"Spitfire Summer" - 1/6
Oct. 18th, 2010 08:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amine_eyes Masterpost
The distinctive pattern of RAF Biggin Hill’s runways appeared on the horizon, and Jim sighed in relief before reaching to the radio.
“Biggin Hill, this is Mike Romeo Kilo one six, requesting permission to land.”
A cool female voice filled the speakers.
“Mike Romeo Kilo one six, this is Biggin Hill, permission granted. Runway for landing is bearing 120.”
“Biggin Hill, copy that,” Jim replied, gently nudging the control column forward. Instantly his Spitfire responded, the growl from the engine rumbling through the aircraft as Jim headed to the correct runway. Lining up for his final approach, he glanced at the small stuffed bear sitting in one corner of the cockpit and held his breath till the wheels came into contact with the ground. The aircraft shuddered as he taxied along the runway, and Jim quickly prevented the small bear from taking a dive from its position squished between the glass of the cockpit and the instrument panel. A final turn along the tarmac, and Jim was marshalled into position. Increasing the revolutions, he allowed the beautiful engine to roar in the sunshine before winding down and turning off, the sound of chatter from various other pilots wandering around starting to fill the air along with the occasional truck rumbling along the roads connecting up the different parts of the airfield. A sigh of relief, and Jim began to unbuckle, starting to lever himself out of the seat at the same moment that a techie opened up the cockpit and pulled it fully back. Jim grabbed the bag between his legs, quickly stuffed the toy bear in, and clambered out, jumping from the wing and landing on the ground with a grin on his face, pleased with making another safe landing. He ran a hand through his hair, and watched as one of the pilots sitting on the deckchairs unfolded himself, heading forward to Jim. Jim started to walk towards him, hefting his bag over his left shoulder and quickly pulling out his cap from where it had been placed during the journey, shoving onto his head. The pilot in front of him smiled, and held out a hand for Jim to shake.
“You’ll be our new pilot?”
“Yes sir”, Jim nodded, looking quickly at the rank slides. “Flying Officer Jim Kirk.”
The man in front nodded, and started walking back to the hut, motioning to Jim to follow him, striding forward with lanky legs.
“I’m Flight Lieutenant Hugh Douglas, leader of A Flight. Now, this way to Squadron Leader Pike, he wants to see you.”
As they walked towards the hut, they passed the rest of the squadron sitting basking in the sunshine, smoking, reading the paper, listening to the wireless, chatting amongst themselves. Two pilots walked quickly towards the deckchair that Flight Lieutenant Douglas had just vacated, but the dark haired man in the one next to it swung his legs over it, raising an eyebrow over his paper at the two men. Hugh nodded at him as they passed, and nodded, smiling briefly at him. He turned back to Jim as they walked into the hut.
“That’s Flight Lieutenant Grayson, leader of B Flight here. Good chap to have on your side. Bit cold but can’t be helped. Here”, he gestured to the door on their right, “that’s Squadron Leader Pike’s office, he’s waiting for you”, and with a smile and a clap on the back, Hugh headed back outside. From the window Jim could see him head back to his seat, and Flight Lieutenant Grayson swing his legs back off the seat, settling down into his chair. A nod passed between them, and Hugh settled into his, waving cheerily at the two pilots who looked crestfallen at the lack of seat, before pulling out a book and starting to read. A cough was heard from inside the office and he jerked back to what he was supposed to be doing. Quickly he checked his reflection in the mirror, put his bag on the floor next to the wall, and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” rang from the office, and Jim walked in, standing in the doorway and snapping a salute to the figure at the desk. Squadron Leader Pike glanced up, and gestured to a seat in front of him, still scribbling on the paper in front of him. Jim negotiated his way through the piles of paper on the floor to the chair, and sat down gingerly. Pike looked back up, and smiled.
“You can remove the cap, Mr Kirk; we’re not on parade here.”
“Thanks, Sir” and Jim balanced it on his knees. Pike finished scribbling on the paper in front of it, and rested the pen on the paper. Cracking his knuckles, he looked at Jim, and smiled.
“So … you’re Flying Officer Kirk now”.
“Yes sir, apparently the RAF wanted to keep me.”
Pike raised an eyebrow, lacing his fingers together.
“Did they get a choice?”
Jim grinned back.
“Not really, sir.”
Pike nodded, and searched for a piece of paper on his desk. Finding it, he read through it, and looked back at Jim.
“I’ve placed you in A flight under the command of Flight Lieutenant Douglas”, he said, “and as far as I know, your luggage has arrived and been placed in your room at the Officer’s Mess. Mealtimes are listed on this sheet”, he passed it over to Jim, who placed it on top of his cap, “your free time is to do with as you wish, however I will remind you Flying Officer Kirk”, and here he narrowed his eyes and looked sternly at Jim, “if I get any notice of bad behaviour, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pike nodded and continued.
“Your Spitfire will be getting checked over by Flight Lieutenant Scott in Engineering tomorrow before you go flying, so you’ll spend tomorrow planning the sortie for the next day with the rest of A Flight. Everyone helps out here with the flying and duties, so you will get to suffer the joys of paperwork more than once a year. As a Flying Officer, I expect you to start taking responsibility on the squadron, making sure that the younger and less experienced pilots are well prepared for whatever happens in the next couple of months. All that’s left for me to say is welcome to Six Ten Squadron, Flying Officer Kirk.” Pike leaned over his desk, hand outstretched, and Jim shook it, conscious of the paperwork and hat on his knees wobbling at the forward motion. Pike leaned back, and gestured to Jim.
“Flying is finished for today, so if you want to get yourself over to the Mess, you can be presentable for dinner.”
Jim nodded, standing up carefully, and made his way to the door. Turning, he put his cap back on his head, tucked the paperwork under his left arm, and saluted. Pike saluted back, and Jim made his way out of the door.
