Coming In On A Wing And A Prayer

by Nishinn

Set in the summer of 1940, chronicling through the personal writings of one RAF fighter how the Battle of Britain began to unfold, the weights that pressed down on every pilot, the physical and emotional challenges that fell before him, and the one American who sailed across the sea, joined his squadron, and taught him that sometimes it's the smaller things worth fighting for.

(a/n): This has been my submission for the APH A Brief History of Time event! Please do check it out on Tumblr and see all the other wonderful works made by fellow creators.

This is a story set in the summer of 1940 and the months that follow, chronicling through the personal writings of one RAF fighter how the Battle of Britain began to unfold, the weights that began to press down on every pilot, the physical and emotional challenges that fell before him, and the one American who sailed across the sea, joined his squadron, and taught him that sometimes, it's the smaller things that are worth fighting for.

A Historical USUK story set in the second year of World War II, the Blitz.

For a bit of clarification, there are break-lines which contain sentences taken from some well-known songs of the WWII era. They'll be listed at the end. Give them a listen, they're great.

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Through colds nights and even colder days, I've always considered the shallow hum of a plane engine to be my friend. On many occasions, it was the first thing that greeted me after a rain of gunfire, the one to calm my nerves after nearly getting a bullet through my skull. Other times, this one sound would be responsible for lifting me up, so to speak; for giving my tired soul a little jolt to get me up in the air and into action. It was a companion, to ease my loneliness.

So I wasn't certain how to feel when I was suddenly left with this particular hum, after screams and gunfire poured through my radio, before suddenly cutting to static and shutting off.

Dear Journal, to tell the truth, my greatest fear is that I may have lost him.

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March '39

Hello, Old Chap.

I'm quite surprised you've survived, for an ancient leather-bound stack of parchment, that is. This is Arthur Kirkland, writing in some twelve years after the last childish scribble left on these pages over a decade ago. Lucky me, cleaning out Mother's drawers and finding an ancient relic I may be able to pour my thoughts into!

I suppose I'll forgo formality at this point, Journal. I am tired, weary, and desperate to get into bed after my few months in flying school. The threat of war looms over the country and according to Father, despite what the BBC might say, Mr. Chaimberlain's not doing a very good job of preventing it. When war breaks out I want to be part of those who'll be defending our island and, quite frankly, I don't believe the prime minister's doing a very good job of that either.

I'll be writing in soon, hopefully.

Yours,
Arthur Kirkland

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One evening long ago, two lovers were grieving. A crimson sun went down, the lights began to glow, one evening long ago.

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30th July, 1940

Dear Journal,

My, how plain I am. Here I could be calling you by an abundance of different names, some I've thought up myself—Charlie, James, Howard—and I still insist on calling you 'Journal'. Of course, Allistair has suggested 'Diary', and I was quite mortified when he learned of your existence, but I am not a dainty twelve year old girl as to be calling you such a name. One thing to note is that it is Allistair's pride and joy to embarrass me at any given moment—thus, it is a sort of relief to be away from home.

At any rate—I did it! Forgive me for not having told you much earlier, but I am finally a part of RAF Fighter Command! I've been in 64 Squadron for several months now. I've flown over France in the spring—over Dunkirk. It was mighty foggy the entire time; couldn't see a thing.

We kept back handfuls of Stukas and Messerchmitts at a time from bombing the beaches bellow. There, our boys were trying to escape back to the country whilst being pounded by the Krauts from all but one direction. The ocean was mighty stormy—I wouldn't be surprised if some of them had drowned down there. It was a load of fun for us, but also a load of terror.

On one occasion we've had our squadron leader shot down over the ocean and we lost him for a week. Apparently, he swam back to shore and caught a ride on a returning fishing boat, making his way on foot back to the base. It was a rather brave feat, but I wouldn't put it past Feliks to do it again; he was Polish after all. Now, I don't mean to stereotype, but those Poles are brave as they are insane. Well, Feliks certainly was.

Let's see. I suppose I should be telling you about life here in the base, now shouldn't I?

There's not an awful much to tell, I'm afraid. We get up early in the morning, have breakfast while the ground crew starts up our engines. We fly Supermarine Spitfires—a glory of God we say, a testament of superior British engineering. Call it bragging, but it is also the truth, dear friend.

More often than not we go on an immediate patrol. We land, take a break, have lunch. The boys like to play a match of checkers in the Dispersal Hut, sometimes chess, between sorties.

We're called to flight by the ringing of the bell. Sometimes Feliks picks up a ringing phone over in a tent for commands. We Brits have tea on the grass in the afternoon and have a walk around the field. Of course there is training, but that usually comes in the morning. I do some work in the control room as do others and when we're on a sortie we find the Jerrys and take the blokes down as we normally do.

But lately it's been, well, harder. It wouldn't be my ideal word, but it has indeed been getting harder. After Dunkirk, the ringing bells have been coming in more frequently.

Yesterday, not fifteen minutes had gone by that we were called up again for a second flight to bear down on some Heinkel bombers headed for the base. I'd been drinking tea when the sudden yelling caused me to jolt, spill, and go into combat with, embarrassingly, wet trousers. Francis would not stop giving me hell for that.

A relaxing lunch was a luxury we couldn't afford. We used to, but nowadays the looming threat of another call to action was a hindrance, so we tended to swallow as much as possible if for the sake of having a complete last meal. God knows it's been that way for a lot of pilots. And then there was earlier's mishap.

Around four o' clock this afternoon we'd been on our last sortie of the day, flying along the coast, when we were jumped by a squadron of Me 109's. I'd sent one crashing into the water but my roommate and number two, a Lithuanian man named Toris, had gotten his engine and cockpit hit and promptly crashed into the sandy dunes in a spectacular ball of fire. There was no parachute; he didn't jump out.

It is hard to practice an attitude of nonchalance when it came to the deaths of friends—but we had to. It was necessary, if we were to keep morale up and win this war. I could see Feliks taking the strain, but he was pushing, and so shall I do just as well. It was better not to think—that was what they always say.

Yet it was hard not to think right now, sitting alone in my bed across from a lonely, empty cot. I certainly hope it will be occupied soon enough. If only to have someone to share the oncoming misery with.

Yours,
Arthur

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31st July, 1940

I have regrets, Dear Journal.

You see, I regret ever wishing for the next cot to be filled at all. I would rather live through this war companionless in the night rather than have the bed occupied by the abomination that resides within its sheets at this very moment.

Let me tell you about the American named Alfred F. Jones.

He'd been introduced to us during lunch, bouncing into the Mess Hall with a smile bright as diamonds in broad daylight and a voice that could rival the raid sirens. He'd shaken nearly everybody's hand and promptly began to spin his tale of his grand adventure from across the Atlantic, working his way through RAF ranks to get to where we find him now, and ending his little speech—as my fellow pilots gawked in earnest fascination, mind you—with the declaration that his presence was to be the very saving grace of England.

The lads laughed, but I didn't.

The nerve of that Yank! Throughout the day he'd been referring to himself as the 'hero'. I'd hoped to avoid Mister Popular, stay out of his way long enough to never see his face again after this was all over, then look forward to enjoying the rest of my flying career without him, seeing as he'd only undertaken a temporary commission. And then he noticed me.

Let me admit one thing to you, Journal. One thing that I utterly despise about myself—well, among several other things at least: my eyebrows.

Laugh all you want you leather-bound stack of paper. My eyebrows are, for one thing, larger than one would call average. Of course my brothers had rather furry departments themselves up there, but me—I had the thickest even in our family. I'd never say such a thing out loud, but it is a necessary fact to know in the context of this story.

So he called me out in the middle of the mess, exclaiming his new founding with unadulterated fascination, as though I were some sort of circus attraction, or zoo animal. It was outrageous! He was outrageous!

The pilots laughed and what else could I do but snap in anger and flip him off.

I knew that he wasn't likely to forget me after the aforementioned fiasco, although I still held hope, but then the deal was sealed by Feliks approaching me with tears in his eyes along with a mischievous little glint, clapping me on the shoulder as he informed me that Alfred was to be my new roommate and I shall deliver a brief tour around the Mess and air field, and show him to his Spitfire.

I do believe I have entered a state of spiritual recession back then. I've never been religious, but if the presence of this man was punishment then Lord, God, you might as well have sent me to the depths of hell.

He tried apologizing at first, but he had this unmistakable aura of insincerity. He kept smiling and glancing at me, ready to pull a joke at any time. He had unsavory remarks about a great many things—my "stiff" mannerisms, the "bleariness" of London, and when it came to the tea, I'd just about lost it.

I gave him a piece of my mind right there indeed! "We are at war! Not like you ignorant Americans know anything about the pain of war as you sit uncaringly across the ocean like cowards! Don't come prancing in at the last minute and pretending you're singlehandedly responsible for the victory fought by a million more from countries before you, simply dismissing the painful efforts of others as you steal the world stage for yourself!" Or something along those lines.

I dare say the lad might have looked a bit hurt, but his smile was on and his cocky air back, and he was rattling off insult after insult while I shot off ammunition of my own—and then it was like a dogfight in the air indeed!

I was one word away from throwing a punch before Feliks broke us off. The bloody Yank even had the audacity to wink like it was all a fun game!

I sincerely hope he crashes on the next sortie. Wouldn't even mind if he went up in flames.

Achingly yours,
Arthur

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1st August, 1940

Dear Journal,

Something odd happened today. You see, Jones's face had been familiar from the moment I set my sights on his rather handsome mug. Sparingly handsome. I regret writing this in ink.

Anyway, it was a strange sort of familiar. The reason behind this crashed into me like a Stuka dive-bomber when I took Alfred to meet a Spitfire. According to him it would be his third ever encounter with one during his whole career in the RAF so far. I projected my best smug smirk which seemed to have the desired effect of pissing him off.

And then we reached one of the ground crew engineers, a Canadian friend of mine named Matthew Williams. I had barely called his name when he looked up and the three of us were gaping at one another like confused chickens. I would've laughed, really, if I'd had any sort of laughter left.

No, they weren't cousins or related in any way, but they were nearly identical. Their facial features were exact copies, but Alfred's eyes were just the slightest off shade of blue from Matthew's, and his hair was just a tad shorter and darker.

A little combing and some spectacles matching Matthew's pair for Alfred and the two would have been twins.

They got along quite well, much to my disdain, with Matthew taking easily to the Yank's obnoxious demeanor. He looked uncomfortable at first, sure, but then he went along with it in stride.

It was unbearable.

