LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Do you want him to fly with a child?’ said Mr Cohen.

      ‘This Mr Sweet can help to make you an officer, Simon.’

      ‘Oh, Mother, you’ve been talking about me.’

      ‘Would it be so bad, Simon?’ said Mr Cohen.

      ‘It would mean changing to another crew.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘They don’t like officers flying under NCO captains. Anyway, it would make Lambert’s job more difficult, having me sitting behind him with shiny little officer’s badges. And we wouldn’t be together in the Sergeants’ Mess. And perhaps I’d have to go away to a training school.’

      ‘Quite a speech,’ said Mr Cohen. ‘The most I’ve heard you say all weekend.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter. But if Mr Lambert is such a fine fellow, why is he not an officer? You tell me he has more experience, medals, and does the same job as your friend Mr Sweet.’

      ‘Surely you know the English by now, Father. Lambert has a London accent. He’s never been to an expensive school. The English believe that only gentlemen can be leaders.’

      ‘And this is the way they fight a war?’

      ‘Yes. Lambert is the best, most experienced pilot on the Squadron.’

      Mrs Cohen said, ‘If you became an officer perhaps you could fly with Mr Sweet.’

      ‘I’d rather fly with Lambert,’ he replied, trying to keep his voice amiable.

      She said, ‘You mustn’t be angry, Simon. We’re not trying to make you stop flying.’

      ‘That’s right. Just thinking of you earning more cash,’ his father joked.

      ‘I keep telling both of you I’m just not ambitious. I’m never going to be an officer and I’m never going to be a philosophy professor like Uncle Carol. Nor a scientist like dad. I’m not sure I could even run the farm. This job I’m doing in the Air Force …’

      Cohen raised a finger to interrupt. ‘There is a common mistake made by historians: to review the past as a series of errors leading to the perfect condition that is the present time. It’s a common mistake in life too, especially in one of our closed societies like a school or a prison camp. It’s easy then to forget that the outside world or future time exist. Now in the middle of 1943 your Messrs Sweets and Lamberts seem to have attained the highest pinnacle of prestige and achievement. But it’s all glamour and tinsel. When the war is over, being the finest bomber crew that ever flew across Germany won’t get any of you so much as a free dog licence.’

      ‘You’ve got the wrong idea, Dad. I don’t like being in the Air Force. It’s dangerous and uncomfortable, and a lot of the people I work with are pretty nasty fellows.’ The old man looked up quizzically. ‘But if nasty fellows can destroy the Fascists I’ll put up with it. I know how to do my job theoretically at any rate so don’t worry about me. You’ve both got to understand that this is my life now. The whole of my life and I’ve got to live it in my own way. Without gold cufflinks or your talking to anyone about commissions or pocket money even. And most of all, no more parcels.’

      Mrs Cohen nodded. ‘I understand, Simon, I always overdo things. I’ve embarrassed you with your captain, have I?’

      ‘No, no, no, it’s fine. It’s been a wonderful weekend and wizard food.’

      ‘Wizard,’ repeated Mrs Cohen, making a mental note of the superlative. She reached for her handbag but after a warning glance from her husband did not open it.

      ‘Have a good journey, Cosy,’ said his father.

      ‘My nickname is Kosher. Kosher Cohen they call me.’

      ‘So what’s wrong with that?’ asked his father. Kosher smiled but did not answer. The old man nodded and patted his son on the arm. They were closer than ever before.

      ‘Nora Ashton always asks about you,’ said Mrs Cohen. ‘She’s a fine girl.’

      The hall clock struck nine. ‘I must go. They are waiting. There’s probably too much moon but we might fly tonight.’

      ‘Over Germany?’

      ‘There’s not time to go far on these short summer nights. Probably we’ll be dropping mines into the North Sea. All the boys like that, it’s a milk run but it counts as a full operation.’

      Digby heard the last bit of that. ‘That’s right, Mrs Cohen, these gardening trips go off as quiet as a Sunday in Adelaide.’

      ‘Phone me in the morning, Simon.’

       Chapter Two

      ‘One thing about these short summer nights,’ an elderly Wing Commander said, ‘we can usually shortlist the target files and have them in the old man’s hands the moment he makes the decision.’

      Nora Ashton, the young WAAF officer, smiled at him briefly and then went back to checking the target files. Each one had been started on orders from the Targets Selection Committee at Air Ministry. She identified each file by its code name: Whitebait was Berlin and Trout was Cologne. The code names were the idea of the Senior Staff Officer, who was a keen angler. Recently he had taken up collecting butterflies and moths but the C-in-C said that code names like Broad-bordered Bee Hawk would be inconvenient. Inside each target file there were population figures, industrial descriptions, photos and intelligence about searchlights and guns. The files varied a great deal: some files were as fat as phone directories and packed with reports from resistance workers and secret agents, while many contained little that didn’t appear in a prewar city guide. Others were contradictory or out of date, and some were so thin that they scarcely existed at all. In each file there was a record of Bomber Command’s previous attacks.

      ‘The Ruhr tonight,’ said the elderly Wing Commander. ‘I’ll bet you my morning tea-break: Essen or Cologne.’

      ‘What, on my wages?’ said the WAAF officer. ‘When you buy three or four sticky buns.’

      He shrugged. ‘You would have lost.’

      Quickly she picked up a newspaper and turned to the astrology section. Under Aries it said, ‘Someone dear to you will make a journey. Financial affairs promising.’ She folded it and pushed it into the drawer.

      She said, ‘Some day I’ll take you up on one of your bets. Anyway, look at the moon chart. After the casualties we’ve had on recent light nights they might decide a full moon is too dangerous.’

      ‘Too dangerous for some ops,’ said the Wing Commander, ‘but the Ruhr looks messy on radar screens. Moonlight gives a visual identification of the target. If the Met man predicts some cloud cover they’ll go, and the Ruhr’s the only logical target.’

      The girl looked up and nodded agreement. It was 09.05 hours; another hour and a half before morning tea-break.

      She said, ‘What was the weather like when you came in, sir?’

      ‘Quite delightful, a perfect summer’s day – not a cloud in the sky.’

      ‘I do hope so,’ said the WAAF officer. ‘Last night I had to get out of bed and close the window. The rain came down in torrents.’ She had planned to have her hair done that afternoon: rain would ruin it.

      ‘My garden needed the rain.’

      ‘So did the Met people: they’d been forecasting it every day for a week.’

      Neither of them raised their eyes to the Met map on the wall where was written the finest weather prediction that money and daring could provide. Each hour it was amended according to reports from weather

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