Fiction Editor, Gaynor
Enjoy this haunting, rite-of-passage wartime story!
I’m nearly ready, my flask full, sandwiches wrapped in foil. Last of all, I pick up the binoculars case, battered now, but lovingly buffed down the years.
Outside, there’s a fullish moon – “bomber’s moon”, they used to call it. A moon like that was a double-edged sword, Peter would remind me, climbing into his tree house with the binoculars: the light would guide our pilots home, but also guide the enemy in over the Channel.
At 14, he hero-worshipped the fighter pilots from the nearby base.
At 17, I’d had my head turned in a different direction by the same young men stationed there: men who came from all over – Poland, Czechoslovakia, Jamaica. Their arrival was the most exciting…