Today was supposedly an off-day for our squadron. We have "on base" and "off base" days off every once in a while, and I think the two types are rather self-explanatory. While I had wanted to take a quiet stroll across the field by myself after tea, Jones's plan was to follow me around like a puppy, and obnoxiously beg for answers to every single question like "what's that building? Or that building? Or that plane?" I had honestly begun to wonder if he had ever gone to flying school at all, if he had simply popped into the base like he belonged and we all went with it.

The only moment where I felt something other than blatant distaste for Jones was when we'd gone to calibrate his guns.

When Matthew had informed me that the plane was a fresh shipment, I immediately suggested calibrating them for optimal firing range. The standard range was always calibrated a few hundred yards farther than what was ideal for fighting at close range, so when one was in the closest and tightest to the enemy, the bullets whiz past because he is too close for his machineguns' liking. Feliks had taught me that trick a few months back, after he taught me to fly close and I complained because I always missed.

When I passed the information off to Alfred he was grinning like an admiring student and was showering me with a handful of complements—which no matter what he says did NOT have me blushing! But he then subverted them with a jab at my obvious cockiness and again, my eyebrows.

Nevertheless, it was entertaining to see him help the other Ground Crew hold on to the wing of the Spit when I jumped into the cockpit to begin the calibrating. The panels on the wings were open exposing the inner workings of the guns. Matthew had his tools, ready to make adjustments. I gave Alfred a little starting fright by telling him to hold on to the wing, and then fired a round making him jolt a mighty way forward.

I expected him to be angry but he simply laughed. He may be cocky, but he knew how to hold his head high; I'll give him that.

All in all, today was more relaxing. But I still am a tad tired, and I'll be expecting a sortie or three come morning, so I might as well get back to my room; stack you back underneath my pillows where you temporarily belong.

Oh, Alfred had just come by with a mug of tea. He'd complained about the taste and threw a jacket at me, mumbling something about catching a cold before promptly heading up.

Well, should he crash tomorrow I suppose I shall reduce his sentence to simply crashing, not burning, and perhaps breaking a finger or two.

Yours,
Arthur

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2nd August, 1940

Dear Journal,

I am loathe to admit it, but perhaps Alfred has some semblance of justification for being the cocky airhead he is.

I doubted him at first, and rightly so. One day prior we'd been sent out for patrol which ended up mostly uneventful in terms of action. However with Alfred, I'd been out of my mind with keeping up with him.

By standard, we flew in four sections of three: red, blue, yellow and green.

I was flying Blue One, leading three others with Francis—who is a Frenchman, a complete arsehole, and, I suppose, a friend—which then left us with Jones flying number two.

Now before getting in, I said to him, "Jones, I admit I've been waiting to see you crash, if only to laugh at you, but please don't fuck up your first possible battle." A comment which he laughed off as he did with most things, and went on to quickly tease me about possibly 'caring' about him.

Are all Americans so brash and cocky?

Nevertheless, we flew, and the whole time Alfred had his radio turned on simply to make obnoxious and childish comments. We weren't supposed to use the R/T unless completely necessary! If any enemies were nearby they could easily pick up our signal, but Alfred was commenting on the countryside view, Spitfire gears, how it felt to fly one with childish abandon—the whole time giving the squad a laugh. And then he began to pester me specifically. "Arthur, look at this," "Arthur what does this do?" I tried ignoring him but the bloke simply would not give up until he got a reaction out of me, even if it was only a threat to shut him up.

I was plenty angry when we landed. He placated me by offering to buy me a drink the next time we're on leave and, as he calls the true 'British Experience', get drunk at a pub. It took a good bit of banter and insults, but I relented, saying as long as I didn't have to spend a single cent, I would go.

Of course this left me with a little guilt, but I resolved to have at most two drinks, although with my current track record and Francis's oh so helpful input, this would be a phenomenal feat to accomplish.

Now the next day was much, much more eventful. We were scrambled at eleven o'clock, just as we were about to brew a pot of tea. We strapped in and got flying south where a few bombers were reported having a go close to Kenely.

Perhaps it was simply because it was much more real, but I got Jones to shut it with his R/T. It wasn't a patrol anymore, and I told him rightly so.

We spotted the Heinkel He 111 bombers a way below us, and Feliks was readying us up for a dive. However I knew in that instant something was wrong. They were strangely alone—a dangerous position for bombers to be in, but before I could consider this, their fighter escorts began diving down from the glare of the sun sending a hailstorm of bullets raining down on us.

One of their tracer bullets pierced the glass of my cockpit in the flash of yellow light, embedding itself in the metal mere inches from my head. My heart pounded inexplicably wild at that moment, but luckily my pilot instincts took over.

Just as I righted myself I saw two of the German fighters headed straight for the ocean in a fit of smoke. One exploded in red fury several thousand feet below me, and the other took a sinking dive only yards away.

I didn't have time to consider that incredible feat, only that I had to get to the bombers waiting below.

I took a nab at an He's engine and set that one on fire, while I spotted Feliks shooting straight into the cockpit before we both dove away. That was as far as that particular dogfight took me. I do believe we had one bomber crashing and the rest running back like the cowards they are, but I didn't stay for long. My fuel was dropping dramatically and I knew I had a hole somewhere in the fuel tubes.

After a shaky landing back at the base I found Alfred waiting for me with a curiously smug smile. The first thing he said to me was, "Hey, Arthur, I broke the rules."

And I asked him, "What the bloody fuck are you going on about now?"

And the bloke, not even a bit dissuaded by my obvious annoyance and sincere lack of interest whatsoever, said in his god-awful accent, "Remember how, as Blue, we gotta dive in for the bombers while Yellow and Green take on the fighters? Well, I'm sorry, but I nabbed two Messerchmitts one after the other. Both definitely destroyed. You're welcome."

I'll be honest. I don't think I've ever seen a smile so annoying nor heard a statement so arrogantly said before. It seemed Francis finally had someone to rival his cockiness; by god, he probably even surpassed the old frog with the air in his head.

When Alfred teasingly asked if I'd found that attractive, I responded with a kick in the shin and reminded him that without my help with calibrating his guns, he would probably have crashed and gone home crying to his mother.

Ha! That was a feat. He would never admit it, but that kick sent him to the infirmary. Where else could he have gotten the ice bag he now held to his leg?

I teased him about it only a few minutes ago. I'm sitting here now in my bunk with him fast asleep on the other cot. After a bit of back-and-forth insults, he finally admitted that my kick was "a bit impressive."

I'll have him know that it was very impressive! I was a lead football player back in school. I was by far the best in my family. Not even Allistair could break my records!

But Alfred didn't know anything about football. He gave me a migraine just trying to explain the game mechanics. One thing he did admit though was that he was a hands-on learner; now that, I could understand.

I might regret it, but I offered to teach him football one day. It was run of the mouth, something I didn't intend on saying until I'd actually said it, but I did, and he agreed. Although, he might not be an entirely lost cause. Might even make a great football star someday if he were under my teaching!

Oh, look at me. This journal's getting filled up with nothing but the blasted American. I'll see you next time, Journal. Perhaps then I'll have something more interesting to talk about. Though I'll admit, the Yank coming here is as interesting as it gets, otherwise I'd have endless sentences on flying in a cold, tiny cockpit five times a day while trying not to get hit and die in a horrid, fiery death.

Yours,
Arthur

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Sandman, bring me a dream. I'm so alone, don't have nobody to call my own.

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5th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

A week before, my current point for this entry would have been different. Very different. It is something I do not want to admit to myself but I fear that I must: the morale is getting worse. Attacks are more frequent, we keep losing new pilots, and our leader Feliks had been dealing with the loss of Toris. The two were exceptionally close. I can't imagine the degree of the pain he felt, yet he managed to carry on with a head held high.

And then some six days ago that American came along and instantly things seemed brighter around here.

I chalked it up to the novelty of having an American around. The chap was something else that every one of us had only seen in movie reels—he was like an actor! He had the chopped-up accent which, I might admit, is adequately charming. He had this head of blond hair, not like mine so pale and plain but like the golden fields of wheat in the summer. It had that shine and sweep to it—something indescribable but seemed to fit his personality quite well. And his eyes, they were blue like the rarest of clear skies on a summer afternoon. Perhaps like the ocean water just as the sun began to rise. They were beautiful.

Now I do hope no one ever reads this thing.

But oh, his looks weren't the only thing I have to go on. He was an excitable puppy, put simply, and his cheerfulness seemed to infect the gloomy atmosphere that the rest of us had been putting off. He started up jokes in the morning, then hosted little races when we were in the air despite how dangerous and uncalled for they were. But they were fun.

Last night he even lead a sing-along in the mess. But let me tell you one thing—his voice isn't as good as his looks. Was it that bad? Indeed. It was god-awful.

But somehow that didn't stop him from rousing the crowd, nor did it stop the little fond smile that may have creeped its way along my face.

Alfred certainly was something.

And I must admit that I missed the little feeling that crept into my chest whenever Alfred had his little shenanigans and somehow got me involved. It was a feeling of utter carelessness. The feeling of being able to smile and laugh without worrying about a bomb getting ready to explode over your head.

See, that was the thing with us Brits. We simply do not give in. Perhaps Americans don't either.

Francis was always telling me to loosen up every now and then yet I'd always felt the need to be on guard. The need to be ready for an attack. To be tough and impenetrable for it was the best way to win this war, but only now do I understand what he meant.

"You'll crack if you do not release any pressure."

Why, last night, Bobby Clayton had the radio going and Miss Lynn was on with her wartime songs. When the lads began dancing I had opted to escape for the duration of the night but then Alfred grabbed my arm and began to spin me around like a helpless schoolgirl! It was embarrassing as it was rather fun.

After having regained my balance in his arms it was almost easy to shift into the lead, dip the Yank into the ladies' pose, and then promptly drop him on the ground and laugh at the dazed look on his face. I don't think I'll ever forget that look. Yes, it was laughable, but it was also charming. It was nice to know that he could have an expression where he wasn't smirking arrogantly with a teasing remark.

Ah, yes, I almost forgot! The reason I wrote in the analogy of Alfred being an excitable puppy was, as I'd recently found out, he was extremely fond of dogs!

There was this chap over in 72 squadron who had a young Golden Retriever who would almost always be by her master's side, except for when he flew. So this afternoon when 72 was called on a mission Alfred was ecstatic to see this golden dog prancing about with her curious nose rifling through the grass.

He grabbed his lunch and with a high-pitched yelp of excitement, began dragging me along to feed the dog. I'd rolled my eyes then. He was incredibly childish, really. Matthew had been there too, fixing a plane not far off when Alfred pulled him into the scene and they began to play with the puppy.

She was an affectionate dog. As it turned out, Jones had owned two dogs back in America and he missed them dearly, and so he became a little homesick seeing this carefree dog bounding around the field.

