The feeling of queasiness as he approached his Hurricane was familiar to Ginger now. It was his fourth patrol this week. So far, all had been uneventful, but after the fight yesterday, he was certain they were in for it now.
Ginger reached his Hurricane, and Sanders swung himself out of the cockpit and offered Ginger a hand as usual. Ginger took it gratefully with a nod and a smile of thanks. Sanders had kept his word, and “Q” had been sent back to a Maintenance Unit for a complete re-fit. Sanders was now assigned to Ginger’s new aircraft, “H,” along with the rigger, Tufnel.
Ginger no longer felt shy with either of them; they were both first-rate blokes. They seemed to like their work and were proud to keep their aircraft in the best possible condition. Sanders smiled as he helped Ginger pull the straps tight. “I hear Jerry’s getting cheeky. The blokes from 43 Squadron were telling us their pilots bagged a couple of Stukas that were going for a convoy right off the Needles.”
“I guess it had to come sometime. France surrendered a month ago,” Ginger answered stoically. Somehow when he’d joined the RAF, all he’d thought about was flying – not killing and dying.
“Good luck then, sir!” Sanders flashed him a last smile and jumped down off the wing.
“Thanks!” Ginger called after him, and then turned and waved to Tufnel to pull the chocks away. Tufnel was looking tired. He’d been up half the night helping the CO’s rigger repair the CO’s kite.
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