Victory Roll – Chapter 2

Summary:

May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort.

Chapter 2: The story continues next morning as Sam and Foyle return from Rye.

Disclaimer:

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.


Author's Notes:

In late May/early June of 1940, the Rye fishing fleet was invited to participate in the evacuation of the stranded British Expeditionary Force from the beaches of Dunkirk—but declined to do so. The published source of this information is Angus Calder's book, The Myth of the Blitz, which offers various evidence that not all of Britain "pulled together" during World War II. But this should be no surprise to fans of Foyle's War. Foyle is always picking the nastier bits of Britain off his shoe.

I make no judgement about the decision taken by the fishermen of Rye, but have simply used the incident as a reference point for imagined repercussions.

In March of 1942, the Germans adapted certain of their fighter-aircraft to carry bombs. This gave rise to a different brand of air assault, termed tip-and-run raids, whereby the German fighter would make a quick pass over the Channel, tip its load of bombs, and scurry back to France. The first tip-and-run raid on Hastings happened on 17 May 1942. Four Messerschmitt Bf 109s were reported to have circled the town, strafing the streets in the West Hill area, just above the OldTown. Though only one woman lost her life in that particular raid, there were many subsequent attacks, with heavy loss of life to the townspeople.

...

This story is still for dancesabove. Because she's worth it ;o)


Previously, in "Victory Roll"

He reached for her hand. "I, um. Jocelyn? Would you… let me…? How soon can we see each other again?"

She turned to him, and he could see the welling tears clearly now. "My leave of absence ends tomorrow. They're movin' me on on Monday afternoon. Not even sure where to yet."

Foyle's eyes were glazed with weariness and want. He pinched between his eyes. "Look. I've got police business which will take up most of tomorrow morning, maybe into early afternoon. But we could meet for dinner here again…" There was the faintest pleading, verging on desperation, in his eyes. "Tomorrow, I could come in for that nightcap…"

"Sure." She smiled sadly. "We should do that." Her response felt to him a little absent. She let out a pensive sigh. "Christopher…mebbe I shoulda let you be. This is even harder now I know you better." Her shoulders slumped under his hands, making her look tiny and deflated.

"I agree." He grimaced, looking out to sea. "I mean, I agree that it's hard. Glad you didn't 'let me be', though. Tremendously glad."

"I like England," supplied Jocelyn, enigmatically, gazing out to sea. "I like the English."

Foyle persisted. "Dinner tomorrow, then? With one Englishman?"

Jocelyn stroked his cheek. "Sure, Christopher. I wouldn't have it any other way." She sent him her most radiant smile yet.

Put that bloody light out, thought Foyle, his eyes crinkling at the corners.


Chapter 2

Sunday, 17th May 1942

"What makes you think he did it, Sir?" Sam was all ears as they drove back from Rye.

"Scoines was heavily influential in the collective decision not to sail for Dunkirk. If he'd agreed to go, the others would've followed. But as things stood, he dug his heels in. Two of Wenham's sons died on the beach awaiting rescue. The refusal of the Rye fleet to sail had no direct impact on those particular deaths, I'm sure, but that wouldn't have altered Wenham's view of Scoines."

"How will you prove it, Sir?"

"Can't prove a thing. Yet. Motive's not enough. But it's a decent start."

"Why on a Sunday then, Sir? It's our… it's your day off. Couldn't it have waited for in the week?"

Foyle's mouth quirked up at the side. "You, um, notice anything particular about Wenham, Sam?"

"Not sure what you mean, Sir. Except that he's a vicar… But I tend not to see that as being unusual. All of the men in my family are vicars. And my grandfather was a..."

"Bishop. Right," Foyle grinned. "So, thinking like a vicar for a moment, which day of the week would you least like to have an official-looking car outside your church, a uniformed driver, and a nosey policeman flashing his warrant card around and asking questions in public view?"

Sam's eyes lit up. "Of course, Sir! Sunday! What with nerves about the sermon thrown in… and the fear of losing your composure in front of the congregation. Perfect."

"Mmm. Rest my case. Anyway, the day's still young. When we get back to town, take a detour in via West Hill, will you?"

"Right-oh, Sir. Lovely clear day, isn't it? Bit of a stiff wind, mind you…"

As they drove along the Hastings hilltop road, Foyle gazed across the open grassy land that lay between the roadway and the sea, and asked himself whether his eyes deceived him.

