have—
Nothing in the world I keep.
Translated into English by SIR HENRY NEWBOLT
from the French of Wenceslas,
Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, 1384
Gervase Robertson woke up in the middle of the morning and got up shortly before lunch, feeling stale and jaded. She looked into the sitting-room of her quarters before going over to the mess. Flight Officer Stevens was writing at the desk. Gervase asked: “Has anything been heard of H for Harry yet? It was missing when I went to bed.”
The older woman said: “It was shot down over the target. Several of the others reported it.” She had found, from two years in the Command, that the harder and more matter-of-fact you were about these things, the easier it was.
The girl said: “Oh.… Did any of them get out?” Sometimes there were reports of crews who had been seen to bale out, and to drift down in the glow of flares and fire.
“I didn’t hear of anything like that.” The Flight Officer folded her letter and put it in an envelope. “There are two more officers coming in this afternoon. I’ve just been putting Pilot Officer Forbes’ things together. We shall want that room.”
Gervase winced a little. “It’s pretty awful,” she said quietly. “His best friend was killed at Stuttgart—only last Saturday.”
“Bobbie Fraser. Forbes was very much upset about that—there was a diary.” The middle-aged Flight Officer lit a cigarette and flipped the match away. “It’s not uncommon, that,” she said in her hard voice, “when two boys are great friends. First one goes, and then the other.”
There was nothing to be gained by discussing it any further, nor did either of them want to do so. Gervase went over to the ante-room. Peter Marshall was there looking as fresh as a daisy; when he saw Gervase he came over to her, beer-mug in hand.
“I say,” he said cheerfully, “have you seen Ma Stevens? She gave my batwoman the hell of a raspberry this morning, just because she went to get a cup of tea for me. I’m going to have an up-and-downer with her about it.”
Gervase said: “I wouldn’t do that to-day, if I were you. It’s not one of her best days.”
“Why not?”
She could not enter into that with one of the pilots. She said: “She’s a bit off colour this morning. Leave it till tomorrow if you want a fight with her.”
“All right,” he grumbled. “But I take a pretty dim view of it. I sent the girl down; if she’s got anything to say about it she can say it to me.”
“Did she put her on a charge?”
“No,” the pilot said. “She made her cry instead.”
“Silly little fool,” said Miss Robertson unsympathetically.
Marshall glanced at her. “Okay for this afternoon?”
She nodded. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
He moved away from her, fearing to call attention if he stayed talking with her for very long. He began a chat with the Equipment Officer about sea-markers that did not mark, a subject cheered beyond all reason by her last words.
They met that afternoon at the intersection of the lanes by Kingslake Woods that he had marked down on her map. The girl was out there first; the weather was kind to them, and she sat for ten minutes on a stile in sunlight waiting for Marshall. He arrived presently, apologising for lateness.
Gervase said: “You aren’t late. It’s only just half-past three now. I was early.”
Marshall said: “How long did it take you to get here?”
“About three-quarters of an hour.” She paused. “It’s a lovely ride.”
He said: “I don’t think three-quarters of an hour on a bike could be a lovely ride, but have it your own way. We’vegot about half a mile to go.”
They went on together down the road. Presently they got off at the gate, put the machines inside, and went forward up the track between the trees.
Gervase asked: “Is this the way you came?”
He nodded. “It looked all different then, but this is the place. It was dark, of
Nothing in the world I keep.
Translated into English by SIR HENRY NEWBOLT
from the French of Wenceslas,
Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, 1384
Gervase Robertson woke up in the middle of the morning and got up shortly before lunch, feeling stale and jaded. She looked into the sitting-room of her quarters before going over to the mess. Flight Officer Stevens was writing at the desk. Gervase asked: “Has anything been heard of H for Harry yet? It was missing when I went to bed.”
The older woman said: “It was shot down over the target. Several of the others reported it.” She had found, from two years in the Command, that the harder and more matter-of-fact you were about these things, the easier it was.
The girl said: “Oh.… Did any of them get out?” Sometimes there were reports of crews who had been seen to bale out, and to drift down in the glow of flares and fire.
“I didn’t hear of anything like that.” The Flight Officer folded her letter and put it in an envelope. “There are two more officers coming in this afternoon. I’ve just been putting Pilot Officer Forbes’ things together. We shall want that room.”
Gervase winced a little. “It’s pretty awful,” she said quietly. “His best friend was killed at Stuttgart—only last Saturday.”
“Bobbie Fraser. Forbes was very much upset about that—there was a diary.” The middle-aged Flight Officer lit a cigarette and flipped the match away. “It’s not uncommon, that,” she said in her hard voice, “when two boys are great friends. First one goes, and then the other.”
There was nothing to be gained by discussing it any further, nor did either of them want to do so. Gervase went over to the ante-room. Peter Marshall was there looking as fresh as a daisy; when he saw Gervase he came over to her, beer-mug in hand.
“I say,” he said cheerfully, “have you seen Ma Stevens? She gave my batwoman the hell of a raspberry this morning, just because she went to get a cup of tea for me. I’m going to have an up-and-downer with her about it.”
Gervase said: “I wouldn’t do that to-day, if I were you. It’s not one of her best days.”
“Why not?”
She could not enter into that with one of the pilots. She said: “She’s a bit off colour this morning. Leave it till tomorrow if you want a fight with her.”
“All right,” he grumbled. “But I take a pretty dim view of it. I sent the girl down; if she’s got anything to say about it she can say it to me.”
“Did she put her on a charge?”
“No,” the pilot said. “She made her cry instead.”
“Silly little fool,” said Miss Robertson unsympathetically.
Marshall glanced at her. “Okay for this afternoon?”
She nodded. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
He moved away from her, fearing to call attention if he stayed talking with her for very long. He began a chat with the Equipment Officer about sea-markers that did not mark, a subject cheered beyond all reason by her last words.
They met that afternoon at the intersection of the lanes by Kingslake Woods that he had marked down on her map. The girl was out there first; the weather was kind to them, and she sat for ten minutes on a stile in sunlight waiting for Marshall. He arrived presently, apologising for lateness.
Gervase said: “You aren’t late. It’s only just half-past three now. I was early.”
Marshall said: “How long did it take you to get here?”
“About three-quarters of an hour.” She paused. “It’s a lovely ride.”
He said: “I don’t think three-quarters of an hour on a bike could be a lovely ride, but have it your own way. We’vegot about half a mile to go.”
They went on together down the road. Presently they got off at the gate, put the machines inside, and went forward up the track between the trees.
Gervase asked: “Is this the way you came?”
He nodded. “It looked all different then, but this is the place. It was dark, of
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