As the door closed, Pike rubbed his eyes with one hand, looking at the picture on his desk. In it were several young men in army uniform, grinning away at the camera, and Chris looked at the younger version of himself, arm thrown across the shoulder of another, his arm thrown over Pike’. He sighed, looking at the photo.
“You’d be proud of him, George,” he said, and sighed, starting to collect the paperwork on his desk into a messy pile to shove in a bag in order to transport it to his room.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Outside the office, Jim stuffed the pieces of paperwork into the bag on the floor and hauled it onto his shoulders. Walking outside, he could see the pilots, who had been lounging around on the deckchairs and the grass, playing cards and generally doing nothing, now packing up, some shoving maps and newspapers into pockets while others stated to stack the chairs and deckchairs and take them inside. Jim looked around, and noticed Hugh Douglas standing in conversation with the two pilots from earlier who had looked so anxious to take his seat. Jim made his way over, and as he drew closer, he heard the conversation.
“Right, Dawson” Hugh looked at him, and the dark haired one shuffled on the spot, “next time I see a landing like that, you’ll be out practising with me from dawn till dusk until you can do it blindfolded. There can’t be any sloppy landings here, not with war on the horizon. As for you, Beckson”, he looked at the blonde one who had the grace to at least look abashed, “you may have been the king of pranks at your school, but here, we’ve all done the same pranks before. You’re supposed to be a pilot, not a schoolboy. Now, both of you get to the Mess before the sergeant rebukes you for being late again.”
The two of them shot to attention and saluted, causing the remaining pilots who hadn’t made their way to the Mess already to burst out laughing. The two of them walked away, talking amongst themselves, and Hugh shook his head, turning to face Jim.
“You finished with the Squadron Leader then Jim?”
“Yes, sir -” Jim started to say, and Hugh waved a hand, cutting him off.
“If there’s no one else around, call me Hugh.”
“Hugh, I was wondering if you could tell me where the mess was?”
Hugh nodded, walking to the hut to put away the deckchair in his hand.
“Come on Jim, if we hurry, we can grab the truck going from maintenance towards the Mess. Oh, and by the way”, he turned to Jim, “as you’re in my flight, you’ll be joining in the sortie planning tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good”, Hugh nodded, and with a clap on the back, ushered him to the taxiway where a couple of pilots were standing, ready to clamber on the truck rumbling down the way towards them. After a quick check to make sure that there was space, the two of them jumped on, hanging onto the sides as the truck continued its way towards the messes in order to drop people off for dinner. Jim hung on with one hand, looking out at the busy station closing for the day. Trucks rumbled to and fro, motorbikes and ordinary bicycles weaved in and out of the flow of traffic, and the truck halted to let a truck tow a Spitfire across the road towards the hangers. Jim watched as it went past, wings wobbling with the movement as ungainly on the ground as it was graceful in the air, and patted the bag still on his shoulder. Only a day, Jim, then you can get back up in the air, he told himself, and he swayed as the truck roared back to life, continuing its journey to the red brick buildings in front of them. Once there, the truck swerving to a halt, everyone piled out, splitting to their various messes, waving cheerily, chatting away as they walked along. Jim followed the bundle of pilots in front of him as they pulled caps out of their bags, jammed them on their heads, and poured into the Officer’s Mess in front of him. Jim did the same, and whistled appreciatively as he walked in. Everything looked luxurious, from the chandelier in the ceiling to the paintings on the wall and the soft carpet beneath Jim’s boots. Reflexively he wiped them on the mat provided, before walking forward, watching the rest of the pilots as they walked to their rooms, some reaching to their necks to remove their ties as they disappeared through the doors on the left side of the room. Jim walked forward to the desk at the end of the room, and noticed the pile of papers on the desk. Feet could be seen poking out from underneath, and Jim noticed the splashes of oil on the trousers that they were attached to. Jim coughed, and the figure beneath the desk jumped, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. He swore, then levered itself out until a boy stood in front of Jim, covered in oil and dust. He smoothed his hair so it resembled something that wasn’t a pile of fluff, and grinned at Jim.
“Hello there, sir!”
“…Hello?”
The boy held out a hand for Jim to shake, and Jim took it, blinking slightly.
“Mr Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, at your service sir!”
“Flying Officer Jim Kirk … Listen, are you the mess steward?”
Pavel shook his head and smiled, gesturing to the desk.
“No, I was fixing the desk – some screw fell out, drawers broke and as I was available, I did it. Sergeant Adams is currently in the kitchens checking on the progress of dinner. He should be here in … ah! Here he is, sir!” Pavel grinned and pointed to a sergeant walking through a set of double doors. Jim turned to face him, conscious of the appraising gaze the sergeant was giving him.
“Sergeant Adams?”
The sergeant looked at him and raised an eyebrow, categorising Jim’s uniform and accent.
“Yes, sir, and who might you be?”
“Flying Officer Jim Kirk, I arrived today.”
The sergeant looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, heading towards the desk where he searched through pieces of paper.
“Ah yes, sir, we were told of your arrival. Your luggage has already arrived and has been placed in your room, which is …” He found the list of room designations on the desk, and glanced quickly at it, signalling to Pavel who dived back under the desk to pick up his tools.
“Room Eight, sir. Dinner will be served in half an hour, which should give you enough time to change into something,” he paused and looked at Jim’s crumpled uniform, smelling of sweat and fuel from the flight in his Spitfire, and raised an eyebrow, “more suitable, sir.”
“Thanks sergeant, will do.” With a nod to the sergeant who stiffened slightly at the drill, Jim hauled his bag back onto his shoulder, and set off through the double doors leading to the rooms.
Back in the lobby, Pavel turned to face the sergeant, who was pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Sergeant? Is everything okay?”
