The High Calling (21 page)

Trevor Park was engaged in a loud argument with his flight leader, Archibald Kent-Wilkins. Park was a handsome man with blond hair and bright blue eyes who had been a budding actor before he had given it up to join the air force. He had never been a big star, but he had been in one movie in which he kissed Marlene Dietrich, which gave him some stature. Jimmy Fitzwilliam, number two man in Green Flight along with Kent-Wilkins and Park, had found a movie poster of Park kissing Dietrich and had put it up on the wall. Park had taken a great deal of ragging over it, but actually he enjoyed this. The three now were arguing about the relative merits of the Hurricane and the Spitfire.

“Look, Trevor,” Jimmy insisted, “I know the Spit can turn quicker and has a bit more speed, but the Hurricane has a steady gun platform. Why, every time I fire my guns in the Spit, I jockey all over the sky. The plane is almost impossible to keep steady.”

Trevor disagreed vehemently, raising his voice over the hubbub of voices. “You’re batty, Jimmy. The Spit can outfly the Hurricane any day of the week.”

“That’s right,” Archie Kent-Wilkins agreed. The three were lined up watching a Ping-Pong game between Bernie Cox and Brodie Lee. “If you want, I can get you transferred to a Hurricane squadron.” Kent-Wilkins was an aristocrat. He disliked Americans simply because they were Americans. Now as Brodie missed the ball after Bernie Cox drove it so fast it was a mere blur, Kent-Wilkins said, “I say, Lee. Why don’t you give up? Ping-Pong is just not your game.”

Brodie grinned. “I know it’s not my game. My game is shootin’ down Germans.”

The remark brought color to Kent-Wilkins face. He himself had shot down only one enemy plane, while Brodie had shot down six, a record in the squadron, except for Parker Braden’s eight.

David Deere of Yellow Flight ambled over to watch the game. “You don’t have steady enough nerves, Kent-Wilkins. That’s your problem.”

Brodie disliked David Deere—a tough, husky fellow with black hair and blacker eyes—almost as much as he disliked Kent-Wilkins. “I bet you don’t know who has the steadiest nerves in this whole squadron,” Brodie said.

Kent-Wilkins looked down his nose. “Who?” he said icily.

“You wouldn’t care to make a little bet, would you, Archie?”

“There’s no way to prove such a thing.”

“Sure there is. I’ve got two quid that says I can prove who has the steadiest nerves in the whole squadron.”

Zarek Dolenski, who flew wing for Parker Braden, said, “Impossible! Nobody could prove such a thing unless you went head-on into a flight of ME-109s.”

“No. There’s another way. What do you say, Archie? Two quid?”

“Take him up, Archie,” David Deere said, his black eyes gleaming. “Teach the Yank a lesson.”

“All right.” He fished into his pocket and came up with the bills. “Put up or shut up.”

“That’s an old Yankee sayin’,” Brodie said. He fumbled through his pockets and came up with two bills. “Here, Jimmy. You hold the stakes.”

Jimmy Fitzwilliam, the smallest and youngest member of 120 Squadron, grinned. He had rosy cheeks, cornflower blue eyes, and was the shyest man around women that any of the men had ever seen. “All right, but I don’t think you can do it, Brodie.”

“You wait right here.”

“Where’s he going?” Trevor asked. He ran his hand over his smooth blond hair and grinned at Kent-Wilkins. “I think you’re going to be sorry. That fellow has got more self-confidence than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

“Nonsense. There’s no way to prove such a thing,” Archie grunted.

Brodie came hurrying back, holding something up in his hands. “Here it is. I saved it from my Fourth of July celebration.” They all remembered the day two weeks ago because Brodie had bought all the fireworks he could afford, and the squadron had shot them off with great glee. “I saved a firecracker for a special occasion. I guess this is special enough, don’t you think?”

“How is that supposed to prove something about a man’s nerve?”

Brodie nodded over toward the end of the ready room. “There he is, fellows. The man with the strongest nerves in the squadron.”

“Al?” Bernie Cox said. “His nerves are no steadier than mine.”

“You’re wrong, and I’ll prove it. I’m gonna light this firecracker and put it right under his bunk. He won’t even turn over.”

“That’s impossible!” Kent-Wilkins said.

