnet looked them up and down, then at the papers in her hands. She sighed then spoke.

“Ladies, we are expanding the small cottage hospital near Tangmere, this I believe would suit you better would you not?”

Elizabeth, Alexandria and Hattie exchanged looks and Hattie garbled. “Yes… I mean…”

“I thought it would; seeing that you are no longer willing to stay, I understand ladies, I assure you I do and perhaps if you are closer, you might consider an extra day or two.” As she spoke the Matron dismissed them with a wave of her hand. As the three friends left the office, the paperwork dealing with their future was shuffled and placed in a basket. It wasn’t the only paperwork forwarded that day that would or could affect them in the days to come.

German High command put off the implementation of operation Sea lion, the invasion of Britain, until the 14th September. The German fighter and bomber squadrons in France had also received their orders for the targets for the coming day.

Lunch came and went, with a plate of what could have been beef stew, though Elizabeth only found three pieces of beef among the among of vegetables. The afternoon seemed to drag; even the moving of patients out to other hospitals further inland seemed to lack its normal banter.

Then at about 4.00pm just an hour before the end of Elizabeth’s shift, the air raid sirens sounded. She stood, her heart pounding looking round the ward, her feet rooted to the floor.

“Right, quickly now, we all know the drill,” The ward sister’s voice broke the spell of fear that held Elizabeth and she stumbled forward as the sister continued going through the routine. “All those patients that can walk, off you go, to the shelter, those we can move, Yes that’s it get those wheel chairs moving, and watch your crutches pilot Officer Jones.” A ripple of laughter greeted this.

Elizabeth helped one patient into a wheelchair; he winked and spun the wheels forward, heading off towards the door. Alexandria was supporting another patient, the man leaning on her as the shuffled away to the sound of the siren.

The sister and a nurse were lowering one of the men that could not be moved onto a blanket beneath his bed, then pulling off the mattress off an empty bed and wedging in at the side of him as best they could. Elizabeth joined them, hauling mattresses pushing them together round the seriously hurt. The siren stopped and the sister barked, “right off you go.” Looking at Elizabeth and the others; Elizabeth could see the fear in her eyes, yet the woman and her staff nurse settled themselves down under an empty bed, staying with their patients. For a moment Elizabeth thought, should she say, but was pulled from the ward by Hattie.

For an hour as the 75 enemy aircraft passed overhead and flew inland over Hampshire, Elizabeth and her friends leant against the wall in the cramped, almost suffocating air raid shelter in the bowls of the Hospital. The opening of the door to the sound of the all clear was greeted with a cheer. Elizabeth helped the patients back to her ward to find the place covered with strips of tape covered with shattered glass. One window was completely blown in and half the light fittings had been rattled loose. Screens toppled over.

“A bomb?” Hattie whispered.

“No a fucking Hun aircraft in the grounds” an orderly snapped, “You think our lads would watch where they are shooting the buggers down.”

“I will not have that sort of language on my ward,” The sister snapped in return as she began to put her domain back in order. As she worked Elizabeth watched the woman who had stayed with her patients, the sister was shaking slightly, yet doing her job. It made Elizabeth feel very small. She was so wrapped up in her own life, her own fears that she had forgotten she wasn’t alone in this. It made her feel she wasn’t worth the look she saw in Bobby’s eyes or the trust her husband put in her.

Dusk was streaking the sky before the women set off for home. “I don’t think I could face the club tonight,” Hattie said.

“And you shouldn’t in your condition. Alexandria concurred “Lizzy and I will go…”

“Yes..” Elizabeth said..” But I need a bath first… can we borrow the Morris Hattie?”

“Sure…” Alexandria took the Morris off after she had dropped Elizabeth at her door. Elizabeth peeled the clothes from her back as she looked at the rumbled abandoned bed where her husband had lain that morning. It was long cold. He was in the air somewhere or at the bar of the club. She bathed slowly, trying to wash away the events of the day and found herself sobbing slightly as she remembered the fear that had tore through her and the way the Ward sister had braved the event.

