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Message-ID: <42676asstr$1054113005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 27 May 2003 21:32:09 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Story - Like Father Like Son - Part One
Date: Wed, 28 May 2003 05:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is the first part of a multi-part story. Very little sex in
Part One. Basic Codes M/F Rom, for those who like them.

Like Father Like Son




Prologue: April 2003

My wife and I were walking our dogs on the hills above the
village where we live. As we crested one brow, we could make out
some wrought iron railings on the summit of the next ridge.
Vanessa said: "That must be the airman's grave. Let's take a
look." So we did. Whoever chose this spot had chosen well. Below
us the village slumbered in the afternoon sun. The land fell away
on three sides, green and brown and golden. Sheep, like distant
puffs of cotton wool in their winter fleece, dotted a distant
hillside; a large buzzard circled a patch of woodland that topped
one rise, reminiscent of a monk's tonsure.

We took in the view and congratulated ourselves once more on our
decision to move to the country and then turned our attention to
the grave itself. It was nothing fancy, a low rectangle of amber
marble almost obscured by a riot of daffodils. Indeed, the
flowers were so profuse that I couldn't make out the black
lettering of the inscription. The very last part only was
discernible. It read: '.Barnes MC RFC.' Well, as some of you may
have gathered from reading one or two of my stories, I am
something in the way of an amateur historian. Seeing those
letters 'RFC' whetted my curiosity. The Royal Flying Corps! At
once my mind started to race. I couldn't wait to get back home
and discover the identity of the mysterious airman whose grave
lay in such elevated solitude.

I was babbling on like a schoolboy all the walk home. Vanessa,
who fortunately has the patience, if not of a saint then at least
of a minor candidate for canonisation, indulged me. "Off you go
and research him then," she said. It was about four hours later I
returned from the depths of my office. I had been through all my
source books to no avail. I turned to the Internet and logged on
to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website. No joy.
Eventually I got my first clue on an amateur site dealing with
the history of aviation in Dorset. God bless enthusiasts! I had a
name. Captain Phillip Worrell Welford-Barnes, MC, RFC. Killed in
Action, April 23rd 1917. Born London, 12th August 1894. That made
him not quite 23 years old.

The site added one further snippet. His son, also a pilot, Flying
Officer Michael Jonathon Welford-Barnes, DFC, RAF, had been
killed in action on 15th September 1940. Both father and son were
buried in the same grave atop a hill in West Dorset. The land in
which they were interred had once belonged to the family estate.
The Welford-Barnes family died out with Michael; the estate was
broken up to pay Death Duties.

That was it. This little double tragedy, this piece of
quintessentially English History of the Twentieth Century reduced
to a few spare lines on an anorak's website. It wasn't good
enough! I had to know more. First, I had to tell Vanessa the sad
little story. When I finished she gave me one of her special
little smiles.

"You ought to tell their story," she said. "I'm sure there has to
be something more to it."

"Of course. There has to be, but where to start?"

"Well, there's always the village museum."

I blessed her then and made up my mind to start devilling right
away. You see, the dates of their death were highly significant.
Phillip had died during 'Bloody April' - the nadir of the Royal
Flying Corps' fortunes. Michael had been killed on 'Adler Tag' -
Eagle Day, the bloody climax of the Battle of Britain. The link
between them was incredible. Both had been flyers, that was
obvious, both had been decorated with medals of high honour. Both
had been just 22 years old.

**********************************

Part One

September 1915 - 'Somewhere in France'

Phillip could never quite get used to the transition from peace
to war. One minute you were walking along a dusty lane with crops
growing in the fields on either side, the next instant you
entered the war. You turned a corner and there it was, waiting
for you. The crops vanished, the earth turned from russet brown
to grey. Artillery muttered personal threats and the stench rose
from the fractured land. The placid scenes of threshing machines
pulled by patient horses gave way to a vista of madness: of shell
holes and smashed trenches, broken duck-boards and rusting wire.

He had been in France for a whole year. The anniversary passed
without notice. Everyone's mind was on the 'Big Push.' The area
around Loos had been selected. Confidence was high. Guns had been
assembled in great artillery parks, brought there from all over
the Western Front. The Newspapers from home were full of it. His
father's most recent letter had informed Phillip that this time
"You're going to push the Hun back where he belongs, my boy." He
even seemed to know the date of the offensive. Even a humble
subaltern such as Second Lieutenant Phillip Worrell
Welford-Barnes could work out that the element of surprise was
somewhat lacking.

It didn't seem to bother the Top Brass, though. The two weeks
spent in the Divisional Area training for the offensive had been
punctuated by streams of visitors in immaculately cut uniforms
with the red tabs of the General Staff prominent upon their
lapels. They were full of jovial good humour, eyes twinkling and
moustaches bristling with martial fervour. The Tommies were
unimpressed. They sweated in the August sunshine and swore and
cursed as they practised the advance over and over again. There
was much talk about the preparatory barrage. Four hundred guns
would be lined up wheel to wheel to pulverise the German
positions and smash the dreaded entanglements of vicious wire.
After such a pounding, the troops would walk over and 'mop up.'

Not everyone was so sanguine though, it seemed. At the main camp
at Etaples the soldiers had grown silent as they saw line after
line of rough wooden coffins being moved up from the depot.
Someone was hedging his bets. Phillip had long ceased to ponder
the workings of the kind of mind that could allow the furnishing
of such a reminder of one's own mortality to men who were just
about to go into the line. The men seemed inured to it after a
time and it wasn't long before macabre, rough jokes were being
traded as the lorries bearing the coffins moved away.

"'ere, Jack, one of them 'ad your fuckin' name on it!"

"Yeah, well, they got a biscuit tin for you, you fuckin' little
runt."

"They ain't got one big enough to fit Geordie's gut in."

"They will once 'e's spilled 'em!"

"Oh, right fuckin' cheerful you are, Spud."

Phillip hid a smile. The Tommies were in good heart. He was
filled with admiration for these men, the last of the old,
pre-war, Regular Army. Their ranks had been filled out now by
Territorials and the arrival of the Foreign Service battalions
that had been stationed overseas. He recalled the grim retreat
from Mons the year before. The anger and bitterness of the men at
having to move back. He remembered the frantic fighting at Le
Cateau, where they had stood and checked the German advance in
defiance of orders. That defiance had ultimately cost
Smith-Dorien his job. Philip and his brother officers had been
angered and saddened by that. They all considered Sir Horace
Smith-Dorien the best General in the Army.

