Revenimus – A Dance with Death

Chapter One – 1944, Airborne, English Channel

Chapter Two – 1920, Edinburgh, Scotland

Chapter Three – 1944, Arras, France

Chapter Four – 1941, East Grinstead, Flight School

Chapter Five – 1944, Arras, France

Chapter Six – 1932, Boarding School

Chapter Seven – Jan, 1945, Arras, France

Chapter Eight – 1939, London, Becoming a FANY

Chapter Nine – Mar, 1945, Arras, France

Chapter Ten – May, 1945, Arras, France

Chapter Eleven – June 1st, 1945, Amiens, France

Chapter Twelve – June 2nd, 1945, Beauvias, France

Chapter Thirteen – 1945 The End of War

Chapter One – June, 1944. Airborne, To Occupied France from Scotland

“And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee” – Nietzsche

“It’s a gorgeous view Callum.” the dive towards the bridge was a bit scary as the Beaus speed just increased.

The bridge was unlit of course, in case of bombing raids, but the sunlight and moonlight cast their own respective shadows of the majestic structure on the calm waters of the Firth as it approached quickly underneath them.

Ceilidh was being pushed into the back of his seat as he flew them all towards it.

Callum had promised to teach her how to fly one day. But shit needed doing first.

Because of the war.

The craft was now easily at a 30 degree descent. Some showing off on the go then.

The throttles were only at a fraction of their power but his right hand rested on the controls while his left held the stick. She knew he was going to do one of his signature climbs and wrapped her arms around his pilot seat.

“Shame we had to see it in this bucket of bolts plane!” she said above the roar of the twin engine Beaufighter’s 1300hp Hercules engines. The bridge was still a mile away but the approach was close to 160 knots. It was the first time she’d seen her old fathers’ home in years.

Most girls she knew would be weak at the knees at this type of ‘stunt’ flying. Ceilidh was far from most girls. She was a FANY.

“Darling this is for you, sweetheart!” the deep timbre in his voice hit a cord with her as per.

They were flying over the Forth Bridge towards occupied France to do a night ‘chute drop. She was the entire mission’s objective. This sightseeing business was just for her but he was adding in his own touch with this dive.

She took it like a bairn on a merry go round as he knew she would.

She may be acting nonchalant but Callum knew she was nervous. He’d not rise to her jibe. She knew his Beau was his pride and joy. Also, orders were orders, she had to make a landing with the right mind set. She was cared for, he was doing his bit, she was doing her bit for Queen and country… Etc, for morale.

Although, he’d not quite seen eye to eye with the psychologist who’d briefed him, he knew she had to know her home was worth fighting for and worth coming back to as part of the mission outset but it was too insidious for him.

They’d tweaked his flight path a little from Inverness, to do a wee tour for her, he was adding his own touch.

She held onto his seat and did look on in awe as he swooshed down towards the gap between the middle and south arches of the Forth Bridge.

Protecting the bridge by flying like this was his day job. It was far from just a stunt to fly like this for him.

And if they never got on the controls soon they were all about to be fucking part of it!

She caught Callum and his co-pilot share a quick glance before they both got to work. This was going to be close. Callum rammed the throttles to full and both him and Marian yanked back on the sticks. It took both of their combined strength to pull this off.

She knew the experience would stick in her soul forever. She well knew how the bridge was a statue of defiance in the world of modern engineering.

Scotland was great and worth defending. If the Nazi’s did make landfall in Britain they’d have as much success as the Romans when they got to Scotland. Her father had been clear on that, he’d never worn prejudice well.

She was off to do her part. Weird how both her father and herself were fighting against prejudice for more tolerance yet were both intolerant of each other’s how on the matter.

They’d flown south from Inverness and were now heading out towards the North Sea over a dead calm night and she was sure Callum would wake a few locals when the turbo’s whined as he pushed the throttles to their stops to drive his Beau into that fiery climb he was known for. The whole craft roared as it seemed to defy gravity and head back towards the stars.

Everyone’s stomach felt it.

“Callum, ya prat this gear isn’t fucking light! Ease up ya dingle, how long do I still have to put up with you?” As he did his climb, she was finding it hard to keep a grip of his seat with her ‘chute strapped to her. While she pretended to moan she was loving every second.

“T minus 96 mins to the drop zone Ceilidh, dinny fash yirsel lass, that’s the end of the sightseeing Darling?” He glanced to his co-pilot and made sure he saw a thumbs up. He got away with his signature climb thanks in no small part to Mr. Marian, as he referred to him with respect.

As they leveled out the tranquility returned a bit and she was able to try relax herself some.

For now.

It was mid-June and 2am and as they reached the right altitude, this far north, the sun made it just over the horizon to the west and the moon was hanging low in the east with a few stars still quaintly sparkling.

They were going to fly to France over the North Sea. It was safer flying over sea than land. Britain was not the only nation that could drop operatives into enemy territory at night. Having your flight path and speed radioed in to Nazi HQ had consequences.

The banter was dank. Callum tried but they all knew what they were up to. She could well be being handed a death sentence tonight. Ceilidh was thankful for his efforts to make chat and tried to reply. If only the world didn’t have to be at war right now!

Hours passed quicker in a pub than minutes in this fucking flight for her.

They passed over the English Channel without incident. Fighter hunting was not on the mission orders tonight, neither was being detected.

“10 mins out now Ceilidh” Callum shouted over his shoulder.

His voice tone carried his concern. She was doing final adjustments to her ‘chute. It was a noisy plane already and they had not opened the bomb bay doors for her yet. When they did talking would not be option.

“C’mon Callum! Fucking altitude?!” she was about to do her 3rd, perhaps final and for sure most vital night jump of the war and he decides to leave shit out! She wasn’t being fair. She was childishly kicking back at him unjustly for ‘leaving her behind’, in enemy territory.

“One nine six zero zero feet” It took him everything he had to keep from turning the plane back. This kinda flying was lazy work, but this mission’s profile had left him conflicted. If anything should happen to her… She had every right to have some attitude right now.

He could make any excuse he wanted to out of hundreds, adverse weather, a ‘phantom’ fighter, some plane malfunction and she’d be at the dance with him tonight in Inverness, instead of occupied France. As the incursion mission commander, it was his call, for now.

If he did that though she’d thank him by kicking him in the balls and spend the dance with Tam. He braced himself to the task. It was also his duty. That she was the only person who’d ever really got him, was not supposed to come into it. Fucking duty! Is one’s duty.

They were both good at what they did and she’d be her own commander in very short order.

His flight back to Inverness without her was going to be ghost time for him. Somehow, he felt he was betraying her both ways. By not protecting her and by helping her to do her duty.

Mission orders had dictated a sleek delivery and Callum had wanted to slow down some for Ceilidh’s sake, even if only to a ‘civil’ 140 knots. Normal drop speeds were closer to 100 knots. Leaving any plane at this altitude at 160 knots isn’t child’s play but his Commanding Officer had insisted.

His plane needed around 110 knots to maintain height. Trading height for speed was a skill that was supposed to be left to gliders who never had engines to give them forward thrust and thus more lift.

He’d wanted to do a slower delivery by slowly descending and reducing the throttles but the powers that be had overruled him.

His Beaufighter was used as a stealth bomber as well as a fighter interceptor and was a more obscure than popular plane. It was unique for range, stealth and reliability which made it an obvious choice for this night’s mission in hand. He’d have preferred this type of mission to bombing, if only he never had Ceilidh on board.

When WWII broke out the world had still been in shock from the death toll of the 1937 aerial bombing of the city of Guernica in the Spanish Civil War.

He hoped it would not become the norm in war. Dropping bombs on cities just seemed about the most inhumane thing to do.

She probably thought he was worried about being detected by fighter planes, not at this time, 3am was night flyer time and he was one of a few in the world that could. The Nazi’s had less than a handful of night flyer pilots and they only patrolled over Germany not France, so much for the ‘master race’ when it came to night vision! Callum had the range, he could go fighter hunting over Germany after her drop zone and still get back to Inverness with his fuel but the CO would have his wings if he did.

His attention was on holding back the terror of maybe never seeing her again. Being captured by the SS had not been an experience either of them had ever mentioned between them but she was ‘chuting into occupied France with a Scottish accent hard to conceal and a sacksful of detonators.

But Ceilidh was a FANY and D-Day was in the offing and duty is duty. And apparently it had been judged by the powers that be that FANYs were more expendable than his plane and crew. He had as much respect for authority as Ceilidh did. They were both technically Ace’s in their own right and had a certain amount of latitude from their respective COs but neither of them wanted to be dealing with all this shit.

She shouted with forced joviality “Honey I love you, now make sure you get home safe!” She kissed his cheek lightly. He hoped she never tasted the tears or noticed in the morning twilight.

She noticed his clenched teeth and how it heightened the squareness of his jaw. She knew he never wanted to see her go. It was going to be a long year for her she knew, if she survived.

Callum never doubted his manhood enough to worry about shedding the odd tear but was glad she’d not noticed. He needed her to be focused right now and she was.

He just wanted to engulf her and keep her safe.

But he had his Beau in his hands. He’d named her Skye.

“Go have fun in France but not TOO much fun ya scally wag and Ceilidh… you mean the world to me.” He gave her as sincere a salute as he could seated. Both Marian and herself blinked their eyes at that.

“What the fuck you’ve never done that before, what gives?”

“You’ve made Ace darling.”

Not yet she hadn’t. But it was close enough and yeah time for chat was getting low. But he’d sure as hell just let her know how much he respected her.

They had a love that could only come from a lifetime of friendship. While just pals, their eyes said so much more to each other.

Marian, his Polish co-pilot was up now helping Ceilidh with her gear that included the vital radio transmitter while Tam was at the bomb bay door getting strapped into a harness.

Marian would have to return to his seat and harness in again before Tam activated the door release – only one person was supposed to be leaving the plane this morning.

At this speed air flow would be more than a small issue…

Ceilidh was about to go do what she did best.

Start a fire.

“Ceilidh.”

“What?”

“You look like an elephant in all that gear pet!” and all of her 5′ 3″ slim figure did look ridiculous with a big parachute strapped to her back and a backpack strapped over her chest. Fortunately, in about 15 mins after some terminal velocity, and covering nearly 4 miles – down, she’d be in another country and busy burying most of it. She could barely stand under the weight.

“You still look like a daisy wearing a silk scarf.”

Always a button of Callums she enjoyed pushing.

“You know it…” Callum started

“Has ALL these practical reasons blah blah blah. Yeah yeah.”

It was pathetic, old fashioned and was just banter between them and very familiar. They’d been a team since before the war started, growing up together in Scotland to rich families. When the war started their paths in life had already been laid out for them. They had both excelled. Callum as an officer in the Canadian RAF and Ceilidh in her own unique role as a FANY, not all got head hunted by the SOE (Special Operations Executive). Their diligence to duty was paying off for them, so far.

As anyone with combat stress experience knows, familiar banter is an easy way for team members to not only stay in tune but also to defer stress. Banter was used as much as training to make teams with complex tasks seem familiar and was what being a professional was all about. You made hard and complicated tasks look easy.

Her heart rate was increasing as the jump approached. She’d had some adrenal on the go since her mission orders had come through on the 4th a couple of days back but now it was spiking. She’d ‘enjoyed’ the experience of her first two jumps, except for the landing zone being enemy territory but they had been at the more leisurely pace of 100 knots. And closer to 10,000 feet than 20,000.

A squadron was needed for this vital task in the run up to D-Day which had been planned for the next summer. The RAF with their Spitfire’s and Lancaster’s were busy doing bomber defense and bombing raids on the ‘mother’ land of the Nazi’s.

The Royal Canadian Air Force had been assigned this army auxiliary task.

Ceilidh was getting ready and distracting herself from the environment, she needed to distract herself some from the stress with random shit in her head AND keep her attention on the details. Why did life have to be so fucking complicated.

Right! this mission!!

You had to disassociate some, but…

She knew this jump was going to hurt if she fucked it up! She saw Callum rest his hand on the throttle and knew he didn’t give a fuck about being detected or orders and was worrying for her. She half fancied whispering ‘Make it one two zero will ya’ and leaving the plane would be less likely to kill her.

“I’ll be fine” she said.

He glanced round with that pragmatic look he had. She noticed the rare lack of optimism on his face and for a reason it chilled her some. It was a seldom sight.

She got focusing again.

Thank you Callum.

“You fucking better be… I mean that Ceilidh! OK! Be the firestarter but mind you’re a beaut of a canny lass! So, mind! Revenimus!” He was reminding her the war would be over and then… she needed that. Vocal communication would imminently be impossible and she was not linked into the plane’s intercom.

“Revenimus, darling.” She never called him by a pet name but she had to now for some reason. It was not in her to reply fully but thier nods said it.

Marian was strapping back into the co-pilot seat now and Tam was pulling on the door release lever. She gripped Callum’s shoulder and he felt her tremor.

“I’ll still be here when you get bac…” his promise was lost in the events.

The cacophonic whoosh as the bay started to open had the final say apart from the brief eye contact between them that spoke of a deep understanding more than anything that could be said, before she turned to do her mission.

She was holding onto the arrestor wire for life as the gush of airflow increased inside the Beaufighter and grew in violence. All the chat she’d have now for the next few minutes would be the countdown signals from Tam. No more room for niceties. Why could she not have been born in peace time!

Moments like this she got why service people were so into their drums and pipes and award ceremonies. There is little time to celebrate while you’re on the job unlike sport events or having a break as if you were just a builder or in a factory.

In the end chaos ruled all so someone had to…

She was letting her mind wonder again. She had to and it was working as she made her way to the bomb bay. All of 8 feet but it might as well be the peak of Arthur Seat for what it took.

She well knew such ‘disassociation’ or ‘out of body’ type feelings are all too familiar in high stress environments and while not new to her this one was taking her to a new height. She scorned herself for the self-inflicted pun. Nearly 20,000 feet was no laughing matter. It was at times like this she wondered if her father knew what her mother had encouraged her into. Anyhow.

She knew her commanding officer right now wanted her to be checking her gear to make sure she had everything. She’d taken care of that 3 hours ago in Inverness.

So, he could in a nutshell fuck off with his opinion about what she should be up to and let her worry about her own neck considering he was back at home.

No matter how many times he’d rephrased it, the mission brief still required her to leave the plane at a dangerous speed. So, he could just bugger off with his should be’s. Her adrenal high was doing its job now obviously, she could never say that to his face or even think it in front of him out of respect. `

She was as much a professional in her vocation as a FANY as Callum and his crew were as Ace’d night flyers. The only ones in the Canadian RAF. She was the only FANY to do a 3rd night drop into France, so far. Which made her an ace in her book to. Callum had been quick to concede that point the previous evening at her farewell do. She’d allowed herself a single drink. Her mission profile came with an early start.

His squadron was based out of Lossiemouth and would be frequently called on to do naval bombing missions and torpedo naval ships and also fighter intercept missions to the entrance of the Firth of Forth and other key ports. Stealth night drops behind enemy lines like this were not as frequent.

Her actual biggest concern was to still be alive 60 seconds from now. At 160 knots the wind was going to hit her like a fast truck in the street, her only reasonable chance of survival was there is nothing to hit up here, while buffeting around at hundreds of miles an hour. It was going to take her all to curdle into a ball and soak it up for the first few seconds after leaving the plane before putting some serious concentration into getting down – hopefully alive.

It all depended on her stabilizing her fall in the first minute out of the plane as it was going to be like hell to experience at first.

She’d then have a minute of hopefully ‘calm’ free fall flight to orient herself and ‘aim’ for the landing zone. 3 miles west of Arras. Then she’d have 2 mins of slow descent, thanks to her larger ‘chute, looking like an elephant in the sky which would not be quite so ‘calm’ as she’d be hoping no German scouts were about to take shots at her or raise an alarm. It’d be better if she could see her feet over this pack of explosives she had strapped to her chest.