They were two beagles, he told me. Charlotte and Duke. I must've looked skeptical about their names—and I was not—because he snorted and stated that about half the bulldogs in Britain are named Churchill.

I told him that it made no sense but then again, he didn't make any sense either. Bloody hell, nothing makes sense anymore in these maddening days.

Any other situation, pilots like us would've likely been saving up the 12 pounds we get on a regular basis—a whole lot more than one could get for any other job. Nowadays we blow it on drinks and knick-knacks and whatever the hell we want for we all want to spend it while we have it, knowing the next day we may very well be dead. And yes, even the 'stuck up' Arthur Kirkland knows the facts and sticks by them.

It's almost a shame, really, to be seeing lads as young and bright as Alfred F. Jones lining up to get the lights blown out of their eyes before being buried six feet under. Him and people like Feliks and Francis, who go through such feats to fight for a country that isn't even theirs.

Well, perhaps they are fighting for their own country as they fight for mine. Perhaps they fight to avenge their fallen home in the manner of defending Britain.

I suppose I wouldn't know what that felt like, but it certainly is something to ponder. For now, I am tired. Aren't I always?

Yours,
Arthur

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10th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

It is hard to believe, and quite frankly surprising (though, not at all) how much the Yank named Alfred Jones has blended in to the regularity of my days.

He'd wormed his way through and true and had become a solid member of the squadron. It no longer felt like breakfast if he didn't rouse up the mess with stories and jokes, if he didn't quietly insult my taste in tea only to get a reaction from myself, unaware of the hidden smiles I sported and denied whenever he gave one of his little jokes.

It didn't feel like lunch if he wasn't dragging me out to the field to find his favourite golden retriever. The dog, Missy, as she was named by 72's squadron leader, Johnny. Alfred was quick to make friends with the lad and just as quick to practically become co-owner of the dog. I couldn't deny that she had grown on me too, and that watching Jones prance around with her was only the tiniest bit heart-melting. They were like two puppies. I could imagine that if Jones were to have been born a dog, with his golden hair of his, he would very well be a golden retriever himself.

And it didn't feel like dinner if Alfred wasn't rousing the squadrons with a terrible song of his choice. And the night certainly wasn't complete if he didn't drag myself and Francis around to seek out Matthew, and then proceed to seat us around the light of a Mess Hall window as we chatted for a good quarter hour in the grass.

Initially, it had been rather annoying, until I found myself going of my own volition and eventually having fun. I'd been on better terms with Matthew and Francis, and so too had the three of them been growing closer. It was relaxing, nice, to be able to simply sit and talk with a smaller group of people, rather than the hailstorm of rowdy male humor that perpetrated the Mess. Alfred, however, seemed to fit anywhere.

Indeed, the lad was something else.

We'll be having our day-off tomorrow. The first off-base in a while and Alfred had made me promise to take him around on a tour of the city. I told him it was blatant insanity to attempt a tour around the whole place in a day, but then he'd told me he would take whatever he could get. He was stubborn as I am, the git. Nevertheless, I found myself agreeing—and it had nothing to do with his smile nor his wide, pleading eyes. And it certainly had nothing to do with any so-called 'fondness' I may be feeling for said American.

Ha. Who am I kidding?

Cheers,
Arthur

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11th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

Today was the day off, as well as the day I fulfilled the majority of my promises to one Alfred F. Jones.

We walked down cobblestone streets which felt familiar and homely to me, but for the Yank it must've felt like the first tourist-sensation he'd ever had in his life. Which, you know, it was.

He gaped and gasped at every landmark, gawking with sparkling eyes at fountains, old buildings, and even lampposts. "Nothing like Virginia!" He kept on saying, and it filled me with a sense of pride that was so apparent he'd called me out on it with a playful snort.

I don't seem to be as mad at him anymore. Bloody fool must've really gotten to me, it appears.

When he asked about the shops being out of stock, I began to explain the situation with rationing and questioned how bloody ignorant he really was to have missed it. And of course his main concern after this was how he wouldn't be able to eat sweets. Indeed, a man of his priorities. Although I never could tell when he was being completely serious—that smile never seemed to be wiped off his face.

I took him on a ride in the Thames and he attracted a bit of a crowd with his inability to not talk for five minutes. He ended up telling a good deal of American stories to a crowd of excitable children and fond adults.

After the ride we stopped for afternoon tea and a fag. Well, I had the tea, he had the smoke. Must he always be so stubborn when it came to tea? Then again, I couldn't stand the stuff he called coffee either so we drew the argument to a close.

After sunset I finally took him to one of the pubs and it was a generally merry time. Getting booze and chatting along—we even recognized some pilots from the base. Luckily, by the end of the night I had enough self-control not to get bloody hammered and managed to walk in a straight line (with some assistance from Jones) and had kept most of my memories to a trip to the inn where we are currently staying for the night.

I would be a liar to say the whole ordeal wasn't fun, but I was mighty embarrassed to be hanging off of Alfred like that in a slurred, drunken state. Hopefully it wasn't too awkward.

It's the middle of the night, he's asleep in the other bed, and I'd just woken up for a leak. I found myself sober and awake enough and write this all down, as to get rid of the whirlpool of emotions I found as I began to recall these certain memories.

It is indeed strange to discover that my disposition towards the Yank fast asleep in the other bed had changed so dramatically within the past week. I had seen him as a nuisance, a plague and a curse. Now I think I might even call him a friend.

Anyway, I shall go back to sleep now, Journal, as we must leave for the base in a matter of hours. God knows I won't be getting a goodnight's sleep for another few weeks.

Yours,
Arthur

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No private rooms or telephones, you had your breakfast in bed before, but you won't have it there anymore.

---

13th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

It is, to say the least, routine for the morning to be awakened by the ringing of bells and rushed footsteps. I would be half-asleep clambering into my uniform and checking gears, and before I knew it, I was 6,000 feet in the air and climbing, storing away information that was fed through my R/T.

I'd get into a dogfight, miraculously not die, and touch down only to find that one of our planes would either return much later, or never return at all. At nights Alfred's little sing-alongs would get interrupted by the shaking ground as bombs dropped somewhere a ways off. And something happened yesterday.

72 was called on a flight and Johnny had not come back. Alfred fed Missy that night in hopes that her owner would return, but Matthew had come by not a few minutes ago with the news that Johnny had been shot down by a Messerchmitt and was confirmed dead last night.

Alfred is playing with Missy now, as I sit here outside Dispersal, writing. The smile on his face is forced and he moves with disheartened sluggishness as he tosses Missy's ball around. Feliks looks at me worried. I knew that he feared Alfred's mood might affect the rest of the squadron.

More later,
Arthur

….. . .

Good evening, Journal

I shouldn't be writing this as I am absolutely knackered right now. Today had been blatant hell.

There was a bit of rain in the early morning and the skies had remained grey until around noon. There had been one or two calls to the sky for the other squadrons but I had expected the day to be uneventful. I was half-way through an intense game of checkers with Jones—and though he'd tell you different, I almost won at that—when the bells rang and called up 72. Only a few minutes had passed when we were called up as well.

The clouds were gone and had instead been replaced by thick swarms of Luftwaffe planes, bombers in formation with their fighter escorts visibly buzzing above, numbering a hundred at a time facing off against a squadron of twelve.

Now that could certainly get one's heart going.

I fired-in at bombers and when formation broke, at anything I could. Planes would be everywhere as I navigated around them, finding a target whilst trying not to become a target myself. I'd see tracer bullets missing me by a few feet, and I did my best to dodge and fire back before I ran out of ammunition and had to retreat. Twelve seconds of ammunition was the standard for us, and sure as hell for a fight with this many, it was just short of too little.

When I came back to base, I hadn't even finished my report to the Intelligence Officer before being called up once more. I'd flown—what, six sorties today?—and I was bloody knackered.

We were told the Jerrys had planned today to be "Eagle Day", the day they would take the whole lot of Fighter Command out. Goering must've had his britches in too tight because the whole lot of them bloody missed! They only took out one radar tower and bombed mostly costal bases instead of fighter bases. The whole lot of them had their heads in their asses if they thought they had any sort of a chance! With commands like that, I begin to wonder how they took out France in the first place. Perhaps France was just weak. I got a laugh out of telling the Frog that.

That afternoon I wasn't surprised to find a few lads passed out on the grass, but Alfred's disposition was entirely different. As soon as he found me after the third or fourth flight, he began yammering on about how he took down a bomber's engine and shot down a fighter immediately after. He was bouncing on his heels, filled with energy, ecstatic to be on the winning end of the whole affair.

Simply listening to him blabber on was enough to make me tired myself, but I couldn't deny that it wasn't the slightest bit charming. He got Feliks and Francis and the rest talking about their achievements as well. I was proud enough to announce that I'd taken down four Huns and that I could beat Jones's number by the end of the day. And so was the start of a competition.

That night, he roused up a bleary crowd as we ate dinner. From complaining of tiredness, pilots began to talk more of their successes. Nobody bothered to address the empty seats.

I lost the day's competition, and had been prepared to be chewed out, but Alfred did virtually nothing and had promised the only reward was bragging rights for him. As well as taking my bed. The cheeky bastard.

But there was no waking him for as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. I bid you goodnight, Journal, as I cannot hold this damn pen properly anymore, nor can I so much as keep my eyes open.

Exhaustedly yours,
Arthur

.

16th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

It's nighttime as I write this to you now. I've only a good half-hour before I'm due to go to bed, and Jones is fast asleep in the bed across the room. And I must say that frankly, Alfred is not entirely what he seemed.

Earlier we had to intercept a raid, and it was disappointing to see that they were on the way back home. It was an achievement to get a Hun, but it was even better to catch them before they'd dropped their bombs. Anyway, they had numbered twenty or so, and the fighters had come down on us from the sun. Two Spits were shot and parachutes opened up, and I myself got a hit in my tanks and white coolant began to stream out. Now, running out of coolant could potentially set one's engine on fire, but I couldn't help taking a spotted opportunity to blow a Stukka out of the sky. It was right there!

So I pushed it, and I said so on the R/T, and Alfred was practically yelling in my ears to pull back, that I was hit, that it was too risky. But it was worth it for I blew the dive-bomber's engine right through and it went down in a ball of flames. I landed back at the base just as my side started smoking.

Alfred was absolutely furious with me for pulling the stupid move, but he had a funny way of going about it. He was sarcastic and berating, but he didn't seem entirely angry, if it weren't for the tension in his posture that I knew usually wasn't there.