As she shrugged herself into her robe a knock came on the door. “You are early Alex..” She said as she opened the door. Only it wasn’t Alexandria, it was Bobby. He was standing there, his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground. His eyes came up and Elizabeth felt her knees go…

“No…” She thrust out her hands as if to push him away as the thought hit her again and again. George was gone, gone, gone. She shuffled back into the hall. Bobby stepped in; shutting the door behind him, reaching out to her.

Elizabeth felt his arms close round her as she started to sob. His lips were on her hair, her eyelids as he said, “I am so sorry Mrs Fitz,” She cried, clinging to him, holding onto him. George was gone her mind screamed and you are next Bobby I know I know. I am going to lose you both. My world is shattering, falling into pieces. Somehow Bobby’s lips brushed hers and she instinctively kissed him, in her grief grabbing onto this moment of life.

 

[Miltone]

Robert “Bobby” Wilson

Wednesday, the 11th of September began like any other ordinary day … Ordinary, Robert thought, as if anything can be ordinary when there is a war going on! Due to the recent late night scrambles, ordinary meant getting up mid-morning and falling in for the morning briefing. Ordinary meant that with the fairly light daytime activity, the squadrons at Tangmere rotated the daylight patrols and today belonged to the 607th. Ordinary meant hanging out—under orders—on the airfield, watching the crew refuel, re-arm, and maintain the Lady Jane, watch as the patrols took off and land, and talk over strategy with Nigel and any other wingmate willing to listen. And ordinary meant spending a few minutes back in the officer’s billet, lying in the semi-darkness on his bunk, puzzling over the memory of a moonlit night, a beautiful woman, and a wishing well.

What did all of this mean? He was here to fight for freedom and democracy and the glory that was England, America’s best friend in the world. Yet he was consumed by the whirl of emotions that surged through him when his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, another man’s wife. Of all the women he had met since arriving here, and most of them more than available for him, why did his mind settle on her? She was prettier than most in his eyes, with her creamy pale skin, her reddish hair and her brilliant green eyes. There was her body, so slim yet with the subtlest most womanly curves, her smile so warm and lively, her laugh so light and animated, and her touch so much like fire setting a torch to his soul. Why, in this stinking war, did my heart settle on her?

He lit and drew the smoke of another Camel deep into his lungs. This was a filthy habit he had picked up from Garner, yet it gave him some peace, something to do with his hands, a few moments of calm that chased away the gnawing thoughts of regret. Elizabeth … just saying her name in his mind brought her smiling, laughing face to the front. Thankfully, George was always around, unsuspecting of his new Yank friend’s inclinations perhaps, always with a drink and a story and a telling nod and wink. Why did George have to be there? Why hadn’t I simply found her on my own?

Rolling over and back again, Robert got up and strode restlessly to the hangar. His crew had rolled the Lady Jane up to the tarmac and he stood besides her, running his hand over the cool aluminum—aluminium, to Colin—fuselage. She was a sturdy craft, not quite as sleek as her younger sexier sister, the Spitfire, but she had guts and heart and strength and a willingness to fight that was second to none.

He lit up another Camel and watched as a pair of Hurricanes with 607th markings looped down for a landing. They taxied hurriedly to refuel, the crews running out to check and service. Robert walked, half running, toward them thinking that news from the line might chase away the thoughts nipping at his edges. The pilots had climbed down and hustled off to the radio shack located in the tower, a stout concrete affair that dominated the flight line. Robert recognized them as Fitzmorgan and Cordwine. Stepping up quickly, he heard loud and excited voices before the door burst open and he was almost knocked down by George.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Looks like Jerry wants to crash our tea party this afternoon, old boy,” George snapped with his sly grin. “They’re massing up from Cherbourg over the channel.”

“How many?” Robert asked.

“We lost count at fifty,” George replied. “Probably four times as many. What a shame … there won’t be scones enough to go around if you ask me.”

George and Cordwine wasted no time getting back to the flight line and their Hurricanes were quickly up and off. By the time Robert reached the briefing room, the sirens had gone off. It was obvious that the Germans had their own plans for the afternoon and nearly every squadron in the south and east would be asked to spoil them. After several days of light activity, a bold daylight raid was in store.

The 213th was hurriedly given their assignment and was in the air within minutes. Robert and his wingmates pulled up as high as they could as they neared the coordinates. And the Germans, precise bastards that they were, were right on time. Flying out of Cherbourg and crossing over at Folkestone and bearing North West to Maidstone they came right at them.

