D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

flying toward the field. When it drew closer, he saw that it was a Vickers-Wellington, a dual-engine medium bomber. It was painted a drab brown, and had the RAF bull’s-eye painted on both wings and the rear fuselage, along with a series of numbers in a pale yellow. Wagging its wings, the Wellington made a sweeping pass around the field, then landed, coming to a stop about fifty yards away from where Thorley and MacIlvey stood. From off to their left the fuel truck drove up and two ground crewmen uncoiled a hose, connected it to a spot on the wing and the refueling process began.

“Let’s go,” MacIlvey said, motioning for Thorley to follow him. He found he had to trot to keep up with the older man, who marched across the runway with long impatient strides, barking orders at the ground crew to hurry it up. When they closed in on the plane, Thorley noticed more details about the aircraft: the drab brown was really an intricate camouflage pattern. Conversely, the underbelly was painted a light sky blue, an odd-looking combination until one realized that, from the ground, the plane would be less easy to spot by trigger-happy German anti-aircraft gunners. The other thing he noticed about the Wellington made him uneasy. It bristled with .303 calibre machine guns.

Thorley caught up with MacIlvey as a hatch under the plane’s belly, just to the rear of the cockpit, swung open and the pilot dropped out onto the runway. Exuding the natural confidence of men who daily risked their lives, the pilot strode toward them, the buckles and zippers of his flight gear clacking together. He was tall, recruiting-poster handsome, with a pencil mustache, and cleft chin. The pilot stopped in front of MacIlvey and nodded. “Right. This the package?”

Thorley felt a hot flash of anger at the man’s impersonal reference, but forced himself to calm down. He was past the personal at this point. Only the mission and its successful outcome mattered now.

“Quite,” MacIlvey replied. “You have the flight plan?”

The pilot looked off into the distance, as if gauging some unseen menace. “Bloody Göring’s got twice as many 110’s up tonight. From the reports we’ve heard over the radio, it’ll be the deuce getting over the Bay of Biscay.”

MacIlvey stared at the man, a vein in his temple throbbing. “Sounds like you’ll be earning your pay, then.”

The pilot sighed, a world-weary expression passing over his face. “No rest for the wicked, eh what?”

“Just make sure you get him there in one piece.”

“We always do.”

MacIlvey turned to Thorley and thrust out his meaty hand. Thorley took it, feeling the small bones of his hand grind against each other. “You’re in good hands with Flight Lieutenant Mullins,” MacIlvey said, nodding toward the pilot. “Just make sure you bring back the truth. I don’t trust the bloody Hun, not since the last war.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Thorley said, feeling silly, as if he were being packed off to boarding school. But the look in the older man’s eyes snapped him back to reality.

“Whatever the truth is, I’ll find it.”

MacIlvey smiled. “Good show.”

The copilot leaned out the side window. “We’ve got to leave now, Flight, there’s a front moving in.”

The pilot nodded, then twirled his hand. The copilot disappeared back inside the cockpit and a moment later the plane’s two Bristol-Hercules engines fired up with a gut-shaking rumble. Prop wash buffeted them, making it difficult for Thorley to stand. MacIlvey mouthed something that was lost in the clamor, then tried repeating it. He gave up with a shrug, saluted, and walked back to the Humber, which had discreetly moved from its spot by the blockhouse. A moment later, it accelerated away, retracing its route back toward the trees and the city.

Thorley suddenly felt very alone, as if he’d been abandoned by his last friend. He spotted the pilot standing by the open hatch, beckoning him with an impatient wave.

There was no turning back now, nowhere else to go.

Holding his cap to his head, Thorley ran to the hatchway and stopped. The pilot thrust his face next to Thorley’s ear and shouted. “You’ve got to pull yourself inside, sir!”

Thorley nodded, reached up and grabbed the rim of the hatch with both hands, then jumped to give himself the necessary momentum to carry him up into the plane. He made it halfway, and instantly two pairs of hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him inside.

The two men belonging to those hands, both pilot officers, dressed in flight gear and wearing parachutes, smiled at him. “Welcome aboard, sir,” they said, saluting.

Thorley returned the salute, feeling foolish.

The pilot followed him in, closed and battened the hatch, then turned to the two other officers. “Gibby, you take the tail tonight, and bloody well keep your eyes peeled. We’re carrying enough extra fuel to roast us to cinders.”

Gibby nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, turning and running off down the narrow catwalk, the rubber soles of his sheepskin-lined boots silent on the latticed steel. He disappeared behind the bomb bay, now occupied by a special long-range fuel tank instead of the usual complement of five-hundred-pound explosives. The pilot faced the other pilot officer, a fresh-faced boy with tousled blond hair and mischievous grin. “Once we’re aloft, Hildy, you’re to lay in a course for Lisbon, and keep us over water this time.” He then turned and climbed into the cockpit, which was separated from the rest of the cabin by steel meshing. The copilot nodded to Thorley, then turned his attention back to his gauges.

Hildy pointed to a spot next to the navigator/radioman’s chair, where a spare parachute lay. “I’m sorry we don’t have a seat for you, sir,” he said. “But