Between Sorties

15 September 1940

RAF Biggin Hill, Kent

They had been sitting outside the dispersal hut when the warning bell started again.

The afternoon sun lay flat across the airfield. Someone had dragged a deck chair into a strip of shade. Cards were being dealt on an upturned crate; the pasteboards rasped softly against wood. A mug of tea sat cold between them. Above Kent, the sky was blue and almost careless.

Flying Officer Thomas Hale sat apart from the game, his Mae West buckled over his tunic despite the heat. His helmet rested across his knees. When he leaned back against the hut wall, the inflated collar pressed faintly at the nape of his neck. From where he sat, he could see the runway, pale against the grass beyond the perimeter fence, and the narrow road stretching away through fields where a farmer’s cart moved slowly along, ignorant of what might soon pass overhead.

The bell began suddenly, iron on iron, urgent and unapologetic.

Chairs overturned, cards scattered across the concrete.

Hale was on his feet before the second peal, helmet already in hand. He ran with the others toward the waiting aircraft as engines coughed into life down the dispersal line. Mechanics hauled chocks clear. Propellers blurred into discs of light.

He climbed onto the wing and lowered himself into the cockpit of his Spitfire. Harness tight. Fuel on. Mixture rich. He pressed the starter. The Merlin caught, faltered, then settled into a deep, even rumble that vibrated through the airframe and into his ribs.

“Bandits, angels fifteen, north-west.”

They rolled and lifted in twos and threes, wheels snapping up as Kent dropped beneath them in squares of green and gold. Hedgerows divided the land into careful geometry. For a moment, it appeared untouched.

They climbed through thinning cloud and broke into glare.

The bombers were already there — Heinkels in rigid formation, black crosses stark against pale fuselages. Above them, the Messerschmitts wheeled, tight and watchful.

“Blue Section, follow me.”

The first pass tore the formation open. Tracers stitched bright seams through the sky. A bomber rocked as flame licked along one wing before it tipped and began to fall.

Hale steadied a shape in his gunsight and pressed the button. The Brownings shuddered along his wings. The aircraft ahead jerked to the side and vanished into the cloud.

Then the Spitfire jolted.

A hard impact rippled beneath his boots. The engine note shifted — not gone, but wrong. A sharp, unmistakable smell flooded the cockpit.

Petrol.

The fuel pressure needle trembled, then dipped.

“Blue Leader, I’m hit.”

Only static answered.

Smoke feathered back along the canopy. He eased the throttle, eyes moving methodically over the instruments. Fuel pressure is falling. The engine is running rough.

He banked south.

The fight continued behind him, broken and violent against the brilliant sky, but it already felt distant. The engine coughed once, then again, unevenly.

He switched tanks. Nothing.

He pulled the mixture and shut the engine down before it could sputter itself dry. Silence rushed into the cockpit, immense and immediate, broken only by wind tearing past the fuselage.

The Spitfire became a glider.

Below him, Kent opened wide and composed. Fields. Hedgerows. A river catching light. The geometry of home.

He trimmed carefully. Biggin Hill lay ahead, the runway a pale scar across green. He pumped the undercarriage down by hand, counting strokes automatically until the reassuring clunk told him the wheels were locked.

He came in faster than he would have liked. The wheels struck hard. The aircraft slewed once before settling, rolling across grass and shuddering to a halt.

He sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal.

The ground crew were already running.

He climbed out. Petrol streaked the wing root.

“Fuel line’s gone, sir,” one of the fitters said after a quick look beneath the cowling. “You’re fortunate.”

Hale nodded once. Fortune had felt thin at altitude.

The station infirmary occupied a converted farmhouse near the edge of the field, with whitewashed walls. Narrow windows propped open to the late summer air. A row of cots lined one wall.

Nell Carter looked up from a basin as he entered. Her VAD uniform was creased from the day, but clean, the Red Cross armband snug against her sleeve. A strand of hair had slipped free of its pins and rested against her cheek.

“Sit.”

He did.

She cleaned the cut along his forehead without asking how it had happened. Her movements were steady, practised rather than formally trained. The cloth came away faintly pink.

“You smell of petrol,” she said.

“It improves the complexion.”

“Hold still.”

Her fingers were cool against his skin. Outside, an engine roared low and faded.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

“Davies,” she said. “Burns. They’ve taken him to Orpington.”

He absorbed that.

“You’re grounded,” she added, binding gauze around his head.

“For a scratch?”

“For the landing. And because you look as though you haven’t slept in days.”

“I slept.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped back, studying him in a silence that had little to do with the bandage.

“Two days,” she said at last. “No flying.”

He almost smiled. “Ambitious.”

Engines approached and receded outside. The day continued.

He did not fly the next day. Or the one after.

The aircraft was repairable; he was kept from it until the fitters were satisfied. He walked the perimeter more than necessary and smoked more than usual. The smell of petrol lingered in his gloves.

He stood near the runway when the bell rang again, watching the others run. Watched the aircraft lift and tilt toward the sun. He counted without meaning to.

They came back smaller.

The casualty board stood near the operations room, chalk dust gathering at its base. Each evening, it was altered with careful movements. Safe. Missing. Killed.

On the third day, he stood before it with a mug warming his palms.

Davies’ name had shifted.

Not too safe.

He traced the neat lettering absently.

“They found wreckage near Maidstone,” Nell said quietly behind him. “No parachute.”

He nodded once.

She remained beside him longer than required. Neither reached for the chalk.

Later that night, she sat at a small table in the infirmary, writing slowly on thin paper. Hale paused at the doorway.

“Dear Mrs Davies,” she murmured as she wrote. “Your son did not suffer.”

Her pen hovered for a moment before moving again.

He stepped inside.

“Is that true?” he asked.

“It’s kinder.”

She folded the letter carefully and set it aside. For a moment, she did not reach for another sheet.

“You watch them every time,” he said.

She glanced up. “Someone should.”

“Why?”

“So I know who to look for when they come back.”

“And if they don’t?”

Her jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Then I know who to write about.”

He said nothing.

Orders came at the end of the week. Rotation north. Reinforcements drawn toward London.

The news was received without fuss. Kit bags appeared. Parachutes were inspected again. Someone produced a bottle and passed it along in silence.

Before dawn the next morning, the station lay silvered with mist. Grass bent under dew. Engines were tested in brief bursts that fractured the quiet.

Nell stood near the edge of dispersal, hands in the pockets of her cardigan.

She always watched them go.

Hale approached without hurry.

“They say it won’t be long,” he said. “A week. Two.”

“They always say that.”

A lorry rattled past, loaded with kit. The sky behind him was paling.

“Do you remember May?” he asked.

“The dance.”

“You said I had no sense of rhythm.”

“You didn’t.”

“I stood on your foot.”

“Twice.”

“I lost count.”

The corner of her mouth shifted, then steadied.

Engines began properly now, one by one. Propellers blurred. The mist tore apart in their wake.

“Nell.”

She looked at him.

There were things he might have said carefully. Something measured. Something that would not require a reply.

He had nearly said it twice before — once in the doorway of the infirmary, once beside the casualty board. Each time it had seemed indulgent, as though speaking it aloud would weaken something already fragile.

The bell had rung too often for indulgence.

“I nearly didn’t make it back,” he said.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mind the aircraft.”

She waited.

“I minded leaving something unsaid.”

The engines were louder now. Blue Section was moving.

He did not touch her.

“I love you.”