A Kestrel Rising (30 page)

My darling Ilke,

I can’t believe it’s only a week since we said goodbye. It seems like much longer than that. I’m sorry that I didn’t write sooner but it’s been busy, as usual. I returned to Debden to hear the news that we will now be on three-hundred-hour tours, rather than two hundred, and there is a possibility of unlimited tours, depending on how things go. In addition, we now have to have four pilots to be at continuous readiness from fifteen minutes before dawn until fifteen minutes after blackout. It’s something that the three squadrons will sort between them. It looks like our little sojourn was well timed because I don’t see any leave in the near future. I reckon things may be getting a bit ‘interesting’ before too long.

I have a favor to ask of you—sentimental idiot that I can sometimes be. Do you have a photograph of yourself that you can send me? Since I may not see you for a while, it would be nice to have a picture. Apart from anything else, only Harry knows that you exist. The rest of the guys think that I disappear to the fleshpots of London when I go on leave. In return, I’m enclosing a photograph that I’d forgotten had been taken. It was just after Don had painted your name on my kite, Harry took it and I can’t remember him taking it. It was only when I mentioned that it would be nice to send you a photograph of your namesake and he called me an idiot and told me that he’d taken a photograph and, if I cared to look in my locker, I’d find it there. I looked, and there it was. Not just the plane, but also yours truly standing next to it. It won’t keep you warm, but at least you won’t forget what I look like.

That’s about it, for now. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. It’s too damn warm in here and I miss you.

Take care, my darling.

Francis

Ilona looked at the photograph. Harry had captured Francis in his flying suit, leaning against the fuselage, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. A huge grin illuminated his face and his eyes were bright as he posed under the word
Ilke
, painted in neat, elegant script. He was beautiful and she felt a fierce and sudden rush of longing for him, a longing intensified by what he had scrawled on the back of the picture.

I long to hold you near and kiss you just once more,

But you were on the train and I was on the platform.

“Ilke? Are you all right?” Grace asked.

“I’m fine, all things considered.” She pulled the case out from under her cot and retrieved the frame that she had once used for the photograph of Ian and herself, which had been consigned to the poetry book, nestled as a perpetual bookmark beside
Red, Red Rose
.

“He’s very handsome. What beautiful eyes.” Grace flipped the photograph and read what he had written on the back. “Oh, Ilke, how lovely. It seems to me that he’s got it bad for you.”

Ilona took the photograph back and slid it into the frame. “I have it just as bad for him. Now, he wants a picture of me.”

“Do you have one?”

“Not here. I’d have to write to Ash. She’d send me one. She and Papa ran amok with the camera at Christmas because of the twins, so there’s bound to be one.”

“This is all getting rather more than a case of needing each other, isn’t it? I know that you love him, and I’d definitely say he’s in love with you.”

“Whatever the case, I suppose we’ll have to wait until the end of the war. One thing I’ve learned about Francis is that once he’s made up his mind about something, it won’t be changed.”

* * * *

My dearest Francis,

I’m sorry for the delay in replying, but I had to wait for Ash to send me a photograph from home, which is enclosed. I don’t know if you remember but, because of the twins, Papa and Ash got rather carried away with his camera at Christmas, so I asked Ash to find one. I loathe having my picture taken, but I have to admit, even I can bear to look at it. I hope it will do. As for your photograph, thank you. I have a frame for it and it stands on the upended crate that serves as my bedside table. I can’t tell you how much I longed for you when I saw that picture, and how much I still do, every time I look at it. I miss you so much, my darling.

It’s very much the same as ever here. I’m busy doing my rounds, delivering parts and supplies and whatever else needs to be driven all over the Brecks and Fens. At least the weather has been kind and there’s a lot to be said for driving around the countryside on a sunny day with the window rolled down and, yes, singing my head off. I was offered a promotion, again, but I just can’t bear the thought of being stuck in an office, so I politely declined. I really don’t see myself stuck behind a desk, especially on lovely summer days. There’s too much to see. I still get my cup of tea and sandwich when I go to Newmarket, even after three years. I suppose, in these uncertain times, it’s good to have things that never change.

I’m sorry to hear about the extended tours. It is fortunate that we managed Cambridge before that happened. It’s so frustrating, darling, being only a few miles apart, and not being able to see each other more than a scant handful of days. I really hope that these longer hours don’t wear you down too much and that you get a chance to relax and, perhaps, nip off to the pub. Speaking of which, that is where we are headed, shortly. It’s been a long week, I’ve put miles on the lorry, and I have a bit of a sore throat from singing all the time. Still, at least I’m safe.

Take care of yourself. I need you and I miss you.

Ilke

Aislinn had taken the photograph. Ilona thought it might have been taken a day or two after she arrived home, while things between her and Francis were still broken. Ash had found her seeking refuge on her yellow settee, her legs curled underneath her as she rested her chin on her hand. One of the twins was just off camera, reaching for the stable cat’s tail and the camera had caught her smiling. It was not much of a smile, but, given her state of mind at the time the picture was taken, it was not bad. She tried to think of something appropriate to write on the back, thinking through her meager memories of poems from her school days

…would I were, in Grantchester, in Grantchester!

She wrote the line from
The Old Vicarage, Grantchester
and put the picture in the envelope with the letter, hoping he would like it

* * * *

Ilona returned from a short run on a brilliant early June morning. The Lancasters had left early and it was strange for them to be up during the day. She had spent the previous few days shuttling a lot of parts to the satellite bases where there seemed to be more activity than usual. It was at the back of her mind, what Francis had told her—that he thought something big was in the offing. Her suspicions were confirmed when she returned to the depot office and the desk sergeant was listening intently to the wireless, along with a couple of WAAF clerks. One of them beckoned her over.