“It’ll cost me if he comes off that bed as most men would. Watch this now.” The other men watched as Brodie pulled a match out of his pocket. He lit the two-inch fuse and then hurried down toward the bunk where Albert Tobin lay asleep. Tobin had been a dustman collecting trash before he had signed up for the armed services. There his skills had been discovered. He had knocked the top off every test that a pilot needed. He was a crack flier with three kills, and he had a wife named Polly and three children whom he adored.

He was a sound sleeper and now lay with his mouth open, snoring softly, oblivious to the noise of the ready room.

Brodie put the firecracker under Tobin’s bunk and then stepped back and grinned. “Watch this.”

All the men watched the fuse as it burned down, holding their breath as it disappeared. The firecracker exploded with a resounding boom, and they all kept their eyes fixed on Tobin.

The smallish man closed his mouth, and his shoulders shook one time, but then immediately his mouth opened again and the snoring recommenced.

“That’s impossible!” Bernie Cox cried out. “I can’t believe it!”

“Fork over the cash. I win. Ain’t that right, Archie?”

Kent-Wilkins’s face was flushed. He hated to lose at anything, and he had lost consistently to Brodie Lee—at poker, at Ping-Pong, and at every other contest.

Jimmy gave Brodie the money he’d been holding just as Parker came in, his eyes snapping. “What’s going on here? I heard a gunshot.”

“No, Skipper, it was just a firecracker,” Jimmy said. He idolized Parker Braden, but he was also very fond of Brodie, and he smelled trouble in the air.

“Firecracker! You think this is some kind of a boys’ school? Who set that thing off?”

“I did,” Brodie said, grinning broadly, “but it was all part of a scientific investigation.”

“What are you talking about?” Parker asked, his eyes fixed on Brodie. He had felt for some time that the American was a bad influence on the discipline of the squadron and had determined to pull him up short the next time he stepped out of line.

“We were tryin’ to discover who had the steadiest nerves in the squadron, and I proved it was Al.”

“And how did you do that?” Parker listened as Brodie, his eyes sparkling with fun, repeated the details of the incident. When he had finished, Parker said, “If you’ve got so much time to horseplay, we’ll do some formation flying.”

A groan went up from the squadron.

“It was just a bit of fun, Skipper.”

“You’re not here to have fun, Lee!” Parker bit the words off. “And furthermore, your formation flying is rotten.” Everyone knew that Brodie’s experience in acrobatic flying and fighting in Spain had given him mastery over aircraft such as few
men in the entire RAF possessed. He could do anything with a Spitfire that could be done, but he was notoriously bad at formation flying.

Brodie stood straight as Parker continued to reprimand him. It was not the first time he had been singled out, and anger began to build up in him. He knew, of course, that he was guilty. He had made the argument many times that flying tight formations while on a mission was ridiculous, but he said it again anyway.

“Look, sir, when a man’s trying to keep his wingtip jammed up into the armpit of another plane, what’s he going to be looking at? Why, he’s going to be watching that plane—and he shouldn’t be. He should be looking out over his head and behind him trying to spot the enemy coming in.”

“We’ve argued about this before, Lee, and I’m not going to have it. You’re going to fly formations properly or you’ll sit out the flights in the future.”

Sailor Darley laughed aloud. “That’ll fix you, Yank. You won’t get a chance to risk your life if you’re not good.”

“You keep quiet, Sailor,” Parker snapped. “You’re almost as bad as he is. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about disciplining both of you, and I will if you don’t keep tighter formations.”

The room had gone quiet. None of the pilots had ever seen Parker Braden so tense and angry. When he’d left the room, Trevor Park shook his head. “Something’s biting on the skipper. That’s not like him.”

“I think he’s exactly right,” Kent-Wilkins said. “Your formation flying is terrible, Lee.”

Brodie stared at the aristocratic flier and for one moment the room was absolutely silent. Then Brodie turned and walked off toward Al Tobin’s cot. The conversation gradually picked up again, the men speaking amongst themselves about Parker’s lecture and the Ping-Pong game picking up again.

Ignoring the talk behind him, Brodie reached over and slapped Al Tobin on the shoulder. The man’s eyes opened
immediately and he winked and whispered, “How’d I do, Brodie?”

“Great. Here’s your cut.”

“I nearly jumped off the cot when that crazy thing went off.”

“You did just fine.” Brodie had set up the whole thing with Al, knowing he would get a rise out of Kent-Wilkins.

