The Complete Flying Officer X Stories by H.E. Bates

lights were burning in the anteroom but the curtains were not drawnand the evening, sunless now, was a vivid electric blue beyond the windows. The little W.A.A.F. still sat by the telephone and as I went past she looked up and said:
    â€œL for London is back, sir.”
    I went into the anteroom. The fire was bright and the first crews, back from interrogation, were warming their hands. Their faces looked raw and cold. They still wore sweaters and flying-boots, and their eyes were glassy.
    â€œHello,” they said. “You’re back. Good leave?” They spoke as if it was I, not they, who had been three hundred miles away.
    â€œHello, Max,” I said. “Hello, Ed. Hello, J.B.”
    I had been away for five days. For a minute I felt remote; I couldn’t touch them.
    I was glad when someone else came in.
    â€œHello. Good trip?”
    â€œQuite a picnic.”
    â€œGood. See anything?”
    â€œEverything.”
    â€œGood show, good show. Prang them?”
    â€œThink so. Fires burning when we got there.”
    â€œGood show.”
    I looked at their faces. They were tired and hollow. In their eyes neither relief nor exhilaration had begun to filter through the glassiness of long strain. They talked laconically, reluctantly, as if their lips were frozen.
    â€œMany fighters?”
    â€œHordes.”
    â€œAny trouble?”
    â€œThe whole bloody crew was yelling fighters. Came up from everywhere.”
    â€œAny Spits?”
    â€œPlenty. Had five M.E.’s on my tail. Then suddenly wham! Three Spits came up from nowhere. Never saw anything like those M.E.’s going home to tea.”
    â€œGood show. Good show.”
    The evening was darkening rapidly and the mess steward came in to draw the curtains. I remembered K for Kitty and suddenly I went out of the anteroom and stood for a moment in the blue damp twilight, listening and looking at the sky. The first few evening stars were shining and I could feel that later the night would be frosty. But there was no sound of a plane.
    I went back into the anteroom at last and for a moment, in the bright and now crowded room, I could not believe my eyes. Rubbing his cold hands together, his eyes remote and chilled, his sweater hanging loose below his battle dress, the pilot of K for Kitty was standing by the fireplace. There was a cross of flesh-pink plastic bandage on his forehead and I knew that something had happened.
    â€œHello,” I said.
    â€œHello,” he said. “You’re back.”
    For a minute I didn’t say anything else. I wanted to shake his hand and tell him I was glad he was back. I knew that if he had been in a train wreck or a car crash I should have shaken his hand and told him I was glad. Now somebody had shot him up and all I said was:
    â€œWhen did you get in?”
    â€œAbout an hour ago.”
    â€œEverything O.K.?”
    â€œWrapped her up.”
    â€œWell,” I said. “Just like that?”
    â€œJust like that,” he said.
    I looked at his eyes. They were bleared and wet and excited. He had made a crash landing; he was safe; he was almost the best pilot in the outfit.
    â€œAnyone see me come in?” he said.
    â€œSaw you from Control,” someone said.
    â€œHow did it look?”
    â€œPerfect until the bloody air-screw fell off.”
    Everyone laughed — as if air-screws falling off were a great joke. Nobody said anything about anybody being lucky to be back, but only:
    â€œHave an argument?”
    â€œFlak blew bloody great bit out of the wing. The inter-comm. went and then both turrets.”
    â€œMany fighters?”
    â€œTen at a time.”
    â€œGet one?”
    â€œOne certain. Just dissolved. One probable.”
    â€œGood show. What about the ships?”
    â€œI think we pranged them.”
    â€œGood show,” we said. “Good show.”
    We went on talking for a little longer about the trip: beautiful weather, sea very