Sure I rolled my eyes and inadvertently set up a go for banter, but it sent a funny feeling to my chest to know that he actually cared. Seeing Jones even that bit angry, especially over me, was a first. And that was just the first of firsts that came along with today.

When I walked into the room after dinner, after enjoying a round of cheerful chatting with Matthew, Francis and Alfred, I was rather shocked to witness the smile fall from Jones's face.

He flopped face-first onto my bed, which made me understandably annoyed, and yet I couldn't bring myself to scold him this time as he looked honestly, uncharacteristically depressed.

He admitted with a hesitant sigh that he was upset about Missy's owner, and that he knew that the dog was upset too. I sat next to him and let him talk. He spoke of how the war was begging to weigh him down, and how the friends we were losing ultimately made him account for his own mortality, and whether or not he would see Virginia ever again. I realized with a start that the cheerful face he always wore hid a man who was afraid, who was upset and tired, a boy who was away from home. A boy who was only human. He always seemed so impossibly cheery around the rest that it was hard to realize he felt tiredness too—a tiredness in his soul that no amount of sleep would ever fix.

It would be a tiredness us pilots would carry around for many a year to come, unless death took us first.

Then I found myself talking too, of my home back in the north of London, of how I was genuinely afraid that this war might end badly, or that it might never end at all. I told him how I'd accepted my fate of probable death, and how I didn't like it. And I didn't like how Alfred had to share the same fate as well.

And by the end of all that, I found him smiling. It was a sad smile, but a relieved smile, so I smiled too.

Alfred Jones was something else, indeed, but he was just like the rest of us, and somehow I find that comforting.

Yours,
Arthur

---

I don't want to walk without you, walk without my arms around you. Now, I find that I don't want to walk without the sunshine.

---

18th August, 1940

I'm panicking, Journal

Alfred is shot down, gone over some hills. No one has any idea where he is or whether or not he's been found. I don't know what to do, what I should do. What am I supposed to do if he doesn't come back?

I can't lose him.

---

I don't want to walk without you. Why'd you have to turn off all that sunshine?

---

Dear Journal,

I am very relieved. Relived and thankful to say that they found him. He's in the infirmary, several bandages, but he's otherwise alright. Francis is trying to act mildly offended that I wasn't concerned when he crashed, but in my defense, he got out with only a few cuts and bruises along with an immediate ride from a citizen wagon to get him back to base. And frankly, I was slightly concerned. In all seriousness, the Frog was fine.

This afternoon, around a quarter to one, the early-warning radar had picked-up some activity and we were sent to the sky along with 615 Squadron.

We spotted a mass of several Dornier Do 17's, along with their escorts flying at low-level towards the base. We intercepted them and it was an absolute mess. The escorts had spotted us and climbed to fire, while the rear-gunners on the bombers attacked at the same time.

I managed to get hits on one bomber but I could never confirm whether or not it crashed, because then, in the panicked mass of voices that screamed and barked positions in my R/T—some even German voices—one stood out beyond the rest.

It was Alfred. He was frantic, "I'm hit! I'm hit!" he cried, and the last I heard was a scream of my name before he was cut off by static. My heart caught in my throat and my hands nearly shook, and yet I could do nothing but stay focused on my task.

When I'd gotten back to base, the place was in shambles. Three of the surplus hangars seemed to have caught on fire, and the ground crew was dragging a ruined Blenheim bomber out of a wreckage. The medical facility had part of its walls covered in bullet holes and what seemed to be a portion of the roof burned, so the sick bay had to be relocated.

And yet, it wasn't that bad. It was one of the worst in a long time, but it wasn't exactly the definition of pure destruction. No doubt, we'd clean up in a day or two and be back on our feet, but it was unfair to say that no damage had been done.

After the Intelligence had gotten a report out of me, I dared to ask about the deaths. So far, six or seven deaths were accounted for today. Might turn into ten by nighttime.

Now, when Francis walked up to me with a suggestive gleam in his eyes, I was expecting an arrogant note on how many planes he'd crashed. Instead, he leaned casually against the table and said, "They found your boy, Alfred. He's in the sick bay."

I don't think I've ever been so split on a decision on whether to punch or hug somebody at the same time, and in the end I did my best to casually speed-walk towards the sick bay with Francis trailing behind.

Apparently Alfred had crashed into someone's backyard, ruining the hedges and slamming his head hard against the back of his seat. He was knocked out for a good two minutes while the house's family was getting him out, and as he was bleeding from several cuts across his arms and legs, he was rushed in a wagon to the nearest hospital and eventually ended up at the base, all patched up. Luckily they'd seen his silver wings and identified him as RAF, instead of shooting him on the spot thinking he was a Jerry.

When I walked into the sick-bay I found him chatting idly with Matthew. Bandages on his arms and legs still bled through with blood, but upon seeing myself and Francis, he instantly remarked with a cheery smile that he'd be back on his feet by tomorrow. Shrapnel cuts were no big deal, he said.

Later in the night when Matthew and Francis had left, I dared to ask why it is he yelled my name, out of everything else he could've last said, before he crashed to the ground to potentially die.

He looked like a deer caught in headlights, at first. The flush on his face was undeniable as it was almost laughable, but he quickly brushed me off with an unintelligible mumble of words before going off tangent to ask how my flight went.

I'm not entirely certain what I should make of that, but I tried not to dwell on it. It didn't matter, anyway. At least we were both alive.

Ah, but Bobby Clayton had died today, as Feliks told the squadron. I hadn't yet given Alfred the news as he probably didn't need more negative thoughts occupying his mind.

We would be flying off to Leconfield for tomorrow, finally, to be out of the heat for a while. Kenely was right in the path of London, while Leconfield was farther up north, far out of fire and out of the way, but by no means were we getting any less fighting. Well, perhaps a good bit less.

Yours,
Arthur

.

21st August, 1940

Dear Journal,

I seem to have found that a squadron, in a matter of weeks, could be nearly unrecognizable in this time of war. That, aside from the name and number, everything else could change. Their base will change, their planes will be gradually replaced, and their pilots too, will die off one by one until they're all fleshed out with newer pilots.

Well, that would at least be the case for the newer-formed squadrons. The pilots who had been trained for longer, those who were more battle-hardened and lived to survive their first few crashes, pilots like Feliks and Francis and myself, would outlive newcomers by an extremely wide margin.

They were trained too quickly. They made errors that a more experienced fighter would have never committed. They died out like flies and sometimes were replaced too quickly—or not quick enough.

Toris Lorinaitis had never been a pilot before England. He moved to London after college and found a decent job as a mechanic. Eventually, the tyranny of Hitler began to leak into the news, and with the threat of war looming over the horizon he opted to join the military in the manner of the RAF, as he had always been fascinated with planes.

Now, Toris was young and new and had been shacked into my bunk when my old roommate Roddy Thomas had crashed and gone blind. It was quick work for him to make friends with Feliks and soon they were close, inseparable, during any time they weren't flying. See, before Toris, Feliks had been a dark-humored, sarcastic man whose hatred for the Nazis overtook most of his thought and manner; a side effect that came with most Poles who fled from their ruined, annexed home.

But when this unassuming Lithuanian man opened him up and helped him smile, he seemed different.

He was cheerier and more laid-back, so unlike the harder edge he had presented before. It seemed that this version of Feliks was the real Feliks—the version he had been forced to leave behind in a ruined Poland. Carefree and happy, forgetting all worries and misery.

Toris befriended Francis and Bobby and others and slowly took to liking me as well, as I'm not a man who is easily liked. Really, I can never know what Alfred sees in me; since the moment he joined the squadron he stuck to my side like glue, when I was, in fact, more like a repellant than anything. It was entirely by accident that Matthew had talked to me. We bonded over the mutual interest of plane engine mechanics, and even then he admitted that he really disliked me at first. Francis still dislikes me, even though he wouldn't directly punch me on sight now. Even Alfred had liked to verbally shoot me down, and yet he kept sticking around by some miracle. Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself here.

At any rate, Toris was especially close with Feliks, and I liked to say I wasn't one to come up with gossip, but when once I found the two standing stiffly behind Dispersal, both looking like deer caught in headlights, disheveled as ever, I couldn't help but feel like there was something going on there that went well beyond brotherly companionship.

I didn't pry, but when Toris died, I could feel a shift in Feliks. A shift to such a degree that one who had not seen it before would chalk up to fatigue, but I had seen it before. I had seen it in my mother after our father died of polio.

And if there was one thing I knew about her, it was that she loved him.

Yours,
Arthur

.

24th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

Leconfield is indeed the break we need. It was simply so peaceful here—well, compared to the hell back in Kenely.

The runways were mostly flattened-out grass and dirt. Grass made up most of the grounds, there were trees and hedges, and everything was simply so green. The place was smaller than Kenely, but also more homely.

For the past few days that we've been here, we've only flown a couple or so flights a day. Most were patrols and routine checks, and other times we intercepted raids in the coast and went out to help with the raids farther south. That was the bulk of the action we'd seen, and it was easy to leave behind too, once I find myself surrounded by the peacefulness back here. Needless to say, it was a relief. I've even been getting some semblance of sleep, too.

We made friends with the lads in 147 Squadron who'd been here a couple of weeks—well, Alfred did. He ended up getting the rest of the squadron involved in a friendly foot-race against the lads. Unfortunately, their time here is up, and 147 is on their way to Biggin Hill as we speak, right by Kenely. Poor lads. It's a shame, and we'd be suffering the same fate soon. To tell the truth, I would be thinking about this more if it weren't for Jones.

Ah yes, jolly old Alfred in to save the day again. I made the mistake of expressing my pessimistic thoughts to him one night, and since then he wouldn't let up on me. We'd gone on off-base leave today and I had Francis and Alfred drag me around town to "have fun and see the view". I suggested simply sleeping-in and saving up energy for the day, but Alfred insisted that having fun was a better alternative.

I am loathe to admit he was right.

Early in the day we walked the cobblestone streets, with Francis dragging Matthew along by the hand who happened to sneak-out for the time being. He'd seemed less than happy with the Frog for forcing him along, but I suppose he did have his share of fun at the end.

It was a chilly, misty morning, with the sun slowly beginning its descent over the tiled rooves of the meek little town. Simple houses and simple lawns dotted the peaceful village, all of it covered in the musky morning dew which made the whole place smell of rain and comfort.

We went on walking and talking, the four of us. We walked around a park which encircled the local church, and then talked some more—of various things. Of our planes and engines, or the other fellows in the squadron, of our homes back wherever they may be. We talked of what we should eat, where we should go next, of the stores we'd passed by that had yet to open and why it is Francis didn't bring a jacket in this chilly morning. Whatever it is, we didn't talk of the war. Alfred simply wouldn't allow it.

