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

Hildy’s gun began firing behind him, the horrendous chattering adding to the already deafening clamor. Thorley searched frantically for the bolt, his fingers fumbling over unfamiliar territory. He found it to the side, grabbed it and yanked it back, feeling it slide smoothly along its oiled track. Focusing on the sky outside the plane, he squinted, trying to distinguish one of the Messerschmitts from out of the gloom. A dark shape whooshed by, making him jump, which was just as well as the bullets that slammed through the skin of the Wellington missed him by fractions.

“Shoot the bloody bastards, damn you!” Hildy screamed.

And that was all it took. He grabbed for the handles, his untrained fingers accidentally pressing the trigger. The gun spat out five bullets in the blink of an eye, and he watched them fly away from the Wellington, the phosphorus in their tails burning bright red arcs into the sky. Suddenly, tracers of a different color, a blazing yellow streamed back toward him, as if out of nowhere. A Messerschmitt.

Resisting the urge to duck his head, he placed the source of the tracers right in the crosshairs of the sight and fired. Empty shell casings clattered about his feet as the .303 spat tracers at the German plane. Thorley tried to follow it as it flew by but the swivel had a very short arc.

A split second later, the Messerschmitt streaked back around for another pass. This time, Thorley remembered what Hildy said and aimed the .303 slightly aft of the source of the fire, then pressed the trigger. The gun rattled and he saw some of his tracers hit home, sending up a shower of debris from the German plane.

And then the Messerschmitt exploded in a ball of orange flame that lit up the inside of the Wellington. He watched the fiery wreckage spiral down in lazy circles until it was lost from sight.

“Bloody good show!” Hildy screamed over his shoulder, still firing.

But Thorley saw very little good in it. In spite of the fact that the pilot of the Messerschmitt had been shooting at him—had tried to kill him—he was just doing his duty, like Thorley. No, there was no good in that; just a dirty job that left one feeling turned inside out. And that was nothing to celebrate. Except for the fact that he was still alive.

Returning his attention to the night sky, Thorley saw the remaining Messerschmitt make one last pass, its tracers missing the Wellington by a wide margin. Then, as if sensing that its moment had passed, it turned tail and headed back toward the French coast, its nose bloodied.

Drained, Thorley let go of the .303 and collapsed against the bulkhead, his head throbbing and his ears ringing.

“You all right, mate—sir?” Hildy asked.

“I suppose, but I never thought it could be....”

His voice trailed off when he saw the blood on Hildy’s arm.

“Christ, you’re hit!” he said, scrambling to his feet.

“It’s nothing, passed right though. Just a nick, really.”

“To hell with that. Let me look.”

“It’ll wait. We’ve got to check on Gibby.”

Thorley nodded and the two of them headed to the tail. Hildy crouched down and banged on the door leading into the tiny cramped quarters of the rear gunner.

“You all right, Gibby?” Hildy said.

The door swung open and young man’s cherubic face smiled out at them. “We damn well gave it to Jerry! Was that bloody wizard, or what?”

Hildy smiled, but his eyes held a weary expression. “Wizard, all right. Need anything?”

“A pint and a bit of slap and tickle will put me as right as rain. Everybody all right?”

“Farley bought it,” Hildy said, his face clouding.

“Oh, Christ.” Gibby shifted his gaze to Thorley. “This mission had better be bloody damned important. Farley was a good man.”

“It’s more important than you can imagine,” Thorley replied, knowing that it offered nothing in the way of solace.

“Ease up, Gibby,” Hildy said. “Farley knew what it was all about. So do you.”

Gibby nodded, his anger dissipating. “Sorry, Major.”

“It’s okay,” he said, feeling awkward.

He wanted to say something else, anything to make it all right. But, of course, there was nothing he could say that would change a blessed thing. Farley would still be dead.

Hildy tugged on his sleeve. “Come on. I’ve got to get back and plot us a new course.”

Hildy pulled out his sextant, aimed it at Polaris, and made a few calculations on his flight computer, a small round plastic device similar to a slide rule. After double-checking his figures and taking into account the depletion of fuel during the dogfight, he gave the Flight Lieutenant their new heading. Amazingly, after all their evasive maneuvers, they were only off their original course by five degrees.

Then came the grim work. Both the nose gunner, a man whose name Thorley never knew, and Farley had been killed. Flight Lieutenant Mullins had them wrap the bodies in tarpaulins and place them next to the bomb bay. It took considerable effort for Thorley not to throw up, especially when he caught a glimpse of the ruin that had been Farley’s head.

With the bodies stowed and the spent shell casings swept up, Thorley curled up on his parachute and tried to nap. But sleep refused to come. Adrenaline from the dogfight still pumped through his body, making his heart pound, his hands tremble, and his mind reel. He couldn’t rid his thoughts of Gibby’s accusations, especially the unspoken ones that blazed from a young flier’s eyes grown old before their time.

For the remainder of the flight Thorley sat in silence staring at the wrapped bundles that had once been living men, praying that he would never have to join them.