G R Matthews [Matthews - Ace

ACE

By

G R MATTHEWS

Copyright 2017 G R Matthews

All rights reserved

ACE

" Never was so much owed by so many to so few "

Winston Churchill, August 20, 1940

Jimmy, get us another pint.

James Lock sighed. It wasnt getting the drink that bothered him. It was the use of Jimmy. No one but his brother called him that and despite telling him a thousand times that he was too old to be called Jimmy, Eric continued to do so.

Dont pull that face, little brother. Eric sat back in the high back chair, a smile on his face. It does you good to know that there is someone out there who can still get under your skin.

And who gets under yours? Thats what I wonder, James said as he stood from his chair.

The wife, Eric admitted, the smile turning rueful. It is a good thing to be married, Jimmy, but a pleasure best enjoyed after a lifetime of denial.

Ha! James snorted and picked up Erics empty glass. The Officers mess, a converted stately home in the North Kent countryside, had a good selection of beers. The one industry that hadnt yet seen rationing introduced. The enlisted man behind the bar took the pint glasses and refilled them from the pumps. Vera Lyns sweet voice sang out from the wireless in the corner.

Last one for me, Eric said, taking the pint of ale from his brother. Leave is over tomorrow.

Same here. It was good of you to come down.

Barely twenty miles, Jimmy. Youre not at the end of the world. Eric sipped from his glass.

Feels like it, Eric. Ever since the war started, I havent had a chance to go home, to see mother.

Its war, Jimmy. Mothers fine. I called her the other day from Biggin Hill. The farms doing well and she says Fred will bring in a good harvest this year. Reckons he has a lead on some good hands for September.

We should be there. He heard the catch in his voice, the emotion held back.

Fredll look after mother and the farm. We belong here. Not many can do what we do, James.

I know that, Eric. Its just his words tailed off as the air raid siren began to wail.

Behind the bar, the enlisted man started to ring the bell and called out, All Officers to the shelter.

Come on. James jumped to his feet and reached for Erics arm, helping him out of the deep cushioned chair.

Right with you, Jimmy. Eric bowed and waved an arm for his younger brother to precede him.

Youre not allowed to bring the drink with you.

This is the last beer Im going to get for a while. I am certainly not leaving it here for some stray bomb to blow to pieces. Eric lifted the glass and drank a few large swallows. There you go. Now I wont spill as much.

James sighed again, and shook his head. Lets go.

***

Lock, the call came out of the office door, come in and close the door.

James stood and walked into the COs office. He stopped two paces from the desk and snapped off a smart salute.

Squadron Leader Logan returned the salute from his seat behind the varnished oak desk. Close the door, Lieutenant.

Yes, sir. James did as asked and turned back to the CO.

Sit down, James. Logan indicated the wooden chair.

The use of his first name set Jamess heart beating. To everyone on the base he was Lock or Lieutenant. Very few used his given name, certainly not the Squadron Leader. He glanced round the room, looking for a hint or clue of the upcoming bad news. Nothing obvious. Maybe the CO had heard about the raid on the bars whiskey stock, carried out by a select group of Locks fellow pilots under the cover of night? But the use of his given name hinted at something more personal. He wasnt going to be torn off a strip, it wasnt that kind of opening. Something else. Jamess heart stopped and he put a shaky hand on the back of the chair, he legs losing the strength to hold him upright, and sank into the seat.

Sir? James prompted when the CO had not spoken or looked up from the file in front of him for a minute or two.

James, Logan began, war is a difficult thing. If the Surgeons photograph had not appeared in the Daily Mail back in 34, there is a good chance it would never have happened.

Im not sure I understand, sir, James said. Why the history lesson? This was common knowledge. For over three hundred years it had been a secret, closely guarded and hidden from all prying eyes. Then the grainy photo of Loch Ness and the world changed.

It brought us to war, James. One photograph. Now our isles are under constant attack and though they lose many, our losses cut deep. Where they can manufacture, and the word seemed to fall from the COs mouth like a lump of gristle, replacements, ours take much longer to mature. We cannot afford to lose them, James.

Sir? The single syllable quavered.

This telegram, the CO passed a thin sheet of cream paper over, arrived this morning. Im sorry, James. Eric was shot down over Boulogne. As yet, we have no reason to believe he survived the crash.

The paper in his hand forgotten, he started at the COs face. No.

My sympathies and condolences, Logan said in a quiet voice. The patrol he was flying were ambushed by Bf109s over the coast. Those who returned report they saw him go down.

Perhaps he was captured? James grasped the thought. Hope. A flutter of his heart. A moments relief from the bile rising in this throat.

It is unlikely, Logan said, shaking his head.

He could have recovered, James stated, refusing to let go of the chance.

James, I think you have to accept it. Eric, your brother, is dead. His Spitfire took too much damage from the Bf109s and went down. Logan looked him in the eyes. Do you want the telegram sent on to your mother or would you like to be the one to tell her? Youve been granted two days compassionate leave.

He sat still, silent for a long minute. The longest of his life. Indecision and grief battled upbringing and reality. Eric was dead. Shot down. Now, there was only him.

Ill tell her, he said.

Logan nodded. I thought you would. There is a train to London in an hour.

If its all right, sir, he said, pausing to take a breath, I thought I could fly there. My Hurricane will be quicker and she deserves to know as soon as possible.

Logan closed the folder, sat back in his chair and frowned. Hurricanes are not an RAF officers personal transportation.

Of course, sir, James said, but I could be there and back more quickly.

However, the CO continued, ignoring Jamess interruption, I do have some important documents and the base crew have some personal items they would like to get to their families. I think a mail run could be permitted, in these circumstances.

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.

Collect the mail at fourteen hundred, take off at fourteen thirty unless Jerry has different ideas. Logan stood and reached out a hand towards James. Please convey my condolences to your mother. Her son died a brave man. A hero.

Yes, sir. Ill tell her. Thank you, sir. James shook the proffered hand. Taking a deep breath, he took a step backward, bringing his heels together and delivered a crisp salute.

Dismissed. Logan returned the salute.

James turned away, holding back the pressure behind his eyes. The time to cry was later. Other things mattered now.

***

The flight suit, leather on the outside, fur-lined on the inside, was making him sweat as he carried the mail bag across the grass between the tower and the hangar. A quick check in the map room, a chat with one of the girls, a beautiful brunette with deep sympathetic eyes, had furnished him with all the location and weather details he needed. It had been an absent minded kind of conversation and he knew, on any other day, hed have been tongue-tied and nervous. This afternoon, nerves and shyness were not a consideration.

Hurricanes had a unique smell. One breath and youd never mistake it for anything else. Some, James knew, couldnt stand it. To them it reeked, stank to high heaven and back. To him, it was sweet and homely. Just the first hint of it almost broke the dam hed built to hold back the grief. There would be time to cry when he got back. Right now, there was duty and obligation. Not to the RAF, not to the King, the Kingdom, or its people, but to family.