Hank slipped a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. “Gord, Fanny, and Cobber are section leaders—each is responsible for two wingmen. They were about to provide me with their recommendations on your section leader assignment.”
Jimmie shifted his weight. “Would you prefer privacy, sir?”
“No,” Hank said. “In the Seventy-Three Squadron, we don’t keep secrets and I expect my men to speak their piece—including you.”
“Yes, sir,” Jimmie said, feeling a bit surprised by the squadron leader’s candidness, as well as his willingness to accept counsel from his men.
Hank took a drag and turned to Gord. “Tell me your thoughts.”
“It might be best to assign him to me,” Gord said, pointing at Jimmie with his pipe. “The lad will need a regimented section leader to break him from his cuddly toy.”
Jimmie looked down to find Piglet’s head peeking from his flight jacket. His face turned warm. He tucked Piglet away and said, “It’s a good luck piece.”
“Perhaps you should consider a charm more becoming of a fighter pilot,” Gord said in a demeaning tone of voice.
Maybe he’s testing me, Jimmie thought, remaining poised.
The squadron leader turned to Cobber. “What’s your recommendation?”
“Assign him to me,” Cobber said. “The vacancy is with my section, so adding Jimmie would be less disruptive to the squadron.”
Gord adjusted his ascot. “Are you sure that you’re the best mentor for a new pilot?”
“What do you mean by that?” Cobber asked.
“You’ve lost a wingman,” Gord said, “and you’ve been disciplined—on more than one occasion—for performing aerobatic stunts at too low an altitude.”
Jimmie’s shoulder muscles tensed.
“What happened to Taylor was an accident,” Cobber said.
Gord smoothed his mustache. “Of course.”
“Enough,” Hank said. He flicked ash from his cigarette. “Fanny, I haven’t heard from you.”
Fanny clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a few thoughts, sir. First, pilots are a superstitious lot. Most of us have good luck charms, and I don’t view a cuddly toy as any different than a St. Christopher medallion, rabbit’s foot, horseshoe, or a lucky ascot.”
Gord furrowed his brow.
“Second, we haven’t seen action,” Fanny said. “Our missions have been to escort ships and aircraft on their route across the Channel, and many of the French pilots are saying that this isn’t a bona fide war, and that a peace agreement will be signed before any major confrontation. Jimmie should have more than adequate time to get acclimated to our squadron before—”
“I was asking for your recommendation,” Hank interrupted, “not a bloody speech.”
“Yes, sir,” Fanny said. “I suggest that Cobber take Jimmie as a wingman.”
Hank took a long drag on his cigarette, as if he was contemplating the options, and blew smoke through his nose. “He’s yours, Cobber.”
“Yes, sir,” Cobber said.
Hank dropped his cigarette and ground it under his boot. “Dismissed.”
The pilots filed out of the tent. Gord walked away, and Cobber and Fanny accompanied Jimmie to his barracks, where his duffel bag had been placed on a cot. For several minutes, the three chatted while Jimmie stowed away his things in a metal locker at the foot of his bed. He learned that Fanny was from Warwick, England, and that he loved to play pinochle. Cobber was born in Hastings, New Zealand, and, unlike Fanny, who preferred a gentlemanly game of cards, he enjoyed a physical match of rugby.
“To fit in around here,” Cobber said, “you’ll need to gain the trust of the pilots and prove your worth as an aviator.”
“Of course,” Jimmie said.
“We’re scheduled to conduct a patrol this afternoon over the Cherbourg Peninsula,” Cobber said. “It’ll give you a chance to show me and the men what you’re made of.”
Apprehension swelled in Jimmie’s chest. “I look forward to it.” He unzipped his flight jacket and placed Piglet into the foot locker.
“What’s the story behind your good luck charm?” Fanny asked.
An image of Jimmie’s younger sister—laboring to walk with steel braces strapped to her legs—flashed in his head. “My sister, Nora, was stricken with polio as a child. She was quite fond of the children’s book Winnie-the-Pooh. That stuffed Piglet comforted her through dreadful times, and she thought it might do the same for me.”
“I cannot begin to imagine what she went through,” Cobber said, his voice turned somber. “How is she doing?”
“Better,” Jimmie said. “She’s able to walk when she wears leg braces.”
He patted Jimmie on the shoulder. “Never mind what Gord said about a cuddly toy. You’ve got a proper good luck charm, mate.”
“Indeed,” Fanny said.
Jimmie closed the lid on the trunk. Feeling comfortable to speak his thoughts, he looked at Cobber and asked, “Do you mind telling me about what happened to the pilot named Taylor?”
“Were you told anything when you received orders for your post?” Cobber asked.
“Only that my assignment would fill a vacant position with the Seventy-Three Squadron.”