He started for the door, but Bernie Cox, Brodie’s flight leader, came over to him. “Where are you going?”

“London.”

“You can’t—we haven’t stood down yet. We may be scrambled.”

“Let Braden get somebody who can fly formations better than I can. Don’t worry about me, Bernie.”

Cox tried to reason with Brodie, but it was impossible. He watched as the American left, then murmured to Sailor Darley, the third member of their flight. “I’m afraid Brodie’s headed for trouble, Sailor.”

“You want me to go keep an eye on him?”

“No. That’d be two of you drunk. Just hope he gets back in plenty of time for the next scramble.”

****

The tongue-lashing he had received from Parker Braden had bitten more deeply into Brodie Lee than the members of his flight could have guessed. Brodie took pride in his ability and skills and record as a member of his squadron. He led the squadron in kills and by consensus was the best pilot in the squadron. Now to be pulled up and picked to pieces because of what Brodie considered an unimportant and even dangerous maneuver had disturbed his easygoing ways.

By the time he had made his way into town from the airfield, the first flashes of anger had settled into a dull resentment. He had no intention of missing a scramble, for he had great loyalty to Blue Flight and did not want to get Bernie Cox into trouble. He had become great friends with Cox
and with Sailor Darley as they had repeatedly faced death together and defeated it.

He went into a pub, intending to have just a few beers. But he was joined by a pretty girl with snapping eyes and hair that appeared to be genuinely blond. He offered to buy her a drink and from there, everything went downhill. The girl moved closer to him, and he found that everyone wanted to buy the RAF fighter pilot a drink. They also wanted to hear about the air war, and Brodie, who usually didn’t discuss the war with civilians, drank so much that his tongue was loosened.

Time slipped by, the drinks mounted up, the blond girl was attentive, and before long Brodie found himself dazed.

He never knew later exactly how the fight had started. He had a vague memory of someone saying his companion was his girlfriend, but after that it was all a blur. The only thing he knew for sure was that his adversary had struck him a powerful blow that had turned the lights out. He had awakened in a jail cell occupied by six other drunks, all of them in poor shape.

Trying to focus his eyes, he looked at his watch and saw with horror that he had been away from the station for eight hours. He ran to the barred door and cried, “Let me out! I need to get back to my squadron!”

The jailer, a sad-eyed man in a blue uniform, answered in a mournful voice, “You might as well calm down. You’ll have to wait until morning to go before the judge.”

“But they need me.”

“Then you picked a poor way to get ready for it. Just calm down and try to sober up. You’re goin’ before Judge Nelson. If he has a mind to do it, he’ll put you in jail instead of just levelin’ a fine. So make yourself look presentable and be humble.”

****

“What’s wrong, Kat?”

She put the phone back on the receiver. “It’s Brodie. He’s in jail.”

“What’s he done?” Meredith asked her flatmate.

“He got drunk and wound up in a fight.” Kat shook her head with distaste. “They allowed him one call. He wants me to come down and bail him out.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”

“I’ll have to, Meredith. He begged so pitifully, and they do need him back at the squadron.”

“I didn’t know he was a drunk,” Meredith said, disappointment tingeing her voice.

“He doesn’t drink that often. Brodie had plenty of faults growing up, but he didn’t used to be a drinker. Something must have set him off. I’ll have to go. Will you cover for me at the mission in case I’m late?”

“Yes, sure. Come back and let me know how it comes out.”

“I’ll do that.”

****

Kat made her way straight to the jail, where she found the sergeant in charge and made her plea. The burly man with a bulldog face had heard excuses of every kind. He turned his faded eyes on her and listened as she explained the need for getting her friend out. Finally he sighed, “I don’t reckon it’d do any good to keep him locked up.”

“I’ll be glad to pay his fine.”

“All right. That’ll be five pounds, miss.”

Kat paid the fine and waited for the sergeant to release Brodie. The collar of his shirt was ripped half off, and his eyes were underscored by deep circles.

“Thanks for comin’, Kat.”

“That’s all right, Brodie. You need to get back to the base, I take it?”

“Yes. I wish I had a place to get cleaned up first.”

“Maybe we can sneak you back in.”

“No chance of that. I’ve been gone too long. I’ll have to face up to Parker.”

“Well, come along. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to do that, Kat. But I did lose all my money somewhere. Just give me cab fare.”