Back, now, in the assault trenches, the first pre-battle
nervousness had begun to tighten Phillip's guts. He knew he'd be
all right once it once started. The waiting was a torture,
though. There were only so many letters home one could write,
only so many times one could check equipment or study the trench
maps. He went through the Orders Group notes he had taken at
battalion HQ that morning. He checked his watch; the bombardment
was due to commence in a few minutes' time.

A voice was counting down to the start of the bombardment.

"Fifteen seconds."

"For what they are about to receive."

"I 'opes the fuckers is truly grateful!"


The air seemed to explode around them as the first massed salvo
was hurled from the guns. They heard the passage of the
projectiles overhead, a rasping, ripping sound that culminated in
the brass bellow of the explosions as the shells poured down upon
the German line. Phillip eased himself up on to the fire step and
watched the fury engulfing the enemy trenches. The very earth
bucked and heaved and the bass concussion of the shells could be
felt through their own trench walls, which seemed to jump and
tremble in sympathy. The noise was indescribable. The stink of
lyddite was borne to them on the faint breeze, prickling the eyes
and irritating the throat.

After the initial shock, the barrage seemed to settle down and
they could pick out the individual characteristic sounds of the
various guns; the flat crack of the 18-pounders as counterpoint
to the thunder of the 60-pounders. The tearing sound of the heavy
shells and the higher scream of the howitzers rolled and blended
into a Devil's Symphony of pain.

The fire that danced and played upon the German parapets was
terrible but also strangely beautiful. Every colour of the
visible spectrum was there in the flash of the explosions. There
were some colours Phillip saw that he could not put a name to. It
was, quite literally, awe-inspiring. Phillip felt his own
humanity reaching out to those souls who suffered a scant five
hundred yards away. He knew what it was like to be on the
receiving end of such ferocity. One could do nothing but endure.
The noise and concussive blasts stunned the senses. It seemed as
if one's life-flame waxed very small and sought to hide as deep
within oneself as possible, away from the mechanical insanity
that reigned around it.

At such moments he would fix on a memory of home. It was always
the same memory; he was looking down from the unnamed hill to the
south of the village. Below him he could make out the Church and
the little row of cottages that fronted the lych-gate. He could
see the course of the river making its lazy meanders through the
valley bottom and if he really strained, he could hear the hum of
bees and the faint barking of a dog from the village below. It
was thus he could insulate himself from the terror and madness
around him. As he watched across the barren stretch of no-man'
s-land, he wondered if there, some German boy was picturing his
home in Saxony or Bavaria in a vain attempt to keep a grasp on
his own sanity.

The guns snarled and thundered on and on. A quarter of a million
shells fell on the German defences over four days. The barrage
was less even now, the pace slackening and rising as the tired
gunners served their steel masters. Phillip became aware of the
first whooping noise of gas shells and he shuddered. Gas had
first been used against them at Ypres that spring. He hated it.
He could still picture the first gas casualties and groaned aloud
at the vividness of the memory. Then it started to rain. He
cursed. It wouldn't take much for the pulverised earth to turn to
the strength sapping mud that was perhaps the greatest horror of
all. You couldn't do anything about artillery; you either lived
or died; or you were driven mad by the noise and pain and terror.
The mud you had to live with. It drew your strength as though you
were being bled. It rotted your feet and filled your soul with
the deepest misery. He uttered a silent prayer: 'Oh God, don't
let there be mud.'

A hand tapped his knee and he slid down off the fire step to face
Captain Redbourne, his company commander. Redbourne's face wore a
fixed grin and he was clasping a football.

"Here, young W-B, you've a healthy kick on you." He was bellowing
to make himself heard. "I want you to boot this into
no-man's-land when the whistle blows. It'll give the boys
something to chase."

Phillip stared at him uncomprehendingly. This had to be the final
proof that Redbourne was Dhoolali. Nevertheless, he took the ball
and placed it on the fire step.  Redbourne grinned again, patted
his shoulder and roared "Good Man!" He hurried off down the
trench. Phillip watched his retreating back and shook his head
slowly.

The bombardment rumbled and churned on through the night
unabated. Phillip stood on the fire step and watched the
explosions, his head cradled on his forearm. He dozed
occasionally but proper sleep eluded him. He could feel it now:
the slow but steady tightening of every nerve fibre. He felt
sick. His mouth felt dry yet was filled with saliva. He wanted to
spit but forced himself to swallow. His head ached abominably
from the pounding drumfire and his eyes felt raw and scratchy.

Soon after dawn, the barrage rose to a final crescendo and seemed
to reach a new peak of intensity. It seemed impossible that
anyone could have lived through the torment. Phillip could feel
the explosions through the trench wall. It was as though someone
was kicking him in the chest and stomach. It grew so violent he
had to pull back and drop into the bottom of the trench.
White-faced Tommies stood waiting the rum issue. Every tenth man
clutched a scaling ladder of crude construction. He tried to give
a reassuring smile but his facial muscles were frozen. He saw the
same blank, rigid expression reflected back at him from a score
of faces. He pulled out his watch, alarmed at how his hands were
shaking. This was the worst time of all.

Unexpectedly, the bellow of the artillery ceased. One final
desultory crack echoed in the sudden calm then all was silence.
Phillip heard Redbourne's voice, a scream of fury:

"The bastards! Oh, the utter, stupid bastards! They've stopped
too soon. There's still ten minutes to go!"

It was true. The Tommies looked at each other with foreboding.
The premature end would give the survivors time to recover. Time
to get out of the surviving dugouts and man what was left of the
parapets. Time to drag up the hated, deadly, machine guns. Time
to call up support from the back areas, to arrange for a
counter-bombardment. There was some tense muttering. Phillip
sensed a crisis and called to Redbourne.

"Captain Redbourne, why shouldn't we be early too? Early bird
catcheth the worm and all that. Why don't we go now?"

There was a rumble of assent but Phillip saw Redbourne hesitate.
He understood the senior man's predicament. To go early was to
disobey orders, to depart from the ordained plan. The hesitation
stretched out, one minute, two. Then they heard the shrill blast
of whistles further down the trench system and shouts and distant
cheering. Someone had decided to go. Phillip saw the relief wash
over Redbourne like a breaking wave and he put his whistle to his
lips and began to blow like Joshua. He paused for breath and to
bellow at Phillip to kick the football.