“Take the fighters first,” Robert called off to his younger mates. They only had twenty minutes at the most before they would need to return to base, but would devastate any unsuspecting spoiling attack. With the sun at their backs, Robert’s wing flew above the German formation. Twenty, maybe thirty Dorniers below and a fleet of Messerschimtts above. With Robert’s wave, their wing split into pairs and they formed a deadly pincer. The first pass caught them by surprise, but from then on, it was unholy hell. The next thirty minutes went from attack to anarchy to simple survival as the proud Hurricanes tore into the covering force.

One, then two, then four Messerschmitts were dispatched. Then MacCauley caught fire and plunged—at least he thought his name was MacCauley, a new kid with a bright face and a sharp laugh. His wingmate, Feckley, sounded panicked over the radio. Robert tried to calm him down and took him in tow.

“You’ve got my left now,” he said. “Stick close and we’ll have us a feast!”

He did and two more 109s were turned back, one limping along sadly trailing thick acrid smoke. Robert gave up chase quickly for the lumbering Dorniers were the real meat of this feast. Once the air above the bombers was cleared, they dove and strafed only to climb and dive again. Working from the rear forward, they picked them off one by one.

Joined by another wing of eight Hurricanes from the 66th out of Kenley, they bit into the German formation, tearing away each mouthful they could muster. Within an hour, their ammunition exhausted and their fuel barely more than fumes, they broke off their attack and returned to Tangmere, leaving the table scraps to the 66th.

Among the last of the 213th to land, their debriefing was a wild affair, trying to remember who did what and when and how MacCauley was downed. After it was over, Robert felt entirely spent, his body weak from a sudden hunger, and his mind emptied of any cogent thought.

“Get some rest, men,” said Stouffer, their Commander. “We may be called on again tonight.”

Pushing himself up from the table Robert meandered toward the door. There were others from other Squads lingering, voices loud and soft spiking the late afternoon air. Or was it evening already? Robert couldn’t tell even if this was an ordinary day. Then he spotted Cordwine slumped against the doorway by the 607th office.

“Too bad about George, ain’t it mate?” he said with a resigned spirit.

“George? What about George?” Robert answered.

“You didn’t hear?” Cordwine replied with a sad chuckle. “O’ course you wouldn’t have … George went down near Dover this afternoon. He was trying to …”

Robert pushed his way into the office and saw Mason sitting at a desk on the far end, his head hanging in his hands.

“Is it true about Fitzmorgan?” Robert asked.

Mason picked up his head sadly. He didn’t need to speak, he didn’t even need to nod, for the answer was in his eyes.

“God damn!” Robert swore hoarsely. “Jesus! No!”

“Easy for you,” Mason ventured. “You don’t have to face his unsuspecting widow.”

“Jesus!” Robert said again, louder this time, slamming his fist on the back of the nearest chair and sending it and another tumbling.

“He liked you, Wilson,” Mason said calmly though his own voice was choked with emotion. “He was the heart of our little clatch.”

“Damn!” was the most intelligent reply Robert could muster. “Damn it all!”

“Well, I’ve got some stops to make,” Mason said, pushing back from his desk with a sad resignation. “I hate this part most of all.”

“Thomas,” Robert said, putting out his hand to touch the shoulder of the passing officer. “Would you mind if I told her?”

“Who? What?”

“If I told Mrs. Fitzmorgan about her George.”

“Protocol calls for someone from the Squadron to make the call.” Mason looked at him closely. “But you had become friends of a sort with them. Perhaps, in view of the circumstances I could authorize that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Robert replied.

“Just one thing, Wilson,” Mason added. “Be careful. Liz is a very fragile girl.”

“I will, sir,” Robert said.

He managed to rummage a ride to the little rented cottage of the Fitzmorgans. With every jounce of the ride, he tried to think of the words that would tell her, on this very ordinary day, the news that would set her world upsot. Climbing out of the lorry, he stood for a moment at the side of the road.

“Do you want me to wait, sir?” asked the driver.

“No … I’ll call for a ride when I need it,” Robert replied.