Not a typical start to the day for a FANY but also not unheard of.

She’d had better starts to the day in her 22 years for sure.

All such thoughts of course brought her adrenaline to where it needed to be now. Nature had a way of making most able to get through this kind of shit. Better than facing a saber tooth tiger she supposed. However, she was fucking scared shitless and literally out of her mind now.

Times like this put you in a place between reality and your own wee world to survive and how time slowed. While her mind wondered tremendously her senses were heightened to a scary level of concentration. She fancied she could count the chop chop sound of Beaus props but also knew they were spinning at 2000+rpm and the human mind could not count that fast.

She felt like hers could right now!

Tam held his forearm upright in front of her, the 30 seconds signal. It felt like she’d been working her way to the door for an hour now. 2 feet still to go. So, 4 steps. She was hardly walking down the high street in a dress.

At the door.

Tams forearm moving… horizontal… 15 seconds. Ok.

Why me though.

She squared up to the air frame with the airflow pulling her towards the bay door. It was a punishing strain on her back. Miss this landing bitch and your hiking some shit! She braced herself to hold on. Few more seconds now.

She stared out of the door to nearly 20,000 abysmal feet between her and the ground. She did not want to be feeling like an elephant right now. She also had more than 20,000 reasons to not want to be here right now doing this.

Tam… Holding a fist in my face… 10 seconds.

Dammit.

She glanced up and looked into his eye’s. Saw only a look of complete respect and compassion. Tam gave her a split second of eye contact that said he thought the world of her then she got an angry frown and the fist punched air an inch closer to her face that then turned into five fingers being held up. As much as he respected her for what she was about to do, he obviously still had a job to get done.

Four fingers…

FUCK! She grabbed the arrestor wire tighter and got ready to yank herself. She had only a fraction of a second to clear the air frame or she could literally be torn asunder.

She hadn’t even been able to have breakfast!

Three fingers…

Do you know I never fucking asked for this shit by the way!

Two fingers…

FUCK IT!! She went! It was her rebellion to the system. She stuck to the rules well enough to get to where she wanted to be in the system. Tam better not fuck up with the bike attached to her ankle.

He never.

And this was it…

She’d survived.

This far.

Callum and the boys would be home in 2 hours’ time and she’d still be burying her ‘chute.

Hopefully.

First, she had to stop tumbling so fucking much… So, my training…

First, she reminded herself it was not really fucking windy it was her at terminal velocity that was the issue.

So.

Hold out one foreman with a lightly cupped hand to get some drag, there, notice the spin slow some, there, slowly deploy my legs, spin now supposed to slow again… there.

Still alive, so now open your fucking eyes then hen.

She got some bearings and positioned herself some… and now she could see the sun off to the left and knew she faced south. Now she had to spot the lights of Arras in the night sky.

Then she only had a few laws of physics and some Nazis to worry about before she got some brecky, but this was her 3rd night ‘chute drop into France so, all good so far…

She was starving and falling into Nazi occupied France, with a bag of explosives strapped to her, as an enemy agent at 3:30am.

Things could, in theory, be worse for her.

Chapter Two – 1920, Edinburgh, Scotland

“Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions destroyed.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

“Your fucking nuts you dickhead, what about me!” This was from his heavily pregnant girlfriend Sue, who’d decided to make him his bitch to her for life. David stayed focused. If he concentrated on her drama, he would not make it out the door. And he had to. Duty called. Plus, this was just too much control from her now. He’d tried to work it out amicably. He’d have had better luck pissing in the wind.

He’d met her as a come down girl from a summer fling when he was 21 and she now carried his first child. His own marriage had not long ended thanks to the Troubles and now this! His daughter to be was as much a love child as she had not been planned.

Fascists were taking over and his family was being torn apart and he had to act, as a Jackson. It was something Sue would have had a hard time getting her head round even if she had not been pregnant and understandably worried for her welfare, the world was not pretty at the moment. Still this had hardly been just his choice. It’d forever be his fault though; she’d make sure of that. Of course, his roots were his fault. Trying to have a family was his fault. Typical for a Dave.

“Sue please listen you know why, it’s my duty ok now c’mon that’s the end of it. If you’re willing, we can work through this and come out ok.”

“But our child?”

“Will be fine. We can both easily take good care of her?”

“And us?”

“I would like to make sure we get on brilliantly?”

“So, what the fuck am I supposed to do while your off whoring?”

“I don’t whore Sue, C’mon.”

“Well living it up being single while leaving me at home with our child?”

“I’ll take her half the week and we can swap out weekends.”

“So, what will you be up to then when you do not have her?”

“Really Sue. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Everything!”

“Well that is where we don’t see eye to eye Sue. The leash is too short!”

“What leash.”

There was no point. She’d pissed him off again now. How! He found it so easy to be in control of himself. How did she do it?

“You’re a coward and running away.”

Baiting.

He took a deep breath. She’d decided she owned him for life now. He hadn’t agreed to that part but he would do everything in his power to help bring his wain up.

“You’re not the only battle to fight for me in life, Darling.” His sarcasm dripped from his voice. She was trying to guilt him with their child and that was just fucking immature while the Nazi’s were gunning up to try take over, or anytime in fact.

No one was listening to him, her included. She could not see beyond her own nose. She lived in her own world and it did not include him having his own way or even a right to an opinion seemingly. She was far too controlling. And controlled.

That wasn’t even his main problem though, it was obvious to anyone who cared to look up and pay attention. Fascists were making a stronghold in Europe. All the signs were there. Religious discrimination. White supremacist groups in the streets and hard line politicians being voted in. A war was being built for the world by Europe right now and he was fucked if he was going to stand by and do nowt while history was being made and his family was being ruined.

If Great Britain was going to end up under the Nazi banner then Scotland fucking was not!

“You better fucking name her Ceilidh and stay in contact!”

“She’ll be called Georgianna and I promise to will make being in her life a living hell for you if you do this.”

“Thanks for being so understanding.”

“You’re NOT the one pregnant with our child though are you!”

She was right and wrong and working it. He had not exactly expected her support for his decision in life now and felt for her but the calling had not been his own choosing. His mother’s letter had said it all. He was duty bound to his family to respond. He was needed as an outlaw. And that was that. Fascists where at large and already ruining his family.

They could not have met at a worse time. Theirs’s was a match made in a current day hell. Their lot made Romeo and Juliet’s tragedy seem like a sop story. Their affair, and he had in effect seduced another’s wife when he’d first slept with her, had turned out to have burned too hot for them both. Perhaps with a safer harbour they could have… too late for such considerations now obviously. Least he was not blaming her, why did she have to blame him. He wondered if she’d hold onto the hate for years to come. He wondered how many. How long would she continue to blame him?.

He’d spent so much effort wining over the heart of Sue and her Catholic family, despite being part of a fringe Protestant commune himself. That he was brought up in a commune and now about to go sign up with the Scottish Independent movement which was Catholic and against the Monarch had not been his call.

The irony of it all was not lost on either of them. She was just still pretending she was on some ‘right’ side in it all. All he knew was his Scotland was his home and he’d sign up to Satan if needs must to keep it Nazi free. That he’d be shunned by his larger commune family for joining a fight against fascists was no odds to him. They were as confused as he was. He considered the commune lot and Nazi’s to be a bit too cosy. Law and order is one thing, forcing a way of life style on another is entirely different. Something the Nazis, his old commune and Sue all had in common.

“You’ll just be a fucking renegade terrorist and vagabond trouble-maker!”

“I prefer the term freedom fighter or rebel if you insist dear!”

“Your way out of your depth, whatever you call it.”

“Way out of YOUR depth you mean.”

“Why can’t you just be a normal person like everyone else?”

Why did she ask him this stupid fucking question whenever they argued because she knew even the idea of trying to fit in was abhorrent to him? More baits then.

She was exasperated because he could not see any value in trying to be normal. He was exasperated for the exact same reason but with another emphasis.

He closed his suitcase. This conversation never went anywhere but around in the same circle. He had to leave. She could not see why. He could not convince her of the need. She accepted the current level of control in their lives from the government and he did not. It had become tiresome and it hurt, both of them. She had good reason to be distraught as much as he had a reason to leave. He could not stay at home and play happy families with all that was going on in the world as it was right now. Another world war was brewing and after WWI he was fucked if he would witness another.

World geopolitics were destroying the fiber of his Clan, that it was not his fault and she could not see that, was not on him to carry. He had to be loyal to Clan Jackson and his mother had been clear she wanted to wipe it out, that his Father agreed with his mother didn’t help. She had joined the Nazi party. So, had he. They hated one another but they would unite to destroy their two sons evidently. His older brother was what was called mentally retarded and thus an ‘undesireable’.

“I promise I will do everything I can to make your life a living hell for this!” Being shouted at him as he walked down the stairs hardly helped his mood.

It was 2am and he had to get out of Edinburgh tonight. Sue, for sure, was going to raise hell about him. From now on he had to consider their pals and even his own mother, her pals and his enemy. What a world his daughter was coming into. If only he could save her from having to go to war or worry about extremists. ‘Normal’ or otherwise. But now he had to get away. For the sake of his life. Sue and his mother would be giving him up to the authorities in a heartbeat now.

Hell hath no fury like a women scorned and all that. Declaring her undying loyalty to him an hour ago in bed. How’d she managed to make it go from sweet nothings to this at such short notice. Why the needling and button pushing every day. She knew it only stressed him and made sleep harder to come by for him. She’d been dishing him an unknown test and he had failed. She’d been keeping count of how many times he went to hug her each day and it had been going down too much for her liking. They’d been fine an hour ago until she decided she wanted another late night baiting session, again. He couldn’t live with it.

Women. They’d both wanted a family. The extreme control she expected to have over him meant he could not stay. So, she now blamed him for the pregnancy and that was that.

He should have seen this coming. She was the kinda lass who was never single and put everything on the line to keep a man from leaving, she would not be the last.

Of that David was sure.

Besides he’d not be much use to Sue, his wain or Scotland dead and he’d not have survived long under her regime of control that was for sure.

Chapter Three – 1944, Arras, France

“One person’s terrorist is another person’s freedom fighter.” – Proverb

Her father was an outlaw ‘fighting for his right to a family and for his country’, so he said. Her mother was as much a stay at home mum as she could be in Inverness. And here she was digging a 2-foot hole in France at 4am to bury her ‘chute and using it to deal with the adrenal come down shakes she had. All the while hoping a Nazi patrol would not happen by.

She’d found her bike easily.

Tam had thrown it out the plane after her, connected with 100m of rope, which had given him scant seconds to get it clear of the plane. He’d be giving her a playful (and sore) smack on her romp if she made it out alive for whoring the jump count on him like she had.

The rope had snapped when she opened her ‘chute and the pull on her ankle had sprained it some but the bike had landed only 300 yards from her and was easily retrievable albeit with a bent peddle. Hardly a disaster for her.

Thanks folks! Could have been a better world for me, so yeah! Thanks!!

Between the Nazi’s, Catholics, Protestants, Scottish Separatists and the British ‘Elite’ she never knew who to consider the worse. She’d attended mass enough with her Catholic mum at Christmas but doubted their public position on what was happening to the Jews, blacks and homosexuals by Nazi’s. It wasn’t even close to decency, never mind divinely inspired. If anything, her mother was a liberal Catholic anyway and Ceilidh considered herself less narrow minded than her mother, thanks somewhat to her now estranged father.

She hoped everyone would bury the hatchet after the war though.

As she dug, she suckled a rations choco bar, which did the job. It was making her produce saliva and using occasional small gulps of water was helping her get hydrated some more. Her aspirations for ‘brecky’ evaporated when her feet had hit the ground 6 miles west of Arras. She had a 4 mile hike to get through after this hole was done to make contact with the French resistance.

Fine. One thing at a time.

As she continued to dig, she distracted herself again thinking about her parent’s place in the world. Her Catholic mother supporting a Protestant Monarch and her father Protestant becoming an outlaw to stand against a Monarch that employed her in her role as a FANY. Both set in their ways and neither completely right or wrong. But both confused and both riding the moral high horse as though their lives depended on it. Their stupidity upset her and gave her the energy she needed to dig. She admitted the energy also came from the choco bar and the needs must of having to literally get under cover fucking ASAP. But her folk’s lives did piss her off and it fueled her energy for digging and her start to this day did just make her want to be pissed off with the world right now.

5:12am and time to start a 4 mile hike to the La Bourne cafe Inn on the western out skirts of Arras. Her ‘chute now ‘did not exist’ and the hole had been covered with loose shrubbery.

Her elephant look transformed into that of a local peasant thanks to the bike with and its front wicker basket.

She arrived at La Bourne cafe with no incident, exhausted.

“Good morning to you madam, I come with a dispatch?” She said to the stoic looking owner who answered the door a small minute after she’d rang the bell.

“Is it from the North or East?

“North!”

“Your code word?”

“Phoenix.”

“I see, come in. Quickly now!”

She’d made contact with the resistance.

“I am madam Chani, if you will. May I ask a name off you my dear? We should be quiet and I must ask you to be in your room, which we have ready for you, before the guests come to break their fast you understand of course. We have just over an hour.”

Bless. They had a fire going in the hearth and she happily sank into a massive cushion when Chani gestured towards the common room.

“Thank you, it’s Ceilidh.”

“Welcome, let’s get you fed.”

Chani while her build was bulky moved off to the kitchen with grace that suggested to Ceilidh that she had once been a dancer. Perhaps in her mid 40s but with a well preserved quaint grace.

Ceilidh knew she’d need to count the minutes to not just flake out in front of this fire. Just the smell off the logs was so homely it reminded her of her Dads old place in South Queensferry with the log fire that she had visited once as a child. She caught herself dozing and pinched her cheek.

She could not be ‘at large’ until she had made her cover believable and that would take a few months. It was why she’d been dropped in so long before the main operation was due to take place.

She had a month or two in order to build up her cover as a young budding author of Scottish/German descent.

Was the idea, while she worked her magic.

Her cover was to be an author using her own identification as she did have German ancestors. A few articles had been published in small local young writers’ weekly with her name to them by a local contact who was indifferent to the War.

The idea of her actual mission was to eventually bring some unity and coordination between the French resistance and the Allied Forces for the proposed D-Day, and the when and how of such an operation was not to be known until the last few hours. She was to be a crucial element in the timing of some key and rather large operations that would result in explosions. A firestarter. Literally and figuratively. She’d not only come with detonators but also her radio to HQ.

Herself and the gear were integral to that operation. Callum had played his role. Now she had hers. He’d once said she was the best blonde bomb shell he’d ever dropped. She hoped to prove him right. And no girl will ever be insulted at being called a blonde bomb shell. Even when Callum teased and said he meant it only literally. It had still worked as a compliment.

The stiletto dagger strapped to her inner thigh was not for niceties either and she knew how to use it. It slid easily under a pillow and she could and had used it more than once during ‘intimate’ moments of the early hours with SS officers. She’d failed to mention such exploits to Callum. Not from shame but out of respect for him. Killing an SS officer was worth it. “Do you know what I think of you?” One had said as his final words. “I’m drop dead gorgeous?” she’d sweetly replied to the corpse as she’d gotten out from under it, retrieving her dagger from its neck.

Ceilidh was a sweet girl for the main, but more than a few had met their end thanks to her ‘loving’. She gave off a disarming charm about her that fooled everyone. She was literally sweet death on legs if she wanted to be. Her mother was on her third marriage and her two previous husbands had ended up suicidal, her own father included. Ceilidh preferred the more hands on method.

Chani offered her a breakfast platter, she took a small half loaf of fresh baked bread and some strong coffee, there was a large bat of gorgeous creamy looking butter there as well. She asked for a little wine to calm her nerves. It was 6am she had just under an hour to get clear of the common room and into her own. Chani obliged with a thick red almost sherry and the 17% alcohol made itself felt. Least her and Chani were somewhat on the same page in calming her nerves. It burnt her throat. They talked a little, quietly.