Phillip jammed his service cap firmly in place and pushed himself
to the front of the queue for the ladder. He tucked the football
under one arm and pulled himself over the top of the parapet with
the other. He could hear sporadic firing from the German
positions. At least one machine gun was still in action and was
beating out its deadly tattoo. He paused for a second to collect
himself and then, just as Redbourne emerged from the trench to
his left, he tossed the ball into the air and gave it a massive
punt towards the enemy lines. He heard the NCOs roaring orders to
keep the dressing as the platoon formed up. Phillip took his
place in front and waved the men forward.

"Come on, Boys! Ten shillings for the next man to kick theball!"

They were cheering now and covering the ground at a shambling
trot, weighed down as they were by rifle, haversack and gas mask
holder. Steel helmets had not yet come into service and Phillip
noticed one or two men had lost their forage caps or else had
preferred to take them off. He was conscious of the leather band
of his own cap biting into his forehead but he could do nothing
about it. It was at that moment he realised that he had not yet
drawn his revolver and he fumbled with the flap of the holster as
he ran.

Redbourne was capering like a maniac over to his left front,
yelling encouragement and waving a black umbrella. He seemed
otherwise unarmed. Somehow, this seemed to fit in the rest of the
madness and Phillip heard a huge cheer as Lance Corporal Riley
caught up with the football and gave it another healthy kick
across the broken ground.

Soon they came up to the first line of wire. It had been
flattened and torn but still represented a serious obstacle and
they dragged their way through it painfully, with much cursing as
it ripped at cloth and flesh. The opposition was growing now and
they were starting to take casualties. Riley was one of the first
to fall. His body was spun around like a top as he took a burst
of machine gun fire. The man next him stumbled to a halt and
gaped at the bloody ruin of the Lance Corporal's body. Phillip
ran to him and shoved him on.

"Get going, man, there's nothing to be done."




They stumbled on. Now the ground was heavy, shattered by the
shelling and slick from the rain. They slithered and fell, rose
again and fell once more. Some could not get up.

Phillip slipped heavily and crashed into a shell hole. Water had
begun to seep into the bottom of the depression and he could
smell the taint of gas. He hauled himself out, eyes smarting and
tears starting. He could now make out individual field-grey
shapes on the parapet ahead of him and he roared his men on. To
his right he saw some men of another platoon breaking into the
German trenches and he angled towards them, pointing and yelling
at the Tommies to follow. He was almost knocked to the ground by
the burly figure of Geordie Watts who leapt the parapet,
delivering a roundhouse kick to the head of a German soldier as
he did so.

Then they were into the trench and the mayhem truly began. It was
the worst type of fighting with boot, bayonet and bomb. They
worked their way systematically up the German line. At each
re-entrant they hurled their homemade bombs into the next bay.
These bombs, made from old jam tins packed with gun-cotton and
scrap metal, were no match for the German 'potato masher'
grenades that were hurled back at them but still they fought on.
Gradually, the noise began to diminish and only the occasional
shot could be heard as the Tommies 'mopped up.' It was then that
Phillip realised he had never fired a single shot.

The reserve company caught them up and they made ready to push on
to their next objective - the German support line. It was easier
climbing out the back of the German Trenches as there was no
parapet and they moved off again. In the distance, Phillip could
see the huge steel structure that the troops had christened
'Tower Bridge.' He could see the slag heaps of the mines and
beyond them, the open green of a country untroubled by war.
Someone had gathered up the football and kicked it ahead once
more but it was sadly deflated, punctured by the barbed wire.

The area between the German front and support lines was a
nightmare wilderness of shell-holes that overlapped and sagged,
one into another. It was like crossing a small outpost of hell.
The land stank of high explosive and gas. There was another smell
too - of viscera and blood. The tired troops clawed their way
eastwards. The first rush of adrenalin was past. Now only
discipline and will power kept them moving. Over to his right,
Phillip could see flares go up. Two reds above green, the signal
of success. He looked left and saw the signal repeated. His
spirits rose. Perhaps this 'Big Push' would really end the war.

The German supports were deserted. Either they had all been
caught in the front line or else they had withdrawn. He halted
the men and set them to digging in. Tired as they were, they
responded immediately. Should a counter-attack come, the trenches
would be useless. The parapets, what was left of them, faced the
British Lines. New parapets had to be thrown up and a fire step
cut. They set to with a will, dragging sandbags from the front to
the rear of the trench and digging out the sections that had been
blown in by the guns. This resulted in a number of grisly finds
and more than one Tommy turned away retching.

Redbourne appeared, hatless, red faced but still clutching that
bloody stupid umbrella.

Phillip called out, "Where's the second wave?"

Redbourne shrugged and glared back towards the British lines.
Nothing moved. In the lull in the fighting they could hear
birdsong. The Captain threw himself down on the makeshift fire
step and pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He filled the
bowl with quick, practised movements of his stubby fingers and
hummed a little tune to himself. He patted his battledress
pockets for matches and finding none, called to a nearbysoldier:

"Private Jenkins, might I trouble you for a lucifer?"

The man grinned and tossed Redbourne a box of matches bearing the
Union Flag and the legend 'England's Glory.'  With his pipe well
alight and drawing nicely, Redbourne turned his attention back to
Phillip.

"Well, young W-B, we got this far. Casualties?"

"Nine dead sir, four wounded. Chapman's the worst but he should
be all right, the medic says. I think we got off lightly. Half
the bloody wire wasn't cut."

Redbourne nodded. When he replied, his voice was pitched low so
that only Phillip could hear.

"Do you know tomorrow's my birthday? 26th September. I shall be
eight and twenty. Who'd ever have thought it? I can tell you now,
old fellow, I never expected to see it. Not after Ypres. So! We
must think of some way to celebrate."

He raised his voice so it carried to the platoon in the trench
around him. "Any of you chaps know how to bake a cake?"

He was rewarded with laughter. Redbourne was popular with his
men. His cultivated madness reassured them as it was intended to.
Some of the older men had seen it all before but recognised,
despite their increased cynicism, that the newer hands needed the
Captain's antics. It helped to persuade them that things could
not be all that bad.

"No bakers, what? Damned shame! I was counting on you lot. Looks
like it will just have to be jam roly-poly again, eh chaps?"

This too raised a laugh. The infamous tinned stodge that, along
with 'corned dog' and the unidentifiable canned meat known as
'dead baby,' was the staple ration.

"Maybe you'll get a parcel from home," Phillip said.

Redbourne gave him a sharp look and then shook his head wearily.

"I don't think so, W-B. No people at home to send one. What about
you? Anyone waiting in Dorset with bated breath for the telegram
boy?"

