Risking It All (4 page)

No, he mustn’t think of her.

His tiny plane shot into the sky. Where were the bandits? Peering through the cockpit, he cursed—a layer of ice blurred the hood. He had to find a clear spot. Twisting around, he caught a whiff of her scent on his collar and jerked in his seat. Tomorrow he’d wash his jacket. He wanted no memories. She’d made her feelings clear; it was comfort sex she’d offered, likely given to many a soldier, sailor or airman. Well, he wasn’t one of those desperate men and if she suggested it again, he would refuse. He was no woman’s pity fuck.

Chapter Three

Again the call had come too late. Enemy planes hung in the clouds above him, bullets sprayed past him and he stiffened. A bomber, its black curved belly filled with death, rose from below. Would it shoot? He plunged down and came up behind it, positioned his sights and fired. A hit! Smoke poured from the enemy’s left wing and it twisted in a terrifying tumble to the earth.

But there was a second black dot, moving fast, developing wings. Tilting the steering, he aimed up, shooting into the clouds, hoping to hide. The plane flew past and took aim, but not at him. He looked ahead to where another Spitfire slid into the clouds. Arthur.

“Bandits behind,” he shouted into his radio.

Arthur shot his plane right, sun glinting from the metal. Billy slammed on his throttle and went after the 109, but it veered right and his tracers roared past. The enemy bullets tore into Arthur’s plane.

No! He thrust the throttle forward, peering into the mist. He couldn’t lose his best friend, not after Charles. The cockpit swung open on Arthur’s plane. Thank goodness, he was going to bail out, he might make it. Come on, Arthur! Hurry up!

With a ferocious roar, the fuel tank exploded, sending flames and burning metal through the sky. Fragments struck Billy’s plane, knocking him sideways and sending the fragile machine spiraling through the clouds, smoke pouring from the engine. Billy grabbed the steering; he had to level it, bring her back under control. The Spitfire jolted again, throwing him sideways, and his head crashed against the side. A searing pain ripped across his scalp and ear, then spots of crimson dripped onto his flying suit.

Hastily, he straightened. Had Arthur got out?

He searched the sky for a parachute, but there was only the burning plane falling to the earth far below him, streaming trails of thick black smoke. His radio crackled and a male voice ordered him to return to base. He dropped low and circled, searching for any trace of his friend. Nothing. With a howl, he thumped the wheel.

****

“Next batch of mission reports,” Barbara said, dropping them onto Lynne’s desk.

She grabbed them and searched for his name, but it wasn’t there; he hadn’t arrived back yet. She slammed the reports down and stared out the large window at the airfield. There was no way she could have sat in the shelter while he fought above her. Snatching up the scramble report, she stared at the time written on the top sheet—the warning had come too late, the bombers were too close by the time they were alerted. Had she not trained her girls well enough? Were men going to die because their system didn’t work?

Would
he
die?

The damned air raid siren howled again. Snatching her hat from the floor, she thrust it on her head. A huge explosion rocked the tower, flinging her forward against her desk, the hard edge driving the air from her lungs. White walls glowed with flashes of yellow and red flames, a sharp smell of smoke filled the room. Lynne straightened, hand to her stomach. Broken glass lay in glinting piles across the floor, mixed with traces of dark soil and rocks.

“Crikey!” Barbara said, face white. “There’s a huge hole in the field outside. How soon do our shifts end?”

“Down! There’s another one coming!” a woman shouted.

Lynne crawled under her desk, mission reports clutched in her hand. A second bomb exploded, jolting the building, sending a spray of broken glass into the room, plaster breaking from the ceiling and filling the air with choking white dust. The drone of a plane sounded, and coughing, she climbed out from under the desk to look through the shattered windows.

Was it him? The Spitfire landed on the runway, smoke pouring from a wing. She stared at the number. No, it wasn’t his. Bells ringing, a fire engine raced across the field, swerving left and right to avoid craters. A second plane came in, roaring across the damaged airstrip. A hurricane fighter. Damn it! Where was he? Why hadn’t he returned? Grabbing a pencil from her pocket, she ticked the plane off and remembered his whispered words of last night.

Had he really said he loved her?