“Yes, sir,” the airman replied and the lorry lurched off. Robert walked slowly up to the door, George’s words echoing in his head, “Look after her for me … look after her for me … look after her …” The words rebounded off the guilt he had felt for feelings that had no reason to exist. Not even now. He hesitated for a moment before knocking.

“You are early Alex,” Elizabeth called out as she opened the door, cinching the belt of her robe about her trim waist. Her mouth formed a perfect letter “O”.

Robert couldn’t think of a single thing to say as he stood there, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground, summoning the strength to look at her. He knew she would see it in his eyes, like she had always seen every thing in him. When he looked up at her, she seemed to swoon for a moment.

“No …” she called out, her hands pushing him away unbelieving. She turned away from him and moved back into the hall.

Robert stepped inside and closed the door behind him. All he could think of were George’s words, look after her for me … and he reached out for her. He looped his arms close round her as she started to cry. He held her tightly, wishing that his arms could help control her the sobs that were wracking her body. He kissed her, every part of her that his lips could reach, her hair, her forehead, her eyelids, and her sodden cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Mrs. Fitz,” he whispered as he cradled the back of her head with his hand and held her close to his chest. “I am so, so sorry.”

Her arms clamped around his waist, holding onto him. Then on this most ordinary day of the war, something extraordinary happened. Robert loosened his grip on her and Elizabeth looked up at him. Their faces were a breath apart, tears were streaming down her soft rounded cheeks, and as he held her trembling body in his arms, Robert kissed her. At the moment their lips touched he started to regret the action and nearly pushed himself away.

But then, she returned his kiss, pressing her lips against his firmly, and he pulled her against his body. Her hands moved hungrily up his back, clinging to him eagerly, desperately. Like a ripened cord of wood that has waited for a spark, what had been building between them erupted into brilliant flames as they kissed in that narrow hallway. Robert forgot all about George and his own high-minded sympathies. All that existed now was this lovely little woman and his enflamed passion.

His tongue yearned for the taste of her mouth and she parted her lips willingly. With each movement of their lips and tongues and hands and bodies Robert felt consumed by an endless desire. As his lips sought the soft tender flesh of her neck, he called her name, “Elizabeth … Elizabeth … Elizabeth!”

They turned and danced along the hallway, his kisses spreading to her shoulders as her robe loosened. It wasn’t as though he was leading their languid little three-step or that she was pulling him anyplace in particular. But he could feel her body, naked beneath the robe, and he wanted to see it, to feel it, to touch it, and to taste it. Through the bedroom doorway they waltzed, crashing down onto the bedcovers.

What her loosened robe didn’t reveal, Robert laid bare with his hungry finger and his warm wet kisses. Her hands found his head and guided him to where she wanted him to go, his lips and tongue finding their way from her neck down along the valley between her breasts and then to circle each one slowly, drinking in the soft smooth tender skin, lapping at her proudly erect nipples, and closing his lips around each one in turn, suckling them hungrily. Her hands pulled at his flight jacket and shirt.

In the background, the wireless crackled with the BBC hourly report, “Warehouses and sheds have been set on fire and heavy damage done at the Surrey Commercial Docks as a result of an attack with high explosive and incendiary bombs …” But that was lost on the two entangled on the bedcovers.

“Bobby! Bobby!” Elizabeth cried out as his hands pulled her robe open and laid her body bare to his touch and his hot wet kisses. “Oh, Bobby!”

 

[Why]

Elizabeth Fitzmorgan.

His mouth pushed against hers willing it to open. Elizabeth found herself stumbling along the passage, clinging to Bobby, relishing the touch of his lips as they traced down her neck. He said her name, hash with passion. She shuddered; the loss, grief and desire blending in her to a torrent of emotions she could not control nor wish too.

Elizabeth wanted this because the fear in her told her that Bobby might not be here tomorrow, that like George he could be gone. They fell together onto the rumbled bed, Bobby’s hands opening her robe; his finger’s and lips exploring her skin. A touch here at the side of her breast sent shivers through to her nipple, Bobby completed the surge of exquisite pleasure by taking the nipple in his mouth and moving it with his tongue, encouraging it to grow, to fill his mouth if that were possible.

