Read Online Flames over France by Robert Jackson - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Jackson
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bowl; it had steam rising from it. She bade him good morning as she placed the bowl on the washstand, and asked him if he had slept well. He told her that he had, and tried to thank her for washing his clothing. She waved his thanks aside and, fishing in her apron pocket, produced a note which she handed to him, explaining that it was from Captain Le Roy. “I will provide breakfast for you in twenty minutes, monsieur ,” she told Armstrong, in a tone that suggested she would brook no excuse for lateness.
Armstrong read the note, which was an instruction to make himself known to the adjutant — the rank corresponded roughly with the RAF’s warrant officer — who was in charge of running the airfield’s administration. There was, the note stressed, no hurry at all to report in. Nevertheless, Armstrong shaved quickly and then washed himself from head to foot; it wasn’t as good as a bath, but it was better than nothing at all. He allowed himself the luxury of soaking his feet in the bowl for a few moments, then dried himself off and got dressed.
There was no sign of the innkeeper downstairs, but Madame Bessodes made the pilot sit down at one of the tables and, to his astonishment, brought him a plateful of eggs and cold slices of ham, along with a bowl of very milky tea. “ Voilà ,” she said, “ le petit dejeuner Anglais pour vous .” It was not exactly an English breakfast, as she claimed, but he realised that she had made a considerable effort to please him and he expressed his gratitude as best he could. To his even greater amazement, she smiled at him and patted him lightly on the shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.
A few moments later she returned, carrying a framed photograph which she showed to him hesitantly. A round-faced young man in French naval uniform stared out at him. “My son,” she explained. “He will be about the same age as you … He is in the Mediterranean and safe from the war, I pray. He serves on a great battleship, the Bretagne , at a place called Mers-el-Kebir. Better for him to be there than here, I think.”
Armstrong murmured something and handed the photograph back to her. She gave a sigh, and returned to her chores. Strange, the pilot thought, how war and danger compels people to confide details of their private affairs to total strangers … the little things that are their pride.
He finished his breakfast and carried the utensils into the kitchen, placing them on a table. Madame Bessodes was busying herself at the sink, her back to him, and he sensed that she was crying. So as not to embarrass her, he left without a word.
The morning was bright and clear and filled with birdsong, and Armstrong found himself whistling as he made his way through the woods towards the airfield. Two sentries challenged him as he reached the gate, and although he had left his identity documents in England — a standard procedure before flying on operations, as each aircrew member had his identity disc around his neck by way of identification — the guards were satisfied by Le Roy’s note and one of them escorted Armstrong to the adjutant’s office in one of the wooden buildings.
The adjutant , a much-decorated veteran of the last war, greeted Armstrong affably enough and gave him some coffee, but seemed at a loss when it came to finding the RAF pilot something to do. All the reconnaissance aircraft and their escorting fighters — except one, which had been undergoing repair — were airborne, and it would be some time before they returned. Then the adjutant had a brainwave; would the RAF capitaine care to inspect the Curtiss Hawk that was still on the ground? The mechanics, he assured Armstrong, would be happy to show him the cockpit.
He led the pilot out to the aircraft, which stood in a clearing facing outwards on to the airstrip. The repairs to the engine had been completed and the mechanics were about to run-up the motor to see if everything worked.
The Hawk, Armstrong
Armstrong read the note, which was an instruction to make himself known to the adjutant — the rank corresponded roughly with the RAF’s warrant officer — who was in charge of running the airfield’s administration. There was, the note stressed, no hurry at all to report in. Nevertheless, Armstrong shaved quickly and then washed himself from head to foot; it wasn’t as good as a bath, but it was better than nothing at all. He allowed himself the luxury of soaking his feet in the bowl for a few moments, then dried himself off and got dressed.
There was no sign of the innkeeper downstairs, but Madame Bessodes made the pilot sit down at one of the tables and, to his astonishment, brought him a plateful of eggs and cold slices of ham, along with a bowl of very milky tea. “ Voilà ,” she said, “ le petit dejeuner Anglais pour vous .” It was not exactly an English breakfast, as she claimed, but he realised that she had made a considerable effort to please him and he expressed his gratitude as best he could. To his even greater amazement, she smiled at him and patted him lightly on the shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.
A few moments later she returned, carrying a framed photograph which she showed to him hesitantly. A round-faced young man in French naval uniform stared out at him. “My son,” she explained. “He will be about the same age as you … He is in the Mediterranean and safe from the war, I pray. He serves on a great battleship, the Bretagne , at a place called Mers-el-Kebir. Better for him to be there than here, I think.”
Armstrong murmured something and handed the photograph back to her. She gave a sigh, and returned to her chores. Strange, the pilot thought, how war and danger compels people to confide details of their private affairs to total strangers … the little things that are their pride.
He finished his breakfast and carried the utensils into the kitchen, placing them on a table. Madame Bessodes was busying herself at the sink, her back to him, and he sensed that she was crying. So as not to embarrass her, he left without a word.
The morning was bright and clear and filled with birdsong, and Armstrong found himself whistling as he made his way through the woods towards the airfield. Two sentries challenged him as he reached the gate, and although he had left his identity documents in England — a standard procedure before flying on operations, as each aircrew member had his identity disc around his neck by way of identification — the guards were satisfied by Le Roy’s note and one of them escorted Armstrong to the adjutant’s office in one of the wooden buildings.
The adjutant , a much-decorated veteran of the last war, greeted Armstrong affably enough and gave him some coffee, but seemed at a loss when it came to finding the RAF pilot something to do. All the reconnaissance aircraft and their escorting fighters — except one, which had been undergoing repair — were airborne, and it would be some time before they returned. Then the adjutant had a brainwave; would the RAF capitaine care to inspect the Curtiss Hawk that was still on the ground? The mechanics, he assured Armstrong, would be happy to show him the cockpit.
He led the pilot out to the aircraft, which stood in a clearing facing outwards on to the airstrip. The repairs to the engine had been completed and the mechanics were about to run-up the motor to see if everything worked.
The Hawk, Armstrong
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