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his left nostril until he detached it and rubbed his fingers together to dispose of it. “You carried out an air test, Mr. Silk,” he said, and sneezed so violently that his torso convulsed. “During the flight, your upper gunner expended two drums of ammunition.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAn air test is not a gunnery exercise.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œSo this was a case of negligent discharge of ammunition.”
    â€œOn the contrary. I authorized it, for the defense of the airplane.”
    â€œAgainst which enemy machine? None has been reported over England.”
    Silk relaxed. “That’s where we differ. Any fighter that comes sniffing around me is hostile, in my eyes. That’s what happened. A Spitfire pilot came too close and I told my gunner to scare him off.”
    â€œYou attacked a Spitfire.”
    â€œDamn right I did. Didn’t you hear of the Battle of Barking Creek? Three days after the war began, a bunch of Spits went up to intercept raiders in the Thames estuary. The Huns were actually Hurricanes but that didn’t stop the Spits shooting down two of them, did it? Well, my Hampden looks a lot like a Dornier 17. I don’t trust fighter pilots.”
    â€œTwo drums.”
    â€œYeah. Very nosey, he was.”
    â€œYou didn’t report this.”
    â€œWhat’s the point? I couldn’t identify the bastard.”
    McHarg spent a long time staring at him, before he said: “I don’t like negligent discharge. The man who squanders bullets can’t be trusted. Ammunition doesn’t grow on trees.”
    â€œThat’s a relief,” Silk said. “I was beginning to think it might be footballs after all.”
    He walked back to the Mess, where a noisy party had developed, with Langham at its center. “The wedding’s definitely on, Silko! Lincoln cathedral, Wednesday week, fourteen hundred hours. My popsy fixed it. Isn’t she clever? You’re best man.”
    Silk took him aside. “I think Black Mac knows something. I could tell from the way he looked at me. He’s got eyes like corkscrews.”
    â€œBlast his eyes! We’ve got
real
corkscrews. Have a drink.”
    â€œThat bloody Bentley.” Silk took a glass. “How does a sweaty armaments officer come to own a Bentley, anyway?”
    â€œWon it in a raffle. Who cares? Drink up, Silko.”
    In fact McHarg had bought it for a song when it was a wreck, and then spent ten years restoring it. He had never married. The Bentley responded sweetly and without argument, went where he steered it, and was admired by all. No woman could compete with that. The Bentley was his life’s companion.

THIS HAPPY BREED
1
    When half a dozen pilots were posted to 409 Squadron from an Operational Training Unit, the adjutant organized their rooms and their servants and then took them to the station commander’s office.
    Group Captain Rafferty always gave an introductory talk. He liked to impress on new officers that 409 was rather special, that it had a bit of swank. He had given the talk so often that it was well-polished.
    â€œShakespeare was right, as usual,” he told them. “Here we are on this sceptered isle, as he put it. This fortress built by Nature for herself against infection and the hand of war. This precious stone set in a silver sea, which serves it as a moat defensive to a house, and so on and so forth. Rattling good stuff. Makes Hitler sound like a rag-and-bone man shouting in the street. Now, the current task of this squadron is to protect the moat, so let’s take a closer look at Shakespeare’s silver sea.”
    Rafferty strolled over to a wall map of England and northern Europe.
    â€œBetween us and the Hun lies the North Sea. I’m sure you’re familiar with it. It has some disadvantages. It’s damned cold, damned windy, damned wet. It has one advantage: it’s damned big. You can have as much of