"Just my parents. I had a brother. He died when I was quite
young. I don't remember him at all."

Redbourne looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.

"We ought to be pushing on now. The longer we delay, the more
time we'll give the Huns to organise their defences. What's
keeping them?"

He leapt to his feet and strode off down the captured trench,
stopping every now and then to crack a joke or pat a shoulder.
Phillip heard his booming voice recede around the traverses and
he felt again that wave of inadequacy. Redbourne was a true
leader. He could fire the men or calm them as the situation
required. He, Phillip, lacked that touch. He didn't delude
himself. He wasn't the stuff of heroes - he just tried to do his
duty.

The sky darkened and a light rain began. Phillip stood on the
fire step and watched the magical play of Very lights as they
blazed and fell in the black bowl of night. The harsh white light
flattened everything into a two-dimensional relief. The spectral
glare compressed distances. He found it impossible to judge how
far away the old front line was. He felt he could reach it in a
couple of steps; yet, that morning, it had seemed as distant as
Africa. From his left he heard the persistent crump of artillery
and saw the distress flares lazily arcing upwards. Someone was
catching it. The men were quiet in the trench beneath him. He
understood. The fighting and the sudden relaxation of tension had
drained them. He often found himself yawning prodigiously
immediately after moments of high danger. At the same time, he
would be too wound up to sleep. No doubt there was some
physiological explanation for it.

It was past midnight when he eventually turned in after a final
check on the sentries. He had been barely been asleep a few
minutes before he was roused by a summons from CaptainRedbourne.

"Another attack has been scheduled for eleven ack emma."
Redbourne used the phonetic version - ack emma for a.m., pip emma
for p.m.

"Why so late?"

"Delays in bringing up reserves, cavalry not in position to
exploit any breakthrough, the usual. Ours not to reason why,
young W-B."

"Yes, sir. Still, it does seem like handing the advantage to the
Hun."

"Indeed. However, between thee and me, old fruit, I rather think
we did that today when everyone pulled up a bit too sharpish.
Some of the lads got clear into open country but had to come back
for lack of ammunition. Anyway, Brigade says they were held up on
the left and our flank was open. So we do it all over again."

The dawn was chill and grey; a thick mist clung to the battered
landscape and left pearly droplets of moisture on men and
weapons. The mist cleared slowly as the morning wore on and soon
they could make out the new German defences. Artillery
preparation was to be minimal. Very few of the bigger guns had
any shells left after the initial bombardment. A ten-minute
barrage was all that could be managed. Phillip checked his watch
for the twentieth time that morning. An overwhelming lethargy had
seized him. His limbs felt leaden, detached from him in some
inexplicable way. The men seemed to be feeling the same. They
stood as patient as oxen, blank faced. It was as though they were
all resigned to their fate. There was none of the nervous edge
that had been present the previous morning and no rum ration to
impart any cheer or 'Dutch Courage.'

The guns began promptly at ten minutes before eleven. Phillip's
practised ear noted the lack of 'heavies' - the flatter crack of
the 18-pounder field guns predominated. Time seemed to both
stretch and compress. Each minute seemed interminable yet, when
the guns ceased and the whistles blew, he could scarcely credit
that ten minutes had passed so quickly. Heavy-footed, he stumbled
out of the trench and began to advance.

Of course, it was a disaster. German reserves had been rushed to
the fighting overnight. There were now seven times as many enemy
troops as there had been twenty-four hours before. The German
High Command had responded energetically. Phillip covered less
than a hundred yards before being slammed to the ground. His
first reaction was one of total wonder. He could not connect the
smashing impact of the machinegun bullets across his thighs as
having anything to do with himself. There was no pain. He dimly
recognised that this was due to shock but still it seemed unreal.
He tried to stand but his shattered legs would not obey him. He
rolled slowly onto his back and gazed up at the blue, cloudless
vault above him.

The noise of the battle seemed to be coming from a great
distance, like the tolling of a church bell on a summer Sunday
morning. His attention wandered. High above him he saw a faint
shape, delicate as a dragonfly. He thought he could hear the
hornet hum of its engine as it made its stately progress across
the heavens. It seemed to come to him like a revelation. That was
where he wanted to be; flying in the clear air above where there
was no gas, no lyddite fumes and, above all, no mud.

The tumult was slackening now. The attack had failed. A handful
of soldiers made their way back past him. He craned his neck to
see where the rest were. The untidy hummocks of khaki littering
the broken ground told their own story. There weren't any others.
Over half of the troops that had climbed from the trench scant
minutes before were either dead or wounded like him. Rough hands
seized his shoulders and he felt himself lifted onto a broad
back. He was still in that strange dreamy state. He hardly felt
the jolting as Geordie Watts carried him at a stumbling run back
to their own lines.

He woke to darkness and pain and cried out. The memory of being
hit returned slowly but this time he could connect with it. His
legs were on fire. A haggard medical orderly loomed out of the
darkness.

"All right, sir, all right. You've copped a Blighty one and no
mistake."

"Where am I?" His voice was hoarse and he cursed inwardly at the
tremulous note he heard.

"Battalion aid post, sir. We'll be taking you back when the
ambulances get here."

"What time is it? I mean, how long have I been here?"

"Just coming up eight O'clock, sir. You've been out for about six
hours. The MO gave you something, sir. For the pain, like."

Phillip nodded and asked for water. The Orderly shuffled off into
the gloom before returning with a canteen. Phillip could taste
the rum in it as he drank and was sincerely grateful.

"How bad is it?" He hardly dared to ask. The Orderly grunted.

"I've seen plenty worse, sir. You'll be fine once you get to the
back area. Clean beds and proper nurses, they 'ave. You'll be
dancing again in no time."

Phillip gave a chuckle then gasped as the pain flared. He didn't
feel the needle slipping into his arm but relished the fuzziness
that followed as he slipped from consciousness once more.



************************************











November 1915 The Home Front

He woke to the wan sunlight that insinuated itself through a gap
in the curtains. His legs itched madly under their plaster
sheaths and Phillip groaned aloud, then cursed himself. Others on
this ward were far worse off than he. The officers' hospital was
a converted country house called Bentley Hall. Non-ambulatory
cases such as Phillip were accommodated on the ground floor. He
shared the former library with five other young men. Three had
lost a leg, one both. Phillip thought his fifth companion the
worst off of all of them - he had been gassed.

