Cobber sat across from Jimmie and slid him a cup. “Is the letter from Nora or your mum?”
“Nora.”
Cobber took a gulp of tea. “How is she?”
“Plucky and full of guts,” Jimmie said. “She’s sixteen going on twenty-six, and she’s not about to let her difficulty with walking get in the way of going off to university.”
Cobber grinned. “I’d like to meet her.”
“You will, after we win this Phony War that all the papers are writing about.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Cobber clinked Jimmie’s cup with his.
Jimmie sipped tea, rich with canned milk and sugar. “Nora said that my mum turned her flower garden into a vegetable plot. It feels unfair that we’re getting the best provisions while the nation is rationing.”
“It does,” Cobber said. “I suppose the fine food is a consolation for placing our lives at risk, but if everyone back home knew how little action we’ve seen, they’d demand that the butter and choice chops be shipped back to Britain.”
“You might be right.” Jimmie said, “but try telling that to Ayerst.”
“Good point.”
Despite No. 73 Squadron’s proximity to the German border, there had been few sightings of enemy aircraft and no successful interceptions. But two days earlier, Pilot Officer Peter Ayerst—an affable, nineteen-year-old Essex lad who spoke with a wide, toothy smile—accidentally flew off in the wrong direction while on patrol. Eventually, he found his way back to what he thought was the rest of No. 73 Squadron and flew in behind a grouping of nine planes, which turned out to be Messerschmitt 109s. Ayerst gave a burst of machine gun fire and dived away. Remarkably, he made it back to base with five bullet holes in his Hurricane’s fuselage as a memento of his mishap.
Cobber took a drink of tea. “I would have loved to have seen the look on Ayerst’s face when he recognized the black cross of the Luftwaffe on the planes.”
“He’s lucky to be alive,” Jimmie said, feeling sorry for Ayerst.
Cobber nodded. “I wish it was me who’d flown off course and stumbled upon them while they were at a low altitude. The Messerschmitt pilots are cowards—they refuse to fight by flying where we can’t reach them.”
Jimmie had witnessed, on two occasions, Messerschmitt squadrons flying above his unit at twenty-seven thousand feet—two thousand feet above the Hurricane’s maximum ceiling. The German pilots had refused to engage them, and Cobber’s voice had boomed through the radio in Jimmie’s helmet, “Come on down and fight!”
“They can’t evade us forever,” Cobber said. “The RAF is working to provide us with upgraded Hurricanes that can rival the service ceiling of the Messerschmitt.”
“I hope the new planes arrive soon,” Jimmie said. “I doubt that the Messerschmitt pilots will avoid us much longer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Poland has fallen to Germany, and Hitler is likely redeploying some of his military to the west. The way I see it, the Luftwaffe’s appetite for air battle will likely grow with the buildup of German troops at their border with France.”
“You’re quite clever for an English bloke,” Cobber said with his thick, New Zealand accent.
Jimmie chuckled.
“I also happen to agree with you,” Cobber said. “It’s best that we fight them now, before they outnumber us.”
Jimmie’s levity faded. He took a sip of tea and nodded.
“Me and the other section leaders were briefed by Hank this morning. He assigned our section to a defensive patrol this afternoon.” A smile formed on Cobber’s face. “It’ll give us a chance to do a bit of sightseeing.”
Jimmie shifted in his seat. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Hank was miffed with us for venturing into German territory.”
“Don’t worry about Hank,” Cobber said. “I’m on his good side for curtailing my airfield aerobatics.”
Since their first day at Étain-Rouvres Air Base, Cobber hadn’t performed low-altitude stunts. Cobber did, however, disregard the squadron leader’s commands to refrain from flying defensive patrols into German airspace.
“It was Gord who’d spotted us and told Hank about our roundabout route over the Saarland,” Cobber said. “His section won’t be with us on this afternoon’s patrol, so there’s no chance of Gord snitching on us. It will only be you, me, and Benny. I’ve spoken to Benny, and he’s on board.”
“And now you’re seeking my support,” Jimmie said.
“I am.”
Jimmie knew that Cobber, if left alone to lead his section on patrol, would not be able to resist the thrill of flying over the Saarland, even though much of it was uninhabited and covered in dense forest. But he did appreciate that Cobber was candid about his intentions, and that he always worked to gain buy-in from his wingmen.
Two pilots entered the mess hall and sat at a nearby table.
Cobber leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You have nothing to worry about, mate. Even if we sight a Messerschmitt squadron, their Nazi rat pilots won’t pick a dogfight with us.”
Jimmie’s mind raced, weighing the risk. “I’m not fond of breaking protocol, but I’ll always have the backs of my wingmen.” He looked at Cobber. “I’m in.”
* * *
At noon, the Green Section pilots—Jimmie, Cobber, and Benny—climbed into the cockpits of their Hurricanes. The men went over their preflight checklist while armorers finished loading ammunition.
Horace, standing next to Jimmie’s plane, wiped grease from his hands with a handkerchief and stuffed it into a pocket of his coverall. He peered up at Jimmie, who was checking his instrument gauges. “The electric starter was showing signs of wear, so I installed a new one.”
“Thanks,” Jimmie said. “You’re keeping this kite in brilliant shape.”
Horace smiled. “It’s my duty.”