He twisted the conversation round when we strayed too close to talk of battle, and for that I suppose I am a bit grateful.

After breakfast at a small café, we took to a pleasant mid-morning stroll where the town had already been more awake. We passed shops with all sorts of knick-knacks. Alfred and the Frog couldn't help themselves—they began to buy a whole lode of items to take back with them. I decided to buy a couple of pens as this one is wearing out.

Before noon Alfred had nearly yanked my arm off in excitement when he spotted a football for sale. I was instantly hit with the fact that I'd promised to teach him so many weeks ago. Grudgingly, I agreed to have a go with him later afternoon.

It was at lunch that I fear I may have done something rather humiliating. It was a slip of the tongue, but hopefully Alfred is not one to think of that too much. Do I dare tell you, Journal? Oh, what the hell.

We'd been around the park once more, all dressed-up in our RAF uniforms since we didn't really have much else to wear. This predictably attracted attention from several ladies standing by. See, the country considered the RAF heroes, and rightly so, but us in Fighter Command were exceptionally more popular than our Bombers. We're easily spotted, unfortunately, due to the nature of not wearing our ties. I suppose it was a habit to ditch the ties since, if you were to be plunged into the cold ocean water, the bloody thing would shrink around your neck and drown you faster. It was a fact no one wanted to experience.

But the lasses began flirting, and Francis seemed to have no qualms with flirting back. Matthew hit him over the head and it was the only good thing to come out of the ordeal. Alfred, however, had been happily chatting like an oblivious fool and honestly, I didn't like that. I didn't act on it or anything, really, but he felt something was wrong anyway.

He confronted me quietly as we walked away, while Matthew and Francis were occupied with their own banter, and asked me why I seemed so upset. I honestly didn't think I looked upset. And despite the matter I had to scowl, and state that, "I don't like girls." It was said on a whim, and yet, in such a matter-of-fact way that even Alfred would know the implication of that statement.

I was mortified, but my fears seemed to have been moot, as he proceeded to smile brightly and drag me around even more. We saw the sights and met more people—a few old ladies and a nun or two, all congratulating us and fawning over "such heroic young lads!"

And then we were back at the base. I thought I might have a relaxing cup of tea to start the afternoon, but Alfred tossed his newly bought football at me and in the blink of an eye, began a fierce competition of football. We used the wall of the Mess Hall as our "net" and Francis took to being the goalie. Matthew watched idly by, amusedly counting score—not that it mattered—and it was a quick one-on-one fight against Jones.

Needless to say, I won by a landslide, even without Matthew keeping track.

I was sweaty and breathing hard after nearly two hours of play, and yet I felt undeniably ecstatic. It felt good to have my mind focused on something other than shooting at someone whilst trying not to be shot. I really do think Alfred let me have this one. He smiled, despite losing, and acted less like the egoistical bastard I thought I knew so long ago.

And yet, that was only less than a month ago, wasn't it?

Ah, time, time. Where did it go? When Alfred laughs, it doesn't seem so arrogant anymore. When he speaks, it doesn't sound so boisterous and obnoxious. And when I see his smile, it isn't as bloody irritating. It's so simple now. It's happy and it's cheerful. It's innocent. I never want to see that smile wiped off his face.

And I liked talking to him without having to choose my words. I liked being able to flicker between a biting remark and a simple, amusing statement. I liked how it made him smile either way.

Oh dear, this is getting horribly emotional, isn't it? I suppose I must admit that now. There's no going around it. I can tell you that at this moment I'm groaning inwardly, because I never expected to fall in love.

Yours,
Arthur

.

25th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

Something hilarious happened earlier today. We'd been called up on patrol this afternoon, and eventually we spotted three Heinkels all alone headed for home. It was a typical sight this far north, as fighters didn't have this much range. At any rate, we attacked, and a rear gunner had hit Alfred's plane through and had him leaking coolant heavily.

Now, a pilot tended not to abandon their plane as much as possible. If they could land it, they must land it. So Alfred spotted a field several miles away and decided to go in, but I'd told him not to over the R/T, I told him, "please don't!", but he did so anyway. He dove in on the seemingly innocent open field, only to catch on a trench in the ground dug and covered up by the citizens, and was sent spinning wildly out of control until he seized up in a mound of dirt right behind a house.

Admittedly, I'd slightly panicked, thinking he might've broke his neck there. Citizens tended to booby-trap their open fields in case some Jerrys decided to land, but it was a bloody hassle for us RAF too. When we spun around close, we found Alfred floundering out of his cockpit, catching himself on the wing, looking up at the low-flying planes wildly and clutching a hand to his chest in comical shock. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing he would be fine.

When we'd gotten back to base, Alfred had been picked up and he was quite angry with me. Apparently he saw me laughing my head off through the glass hood with how low we were flying; and it took a bit of well-intentioned teasing to get him to stop pouting like a child. I told him that I knew he was in no real danger, for if he was, I'd have been in a much more alarming state of panic. It seemed to ease him a tad.

We sat quietly outside the Mess Hall that night. We watched the stars; Alfred noted how the constellations are different in the sky from America, and how he hoped his mother was looking at the same set of stars. I briefly mentioned time zones then, but otherwise, we were quiet.

It had at first been a strange, anxious quiet, but then Alfred leaned in. He rested his head on my shoulder as though it were a completely normal thing to do, and strangely enough, it felt like it. It felt natural and calm, and after a brief jolt of surprise, I simply laid back and said nothing. Maybe I did have a small chance with the Yank after all.

Yours,
Arthur

.

28th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

Yesterday evening, Feliks took the squadron out on a drink at the local pub. It was smaller and more ancient-looking than the ones back in London, but it was nice. The walls were cobblestone and a bit worn down, and the wooden tables were being chipped off at the sides. Lanterns and a fireplace lit the room in a homely orange glow, and the scene was complete with a run of jazz songs on a radio on the bar.

Some of the men were dancing with the local girls. Francis had taken Matthew's hand and jumped into an intimate waltz, and Feliks sat at the bar, nursing a drink in his hands, looking sullenly at the pair.

I dared to ask if he missed him. If he missed Toris. All Feliks gave was a bittersweet, "Yes."

I would've held a conversation, or perhaps tried to cheer him up despite being awful at both tasks, but Alfred had to crash into the seat next to mine and demand the drink I'd promised him days ago. So I bought him his drink, called him out on his rude behavior, and proceeded to get pulled into a three-way conversation with Feliks.

He didn't seem to mind, however. If I recall correctly, he was even smiling.

We talked of war, of home, of Virginia and London and Warsaw. We had merry jokes about the noisy blokes on the dancefloor and joked about everything else. I was halfway through my third or fourth glass of rum—or whatever it was I had drunken—when Feliks downed his drink and excused himself. It was just me and Alfred at the bar. So we talked.

We talked about lord knows what. I can't remember much, seeing as I was slowly losing myself to the booze, but one question I do remember myself asking Jones was what he wanted to do after the war. If he lived long enough to see it, that is.

And what he told me is still surreal to me at this point, and one I can only confirm for the bloke is lying half-naked in my bed as of now. He said to me, and my hands shake in embarrassment as I write, "I don't know, but I'm sure as hell that I'm staying with you."

I didn't know what to say; I was drunk, dumbstruck, and my face possibly burning red. He took my hand and suddenly we were dancing, swaying to the melodious song on the radio amongst other men and women in the pub. I remember him there, real, solid underneath my arms and so close that I could trace every little blemish and perfection on his face.

I found freckles and dimples and flecks of silver in his eyes. It was a wonder when he laughed. I think I remember laughing as well.

And then we were outside and I was hit by the cold; the only light there was streamed from the pub's wooden windows and wet grass rustled under my feet. And yet, I could still hear the radio's melody floating above the pub-goers' muffled voices, and Alfred kept swaying me to the beat.

The only thing I could think to say was that the Andrew Sisters were on. Alfred told me, fondly, apparently less drunk than I was, that it was Vera Lynn. I must've been absolutely pissed to be hearing three voices instead of one, and I suppose, horribly smashed to do what I did.

Perhaps it was the boost of confidence the conversation with him gave me. Perhaps it was his smile and the sickeningly romantic setting of the moment. Or perhaps I was simply terribly drunk. But I pulled him down by the neck and kissed him, square on the lips. And the funny thing was, he kissed back.

I'm not certain what else happened other than I kissed and kept on kissing. It was absolute bliss, let me tell you that. Were we caught? Did I pass out and had to be carried back to base? I've honestly no idea. I woke up feeling like shit with my uniform half-off and Alfred next to me in much the same state.

I'll let you know when I've gathered my wits, Journal. For now, I'll say I'm feeling terrible and ecstatic.

Yours,
Arthur

.

30th August, 1940

Dear Journal,

I'm thinking about this only now, but don't you think it's rather redundant for me to write the year over and over again in each of my entries? Well, it's entirely redundant to be asking you anything since you can't exactly reply, but I digress.

Anyways, it's been exactly two days since the, uh, incident, and I'll be frank. My first thought upon awakening this morning was, "Bloody hell, I feel like a schoolgirl."

Yes, I'll admit it, pride and all. I am absolutely smashed with Jones. It's a bit humiliating to admit and despite this, rather relieving. It's funny, really. I have the matter of protecting a country to prioritize and yet, the little things he constantly does makes me want to protect him instead. I felt like I could fight a thousand Nazis just for his sake.

When no one was looking he'd slip his hand casually into mine. He'd pull me around the corner after a flight and kiss me senseless for about two seconds before pulling off with a smug, self-satisfied smile, which makes me want to both punch him and kiss him again. And the nights alone with him in the room—those were special, I'll say that much.

The whole affair of hiding and secrecy, it was exciting as it was disappointing. We knew what we were and I knew that if word got out, we'd probably get tossed out of service. Society isn't tolerable of "anomalies" like us, the ones who had to hide and stay hidden. But among friends, among the lads, I don't think we'd have to hide too much, if the knowing looks from Francis and Feliks were anything to go by.

Truth be told, I am still afraid. Not of the war, but of Alfred. It was all so new, to have someone there, someone ready to listen and comfort and to love without judgement. I am still afraid to be as open to him as I am to you, Journal. I am afraid to voice out the little thoughts and opinions I tend to keep to myself. But I find them slipping, little by little, whenever he's around to listen. And I suppose that the same could be said for him as well.

I will savour this. I will savour whatever I can get with him. Every little hug and kiss and night in bed—I'll commit to memory and reciprocate. Because I must face it; this won't last for long. No, not because we won't stay together, but our likeliness of doing so was about as likely as our chances of dying.

