All Clear

Dulwich—Summer 1944

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU’VE REMEMBERED WHERE WE met, Officer Lang?” Mary said, trying not to look as cornered as she felt seeing him standing there in the common room of the ambulance post. “I thought we agreed that line of chat didn’t work.”

“It’s not a line, Isolde,” he said, and smiled his crooked smile. “I have remembered where we met.”

Oh, no. Then she had met him—or rather, would meet him—on her next assignment. And now she’d have to pretend she remembered him, too, without knowing how well she’d known him or under what circumstances. And she’d have to hope he hadn’t remembered what her name had been—correction, would be.

Where’s Fairchild? she thought, looking toward the door. She promised she’d come rescue me.

“You said you have good news to tell me as well?” she said, stalling.

“I have indeed.” He bowed formally. “I’m here to deliver my thanks and the thanks of a grateful nation.”

“The thanks … for what?”

“For giving me a smashing idea, which I shall tell you all about when I take you to that dinner I owe you, and don’t say you can’t because I’ve already found out from your fellow FANY here that you’re off duty tonight. And if it’s flying bombs you’re worried about, I can assure you there won’t be any more tonight.”

“But…,” she said, glancing hopefully back at the door. Where was Fairchild?

“No buts, Isolde. It’s destiny. We’re fated to be together through all time. Not only have I remembered where we met, I also know why you don’t remember.”

You do? Could she somehow have betrayed her identity, and he knew she was an historian? I should have told Fairchild to come in immediately instead of waiting five minutes.

“I only just remembered, I forgot to log in,” she said, starting toward the door. “I’ll be back straightaway.” But he grabbed her hand.

“Wait. You can’t go till I’ve told you about the flying bombs. I’ve found a way to stop them. Remember how I told you the generals were after me to invent a way to shoot them down before they reached their target?”

“And you thought of one?”

“I told you, shooting them down doesn’t work because the bomb still goes off.”

“So you’ve found a way to keep the bomb from going off?” she said, thinking, He can’t have. The RAF was never able to devise a way to disable the V-1s’ bombs in flight.

“No. I found a way to turn them round and send them back across the Channel. Or at any rate away from the target.”

“This isn’t the lassoing-it-with-a-rope plan, is it?”

“No.” He laughed. “This doesn’t require a rope or cannons. All that’s needed is a Spitfire and some expert flying. That’s the beauty of it. All I do is catch up to the V-1 till the Spitfire’s just below it—”

And edge your wing under the V-1’s fin, she thought, and then angle your plane slightly so the fin tips up and sends the rocket careening off course.

She had read about the practice of V-1 tipping when she was prepping for this assignment. But it was an incredibly dangerous thing to attempt. The Spitfire’s wing could be crumpled by the heavier metal of the V-1, or the contact could send the Spitfire into a disastrous tailspin. Or, if the Spitfire came up on the V-1 too fast, they could both explode.

The sickening thought flickered through her mind that this was the reason the net hadn’t prevented her from driving him out of the way of those V-1s. It hadn’t mattered that she’d saved his life because he was going to be killed tipping them.

“And then we come up under the wing,” he was saying, and demonstrated, bringing one of his hands up under the other, “and tilt it ever so slightly”—he nudged the hand on top—“so that it tips.” The hand on top angled up and then veered off. “The rocket’s got a delicate gyroscopic mechanism. Most of the time we needn’t even touch it.”

He demonstrated it again, this time without his hands touching, and as she watched him, boyishly intent on explaining how it worked, she had the same feeling she’d had in Whitehall that afternoon, that there was something familiar about him.

“The slipstream does the work for us,” he said, “and the V-1 goes spiraling down into the Channel, or, if we’re truly lucky, back to France and the launcher it came from, without us so much as laying a finger on it. We’ve downed thirty already this week.”

And that’s why the number of rockets has been down, she thought. Not because of Intelligence’s misinformation campaign, but because Stephen and his fellow pilots have been playing “Tag, you’re it” with the rockets.

“—And not a single casualty on the ground,” he was saying happily. “But that’s not the best of it. What I came to tell you—”

“Triumph!” someone called from the corridor.

Finally, she thought. “In here!” she called back.

“Triumph?” Stephen said. “I thought your name was Kent.”