An engine throbbed again and a Spitfire broke through the clouds, circling to land. One wing hung at an angle and the landing carriage was jammed. Lynne narrowed her eyes to peer at the number and her muscles went weak. It was Billy’s plane.

She grabbed the window frame and shards of glass bit into her hand, drops of blood sliding down her fingers. He was going to have to crash land. Behind her, the controller shouted a warning and the fire engine and ambulance raced again for the landing strip.

Lynne ran to the door, tore it open and ran down the stairs. Her bike lay on the floor, battered but intact. She threw her leg over it and sped across the field. Hot smoke poured from a flaming crater and as she jolted over a hole, her hat flew from her head but she carried on. She wasn’t stopping—if a bomb dropped now, the tin hat wouldn’t save her.

She pounded up the runway. His plane dropped low over the trees, scraping on the branches, propellers roaring. Thick smoke filled the airstrip and she squinted, eyes stinging. Throwing herself from the bike, she raced towards the Spitfire as it dropped towards the ground. The plane crashed into the earth and sent mud cascading into the air. She couldn’t lose him now.

“Keep back,” a fireman shouted. “It’s going to explode!”

The man grabbed her waist and hauled her back; she struggled, but he grasped her fists and held tight.

“Let me go!” she yelled.

The cockpit pushed open and a hand emerged, grasping at the side of the plane. She jabbed her elbow back, struggling.

“Billy!” she shouted.

He tried to climb out, the plane rocking on its broken undercarriage and the sharp, chemical reek of aviation fuel filling the air.

“Billy, get out!”

He climbed onto the wing, rolled, and landed with a thud on the ground beneath the plane. She jerked a hand to her mouth; his flying jacket was splashed with red. The strong odour of petrol drifted over again as Billy pulled himself onto his knees. The plane burned above him; any second it could fall down, trapping him beneath.

“Get back! All of you,” the fireman ordered. “It’s going to explode.”

There was a loud swoosh and Lynne screamed as hot air burnt her skin, but she ran forward, grasping Billy’s arm.

“Billy, move!” she shouted.

He staggered a few yards and the plane exploded in a deafening roar, spraying them in chunks of scalding metal. Lynne dragged him across the grass as the fireman ran up to support his other side. The tinder-dry grass ignited behind them.

“Hurry, Billy,” Lynne said. The flames were moving fast behind them.

“Bring him here,” a woman shouted.

The ambulance crew were running towards them, a stretcher between them, shrapnel clanking off their hats. A piece struck Lynne’s bare head and she yelped.

“Get him on,” the woman said, dropping the stretcher to the ground.

They swung his legs up onto it, grabbed the handles and raced for their truck. Lynne ran alongside, staring at the blood spreading across his pillow, a hand to her mouth. His face was pale and dotted with burns. Raising a hand to her own skin, she touched sores and her eyebrows crunched, coming away in her fingers like tiny dry twigs.

“Is he all right?” she said, panting.

“Too early to tell,” the medic said.

They carried him into the back of their truck and dropped the stretcher onto a narrow cot.

“Hop in,” one of them said.

Lynne climbed in and sat beside Billy. The vehicle bumped across the grass and he groaned, his fingers tightening on the stretcher. She took his hand.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said. Her hand trembled and she tensed her muscles, heart still thudding in her chest. She leaned to kiss his cheek, desperate for the touch of his skin, to reassure herself he breathed, but he pulled his head away and stared at her through unfocused blue eyes, ringed with bruises.

“How many died?” His voice slurred.

She shook her head and pulled his blanket up.

“How many?” he shouted.

“I don’t know, I only heard about one. A man called Phillips.”

“Arthur. His name was Arthur.”

She pulled back, startled at his harsh tone. “We’ll talk about it later. You’re injured.”

Lynne touched his face, finding the skin wet beneath his eyes. She traced her fingers across the raised bruises then down to his lips.

“Don’t touch me,” he said.

Lynne jumped.

“This is your fault,” he said.

“Billy, it’s me, Lynne.”

“I know who you are.”

She leaned closer; his blue eyes were dazed, blood soaking into the sheet. Was he concussed? The ambulance stopped with a jolt and he groaned.

“Careful!” Lynne said.

“Haven’t time,” the driver opened the door. “A plane’s coming in on fire. Have to get back out.”