The figure of a woman, head thrown back, and arms stretched wide against the breeze was twirling, dancing? on the grass about a hundred yards away. Foyle wound his window down, shading his eyes to get a better look. Jocelyn?

He turned to Sam. "Um, drop me here, Sam, would you please?"

"But Sir, it's a two-mile walk back to the station."

"I, ah, need to stretch my legs. Just drop me here."

Sam sighed and pulled over. She noticed Foyle's attention being drawn across the grass, and her brows knitted. Spying the lone female figure on the hilltop, an uncomfortable pang of she-wasn't-sure-what struck through her chest.

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me to wait while you walk, Sir? I've nothing else to do…"

"Nup. No need; thank you, Sam. I'll just walk home from here. File my report tomorrow." An important detail of engagement nudged his memory. "Shan't, er... be needing you tomorrow morning, by the way. I'll make my own way in. Probably be late. Definitely shall, in fact."

Sam blinked in confusion. Her boss was never late in. She opened her mouth, preparing to ask him the reason, then thought better of it. Her own sudden—what was it?—hurt, more than failure of courage—left her flushed with annoyance—indignation, almost.

Foyle didn't notice any of this. His attention was too firmly fixed upon the figure on the hill. He opened the door and got out of the Wolseley. The stiff breeze hit him square on, and he jammed his hat down firmly on his head, buttoning his overcoat against the wind. As an afterthought, he turned to take his leave of Sam, leaning down to peer back into the cabin. He fancied that her face was unusually flushed. Concerned, he placed both hands on the sill of the opened car window and tilted his head. "Sam? You all right?" he asked kindly.

"Mmm. Tickety boo, Sir." She didn't turn to meet his gaze, staring hard ahead, in order to contain the sudden rush of moisture to her eyes. "Grit in my eye. Quite bothersome, actually."

"Here, um, take this." Foyle reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it through the window to her.

She didn't reach to take it. "No, thank you, Sir," she told him coolly. "Very kind, but I'll be all right. I have my own if I need it."

"Well, then, see you tomorrow at the station?" He waited, eyebrow cocked, for an answering nod. When finally he'd received it, he stepped back from the car and rapped briskly on its roof. Sam pulled off, and for a few seconds he stood, hands in pockets, watching the car disappear, chewing thoughtfully on his inside cheek. Something had clearly bothered her, but she wasn't going to tell him what. Then he turned towards the figure on the hill.

As he picked his way across the open grass, he shook his head, smiling quietly to himself and wondered, What's she doing larking around out up here?

"Jocelyn!" he called.

The figure turned. Realising instantly who was calling to her, she waved enthusiastically.

Foyle quickened his pace. To his amused delight, Jocelyn began to run towards him. So he halted, the corners of his mouth turned up in frank and open pleasure.

"Christopher!" She was a little winded by the time she reached him, bending over to catch her breath, both hands braced against her thighs. "How did you know I'd be up here?"

"I didn't," he shrugged, smiling as he realised she must have planted the seed of this location in his mind the night before. "But you did say that you liked the view out to sea. I had my driver bring me along here on a whim."

"Your driver? Where is he now?" Jocelyn perched a hand above her eyes and scanned the road.

"She. Samantha. Sent her back to the station. No more appetite for work today." He smiled. The subtext was …now I've found you.

"Your driver is a woman?" Jocelyn stretched her brown eyes in surprise. "Although I don't suppose I ought to find it strange. We do so much now that we didn't do. But women drivers in the police?"

"Entirely common these days. I don't drive myself… unless I have to. Cuts into my thinking time." He offered Jocelyn his arm. "Shall we walk? I—er—don't dance much, either." When she raised her eyebrows questioningly, he went on, "Just in case you had plans to resume your gambolling across the grass," he teased. "In which case, I would beg to be excused."

Jocelyn laughed. "Aww! You saw my little freedom dance! What did ya think?"

He gave her his best restrained smirk of appreciation. "Very, um, energetic."

"I just felt so energised the moment I got up here," she explained. "What with being in England… meeting you…"

She beamed up at him then, disengaged herself and ran ahead, spreading her arms in a gesture of liberation. Foyle plunged his hands into his pockets, dropped his chin, and surveyed her from beneath his brows. His cheek was taking furious punishment in an attempt to stave off a full-blown smile.