All six had taken their wounds at what was now being called the
Battle of Loos. Phillip had heard that the church bells had been
rung for victory after the first day. Like the others, he
dismissed this as incomprehensible madness. The veterans, those
who had been out since '14, no longer believed in victory in the
conventional sense. Phillip had formed the view that the war
would go on, consuming men and money until the Great Powers
finally ran out of both. Yet already the newspaper talk was of
another 'Big Push' next year when the New Armies recruited by
Lord Kitchener would be ready for action. More madness.

He had made his journey home by stages. From the battalion aid
post he had been taken by solid-tyred ambulance over the jolting
pav�e to a casual clearing station in the rear. There he had been
subjected to the routine triage and sorted as a potential
survivor. After that he spent a week in a tented hospital near
Boulogne before the hospital ship had brought him to Dover. His
parents had met the ship and were allowed a brief reunion before
Phillip was once more embarked on a hospital train and had
completed his journey to the hospital by ambulance from London.
Now, after six weeks of inertia, he felt ready to go completely
insane.

A small cabinet stood beside his bed and from this, Phillip
picked up the letter from Captain Redbourne and re-read it for
perhaps the twentieth time.

What Ho, W-B,

Thought you might like to hear how the workers at Mars's Mill are
faring while you take your ease in Blighty. The battalion were
withdrawn on the 28th and we're now in Divisional reserve
awaiting our master's pleasure. Censor won't let me say where we
are, of course, but you will remember that grubby little
estaminet where Madame wore the most hideous shade of yellow!

The boys are all in fine fettle and we have had a couple of
drafts but are still a bit short of full establishment. A friend
of yours has joined, by the way. St John Thomas by name, claims
you were at school together and that you were always a frightful
slacker even then! (Ha ha)

One bit of good news, Private Watts has been given a gong for
pulling you out. The CO put him up for the VC but they settled on
an MM. Our rotund rogue is delighted of course but overcome by
martial modesty whenever it is mentioned.

A little bird told me you're in Hampshire. Can't be too far from
your home, can it? At least you'll get lots of visitors. Find a
pretty girl for me, won't you old chap? Anyway, there isn't too
much more one can say. The front has quietened down after our
last little effort to liven things up. The Hun is as beastly as
always but not misbehaving too much at present. No doubt waiting
for your return so he can have another crack at knocking you off
for good!

Take your time and make sure the old pins are well and truly
mended but do come back soon, you're sorely missed.

Best wishes,

Brian Redbourne.


Phillip folded the letter again and felt guilty. As soon as he
was fit enough he intended to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps.
The thought of returning to the trenches horrified him. He didn't
consider himself a coward but felt sure that he would crack up
completely if he ever had to go back to the front again.

He tried to rationalise his fear but his mind always seemed to
circle and evade the issue. Phillip had enjoyed the companionship
of the army. He'd never dreamt of doing anything else. He joined
the army in 1912 and had been gazetted as a second lieutenant at
the end of the following year. He had imagined service overseas -
India, perhaps - with the odd skirmish just to make life
interesting. Then Arch-duke Ferdinand had been assassinated in
Sarajevo and the world had progressed inexorably towards war like
lemmings rushing at a cliff-top. Of course, Phillip had been
swept in the excitement. Marching through the streets behind the
regimental band through cheering crowds that thronged the street,
he felt ten feet tall. The men had joked and sung as they made
their way into Belgium, feted by the local populace wherever they
went.

The reality of Mons and Le Cateau had brought them all down to
earth. A year of trench fighting had squeezed all the military
ardour out of his spirit. He felt drained before the fighting in
front of Loos. He saw his wounding as a blessing. It had given
him the separation he desired. He would not have to face
Redbourne or Geordie Watts or any of the others. He could simply
vanish into the RFC like a summer cloud.

"And how are we feeling this fine morning?"

Phillip's reverie was interrupted by the fruity tones of Sister
Hallam who ruled the ground floor wards with an iron will and
unrelenting heartiness. She was what was termed a 'handsome
woman.' Phillip supposed her to be in her forties. She was tall,
carried herself erect and was preceded by a starched bosom that
could best be described as stately. Her patients were a little in
awe of her and she positively terrified the staff nurses. Yet she
was not unkind and certainly not without feeling. Phillip had
seen her weeping silently soon after he arrived. A young officer
with terrible burns had died despite her best efforts. Now, as
she approached, Phillip mustered a smile.

"Good morning, Sister. Can't complain other than my legs itch
like the very devil."

"Language, Mr Worrell-Barnes, language. Need I remind you that
the staff here are ladies?"

"Of course not, Sister, sorry. My legs do itch frightfully,
though."

"Hmm. Well, we'll just have to see about that. Another two or
three weeks and those casts will be coming off anyway. Nurse
Meredith! Mr Worrell-Barnes needs a blanket bath. Attend to it
directly, if you please."

And with that she strode away. Phillip groaned inwardly. He hated
the indignity of blanket baths almost as much as the routine of
bedpans. His legs were encased in plaster from ankle to hip and
the bulky casts prevented him from wearing pyjamas. Instead, he
was clad in an old-fashioned nightshirt that he hated with a
particular venom.

Nurse Meredith was a sweet young F.A.N.Y. from West Wales who
spoke with a soft singsong lilt. She was darkly pretty with large
brown eyes and fair skin. The officers teased her whenever they
got the opportunity just to see her blush. It was very easy to
make Bethan Meredith blush. She wheeled her bathing trolley up to
him and pulled the screens around Phillip's bed. She approached
him like some wild creature sensing a trap. Pulling back the
covers, she helped Phillip into a semi sitting position and
stripped off the hateful nightshirt. Averting her eyes, she began
to wash his body.

As she moved the sponge over him, Phillip began to get aroused.
His penis twitched and rolled slightly to one side as the blood
engorged it. Nurse Meredith gave a little shriek and thrust the
sponge into his hands. She turned her back on him and allowed him
to wash his own genitals. Both were scarlet with embarrassment.
He tried to mumble an apology but his mouth was dry. By now his
erection was in full swing. He gritted his teeth, willing his
unruly member to subside. It was so hard it hurt and this added
to his mortification.

Bethan Meredith was overcome with confusion. She was a recent
volunteer to the F.A.N.Ys and had little experience. She liked Mr
Worrell-Barnes. He didn't tease her as much as the others and
seemed a gentle sort of person. But then his thing had reared up
like one of those snakes from India that she had seen in a
picture book. She knew what it meant all right. She wasn't a
farmer's daughter for nothing. She'd seen the old Tup doing his
business with the ewes enough times. Now it seemed Mr
Worrell-Barnes wanted to tup her!