Chani had been a dancer in her youth and now just wanted the quiet life but the War had given her a chance to play with the wild side of life again. Ceilidh never asked her what kind of dancer she used to be out of politeness.

She got to her room at 6:40 ready to SLEEP. She’d thanked Chani after brecky and excused herself. Locked the door and looked at room long enough to make sure it was a soft bed she was about to let herself fall on.

At 10 she woke after a solid 3 hours which was good going considering her state and thanks mainly to the house wine/sherry she’d had, now to get the rest of the day done. She’d accomplished step one of 23 steps in her mission order plan which was at best currently quite vague. Thus, the radio transmitter.

Her mother was always quick to say ‘Do your bit for Queen and country’. She’d hold her tongue and not point out it was still against the law for a Catholic to marry into the Royal Family.

Once for a laugh only she and Callum had decided to register to be married with Inverness council to see if anyone they knew would see the banns notice. They were surprised at the outcome.

Callum was 18th in line to the throne. Which meant he was expendable enough to fly the Queen, which he had, more than once. If you were less than the 10th in line to the throne you could not fly with the Monarch. Just in case.

Being 18th in line for the throne meant he was 3rd cousin twice removed or something like that, from the Monarch. Which in reality almost meant fuck all. Until he registered his banns to ‘marry’ her. It was illegal for them to marry! Because she was Catholic and he was Royalty.

She shrugged it off but it still felt weird. She couldn’t because she’d been born ‘wrong’ by being baptised, even though it had just been a prank it was still just weird. Being born wrong or something… just did not sit well.

Her estranged, outlawed Father was hardly in a spot to help. Not that he could communicate to her. She knew he wanted to be in touch with her but with all that was going on! Fuck that! No way was she going to put her plans in jeopardy for him. He was the one who’d gone outlaw on his own family. He was now deemed an enemy of the state. She still thought he was a cool enough guy though she hardly knew him now.

It was fucked. He was protestant and had gone to be an outlaw for the Jackson Clan and Scotland. Her mother was a Catholic and had baptised her to spite her father and was ironically a stout fan of a Protestant Queen and Country… and there she had to stop her mind from moaning and agree with reality.

The Third Reich had to be brought down. Her father had been right on that one. When she was young Ceilidh’s mother was forever saying ‘Don’t be going on about Nazi’s taking over you’ll begin to sound like Jackson, only those who break laws moan about law and order!’

Her mother had never referred to her father by his first name but her comments had dried up in 1936. Her father had seen it in 1920, Sue was still intent on hating Jackson. But he’d been right. Fascism was raising its ugly head and a stand had to be made. On that she agreed, a stand had to be made against this us and them view. She might not be able to bring her family together but she could stand against the global invasion by the Third Reich…

Despite how you chose to worship god or not, the sheer prejudice being forced on humanity by the Third Reich had to destroyed.

Other considerations, had to at the moment, just wait. She was in France and an enemy of the State herself now and it was being ruled by Nazi’s and she was about to start breaking a few laws! Her mother’s views on law and order could for a moment take a back seat in affairs. It’s weird her mother wanted her to be a goody two shoes but relished in her exploits at war, killing others.

In a way she and her farther were on the same side. They were just on different versions of the same side. Everyone was busy with their own mind of making things better. Which is a fine idea until a Third Reich raises its head. But Jackson and her shared the same view that everyone should do it all united and not divided. The Third Right was far from all inclusive. But so was her own family…

Right. Whatever!

Time to get some shit done. She got dressed in frilly clothes and hardy foot wear. With her knife strapped to her thigh just out of sight above her knee. Very sparse make-up. Such things existed more in Scotland now than France, strangely.

She left the Chalet Inn with the dubious assurance that her gear would be ok in her absence now her first order of business was to get into a resistance safe house.

Then get the fuck away from it and get her own place so she could operate independently. With a radio that could connect to HQ as well as others in the Resistance. Then recruit as many fighters as she could muster. Her CO had suggested hundreds. She knew France and was aiming for thousands. She was in essence, the Pheonix for France. A title she was happy to carry.

She left the radio in the La Borne Inn and made her way into town on her bike with the detonators in her wicker basket. They were harder to replace than the radio and her wiles and smiles should get her through any road blocks. Otherwise her mission would be off to a bad start.

Now the tension starts to rise.

When you’d had the kind of night she’d had and now was the time to worry, said something.

A thankfully road block free nice mile long cycle later she was at the Le Front Cafe wearing her signal quaint red cap, the Scarpe river meandered by. She was to meet her contact here this morning. Or be arrested by the Gestapo. Espionage life was harder than Callums Squad Commander role in the war. She toped him on that account!

She sipped her espresso like a lady and once again cursed her looks and the attitude of men in France. She’d knocked back 4 come on’s in under an hour when she was hit at last. He was a slow boring looking elderly man who simply sat at her table. Apparently without the notion of thinking about asking for permission to join her. He just plonked himself in the seat opposite.

“Welcome lass, Yir bonny but you’ll be left alone, now I’m here. It’s just Rab, hiya.” His accent pronounced. Definitely plenty Glasgow in there.

He was the kinda guy she’d not want as a Dad unless she had an ex needing some attention. She let her pulse slow some.

“Cheers, it’s Ceilidh” She offered. They shook hands – none of this European cheek kissing nonsense got done by said Rab. His Scottish accent was a giveaway but it seemed he was the hidden in the obvious, type character. People ignored him because they were used to him. Her briefing had informed her he moved here shortly after serving in WWI and had since become quite a well published author himself. He was a contradiction.

The Scots shared that with the Irish in the world. They could be on anyone’s side – so you took them as you knew them. Religion was a more dividing force than politics and borders. France, Germany and the America’s had not yet cottoned on to this as much as Great Britain or the Jews who were now fighting to exist.

“I’ve agreed to this task thanks to your father writing me a letter of recommendation, his writings were never popular but I saw some genius in them. My continued agreement depends entirely on your own progress. I believe you wish to write a novel about the war? Bit brave of you ‘sidering it’s far from over, no?!” The letter had been a forgery but her own father did actually write a couple of books but they were just drivel.

Rab had clearly gone to ground in France and was happily dug in here. War or no. He’d already been ‘caught’ and released by the Gestapo. He was and so easily convinced them that his lot in life was over and he had retired as a Scots author of romance books living out his life in Arras. Even the Nazi’s could not object to him.

“What made you move here may I ask?” It was a question to make easy chat. He responded by holding up his glass of beer that a waitress had already delivered to him without being asked.

“Did you know this town is where Stella Artois was born and the name Arras comes from the Celtic word Ar meaning ‘sacred place’ for me that’s reason enough. I think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew with your idea for a novel.”

Scots wi hae! The Auld Alliance lived. She’d made relevant contact with the resistance. Now to get into a safe house. Somewhere to store her gear safely that it was out of mind so she could operate.

“It’s a challenging task to be sure and some nice digs would help settle me into things somewhat.” Was her best gambit. She was good at thinking on her feet but the SS roadblock being set up 30 odd feet away was not helping her nerves any. That most of cafe seats in France were out doors was not currently cute to her mind.

“We have a place close by on Paris Ave that will suit madam I am sure. It has a private entrance, suitable washing space and is perfect for entertaining.” She was here to help on the war effort not run a fucking brothel but she was thankful to say the least.

“Sounds perfect. I will be sure to mention you in my book as an inspiration as you have been.” C’mon let’s get to work!

“Of course, shall we head over to the estate agent for the properties key’s then”

At last but a snail would beat him to the finish line.

She picked up a copy of the local free classified paper as they left the cafe.

The estate agents were proficient and the taxi took less than 10 mins. The driver was one of them.

It seemed to take forever to get anything done with this Rab but everything around him worked like clockwork and his slow steady pace brought in quick results.

She’d met him just over an hour ago and he was already on his slow way back to the taxi with her now housed. Stella waited she imagined.

She found the phone and made a few calls. With the cash she had on her it was not hard or took long.

Another few bike trips to collect the radio after she’d moved again, into a somewhat more secluded apartment, she was more settled and ready for a well needed 2nd sleep. It was 5:30pm, to think she’d started the day in Inverness, had done a ‘chute jump, dug a 2 foot hole, moved house twice… She’d stopped caring about Nazi’s around lunch time.

She locked the apartment door, let her bike fall against the wall as she walked down the hall kicking off her shoes and removing her cardigan. She turned into the bedroom.

A cool refreshing breeze came in the slightly open window and she could smell the roses in the plant holder on the window ledge outside.

The double bed had a thick feather duvet. She drew the curtains.

Any lingering concerns about where she was stopped the moment her head hit the fine linen pillow.

Chapter Four – 1941, East Grinstead, Flight School

“Bristol Type 156 Beaufighter (often called the Beau) is a multi-role aircraft developed during the Second World War by the Bristol Aeroplane Company in the UK. It was originally conceived as a heavy fighter variant of the Bristol Beaufort torpedo bomber. The Beaufighter proved to be an effective night fighter, which came into service with the Royal Air Force (RAF) during the Battle of Britain, its large size allowing it to carry heavy armament and early airborne interception radar without major performance penalties.” – Wikipedia

Today was to be the best and final day of flight school for Callum Robertson.

As the War had progressed the need for a massive Air Force had become quickly apparent and filling the crews progressively harder. In his aircraft the duties were divided into 3 crew and the 2 Scots were young.

He had to have great eye sight, lightning reflexes, be able to think on his feet and have that x factor that made fighter pilots what they were. It was a mild dose of madness cloaked in brilliance. He’d been trained to be an Ace.

His co-pilot was the only foreign member of the crew and as his co-pilot had to be a world class navigator. The bombardier was generally a mechanic also and if your were lucky a medic as well.

As things were people like Callum got their first command on the day they graduated. Today was that day.

The only Ace who stood aloof from the Beau’s was the Spitfire’s in Callums mind. That single man fighter had done more for Britain than any other and the men who flew them had to be pilots, navigators, mechanics, medics and ferocious warriors. Those pilots were the only people Callum could salute with sincerity.

Ceilidh still teased him as being old fashioned for refusing to salute any women other than the Queen. But his mother had given him an old-fashioned upbringing. His mother never voted, not a womens place to take a view on politics, she was that out of touch. Probably thought the suffragettes had been terrorists.

He’d never had much to thank his mother for but he did today. She’d been born in Canada and was a war bride from the Great War. His folks had split up when he was young and he rarely heard from them but he was grateful for his mother today. As he would be given his first Beau thanks to being in the Royal Canadian Air Force and not the RAF. The RAF had offered him the spot of co-pilot only. But now he was to command a flight crew of his very own Beaufighter.

It was arguably the deadliest thing in the sky. Officially the Bristol Type 156.

It was a multi role aircraft. Night fighter. Stealth bomber. Air to ground, air to sea and air to air attack platform. With massive range. Incredibly maneuverable and being a twin engine, she was twice as hard to take down than a single prop.

Callum was now a First Flight Lieutenant in the RCAF 401 Squadron and he would be the Beau’s commander. He’d have his co-pilot/navigator, Marian Czawbaski and a rear gunner/bombardier Tam Codsworth to lead but it would be his craft in the end.

As soon as those wheels left the tarmac, he felt like a god in the sky. Death to dance with as an enemy. Every enemy battle cruisers bosun feared the sound of his engines. His bomb bay could carry torpedo’s if his regiment commander ordered it so.

It was a MK IIs R2055 which meant Tam had two guns to man as well as the bomb bay. In the port fuselage was a Vickers 40mm S gun and in the starboard fuselage was a Rolls-Royce BH 40mm gun.

His plane was unique in that it should have been a 2 man fighter with a gun turret. But his ‘aristo’ connection, which annoyed him, made him likely for any ‘special’ missions that came across his commanders’ desk. So… his bomber/fighter was unique. He was also the only one in the class with good enough night vision for said special missions. British elitism was also crammed full of common sense as well.

The Beaufighter was a derivative from the Bristol Bleinheim but with extra range and more engine power. Instead of the 850hp Bristol Engines of the Bleinheim, the Beaufighter had Hercules engines that produced 1300hp each and her frame had been shrunk to make her sleeker. So, the engines had been mounted into the wings instead of under them. Consequently, the nose had to be extended out to make room for more fuel storage now the wings had been bastard’d in their design.

It’s call sign was Black Arrow for a reason. She was painted entirely black bar the RCAF Colours and she looked sleek as fuck. Briefing was coming to a close. He was chomping at the bit already. Come on. He stood up. “Easy Robertson, 2 more mins” His mission commander said.

His peers turned to see him stood at his desk in the back of the briefing room. Marian stood up then to. So did Tam and then the rest of the squadron. “Fine, keep it clean and safe. Get on with it all of you! Robertson! fucking come here!!” Everyone piled out the room and Callum presented himself to the commander.

“Yes Sir.”

“Listen lad I know the last 2 minutes are the same old safety stuff but mind this lad, you’ve balls, but hear this now, those men look up to you! All of them. Your too good. They’re not. You could make or break this squadron depending on how well YOU look out for THEM and not the other way around. You have the responsibility of command right now. Do not fucking abuse it! Understood?!”

The commander quickly noticed he’d be more productive talking to a wall. “Get up there and do your thing Robertson!!”

Callum gave a crisp nod. Said “Of course Sir.” took an about step and left to his Beau. It had been a sobering point the commander had made and it almost removed the air from under his feet. Almost.

HIS FIRST DAY WITH HIS OWN FUCKING AIRCRAFT AND CREW. YA FUCKING DANCER!!!!

He took a few deep breaths and stopped walking like he was trying to win a race without trying and got his head straight. Today’s mission was only a scout over Germany. But the Luftwaffe patrolled those skies.

Capre deim.

He was just catching up with his crew as they got to the hanger.

His Beau having been built over a year ago had seen enough action with bullet marks on her hull to prove it. One didn’t ask how many times the windows had been replaced or how many crew members had been lost in any aircraft from the ground crew. Such things just weren’t talked about.

But he could see they knew everything about Skye. The ground crew were a proud and efficient bunch. He gave a salute as he approached the craft. It was a stupid flight crew that did not respect the ground crew.

Each commander got to name their aircraft and Skye just sat well for him. The Isle of Skye was where his only wain had been conceived. And it was where he and his Beau belonged.

He looked at the wind sock. 20 knots North East. The runway ran on a near true north/south axis, so take off speed will be 98+ knots today with little cross wind, it was automatic for him now. Sky moderate low cloud. No rain in sight. Close to a full moon. Good he’d know where he was going.

He cracked his knuckles and pushed up his sleeves and donned his scarf. Ceilidh would always tease him about it but Just like she did not object to being referred to as a blonde bomb shell by him he did not object to being considered a dashing, hopefully soon to be heroic, pilot either. But today was just a sneak peek over Germany and basically a shake down day for the new crews and command was going easy on them.

It was mid November and they were to leave at 4am and be back by 10am. They’d be over German airspace with daylight for approx 17mins. 18 if they had to increase altitude for any reason. Luftwaffe contact was a less than a 1 in 10 chance on the mission profile.

Breakfast had been served up at 2 am and was a typical plate of a steak with 2 easy over fried eggs. A small slice of buttered crust bread and a pint of Guinness. Watch this one day some twat would drink 2 pints and crash and they’d end up being served tea!

It was just pragmatic.

The Guinness settled the nerves and if you had to go, it helped. Steak and eggs… no one said it but vegetarians and cake eaters piss and poo more and their aircraft never had toilets, so no member of the flight crew was ever a vegetarian or ate cakes on mission day or the day before for that matter.

Tam was already inside Skye. Marian was going around her with the ground crew sergeant. The stars were winking at him. A slight frost could be seen on the blades of grass and everyone could see everyone else’s breath as they exhaled.