Sergeant Adams blinked, and looked at Pavel.
“It’s fine, Mr Chekov, now have you finished fixing that drawer?”
“Yes, sergeant!” With a grin, Pavel grabbed the box of tools from the floor, and headed out the entrance. The sergeant sighed slightly, before going back through to the dining room to check on the progress of the dinner.
“Americans in the RAF, what will they think of next ...” he muttered as he strode through the doors.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim straightened his tie before he walked through the double doors leading to the dining room, quickly running a hand through his hair to make sure that it wasn’t resembling a haystack. Breathing deeply, he pushed open the doors, walking into a room full of chatter. Seated at various tables were the officers, drinks in hand, some demonstrating various moves with their hands, while stewards walked around with plates and glasses of drink to top up anyone’s empty glasses. Jim stood in the entrance letting the chatter wash over, noticing the light, airy feel of the room. One of the stewards made their way over, and nodded at Jim.
“Sir, would you care to sit?”
“I would,” Jim replied, smiling as he turned to look at the steward, “but I can’t see a spare seat.”
The steward inclined his head in recognition of the fact, and looked around the room.
“Sir, there appears to be a spare seat at this table. I’ll lead you there and take your order at the same time?
Jim grinned, and clapped the man on the shoulder closest to him.
“Lead the way.”
The steward rolled his eyes at the familiarity, and then made his way over to the spare seat. As they approached, Jim noticed that it consisted of Squadron Leader Pike, Hugh, Flight Lieutenant Grayson and other men with several bars on their shoulders, and he looked at the steward.
“Err, you sure it’s okay if I sit here? This looks like high-brass to me.”
The steward sighed, and looked at Jim.
“Do you want a seat for dinner? Or would you prefer to go hungry, sir?”
Jim raised an eyebrow as they continued to walk forward.
“Just asking …” he muttered under his breath, and they arrived at the table. The steward showed Jim to his seat, waiting patiently while Jim sat down. Pike smiled as Jim ordered his meal, and Hugh leaned over and shook his hand, smiling as well.
“Glad to see you survived Sergeant Adams, Flying Officer Kirk”, he said, and Jim grinned as he replied.
“Just about ... you should have seen the dirty look when he heard my accent though, sir.”
Hugh laughed, taking a sip of his drink.
“Well, there aren’t that many Americans in the Royal Air Force as you can imagine.”
The steward returned with Jim’s drink, and he gratefully took a sip before replying.
“Well, you can’t be American and be in the RAF, learnt that pretty quickly.”
He smiled slightly, and Hugh nodded in acknowledgement of that fact. A dark-haired man and large eyes at the other end of the table sipped his drink and looked ready to ask a question, but was cut off by the arrival of the food. Everyone settled down to their dinner, and the room grew quieter, the only noise being murmuring about various subjects that interspersed with the clinking of cutlery and glasses.
Eventually Jim laid down his cutlery and resisted the temptation to lean back in his chair and sigh in pleasure. As he looked around the rest of the table, he saw the dark haired man down the table smile slightly at Jim. He answered with a grin of his own. Hugh was busy talking to Pike about his initial officer training at RAF Cranwell, gesturing wildly with his hands as Flight Lieutenant Grayson raised his eyebrow at the tale. Pike, however, grinned and laughed, setting down his cutlery, and shaking his head.
“Sometimes, I wonder how on earth you managed to get to Flight Lieutenant, Hugh, I really really do.”
Hugh grinned, and pushed his chair out.
“It’s all thanks to you sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go have a smoke, anyone care to join me?”
Pike shook his head ruefully as Flight Lieutenant Grayson stood up.
“’Fraid I’ll have to pass, gentlemen, if I don’t get this paperwork done, Janice will have my head for breakfast.”
Flight Lieutenant Grayson turned to Pike with furrowed eyebrows.
“But surely sir, the paperwork is a necessary part of maintaining a well-run station; it is only natural that Sergeant Rand would make sure that it was filled out in a timely manner.”
Hugh laughed and swung an arm over Flight Lieutenant Grayson’s shoulders, clapping his other hand over his mouth.
“Spock! Just ‘cos you’re incredibly efficient at getting your paperwork done, doesn’t mean that anyone else is. Come on, if we don’t get to have a smoke soon, Sergeant Adams will find us and try and get us on the Mess Committee again!”
With a hurried salute from both, they left, Hugh guiding Spock away despite his protests.
At the table, Pike shook his head and laughed, before stood up himself. He looked at Jim who had been debating heading out for a smoke himself, and he pointed a finger at him.
“If you get Flight Lieutenant McCoy into trouble, I’ll have your head, Jim.”
“It was one fight sir! And they started it!” Jim protested, and the dark-haired man at the table raised his own eyebrow at Jim’s defence.
“Of course they did, Jim,” replied Pike, and Jim resisted the urge to poke his tongue out at his back as he turned and walked away. Jim turned back, and Flight Lieutenant McCoy looked at him, speaking as he placed his cutlery down on his plate.
“So you’re brand new, and you’ve already got into a fight?”
Jim shook his head, going to stand up.
“No, the fight was when the Squadron Leader and I first met –“ Jim paused, and looked at the other man.
“What did you say?”
“That you’re brand new and you already -”
Jim waved his hand impatiently.
“No, not that. Your accent … there’s no way in hell that you’re from Britain – I haven’t heard such a Deep South drawl since I was in the Deep South!”
The other man stood up, and gave him a withering look.
“Says the man who’s speaking broad Yankee.”
Jim dropped his hand and looked at the other guy.
“Fair enough, but still …”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to McCoy.
“Let’s start again, shall we? My name’s Jim Kirk.”
The other man walked round the side of the table, and gave Jim a strong handshake, replying as he took one of Jim’s cigarettes.
