Clare had given them their instruction to land, since Iris was busy with another crew. But hearing her do it,Hello, Oscar,knowing that she would now get to see Robbie again – speak to him, touch him,bewith him, if only for one more day – she very nearly broke down.
Time is running out.
Not yet, she thought.Not yet.
She couldn’t be too euphoric though.
They were only the sixteenth plane to return, and that worried her.
It worried them all.
They’d been expectingMabel’s Furyto arrive last. They’d had to remain over the target longest, after all.
But they couldn’t be the last.
There were still eight planes missing.
‘They’ll come,’ said Browning, gripping his chalk. ‘We’ll wait.’
They did wait. None of them went to interrogation that morning. They remained in the control tower until the sun had fully risen, flooding their glass-walled room with its rays.
But there were no further calls to their switchboard.
No more elated requests to land.
Only the telephone trilled: Prim, ringing from interrogation.
Grimly, Browning listened to her.
He nodded.
Hung up.
Turned to Iris and Clare.
‘Don’t,’ said Clare, guessing what he was about to say.
Don’t, Iris thought, knowing it too.
But Browning spoke anyway.
‘They all went down.’ His Scotch voice was gruff, straining with his effort at control. ‘Heaven Sentbaled over the North Sea. They’re safe, they’ve been picked up by one of our patrols. All the others were taken over the target. There were fighters everywhere.’ He turned, looking up into the serene summer sky. ‘Picked us off like coconuts in a shy.’
‘Were there … ?’ began Clare.
‘No,’ said Browning. ‘No chutes. Not that anyone saw.’
Mutely, Clare shook her head.
And, slowly, Iris stood.
She went to the chalkboard, touching the names of the seven crews they’d lost.
Then, the blank spaces they’d each left.
Forty-nine lives, reduced to an empty square.
Her fingers came to a rest on the gap beside Q for Queen.