He stepped in through the door and made his way into the pilot seat and strapped in. “How’s the cannons Tam?”

“Gorgeous and greased, Sir” Tam would never have added the Sir in barracks. This was not the barracks.

“Good man, get the Pollock on board and give me the all go call outs.” He’d earned their respect during training for good reason, he always treated them with dignity and got away with being the good natural leader that he was, banter included.

“Sir.” Tam jumped out the plane and Callum started flicking switches, checking each gauge as he went.

It might be a heady life moment but if there was no pressure in his hydraulics, they’d be his life’s last moments. Some serious concentration time. He knew what the taxi out to the start of the runway was going to do to his spirits.

Internal checks took 6 quick minutes and no one deliberately asked him for his attention during that time. Marian was about to come and do the exact same checks he was now doing. For a good reason. Spitfire pilots always did their checks three times… if they had time.

“Callum Sir, we have a good morning for you no? I do checks now yes. Ok?” Marian was exiled from Poland and had more reason to hate the Nazi’s than most. He also had family in Scotland and Canada.

“Thank you Mr Marian. Will be a pleasure flying with you today Sir. Please do, I make the craft out as A-ok, we must thank the ground crew when we return. Tam?”

“Door secure sir and ground crew thanked.”

It was just what was said. You put it in the air you’d be home soon. It put the war in the background so you could get through preflight and concentrate on what had to be done to get airborne. He now shut up and gave Marian respectful silence while his work got double checked.

Launch time was a scant 12 mins from now.

Marian was a few years his senior and had tons more combat experience. But yet lacked that ultimate British qualification for getting a command spot.

Being in the club.

He signaled the ground crew to remove the stops from under the wheels. Callum applied pressure to the wheel brakes. Minute or two now until ignition.

“Marian…” he’d teased him at brecky saying Callum would nudge him during pre-flight. Callum had argued otherwise. He’d lost that bet then evidently but to a good cause as he was just being keen.

“Yah..yah… just few seconds.. more… and.. ok, all good Sir, I make the craft a-ok also. Ok to fire the engines Commander?!”

“Make it so number one!” Callum had waited years to say just that to someone and now he just had. The wait had been worth every second of it as the twin Hercules engines burst into life for the first time without an instructor on board to gain say him.

Skye suddenly felt like a tremble of force unto herself. He still had the brake on but that did not mean he could not feel the sheer power of the engines through Skye’s airframe. Skye might not be moving but she was announcing she wanted to. Planes were more at home above the clouds, as were their pilots.

He glanced to make sure the ground crew were clear, checked the gauges quickly for a flashing light, gave Marian a thumbs up to see him mimicking it, then he released the ground brake. They taxied slowly towards the runway like a stallion spoiling for a race, engines purring and begging for full power.

The weight of command settled into Callum but so did the view of the open world. Despite his commanders worries he was not daft with his youth.

Another of his squadron had their plane out of their hanger over to his left, 2 more were still to move from theirs off to his right but their ground crews were also clear already.

Weather and crews all jibing. He owned it.

His plane would be the first to take off. It was not a RHIP (Rank Has Its Privileges) thing because he was squadron commander or anything like that. He had the largest fuel tanks of the squadron so would be first up and last down.

He loved it. He’d lead them off and so lined himself up to the runway. Put the brakes on. Gave Marian a glance and got a thumbs up. “Tam, all good?” he said into the intercom.

“Yes Sir, all clear and secure.”

Callum pushed the throttle to full stop and started to feel the craft pull against the brakes. Skye was soon to be demanding her place in the world! He had to show her respect, flipping a Beau at lift off was not unknown and the boundary he pushed.

The trick was judgement at lift-off.

The noise and vibration increased exponentially by the second, as the propellers rpm increased by orders of magnitude.

They were not under fire and he had no excuse to not let the craft slowly increase speed. But emergency take off procedures were more exciting.

Marian glanced over with a nod.

It was time.

He released the brake. Let’s go bitch, he never usually thought of his darling in such terms.

Her seeming bulk moved slowly at first.

A plane accelerates differently from most other vehicles. It’s the steady continuous increase in g force that makes it unique and Callum was going to pull some g’s getting off to his first real flight with her.

Beau throbbed and shuddered as all the forward thrust energy transformed into movement. Like too much mass being told to do too much at once. It was like she grumbled at first. But knew greater heights awaited.

The white lines on the runway started disappearing under Skye as she demanded her own release.

They were doing 60 knots within seconds.

Callum could control his spirits no more, he felt an energy in him that seemed to flow out of her. She fed his soul. His fist held the throttles to their stops on full with a purpose and respect. His hand held the stick ready.

80 knots! Nearly there…!!

The runway was quickly becoming a blur.

90 knots, c’mon darling let do this. He was loving it.

The Luftwaffe could be up there.

He admitted to himself it was not all excitement and there was fear in there as well.

And he didn’t give a fuck!

But gaining height right now would be good!

The speedometer hit 98 knots!

Now it was his time. Quick quickly glanced at the instruments…

“One zero three knots… and lifting off…” he voiced into the intercom. Marian was impressed, again. They were about to do a Callum climb evidently by how much lift he was giving her.

There was something to being your own master and he knew how to get his Beau up off the ground and into her home in the clouds like many couldn’t.

He increased the elevation in the wings to max then and the fuselage was telling him she was ready for it. He could feel the wings leaning up into the sky.

This moment was his forte.

Callum pulled the stick and it wanted to fight him but he increased the pressure until he felt the craft respond, first the stick fought him less as it moved more… he pulled with.. less.. pressure, then he felt the nose lift a little on its front suspension. Callum pulled ever so gently more on the stick. Beau was now reaching for the sky! With clouds above to leave behind.

Your nearly ready my girl.

He pulled the stick back the rest of the way. He was now committed to flight.

He could think of only the expanding horizon above.

It all happened in a fraction of a second.

The nose left the runway and came up sharply and pointed him steeply into the sky then it was suddenly like she had been released from a spring and immediately the ground was racing away below them.

The whole crews’ stomachs played catch up.

He felt pride in Skye.

She quickly steadied into an aggressive climb at home going up, fast.

Callum felt truly free for the first time in his life.

She shot into the sky, invisible except for the roar of her engines.

The broad horizon was there as promised and now she was his.

Callum was off to his war at long last and it felt beautiful.

Chapter Five – 1944, Arras, France

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” – Edmund Burke

It was a dark Halloween night and she was with friends at a late night cafe. Some drinking coffee and some having wine and all jovial. It’s was namely an author’s networking night and actually a high level French Resistance commanders conference. Ceilidh had savvy as well as sass.

Very few in the cafe were wogs as they were thought of by the Resistance, the people of France who were indifferent to Nazi rule.

If the Gestapo had wanted to put an end to the Resistance in France, tonight and here was the where and now to do it.

But as it was there was no patriotic flags on display. No anti-Nazi propaganda. Not even a bad word was being said about the Third Reich. Just off the cuff mentions of ‘The powers that be’. In fact, a Gestapo officer could have easily mingled in the crowd and notice nothing but creative writers discussing their craft on a pleasant evening, some dressed daft for their social occasion. The Nazi’s had no reason to celebrate Halloween but also no objection to those who did.

But things were not only being discussed.

Plans were being made and finalized.

Ceilidh was ‘having a wee blether’ with an Estifan who was regaling her with a disaster adventure tale he was working on. It was about a train breaking down on the Alps on its way to Paris with school children on board. He wasn’t sure if he should make it French school kids returning or German kids going to Paris so he was not sure on the date to set it.

Ceilidh suggested using the German School children coming to Paris theme as more plausible. Which would make it around end May. Considering different national school holidays. He thanked her for her suggestion for his plot. The school kids in question would actually be a mechanised infantry battalion reinforcing the front on D-Day from Frankfurt.

And a major military operation involving 12 people and 180kg of dynamite was now set up with a tentative date to be confirmed, and she never had to explain the purpose of the 3 detonators that she had put into his palm as they shook hands. That was one train line that would hold up Nazi equipment at the right time.

She had as much an idea of the overall invasion as Estifan, which wasn’t a lot. However, she did have a list of very specific instructions, memorized and not in writing since she’d burned the decipher notes.

Ceilidh was doing her job fucking brilliantly. Every person in this cafe was responsible for at least 10+ others out in the field. She was dishing out their orders.

That she was receiving from Allied HQ.

She was accompanied on the evening by her new flat mate, Jacques. They were supposed to be a young couple in love having just moved in together. She found him to be the kind of guy it was easy to pretend to be in love with.

He was actually the unit commander for the Arras Resistance and himself responsible for over 200 operators in the field. His cover name was Jaques and that what all she knew him as.

Even the few times she’d slept with him, she’d needed the release but they kept it ‘professional’. Too much was at stake to be getting all starry eyed and loved up. Besides she never loved him and romance and war did not co-exist well. Words like glory and gore went with war. Not love and romance. Her cover as an author was getting to her.

But Ceilidh had made it clear to Jacques that nothing would ever come of them as a couple. He said he was happy to take what he could get. He treated her with respect and obviously cared for her so she took care not to abuse that.

The night was coming to a close and they were about to leave to head back to the apartment they shared. It was certainly a ‘marriage of convenience’ and was well quite convenient.

Then she thought she caught agents keeping her in check.

No one thing in particular. Just a feeling of seeing too many familiar things just too often in the same time span.

She was right.

A young SS officer who had taken a fancy to her was using his position to surveil her. She had not actually slipped up as an operative he was just a horny pervert. But all this was not currently known to her, only that she was looking to make eye contact with Jacques, in case. She got his attention and double winked at him. She noticed his shoulders square up and was glad he’d got the message.

It became apparent to them both as they made their way home. They were halfway and it was only less than a mile to their apartment that it became apparent that they were being followed by 3 agents. And they’re gaily chat about her next novel laid exactly what she wanted to do. She had her knife to hand and Jaques an assassin pistol.

The Third Reich was fucking with the wrong kitty tonight and was about to lose 3 of its most devout members.

They took circuitous and separate routes back to the apartment and did not put on the lights when they got in. Opened and closed locks quietly and tip toed about. It was just smart to not stick out when you’d just killed three members of the SS brutally. She’d cleaned her knife and replaced it already. It had made less noise than Jacques pistol.

So, she got the last laugh there then. He’d argued his weapon more efficient yet it was her that had taken out two of the agents following them, in complete silence. She just knew where in a man’s neck a knife needed to go. Just under the adams apple and you got a barely audible gurgle and her aim was improving.

Her mother would be so proud. Her father not so much, he was not for the use of violence in the pursuit of an independent Scotland and in general he abhorred war. Sue seem to thrive on the drama, but only from afar. Never one to show anything gallant, always behind the scenes was her mother dear. As in this instance she’d be smirkly sitting at home in Inverness basking in the glory of her daughters exploits while she was here in Arras wielding a knife at the throats of men who would torture her in the most horrendous of ways and enjoy themselves while doing it. If they could.

But her mother had been happy to fob her off since forever and achieved just that when Ceilidh was 12 and she started boarding school.

Chapter Six – 1932, Boarding School

“Every child is born an artist; the problem is to remain one as we grow up” – Pablo Picasso

She refused to cry. Her mother knew she hated this idea and why. And also, would not be budged on the subject no matter how much Ceilidh had tried over the summer to sabotage things. She was being sent to the Mary Erskine School for Girls in Edinburgh. The one consoling factor being Callum was 14 and would be 2 years above her in the Mark Erskine School for boys. Which was in the building next door.

Like the boards of each institution never knew what ‘behind the bike shed’ meant. They were separate schools now in name only and some sports.

Boys and girls often competed against one another in for example judo and chess but not cricket, tennis or rowing. Mary Erskine was not ready to be THAT liberal.

It truly was a fantastic school but just strict and about a century out of date in the world but only socially, she was quick to discover. Her math’s teacher made her see why being sent to this school was so expensive. He literally captured her mind on day one of math’s class and held it solidly for 5 years.

She would not have got her chemistry degree and ended up a FANY if it were not for him teaching her about logic.

Her first day had been shit. She had to admit to herself she missed her mum. She had to cry. She went to the toilet and let is out for a minute while she hoped no one would come in and hear her sobs. She wiped her eyes and went about the day. Meeting matron convinced her she hated her mother again and her life was over.

But Tues morning she bumped into Callum in the canteen. He grabbed her into his arms and lifted her up easily swinging her round while bear hugging her. His 5′ stout figure when he was 12 had turned into 6′ of brawn now. He set her down, ruffled her hair and her cheeks glowed red with obvious joy at seeing him. “So, how’s my girl?” He beamed back at her.

And that was that. She was now popular in the school and no one would try fuck with her. Callum only actually spoke to her for less than a minute but he was rushing off to captain the Rugby team in the nationals and that was a good excuse to not sit with her for lunch. Besides he’d just made her the most popular newbie in town.

Then she met Mark. Math’s was her first class after lunch on Tues and she made her way into the class with Regina, a girl of half German descent she’d befriend out of charity. She was not popular right now as was the case with most Germans in Britain and actually most of Europe.

It was a murky August day and warm inside. And time to rush off to class. It was on you to be there by 1pm. Not on some janitor ringing some bell. This was a ‘proper’ school where you were expected to be able to stick to a schedule without being prompted.

She gulped down the last of her tea still a bit too hot and they ran off to find room 102 and found it by 12:57. All good.

They stood in line at the teacher’s desk to give their names. Sun blared in the windows that faced North and Ceilidh quickly took her jacket off, the room was not stifling but it was stuffy. At the teachers desk she was mopping her brow. Ceilidh McJack, sir. She offered. “Gotcha here Ceilidh, welcome I am Mark and will be your math’s teacher. Are you ok, your flushed and sweating?”

Fuck he noticed. She was just warm and really didn’t need a fuss made just access to a seat to sit down. “Just a warm day Sir is all, rushing to find class.” She tried but she really was perspiring now and the sun was punishing, she worried she was about to faint.

Regina piped up from behind “Ceilidh are you sure you’re ok you do look flushed?” Ceilidh knew she was just being nice and ALSO making more of a scene of it!

“Honestly I am fine. It’s just the tea.” She just wanted her seat and was a little short with Regina.

Then Mark stepped in. “All good Ceilidh your seats just there he pointed to a seat a little off center towards the front.” She was thankful. “Ceilidh, let me ask you, why would the tea make you perspire?”

Great she was just stepping off the teachers slightly raised dais to get to her seat and he’d just put her on the spot with a pointed question that made the whole class look on. While she was sweating like a pig. “The heat has to go somewhere!” She retorted with as much anger as she thought she could get away with.

“And first brownie point goes to Ceilidh would a couple of you there by the windows open them some, it is too stuffy in here.”

3 eager lads agreed and the fresh air was a relief to one and all.

Her ‘disastrous’ arrival to math’s had just been turned on its head.

Her Tues was certainly better than her Mon here.

“Logic, not Mathematics is the name for this class that I would like you to put on your jotters. Now it is not strictly speaking true, but at this level it serves a purpose.”

“Next year you will either label your jotter Mathematics or not need to be here. Mary Erskine does not adhere to the national curriculum by Royal assent so Math’s and English are not obligatory subjects. Give me a moment to persuade you Mathematics should not have to be a compulsory subject because it is FUN.”

“I want to give you an example to show you how logically solving a problem can sometimes bring a very obvious solution to light apparently out of thin air. In science we refer to it as inspiration others like to use words like divine influence.”

“The story goes.” Ceilidh sat up ever so slightly. She wasn’t gunning for any teacher’s pet reputation either but this sounded interesting. He had a way of talking that was easy to listen to. A deep voice that he could use to make points. The timing he used it with made what he was saying more interesting. His voice had a cadence you could follow easily. And what logic, problem solving, divine what… this was interesting.

She tuned in.