“McCoy. Leonard McCoy.”
McCoy pulled out his lighter and gestured towards the double doors at the end of the Mess. Both of them walked out into the quiet night air, and McCoy leaned against the brick wall of the Mess and lit his cigarette, passing the lighter to Jim and inhaling deeply, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Nothing like a smoke after a day of no surgeries …”
Jim lit his cigarette and leaned against the wall, taking a long drag before he replied.
“Or after a day of flying. I’m guessing you work in the Med-Centre if you do surgeries?”
McCoy tilted his head in reply.
“How long you been there?”
“Long enough to know better,” McCoy replied, and the two of them fell into silence, letting the smoke from their cigarettes drift out into the clear night sky. Around was the quiet chatter of other smokers, while the stars glittered in the sky above, the only source of illumination apart from the quick overspill of light when someone stepped in and out of the Mess.
“So is Flight Lieutenant Grayson’s name really Spock?” Jim asked.
McCoy nodded.
“Yeah, apparently it’s from his dad’s side of the family, something to do with his aristocratic heritage.”
“Fair enough,” Jim replied, shrugging, “and I thought having Tiberius as my middle name was bad.”
McCoy snorted in laughter before speaking. “Try having Horatio. Now that’s bad.”
“Very true!” Jim said, and the two of them laughed a little, before lapsing back into silence.
Eventually Leonard finished his cigarette and dropped the stub on the ground, grinding it out with the ball of his foot as he turned to look at Jim.
“Well, nice as it was to meet a new member of the station, I’m going to have to go or I won’t get home and to bed before midnight. Nice to meet you Mister Kirk. Oh,” as he turned to walk away, “you’ll be expected to come to the Med-Centre tomorrow for a physical before you fly, remember that.”
Jim nodded, taking a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing his own out and walking forward, shaking McCoy’s hand.
“Call me Jim, and nice to meet a fellow outcast from the US over here, McCoy.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow and laughed, walking away. As he did so, Jim heard him say “Yeh, you too …”
As he headed out into the darkness, Jim looked at the abandoned stubs on the ground, frowning slightly. He walked inside, through the Mess and into his room, kicking off his boots to one corner of the room and throwing his jacket over the back of the only chair inside as he did so. Flopping down onto the bed, he lifted up the teddy-bear perched on the pillow, and threw it into the air. Once, twice, he watched the small bear revolve in the air before he caught it, and as he did so, his eyes fell on the letter he had delivered to his room before dinner. He reached for it, frown on his face. He twisted it in his hands, debating whether or not to open it. Decisively, he put the letter back on the desk and walked to his wardrobe; getting changed and heading back to the bed.
“I’ll read it tomorrow,” he told the silent room, and as he snuggled down beneath the covers and turned off the small bedside light, his gaze fell on the bear still on his pillow. He reached out and placed it gently on the bedside table, looking at the fur shining softly in the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains.
“Night, Dad” Jim whispered into the silence, and he drifted into sleep, wondering sleepily whether McCoy had joined the RAF for the same reasons as he had.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim staggered into the briefing room the next morning, clutching a cup of coffee as though it was a lifeline. He had luckily brushed his hair as he raced around his room trying to get ready and out before the briefing started, and his uniform was neat enough to pass Sergeant Adams’ beady eye, but as he sat down in one of the chairs and blearily felt for the pencil and paper he had put in his pockets before leaving, he cursed all the cheery morning people who had greeted him on the way to the room.
He found the pencil and paper and settled into the chair, taking a large gulp of coffee, grimacing at the temperature. The drink had cooled during the time it took him to get from the Mess to the briefing room, but no matter, its caffeine, I’ll drink it anyway, he thought and he kept drinking. As he did, he watched the rest of the squadron and the key personnel from the other areas of the station file in, all holding mugs with varying hot drinks, one half barely awake while the other half chattered away happily, perfectly happy to be up before dawn.
“Stupid morning people …” he muttered, and found himself the recipient of a weird look from a woman who had sat herself next to him, carefully smoothing out her skirt before she sat. Jim looked at her dark hair and her extremely long legs that elegantly crossed as she rested a pad of paper and a pencil on her knees, and looked back, sipping his cold coffee with a grin. His morning was looking up. He finished his drink and turned to face her.
“I think I now know why people like mornings if they get to see someone as beautiful as you every day.”
She arches an eyebrow and looked at him.
“Really, that’s the best line you could come up with?”
Jim grinned, leaning forward slightly.
“Well, I was planning to save the line about you having fallen from heaven till our second date.”
“And what makes you so sure that you’ll have a first?” she replied, a small smile gracing her face.
“Well, how else will I find out your name?”
“You won’t, sir,” she said, and turned back to the front.
“Oh come on, don’t you at least want to know my name before you completely reject me?”
“I’m fine without it … sir,” came the reply, and Jim grinned.
“You are fine without it … its Jim, Jim Kirk.”
She didn’t move, and Jim turned back to face the table, careful not to look at her.
“If you don’t tell me your name, I’m gonna have to make one up, you know.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to him.
“It’s Uhura. Flight Sergeant Uhura.”
Jim looked back to her, shock on his face.
“Uhura? No way! That was going to be the name I made up for you! So … is your first name flight sergeant then?”
She laughed and shook her head, turning back as the final people trickled into the room. Jim looked up to see Pike enter along with a number of people with a fair number of bars on their shoulder. The room settled down, settling into position. On the other side of Uhura, Spock sat himself down and nodded a good morning to Jim and her. Before Jim could reply, the station commander stood behind the podium at the front of the room, and everyone fell silent.
