How often must he have had to dodge their flak?
So, he must be scared.
Terrified, for all his talk of ice cream.
‘Robbie,’ she called out, and didn’t know what she wanted to say, only that she had to say something to help him with his fear.
Something to alleviate it, if only for a moment.
He stopped, turning back to her.
Desperate to run to him, she remained where she was.
He didn’t move either.
And, in a rush, the words came to her.
‘Don’t do anything stupid now, will you?’ she said.
To her delight, he laughed.
He was still laughing when, shaking his head, he once again turned from her, and carried on walking away.
The thought of that laugh kept her going through the long night that followed.
She held it very close, all the way until dawn.
Chapter Eleven
Zero four hundred hours: that was when the squadron was expected to begin returning from Italy. The station commander, Group Captain Frederick Lacey –Fred, as Robbie had called him – arrived in the glass-walled control room to look out for them all, just as Doverley’s groundcrew had finished relighting the flare path to beckon them home.
A railway marshalling yard near Milan was the target they’d been given. The squadron, which had left at full strength – twenty-four planes – had been trailed by many hundreds of other crews from around Britain. Their route had taken them across the sea and occupied France, up and over the alpine ranges – where the weather was always unpredictable, and more than cold enough to cause an unlucky plane to ice up and drop from the sky – then on to that yard, which they’d been ordered to obliterate before turning around and doing the entire perilous journey in reverse.
The control room’s clock ticked above the doorway.
It was already seven minutes past four, and so far only one of 96’s planes had come back:Lady Lucy– coded T for Tiger – who, thanks to an electrical fault in their wireless transmitter, had been forced to abandon the mission before they’d reachedFrance. They’d discharged their bombs into the North Sea, and sent up a flare on approach to Doverley, but, with their broken transmitter, hadn’t been able to radio the switchboard for permission to land. Right up until they’d arrived, Iris had hoped that they wereMabel’s Fury.
ButMabel’s Fury, like everyone else, was still gone.
And now it was eight minutes past four.
From her seat at the switchboard, Iris stared out into the vast night sky. The moon was still very bright. It angered her that an operation had been ordered in these conditions. No one liked flying on a clear night under a full moon. It made them too easy to spot. She hoped the strategists in Bomber Command were very sure of this railway yard being worth the danger they’d put everyone in.
She dropped her eyes to the glimmering torches. Four ambulances were parked at the head of the main runway, manned and on standby.
Waiting.
To her right sat Clare, headset on, staring out at the night too. Waiting.
Their Supervisor, Sergeant Browning, stood to their left, by a chalkboard bearing the names of all twenty-four planes that had gone up. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes on the sky. Waiting too.
Group Captain Lacey,Fred, stood over at the windows, also with his hands in his pockets. Also watching the sky.
Also waiting.
He’d been to Cologne with everyone the night before, but had stayed behind tonight. Robbie – who’d served under him at his previous squadron, back in Kent – had told Iris that he, who could fly when he chose, only ever flew on the most dangerous missions, to keep morale up. He hadn’t felt the need to do that tonight. Not to Italy.
And now it was nine minutes past four.