“Have a listen,” she told her.

Ilona stood, arms folded as the announcer spoke.

“
This is the BBC Home Service and here is a special bulletin read by John Snagge. D-Day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the northwestern face of Hitler’s European fortress. The first official news came just after half past nine when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force issued Communiqué Number One. This said ‘Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied Naval forces, supported by strong air forces, began landing Allied armies this morning on the northern coast of France…’
”

As soon as Ilona heard the words, ‘strong air forces’, she knew where Francis was and prayed that he would be all right. She picked up her orders and returned to her lorry to continue her work, considering it was best to be busy. She rolled the window down and heard the drone of the returning bombers as she headed out of the gates for another delivery.

* * * *

The day seemed endless and the skies were busier than usual. The Desk Sergeant had told Ilona that the bombers were flying multiple missions to support the landings and Ilona wondered if the Fourth was doing the same. In the hut that night, everyone huddled around the radio, listening to every broadcast, trying to glean every fragment of information as to how the invasion was going. No one spoke much, and Ilona kept glancing at the photograph next to her cot, hoping that her namesake was keeping Francis safe and high above the flak and ground batteries.

“
Here is the news read by Joseph MacLeod. All still goes well on the coast of Normandy. Mr. Churchill, in a second statement to the Commons this evening, reported that in some places, we’ve driven several miles into France. Fighting is going on in the town of Caen, between the Cherbourg Peninsula and Le Havre. Six hundred and forty guns of the Allied Navies bombarded the German coast defenses in support of our troops. Our great airborne landings—the biggest in history—have been carried out with very little loss. About four thousand ships with thousands of smaller craft crossed the Channel this morning after the Allied assault had been postponed twenty-four hours through bad weather. On the beaches, opposition was less than expected but heavy fighting still lies ahead. All through the night and today, air support has been on a vast scale. Thirty-one thousand allied airmen have been over France during today alone…
”

Ilona retreated to her cot and picked up the photograph. She sat in silence for a long time, just gazing at Francis’ rare and beautiful smile and ached for him, offering a silent prayer for his safekeeping.

* * * *

It had been a long day. The invasion was, after a few days, going well, but the satellite bases needed a lot of deliveries and Ilona had spent, by her reckoning, eight hours on the road. The late afternoon drive was miserable because the rain fell relentlessly and it was dark enough that she had to turn her headlights on. She was soaked by the time she returned to the hut, wanting nothing more than a hot shower, supper, then to crawl into bed. All thoughts of comfort, however, were dispelled when she found an envelope on her bed with the much-loved, familiar, careless scrawl across the front of it. She sat on her cot and opened the letter.

My darling Ilke,

I’m sorry—so very sorry—that I haven’t written, I know you’ve been worried, but I also know that you will realize how busy we’ve been. Nonetheless, I hope you’ll forgive me for not writing sooner. I can’t tell you what hell D-Day was for us. The day before, we flew a regular mission and then, at ten that night the Colonel told what was happening. We had a briefing, which didn’t finish until eleven. After that, we got all of two hours sleep and we flew our first sortie at around three in the morning. We flew a sweep with the 335
th
over Rouen. We got back to base just before ten. On our third sortie, we nailed a troop train and then ran into bandits on the way back. I know we shot down four and I think I may have got one, I’m not sure. We had another mission. I was exhausted at the end of the day. I was almost hallucinating by the time we were done, I was that tired. I really don’t want another day like that, again. All that work and not much in the way of results, but, still, at least I got back in one piece.

Now, we think, we may be going on a little out-of-country trip. Today we were all ordered to learn how to refuel our planes and how to give them a daily once-over. Usually our crews deal with that, so the fact that we’ve had to learn makes more than one of us think we’re off overseas for a while. I hope it’s not for too long. The popular choices are either Russia or Italy. Italy sounds better, and Russia just doesn’t appeal at all. I will try and keep you posted, and I’ll bring you a memento, if I get a chance.

Speaking of mementoes, thanks for your photograph. My God, Ilke, you are beautiful. I can’t even begin to tell you what I thought when I saw that picture. I even went into Thaxted and found a frame for it. Then, I decided I’d best keep it with me, so when I go on a mission, you go with me. There’s a perfect place in the cockpit, on the controls. There you are, reminding me that I need to watch out and get back to you in one piece. I know I’m being a sentimental fool, but you seem to bring that out in me. Your sister took a splendid photograph. I look at it and I see you, the real you and, yes, I would rather be in Grantchester too. I miss you so much that it hurts.

Until later, my darling, take care,

Francis

Ilona reread the letter, hearing his voice speak the words that he’d written. She imagined him lounging on his bed, propped up against a pillow, writing while life in the quarters carried on around him.

“So,” Grace asked, “did he like the photograph?”

She nodded. “Enough to carry it with him when he goes on his missions.”

“How sweet!”

“It is, isn’t it? I don’t know what to think.”

“Don’t. Take my advice, Ilke. Don’t think too much, just look forward to the day when this is all over.”

“It looks like he’s leaving the country for a while, so I probably won’t get any letters until he gets back.”

“But think how nice it will be when he does get back and writes to you. There’s no reason why you can’t write to him while he’s away because then, he’ll have letters waiting for him when he gets back.”

She smiled. “That’s a good idea. I’ll just carry on as if he’s still here.”

* * * *

My darling,

I know that you probably aren’t at Debden at the moment and are, probably, somewhere that you don’t want to be, but I decided to write to you anyway, so that you have a letter or two waiting for you when you return. I hope that wherever you are, you are all right.