The station commander sighed and looked out at the sea of faces.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get this briefing out the way quickly, there are a lot of things to be done. First off, the weather report is the same as yesterday, cloud at Angels twenty up until eight hundred hours, with a westerly wind of three knots. As far as we know, there aren’t any planned raids, but we will still have a patrol up in order to make sure that we are not sneaked up upon, and I expect all of Fighter Control to keep an eye on the RDF plots to make sure of the same. There are no expected convoys through the Channel or VIP flights, there will be a flight from the ATS due in at twelve hundred hours, and finally,” he took off his glasses and placed them on the podium, looking out at the people in front of him. “I need hardly remind you that we are at war. I hope to God that we don’t lose people during this, but for God’s sake, remember the drills, follow the tactics given, and don’t get yourselves killed. Nothing further, go to your duties.”
The entire room came to attention, and erupted in a sea of chatter as everyone started getting up. Jim stood up and ran his hand through his hair quickly, looking to the side where Spock and Uhura were in quiet conversation. Leaving them to it, he started edging his way through the crowd; hand still clutched firmly round the coffee mug, and was almost out the door when a hand clapped onto his shoulder.
He turned, and saw the grinning face of Hugh. He held out an envelope and Jim took a few seconds to focus his eyes, widening them when he realised that it was the envelope from his room. His hands went automatically to his pockets where he had stuffed it that morning before heading out and Hugh laughed, placing it in Jim’s hands.
“Guessing this is yours, then, Kirk.”
Jim nodded, smiling even with his body calling for more caffeine.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, mindful of the officers milling past. Hugh nodded in acknowledgement, and hand still on Jim’s shoulder, he steered him out the door and into the bright sunshine. He let go and Jim turned to face him. If anything, the grin had grown evil in only thirty seconds.
“We’ll be at the dispersal hut when you’re finished with the Med-Centre, Kirk.”
“Thanks, sir, make me feel better won’t you.”
“I try my best, Kirk See you soon – if you get allowed out of there quickly” he finished, and Jim slumped his shoulders, jamming his cap on his head as he did so.
“Yes, sir.”
He stepped back and saluted, the resulting drill causing Sergeant Adams to wince as he went past.
Hugh rolled his eyes and headed off to the truck waiting to take the pilots round to the other side of the airfield. Jim sighed as it headed off without him, turning and starting to trudge his way to the Med-Centre. Knowing his luck, he would be kept by the doctors until well after flying time.
-x-x-x-x-x-
“Look, McCoy, it’s not like I’ve not been cleared for duty before!” Jim pleaded, but McCoy crossed his arms and frowned, looking at Jim.
“I’m not other doctors, kid, I’m going to check your heartbeat and ribs before you decide to have a heart attack and fall out of the sky, leaving me with more paperwork. Now, shirt off.”
Jim scowled and did as he was told, and McCoy pulled on a pair of gloves, stepping forward and bending down in order to examine Jim’s chest. The first touch of McCoy’s hands sent shivers down his spine, and Jim reflexively shuddered. McCoy looked at him and Jim hurriedly spoke.
“I’m ticklish.”
McCoy shook his head and Jim could hear him mutter under his breath. Jim rolled his eyes in response. The room filled with silence, occasionally broken by McCoy’s mutterings as he found another area to explore, and Jim looked up at the ceiling. He looked back down at the top of McCoy’s head.
“So why are you in the RAF?”
McCoy didn’t answer, and Jim poked him in the chest with his hand.
“What?”
“You’re from America, why are you in the RAF as a doctor?”
McCoy’s eyebrow rose as he leaned back.
“I could ask you the same, kid, now will you let me finish the examination before I grow old and die.”
Jim shrugged. “Wanted to fly the Spitfire. Your turn.”
At McCoy’s continued raised eyebrow, Jim grinned.
“It’s not like there’s any other topic of conversation, is there?”
McCoy rolled his eyes and looked at Jim.
“I joined because the RAF need surgeons, luckily I also practiced as a general practitioner, so I was welcomed with open arms. Now, hush while I finish.”
“Did you live over here already then?”
McCoy huffed and removed his hands from Jim’s torso, stripping off the gloves and putting them in the bin.
“Do you ever stop talking, kid?”
“The name’s Jim, and no, I don’t, Sam always used to tell me to shut up when I was little. I would burble all day about anything.”
McCoy rolled his eyes as he sat down at his desk and started writing on Jim’s medical record.
“I can believe that,” he drawled, “put your shirt back on before you catch your death of cold.”
Jim pouted as he did so, speaking slyly.
“But what if a nurse comes in? You’d deny her my naked chest?”
McCoy finished writing and drew one long look up and down Jim’s chest.
“Yes, I’d spare her the horror of seeing it.”
“Doctor McCoy, you wound me!”
“It isn’t permanent kid, now … as far as I can see, you’re in good shape. Now, clear off, I bet you’re excited to be getting back up into the air.”
Jim stood and retied his tie, looking at McCoy.
“What makes you say that?”
“The fact that you’ve been staring out that window at the airfield with a look of longing normally seen on a puppy wanting a walk. Now, get with you, Mr Kirk.”
Jim grinned as he headed towards the door.
“Not going to call me Jim?”
In response, McCoy waved and turned back to his papers. Jim laughed, and headed out the room, closing the door behind him. Barely thirty seconds later Leonard heard Jim hitch a lift with another pilot, and the rumble of the motorcycle fade into the distance as they headed off towards the hanger.
Leonard sighed and looked at the pile of papers on his desk detailing Jim’s medical record.
“You’re going to cause me hell, kid aren’t you,” he muttered, and got back to writing down his report.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim dropped off the back of the motorcycle and waved as the pilot continued on to the dispersal hut, and he headed into the cavernous hanger on his right. Even from a hundred or so feet away the air was ringing with banging of hammers against metal, whirring of machines, rumbling Spitfire and Hurricane engines being tested and as he walked in, he fought the urge to cover his ears from the din. His nose filled with the smell of petrol and grease, while his heart almost sank at the sight of half-dismantled Spitfires with their engine cowling removed. Every engineer was covered in half overalls and whirring round the hanger like bees, he noticed Pavel running around covered in grease and oil, dragging a box of parts behind him and Jim waved. Pavel looked up, waving back as he carried on walking, and in the middle of it all … Jim halted and stared.