Her hands ran through his black hair as she moved his head from one side to the other, allowing him to feed on her again. She began to push nearly in frenzy at his jacket, pulling out his shirt, ripping a button off in her haste to touch his skin. It was haste now. A need so strong; a fear so strong and both were growing.

One of Elizabeth’s nails broke as she tugged at Bobby’s belt. All the time she was saying his name as if to convince herself he was here, he was touching her, he wasn’t lost like George. Bobby’s trousers were barely open before her hand was in, circling him, her fingers stretching round his girth.

Warm. Hot. Bobby’s whole length pulsed with life. Elizabeth squirmed under him, dragging his mouth from her breast as she did so. She guided the head of his penis, closer to her, brushing the soft down on her mons, using it to part her lips. Bobby groaned and pushed himself forward. Elizabeth gasped as he slipped along the soft swollen flesh. She was still tight, not fully aroused, but she wanted Bobby inside her now. If he was inside her he was here, he was safe. Inside her. Now.

Elizabeth did not want to wait; if she waited she would have time to think; if she thought she feared she would pull away, he would pull away. She would lose him as surely as if he had crashed and burned. She raised her hips and impaled herself on him. They shuddered as if they were one as Elizabeth’s body first resisted his entry then accepted him.

Elizabeth felt every inch of him slip into her, gloried in the sensation of him forcing her open. She squealed and Bobby took hold of her chin looking into her eyes. He stopped moving in her, just lay supported on his one arm on top of her, looking into her eyes. What he was looking for or thought her saw Elizabeth did not know, she saw in his the look, the need she had seen before. She whispered his name and he swooped down crushing her lips under his, thrusting deep into her. Again and again.

Each time she raised her hips to meet him the words. Inside me, safe, inside me coursed through her mind. She pulled him closer, her nails biting into his back, legs wrapping round him. Hip bones nudging hip bones. Bobby was so tight inside her the pleasure was almost pain.

Elizabeth could feel the climax building in him, in her; the raw need mixing with her grief, the one fueling the other. She was swept away as she came, tumbling down, Bobby entwined in her arms, locked to her body by his. Each wrenching thrust that emptied part of him into her vibrated her soul.

She lay there gasping, trembling underneath him as his head, buried in her shoulder came up and again his eyes looked into hers. Slowly as her desire ebbed away, her grief came upper most. She could feel his penis slipping from her, feel the dampness of their hot passion seeping down her thigh.

She bit her lip, shuddering now with confusion, Why? What? Nooo..? She had just been told her husband was dead and she had?? Her left hand flew across her face, breaking the eye contact with Bobby. Some how she scrambled out from under him and tried to stagger away as she clutched at her groin and sobbed anew.

“Elizabeth,” Bobby called his voice lost in pain. “Elizabeth.” She screamed and flung herself into the bath room, locking the door. She curled on the floor rubbing at her inner thighs, coating them, looking at them. Trying to reason why… Bobby had been inside her, safe inside her…

“Elizabeth…” Bobby banged on the door. “For God’s sake please, open the door.” He banged again, rattling the handle, kicking it, screaming her name. Then it went silent.

“Bobby…” She half called.

“Elizabeth… please talk please” He said her name softly as he stood by the door his head leaning against the wood.

“I…. just give me a minute…” Elizabeth said and started to clean herself.

It was then a distant knocking sounded. Elizabeth spun and fumbled with the bolt, she could here Bobby’s footsteps going to the front door. She opened the bathroom door a crack and heard feet and voices.

“Where is she?” It was Hattie.

“In the bathroom..” Booby answered. Elizabeth could see the back of him, he was dressed, his jacket slung over one shoulder, yet his hair was still tousled from where she had ran her fingers through it.

“Not locked in? You haven’t left her alone…”Hattie’s hand went to Bobby’s arm.

“No.. not left alone,” He answered.

Hattie nodded and looked towards the bathroom. Elizabeth put her shoulders back wiped her face on the sleeve of her robe and stepped out, but all she could see was Bobby’s eyes looking into her.

 

[Miltone]

Robert “Bobby” Wilson

It had passed so quickly that Robert’s head was spinning; the grief, the hurt, followed by the desire and passion. And now? Robert stood outside the bathroom door and watched as Elizabeth stepped out and fell into Hattie’s open arms. The two women swayed slowly back and forth together.

