Lover by Laura Wilson Page A

yet…three-second burst with full deflection—she shakes, and jolts from the recoil—thumb slips—get a grip, get a grip…meaningless racket of voices over the R/T—‘Other way, you stupid bastard!’
    â€˜Ten o’clock, ten o’clock!’

    A 109 shoots past me, followed by a Spit—Ginger, I think—and a mouthful of Polish is spat into my ear. Balchin bellows, ‘Speak fucking English, can’t you?’
    I can’t see Holden-Whatsit anywhere. ‘Yellow Two, where are you?’
    A Spit streaks straight in front of me with a 109 behind, knocking chunks off it—‘Help me, somebody help me!’ High, choir-boy voice…realise it’s my wingman, whatever his fucking name is, trying to get himself killed.
    â€˜You stupid bastard!’ I charge after the 109—get right up his arse and let him have it, a four-second burst— Bloody Kraut, I’ll give you something to take home —and again—he breaks left but not fast enough—leaking coolant—I give it another squirt and then all hell breaks loose behind me: an almighty thud and she lurches and bumps—tracer flashing over the starboard wing— get out of here for Christ’s sake get out —feel my bladder emptying, sweat running into my eyes, and cut the throttle and shove everything into the corner for a sharp turn. For a second I think she’s not going to respond and I’ve had it, but then— clever girl —she goes, it’s working, and the giant hand pushes my guts to the base of my stomach and presses down on my head, forcing it into my chest, I can feel the blood rush from it, can’t see but can feel my way round the turn, not yet…further, further…she judders—don’t stall, don’t stall…rudder pedals heavy as lead, don’t black out, don’t bloody black out …and…now! 180 degrees, straighten out and I can see again and two 109s are coming straight at me—hear myself scream and she screams too as I yank her into a half-roll to get out of their way—can’t swallow so turn my head aside to get rid of the puke that’s coming up my throat, everything vibrating like hell, grey spots in front of my eyes and for a moment I am as weak as a baby, hands and legs helpless and quivering, then the plane seems to right itself and I see that one of the machines is crippled and wallowing, trailing smoke, port aileron shot up, the pilot a red smear against the Perspex, and the other—definitely a 109—is shooting at it, so it must be one of ours. Get off a long-range shot at the Messerschmitt—tracer seems to bounce off his wing, then the Spit is on fire and falling, falling, and there’s nothing I can do—out of ammo—I see the 109 start to turn and I pull the tit and shove the throttle through the gate to get away from it and she shrieks and shrieks and I’m trying to stay calm, think, be logical, and then I find myself, miraculously, in empty sky, clammy and shivering with cold sweat, and the smell of fuel and cordite and a wet left leg.
    Strange how that happens. One minute all hell’s breaking loose, and the next minute, the sky’s empty and you’re on your own. Quick, look round: row of holes in the starboard wing. Doesn’t look too bad—there might be damage behind that I can’t see, but she’s flying all right. Now then, where’s Holden-Whatsit?
    â€˜Yellow Two, where are you?’
    No response.
    â€˜Yellow Two…’
    Nothing. Silly sod must have been jumped.
    Oh, well. Time to go home. God, that feels good: to be up here, all alone, the sun just beginning to set. Wonderful sense of contentment. She’s happy, too, almost flying herself. I could stay up here for ever.
    You couldn’t get that from any woman.

Tuesday 17 th September
Lucy
    M iss Crombie told me, in a shocked voice, about a notice she’d seen on