Holland - A Pair of Silver Wings

James Holland is the best of the new generation of WW2 historians.

Sebastian Faulks

Holland is good on the mechanics of warfare and gives a thrilling blow-by-blow account of the fighting, which will please military buffs. But it is the voices of the fighting men that lift this book above the level of a simple battle narrative. Holland has a good ear for the telling reminiscences that authenticate the dialogue of so many war films of the time.

The Times

The always excellent James Holland tells a tale of heroism and grit to match any in the annals of war.

Mail on Sunday

A first-rate popular history of a fascinating and neglected battle James Holland is a master of spinning narrative military history from accounts of men and women who were there.

BBC History Magazine

Holland has something new to say. Every page is alive with a level of excitement and enthusiasm. Here is a perspective that turns on its head what I thought I understood filled with insight and detail.

Neil Oliver

As well as a solid piece of research, the book is a tribute to all who fought in historys most brutal airborne confrontation.

Soldier

In rescuing the Battle of the Admin Box from oblivion, Holland has performed a signal service for all the men who fought and died in its defence.

Daily Telegraph

Mr Hollands success is built in part on an engaging writing style and in part on a genuinely fresh approach to events that have been so oft en and apparently definitively recounted. Holland debunks many myths about the period that still linger in popular writing Exceptional.

Wall Street Journal

Impeccably researched and superbly written Hollands fascinating saga offers a mixture of captivating new research and well-considered revisionism.

Observer

Holland is always in command of his narrative, not least because of the breadth of his research, but the weight of his scholarship never oppresses Holland brings a fresh eye to the ebb and flow of the conflict.

Literary Review

James Holland is an internationally acclaimed and awardwinning historian, writer, and broadcaster. The author of a number of best-selling histories including Fortress Malta: An Island Under Siege, Battle of Britain, Dam Busters, and, most recently, The War in the West and Big Week, he has also written nine works of historical fiction, including the Jack Tanner novels. He has presented and written a large number of television programmes and series, including the film Normandy 44 for the BBC, and is a mainstay of the internationally successful Nazi Megastructures. He has scripted and is producing a feature film of his novel, A Pair of Silver Wings. He is also Chair of the Chalke Valley History Festival, a Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, and a Research Fellow at Swansea University. He can be found on Twitter as @James1940.

www.penguin.co.uk

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
6163 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
penguin.co.uk

Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published in Great Britain in 2006 by William Heinemann,
a Penguin Random House company
Arrow Books edition published 2007
Corgi edition published 2019
Copyright James Holland 2006

Cover photographs Getty Images Design by Rhys Willson/TW

James Holland has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the authors imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781473571570

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

For my Parents

The sun burned down on his face. Although his eyes were closed, the world was not dark; rather, it seemed to be diffused by a gentle orange glow. A soothing, warm, orange glow. He was lying down, stretched out and almost hidden by the long grass that surrounded him. A shadow passed across his face and he opened his eyes: she was looking at him, just inches away, the sun lighting the back of her head and giving her flaxen hair an unreal glow, like a halo. She was something good, angelic even; something unsullied, incorruptible. Her mouth was moving, the lips moist, and her eyes smiling, but the words were invisible and unheard. Every feature of her face was so clear: the small nick in her eyebrow where the dark hairs refused to grow; the small mole on the end of her left earlobe; the deep-brown eyes that searched his own face. So clear, as though he were staring at her through a magnifying glass. As though her face filling his view was somehow protecting him.

The sun vanished and in its stead came rain, and he was no longer lying down gazing at her, but rather, crouching, in a corner of a dark building. She had gone. There was straw at his feet and other people nearby. Men, crouching with rifles. He was looking through some kind of opening and watching soldiers walking steadily up the hill towards him. They looked inhuman, more like machines, because they were indistinct, faceless. He was turning towards someone near him, someone yelling at him, his mouth screaming, the veins on his neck pulsing with panic and terror. He still couldnt hear the words but now he was running, his heart beating loudly and increasingly fast. A muddy track, a wall and thick undergrowth, scratching, tearing his skin, and a voice that was telling him that no matter how much pain he felt, or how much his face and hands were running with blood, he must not stop until he reached the summit. And then he was there, on the bald patch of ground, looking down, his world beneath him. He could see all around him but his eyes were fixed on a line of people standing against the wall and the soldiers opposite. He had to do something. Panic welled within him panic born from helplessness. No! he was screaming, Dont do this! But no matter how hard he shouted, no noise came from his straining mouth, his pleading lost to anyone but him.

Edward Enderby woke with a start, and for a moment felt quite disorientated and short of breath. It was a dark night, but even in a small town like Brampton Cary the streetlights ensured there was a faint filter of neon, and soon the features of the familiar room began to focus. Edward turned, still half expecting to find the door side of the bed filled with the warm and gently breathing figure of his wife, and was dismayed to see that the sheets and blankets had been wrenched from the sides and into a state of disorder. His pyjamas were clammy, too, and when he put his fingers to his brow, he touched beads of sweat.