James Benn - The Rest Is Silence

“What happened?” I asked, surprising myself. “I mean, were you shot down or did you crash-land?” Kaz glanced at me, and I knew it was bad form to be so direct.

“A bit of both. We were on our way back to base,” David said, his voice steady but quiet. “Four of us. It had been an uneventful patrol, for a change. We were jumped by a dozen or so Fw 190s as we began our descent. They must have been circling high above our airfield, waiting for aircraft to come in. I wish I could say I got any of the bastards, but it happened too fast. Much too fast.” He took a drink and wiped his mouth, fingers lingering over the sharp line that had once been his lower lip. “My engine was hit, and I was nearly blinded by black smoke. Flames burst through the instrument panel. I put the nose down and headed for the runway, hoping they were done with me and I could get out before the cockpit was engulfed by fire. It was too low to bail out, otherwise I would have. Do you know that in a Spitfire the fuel tanks are directly in front of the pilot? All that high-octane fuel sitting there, inches away.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said, just to say something. The thought was horrifying.

“At least I was low on fuel, which saved my life, such as it is,” David continued. “I thought I’d made it, but one of the Jerries gave me a final burst. Came at me from the left, a bit too high. He put a single twenty-millimeter shell through my canopy. The wind sucked the flames past my face like a blowtorch. They said the goggles saved my eyes, but I don’t remember anything after that long tongue of flame. I landed the Spitfire, although I have no memory of it. The ground crew pulled me out seconds before the aircraft exploded.”

He drank again.

“You’re certain there’s nothing more a specialist could do?” Kaz asked.

“Piotr, I have been in the hands of a great physician. Have you heard of Doctor McIndoe and the Guinea Pig Club?” Neither of us had. “Archibald McIndoe, a truly great man. He heads up the burns and reconstructive-surgery section at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Sussex. It’s exclusively for RAF pilots and crewmen who have been badly burned.”

“Why ‘guinea pig’?” I asked.

“McIndoe had to create new techniques and equipment. No one had ever seen so many burn cases before. The medical staff are all members of the club, and I was inducted a couple of months ago.”

“But you were injured a year ago,” Kaz said.

“Yes,” David answered. “But you have to have had at least ten surgical procedures to be admitted. We can’t just let anyone in.” There was pride in his voice, and I wondered if David felt more at home with the members of the Guinea Pig Club than at Ashcroft. “You’d be laughed out of the ward with that pathetic little scar of yours, for instance.”

“It sounds like Doctor McIndoe has the right approach to the job,” I said.

“He does. Some men have lost their hands and faces; they come to the hospital thinking they’re beyond redemption. And the injuries are nothing compared to the surgeries,” David said, clenching a fist as he thought of the pain. “But he does his best to create a bond between the staff and patients, even with the locals. He got some of them to organize visits for home-cooked meals, to help the lads prepare for going out into the world. They were wary at first, both the locals and the men, but now when they walk through town, they’re greeted instead of gawked at.”

“Did it help you, David?” Kaz said. “To come home?”

“Listen, Piotr-and Billy. There’s something I wanted to ask you,” David said, ignoring the question and answering it at the same time. “I’d like to go back on active service. As soon as possible. I thought with you being at SHAEF and all, you might be able to pull some strings.”

“Can you still fly?” I asked.

“Not in combat, no,” David said. “With only one decent eye, my depth perception is off. I wouldn’t last a minute in a dogfight. I can still fly a fighter, although I doubt they’ll let me. I need to do something useful.”

“You mentioned a doctor’s appointment in a few weeks. Won’t Doctor McIndoe help you out?”

“It’s not up to him, unfortunately. The RAF medical section rules on return to duty, and so far it hasn’t been promising. It’s not the burns-I know of badly burned men who’ve been given desk jobs. But one bum eye combined with the burns seems to have them in a quandary.”

“Perhaps you should wait and see what this doctor decides,” Kaz said.

“If he invalids me out of the RAF, my chances are dashed,” David said. “I thought if you could put in a word for me now, there might be a place for a bright Oxford chap on someone’s staff. They took you, Piotr.” David stopped and glanced at me, then back at Kaz. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. I think I’ll go mad if I have to sit around Ashcroft on Sir Rupert’s charity any longer.”

“Don’t worry, David. Billy knows about my heart condition. We have no secrets.”

“Good, I was afraid I’d said too much. Well, what about it?”

“David is fluent in several languages,” Kaz said, looking to me. “He’s fit enough to sit at a desk, wouldn’t you say?”

“As well as any staff officer,” I said. What else could I say? “I’ll talk to Colonel Harding and see what he can do. No promises, though. There might be nothing. Or it could be a job as a glorified file clerk.”

“I don’t care,” David said. “I’ve had my time in the air. I’ve got five victories, which makes me an ace, you know. Three Germans and two Italian aircraft. I can be proud of that, but I don’t think I can stand being given my walking papers. I want to see this thing through in uniform. Perhaps I can help with translations, or photographic interpretation. I did a bit of that before North Africa. My good eye still has perfect vision.”

“We will do our best,” Kaz said, resting his hand on David’s shoulder. I was glad to see Kaz happy to help out his pal. But there was something else driving David’s desire to stay in the service, I was sure of it. Not being stuck at Ashcroft would be at the top of my list.

Our food came. First was fish chowder, then smoked haddock with carrots and parsnips. Root vegetables were big when it came to English cuisine under wartime rationing. Easy to grow and store, they were on every menu.

“Not quite the same as fresh peas,” I said.

“But no Great Aunt Sylvia to rap your knuckles,” David said.

“Is she always so outspoken?” I said.

“From what I’ve seen,” David said as he took a drink. “As I understand it, Ashcroft belonged to the Pemberton family for hundreds of years. As Sylvia mentioned, she lost both her husband and her son in the last war, so no heirs there. She was the sister of Lord Pemberton, Louise Pemberton’s father. Louise being Sir Rupert’s deceased wife. Louise had a brother, but he died in the influenza outbreak after the war. That left Louise as the only heir. She inherited the estate when Lord Pemberton died.”

“And Great Aunt Sylvia comes with the inheritance?” I said.

“Yes, exactly,” David said. “Lord Pemberton put a clause in his will stipulating that Sylvia-she’s entitled to be called Lady Pemberton-be provided for at Ashcroft for the remainder of her life. I don’t think anyone thought she’d be around so long. She turned ninety last winter.”

“Who owns the place now?” I asked.

“Sir Rupert. He inherited it from his wife, and is required to maintain Sylvia in the same manner. I don’t believe he begrudges her, but she never passes up an opportunity to mention how well the Pembertons maintained the estate before the Sutcliffes came along. Of course with all the new taxes, it is much harder these days.”