"So you're really sending them there?"
The man looked up from the map sprawled across the table in front of him. It was obvious that the years hadn't been kind to him; the dark circles around his eyes alone paid homage to that. His hair wasn't white by any stretch of the imagination; it was more like an off-grey, as if it had planned to go white at some point but due to war rationing had only been able to achieve this shoddy imitation.
But there was still an edge of dignity about him. You couldn't tell if it was his gaze, or his manner of standing or even just his worn blue uniform, covered in medals. But it was there, like a sort of phantom that haunted the air around him. He looked towards the younger man quizzically, raising an eyebrow, as if he was trying to judge if they were joking or not.
"You sound surprised, Captain", he said, his voice rumbling like the engine of a old and worn tractor, "Is there a problem?"
The Captain looked down, trying to avoid the other man's iron gaze, not wanting to instigate the Air Marshal's infamous steel tongue. While he had no personal experience of the matter, he'd heard enough from the other officers to know to tread carefully. He wasn't young by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to the Marshal he looked positively youthful; his green eyes still burning with fire, only a slight hint of grey starting to defile his brown hair.
"It's just…" he started, before pausing, trying to rethink his statement, "It's just… I don't see why the USAAF even wants to take over Warmwell. It's the only airfield in the county; they're completely exposed to…"
"Captain."
The Captain sighed, knowing the tone in the Marshal's voice. It was one of frustration, a little hint that he was just humouring whoever had been unfortunate to speak with him. It was the kind of tone that summed up how utterly frustrating trying to have a talk with the Colonel was; somewhere within, he still had an idea of himself as a war hero. Granted, he had been one, but that was in a different war and he needed to realise that and hand the beacon on so that he didn't compromise this one.
"Yes, Air Marshal?"
The older man twiddled his newly waxed moustache absent mindedly, like he was trying to concentrate on more important things, which, given what the Captain knew of the operations here, wasn't likely to be completely untrue.
"Captain, you are well aware that we have already promised to give the base over to the Americans, aren't you?"
"Well yes Air Marshal, I…"
The Marshal interrupted, not even seeming to notice the comments of his lower ranked colleague.
"And you are aware, are you not, that we need as much support as we can in the final days of the war. We all know what's being planned, don't we?"
"Yes Mar…"
"So what is your problem with the Americans taking the base at Warmwell?"
The younger man paused, trying to think of a reasonable explanation. The clock on the blank concrete wall ticked loudly, every second feeling like an hour. Maybe it was unreasonable, this opinion of his. But it seemed purely practical to him; Warmwell was, after all, the only base in Dorset, one of the most at risk costal counties. He really couldn't understand why the Americans even wanted it, though if they did it was their right. Still struggling to come up with a reasonable explanation, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"Squadron Leader [Surname] will never approve."
The Marshal looked at the clock, a slight hint of sadness entering his eyes. It seemed utterly out of character; he was a military man, brought up to memorise the one rhetoric that seemed on everyone's lips now; stiff upper lip. But it was undeniably there; even if it was slightly disguised.
"Then he'll just have to get used to it, old boy. He'll just have to get used to it."