Pirouetting back towards him, Jocelyn called out joyfully, "It feels like hoooooome!"

The late spring breeze lifted her voice and carried it echoing across the grass. It struck Christopher as one of the happiest sounds he had ever heard, but all at once the tones were met and marred by the hollow, discordant wail of an air raid siren. Its doleful, waxing-waning whine first melded with, and then usurped Jocelyn's lyric cry of freedom.

In a matter of seconds, the siren's warning also was drowned—this time beneath the strident, baleful drone of a single Messerschmitt flying low across the hill towards them. Foyle swivelled in alarm. The fighter-bomber had come seemingly from nowhere, and now pursued a low, menacing trajectory that threatened to collide with both their heads.

"Jocelyn!" Foyle yelled. "Look out!" He cast around in search of cover, but recognised, despairingly, that there was none. The wide green space around them was as open and devoid of shelter as it was possible to be. He saw Jocelyn lift startled eyes and recognise the horror of the fighter plane bearing down upon them from inland. There was no place of safety—no refuge from the shark-grinned grey nemesis that seemed hell-bent on mowing them to the ground.

Seeing her panic and turn to flee, Foyle ran full-tilt at Jocelyn, hurling himself against her from behind. The impact of his weight knocked her face-down onto the grass. He fell full-length beside her, half-covering her body with his own.

With an almost lazy inevitability, the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire started up behind them. Jocelyn whimpered next to him, "Oh my God…" Foyle grappled for her left wrist, which was stretched along the ground above her head, and drew it back towards them, tucking it in tight against her torso. Deliberately, he shifted his full weight on top of her to shield against the bullets, pressing her petite frame hard into the ground. Reaching up with his free hand, he shoved his trilby hard down on his head, then screwed his eyes tight shut and prayed.

Beneath his weight Jocelyn was struggling to breathe; though Foyle was aware of her distress, he dared not lift himself an inch, for fear it would expose her to the deadly air assault.

As the deafening roar and sputter of the aircraft engine drew inexorably closer, bullets ploughed though the ground on either side of them, sending clods of earth up several feet into the air and showering their prone bodies with hail of grass and soil. Foyle let out a sharp cry of pain as a white-hot poker seared his upper right arm through his overcoat.

The pass was over in a few short seconds, and the stuttering scream of engines receded to a low drone as the aircraft cleared the hill and headed out to sea. Peeling his eyelids open one at a time, Foyle twisted his head and squinted gingerly out from underneath his hat, expecting to see the Messerschmitt turn about and make a second rush at them.

Incredibly, it carried on into the distance, turning a single, leisurely victory roll in arrogant farewell. Then it saluted with a dip of its wings and faded slowly to a dot on the horizon.

Bastard! Foyle felt his heart thundering in his chest as he tried to calm himself with measured breathing. A soft moan came from underneath him. "Can't… breathe… Christopher…"

Immediately Foyle tried to lift himself, but even as he attempted to lever his weight off his companion, he hissed in pain and collapsed back down again. The injury to his right shoulder was preventing him from moving. And his right leg seemed to be failing him as well.

"Jocelyn…" he panted. "Forgive me. I've been hit. Can't move… without… some help. Perhaps you could..."

"Oh, Lord!" she gasped weakly. "How bad is it?" Jocelyn tried with slow, squirming motions, to inch from underneath him.

"Not… too bad… I think…" he grated out, "Just… bloody… painful. Christ!"

Eased a little by his reassuring words, Jocelyn made a first concerted effort to manoeuvre herself up onto her elbows by pushing with her bent forearms. The attempt failed miserably, but it at least won her enough space to breathe comfortably again. Foyle was as good as a dead weight on top of her. She could even feel the large, round buttons of his overcoat pressing hard into her spine.

"Strugglin' here," she panted, gamely. "Mebbe you could just push on the ground a liddle, with your left hand? Let go-a my wrist, huh?"

Foyle winced in discomfort. "Right. The angle isn't ideal, but..." He released his grasp on Jocelyn's wrist and searched for purchase on the grass beneath them. Jocelyn had managed to manoeuvre very slightly over onto her right side, pushing the left side of her torso an inch or two off the grass with her left forearm. As Foyle's hand felt for where he thought the ground should be, and pushed, he instead encountered soft, art-silk clad flesh, and was startled by a sharp gasp from underneath him. He had inadvertently found her left breast.