“A young family was heading to holiday at Land’s End on the farthest South West corner of the UK ilse. When a truck struck a railway bridge and got jackknifed under it. It was a nightmare. It was the last bridge carrying a rail line on it spanning over the last strip of highway before Land’s End.”

“The school summer holidays had started only the previous day and the holdup was a misery for everyone.”

“One car had an eight year lad and six year old lass in it with their parents heading south. The Father said he’d go check things out and came back 20 mins later with news.”

“It’s a railway bridge, they need special lifting gear to hold the bridge while they get a truck out, they have army engineers on site who have assessed it all. They have some cranes in Birmingham that might do but the only crane that can do it for sure is in Aberdeen. So, we’re here for either 6 or 14 hours guys. Get comfy.”

“The little girl, Sally, grabbed her comfort blankie and wrapped herself in it. ‘Daddy?’ she piped up from her snuggle in the back seat. ‘Why do they not just let some air out the tires and drive it out.’”

“And in there is my point young ladies. Math’s is about simplifying the problem and not making it more complicated. It is only a tool for logical thinking but not a means to it. That lies in the philosophy classes and the likes of advanced quantum physics.”

“So, if you’re still tracking with me sit towards the front, if you’d rather gossip do it very quietly at the back”

Ceilidh took tight hold of her desk at the class front and thought maybe school was not going to be so bad in the end. She felt like she’d found a new god or something in logic.

Of course, there was still too much politics bullshit but this Mark dude made some sense.

So, her path to the sciences was laid before her instead of the arts.

She was officially a devotee to science now.

Training to be an angel of death.

Chapter Seven – Jan, 1945, Arras, France

“War is nothing but a continuation of politics with the admixture of other means.” Carl von Clausewitz.

She was freezing and things were getting too hot to handle. Literally. It was rare for her to be in the field as a direct action operative but this job needed her skill set. It was time to switch off Arras. All of it.

The RCAF Beaus 401 Squadron, were doing a bomb run tonight to hit a factory near Frankfurt that was the final assembly point for heavy artillery. Callum would be up there tonight.

It was her job to take out the early warning radar for air raids. It happened to be on the same electrical grid as the town she was living in. She had Jacques with her. The explosives were simply too heavy for one to manage. Taking out the main power line would have done the job but would have been too easy to repair.

A 22 tonne transformer however is not so easy to replace. As it converted 220,000 volts to a safer for general use 230 volts it wasted heat. Attaching large charges of dynamite to hot metal surfaces is not a safe thing to do. That was why she was hands on tonight. Her honour’s degree in chemistry was supposed to come in handy. How the fuck that would keep her head on her shoulders if a charge of this shit went off in her face while she was handling it was a mystery but the theory was her knowledge would make such an event less likely to happen. And orders were orders.

“Madam you have bigger balls than me.” Jacques, forever helpful passed her the last charge. 5 would do it. They were 12.8kg each. She already had the detonators wired. Now the tricky bit. Get them into the dynamite, which was already volatile, due to the excessive heat and then get to a safe distance before blowing the charges. If they did not go off in the meantime.

She was not in the mood to encourage any chat while she did it. She managed. Jacques stood back a little. Nowhere near enough. She gathered her tools and climbed down off the structure.

“You know I don’t. Now let’s fucking move. Quick!”

280 yards away in some light tree’s they’d run the line to the detonator switch. Another 100 yards beyond that was there getaway vehicle. Stealth and being quiet had its place in the world of espionage but with what they were about to do the only thing likely to save their lives would be to get the fuck away very quickly! Jaquces was the more experienced driver so he would be at the wheel of their jeep. If they came across a road block they would be running it.

Once again breakfast seemed a world away. They were now at the switch. All she had to do was close the circuit. Jacques already was holding the batteries handle. This was not a movie. There was no dramatic countdown. She closed the circuit immediately. Their lives depended on time. And movement now.

They both opened their mouths fully while slowly exhaling as they faced away from the explosion. The concussion literally was helping them accelerate into a sprint to get to the jeep. Fortunately, neither of them had burst ear drums but they both sure had headaches.

Ceilidh more felt the engine start than heard it because of the ringing in her ears. She swung round in her seat and looked as Jacques got them moving and accelerated up through the gears. She was not ‘enjoying the show’ in fact the bright light from the explosions fire frustrated her night vision and she was looking out for anyone pursing them. With a machine gun.

They got clean away. And Arras was in a black out. They had driven from the East side of town to the West going around using back roads.

Now they had ditched the jeep and were making their way quietly back into town on foot. Jacques had thrown the battery away in some thick hedging. No sense making it easier for the Nazi’s to close in on them.

As they passed back into the darkened town there was an eerie buzz in the air. As some quietly went about restoring some light to their homes with what candles they had available. The odd army or emergency service vehicle would roar past. No sense using any sirens at this time.

Ceilidh knew what she’d done and why. Seeing how it had affected some people though for her was rubbing salt into a wound that had already cut deeply into her soul since she’d arrived for this mission 8 months ago.

It had started to take a toll on her.

War was ugly.

She walked past a blacked out nunnery caring for wounded orphans. Nuns were lining up dead children in the street. Muttering about bombing raids causing black outs and their consequences. She counted 3 bodies before she closed her eyes and took Jacques arm. She just let him lead her down the road for 100 yards. It had been her handiwork. You could not start a bolder rolling down a hill and not be responsible for the results.

She felt a ball of cold in her stomach and her abdomen tensed to retch. She had to get her shit together and not have a flaky turn right now. She was running only on will power.

Jaques steered her around a corner and she recognised the smell of their local bakery. She got some sense of relief from seeing the apartment. “Would you like some croissants madam.”

She knew he had as much of an appetite right now as she did. He was just being ‘normal’.

She lowered her head slightly and made for the apartment. So, she was pulling on his arm slightly. He got the point. She made it to her bed and collapsed. Jacques took her in his arms and quietly held her.

Then the shakes came. She hugged her knees, gritted her teeth and sobbed through them until an emotionally drained exhaustion took her.

Chapter Eight – 1939, London, Becoming a FANY

“It is courage to uphold your own sense of moral fiber that makes a person unique in this world.” – Dortju Orfu

She was 19 and they had broken her. Sleep deprivation. Caffeine infused food. Being kept in isolation for weeks. And the interrogations. She’d caved.

Everyone involved knew they were all playing make believe. But sleep deprivation, isolation, being deprived sunlight were all techniques the SS used on field agents and worked even now. At home. She was not going to be a normal FANY. She’d been selected for insurgency work. She was now being prepared for possible capture by SS operatives. She had no idea how long this has been going on now. She’d lost track of time… some time ago.

She’d been 18 when she had been contacted by the Special Operations Executive, SOE. At the time she’d considered being a conscientious objector to the war, the idea of being a FANY running around after men appealed to her as much as work in the factories for the war effort. Then the word espionage passed in front of her eyes.

It took her 2 months and countless arguments with her mother, her argument was Ceilidh would be missed by the family. She saw it more like she would not be on her mother’s leash all the time.

Leaving home to join what was in essence the female version of the SAS was hardly the freedom of the open road she’d dreamed of as a child but then the world was at war.

Now she regretted it. These guys were fucking ruthless assholes.

Her cell was a concrete box. No blanket. Sleeping was easiest sitting with her back to the wall but it was not easy. She’d never felt this exhausted. She was trying to get some sleep now. Her food had been spiked with caffeine again. They’d either be here to question her or she’d now be in isolation for an indescribable amount of time. Perhaps they’d hose her again, to bathe her. But it was the dead silence that rocked her soul continuously. It was a very dim and sound proof cell.

She was not quite at the stage of hitting her head on the wall. Quite.

Remember the good things. That was her best means of survival so far apart from the oblivion of sleep. Ok. She met the Queen when she was 15. She hadn’t been the Queen at the time and they’d both been on a mechanics course and had been paired up one day to replace a gear box on an army jeep. They were one of the fastest teams that day and got a girly hug off each other for their respective efforts. It had been a cold day in the work station but the atmosphere was one of girls having good hearted competitive fun.

There was a slightly more subdued atmosphere to the banter at the start, due to the presence of the future monarch. Which changed quickly when they got the start whistle from the sergeant. Elizabeth noticed and just rolled her sleeves up and shouted ‘Well they are not gonnae bloody change themselves girls. Are they?! The bombs hardly pick houses, this is on me to.” And so sleeves got rolled up and they were off. All calling each other grease monkeys and fat cows and working with a fury.

Then.

Clunk click. And here comes food, hose or the hood. Only freezing cold water came out the hose. The food would be laced with too much salt to dehydrate her and/or caffeine and the hood meant she was going somewhere. It said something about her state of mind that even this level of human contact actually raised her spirit some though.

Isolation suited a few but for most it could be the worst part of such torturous treatments. Your mind could only wonder ‘what next?’ and also Ceilidh was a very sociable lass.

She’d actually only been undergoing this sort of treatment for a little under 3 days now. She’d been tricked into thinking it possibly weeks by sedatives that were also added to her food that kept knocking her out. She had no way to know someone was in her cell shortly after she was out doing a full medical checkup and a tiny injection of adrenaline to slowly and groggily wake her. She’d feel like she’d had a whole night’s sleep and so just assumed another day had passed each time. Each time she woke she got a cuppa with a ‘morning’ mumbled to her, cheap mind trick but she’d think to herself, ‘so another day’.

But it was actually now over. She’d been led to believe it was a pass fail thing. She thought she’d failed. That was not the point. Everyone broke eventually. The purpose was just to try steel her for the real thing in case it happened. From the experience she might be able to keep her wits about her enough to escape from SS jailers. She was a smart one there was no doubting that.

“Ceilidh let’s get you cleaned up girl, you’ve done really well. You passed and we need to get you back to your old self. C’mon lass.” It was Callum. She knew it was over now. The psychologists obviously were just as good at cancelling their mock hell as they had been at creating it. She was stumbling to her feet when he scooped her up.

She was a tiny wee lass compared to his now 6’3″ muscular 15 stone figure.

“I broke Callum. I failed. Why did they keep this stupid fucking thing going for so long after I broke. I failed.” She was sobbing into his shoulders.

He wiped her hair out her eyes. Stood her up in the recovery room and wrapped a feather down round her, sat her down on a bed and put a cup of tea by her with cream and sugar.

“It was not quite 3 days you were in their pet.”

“What!!”

“It’s a head fuck technique they have. Ceilidh your fucking about with bad ass psychologists here you know. When trained psychologists want to fuck with your head then your head gets fucked.”

Callum was never going to be described as simple. But he had a simple way of putting things sometimes that were very true and she could not argue with. She had signed up for it.

She was beginning to calm down. She took the tea and got it to her mouth with only a slight tremor. Callum was gently stroking her back. It was what she needed. She could not believe she was only 5 minutes out of that hell expecting a hose in her face again.

She was normalizing “How’d they do it?”

“You’ve been getting knocked out 5 or 6 times a day with sedatives, we’d do a quick check up on you then revive you.”

Why the no daylight.

“When did you get involved?”

“Yesterday. While out you’d started mumbling about death and asking for me. They are bad ass psychologists but they are also ultimately on our side. Besides my HQ is now here in London. It’s only Tues and I have tickets for Cats on Thurs night for us at the West End.”

“What your stationed in London now? We will both be working in London during the war!”

“We’re still flying out of Lossiemouth but as squad commander I get to spend 2 days out of 7 here doing paperwork.”

Acht she could carry on with this espionage thing a bit longer. She’d sure as hell quit enough times during this last ‘exercise’. “I guess handing in your resignation as a spy is not a good way out of an enemies jail cell” she quipped.

“You thought you were with friends.” Again, that other side of the viewpoint thing.

He just had a way of doing it.

By Thurs she was almost her old self again. If anything with even more spring in her step. Since last Tues there’d been a different take on her in the offices of the SOE. She was now deemed ‘in the club’ as a baptised member or something.

Tempered by the torture to be one of those ‘in on it’. It truly was a state backed gang of professional thugs, assassins, cheats and liars. Herself and 3 others in the office also seemed to qualify for the role as honey traps to.

All is far in love and war as they say.

She was now part of the family or at least more in with the establishment and even more importantly on Callums arm for a long needed night out on the town. Phantom of the Opera was her best musical but Cats was a very close second and to get a chance to see it at London’s West End – she was on her best behaviour tonight for her chaperone, he deserved it. She hugged herself into his arm as they got off the Leicester Square tube.

“Callum why on earth did you rush me to get ready I told you we would be here early, it’s only half four, o what will we do with our time?”

She knew he’d have something in mind and so played her part.

“I have taken the liberty of booking us a table before the show young lady. Our table is booked for 5pm.”

“Does said lady get to enquire as to where I will be getting dined this evening?”

“Yes, I was able to get us a table at the Ritz.”

She playfully smacked his arm and accused “And here you have me all dressed up like a hussy!” Her black dress hung to just above her knees and clung to her figure and had a modest cut across the chest. Her newly issued stiletto strapped to her thigh was making its first trip out this evening and her high heels had studs of hardened steel and were thin enough to stab someone with quite easily. She could land a fatal heel in your stomach with a kick you would not see coming.

“You look like the devil’s own princess Darling.”

Satanic royalty. Considering her new vocation, she did have to concede in context it was entirely a compliment.

He also had an oblique way of making awkward points to her. She had lost some of her innocence this week. She was changed, hardened, a bit more distanced from humanity. She had a small ball of hate in her filled mostly with silly things but it had grown this week.

It chilled her spirit. She’d felt her cynical self grow in the last week.

“The psychologists set up tonight didn’t they. This was not your idea. This is a put on by SOE isn’t it.” Her bubble for the night was bursting. She half expected a van to kidnap her now around the corner.

“You got it half right pet. Relax, I was asked to come up with the best chill out night I could for you as a help to unwind. This is all my idea. SOE did pull a few strings for the Ritz but I honestly paid for us to Cats. I also want to be on this evening Darling. We may well be off to war next week my dear.” He put his hand on her arm and had his puppy eyes out. He was hurting she’d doubted him.

Candid honesty. From Callum. She let herself settle into the night again with her dream bubble intact. Her Callum was still Callum but the world had changed. She knew with a truth her cynic was here to stay now. Why the fuck did the psychologists keep butting in? ‘For her own good’ was their cant, it did not sit well with her.

She remembered a thing a father had once said to her when they were driving from Edinburgh to Inverness once ‘Darling whenever you have trust you do not need rules.” Her mother’s Dad, had once referred to him as chicken soup for the soul. He’d had a point, these psychobabble people just added to the confusion for her. It didn’t help that her own mother had 4 years of child psychology under her belt either!

Her relationship with Callum was calm and reassuring with a depth of trust that nothing could reach, they’d tested each other. You knew what you were getting. So long as there was her Callum somewhere under the sky, nothing else would matter too much.

He was the one person whom she could honestly say had never once done her a bad turn. He’d let her down. Broken promises. Not showed due to being ill. He was human, but he had never deliberately done anything to hurt her.

Now how she’d been treated made her doubt even him, but his company still quenched her cynic.

The dinner talk ended up in an inevitable avenue.

“C’mon why not, let’s just bugger off and travel the parts of the world not at war then? Take a car and drive off into the sunset every day!”

“I know I know. It’s neither of our faults but you can imagine it. Me fucking off at a time like this!”

They had a friendship of love that had grown over time since they were young. Not the insane kind that arrived and ‘took your breath away’ like her daft folks and normally involved drink but the calm reliable love of tempered challenges, time and mutual history and just friendship.

“I’d throw it all in after the war. We’d make it. At the least we’re both canny mechanics. Move out to one of the colonies, you pick which country then I will pick our house then you pick our first destination once we have a base.”

She got a raised eye brow for her efforts. The 18th in line to the British throne did not just disappear and travel the world.

“It’s not just a family I come from it’s an institution and you do not just leave.”

“Sounds like a cult.”

“It IS. And the most powerful one in the world.”

