The Complete Flying Officer X Stories Read Free

weather is sometimes bad. But far from always, far from always. It’s too often a convenient excuse — like the workman blaming his tools.”
    â€œNevertheless it nearly always is the weather.”
    â€œOh? Then what about last night? Clear moonlight like day. And was there a single operation? A couple of bombers over Brest.”
    â€œYou talk as if Brest were a seaside resort.”
    â€œLook at the weather again tonight. Magnificent. And in the morning what shall we hear? The same old story again, I suppose. A handful of bombers over Brest. Or nothing at all.”
    â€œIt’s probably the most heavily defended place in Europe,” she said. “It’s just plain hell.”
    â€œKitty, Kitty,” her mother said. She looked up from her knitting, always khaki, and looked down again.
    â€œAlso I think you may find that tonight has been a big thing.”
    â€œOh! You know, do you?”
    â€œNo. Not exactly. I’ve an idea, that’s all.”
    â€œAh! Your pilot friend.”
    She did not speak.
    â€œYou haven’t brought him in lately.”
    â€œNo, dear,” her mother said.
    â€œThey spend most of their time out,” her father said. “Somewhere.”
    Her mother spoke without looking up from her knitting.
    â€œWere you at the Red Lion last week?” her mother said. “We heard you were there. Drinking with Air Force officers.”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œIs that the kind of place to be?” her father said.
    â€œDrinking,” her mother said. “It’s not nice. Do you think so?”
    â€œI want to be wherever he is.”
    â€œEven there? Couldn’t you give him up?” her mother said. “He struck me as being older than he said. Do you know much about him? You are only twenty. It’s all so terribly unsure. Perhaps he is married. Do you know?”
    She did not answer.
    â€œHe looks older than twenty-four,” her mother said. “Experienced. His eyes look old.”
    She got up, calmly enraged, definite. “He has done things that make him old,” she said, and went out of the room.
    The following night they drove back late to the station.With the moon rising and the searchlights up, the road shone misty white between the dark hedges. The evening lay behind them, as always, simply secure; a few rounds of light ale at the Red Lion, the boys coming in group by group, the rounds growing, the crews mixing, sergeants with squadron leaders, gunners with navigators, warm broad Canadian voices mingled with English; and then the drive home, the blue lighting of the searchlights, and the moonlight throwing into relief the black winter trees, the hangars lit by red stars, the huge solitary dispersed aircraft in the fields; and lastly the silence after the car had stopped beyond the gate of the station.
    â€œWas it a good trip, darling?”
    He did not answer.
    â€œBad?”
    â€œPretty bad.”
    â€œDid you have trouble?”
    â€œThe usual. Ten tenths most of the way and then some hellish flak.”
    She thought of her father. She saw him in an armchair, rolling the cigarettes, waving a newspaper. “Always the weather!”
    â€œI’m sorry I couldn’t ring,” he said. “It was late when we got in for interrogation. I didn’t want to wake you.”
    â€œI was awake,” she said.
    They sat still, not speaking. She thought again of her father.
    â€œTell me about the trip.”
    â€œNothing to tell. Routine stuff.”
    She did not like the sound of his voice, tired and guarded; the feeling that part of him was deliberately withheld.
    â€œI can tell when you have trouble.”
    â€œWhat trouble? No trouble at all.”
    â€œWhy have you got your hand in your pocket?” she said. “You’ve had it there all the time.”
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    He began suddenly to tell her something about the trip. Though she had heard so