Christ! He snatched away his hand and set it down again, this time on bare flesh he presumed to be her forearm. "Jocelyn, I do apologise…"

"For what?" she breathed. "Savin' my life? Wanna push down on what you're holdin' now? You're fine, there… Heyyy… there ya go!"

Foyle felt the delicate bones of her arm under his fingers as he pressed down, finally finding sufficient leverage to raise himself for just long enough so that Jocelyn could slide out from underneath. Immediately she was free, he collapsed back down again, the pain in his right shoulder too intense to maintain the position.

Jocelyn scrambled to her feet and jumped across him to his other side.

"Lemme get you over on your left side… hold it…"

Foyle tucked in his left arm as Jocelyn knelt and gently rolled him up onto his left flank. She frowned, examining the blood-soaked shoulder pad of his overcoat.

"Shame they don't pad these things with chain mail," she quipped. "Like those Ancient Normans you were harpin' on. Looks like the bullet went in back, and came out front. Question is, how much of you did it take with it? I can't tell under all this darn material…" Her gaze drifted down his right side, and her breath caught for an instant. "Lordy, Christopher. They gotcha in the leg, too."

Foyle had been too busy concentrating on his shoulder pain to pay too much attention to his lower half, but now that he pulled in his chin to inspect himself, he could see a spreading dark red patch on the woollen cloth covering his upper thigh.

Jocelyn's voice took on a purposeful tone. "Gonna take a look. Sorry, buddy. You've gotta lose the pants-leg."

Breathing steadily through his nose as calmly as he could, Foyle watched her crawl the few feet to retrieve her handbag from the ploughed up grass, then delve inside. After a few seconds her hand emerged holding a pair of nail-scissors and a small parcel, wrapped carefully in an embroidered handkerchief.

Moving his overcoat carefully aside where it draped across the upper part of his thigh, she cut horizontally round the blue serge of his right trouser-leg, detaching it mid-thigh.

"Bloody good suit ruined," grumbled Foyle; then winced "Sssss!" as Jocelyn peeled back the material from his bleeding flesh.

"Sorry once again," she told him in a sing-song tone, "but I need to be speedy here." Jocelyn made a quick inspection of the wound, then undid the handkerchief-wrapped parcel she had taken from her bag and, unfolding the soft pad within, pressed it firmly down onto the bloody gash on the outside of his thigh.

Foyle raised an eyebrow even as he winced. Jocelyn had just staunched the bleeding with a sanitary towel.

She caught his expression and shrugged. "I know, I know… Not exactly carrying a full first aid kit, here. Havin' to think on my feet."

Foyle widened his eyes innocently. "Never said a word."

"Sure. The silence blew out my eardrums." She slid her fingers round the soft flesh of his inside leg, feeling for the loops at each end of the towel. Foyle followed her motions with his eyes, flinching slightly. His breathing quickened. Jocelyn looked up sharply, fearful she had hurt him.

"Christopher, sorry, this won't take a moment." Deftly, she fed the handkerchief through the loops of the sanitary pad and tied the two corners in a firm knot, securing the whole affair round his upper leg like a bandage. Foyle held his breath and watched her closely, gnawing on the inside of his lower lip. When she removed her hands, he closed his eyes in palpable relief and exhaled.

Jocelyn sat back on her knees, hands on thighs, satisfied with her handiwork.

"So, that's my supplies exhausted. Now for the shoulder. I got a slip, but it's slippery. How 'bout you? You carryin' a handkerchief?" She grinned.

"One in my breast pocket, one in my trouser pocket."

"Hand 'em over, then."

"Bit, um, tricky." Foyle inclined his head toward his bleeding right shoulder. "Breast pocket's on my left. Can't reach it with the left hand; and the other handkerchief is in my right hip trouser pocket." He grimaced apologetically.

"Gotcha." Jocelyn slid her hand under the lapel of his coat and, with nimble fingers, withdrew a large square of material from his breast pocket. She looked at him sceptically. "Silk? You blow your nose on blue silk?"

"Not at all. You didn't specify what kind of handkerchief. That one's for decoration. Goes with my tie."