Robert had seen the unconsummated passion inside Elizabeth, he had felt it released as they had made love so impulsively, so desperately. And now with that sweet fervor spent, he felt lost again, the swirl of emotions twisting inside him, turning him about dizzily. Why did things happen so fast? How did I let it happen? She had wanted it too, hadn’t she? Robert longed to comfort her, to tell her how he truly felt, how this was not just about George’s charge to him but something else, something that she had stirred up inside him the moment he had seen her in the club. But her friend was there, holding her as he wanted to, wiping at her tears like he wished to, comforting her with gentle words soft and caresses as he yearned to.

“There, there,” Hattie sang out softly and calmly. “Now, now.”

The two women hugged tightly, their tears both flowing, enough to make Robert’s stiff chin quiver. He felt an emptiness in his gut, a burning nasty feeling as if he had done something so unthinkably wrong that there were no cliff tall enough to jump over. He wiped at his mouth, at his brow; he turned away and strode to the front door. But he couldn’t leave … he wouldn’t leave, and he turned back.

The BBC evening report continued, “The Central Telegraph Office, St Martins Le Grande was hit by high explosive bombs, the upper stories being heavily damaged. Although the emergency telegraph and telephone schemes are in operation … At Greenwich, the Telcon Works was reported to have been set on fire but details of this incident are not yet available … High explosive bombs caused serious damage to the London Docks … Sheds were fired and a fire float was sunk at the quay … At the Star Works, Thomas de la Rue Ltd, Bunhill Row EC has been gutted by fire … No casualties reported … At Poplar, major damage has been caused to the Manganese Bronze and Brass Company's Wharf … The main London-Brighton railway line is reported temporarily closed during a search for suspected unexploded bombs near Merstham Tunnel …”

The names, the places meant little to Robert as he wavered in a no man’s land. Then he captured Elizabeth’s eyes with a single look. Could she see the grief and guilt that he felt deep inside in his glance? But even more so, could she see the desire that he felt for her? Had she realized what their passionate dance had meant to him? All his life he had looked for a woman who could realize all of his hopes and dreams and desires. And now that he had found her he didn’t want to let her go. He needed her desperately.

And just as Robert was about to speak, to set free a thousand thoughts, the sirens sounded and he paused. In that brief moment all of his selfish desires were put aside and he continued toward her, his eyes never leaving sight of her pretty face, now contorted and wracked with grief. He went right up to her, still cradled in the comfort of Hattie’s arms, and placed a kiss on her forehead. His hand stroked her hair, his fingertips brushing her hair away from her face, and wiping away her profuse tears.

“Will you be all right, Mrs. Fitz?” he asked.

Elizabeth nodded weakly as Hattie reinforced her embrace.

“I have to go now but I will be back,” Robert said. “I promised George … I will be back.”

Robert’s hand shifted from her lush silken hair to her cheek, his thumb wiping at her tears. Her eyes closed and he felt Elizabeth press her cheek into the meat of his palm.

“I’ll be all right, Bobby,” she said weakly, her eyes still closed.

He kissed her forehead again and turned away as the wail of the sirens continued. Stepping out into the damp chill of evening, disheveled and dislocated, Robert thumbed a ride back to the airfield, arriving just in time to see Nigel running toward the flight line.

“Scramble to three o’clock,” his wingmate shouted and Robert scurried to the Lady Jane, already in position and idling.

“She’s all ready for you, Bobby,” Colin called out as he climbed out onto the wing and helped Robert inside. “Fully armed and fueled … now go give Goering some real grief!”

The first raids originated from Le Havre and Dieppe, crossed the Coast between Beachy Head and Shoreham, and approached London but failed to penetrate the AA Barrage and turned South again.

Afterwards, a stream of raids of one or one plus aircraft from Cherbourg flew to the Bristol Channel and then across Wales to the Liverpool area. At the same time there were scattered raids in the Midlands.

Later on, raids of single aircraft crossed the Coast at Dungeness and penetrated the London area, returning over Tangmere. By nearly two in the morning raids were becoming more numerous in the London area, but had practically withdrawn from the rest of the Country.