This was war, after all. Soon enough we'll be sent to Biggin Hill—the most up-front of the front lines where pilots are sent to die. In a matter of days I could crash and burn, buried six feet under in a coffin of twisted metal and shattered glass. But I can't afford to dwell on that, now could I? Not when there's still a semblance of a life left to live, a sense of normalcy of a life with Alfred.

Not that he'd even allow me to think of that, when he's constantly smiling and touching and telling me he loves me. I'll savour this. And I'll work on my end too, to be less stiff, to be less hesitant, and to finally be able to get the words out—to tell him I love him too. And when I can finally do that, I'll do it every chance get, so he can commit those words to memory and have something to remember me by.

Because that's the truth, isn't it? I love Alfred Jones.

Yours,
Arthur

---

What a show, what a fight. Yes, we really hit our targets for tonight. How we sing as we lift through the air-look below, there's our field over there.

---

3rd September, 1940

Dear Journal,

I swear, if I ever get out of this war I won't ever own a telephone again.

We'd arrived in Biggin Hill a few days ago, and not a few seconds have passed than I'd gotten off my plane that the bells were ringing and calling us to scramble.

The Jerrys were getting more and more desperate with their attacks, and apparently, so were we with our defense. Not a half hour had passed since that sortie and I was up in the air again, into another battle. Two more followed that day and it was well into the night that I last landed, almost being lost due to getting caught in another dogfight.

By then the dinner was cold and no one had much time for merrymaking. We were off to the bunks and out like candlelight.

The day after, we were all rudely awakened to another ringing of the bells, and that was much more of nuisance considering Dispersal and the planes were all the way across from the mess. We decided to sleep in the Dispersal Hut that night, with our planes parked right outside the door. Our beds were lined up together, around 33 of us, and because of this privacy became a luxury we couldn't afford.

It was far quicker and more effective, but also a rather depressing reminder of how intense this battle for Britain was becoming. Not to mention Alfred complaining about not being able to get a proper shag with me anymore.

I laughed, but he was right.

Goering must've been under whammy of pressure to get his Luftwaffe to finally kill us off. There wasn't an hour where a squadron isn't sent into the sky and every single lad was in a constant state of exhaustion.

Leconfield had been a paradise, but in the days leading up to our arrival here, I had felt the tension reaching up to there as well. Our emergency flights had been taking place farther and farther south, helping out with the heat of the battle over the industrial areas and southern RAF bases. Here in Biggin Hill, we occasionally got a helping hand from lads from Leconfield, Coltishall, and all the other bases farther north.

Over the past couple of days, I would say I nearly died thrice. Of course, as a pilot every moment I'm alive, in and out of a plane, I am under the constant threat of death. But these three times, death came especially close.

The first time, I'd been shot in the leg. There had been a raid headed for the base and we were called up to intercept it. By the time the bombers had arrived over the edge of the aerodome, we were only still climbing up. A dangerous place to be in indeed, easy to get shot down by any fighters.

I wobbled a bit as I saw tracer bullets whizzing past my portside wing, and then—clink! Clonk!

My plane was hit, although I had no idea where. Someone took the fighter off my tail—perhaps an Me 109—and I kept going, refusing to land until I'd gotten at least one of them crashing. I got my bearings and had my sights on a particular Messerchmitt. I fired, I hit, but it was only damaged around the side. I wanted to crash the bastard until I felt it—a sudden spike of pain through my right leg as I moved the pedals.

Blood seeped through my trousers and I thought once about bailing out, before deciding to land the plane while a raid was still going—which is, unfortunately, an inherently daft thing to do. I'd entirely ignored the impracticality of what I was doing until it was too late to turn back. Luckily, I survived and the raid was over before I was out of the plane. Alfred wasn't too happy about it, especially after telling him what I pulled, and he was quite close to angry when I decided I was back on my feet the next day.

It wasn't such a bad wound, as I could still walk with minimal wincing, and it was a bloody nuisance. But there was also the matter of Sir Douglas Bader, the famous flight lieutenant who lost both his legs and is still in action and fighting today. Alfred still didn't seem entirely sated, but in the end there was nothing he could really do. I'll admit, I feel slightly bad for the adorable bloke, but if anything I should be worried.

I got the story while he was talking to the Intelligence Officer in the sick bay. Alfred was hit during our flight along the coasts, and he realized that he was losing fuel fast. He also appeared to be smoking from the side and was in danger of catching fire soon. He decided to bail out, but the wind had pulled him through far too quickly and he smacked his head hard against the edge of his hood. He was conscious enough to pull his chute cord, and then he was out until he reached the ground.

Needless to say, we haven't gotten to use the football a second time.

We had a mate, Erickson, a good lad who liked to chat with Alfred over reading the paper. He was new. A few days after I'd gotten shot, we were in the air to intercept a number of fighters when we were jumped from above. I recognized Erickson's plane getting shot through the hood and going down immediately, meanwhile I narrowly avoided death when shrapnel went flying—a few bullets must've hit me then—and tore at my uniform a good deal.

I was lucky. I came out of that with only a few scratches. I've heard of chaps who'd had their eyelids ripped off by flying shrapnel, or their throats getting cut open. Crashing and burning weren't the only bloody danger we lads have got to face.

Now the third time happened only yesterday and I was bloody close to being frightened. Right after lunch that we now had in Dispersal, Alfred had the brilliant idea to pull me behind the hut in an attempt to kiss me senseless. It had sort of worked, what with not getting him alone for a few days, and I was grateful, and even more so that he hadn't started grinding lower, for then the bells were ringing and we were shattered out of our half-minute long reverie.

We scrambled—literally—to our planes and took off with a suggestive remark from Alfred as what could have been our last exchange. Minutes passed and we spotted a group of Me 110's about 5,000 feet below us. Feliks was ecstatic to be on the top this time, and he lead us down with a yell of joyous English code.

When aircraft began buzzing and whirring around chasing one another's tail, I set my sights on one Hun, intent on getting close enough before he saw me. That's when I was hit from behind.

With a load of metal clinking violently, I felt shrapnel cut at my arms and legs, and a bit of glass hit my cheek. My plane staggered and suddenly, the controls were loose in my movements. I'd lost control of the plane.

Adrenaline pulsing through my every breath, I slid the hood open, secured my chute, and jumped for all it was worth. The grassy ground was rapidly closing in and I pulled my cord, seeing my plane go down smoking in a patch of woods. But the cord wouldn't open, and that's when panic set in. I sincerely though I would die then; ker-splat on the pavement.

Then I pulled it again and I was yanked up violently, feeling like my arms were about to be ripped off. I was bloody frightened, relieved, and tired.

Everything felt so fast, and yet so slow. It was torturous, to be waiting in Dispersal with idle chit-chat to distract ourselves from the growing anxiety, that the next time the bell rings might signify our last hour.

We never talked about fallen mates, when we gathered 'round the chairs and sofas we had inside Dispersal. We never spoke of the growing circles underneath our eyes, nor the danger we faced when we went into the air. Because if we did that, we would be driving ourselves insane.

We played card games and placed small wagers. We told jokes and listened to Alfred's exaggerated American stories. We napped and poked fun, and we had little competitions. But when a bed was empty that night, we didn't say a thing.

For us, being alive was a blessing enough. And for me, Alfred being in his bed is well and right.

Yours,
Arthur

.

5th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

I've believe I've spoken about Alfred's smile before, and I shall speak of it again.

When that man's lips parted in a knowing grin, a seductive smirk, or a simple, radiant smile, he never failed to make my heart flutter. It was an odd feeling, and yet, a pleasant one. Once upon a time, it had been horribly obnoxious, but now I don't think I could go without it.

When he took my hand under tables, he smiled. When he kissed my cheek and my neck and collar, he smiled like a love-struck puppy. He brought life into my tired veins with that radiant smile, and yet, I took the time to look at him in Dispersal as we sat about the grass, us Brits drinking tea while he tossed his football about. He was smiling, but it was off. It had been rather off for a few days now.

His lips were pulled a little too thin, his eyes drew up a little too tight, and there was a waver in his bottom lip that simply felt, well, tired. He looked exhausted and older and, despite probably looking normal to the untrained eye, I saw his strain and I saw he was tired.

So later on, earlier this night, when I met up with him behind Dispersal where people rarely passed, I looked at him smiling brightly at me before it wavered in concern. So, I told him, "You can stop smiling now."

He looked shocked. I'll admit, it was partly funny, but partly heart-wrenching. Mostly heart-wrenching. I let him cry on my shoulder, then.

He hadn't the time to relieve himself of stress and fear, as some others did. They'd punch the wall or run laps, or take deep breaths and drink some tea. But Alfred, oh dear, where in the world did this man's hero complex come from?

He felt obligated, nay responsible for keeping the morale up. He'd seen how happy his stories had made the men when he first arrived, and he knew if he showed any signs of ending his allegedly unending enthusiasm, then we just might crumble.

I told him what I knew—it wasn't his responsibility to keep anything up, except this fight. He could cry and scream and hold me for as long as he could, as long as we could, but he was only human, and so very young. He shan't be afraid to drop his smile, and ought to keep his sanity by doing so.

I could tell he felt better, despite the harsh tone I default-lectured him with, but I suppose it felt nice to have gotten through to him despite this.

There are times where I can see his fears manifesting, when I see younger pilots with shaking hands, infinitely tense shoulders and on one occasion, vomiting from the anxiety. Older pilots kept their calm better, but asleep, it was an entirely different story.

On the bunk across mine, Francis tossed and turned and cursed in French in his slumber, a panicked tone taking over the more he went on. Alfred awoke him on one occasion. Francis was grateful, but he distinctly told everyone not to bother with him the next time—we must get our own rest, he says. I worry for the bloke.

Feliks seemed to have nightmares as well, and initially they were reduced to occasional mutters and movements. And then one night, as I was just beginning to fall asleep, the chap sprang up in his bed across the room with a startling scream that woke half of us up. The other half were far too exhausted to bother.

I send Alfred a tired smile, reassuring and hopeful. He asked me once, "Arthur, do you think we might get a house with a little garden in front? And maybe plant some roses there?"

We'd talked about perhaps living together, and despite the unlikeliness of it all, I humored him. Somehow, I found myself hoping for it too.

So I said, "Why not? As long as there isn't a bomb shell and a telephone, I'd take if it it's with you." It made him laugh, small but sincere. I like it when I make him laugh.

Oh, I've written for far too long. My drowsiness is catching up with me, it seems. Until the next time I can muster the strength, I suppose.

Yours,
Arthur

.