It was the same cul-de-sac chat they’d had a thousand times it seemed. Cats was amazing and now they were reflecting on the night aimlessly strolling through the streets of London. A light mist hung about 20 feet above the ground casting a glow around the street lights. There were a few drunken barrow boys at the next street corner. Most couples would have crossed the street. Callum’s size and dress uniform, made that entirely unnecessary for them. A bit further down they spotted an opened chic cafe and she allowed herself to be persuaded to have some candy floss. Which he then insisted on pinching big clumps of.

Why did the world have to be at war. Why did he have to be part of the Royal cult. Why did psychologists have to end up in their friendship now.

They continued on not paying attention to time. Being young and in love without the strain of having to have it go anywhere.

It suddenly dawned on her they were 2 streets away from her apartment. The night had obviously got to the point that Callum was slowly getting his gentlemanly duties done. Albeit a tad on the sly.

He’d slowly but surely guided her towards her apartment in their stroll so gently she’d not noticed. Bless him. He always walked her home. “He’s the best chaperone for you, keeps you out of mischief!” was how her mother dear put it.

“Callum, do you honestly think the Nazi’s will draw back?” she asked sweetly. He loved to gently explain things of the world to her as if she were clueless.

“We hope for the best while we prepare for the worst as you well ken lass. But these negotiations with Italy right now…”

She snuggled her head on his shoulder and let him go on.

She was sure she’d left the water heater on, she was worrying she might fall asleep in the bath as Callum made his way home when the fucking air raid warning siren came on.

Callum stopped rambling immediately and she thought he near doubled in size as he tensed and stood up rim rod straight.

“Waterloo tube? 200yds, this way” He said a question and command in a sentence, as he quickly started moving. She was holding his arm so when he moved out onto the street at a trot, she did. She certainly did not object.

He wasn’t exactly asking her permission.

Being a gentleman didn’t always require being gentle.

It’d ended the discussion about negations.

Fucking war!

Chapter Nine – Mar, 1945, Arras, France

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” – Proverb

She was convinced now she was about to be captured. He’d left the table to pay the bill. It was just out of place in this eatery. In many others it’d have been normal practice but not here. He was evidently just palming himself off as a local author on history. Apparently, he wanted to join her authors club. Which could mean he was a local author. A resistance commander who had gotten ‘the word’ or an SS or Gestapo officer either scoping her or setting her up for capture.

That he thought Samurai were Chinese was her first red flag. When he quoted Shakespeare verbatim, she sensed training and his French accent suffered. It was enough that she was on guard.

Now was this a new case whereby she was being felt out or was her destiny decided and this was the fall guy, was the question she had to answer for herself.

A man had brushed him as he made his way to pay and he’d excused himself to him. Too formally. It had not escaped her attention that a car had not long pulled up outside and its engine was running.

She’d lived with extreme paranoia now for ten months. Fuck it took less time to have a kid. She’d learned her craft well though and this was not a set up… yet, hopefully.

He returned to the seat. “Madam, please join me in the lounge. I will buy us a drink. I respect your club and only want to convince you to allow me to join. My intentions are innocent.” She wanted to believe him but now with the state the world was in he was on thin ice.

She’d read once that fear was the mind killer and you only had to face it and let it pass through you… and her paranoia lessened but not her guard. Now she was convinced he was a puppy out of his depth.

The car outside pulled away. So, she was right, it wasn’t a set up.

If he could hear her mental feline hiss, he’d have run a mile.

“Pierre, of course. Although my grandfather is German my father ended up being born in Scotland. I would be curious about your views on the Celtic peoples around here in these times.”

Arras was part of a providence that had only officially been a part of France since 1609 and otherwise had a very Celtic and Germanic history.

She’d studied her Sun Tzo. She was setting the battle ground not him.

“Must admit bit weak on the Celtic front but did the Gauls not rule here in the first instance?”

Your dead fucker. She was no longer facing a potential recruit.

Training mandated a secondary confirmation. That would come later but the board was set.

“My grandfather told me many a tale regaling their conquests. I am quite impartial to how great they were.”

“Did you know during the last world war their empire was bigger than the British. It was a weak argument anyway for us to be of French sovereignty and not German.”

He was a recruiter and a pup of a one at that. Shame.

Not really.

“I’ve always fancied Scotland and Ireland would join the Nordic nations.” She never said Germanic but she’d thrown her own hook.

“Would you like anything else?” a petite red headed waitress politely asked them.

“Yes, a half of Sherry please.” Where they were, he never had to ask for glasses to suit. So, he intended to out drink her to make his job easier. Hehe.

She was Scottish.

The Sherry arrived and he gave himself a double measure and her a single. “Give a madam a chance and all.”

2 hours later they had booked into a room and he was convinced he had scored a high profile local recruit as an SS informer and she was planning on where to put the point of her blade. The Gestapo had not trained him in how to deal with this kitty evidently.

The night had gone as expected, sociable banter until the point when a decision had to be made. Go to bed together or no. Seemed like such a definite artefact as part of society between men and women. For good reason she was making the most of it.

They were now in the room. She’d put her stiletto under the pillow while he toileted and she’d lost her dress and was displayed only in French lingerie.

She lay on the bed as he returned and his gawk determined what the next few minutes would entail.

Until 8 armed Gestapo officers barged into the room through a kicked in door.

She’d been set up.

Fuck.

It was now worst case scenario. Handcuffed behind her back. Gagged. Naked. Hood over her head. In the back of an armored van being driven somewhere. A lass could be in a better spot.

And it could be worse. She was preparing to play the innocent civilian. She’d been caught in a recruitment trap not in her basement with a radio and code books. She must keep her head. Being cuffed and naked was not helping. Her training now was.

She’d not been born to be at war this was a fucking shitty position to be in! Ok she knew she had concrete cell time to look forward to. Time to enjoy the fresh air.

Unfortunately she’d not been wrong.

But now they were cracking, not her.

It had been the same enough as at SEO. Sausages tasted different. But they seemed to be short of sedatives and her cell had a tiny wired window. And she had a day count. She was on day 5 and had maintained her cover. Despite sleep deprivation and the rest. They were not short on caffeine or fists obviously.

They’d found her with a Stiletto. Men were Dangerous. She was Scottish. Wasn’t a fair chunk of Arras. She had highly connected friends who moved in various circles. Was she expected to apologize for being successful at her craft.

She’d maintained a stony face and hope was in her back bone now. They’d been paying less attention to her the last 2 days. That should mean they were losing interest. A day count from her tiny window had been priceless now for nearly a week. She was sleeping on the floor, again with no linen. The odd hose down was the same. Freezing. The food actually a little better and less infused with drugs.

D-day was approaching and the Axis powers now had less power and resources. She was lucky. She might make it out.

It took another 3 days and after singing ‘legal’ affidavits about how she had been treated fine by the Third Reich she walked out of the Gestapo HQ in Arras. Alive. Holding her breath until she got around a corner.

She checked a paper on a corner stand without buying it to check the date and then stumbled into a bar to be off the street for a minute.

March 13th, 1945. 9 days it had taken to convince a weakened Third Reich they had done a thorough job of trying to break her down and now she was out on the streets. The Allied Forces were evidently doing their bit.

She could not have a deep sigh of relief yet. She could still see Gestapo HQ. She scuttled out of the bar. Ignoring boos from the men. Idiots!

She managed to get on a local bus by persuading the driver she had lost her purse. She fanned herself in the back of the bus but it was not that hot.

She was just happy to let more distance come about between her and the Gestapo right now.

6 stops later they were leaving the town and she came to her senses and got off.

She’d been out of contact with HQ for over a week now and regulations obliged HQ to give up on her after 48 hours.

Least they’d be happy to hear from her, there was that.

Chapter Ten – May 24th, 1945, Arras, France

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” – Sun Tzo, The Art of War

D-Day was imminent. She was certainly not being told when and was sure no one outside of the highest ranks in the Allied forces knew never mind one wee FANY in the field. That would have been an operational security risk which would have jeopardised not only the invasion of France but the outcome of the war.

What she was doing was vital. GCHQ would know their own force available to the Allied High Command to the last bullet. It was her job to paint as detailed a picture as she could of how strong the Nazi forces were and their positions as accurately as possible.

She now spent more time at the Radio to HQ than anything else. They knew she was about to move base. It would be a dangerous time for her and being captured was a serious concern for herself as much as HQ, obviously bloody more so. But they wanted to use her for all the mileage they could while she was still at large.

She’d rather be sipping Lattes by the river Scarpe. Being caught with a Latte and knife under her bodice in questionable times by the river vs being caught in a basement with a radio transmitter and British SOE code books by the Gestapo?! Which would you prefer!

Information was now worth more than her life and she knew it. 100,000s of young men were about to embark on the biggest naval invasion ever. Her operatives were now mainly in place bar the odd tricky ones she’d see to. IF she was still alive. But her information would be vital in saving countless lives over the coming days.

She had runners coming from North, South, East and West and knew her Morse code. Very well now!

At first it had an element of excitement. 800 Stormtroopers preparing to move out of Frankfurt by train. 28 Heavy artillery arriving 8 klicks off Omaha beech. 200 infantry reserve digging in on the out skirts of Arras. (She’d be giving them a wee visit she hoped).

But after 2 and a half weeks of it now it was all numbers to her. All just numbers. She even recognised the same number updating. Arras 200 troop regiment now extended to 12 klicks out from Arras.

She was singly responsible for reporting for the entire North East region of France.

She wanted out of this basement. It was May.

She had one last thing she wanted to do personally while still here in Arras. HQ would have kittens if they knew what she planned.

She wanted to spend some time with a Clause von Steiffer who headed up the Regional Gestapo HQ office. He was personally responsible for too many people’s death whom she’d met face to face.

Chapter Eleven – June 1st, 1945, Amiens, France

“Discrimination is the result of giving narrow minded people prejudices.” – Dortju Orfu

She’d got the code sign this morning. Today was supposed to be her last day so the excursion was now was dependent on the weather and the Gestapo not catching up on her.

With 6 hours sleep in the last 8 days, sheer will was the only thing keeping her together now, her tendency to tremor meant she could no longer drink coffee, she could manage tea.

She’d been mobile for 7 of those days with her radio and now she was holed up. Hidden at large in the open and still keeping her wits about her. She had needed to head to Beauvias, with more than a few stops along the way.

As they’d left Arras on the 23rd. She and Jacques had enjoyed a last civil night together in an Inn 12 miles East of Arras, after abandoning the apartment, they had shared for months before going their separate ways. Quite unceremoniously, such was war. She thought maybe they… he’d be better off out of her mind now.

Since then she had been like a piece of luggage being passed from one resistance fighter cell to another as she slowly made her way to her evacuation, she was now waning though, traveling with her radio down the A1 in France stopping regularly at various ‘authors houses’ was brutal to her psyche. And she continued. And remembered her motto – Revenimus.

However, it was the plan coming together at last as she was headed home. She really wanted to just belong again to her homeland. She could deal with Nazi’s but did also need a break away from them. She’d her belly full of them but they’d taken their toll her now.

She’d been giving out information for timings. Locations. She was handing over detonators and giving out encouragement. Everything was coming to life.

But she felt like she was just dying. All these people were with their own, she was not. Since leaving Arras she’s thought the gig was up at more than one checkpoint.

Tactfully she was giving them instructions to blow up ammo dumps, rail lines, minor road bridges, fuel dumps, telegraph wires. Even the air raid sirens.

Which some might have viewed as being terrorists to their own but they had to get the Allies into France in force.

Everything they did was designed to impede the effectiveness of a dug in army more than a mobile one. Special airborne regiments were going to be dropped in as well under night cover over the next few days to capture the most important bridges in France. Germany was as yet untouchable.

They all praised her and wished her well. So much so that if praises and wishes could drive back the Nazi’s she’d have taken them on herself.

But her job now was to get out alive. If she could be debriefed before D-day – she was a goldmine of information that could not be sent via Morse. She had a complete view of the lay of the land as viewed through the eyes of someone not only trained in the military but also sabotage. The Royal Marine Commandos would be more attracted to her for a reason other than her looks if she made it out.

The Gestapo were on to her she knew. They were pissed. She’d been too close to the torture chamber too much now. The Third Reich had been driven back for the best part of a year and the regimes jailers knew their day was coming and were being vindictive about it. The amount of resources they had put into her capture in the last 2 weeks told her exactly how pissed off they were. The heat had already started to build in the days before she left Arras. She could feel the net tighten around her.

She supposed that when she’d seduced to kill the Gestapo Regional Commander of Arras that she had fueled that fire some.

She’d seduced him while attending a dance. Social dos by the Nazi’s in France were now not so common but she’d managed to entice him to ask her to dance.

Little did he know he held his own fate in his steady arms that night. She could feel the stiletto strapped to her leg as they danced.

They had made it out the next morning barely. They had prepared to move the day before and it was 4am with the sun already up when the Gestapo arrived. They were already at the bottom of their back garden with their bikes. They closed the garden gate quietly and slowly walked their bikes down the hill.

Jacques said he’d picked the house as the hill running from the back of it down to the Scarpe river provided some means of a fast get a way.

Right now, being quiet and the barking German Shepard’s of the Gestapo were their biggest ally. Their bikes would rattle all sorts of noise if they jumped on them and went for it. They had clung to what shrubbery they could and had quietly walked away.

But the Gestapo had arrived en masse. She and Jacques had been fingered for the commander’s death.

Her cover was now blown.

Her days in France were now numbered, either way.

That was a week ago.

She was packing for the umpteenth time. Which was now the 12kg radio that took up half her carry sack and other than that she’d pack sparse rations, a pistol and ammunition. She was running out of room to be discrete now and may well have to shoot her way out.

As she travelled through the North of France, she sensed a difference in everyone she met. It was a positive difference. Like the clouds were about to clear sort of atmosphere and one and all were holding their breath some.

News of successes by the Allied Forces in the Pacific, also not least Sicily and Italy were a telling tale to the allied occupied populations as much as the axis powers populations.

Propaganda only went so far and then room was needed for truth.

The Nazi’s were having to retreat and one and all knew it. The wogs had even started to moan about papers being checked all the time.

She was being well looked after by each Resistance commander she met, she’d yet to meet a bad cook in France and she’d met her fair share but she had to get out. GCHQ were of course enjoying all the mileage they were getting out of her but what she contained in her head was vital.

Stay pragmatic, she told herself.

She needed a bike and was provided one immediately. Cars were useless outside of cities. Unless you had a jeep, you were not going over ground in a car in North France with the state of the roads. A bike could be picked up and chucked over a fence or hedge.

She completed her business with the Resistance commanders in Beauvias and quietly left the Inn at 3am. The night watchman gave her a silent nod and lifted his hat to her, his respect for her and the current tension in the atmosphere had misted up his eyes. She was ready to crack with bottled up emotion. She gave a faint salute and sweet smile to him and walked out into the quiet summer morning.

She started to peddle.

It had been over a year since she could trust anyone and she was sick of sleeping with a knife strapped to her leg and pistol under her pillow. It was time to get fucking home.

She was about a mile out of town when she noticed the tears.

She wiped her eyes and chastised herself. C’mon lass. Good time to radio in anyway.

It had been her job to help get the Allies back onto French soil in force and then get out alive. She had no place in the push for Berlin.

She was now going to be getting the veritable red carpet home.

The old British sense of fair play counted for something.

It was time to call Lizzie.

Chapter Twelve – June 2nd, 1945, Beauvias, France

“I would rather die fighting for what is right, than live passively amidst all that is wrong!” – Suzy Kassem

Hope was in the air for her now.

Literally and thankfully.

It had taken her all to not collapse during the cycle to the pickup field. The strain now had been unbearable for some time. And the headaches! And dodging fucking Nazi patrols looking for her.