"Mr Foyle, I figure you for a bit of a dude." Jocelyn's lips parted, unveiling once again the dazzling American dentition.

"Mmmkind of you to say so. If, indeed, that was a compliment. Linen handkerchief's in my trousers. Hopefully, um, clean."

In fact it was clean, he recalled. He had offered it to Sam and it had been refused.

Jocelyn crawled round and crouched behind Foyle to improve the angle of entry to his pocket. Careful not to disturb his shoulder, she pulled the flap of his overcoat fully back from his hip, and slid her hand gingerly into his trouser pocket. And slid. And slid.

"How deep are these things?" she grumbled.

Foyle's jaw clenched in contemplation of the answer. "Fairly, um, deep," he told her, in a hoarse voice.

"Ooo-kaaay. Divin' in here. Hold your breath."

Foyle's face flushed scarlet, as the angle of his pocket fed her hand along the crease of his groin. He screwed his eyes shut. "I, um, can't apologise enough."

"Relax," she told him airily. "Can't be shy…when you're between a rock and a hard place."

Had he been able to see Jocelyn's face, Foyle would have read in it mischief and more than a little frank amazement at the rock-hard contents of his trousers.

When she withdrew her hand—which he fancied she did more slowly (or was it carefully?) than was absolutely necessary—she held a neatly folded square of Irish linen in her fingers.

Jocelyn let go the breath she had been holding. "Rather than cut your overcoat to shreds, I'm gonna reach in and apply this linen pad to the wound. But from the angle of the hole through the shoulder pad, I'm pretty sure you have a graze. No more."

Relieved that the focus of attention had transferred to his upper arm, Foyle voiced agreement. "It hurts like blazes, but I think you're right. Not my first bullet-wound. Had far worse than this."

"Sure you have, my brave soldier."

Jocelyn knelt in front of Foyle, as he lay propped on his left arm, and with painstaking care, loosened his tie, slipping her hand under his collar to undo the shirt button at his neck. Obediently, he raised his chin to give her better access, and as he did so, their eyes locked. Jocelyn considered for a moment lowering hers to the task in hand. Instead she held his gaze until she'd freed his collar and undone three more shirt buttons. Turning next to his waistcoat, she unbuttoned that fully. Then her fingers gently parted the cotton shirt, trailing across the flesh of his chest, and through the sprinkling of dark hair flecked with grey that peeped out over the top of his vest.

Foyle's eyes remained fixed on her face as she palmed the handkerchief in her left hand, and carefully slid her fingers underneath the cotton fabric of his shirt towards the shoulder wound.

As her hand neared its target, Foyle screwed his eyes shut against the sting of shirt material lifting off his torn flesh. There was a sharp intake of breath from both of them, but the extra discomfort was only momentary. By the time Jocelyn had placed the pad where she wanted it to be, he was breathing normally again.

As she withdrew her fingers, Foyle caught her wrist weakly with his right hand. "You, um… the back of your hand is bloody. Use the blue silk. Don't let it ruin your clothes," he told her, capturing her eyes with his.

"Ack! Clothes. I got plenny of 'em," she breathed, returning his unflinching gaze with equal and unwavering steadiness. "You just risked your life for me. Least I can do is allow you to bleed on me a little."

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then Jocelyn's eyes lowered to Foyle's mouth, and she leant in, slowly parting her lips to bestow a light kiss. He closed his eyes and answered with a shy intrusion of his tongue. Pulling back a little, she nipped gently on his lower lip. Her hand trailed from his open shirt and down his torso, ghosting past his belt towards his groin.

"You're hard to resist, DCS Foyle, in any shape. But in this weakened state, I guess I got you at my mercy."

Foyle glanced down at her hand and bit his inside-cheek. "You aren't, um, worried that I might, er, bleed to death?"

Jocelyn raised an eyebrow and allowed her hand to trail lower, stroking him experimentally through the front of his trousers. She shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Blood pressure seems puh-ritty normal down here…"

Foyle's eyelids fluttered closed as he traced his tongue along his upper lip. "Is this…" he murmured, "standard Red Cross training in Amurrica?"

Jocelyn grinned, pressing gently on him with her open palm. "Nothing standard about this at all."

His gasp was audible. His reaction palpable.

"Yeah," she purred. "As I figured. All normal here."

With that, she sat back on her knees. Seeing that his eyes were still closed, she reached out a forefinger and stroked his cheek.