By three in the morning, the raids ceased coming to London from the south, but started approaching from the northeast, originating from the Dutch Islands and returning over Beachy Head. This activity continued until about five and within a half hour the whole country was clear.

Robert and the rest of the 213th had returned by six a.m. Debriefing took place for another hour. Near exhaustion, Robert stumbled into his billet. He shared a smoke with Nigel and the boys but couldn’t sleep. He went to the door and saw the heavy clouds move in from the west. There was a damp taste of rain in the air and soon the entire base was being pelted with a heavy rain shower. Pulling on his hat, Robert ran to the motor pool and hitched a ride into town. Dropped off a couple blocks away, he determinedly made his way to the Fitzmorgan cottage.

Despite the growing daylight, the lights were still on and the door was unlocked. Hattie was soundly sleeping on the couch a blissful expression crossing her face. Robert slipped down the hallway to the bedroom and looked inside. Balled up beneath the bedcovers lie Elizabeth, her arms pulled up tightly to her chest, her legs drawn up like a child hiding from the boogieman.

Robert moved into the room and closed the door behind him. He sat on the bed gently and reached out to stroke her hair. Despite the weak ersatz shampoo, it felt like pure silk to his hand. He smiled; Elizabeth stirred.

“George?” she asked weakly.

Robert leaned down to kiss her cheek. “No … I am not George,” he whispered. “This is Bobby … I’ve come back … I’ve come back to you.”

“But Hattie …”

“She’s sleeping, Liz … this is just you and me now.”

Elizabeth batted open her eyes and looked up at him, searching his face strangely for a moment. She rolled over onto her back and then ran her hand over her cheek and forehead, her slender fingers combing through her hair matted down from her tossing sleep. There was a weak smile that crept over her face as Robert rose up from the bed. Their eyes met again and never left whilst he doffed his flight jacket and uniform tie and shirt. His trousers and skivvies soon met them on the floor as he quickly stripped down and climbed onto bed beside her.

Oh, how he wanted this! Could she see in his face how much he needed this, how much he thought she wanted this too? Her eyes had trailed down over his body as he disrobed. Elizabeth must have liked what she saw by the sly smile on her face. He fell down between the sheets beside her, her body still wrapped in her robe, and he snuggled up behind her as she rolled over onto her side. His arm wrapped easily around her as he nestled up to her.

They lie together for a while as the rain began to grow harder. Then she rose up suddenly and disappeared into the bath only to return and stand beside the bed. As Robert looked up at her, a million thoughts whizzing through his head, Elizabeth slowly untied the belt of her robe and slipped it from her shoulders. My god, she is beautiful! Robert thought. I’ve never seen a lovelier sight! Then she returned to the bed and fell into his waiting open arms, their fully naked bodies embracing warmly. They kissed softly, but his lips moved against her ardently.

“Go to sleep, Bobby,” she whispered when he made a slight move toward kissing the soft flesh of her shoulder. “You need the rest, sweet man.”

With the rain bleating harshly against the windowpanes, Robert nestled his face against her shoulder, inhaled the sweet feminine scent of her body and fell soundly asleep. This was what heaven felt like, he thought. A harsh ringing in his ears interrupted his fleeting dreams of plush clouds and a sweet creamy pink woman. He stirred as he felt a rush of cool air when Elizabeth pushed up from the bed and reached for the telephone.

“Yes?” she said and Robert rolled over onto his back, still half asleep. “”Yes, this is Eliz—Mrs. Fitzmorgan … yes … all right … yes … yes … what? He what? He is?”

The bedroom door burst open and Hattie Mason stood there a quizzical look on her face, spying first Elizabeth sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, covers clutched hastily about her naked body, then Robert lying beneath what was left of the bedcovers, his uniform lying crumpled on the floor.

“What is this?” Hattie exclaimed, looking from one to the other and back again.

“George,” Elizabeth said in a bewildered voice. “They’ve found George … he’s … he’s alive!”

“Oh, my dear!” Hattie said, leaning back against the doorway.

The words couldn’t have hit Robert any harder. There was no place to hide, no easy way to escape. He looked at Elizabeth, then glanced at Hattie, then back to Elizabeth. He couldn’t be … he shouldn’t be … this isn’t possible! This is some kind of cruel mistake!