The Westland Lysander had come in low over the horizon and was just touching down in the northern end of the field she had been minding since 6am. Fortunately the end of its landing run was close to where she was hiding. It was a narrow mile long field and the plane was approaching from the north. A checkpoint had just now been set up of a couple of miles south of the pickup point.

It was 6:45. It had been a long 45 minutes. The Nazi scout post was stopping everyone on a bike. She’d made it by that exact spot scant minutes before it had been set up and sitting in these bushes so close since was not helping her state of mind.

No way were they not going to notice the plane landing. This was going to be close.

Cold fear took hold of her stomach. She retched into her hand and threw it away. Wiped her mouth on her sleeve and concentrated again on the arriving plane.

Why did fear grip you the hardest just as you were about to reach safety. She was sweating and possibly slipping into shock, it was a chill morning, why the sweat. She bit down on one of her knuckles until she tasted blood.

She watched the aircraft settle and scanned the field checking for any closer armed patrols she may have missed. Listened for an alarm being raised. She was fucking sick of being scared all the time.

She seen a motorbike detach from the roadblock to come investigate. Fuck!

It was prudent to keep her head down for just a little while more. And her wits about her still.

The pilot was in a much better state to take out any scout patrols than her with his machine gun which she could see in his hands now his flight helmet was off. He’d unlikely know about the nearby scout patrol yet from the angle he’d come in at.

He partially opened the cockpit and scanned the area.

She waved her white hanky and made her way slowly out at first towards the small two man plane only 50 yards away. He seen her and waved her to come on urgently as he seen was what going on around about, now that he’d landed, he could concentrate on more than the north end of this field.

Then the patrol bike arrived at the south end. The scout raised his machine gun and fired into the air. He was out of range to hit them just now but he could raise the alarm to others and anti-aircraft gun batteries. He then gunned his bike into the field to close the range.

His machine gun if close enough could easily disable the plane.

She could leave the bike, gun and supplies but the radio and cipher books had to return with her. She tried to get herself into a jog towards the plane.

The pilot opened the cockpit fully, slung the gun over his back and immediately leaped out landing in a run towards her. She had her head down and he noticed she was trying to get into a jog but managing only to stumble.

He was by her within seconds. They could both see the motorbike coming towards them. Slowed some by muddy furrows but not much.

“It’s Drew. C’mon Lass.” Another Scot. As she passed the bag his hand expected it.

Drew grabbed her arm and pushed her towards and then up into the plane egging her on with his help but not pushing hard. He was no doc but anyone could see this lass was fucked!

His priorities right now were getting them out alive then height then her. He deftly helped her into the back seat. He could feel her tremor. He threw her bag behind his seat. She was struggling to get into the flight harness. As he leaned over to help she flinched, tried to lean over doubled up.

“Oh my god, what the fuck is going on!” She shouted into her clenched hands through gritted teeth. Her tiredness gone due to an adrenal release from her system.

Onset of shock.

He’d been briefed to expect this reaction from her. She’d held up under too much pressure for too long. Her tremor was becoming a shake.

They needed to get out right the fuck now. He never had time for this but if he had to stunt fly to avoid fighter’s he could easily kill an unharnessed passenger. That patrol scout was getting fucking close though! Less than half a mile now.

He simply clicked the harness around her fetal position and tossed her flight helmet into her lap.

Right, get fucking away! Airborne, post haste!!

The engines were still running. He opened the throttle a little and turned the plane as fast as was safe, lined up to the path he’d made with his landing and hit the stops with the throttle. Lizzie gunned it for the other side of the field. The bumps in the field actually helped the light craft pick up speed quicker, she was made for it. The runway angle helped increase distance to the patrol which was perilously close now.

He was trying to shoot at the cockpit as his bike bounced over the field. Several bullets ripped through the rear body of Lizzie, his controls were not affected so no wires had been severed. The fuel was in the wings, if a bullet went through one of them…

Seconds saved them. He missed the treetops by inches. The patrol officer shot after them for a bit hopelessly then shook a fist into the sky.

That was way too close!

He had some spare fuel so he kept the throttle to the stops to gain height quickly. He checked his rearview, the ascent was having the effect he’d hoped for, she was being pushed back into her seat and gripping the harness. She’d know deep down she was out now – but…

It had been far from a clean excursion so far and she needed attention, just as soon as he had a bit more height… even just cloud cover. This wasn’t his first hot excursion but it had been the closest.

There were anti-air gun batteries down there and if he was shot down carrying this passenger he’d be hung by his own if he made it back. She was a legend of military royalty in every circle he cared to think of.

A genuine heroine.

The weather head was low and he quickly burst into bright sunlight above a thick layer of cumulus clouds. He reduced the throttle to just enough to maintain altitude and leveled the plane. Calming her now was his priority. Delirious angry mutters were all she was coming out with.

He turned in the cockpit to assess her while he held the stick between his legs. At this altitude and speed, he could get away with a little sloppy flying. She’d turned a pale shade of white.

“Honey listen, you’re ok now. Your safe. Everything is going to be fine. Your headed home!” He tried soothing her. But that was not what she needed. He took the flight helmet and used putting it on her as an excuse to clear the hair from her face and just lift her up and reassure her some. She kept trying to take his hand. She was responding more to his touch than his voice.

“Home, home, home… escape… I just want to be FUCKING home…” She wasn’t herself.

Scots know what to do with a brew when their nerves are fucked.

“Ceilidh lass take this.” He had a hip flask full of her favorite whisky, creamed, sweetened with honey, diluted and warmed.

Just hearing a Scottish voice was soothing for her. His touch did more, was firm, gentle and friendly, not like when he grabbed her back then, she’d not been sure if she was somehow being captured at the end but his voice had a timbre that carried well over the sound of flight and reassured her.

She took a small sip of the flask and then downed the whole thing. She was just happy to be rid of the taste of vomit.

Her stomach immediately burned and then a dreamy take on things started to slowly come over her. The shakes slowly started to lessen. .

The noise of the flight was like a roar going away from her. Drew passed her a drink tube from behind her seat and went to turn, she wanted him to stay with her. She got a gulp of water and swallowed.

She needed more help than he had to offer her.

Drew stroked her cheek lightly “Just you rest now lass your heading home and I am here to make sure of that. Your totally safe now pet.” He had to firmly pull to release his hand out of hers so he could sit straight again and get his Lizzie into a proper flight profile. She continued her mummers but with a lot less strain. The whisky would kick in quickly in her state. He’d not been able to check her pulse properly but he could see it’s throb in her necks vein.

His mission profile now dictated another rapid ascent and the idea was she’d rest back into her seat and slumber.

He could clearly see her in the cockpits rear-view mirror. Colour was returning to her pale face already. Her breathing was shallow and a bit too rapid for his liking but regular enough to not worry him too much. She was as ok as he could do for here and now.

He increased the throttles to full and yanked the stick back.

It felt like he’d left his stomach back at 5000 feet as they quickly passed 10,000.

He could see she wanted to stay awake for the climb and her home coming but she was quickly fading now. Best thing for her considering,

His job now was to make the flight home in record time. He kept the fighter in an aggressive climb. He reached its ceiling height of 17,000 feet and then trading height for speed ended up with the knots dial reaching its pin at 250 knots.

He never did find out how fast they ended up going but he did set a new regimental record for the fastest excursion. After his briefing, he’d been quietly informed by his Commander that he’d never be bought a drink in the officer’s mess again if he was not back within the top 10 best excursion times at least. As it was, he’d now never be charged for one ever again.

Drew landed at the Pembury airfield where medics were waiting. They got her semi-conscious form onto a stretcher and into the barracks. Nothing was being spared because it was her. The Queens own physician was attending.

The docs were more worried for her psyche. She was a fighting fit lass physically, but her will.

Her Spirit.

Chapter Thirteen – 1945 The End of War

“Only the dead have seen the end of war” – Plato

It took weeks to set her to rights. The doctors had allowed one D-Day invasion General in to see her for 20 mins as he had 2 vital situations to gen up on from her. The doctors were surprised how much she responded to it. But the debriefing had drained her again and the doctors called an end to it after the first day. Enough now. They had the information from her for what they needed and the docs knew she needed alone time.

From what she’d endured no one was convinced she could or would ever recover fully.

The lack of news about Callum was unlikely to help either.

He’d been downed while on that bombing raid to Frankfurt months back that she’d played a role in. No one from HQ had wanted to distract her with that news while she’d been doing her last few months’ worth of missions before D-Day.

It had not ended well.

She’d manage to visit him a few times at Queen Victorias hospital in E. Grinstead but nothing doing helped in the end. At the end he’d simply said ‘Your canny, you’ll be fine, I love you lass.’

She was back in the bonny Highlands of Scotland to attend the funeral. After being shot down, he did eventually make it out as the Nazi’s were driven back. With a wound from the crash that had turned septic.

A United Nations was being set up to prevent future wars and war tribunals were getting underway to deal with the aftermath of Planet Earths 2nd World War. The cost of the war was still being counted in over 60 nations of the world.

For the first time in over 200 years of its history the sun could set on The British Empire.

Japan was still refusing to surrender and the US had a major issue on that front. There was talk of a new bomb being brought into play to settle the matter. Atomic bombs. She cringed at that. Callum and her both agreed dropping bombs on people was not the way forward.

Why did he have to be fucking dead? Nazi’s.

In Europe the war was over and it seemed everyone was busy burying their dead.

She was here with a massive turn out from many families. Anyone who’d found a reason to not like Callum had only themselves to blame. The cask display had been attended by thousands.

The service could not have been more to Callum’s liking with full honours. He had been awarded the Victoria Cross posthumously. She’d managed to live to get hers. Had it been worth it. The world was no longer being overrun by Nazi’s.

Things had turned cold between her and her mother since the war. Half was her own fault as she was just more distant from a world that had now deprived her of even being able to be friends with Callum.

she let tears stream from her eye’s but did not sob as the honour guard payed their respect. Callums Squadron flew over and Marian, his co-pilot for every mission of the war pulled a Beau, the same as Callum’s Skye, into a steep symbolic climb that Callum had been so famous for and separated her from the rest of the Squadron. It and was quickly lost in altitude and clouds.

It was fitting for Callum and she was sure he’d left his mark on the world. Every airman’s funeral would probably now have such a fitting send off. He’d always been a trail blazer, bit of a rebel, the black sheep of the clan and she’d admired that in him.

Once the service was over, she moved as part of the crowd back into the castle by Loch Ness in her own daze to. His family had their own cemetery on their estate. She knew everyone there. She was always being consoled by someone or looking for somewhere to be alone it seemed.

She decided to go home.

There was nothing for her here. She’d said all her good byes she wanted to. She slinked out quietly.

She had taken up a flat in Edinburgh. She wondered why they were flats in Scotland and apartments everywhere else in the world. Then seeing her shining silver Aston Martin things improved a little.

She was going to let him purr her home this time. She was not in the mood to hear his roar or put up with his excitement today.

It was too masculine a car in her mind to refer to it as a she.

Heading down the A9 the Cairngorms from Aviemore did their job with an incredible and to her a homely view. Scotland held her soul to.

By the time she was through them and half an hour out from Perth her spirits had raised some and she decided she would stay in a hotel for the night.

She booked into the first hotel she came to not bothering to check the tariff. The war had left her rich relatively, money wise. She just felt empty. He was dead. She had to accept that. It was now impossible to hear his voice. She’d stopping speaking to him for short spells a few times for silly things. She regretted every minute of every one now the choice had been taken from her.

She had a job doing consultancy work. With her CV she could walk into almost anywhere and insist on being given some work. The medals looked great on her full dress uniform when she attended get togethers with fellow ex-service people. But the war action was not the same for her when just being re-counted. It was one of those you had to have been there things in her mind.

She guessed some of her brothers in arms drew some comfort from it but she found these sharing in old exploits tiresome and an attempt to be in a past that no longer existed.

She’d had some counselling for her efforts in France. For all the good it had done she still knew she was unhinged and changed as a person. And the nightmares. The drinking. Her jitters. Time was improving things as it does. She was alcohol dependent, not an alcoholic, whatever that meant!’ She was managing and consistently improving with time.

The cost though!

Why did people have to war she wondered to herself with anger as she laid it to the side. She had to drop that tire in the end. Too heavy.

Her room was en-suite with a Victorian bath. She flipped on the hot water tap with her foot and threw a couple of large soft towels on the bathroom floor. She took her book and a bottle of gin from her carry sack. Her room had ice!

She poured all the hotel miniature smellies into the bath. The smell wafted through the room covering most ideas of summer and spring her nose could come up with.

She fixed her drink, threw her clothes on the bed and headed through naked. Something about hotel life. You didn’t have to answer the door to anyone ever.

So long as no one set fire to the place this evening of course. The bombing in Europe was over now.

She climbed in and it was almost full and the perfect heat for a soothing soak.

Callum would have changed things for her if he’d been at those get togethers. He’d have said something like “You just don’t know how gorgeous you look taking this sort of shit in your stride pet” and such nights would have been so much more enjoyable. He’d tried so hard with his optimism to convince her it would not come to war. All the fool he she had to concede. He’d been too beautiful a soldier in her mind. He could have been or done anything.

But she was just coming back from his funeral after the war that had killed him. She could not blame him for his optimism only wish he’d left his killing Royal family cult behind. They could have travelled the world. She’d left her father predominately out of her mind but once upon a time she’d also wanted to do some traveling with him, starting with the US of A.

Enough, she had to let it all out now.

The time had come.

Callum was gone and she had to stop playing make believe.

She let it out. It was not a grief with any feeling of panic like she’d had when cycling to her excursion, it was just the sheer burden of loss. Emptiness. She forced herself to think about the good times. When they used to rock climb together. The time they’d gone kayaking together and when they’d visited Cramond Island in the Firth of Forth and nearly got stranded due to the tide, getting home with wet feet.

Whatever you lumped him with he just kept on.

But not now.

He’d took her to see London for the first time. They’d taken the train and stopped off in York at his whim and explored that city first. When they’d broke down on the A9 once in his banger car and he’d made out it was a picnic stop until the recovery vehicle arrived. He just could not be phased.

Now that spark had been snubbed out, for fucking what really?!

Getting rid of people being Nazi’s.

Fine, but…

He’d once said to her the only way the world could get to him was through her. It had never occurred to her the reverse had also been true.

Life had taught her so far that while a victor may emerge from conflict, nothing good does.

She drew strength from this, if he was here right now and could hear her thought’s all he’d say would be his usual “Bear up n keep on, or dinny and we’re Scots so we keep on.” And that would be the end of the matter for him. They were Scottish so would not give up and that was that. Life wasn’t that simple but for Callum he just made it so when you were in his circle.

Had done.

Grim thoughts but his silly wee saying counted.

It helped her get through more than one mission in France.

And so it was. Onwards and upwards. Revenimus. We come back.

He’d captured her soul a little somehow.

Ceilidh was Scottish born and bred and Scots did have a way of squaring up to adversity.

The A9 drive South in an Aston Martin, her casserole dinner, this huge bath and a little gin were all working their wiles on her.

She let her mind wonder. She let her grief just hang in the air. She left the hot tap running a little, so steam could join it and steered her thoughts to the future. Beads of sweat and tears joined on her cheek.

Moving on she thought:

What CAN I do?

Blow shit up. Great she could go join the provisional IRA and be considered a terrorist. Least she’d then be an outlaw and could talk to her father. Grr, the fucking past again. And him being a fucking separatist! Right past, present, future.

She could blow things up and run espionage regiments but outside of Northern Ireland’s provisional IRA there was not too much call for such skills but she could in theory have almost any job she wanted to with her CV.

But what did she want to do? …

A drip of sweat fell off her nose into the bath water.

Okay dokey. Bed time.

She was knackered. She’d sleep on it.

Minutes later a pile composed of a duvet, bathrobe, 2 towels, 4 fluffy scented pillows and Ceilidh accomplished just that.