She risked another quick peek between her fingers. It was huge!
How did something like that ever fit in a woman? Then, catching
herself even thinking about it, she grew even redder, gave a
little cry and fled. Phillip lay back on the pillows and felt
wretched. He hadn't meant to get a bloody erection, it just
happened. And it wouldn't go away! His knowledge of sex was
somewhat second hand. He had never been with a woman. Nice girls
didn't do that sort of thing and he had seen enough of the
soldiers who had 'caught a dose' to be terrified by the very idea
of going to a whore. His limited knowledge of female anatomy had
been gleaned from late-night conversations and those 'dirty
postcards' he had sometimes had to remove from the personal
effects of a dead or wounded soldier. It wouldn't do for their
loved ones to receive that sort of thing among their beloved's
belongings!

The screens parted once more and Sister Hallam charged in.

"What have you been..." she started to say then spotted the root
of the problem.

"Ah. I see. Well, we can soon deal with that."

She flicked the tip of his glans with a solid fingernail and
looked up at him triumphantly. Phillip turned his face away,
unable to meet her eyes. She looked back, sure that her sovereign
remedy would have done the trick. Phillip's erection stood firm.

"I see this calls for somewhat sterner measures."

Phillip groaned aloud and coloured again. He dreaded to think
what she might do next. He was taken by surprise when her hand
curled about the base of his shaft and gently squeezed. He
gasped. The sensation was nothing like he had ever felt before.
He had masturbated, of course, but tried very hard to avoid doing
so. After all, it could cause you to go mad. The feel of someone
else's hand on his prick was unbelievable but oh, the guilt!
Sister Hallam hesitated for a moment. She had intended to give
the young man a good hard squeeze and tell him to stop this
nonsense but she sensed his vulnerability. Compassion flooded
through her and she changed her mind.

Phillip became aware of the soft stroking and his eyes opened
wide in utter amazement. What was she doing? Her other hand
reached down and cupped his sac and she gently manipulated his
balls as her finger tips ran up and down the length of his
hardness. She looked into his eyes and this time he did not turn
away. Her face was serious but spoke volumes of kindness. She
raised a finger to her lips, warning him to make no sound. He
nodded dumbly. She resumed her ministrations, firmer and swifter
now. He gave himself up to the pleasure coursing through his body
and lay quiescent in the narrow bed. Something urgent was
happening. It seemed to begin near the base of his spine then
spread through him, as pervasive as sleep. Electricity jolted
through his prick and her hands became a blur as she pumped him.
Her fingers kneaded his balls and he almost fainted with the
unexpected pleasure. Then he was swooping towards orgasm.

He felt himself contracting and ropes of thick, white semen
spattered his chest and stomach as his entire being was
concentrated for a few brief seconds in the bundle of
supercharged nerves that appeared to have usurped all conscious
thought. Her hand slowed and her touch became lighter as she
pressed out the last few drops from his engorged member. Phillip
came to himself to find his hand had clamped on that starched
bosom and he felt the softness underlying the whalebone armour.
Sister Hallam said not a word but simply removed his hand and
placed it back on the bed beside him with a soft pat. She then
completed his bath in her usual efficient and matter-of-fact
fashion, wiping away the pooled semen with the sponge.

"There! All clean."

She handed him a fresh nightshirt and bustled away with the
bathing trolley as if nothing had happened. She seemed so
completely normal that Phillip was forced to wonder if he had
imagined the entire episode.

It was never repeated and never mentioned but once or twice she
visited him in dreams. He would wake just as he ejaculated, in
fact as well as in dream. Perhaps that was why he never had
another erection during his blanket baths. Maybe, he thought,
Sister Hallam had known that. He wouldn't put it past her.


In December he was moved to a convalescent home. He could walk
now, with the aid of crutches. His leg muscles had severely
atrophied and he was told it would be a long while yet before he
was fit again. His right thigh had taken two bullets, the left
only one. They had left angry purple pits and the skin around the
wounds seemed unusually thin and hot to the touch. But the bones
had knitted well; the surgeon had been skilled. He was assured of
a full recovery, given enough time.




February  - March 1916 The Student


Phillip worked hard through the winter to restore himself to full
fitness. He was discharged from the convalescent home just in
time for Christmas and spent the six weeks following driving
himself remorselessly. At first with the help of a stick and
later, unaided, he walked the Dorset hills from morning until
night in every kind of weather. He was sustained through this
self-inflicted ordeal by his deep and abiding love of the
countryside he saw stretched out below him as he walked. This, he
thought, this is worth fighting for. And as the grass cushioned
his feet and the rain washed him, it seemed the land returned
that love.

When he visited the hospital again for a final check-up, they
were astounded at his progress. He had the merest trace of a limp
and that only when tired. On the advice of his parents'
housekeeper he had rubbed his scarred flesh with goose-fat every
day. The scars remained but the appearance of the wounds was much
improved. He had no idea where the determination to drive himself
so had come from. It had become an obsession. The months of
inactivity had changed him. A restlessness had been born that
would never subsequently leave him. He lost weight; the final
softness of youth deserted his features. He was leaner and
harder. The personal victory over his pain had left him altered
in subtle but deep ways.

Neither had he neglected his ambitions to fly during his
convalescence. He had applied and been accepted for training as
an observer in the Royal Flying Corps. Of course, he had had
hopes of volunteering as a trainee pilot but had been persuaded
that his chances of a successful transfer from the infantry would
be greatly increased if he undertook a spell as an observer first
and foremost. They had only just relaxed the rule that pilots had
to be qualified before they applied. Phillip had heard of some
officers taking private lessons to get their 'ticket' while
awaiting posting or even when home on leave.

Thus, at the beginning of February, he had been passed fit by his
final Medical Board and was sent to a training school near Oxford
to begin his training. The duties of an observer were many and
various. He had to learn navigation, gunnery, how to operate a
camera and, in case of an emergency, the rudiments of how to
pilot the aeroplane. Four weeks of ground school learning about
vector triangles and magnetic variation dragged by. He wanted to
be airborne. There he was, a member of the Army's newest arm, and
he had never been so much as an inch off the ground. Still, he
willed himself to take in every pearl of wisdom the instructors
tossed his way.

To his fellow students he appeared aloof at first. He could not
bring himself to join in with the wild games after dinner in the
Officers' Mess. The high spirits of the others eluded him. More
than once he was taken aside by one of the staff and told not to
be so serious, to relax a bit. He could not. He was haunted by
the idea of failure, of having to return to the trenches. After a
while the students accepted him as simply being reserved. Some
put it down to the trauma of having been severely wounded. The
staff were less sanguine. Phillip would have been alarmed to
learn that more than one instructor had privately questioned his
suitability to the RFC.