"So, Christopher." Her tone was calm and business-like again. "I'm gonna run for help from one of those houses over there, then get you home and sort you out."

Foyle forced his eyelids open and she saw his blue eyes twinkle. "Well, um, lucky me."

Jocelyn had leant in for a parting kiss, when suddenly there was the sound of frantic honking in the distance that jolted them from their embrace. The police Wolseley, with Samantha at the wheel, came batting up the hill like something out of Keystone Kops.

Just as the car hove into view, the 'All Clear' siren sounded across Hastings.

As Foyle and Jocelyn watched open-mouthed, the Wolseley veered off-road, barely slowing as it cleared the kerb, and continued full-tilt towards the couple across the open grass, bouncing wildly across the intervening stretch until it drew up with a scream of brakes alongside them.

The driver's door flew open, and Sam flung herself across the few remaining feet of grass, landing breathless on her knees to face her boss. "Don't worry, Sir! I'm here!"

Foyle's eyes closed in a slow blink of exasperation. His voice was chilly, and he spoke through gritted teeth.

"Sam, the 'All Clear' has BARELY sounded, and you were DRIVING when it DID. WHY didn't you take COVER? You were driving IN an air raid when you SHOULD have been making for safety. WHAT if you had been KILLED? WhatEVER were you THINKING of?"

Jocelyn sat back on her knees and watched the exchange with interest.

Samantha blushed, then frowned and drew her top lip tight between her teeth, making a determined show of ignoring the tirade. She didn't look at her boss's face. Instead she reached down and set about unbuckling her shoulder bag.

"Well, now," she continued, as if nothing had been said, "let's see… I have… er… basic bandages and stuff in here, and then I'll get you to the hospital so they can patch you up."

"Samantha?"—this was Jocelyn, speaking gently to Samantha's back—"Hi. My name's Jocelyn. I've already staunched the bleeding. Things are under control here."

With a quick glance, Sam took in the sanitary pad arrangement on her boss's leg, and blushed afresh.

Foyle watched her carefully, and his voice was softer when he spoke this time.

"Sam. Listen. Other people are sure to need the attention more than I do. No need for hospital—these are only flesh wounds, and Mrs St Just here has training in first aid. Just, um, load me in the car and drive me home, would you?"

"Shouldn't we be asking an expert, Sir?" Sam glanced sideways at Jocelyn under lowered lids. "Just to be on the safe side."

"Sam… please do as I ask."

Sam huffed. "Well, Sir, if you insist."

"I do."

Jocelyn chimed in. "Don't fret. I got him, Sam. I've dressed a hundred bullet wounds. He'll be okay with me, on my honour."

Sam ignored Jocelyn. "Better get you in the car then, Sir." Sighing pointedly, she rose, strode across the grass to the Wolseley and opened the rear door.

As Sam leant inside to clear some papers from the back seat, ready to receive her boss, Jocelyn remarked sotto voce, "Man, your driver's got it bad for you."

Foyle looked at her in open puzzlement. "I'm sure you're wrong," he said.

****** TBC ******

More Author's Notes:

"But women drivers in the police?"

"Entirely common these days..."

Actually, it wasn't. Sam's secondment to the police has no precedent in real life that I've been able to discover. The women of the Mechanised Transport Corps drove ambulances in combat areas, and staff cars at home as well as overseas—but mainly for government departments and dignitaries.

If anybody's interested, there's a book called "What a Way to Win a War", by Pat Hall, which relates the wartime experiences of a company of MTC women ambulance drivers serving in Egypt and Italy. In his foreword, Brigadier J. Clynton Reed, CBE, praises them as "a highly responsible and thoroughly reliable group of girls (sic). Incidentally, their presence had an elevating effect on our general behaviour and turn-out..."

Yep. I bet.

The Brig goes on (and I like this bit because it's relevant to the story), "On the medical side, the effect on the morale of battle-weary patients who find themselves in feminine care for the last lap of their journey to hospital, cannot be over-emphasised."

Pat herself describes her comrades-in-oil as "an assorted bunch of self-willed women, drawn from the hunting field and the golf course, from the beauty salon and the secretarial desk... knitted together to form eventually a highly professional army ambulance unit."

Here's to the spunky women of the MTC. Salute!

...

More soon.

GiuC