“Oi, Canada!”
Sharon turned around. She sat at the canteen at Duxford airfield, north of London. The airfield had been built on this flat stretch of farmland during World War I. Sharon’s most recent delivery, a brandnew Hurricane, was being fitted for combat inside a hangar where mechanics swarmed over it.
A pilot was raising his coffee cup to her. She recognized him as one of the pilots she’d met at Biggin Hill. His accent was Scottish, his hair the colour of ginger, and he was a foot shorter than Sharon.
She raised her own coffee in greeting. “How are you, Ginger?”
He walked over to sit down across from her. “What’re you doin’ here, lassie?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Sharon watched him warily.
He leaned forward and offered his hand. “My real name is Jock.”
“Sharon.” She shook his hand. He has remarkably gentle hands.
“I was on patrol this mornin’. The engine started actin’ up. Puffin’ a wee bit of oily smoke. So here we are.”
Sharon wrapped her hands around the coffee cup. “For me, it was a Hurricane delivery. Now I’m just waiting for a ride to the next one on my list.”
“How many deliveries are they havin’ you do in a day?” Jock asked.
“Depends. So far, I’ve had as many as six and as few as two.” Sharon saw Jock’s attention shift, and her eyes followed to a nearby barrage balloon. A couple climbed between the rear fins and up the spine of the grey three-finned balloon. Somewhere near the middle, the couple sat down, and the balloon began to rise. “What’s going on there?” Sharon turned to Jock.
His face turned red. “Sightseein’, I believe.”
“Have I embarrassed you?”
Jock shook his head. “What’s your tally now? Last time I heard, you had three.”
“Word travels fast around the airfields.” I don’t like where this is going. “What’s your tally?”
“Four and a half. Why are you changing the subject? Just because you’re a bit of a legend among pilots does na mean your exploits are common knowledge to the general population.”
Sharon watched the balloon rise. I wonder where Michael is. She caught a glimpse of white undergarments. “That couple is sightseeing, you say?”
Jock said, “Once around the block.”
“What?”
“A not very polite turn of phrase.”
“You mean he’s after a bit of crumpet?”
“More or less. I mean, I’m not offerin’, just explainin’, understand. Wife would have my balls for bookends, you see, if I were to catch a ride on that balloon.” Jock’s face turned a shade redder.
“Rather an interesting way to mate.”
Jock’s face was glowing now.
Sharon decided to change the subject. “How come everyone’s so interested in my tally?”
Jock thought for a moment. “Suppose it’s because you’re a bit of a natural. Pilots watch how other pilots fly. When they see you land, it’s like you’re performin’ a bit of magic. Not everyone has the touch, understand. Me, I’m a good shot and a fair pilot. You’re a rare one. The aircraft is more like a bird than a machine when you’re flyin’ it.”
It was Sharon’s turn to feel the heat of embarrassment on her face.
“But are you a good shot?” Jock asked.
“Shot a few gophers back home. And some clay pigeons.”
“Gophers?”
“Ground squirrels. Any advice for someone who’s never fired the guns in a fighter plane?”
“Depends what you’re askin’.”
“You’re a good shot. What does it take to shoot down a Nazi?”
Jock looked past her. “Get in close.”
“How close?”
Jock looked directly at her. “Very close. Use short bursts. Remember, your bullets drop over distance, so just get within a hundred yards and blast away at the bastards. If you can, hit the cockpit. Then get out before someone gets you.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t know why you want to know. Fightin’s nothing to do with you. You’re a woman.”
“If the rumours of invasion are true, no one in the Luftwaffe will be taking the time to check. Besides,” she winked, “I hear people like us — Canadians and Scots, that is — are cannon fodder for the Empire.”
“The rumours are true. I blundered over France, Boulogne, to be exact, a fortnight ago. The flak was murderous, and yes, the port was filled with barges.” Jock’s eyes lost their focus as he relived the experience. “As far as being cannon fodder up there,” he pointed up with his index finger, “no one’s takin’ the time to check where you’re from.”
“What were you doing over Boulogne?”
“Chasing a Jerry flyin’ a Messerschmitt 109.”
“Did you get him?”
“You bet I did. That Nazi bastard killed a friend of mine.”