Everything changed with his first flight. Even though the AIRCO
De Havilland 1A was obsolete and took over eleven minutes to
climb to just 3500 feet, Phillip was thrilled to the core. The
120 horsepower Beardmore engine blared and grumbled behind his
head as the pilot played with the throttle. The wheel chocks were
pulled away and the machine began slowly to move over the grass.
As the aircraft was of the 'pusher' variety, that is to say, the
propeller was at the rear of the fuselage, Phillip had an
obstructed view in front of him. After a choppy run of about
eighty yards, the tail lifted and the motion became easier. The
pilot held the nose down for a few more seconds and then, as he
eased back on the stick, the venerable old aeroplane gave a
slight lurch and clawed its way into the air.

The racket from the Beardmore was deafening. Communication of any
sort was only possible if the pilot leaned forward with his mouth
close to Phillip's ear and shouted at the top of his voice. For
this reason, most exchanges were made with standard hand-signals.
Phillip turned in his seat as the pilot tapped his shoulder. The
man then pointed upwards and circled his hand, indicating they
were going to climb. Phillip nodded vigorously. He turned back
and smoothed his maps out over his knee then hung over the
cockpit coaming, attempting, without much success, to identify
landmarks. The aircraft's instruments were basic in the extreme.
There was an oil pressure gauge, a bubble variometer, which
indicated whether the machine was climbing or diving, and a rev
counter. Phillip threw out one of his weighted streamers to judge
the wind direction. There was no compass fitted so he made do
with a hand-held model he'd purchased in a Boy Scout Shop in
Oxford.

He slowly began to make sense of the map and relate it to the
landscape he could see below. He picked up the course of the main
Oxford to London railway line, assisted in no small measure by
the plume of smoke sent up by a speeding express. The forward
nacelle rattled and shook as the pilot tried to squeeze every
last ounce of power from the complaining Beardmore. Phillip found
it almost impossible to focus and was relieved when at last the
pilot eased back the throttle and the plane levelled out.

They made their way across the clear sky at a stately sixty miles
per hour. The De H 1A had an absolute top speed of a fraction
less than 80 mph but even those modest speeds were now beyond
this tired example of the breed. Phillip didn't care. He was
scarcely even aware now of the droning engine. He put up his head
and was buffeted by the wind and laughed out loud in pure
delight. This was how things should be, clean, pure, somehow. He
was detached from the earth, hanging between the heavens and the
baser elements like a cloud. The pilot was tapping his shoulder
again and gave the signal for directions. Phillip hurriedly
gathered his wits and indicated a quarter turn to the right. The
plane banked into the turn and Phillip's heart sang with the joy
of it.

An hour later, considerably sobered by the experience of having
been 'lost,' Phillip stood in silence as the pilot debriefed him
on his first flight.

"You have to pay more attention to drift, old chap. In France,
the wind almost always is blowing towards Hunland. You didn't
notice that the wind got up once we hit 4000 feet. You only
launched one streamer. You need to do it about every fifteen
minutes or so. Look here!"

The epilot pointed upwards.

"Can you see how fast that cloud is moving? Yet down here there
isn't enough breeze to ruffle a milkmaid's apron. Don't worry,
though, you'll get the hang of it. First time is always a little
shaky. You did well enough for a new boy."

With that he strode away leaving Phillip, a forlorn figure, to
follow in his wake.

The next three weeks passed in a blur of activity. Phillip
learned to strip and reassemble a Lewis gun blindfolded. He
learned also to check each cartridge carefully before loading the
drums. Lewis guns were temperamental, prone to jamming. As one of
the instructors said:

"If you're under the guns of a Hun when the bloody thing decides
to call it a day, you are cold meat, old son."

They practiced firing at moving targets on the ground at first.
An old truck had a De H 1 nacelle mounted on its back. They took
turns firing at a square target towed by another truck that would
weave and swerve around the airfield. Phillip took to gunnery far
more easily than navigation. He had owned a shotgun since he was
twelve and readily understood the need to lead a target. Changing
ammunition drums on the Lewis required the use of both hands and
he rapidly learned to wedge himself tightly up against the
coaming and to brace himself against the bucketing movement of
the truck.

"Drop a drum over the side, old chap, and you're cold meat."

Only a few of the instructors had actual combat experience.
Phillip learned that many of them had been civilian instructors
before the war and had been pressed into service to help meet the
demand for extra aircrew. The Royal Flying Corps had entered the
war less than two years before with only four squadrons of twelve
aircraft each. Now, in early 1916, there were thirty-eight
squadrons, eight on Home Defence and the rest in France. Still
more were being formed. All of this expansion was additional to
the replacement of the inevitable, and heavy, combat losses. The
air war had started as a leisurely affair. It was some months
before opposing aviators had seriously starting shooting at each
other. Violence is insidious, though, and during 1915, aerial
combat had become the rule, rather than the exception. Now the
Hun had found a way to make a machine gun fire through the
propeller. Early British experiments to fit steel deflector
plates to the wooden airscrews had ended ignominiously but rumour
had it that a new and effective solution had been found and would
be available shortly.

"Still, can't beat the old 'pushers.' Much better all-round
vision and the Scarff Ring allows you to fire through 270
degrees."

It sounded convincing enough to Phillip's inexperienced ears.

He 'graduated' in the middle of March and was sent home on
embarkation leave with orders to report to the Aircrew Pool at
Number One Aircraft Depot, St Omer, on the 28th. Ten glorious
days stretched out in front of him but he didn't have a clue what
to do. One of his fellow students, Peter Riley, mentioned he was
going to Hampshire to visit a wounded comrade in hospital at
Bentley Hall. For want of a better alternative, Phillip agreed to
accompany him. Both now sported the winged 'O' badge of the RFC
observer.

Little had changed at the hospital in the four months since he
left it. Patients had come and gone, of course; some had died and
some, like Phillip, had recovered. Sister Hallam still ruled the
ground floor. She greeted a furiously-blushing Phillip with a
mere nod. Bethan Meredith, on the other hand, flushed an even
brighter shade of scarlet than did he. He approached her
diffidently, avoiding her eyes.

"Hello, Nurse Meredith."

Her reply was barely audible, her face averted.

"I've been wanting to speak to you. To apologise for what
happened. I know it was unforgivable of me but I am so sorry I
offended you like that. I wouldn't wish to distress you for the
world."

