[ SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1940 ]
Sharon hung up her f light suit and dropped off her parachute in the equipment shed at White Waltham. The inside smelled of dust, mould, and the captive heat of a summer sun.
She shut off the lights and closed the door behind her. Outside, the moonless night wrapped itself around her like a wartime black-out curtain. She looked up. Now this looks like home. The stars were almost as bright as she remembered on the prairies.
After about five minutes, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she began her walk to the cottage.
Once she had the feel of the tarmac under her feet, she began to relax. Familiar landmarks passed as shadows to her right and left.
The breeze carried the scent of tobacco.
German paratrooper. She smiled at her fear. We’re all so paranoid about an invasion.
She heard the crunch of a heavy boot on the tarmac. The musty stink of cigarettes mixed with body odour.
She stopped. There was movement just ahead of her.
Something sharp and metallic jabbed her between the breasts.
“Step forward.” The voice was thickly accented. It wheezed and whistled when it inhaled.
“How the hell can I do that with a bayonet jammed in my chest?”
The pressure at her chest eased, but she could sense steel there, hovering inches away. She had a flashback of Uncle Marmaduke pushing up against her in the storage room. It ignited her.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“Who the hell are you? I’ve done six deliveries for the ATA today, and I’m knackered.” She shook her head. Who is this idiot who thinks he can jab me with a bayonet?
“I’m LDV!” The voice was pitched higher this time.
Sharon heard indignation and ignored it. “If you really are in the Home Guard, shouldn’t you be looking for Germans instead of me?”
Silence for a moment. “If you really are ATA, why are you a woman? I’ve never heard of a woman being a pilot.”
“Now you have!”
“How do I know you’re not fifth column?” the home guard asked.
“Because I’m a bloody Canadian, you fucking halfwit! Now, get the hell out of my way, and let me get home to get some sleep. I’ve got a full day ahead of me tomorrow.” Now you’ve done it — he’s going to run you through.
Silence, then, “Pass. Only a Canadian would be that foul-mouthed.”
“Asshole.” Sharon stepped to her left and walked forward. The hair stood up along the back of her neck. All the way home, she expected to hear a rifle shot.