6th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

I am tired and weary. I fear that I can no longer keep this up. We are called into action at night and day, and I stagger into my cockpit half-asleep at the best of times. Adrenaline in the air is the drug that keeps me awake. My time spent in the air has probably been more than my time on the ground.

We're in public, I know, but I don't care anymore. After a sortie, I'll finish my report with Intelligence and in an ungraceful heap, flop across Alfred in the grass for a cuddle and a nap. Sometimes it's him doing the same to me. Sometimes it's Francis flopping down and crushing us both.

Raids on the base itself are getting more frequent, and if we weren't in the air, we had to worry about being bombarded by bombs on the ground.

Forgive me for being so blunt. I feel like we're at the breaking point.

Exhaustedly yours,
Arthur

---

When the lights go on again all over the world, when the lights go on again all over the world…

---

8th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

. .

What do I even say?

After one tiring fight over the coast, just after sunset, I landed. Soon, I was followed by a few other members of my squadron, Feliks and Alfred among them. We jumped out to the sight of what seemed to be a miraculous sunset over the horizon, like the sun just barely peeping beneath the dark sky. But the sun was in the wrong place.

Men stared on in horror. Matthew stood close by, frozen as the others. I asked him, "What is that?"

And what else could he have said? "London is burning."

.

10th September, 1940

It was slightly mortifying, really, but in a way gave me a sense of relief. I had just landed and given my report to the intelligence officer when the raid sirens began to sound. I found bombers flying in the distance, dark and ominous. The ack-ack went off but they were out of range; the bombers were headed not for us, but straight for London.

My knees nearly caved at the slamming realization that the Huns weren't just attacking strategically anymore—they were attacking to kill people. Civilians. My family, potentially. My home, my city. Alfred had held me upright and I could do nothing but turn and hug him tight, hiding my face. Anger and horror was what I felt.

Arthur

---

When the lights go on again all over the world, and the ships will sail again all over the world, free hearts will sing.

---

12th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

I didn't like that the Jerrys were now bombing London; and that was saying the least. I worry for my family, despite the whole lot of my brothers being complete asses. I worry for Peter, the youngest. I hope he'd been evacuated. I do hope they haven't gotten the northern bits of the city.

But for Fighter Command as a whole, this was a relief. They weren't bombing the bases anymore, and that was cause for less paranoia. They were bombing the city, yes, but we weren't on night patrol so we had got that going for us, although once or twice we have been sent to the sky at dark for reinforcements. Radar certainly is something.

We've got more sleep and a bit more rest, and one less thing to worry about, but we mustn't forget that we're still on the front line of attack and the noose is still tight around our lives.

I've heard that our own bombers had a go with Germany's own capital, their precious Berlin, as revenge for bombing us. Serves the bloody bastards right, that is.

It was just in the nick of time. Feliks almost stopped smiling altogether, some of the younger lads had lost that optimism in their eyes, and I had very much feared that Alfred would too. But we pushed through and made it, just as we were at our breaking point.

Ah, I suppose I must tell you a bit of bad news. Francis, bless the old chap, had been hit and crashed yesterday as we intercepted another raid. It was an Me 109 that had gotten to him—the blokes had painted their planes in our colors and in the cloudy skies, we had mistaken them for one of our own. When we were ambushed, Francis was the first to go down.

And yet, he was alive, but horridly injured. His Spitfire caught on fire and the whole part of his left arm was burned, bandaged flesh. A toe or two had been shot off his foot and a cut on his temple rendered a bandage around his head. He was alive and laughing, and yet in unimaginable pain.

I've got to admit, the bloke's got his soul in it. He says what's happened to him is nothing compared to what the other lads in the hospital have got—burned faces, eyelids shredded off, shrapnel embedded in their chests and arms and legs completely dysfunctional. Francis says he's lucky, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Matthew, however, had a fit. I reckon the lad was nearly in tears angrily rattling off about Francis being injured. I didn't speak French, not a lot, but when Francis spoke with a soft, playful tone, I recognized some words that were reserved for people one wouldn't exactly consider a "friend." It made Matthew flush up to his ears. A knowing wink from the Frog was all it took to confirm my suspicions.

Good for them, the two. Francis would have been taken out of the infirmary and into a Hospital by now, and there he'd probably be out of action for several months. I'm not entirely sure whether he'll be back in the air, but I certainly hope he gets a proper fix-up. Like most pilots, flying is his life; it would certainly be a damper to never do so again.

Let's see, now for some good news. Ah, yes; a few days before Francis had been shot down, Feliks had rounded us up for our off-base leave and lead us to one of the pubs in a non-bombed-quite-yet area of London. We went for drinks and a round of good-natured fun, and dancing with Alfred wasn't so terrifying anymore.

I used to be afraid, ashamed, but at this point in the fight nobody cared.

I let him pull me into an American swing and a slow-dance with Glenn Miller, and then I even had some fun taking the lead teaching him to do a proper waltz. I'll admit, even in a crowd of several dozen people, I must still resist the temptation to kiss the lights out of the bloke.

His precious smile that radiated simple, sincere joy, his eyes, clear blue skies that shone through with happiness despite the weariness, and the heart-warming lilt of his voice when he laughs, when he leans down to my ear to whisper a little "I love you" he makes sure only I can hear—I simply can't comprehend the feeling.

It is joy and frustration, pain and bliss, a want to keep him happy and keep him safe—all rolled into one tight feeling in my chest I feel when I think of him; and when I'm actually with him, it all disappears leaving behind a sense of contentment, of feeling safe and secure. Is this what love is? If so, then I can be sure to be utterly, dangerously in love with the bloke.

Despite the pain of the battle, despite the lack of sleep and threat of death, despite constantly having to shoot and sometimes kill, to be in a position where my life is irreversibly on the line, it is still nice to have something to look forward to. It keeps my sanity to look to a future with less paranoia and more security. A home in the suburbs, a garden, a kitchen and a bedroom for two.

I might very well be dead in ten days time, but I suppose it keeps me sane to pretend that I won't.

Yours,
Arthur

.

13th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

This night, perhaps a few hours or so ago, I had been dragged from Dispersal by Alfred, who left wordlessly with only one conspiratorial wink towards Feliks.

The only lights came from within the buildings and the moon shining brightly above. He lead me through the grass and through dirt roads, ignoring my playful queries of where we were headed.

Through a cluster of trees we trudged until we emerged in a little alcove, where the leaves hung low and the sky was littered with stars far above. Among the little patch of grass a small blanket was placed, and in the center, a lovely little basket, a pot of tea, and three candles to offer light.

"How romantic," I'd teased with a snort, and after a little bit of indignant banter, what with Alfred apparently having to 'pull a few strings', I reassured him that the setting was absolutely lovely, and he was happy enough to settle down and eat.

There were crumpets and a muffin, a bar of chocolate he had given to me but asked a tiny piece of, not being able to resist the temptation. That was already so much for a country set on rationing.

He drank the tea, somehow still hot, and admitted it tasted rather well. I had fun. I laughed. I spoke and spoke and joked and dreamed with him. I'd felt a sense of normalcy that completely differed from the normalcy of flying and shooting. It was pleasant. I didn't want to think about the war.

I leaned against him, I kissed him, and I suppose one thing lead to another and… well, you can imagine what follows. Perhaps not. You are a mere Journal, after all.

And that is what it is. Love, such a funny thing, to gain in a time like this. But I don't want to think about this time. I'll think about it in the morning.

-Arthur

---

I'll dream of you, if you will dream of me. Each hour, I miss you, here across the sea.

It's not goodbye; it's just a sweet adieu.

---

15th September, 1940

My hands shake as I write. It's almost laughable how such a lovely day could end so horribly.

Oh, where do I start? Perhaps the beginning. Yes, let's do that.

Today, we were on leave off-base. So of course, being Alfred, the bloke had asked for a tour of London. He wanted to visit my family, but I'd told him they were too far north and the trip alone would be too much time to get back to base by nightfall.

We ate in a little café, he spoke with locals and gave a bit of his chocolate to little children. We walked the Tower Bridge and kept walking the streets. He bought knick-knacks in the shops we passed with bright, smiling, laughing eyes that for once in such a long time seemed to be devoid of any weariness. We had a bit of a smoke and we had one stolen kiss, and for the first time I suppose, I actually told him I love him.

It was fun, it was amazing, and it was so utterly unfair! This was supposed to be our day. It was supposed to come full circle until the night. That smile wasn't supposed to be wiped off his bloody face for twenty-four bloody hours!

We passed by a shop that had its radio on, and Alfred was urging to pull me into a dance where a few lads and lasses where already getting down. Then an urgent voice interrupted the song, a call, "To all available units of the Royal Air Force Fighter Command, please contact the nearest base immediately."

The words still haunted me; they sent a chill into my bones.

Urgent and repetitive, a cold feeling fell upon me. As though timed, as though perfectly choreographed to ruin this perfect day, air raid sirens wailed to life, and in the distance, the unmistakable humming sound of aircraft could be heard.

We rushed to a telephone booth to dial up base, and when someone from the Control room answered, I asked, "Where are the reserves?" And the man's urgent reply was, "You are the reserves!"

Men of all squadrons were rushing to base, same as us, no one dressed in uniform. From what I was told as they redied my plane, every available pilot from possibly every base was already in the sky, and anyone who wasn't was about to be.

The Huns were launching their biggest raid yet—the sledgehammer blow on London to bring us down, hundreds upon thousands of aircraft invading the sky like a deadly swarm of locusts.

One last look at Alfred was all I had. He looked at me with a determined smile, a hopeful smile. A look in his eyes that brought out his youth and optimism. A look that said, "I'll see you later, darlin'!"

I don't know why I let it happen, or why I think I had any say in the matter. That was the look of a man about to die.

.

.

.

.

18th September, 1940

Through colds nights and even colder days, I've always considered the shallow hum of a plane engine to be my friend. On many occasions, it was the first thing that greeted me after a rain of gunfire, the one to calm my nerves after nearly getting a bullet through my skull. Other times, this one sound would be responsible for lifting me up, so to speak; for giving my tired soul a little jolt to get me up in the air and into action. It was a companion, to ease my loneliness.

So I wasn't certain how to feel when I was suddenly left with this particular hum, after screams and gunfire poured through my radio, before suddenly cutting to static and shutting off.

Forgive me for my unceremonious sign-off yesterday, Journal. I also apologize for the bits of wrinkled, wet paper. Tear-stained, would be the dramatic term for it. I simply couldn't bring myself to think about yesterday's events, forgive me, although I do want to document them myself. So I shall do so now.