She turned towards him, still pink with embarrassment but smiling
faintly.

"Please don't think of it, sir. Sister Hallam explained it to me
and I know you couldn't help it."

"Nurse Meredith? Oh, would you mind awfully if I called you
Bethan? Look, the thing is, frankly, I am at a bit of a loose
end. Would you do me the honour of having supper with me
sometime? I mean, if we were in London, I'd invite you to the
Theatre or something but, well, the 'Bull' in the village does
have a passable table and I would consider it the utmost kindness
if you'll agree."

Bethan tilted her head and raised her large dark brown eyes to
meet his. She was confused. Her first instinct was to run but she
knew that was silly. Apart from that incident, Mr Welford -Barnes
had always been a perfect gentleman and he was quite good looking
in a sort of pale English way. Even so, she was about to decline
the invitation when Sister Hallam's voice boomed in her ear.

"Of course she will! Pick her up at seven o'clock and make sure
you have her back by ten. Don't be late!"

Phillip nodded dumbly and whirled away, elation surging through
every fibre. Sister Hallam glared shrewdly at Bethan.

"It's just what you need, young lady. And just what that one
needs. All work and no play, my girl, is no good for Jack - or
Jill! Now go and change the sheets on number three, we've a new
one arriving this evening."

"Yes, Sister. And thank you."

Sister Hallam smiled at Bethan's retreating back. 'Such a pretty
girl,' she thought, 'and such a pleasant young man.' In different
times they might be made for each other but the War hung over
everything, blighting the simplest of pleasures. She had noted
the new RFC observer's badge. Flying was, well, unnatural,
somehow. She stalked off to chivvy up some other nurse, vaguely
wondering why the young ex-patient had blushed so much on seeing
her.

Phillip caught up with Peter Riley and explained his arrangements
for the evening. Peter shot him an envious grin and they agreed
to meet back at the 'Bull' for a last drink after Phillip's date.
They spent the rest of the afternoon chatting to Peter's wounded
friend and some of the other young officers on the ward but
Phillip found himself increasingly distracted. His thoughts kept
straying to the pretty Nurse and more than once Peter had to
repeat himself to get Phillip's attention.

"You've really got it bad, old chum," he said.

Phillip smiled. "D'you know, Peter, I rather think I have."



Phillip would always remember that night. They had both been shy
at first and reacted in contrasting ways. He had babbled
incessantly and she had barely spoken. The Bull Inn was typical
of its type. A seventeenth century coaching Inn with a wealth of
low, black oak beams and an inglenook fireplace in which logs
popped and hissed and emitted as much smoke as heat. Another
consequence of the war, Phillip mused. Coal was needed for the
warships and difficult to get. Still, the food was good and
plentiful and the Landlord kept a reasonable cellar. Bethan
eschewed alcohol as a rule - a consequence of her Methodist
upbringing - but she did agree to a glass of fine Burgundy with
the excellent venison. She loved the deep ruby colour of the wine
and held up her glass to swirl the heady vintage in the
lamplight.

They slowly relaxed. Phillip prattled less and Bethan emerged
from her shell to talk about her home and her family. She made
him laugh with stories of life on the farm and the characters
that inhabited her native village. Most of them were in the army
now, of course. She wondered aloud what it would be like when the
war was over.

"I mean it must be different, see. Before the war, now, well, no
one really travelled, did they? Now, when they come back, well,
they'll have seen things most wouldn't care to, isn't it? How
will they settle then?"

"I know what you mean. I used to worry about what I'd do when it
was all over. Now, well, it doesn't look likely to end anytime
soon. The ones I feel most sorry for are the Reserve Officers.
I'm a Regular; there will always be a place for me in the Army
even if it means I have to go back to the regiment when this
lot's over. The RO's, though, some of them interrupted their
education or had already embarked on a career. It will be far
harder for them to settle again."

"And what about all the volunteers? My Dad has to get women now
to help run the farm and what about them? They aren't going to be
willing to run back into the kitchen just like that once they've
been earning wages, are they?"

"Bethan, do you know you finish every sentence with a question?"

"A question, is it? I don't know, it's the way I talk, see? I
didn't speak any Sais until I was ten or so. We always speak
Welsh at home."

"Sais? What's that?"

"It means Saxon, really, but it's our word for you English. Like
the Scots call you Sassenachs - Saxons again, see?"

"Could you really not speak English until you were ten?"

"My part of Wales is mainly Welsh-speaking. There was no call to
speak English until I went to the Grammar School, was therenow?"

The evening passed all too quickly and Phillip was horrified to
find it was nearly ten o'clock when he settled the bill with a
crisp white five-pound note. He pocketed the change and ushered
Bethan from the dining room. They hurried back to Bentley Hall.
Bethan had to take his arm in the darkness and the contact flared
through him like fire. They arrived at the door to nurses '
quarters with barely a minute to spare. Both were flushed from
the effects of the wine and the brisk walking. The door opened to
reveal the ample figure of Sister Hallam.

"I trust you had a pleasant evening? Good. Two minutes, Nurse
Meredith."

She closed the door again and Bethan was seized by a kind of
panic. Suppose he wanted to kiss her? What would she do? Before
she had formulated an appropriate response, Phillip took her hand
and raised it to his lips.

"Thank you for a most wonderful evening, Bethan. I'm off to see
my people in Dorset tomorrow and then it's France, I'm afraid. I
would dearly love to see you again but time isn't on my side.
Would you mind awfully if I wrote to you sometimes?"

She gathered her scattered thoughts. The gentle brush of his lips
on her fingers has sent a thrill of electricity through her. She
gazed at him for a moment, unsure of what he'd asked. Then she
ducked her head and nodded as realisation dawned. Without
thinking she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek.

"Yes, please write, I'd like that very much."



She spun on her heel and shot through the door without another
word. Her heart was racing. Who would believe she could have been
so bold! She danced a few steps along the empty corridor unaware
that Sister Hallam was watching through the open doorway of her
room. A smile passed briefly across the older nurse's features
and she nodded to herself. It was just what the pair of them
needed.

Phillip stood outside, rooted to the spot. He stared blankly at
the door for a full minute before turning slowly and walking
away. His pace increased and there was a distinct spring in his
step as he walked back to join Peter Riley in the 'Bull' for a
nightcap. She had kissed him! And she said he could write! What a
wonderful place the world had become! And its most magical
creature gloried in the name of Bethan Meredith.


To be continued...



smilodon

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