His Spitfire had her engine cowling removed and half an engineer stuck out of the cockpit, the legs waving as muffled cursing could be made out in the din. Jim hurried over, barely managing to not hug the plane and tell her that it was going to be alright. As he drew closer, the techie removed himself and slid down the fuselage, landing on the ground with bended knees and a spanner in his hand which he lovingly thwacked against her body.
Jim couldn’t help it; he moaned in protest.
The engineer looked at him and grinned, walking over to Jim and clapping a grease-covered hand on his shoulders.
“I’ll be guessing from your horrified expression that this beauty is your aircraft, me lad?” he said in a broad Scottish accent. Jim nodded dumbly.
“Well, she is a beauty indeed! All I had to do was give her engine a little tweak so that she could stand my special formula of fuel and oil, mark my words, lad, she’ll be singing the moment you take her up into the air. You’ve taken very good care of this lovely lady!”
Jim finally found his voice and looked at the engineer, finally registering the officer tapes attached to the shirt under the grime.
“Yes Flight Lieutenant …” he turned back to his Spitfire, “she is going to be okay, isn’t she?”
“Course, lad!” The engineer boomed, “all I have to do shut the engine cowling and she’ll be towed out ready for you to fly her! I promise you, or my name isn’t Montgomery Scott!”
“Montgomery?”
“Aye, my mother must have had a grudge against me. Just call me Scotty” he confided, and walked over, slamming the engine cowling shut and wiping a clean rag around the edges and over the cockpit in order to remove any traces of grime and grease. Jim looked at Scotty lovingly talking to his Spitfire, and suddenly felt a lot better about it being taken apart.
Scotty finished off, and signalled to another engineer heading through with a pile of tools, and the engineer nodded. Putting down the tools, he grabbed several others and all of them started to clear a path towards the exit. Scotty turned and beamed at Jim.
“Like I said, lad, she’ll sing when you take her up. Now, be off with you!”
Jim grinned and followed his instructions, taking one last look at the Spitfire as he headed out of the hanger, and walked towards the dispersal hut.
-x-x-x-x-
Jim settled down on an available deck-chair and brought out the envelope that had been left in his room, looking up into the clear blue sky as he did so. All around him pilots sat and chatted, some with books and the daily papers, others with flight plans and manuals, others with sets of cards. From his seat, he could hear the wireless blare out into the sunshine, and everyone around him kept looking out at the various aircraft in front of them. Jim stared out at his Spitfire glinting in the sunlight, and sighed happily, knowing that he was at least due to fly tomorrow – even if it was practising the tactics that made him want to vomit. He settled down further into his chair and started reading, scanning through and picking out the most important information as he tuned out the sounds of the other conversations happening around him. The afternoon drifted on as everyone kept half an ear on the phone in the dispersal hut, but relaxed while they still could.
The phone rang loudly, and everyone sat up in their seats, getting ready to run if necessary. The corporal inside reached for the phone and Pike came out of his office – a worried crease already starting to form on his brow.
“Dispersal?”
Everyone was silent, waiting.
The corporal visibly relaxed and placed the phone down, reaching over the desk to call out of the open window.
“Stand down, lads.”
Sighs of relief were heard from everyone, and Pike wiped his brow in relief, turning to enter his office and carry on with the paperwork he had to do before the duty sergeant told him off. Meanwhile, Jim lowered his parachute back down to the floor where it had been resting against his chair, and got back to reading, trying to work out his reply. He tapped his fingers against the paper as he did so, the light tapping sound mixing with the sound of engines in the distance as trucks rumbled along the roads. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spock settle into his chair and pull out the paper, pulling his cap down so that a shadow fell upon the paper to make it easier to read. Jim grinned, and looked back at the letter in his hands, tapping it thoughtfully.
The phone went. Everyone shot up. The corporal answered, and reached across the desk, yelling at the men as he did so.
“Scramble, lads! Scramble!”
Pike raced out of his office, pulling on his parachute and helmet as he did so. The pilots did the same as they ran towards the waiting aircraft. The techies were already there doing the pre-flight checks and dragging the chocks out of the way, hauling pilots up and into their seats, making sure that the cockpits were shut securely. Jim jumped onto the wing of his aircraft and ran forward, leaping into his seat and stuffing the bear that had been inside his parachute into the little gap between the instrument panel and the cockpit, letting the techie reach across and help strap him in. He flicked switches and scanned the area in front of him, aircraft already taxiing out, wobbling on the ground, pilot’s heads visibly moving from side to side as they tried to see past the Spitfire’s high nose. Jim signalled to the techie on the wing and he jumped off, pulling the chocks out the way and signalling that he was clear to start up the engine. A thumb to the button, and his Spitfire roared into life, joining the rumble that was filling the sky as everyone took off as quick as they could. He looked left, right, forward, started taxiing out even as he switched on the radio and flicked the identification beacon on, talking under his breath as the plane crawled forward in the queue of Spitfires all waiting to get off the ground.
“Fuel and oil correct, brakes work, flaps work, rudder works, ailerons work, cockpit clear, all clear above and behind, R/T works, pedals work, right, surge forward on the throttle, don’t let the nose up too early even if she wants to, got to get up but not die at the same time …” he took a quick glance at the teddy bear and reached out, stroking its nose quickly as he lined up to take-off, listening in to the approvals from Fighter Control, watching as the Spitfires in front of him surged forward and took off , and his space came. He eased forward on the throttle, and soon came the fight as he battled to keep his plane on the ground as she rumbled forward, picking up speed, as desperate to get into the air as Jim. Eventually, the airspeed indicator reached the right amount of knots, and Jim pulled back on the control column, letting her leap into the sky, suddenly graceful as light, eager to perform. Jim felt his stomach lift slightly as they left the ground, and then he started scanning the skies for other aircraft, knowing that a split second would make the difference between shooting down the enemy, and being shot down himself.