It was absolutely horrid. After getting a final glimpse of Alfred through my cockpit, I was off without so much as a smile back. The moment I was at optimal fighting height, I saw the Huns. There were swarms and masses all around, fifty, a hundred, two hundred—the number seemed to increase each time I looked up.

I took on fighters and did my best to pick our bombers trailing behind their formations. We flew over London, and it was absolutely frustrating to see them dropping their loads off on building after building. When I ran low on fuel, I flew back. When I ran out of ammunition, I flew back. Immediately afterwards I would be in the air, not even hopping out of my plane before I had to fight again.

I saw the Luftwaffe jumping out in parachutes when I shoot at them, and sometimes they simply fell and crashed. Sometimes I damaged them yet they failed to fall, for I had to retreat or get knocked down myself. I was shot at, obviously. On one occasion my wings were so peppered with bullet holes, it was unfathomable.

I must've flown seven sorties, and on my final one, I'd been hit, my engine began to smoke and oil leaked into my cockpit. My leg had been shot and was bleeding heavily; I had bailed out.

It's awful to bail out. Bloody awful, I tell you. It's uncertain whether or not your parachute could open, you had to gain the courage to push off and not get caught on your plane's wings or tail, your chute could get tangled and, the final threat, Home Guard could mistake you for a Jerry and shoot the lights out of you.

Honestly, couldn't one man take the time to recognize a target-symbol from a black cross? Could they at least take a glance at the uniforms? No, I suppose not. A handful of RAF have died due to being mistaken for a Jerry.

Anyhow, I was helped up by a young girl, Emily was her name—lovely girl, and her mother. They were kind, fixed me up, offered me a mug of tea and drove me back to base where I was easily patched up. I was utterly exhausted and fell asleep for an hour or two before I was woken up to get some dinner and give my report to Intelligence.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. The rest of the pilots milling about where either idly chatting about anything other than today, or slumped over their food in exhaustion. A lot had a bandage on him somewhere. We were significantly less in number than the day before, milling about the Mess and Dispersal. I strained to find Alfred somewhere, thinking he may still be in the sick-bay or someone's home. I thought it was likely that he'd had an injury of some sort.

I found Feliks, eating with one arm in a sling. He was telling me the story of how he found himself being sent into a tailspin after climbing too vertically to reach a Luftwaffe bomber, and he was shot at by another fighter. He righted himself quickly with the maneuvers we were taught if we ever found ourselves in that position—already an impressive feat, and upon realizing he was spewing fluids out the side of his plane and was beginning to smoke, he decided to jump. But due to the nature of it, he rammed himself hard against the wing, spraining and potentially breaking his arm. It took a lot of conscious effort to right himself and pull the cord, but once he did, he drifted into a light sleep for the several minutes it took to reach the ground.

I was mighty impressed and said he ought to receive the Victoria Cross, no need to bother with the fact that he wasn't British—he deserved it anyway. Feliks wasn't an awfully humble man, not by any means. He agreed with me rather quickly.

It was then that his proud demeanor dropped, his smile falling as a sudden thought popped into his head. His eyes were averted from me and he looked back to his unfinished meal. When I asked, out of expected concern, what the matter was, he uttered the words that made my heart drop.

"I'm sorry about Alfred," he said, solemn and serious. With my voice choked and tongue dry, I dared to ask, "What happened?"

Let me tell you, his eyes went so wide it was almost comical, but at the time my stomach turned to lead and I'd possibly stopped breathing altogether. I was bloody frightened.

"You don't know?" Was what he said. I remember the words so clearly.

"He's dead, Arthur."

He'd been on an attack with three other boys and they saw him go down, heard him yelling through the R/T that he was on fire, cockpit jammed shut, while machinegun fire rained down upon him. He was bleeding, they said; shot perhaps. No parachute, nothing. He went down in the burning wreckage.

How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to suck up and keep pretending that I'm nothing more than bitterly upset that he's gone? The lot of us have got to suck our guts in, look okay while we avert our attentions from our fallen friends. But Alfred? He doesn't fall into that. He cannot fall into that. He is too important and too close.

I love him. I only got to tell him once but dear lord, I really do.

Perhaps that is why Feliks told me to walk to the most isolated part of the base, and there I must sit and cry until I feel like walking once more. It helped, I suppose. The slightest bit.

What else is there to do now except to keep on fighting?

Yours,
Arthur

.

19th September 1940

Dear Journal,

It is horrid without him. The sunshine is gone.

Arthur

---

You'll never know just how much I miss you. You'll never know just how much I care. And if I try, my lips couldn't hide my love for you. You'll never know, but haven't I told you so?

---

.

25th September, 1940

Dear Journal,

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it, old chap? Scarcely a week has passed and it's already felt like a year. I haven't felt particular about writing the past few days, forgive me for that; I suppose it's been—well, you know what it is.

After the hailstorm of raids on the 17th of September, things seemed to have quieted down. The talk going around was that it was their "last sledgehammer blow", while others call it "a last desperate blind swing". Personally, I prefer the latter.

Few raids came around, mostly on London and industrial areas, none on the base so far. By no means was the fight over, but it had certainly dialed down tremendously. My mad dash of a dozen sorties had turned into three or four sorties per day—some of them uneventful. The lads and I are certain that another blow like that would ever come again, and yet it would be foolish to think we weren't far from winning.

When I'm in the air, I let my adrenaline wash over me. I let the technicalities of fighting in the air wrap around my mind and I focus on the task at hand. When I'm on the ground, I try to immerse myself in the conversations of the other lads, play a round of chess perhaps, and then chat with Matthew and Feliks.

But then I see the old football that's still sitting below the coffee table in Dispersal. I see a happily prancing dog following its owner across the field. I see the blue of the skies and the gold of the flowers and I get a whiff of cigarette smoke and coffee—and then I think about him.

And even without these things, thoughts of Alfred warp around my mind. It's a strange sort of sensation, to have lost someone and have the responsibility to keep feeling jolly—a responsibility to others and yourself. So I wrap it up, keep it in my head. I nod and smile and speak steadily, but in the back of my mind I'm screaming to feel his touch again. To see him smile. To hear him laugh.

I would've even asked for him to be alive even if it meant my own death. He had so much more to live for. Every one of us did. All the lads who died—no sort of medal could replace the lives they'll never live. A shame. Perhaps there was a splendid life I could have lived if Alfred would be with me.

Yours,
Arthur

.

.

.

---

We'll meet again; don't know where, don't know when—but I know we'll meet again some sunny day. Keep smiling through, just like you always do, let the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.

---

.

.

.

27th September, 1940

You'll never believe it! I can scarcely believe it myself!

I'd been up in a match of chess with the lads when Matthew, along with a woman from the control room named Elizabeta came rushing 'round, out of breath, asking about my next leave. The thing is—you'll never believe it!—Alfred is alive.

He'd been found half-dead around the suburbs. He was actually shot at by the Home Guard, especially with his sketchy accent, but was cleared up by an officer who identified his nearly-burned spitfire as British before he died. He was badly beaten and wounded and was rushed to the hospital, injuries reportedly almost fatal—but dear god, he's alive!

I'm writing this in my sheer relief and excitement. I can't believe it. Bloody hell, what else can I do? My next leave is three days away and I'll have to see if I can beg my officer to let me leave later today. I want to see him. I have to see him. I need to know for myself that he's alive.

But bloody hell, if I'm ever to be thankful for anything it's this. Oh god, he's alive!

---

When the lights go on again all over the world, and snow is all that may fall from the skies above, your kiss won't mean 'goodbye, but 'hello', tonight.

---

.

.

February 27, 1945

Alfred Jones, my love, my dearest,

Four bloody years since the start off this huge mess, and somehow, we find ourselves alive despite everything. Despite everything, we find ourselves together.

Perhaps when this is all over, when it all draws to a close, and the wounds are patched and sealed, we may find a life together. Flying is my passion, and so is it yours, but you, dearest, are my life. I wouldn't exchange you for the world.

Perhaps you can take to me to Virginia on one of those huge cruise-ships, and no, no matter what you say, we can't bloody fly ourselves there. Yes, I love you too, you idiot. But I want to see America for myself, and I want to see the expression of utter joy in your eyes when you finally get to show me.

I want to meet your mum and your dogs, and perhaps you'd do the same to me. I'd rather you not meet my brothers, but it's unavoidable if you're to meet my mother. I want to show you around England. I want to take your around every inch of London, not being afraid to hold your hand and pull you into a kiss when I want to. I want to show you, truly show, my home for it is a part of me.

And when all that is over, perhaps we could get a home somewhere. Live in that two-story house you've always wanted. We'll get a bit of a garden up out front, paint the house blue and plant rows and rows of roses. Dear me, that's a tongue-twister right there.

And we'll get the largest, comfiest sheets from America and stack them up to build the little fort you talked about building. I want a life with you, Alfred Jones, and I won't let this slip past our fingers again.

I still remember that afternoon in the hospital, when I'd known you were dead and the suddenly—you weren't. You were alive and breathing in the hospital bed, bloodied bandages wrapped around every limb, but oh love, you looked so peaceful. Certainly nothing like the hyperactive slob I get when you're awake.

I kid, love. Don't you frown now.

But oh, was it lovely when you opened your eyes. And you saw me and I saw you. Do you remember, you could scarcely move? It hurt so much and you tried to laugh, but I forced you to stay still and kissed you myself.

It's a right miracle that after all of that, all of this, four years of war and misery later, we're almost through. I can feel it, love. We're so close. We must keep going and we must keep pushing, because Darling, I want to stay with you forever.

With you, I am happy. With you, I feel safe. I can only hope that my presence brings you the same sort of peace.

My love to you, eternal and grateful,
Arthur Kirkland

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Then, we'll have time for things and wedding rings, and free hearts will sing. When the lights go on again all over the world.

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(a/n): Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story, and please do leave a review if you did. Tell me what you think!
I have little epilogue planned for this as well. A short little something to wrap it up nice and tidy! Again, thanks for reading, and do check out the rest of the A Brief History of Time even on tumblr and support all the other lovely creators.
Also, the title of this story is inspired by the song of much the same name by Bing Crosby, and if I'm not mistaken, was in 1943. Check out the quoted songs too!

Until next time,
-Nish

Songs:

We'll Meet Again - Vera Lynn
When The Lights Go On Again All Over the World - Vaughn Monroe
Mr. Sandman - Vaughn Monroe
Lili Marlene - Vera Lynn
This is the Army, Mr. Jones - Irving Berlin
Now is the Hour - Vera Lynn
You'll Never Know - Vera Lynn
Perfidia - Glenn Miller
Harbour Lights - Vera Lynn
I Don't Want to Walk Without You -
Comin' In On a Wing and a Prayer - Bing Crosby