Waiting on the Ferry was always a bore. You could see it do it’s back and thro. 40 mins each way. Including loading and unloading. She was in the queue on the A9 waiting to get across the Firth of Forth and into Edinburgh. She would probably have been quicker leaving Perth and heading through Stirling to Kindardine but she was here now so would wait it out. Another trip and then she’d be next. Perhaps another hour or so to wait max.

She’d woke up to room service lightly knocking on her door a bit groggy. It was the groggy from over sleeping. She checked the gin bottle. She’d hardly touched it. 10 hours she had slept! She must have needed it. Callum I miss you so.

She focused herself.

Fucking missed breakfast again. Bain of her life now, she joked herself. Jumping into an Aston Martin in Perth was different from jumping out of a Beaufighter at nearly 20,000 feet over occupied France. She was more than chic enough with this motor to look sassy at the wheel. Aston were new to the convertible front and she pulled it off well seemingly from the horns that were honked at her and waves that she ignored.

She had covered the drive down from Perth in a quick 30 minutes to wait in a mile long queue. She had put the roof down and the crisp morning air in her face and the wind rushing through her hair had helped.

Author or civil engineer was where she was headed in her mind now. She for sure needed something to challenge her. She’d shook off the extremes of conflict to a degree but they lingered as well.

She’d slept on it and she qualified. The book she’d wrote while undercover in France had received favorable reviews. Her degree with honours in chemistry could come in handy.

She thought she would be alright but just wondered what a lost solider could give to the world. She was lost. Nothing would fill the void or heal her wounds totally. She needed to be challenged to be distracted.

Stay pragmatic lass. Getting on the Ferry brought reality back.

She wondered if there were any plans to Bridge the Forth.

Would they change the town name on the other side to South Queensbridge if they did?

Least the Forth bridge stood tall and proud despite the many attempts to bomb it. Callum had earned his Victoria’s cross for that achievement. His ability to get off the ground quickly enough, some had argued, was the reason it was still standing.

She wondered if even a bomb would have brought it down though.

It captured her mind then. Of course the Forth could be bridged. It already had been!

The Ferry finished its dull plod.

She wondered if a better design of bridge could be built.

Callum did live on in her. She was going to find a way to be constructive and leave the prejudiced world to its own devices.

She got off the pier at last and turned left towards Edinburgh. She could see her father’s house in the rearview. She could talk to him and did not want to. She wanted to talk to Callum and couldn’t.

Ultimately war was too ugly to be her cup of tea.

Being constructive was more productive.

Authors Note:

Ceilidh and Callum’s characters are a composite based really quite loosely on my own daughter and me. She’s a canny lass and convinced she knows how the world ticks, as we all do in our late teens. I’m lost and confused in a world that makes little or no sense to me and the story is about our friendship being constantly onset by the winds of change out with our control. There are bits of us both in each character. I put my own name to Ceilidh’s father in the tale as a nod to my own relationship with my daughter as we are very thoroughly estranged.

Actually by law! Scottish law pre the 2006 before it was changed to grant unmarried fathers parental rights. And also my old ‘churches’ rules (Scientology) which forbid one to love a ‘wog’ (how Scientologists refer to people who are not involved in it).

I would like to point out that while the character Ceilidh comes out as quite brutal a few times, I have never once witnessed any aspect of this, in my wain. Bless her. I neither harbour such notions myself. For me violence is for those who fail with wit.

It was only included out of respect to the women who served as FANYs and a nod to what they actually had to go through. To seduce a man who could and would quite happily kill you must have taken some amount of courage to go through with.

But being cruel with love is something we are all guilty of and this story explores it a little.

As always, my daughter will forever be a perfect Darling in my eyes. By the way my daughter did actually meet the Queen when she was 15. (When my daughter was 15 obviously).

There was a FANY named Audrey Dechard whose codename was DD and she was part of raising the resistance in true occupied France in 1944, she was captured by the Nazi’s a few times but released because they just could not believe such a sweet looking lil kid (22) could be the leader and responsible for so much. She really did come across as a sweet nothing while being the cause of near enough bringing down the 3rd Reich single handed in France, while others of course helped, she’d been the main instigator.

I have written this tale for 3 reasons.

The first is I would like to author a narrative that lends itself to the screen.

Second, I would like to reach out to my daughter. We’re currently estranged, again. I believe she would take an interest in the context I have picked. Certainly there is some element through the story of trying to maintain contact despite the winds of change in the world. I believe we would have grown much closer given a safer harbour.

Third, I do not like war. I wanted to write a story that gave credit to the endeavor of the warrior but laid bare the short comings of our leaders. Ultimately war is counter-productive and a failure on behalf of heads of state. I wanted to praise the bravery of those who fought and died in WWII against the Nazi’s but also not make it about their glories but more about their loses.

While per chance a victor o war, nah ones a winner o it.

It’s obviously an extremely heated area of debate but for myself I think WWII was the last pointless but needed war. Since then has been just human inertia. The sooner we apply the brakes on war more the better. We need war as much as cancer and viruses.

That may not be a popular opinion for me to voice to some, but I have not only an opinion but also a right to express it. If that is no war, no Scientology in my life or no Scientology bashing in my life, then I have a right to that view on things. As we all do. Take a view, but…

Enforcing that view of the world on others was the Third Reich’s cant. Some isms do need squelched. Essentially enforced extremism.

I do think people try to enforce their own realities on others too much, my own family being some of the worst culprits I have met. The less we try to do this then the more cooperative and constructive we will become.

The corollary is the more we try to enforce our own reality on others the more like the Third Reich we are.

This work was written to be a warning and I hope any reader is entertained by my effort. But also gets the point. Things are not looking good in Europe at the moment.

In my opinion if you want to behave like the Third Reich you will meet the same end.

Cheerio.

References:

FANYs:

The First Aid Nursery Yeomanry Princess’s Royal Volunteer Corp is still extant today. It’s official name now is the PRVC since 1999 when The Princess Royal agreed for her name to be used in the charities title. But their website and main publications still carry the original name of FANYs, displayed more prominently.

A memorial at St Paul’s Church, Knightsbridge commemorates 52 named members who were killed on active service with the Corps in World War II.

Of these incredible women sent into France by the British SOE (Special Operations Executive) 39 of them were FANYs and of that 39 a full third, were captured by the Nazi’s and murdered, slowly. This tale is about one of the 2/3 who thankfully made it out.

Imagine the moment of capture and thinking ‘O fuck, what next!’

During my research for this novel I came across records about what those captured women were subjected to at the hands of the Gestapo and I am leaving what I found out buried in my research papers and the darkest corner of my mind.

It is behaviour one should not even give others a mind to, is how I would like to leave describing it. All I will say is if the Nazi’s gave their general treatment to ‘undesirables’ in concentration camps, FANYs got the ‘specialized’ treatment from them. And Nazi’s are very brutal.

The FANYs who went behind enemy lines knew all this when they did what they did. They had to function with smiles and a calmness within arm’s reach of men who would and could order them into the most horrendous torture chambers that could be devised.

And to all intents and purposes come across as simply enjoying themselves.

The sheer face they must have had.

With most services personnel you fought with the services people by you, in the same unit as you, your superiors and those under one’s command etc… Callum’s lot. Ceilidh’s gig was more, you are on your own to do or die, type thing.

The strain they must have experienced so isolated from one and all they knew!

The FANYs who ‘chuted in behind enemy lines had to survive on their own wits entirely. Guaranteed escape routes did not exist. They could not go to the authorities. Call home. Write the folks. They were on their own with what contacts they could make with the French Resistance, if they were French Resistance and not Gestapo agents.

Ever on the lookout for being betrayed to the enemy.

They must have been fearless and have all my respect and admiration.

Included below is an excerpt from Wikipedia that gives the intro about the FANYs and also an excerpt about them in WWII.

Included is a list of all the awards they rightly received.

From the Wikipedia Article titled: FANYs(PRVC)

Introduction:

The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (Princess Royal’s Volunteer Corps) (FANY (PRVC)) is a British independent all-female registered charity formed in 1907 and active in both nursing and intelligence work during the World Wars. Although its members wear a military style uniform it is not part of the Regular or Reserve Army.

…

The section on WWII:

Second World War

In September 1938, the FANY Corps was asked to form the initial Motor Driver Companies of the Auxiliary Territorial Service, called the Women’s Transport Service.

A small part of FANY – highly secret at the time and later famous – served as a parent unit for many women who undertook espionage work for the Special Operations Executive. Recruits were trained in one of four fields: Motor Transport, Wireless Telegraphy, Codes or General. They worked on coding and signals, acting as conductors for agents and providing administration and technical support for the Special Training Schools. Their work was top secret and often highly skilled. Members operated in several theatres of war, including North Africa, Italy, India and the Far East. Thirty-nine of the 50 women sent into France by SOE were FANYs of whom 13 were captured and murdered by the Gestapo. Many decorations, of both the UK and other countries, were awarded for their service and outstanding courage. Among these, four of the highest UK decorations were the George Cross awarded to Odette Hallowes (who was incarcerated and tortured, but survived the war), Violette Szabo and Noor Inayat Khan (these latter two perishing in captivity and decorated posthumously). Nancy Wake’s awards included the George Medal.

Elsewhere abroad, FANY agents served the Finnish Government; a section was attached to the Polish Army; and a Kenyan section, formed in 1935, was made the official East African unit by the War Office in August 1941, and was very active during the war. This section took women from all over the southern half of Africa.

A memorial at St Paul’s Church, Knightsbridge commemorates 52 named members who were killed on active service with the Corps in World War II.

• Wikipedia.

On the Beaufighter:

I took my time in picking out the aircraft I wanted to use in this story and Beau fitted all the spots I wanted for Ceilidh and Callum. She’s not the Memphis Belle, Lancaster bomber or Spitfire. Her name is almost unknown out with aviation enthusiasts.

Some perhaps would argue Lizzie should have been used. More popular than the Beau and she was an army cooperation aircraft but was most commonly used for actually landing in occupied France.

So the Westland Lysander, simply because it was more likely to be a craft used for agent excursion than incursion plus it’s size meant it was not the plane to pick for Callum. Of course, I could not leave it out of the story during the heroine’s hair raising escape.

I could also not get away with this tale in my mind without a nod to the Spitfire and I squeezed it in with just Callums admiration of them.

Beau gave a chance to have Ceilidh walk away from Callum into the abyss and have her able to stand behind him in the opening chapter, with the Sun in the West and the Moon in the East over the Forth Bridge.

I wanted to have room for Callum and Ceilidh to be saying their good byes and have her incursion into France be more than landing in a field and unloading her bags. The FANYs did do night ‘chute jumps into occupied France and the drama it lends itself to as an opening scene in a movie was too good to not write.

There was also something about how she came about. From the Bristol Bleinheim torpedo bomber being modified. Being made sleeker. More powerful engines added. Good night flyer and fighter interceptor capable, which Lizzie was not.

To make the story opening with a ‘blonde bomb shell’ but actually a vulnerable lass being dropped out of an aircraft at high altitude at too fast a speed needed something like Beau to get away with it.

Others may have selected a better one technically but I think that Beau brings a little sass to the story as well as the heroine hopefully does, in the mind of the reader.

On the RCAF:

No. 4 (Bomber Reconnaissance) Squadron

It went by the designation of 401 Squadron while it operated abroad mainly during WWII.

It was an actual operative unit that could well have been used for such purposes as parachuting FANYs into occupied France. Although the primary role was marine attack and surveillance.

They were headquartered in London 20-23 Lincolns Inn Fields during WWII as well and operated out of among other bases, Lossiemouth near Inverness, Scotland.

This made sense quite simply for the war effort.

There’s an honest mention here out of respect to another actual war hero who was related to Callum’s co-pilot, Marian that stars in this tale.

• S.P. Frank Demuth b. 30.11.1912 d. 11.8.1987 who flew bombing raids for the RAF and lived out his life in Greenock, Scotland before being laid to rest in his homeland, Poland, is a relative of one of my real life good friends from there, Marian Czabawski. He was arguably my co-pilot on more than a few ventures.

On Chapter Four:

Some critics have said it reads as if I was referring to a sexual encounter. That’s entirely on them.

As a professional writer I will quickly admit one could easily refer to sex, driving fast, stunt flying or any such exciting activities and easily explain the separate experiences with the same adjectives. Fine. But if the reader interprets chapter four in a sexual context then that is entirely on their own mindset.

I have in this work laid out more than a few intimate moments. For me the most intimate is Ceilidh’s own struggle dealing with her own stress. There are other moments of intimacy not physical though expressed through just eye contact and assurance. But that refers only to the intimacy of friendship.

In the few moments when physical intimacy is involved it either suits the moment or is a honey trap for an SS/Gestapo member being assassinated and when I am referring to this, I am quite clear about it. I have hopefully kept describing such exploits tasteful enough for most.

Chapter four is about Callum getting his release from authority and heading off to do his own thing. If it comes across as causing him as much excitement as he might experience during sex then fine. They’re both exciting.

But ultimately I just wanted to get the idea across that taking off in your own plane with yourself in command for the first time, would be a very exciting experience.

I’ve my grandad to thank for that because he made it possible for me to do just that (almost) when I was only 7.

The Title Explained:

A Dance with Death is easily explained not only in the story but the context.

Revenimus is Latin and translates as “We Come Back.” This is actually the motto of the Sea Org which is Scientology’s inner military styled clergy.

I spent my teenage years in this 5000 strong group and made it to the rank of Lieutenant at the age of 17. I learned to have a respect for military life and training and a hate for authority.

But the motto works for these brave women. I can imagine it would have been a rare mood lifting thought for them if it had been their motto back in the day. 2 out of 3 did make it back out. Of those, none were unchanged.

I wanted this tale to be about someone dealing with the stress of combat and trying ‘to come back’ from the extreme levels of stress people experience in this scenario. Humans killing fellow humans legally (war) is not a natural state of affairs and a serious amount of cognitive dissonance is required to make military personnel do what they do. There is always consequences to such actions.

On War:

I wanted to obliquely make the point to my daughter that war brings out the worst in us. War and conflicts can be between yourself, your own family, your own people and not just nations states.

It’s ugly and less is best. This story is based around the time just before and during WWII. But I would dare anyone to compare this story and my depiction of what was going in Europe in the mid 1930s and look up, now, nearly a century on and convince yourself we have changed in our ways!

Far right leaders being voted in. Far right marches in the street. Increased sense of nationalism being built up in populations by state leaders. A despondent and dimming view of immigration.

Am I talking about the WWII era or now?

Having an external enemy gives politicians more latitude on what they can get away with in the name of national security. So, remember when your supporting their efforts of war you are assisting them in being incompetent as statesmen and stateswomen.

‘The Muslim Problem’, ‘Stop immigration’ and LGBT discrimination… from voted in members of public office?! I am talking about present day US, GB, France, Poland and Russia and not Nazi Germany. Look at the treatment of Uighur Muslims in China. It’s genocidal. Men in concentration camps and state educator males being moved in with the women to ‘teach’ them, whatever the fuck that translates into. This is 2019!

Look how Muslims are being treated in Palestine. My blood would be boiling. The only Muslim problem in the world is an idiot prejudice against it.

When people use terms like national security, terrorism, national interests and jihad I just think to myself it is many different shades of the same bull shit.

War is wrong. Ugly. Counterproductive and unnecessary. It is the result of discrimination which is a combination of feeding prejudice to narrow minded people.

If someone wanted to get me excited about a war… how about a war on pollution. A war on climate change. A war on poverty. A war on famine. A war on fossil fuel dependency. Fuck it even a war on outer space… get them walls built in the solar system to stop the illegal aliens arriving on Earth for fucks sake.

There is plenty to war on without having to try destroy our own.

Don’t be a narrow-minded cynic sitting in your own corner.

There is a world of beautiful people out there.

It’d be nice to prove this fellow wrong one day.

“Only the dead have seen the end of war” – Plato