Her breakfast rose in her stomach and she swallowed rapidly.

“You all right?” the woman said.

“Yes.” Leaning down, she took hold of the stretcher and helped lift Billy out of the vehicle. Two nurses took hold of the stretcher handles and raced to the hospital hut.

“Is he badly hurt?” Lynne said, running alongside.

“No idea,” the nurse said.

Lynne hurried ahead to open the doors and followed them into a small casualty area. Blood lay in drying patches on the floor and a man screamed from behind a green curtain. The nurses lifted Billy onto a narrow bed and grabbed scissors from a table.

“I’m Nurse Connors,” one of the women said. “What’s his name?”

“Jenkins, Billy Jenkins.”

Lynne reached forward to take his hand, but the nurses blocked her. She watched them insert the scissors into the sleeve of his jacket and rip up to his shoulder.

“Please be gentle,” she said.

They tore open his jacket, ignoring her. His chest was covered in dark purple bruises. Lynne raised a hand to her mouth, unable to believe that last night she’d traced her hands over the same skin.

“You need to go now,” Nurse Connors said.

She couldn’t leave him, not like this.

“I want to stay.”

“Waiting room, please. We’ve dozens of casualties, don’t delay us.”

Lynne leaned down and kissed him. A drop of moisture landed on his cheek and lifting a hand to her own face, she stared at the tears on her fingers.

****

The glass of water stood on his bedside table. Billy reached out a hand again, but his bandaged shoulder wouldn’t stretch far enough. He licked his lips, dry skin against his tongue.

Giving up, he dropped back against the hard pillow and looked around the single room, a narrow cupboard holding an iron bed and cabinet. From above came the drone of planes and he twitched, frustrated. Why was he lying here? He should be finding out why so many died, why he’d lost Arthur. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain flared through his head and his stomach churned. Swallowing, he lay back down.

Where was Lynne?

No, he mustn’t think of Lynne; she’d been cold with him because she feared losing him and she was right. In Special Ops, his life wasn’t worth a shilling.

There was a knock on the door and Lynne stepped in. Thick black smuts covered her face and uniform. She’d washed her hands, they were clean and pink, but she could not hide the burns on her cheeks.

“Was the watcher tower hit?” he said.

“It’s from the airfield,” she said.

“What were you doing there?”

Lynne stared at him, a strange expression in her eyes; like hope. “I’m fine,” she said.

Billy nodded to the water glass. “I can’t hold it.”

Lynne picked it up and placed the rim against his mouth, tilting to pour a small amount of water between his lips.

“They say you’ll be all right.” She put the cup down. “A nasty cut to your head and a dislocated shoulder. Bruises.”

“Can they mend my Spitfire?”

Lynne reached for his hand. “It exploded, Billy. There’s nothing left.”

He remembered the bullet hitting the engine, the jammed landing gear. Arthur. He closed his eyes as a sharp pain filled his chest. His best friend, dead. It never should have happened; Arthur had been an experienced pilot.

Lynne squeezed his hand again. “Billy, I love you.”

Her eyes were red and tear marks ran down her soot-covered cheeks. He couldn’t do this to her; first his brother, now Arthur. When would it be his turn? Oh, why could she not do her job properly?

“I like you, Lynne, you’re a lovely girl. But I don’t do relationships.”

“So you said in the ambulance.”

Damn. What had he said? He couldn’t remember, had felt angry, that was true. Angry about Arthur.

“I’m due to be transferred soon,” he said. “I doubt I’ll see you again.”

She stepped back. “It’s your injuries, your head...”

“No, it isn’t. I’m not interested, Lynne. Last night was a one off.”

She drew in a breath and he hoped she wasn’t crying, he couldn’t bear it, but when she spoke her voice was hard and dry. “All right. I won’t disturb you anymore. Have a good life.”

Heels thudded on the floor as she strode out of the room and he closed his mouth to prevent himself begging her to return. Then, from above, came the drone of a bomber.

****

“Are you all right?” Barbara said.

Lynne looked up from her desk. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not eating or sleeping. Are you worrying about the planes being shot down?”

She nodded. It was partly true.

“But it’s not our fault,” Barbara said. “The moment the signal comes in, we’re racing to put out the call to scramble.”