The cool voice from the day before came onto the radio, and Jim’s eyes widened in recognition even as he continued to scan the sky. It was the voice of Uhura, who had refused his advances but still smiled. He shook his head, and concentrated on listening to what she was saying.
“Red squadron, bandits are at Angels Twenty, bearing one two four degrees, distance twenty miles. Blue squadron and Rabbit squadron have also been scrambled. Raid is twenty plus fighters. I repeat, bandits are at Angels Twenty -”
A flash of light, and Jim instinctively swerved, looking for whatever had caused it. He breathed a sigh of relief, it was only the rest of the squadron forming up into a V. He slotted into his position that he had been told during the sortie planning, and heard Pike’s crisp tones over the radio as everyone gathered.
“Right gentlemen, pay attention, and for God’s sake don’t shoot your fellow squadron members down! The bastards will be around somewhere, I want eyes searching all the time -”
“Sir! Two ‘o’ clock Angels Twenty!” Hugh’s voice cut across and Jim looked up, seeing a flash of light near the sun.
“Bugger! Break!”
Everyone peeled off and Jim swerved just in time to avoid the tracer falling through the sky, shortly followed by the scream of a Stuka. He looked up as he twisted into a tight turn, and saw several other Stukas fall, and then –
“Messerschmitt at three o clock” came Spock’s cool voice over the radio, “form manoeuvre no. five immediately.”
Several planes started to follow Spock’s order and Jim gaped in shock even as he yelled down the mike.
“Are you insane?! We’ll get shot down – shit! Spock, on your left!” He spun, gritting his teeth against the rush of blood to his head as he aimed a burst of rounds at the Messerschmitt trying to attach itself to Spock’s tail. Spock twisted his Spitfire seemingly on the spot, turning tight enough to aim his own burst of rounds, and Jim turned back to the Stukas who were being chased by the rest of the squadron. His blood thumped in his ears as he lined up for a shot, taking a deep breath as he squeezed the button and sent rounds forward. Smoke began to pour, the plane headed down but Jim couldn’t follow it down, he spun his Spitfire round trying to avoid clipping the Spitfire that went screaming past him in a terminal dive, he carried on turning and looked for the other Stukas but could only see shooting wreckage, tracer that flew past in streams of white, planes twisting and diving in the effortless blue that was whirling round and round and changing with the green of the ground as Jim went whizzing up and down and round and round in a bid to stay alive. He felt a jolt and turned to see another Messerschmitt swoop past and craned his head round to the wings, but nothing was on fire, he couldn’t see anything hanging off, so he turned back and concentrated on keeping the rest of the squadron alive. Crackles hit the radio as pilots yelled at each other for backup, to “get out of the fucking way!” as they chased the enemy aircraft, unfamiliar squadron markings blurred past with faces as the planes dog-fought so close they could have reached out to touch each other, and –
Jim ran out of fight. He took a moment to breathe, to check the instruments and fuel gauges, noticed that the enemy were peeling away, making for the safety of the Continent, and suddenly he could hear again, his blood stopped pumping in his ears as he heard Pike calling for everyone to head back to base. He took one look at the disappearing aircraft and took a deep breath, turning his Spitfire in a leisurely half-circle and turned towards the setting sun, heading for base.
As he flew along, he quickly counted the planes in front and noticed one less than when they went out, and sighed. He patted the side of the cockpit, and spoke, careful not to hit the transmission button as he did so.
“Thanks old girl, you did a good job today.”
He would deny it later, but he swore the engine rumbled in response as the teddy bear stayed looking at Jim from the corner where it was squished.
-x-x-x-x-
Part 2/6
The distinctive pattern of RAF Biggin Hill’s runways appeared on the horizon, and Jim sighed in relief before reaching to the radio.
“Biggin Hill, this is Mike Romeo Kilo one six, requesting permission to land.”
A cool female voice filled the speakers.
“Mike Romeo Kilo one six, this is Biggin Hill, permission granted. Runway for landing is bearing 120.”
“Biggin Hill, copy that,” Jim replied, gently nudging the control column forward. Instantly his Spitfire responded, the growl from the engine rumbling through the aircraft as Jim headed to the correct runway. Lining up for his final approach, he glanced at the small stuffed bear sitting in one corner of the cockpit and held his breath till the wheels came into contact with the ground. The aircraft shuddered as he taxied along the runway, and Jim quickly prevented the small bear from taking a dive from its position squished between the glass of the cockpit and the instrument panel. A final turn along the tarmac, and Jim was marshalled into position. Increasing the revolutions, he allowed the beautiful engine to roar in the sunshine before winding down and turning off, the sound of chatter from various other pilots wandering around starting to fill the air along with the occasional truck rumbling along the roads connecting up the different parts of the airfield. A sigh of relief, and Jim began to unbuckle, starting to lever himself out of the seat at the same moment that a techie opened up the cockpit and pulled it fully back. Jim grabbed the bag between his legs, quickly stuffed the toy bear in, and clambered out, jumping from the wing and landing on the ground with a grin on his face, pleased with making another safe landing. He ran a hand through his hair, and watched as one of the pilots sitting on the deckchairs unfolded himself, heading forward to Jim. Jim started to walk towards him, hefting his bag over his left shoulder and quickly pulling out his cap from where it had been placed during the journey, shoving onto his head. The pilot in front of him smiled, and held out a hand for Jim to shake.