“They’ve been calling me that since the motorcycle incident,” she explained, wondering why Fairchild hadn’t appeared. “That and DeHavilland and Norton,” she said. “The name of every motorcycle they can think of, in fact. Oh, and also Lawrence of Arabia. Because he crashed his motorcycle, you know.”

“I quite understand,” he said, grinning. “My nickname at school was Spots. And the name Triumph suits you. Which reminds me, I was going to tell you where we met.”

Where was Fairchild? “I really must go log in. The Major—” she began, and the door opened.

But it was only Parrish. “Oh, sorry,” she said when she saw Stephen, “didn’t mean to interrupt. You haven’t got the keys to Bela, have you, DeHavilland?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll come help you look for them—”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from such a handsome young man,” Parrish said, smiling flirtatiously at Stephen. “You wouldn’t happen to have a twin, would you? One who’s fond of jitterbugging?”

“Sorry,” he said, grinning.

“Truly. I can help you look—” Mary began.

“Don’t bother. They’re probably in the despatch room,” Parrish said. “Ta.” And she left, closing the door behind her.

“Lieutenant Parrish is a very good dancer,” Mary said. “And she’s very much in favor of wartime attachments. You should ask her to go—”

“It won’t work, you know,” he said. “You can’t get rid of me. Or deny our destiny. And the reason you don’t remember our meeting is because it was in another lifetime.”

“A … another … lifetime?” she stammered.

“Yes,” he said, and smiled that heartbreakingly crooked smile. “Far in the distant past. I was a king in Babylon, and you were a Christian slave.”

And that was a poem by William Ernest Henley. He’s quoting poetry, not talking about time travel, she thought. Thank goodness. She was so relieved she laughed.

“I’m deadly serious,” he said. “Our souls have been destined to be together throughout history. I told you, we were Tristan and Isolde.” He moved in closer. “We were Pelleas and Melisande, Heloise and Abelard.” He leaned toward her. “Catherine and Heathcliff—”

“Catherine and Heathcliff are not historical figures, and there weren’t any Christian slaves in Babylon,” she said, slipping neatly away from him. “It was B.C., not A.D.”

“There, you see,” he said, pointing delightedly at her. “What you did just then, that’s exactly it! That’s what—”

“Norton!” a voice called from the corridor. “Kent!”

And there’s Fairchild, she thought wryly, when I no longer need to be rescued. She hadn’t met him on an upcoming assignment, or on any assignment. He was only flirting—and he was so good at it she was almost sorry she’d asked Fairchild to come drag her away.

Though it was probably just as well. Stephen was entirely too charming, and it was entirely too easy to forget that she was a hundred years too old for him, that they were even more star-crossed than the lovers he’d named. If he’d been from 2060 instead of 1944—

“Kent!” Fairchild called again. “Mary!”

“I’d best go see what’s wanted,” she said, and started for the door, but Fairchild had already flung it open.

“Oh, good, there you are. You’re wanted on the telephone. It’s the hospital. You can take it in the—oh, my goodness!” she shouted, and, astonishingly, shot past Mary and launched herself at Stephen. “Stephen!” she cried, flinging her arms about his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“Bits and Pieces! Good God!” he said, hugging her and then holding her at arm’s length to look at her. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“This is my FANY unit,” Fairchild said. “And I’m not Bits and Pieces. I’m Lieutenant Fairchild.” She saluted smartly. “I drive an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?” he said. “You can’t possibly. You’re not old enough.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am. My birthday was last week, wasn’t it, Kent?” she said, looking over at Mary. “Kent, this is Stephen Lang, the pilot I told you about.”

The person Fairchild had been in love with since she was six, the one she’d said was in love with her as well, only he didn’t know it yet. Oh, God.

“Our families live next to each other in Surrey,” Fairchild said happily. “We’ve known each other since we were infants.”

“Since you were an infant,” Stephen said, smiling fondly at her. “The last time I saw you, you were in pigtails.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” Fairchild said. “I thought you were stationed at Tangmere. Mother said—”

“I was, and then at Hendon,” he said, looking at Mary. “But I’ve just been transferred to Biggin Hill.”

“Biggin Hill? What good news! That means you’ll be only a few miles away.”

And squarely in the heart of Bomb Alley. It was already the most-hit airfield, and when Intelligence’s misinformation made the rockets begin to fall short, it would be even more dangerous. As if tipping V-1s wasn’t dangerous enough.

