Ian Slater: Arctic Front

Quickly Shirer flipped over the clipping for more details, but all he saw was an ad for Coca Cola—”the real thing.” He waited for the limey to reappear, but it was a full twenty minutes before he showed up, ambling through the ward. Lana sighed in her sleep and snuggled further into Frank, who was anxiously waving the limey over.

“What’s up, mate?”

Shirer spoke softly but urgently. “How’d he pull it off?”

“Who?”

Shirer indicated the news clipping. “Galland.”

The limey shrugged. “Dunno, mate. Might’ve memorized the old eye chart.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Shirer, his voice low, “but they make you close one eye.”

“Yah,” said the limey, “guess you’re right. I dunno.”

“You’re a great help,” said Frank. “He must’ve thought of some—”

“Tell you what, sunshine,” said the cockney, his tone markedly at odds with the grotesque burn mask he was obliged to wear.”I’ll ask the professor — mate o’ mine — when I get ‘ome.”

“That’ll be months,” said Frank, not meaning to be unkind but clearly anxious.

“Yeah, but what’s the big ‘urry? Cease-fire, mate.”

“Yes,” responded Frank, “Well, if you find out, let the know.”

“Not to worry, sport. Ta ta!”

“Frank?” asked Hana, looking drowsy.

“Yes?”

“What’s up?”

“I am,” he replied. “New flight plan.”

“The war’s finished,” she said, yawning.

“Maybe, but I’m not, babe. Not yet.”