“How lovely!” Fairchild was saying. “How did you find out I was here? Did Mother write to you?”

“No,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I had no idea you were here. I came to see Lieutenant Kent.”

“Lieutenant Kent? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“I drove him to a meeting in London last month after Talbot wrenched her knee. The Major asked me to substitute. But I had no idea you knew him,” Mary said, thinking, Please believe me.

“And I had no idea you knew my little sister,” he said.

“I’m not your sister,” Fairchild said. “And I’m not an infant. I told you, I’m nineteen. I’m all grown up.”

“You’ll always be sweet little Bits and Pieces to me.” He tousled her hair and smiled at Mary. “I hope you girls are taking good care of this youngster.”

Oh, worse and worse. “She doesn’t need taking care of,” Mary said. “She’s the best driver in our unit.”

“Oh, no, she’s not. You are,” he said. “That’s one of the things I came to tell you. Do you remember when I told you to turn down Tottenham Court Road on our way to Whitehall, and you turned the wrong way? Well, it was fortunate you did. A V-1 smashed down in the middle of it not five minutes later.”

He turned to Fairchild. “She saved my life.” He smiled at Mary. “I told you our meeting was destiny.”

“Destiny?” Fairchild said, looking stricken.

“Abso—”

“Absolutely not,” Mary cut in before he could ruin things even more completely, “and I fail to see how making a wrong turn constitutes expert driving. And the reason we met was because I couldn’t tell a flying bomb from a motorcycle.”

She turned to Fairchild. “Did you say there was a trunk call for me? I’d best go take it.” She started for the door. “It was nice seeing you again, Flight Officer Lang.”

“Wait, you can’t go yet,” Stephen said. “You still haven’t said you’ll go out to dinner with me. Bits, convince her I’m not a bounder.”

You are a bounder, Mary thought. You’re also an utter fool. Can’t you see the poor child’s in love with you?

“Tell her what a nice chap I am,” he said to Fairchild. “That I’m entirely trustworthy and upstanding.”

“He is,” Fairchild said, looking as though she’d been cut to the heart. “Any girl would be lucky to get him.”

“There, you see? You have my little sister’s endorsement.”

“Oh, but the two of you must have tons of catching up to do,” Mary said desperately. “Childhood memories and all that. I’d only be in the way. You two go.”

“I can’t,” Fairchild said, managing somehow to keep her voice natural. “I must go fetch a shipment of medical supplies for the Major.” And Stephen at least had the decency to say, “Can’t you get one of the other girls to go in your place?”

“No. We’ll do it next time you come. You go, Kent.”

And if I do, Mary thought, watching her make her escape, she’ll never forgive me. She might not forgive her anyway, but Mary had no intention of making it worse than it already was. “I really must go take that call from HQ,” she said, “and if it’s about what I think it is, I won’t be able to go to dinner either.”

“Then tomorrow.”

“I’m on duty, and I told you, I don’t believe in wartime attachments. There must be scores of other girls dying to go out with you.”

“None I knew in a previous life. The day after tomorrow?”

“I can’t. I really must take that call.” She started for the door.

“No, wait,” he said and grabbed her hands. “I haven’t thanked you yet.”

“I told you, I didn’t save your life. Tottenham Court Road is a very long road, and—”

“No, not for that. This is about the V-1s.”

“The V-1s?”

“Yes. Do you remember how you managed to slip out of my grasp just as I was about to kiss you before Bits and Pieces came in?”

“About to kiss—”

“Yes, of course. That was the entire point of all that Babylon rot, don’t you know?” he said, grinning. “And just as I thought it was working, you eluded my grasp, more’s the pity.”

“I thought you were going to tell me about the V-1s.”

“I was. I am. You did the same thing that day you drove me. Twice. My line of attack was working splendidly, and then suddenly I found myself totally thrown off course, even though I’d never got near enough to lay a hand on you.”

“I still don’t know what this has to do with—”

“Don’t you see?” he said, squeezing her hands. “That was where I got the notion of throwing the V-1s off course. You’re the one who gave me the idea. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d have been blown up by now, trying to shoot them down.”

We are hanging on by our eyelids.

—GENERAL ALAN BROOKE