“You’ll be our new pilot?”
“Yes sir”, Jim nodded, looking quickly at the rank slides. “Flying Officer Jim Kirk.”
The man in front nodded, and started walking back to the hut, motioning to Jim to follow him, striding forward with lanky legs.
“I’m Flight Lieutenant Hugh Douglas, leader of A Flight. Now, this way to Squadron Leader Pike, he wants to see you.”
As they walked towards the hut, they passed the rest of the squadron sitting basking in the sunshine, smoking, reading the paper, listening to the wireless, chatting amongst themselves. Two pilots walked quickly towards the deckchair that Flight Lieutenant Douglas had just vacated, but the dark haired man in the one next to it swung his legs over it, raising an eyebrow over his paper at the two men. Hugh nodded at him as they passed, and nodded, smiling briefly at him. He turned back to Jim as they walked into the hut.
“That’s Flight Lieutenant Grayson, leader of B Flight here. Good chap to have on your side. Bit cold but can’t be helped. Here”, he gestured to the door on their right, “that’s Squadron Leader Pike’s office, he’s waiting for you”, and with a smile and a clap on the back, Hugh headed back outside. From the window Jim could see him head back to his seat, and Flight Lieutenant Grayson swing his legs back off the seat, settling down into his chair. A nod passed between them, and Hugh settled into his, waving cheerily at the two pilots who looked crestfallen at the lack of seat, before pulling out a book and starting to read. A cough was heard from inside the office and he jerked back to what he was supposed to be doing. Quickly he checked his reflection in the mirror, put his bag on the floor next to the wall, and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” rang from the office, and Jim walked in, standing in the doorway and snapping a salute to the figure at the desk. Squadron Leader Pike glanced up, and gestured to a seat in front of him, still scribbling on the paper in front of him. Jim negotiated his way through the piles of paper on the floor to the chair, and sat down gingerly. Pike looked back up, and smiled.
“You can remove the cap, Mr Kirk; we’re not on parade here.”
“Thanks, Sir” and Jim balanced it on his knees. Pike finished scribbling on the paper in front of it, and rested the pen on the paper. Cracking his knuckles, he looked at Jim, and smiled.
“So … you’re Flying Officer Kirk now”.
“Yes sir, apparently the RAF wanted to keep me.”
Pike raised an eyebrow, lacing his fingers together.
“Did they get a choice?”
Jim grinned back.
“Not really, sir.”
Pike nodded, and searched for a piece of paper on his desk. Finding it, he read through it, and looked back at Jim.
“I’ve placed you in A flight under the command of Flight Lieutenant Douglas”, he said, “and as far as I know, your luggage has arrived and been placed in your room at the Officer’s Mess. Mealtimes are listed on this sheet”, he passed it over to Jim, who placed it on top of his cap, “your free time is to do with as you wish, however I will remind you Flying Officer Kirk”, and here he narrowed his eyes and looked sternly at Jim, “if I get any notice of bad behaviour, I will come down on you like a ton of bricks, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Pike nodded and continued.
“Your Spitfire will be getting checked over by Flight Lieutenant Scott in Engineering tomorrow before you go flying, so you’ll spend tomorrow planning the sortie for the next day with the rest of A Flight. Everyone helps out here with the flying and duties, so you will get to suffer the joys of paperwork more than once a year. As a Flying Officer, I expect you to start taking responsibility on the squadron, making sure that the younger and less experienced pilots are well prepared for whatever happens in the next couple of months. All that’s left for me to say is welcome to Six Ten Squadron, Flying Officer Kirk.” Pike leaned over his desk, hand outstretched, and Jim shook it, conscious of the paperwork and hat on his knees wobbling at the forward motion. Pike leaned back, and gestured to Jim.
“Flying is finished for today, so if you want to get yourself over to the Mess, you can be presentable for dinner.”
Jim nodded, standing up carefully, and made his way to the door. Turning, he put his cap back on his head, tucked the paperwork under his left arm, and saluted. Pike saluted back, and Jim made his way out of the door.
As the door closed, Pike rubbed his eyes with one hand, looking at the picture on his desk. In it were several young men in army uniform, grinning away at the camera, and Chris looked at the younger version of himself, arm thrown across the shoulder of another, his arm thrown over Pike’. He sighed, looking at the photo.
“You’d be proud of him, George,” he said, and sighed, starting to collect the paperwork on his desk into a messy pile to shove in a bag in order to transport it to his room.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Outside the office, Jim stuffed the pieces of paperwork into the bag on the floor and hauled it onto his shoulders. Walking outside, he could see the pilots, who had been lounging around on the deckchairs and the grass, playing cards and generally doing nothing, now packing up, some shoving maps and newspapers into pockets while others stated to stack the chairs and deckchairs and take them inside. Jim looked around, and noticed Hugh Douglas standing in conversation with the two pilots from earlier who had looked so anxious to take his seat. Jim made his way over, and as he drew closer, he heard the conversation.
“Right, Dawson” Hugh looked at him, and the dark haired one shuffled on the spot, “next time I see a landing like that, you’ll be out practising with me from dawn till dusk until you can do it blindfolded. There can’t be any sloppy landings here, not with war on the horizon. As for you, Beckson”, he looked at the blonde one who had the grace to at least look abashed, “you may have been the king of pranks at your school, but here, we’ve all done the same pranks before. You’re supposed to be a pilot, not a schoolboy. Now, both of you get to the Mess before the sergeant rebukes you for being late again.”
The two of them shot to attention and saluted, causing the remaining pilots who hadn’t made their way to the Mess already to burst out laughing. The two of them walked away, talking amongst themselves, and Hugh shook his head, turning to face Jim.
“You finished with the Squadron Leader then Jim?”
“Yes, sir -” Jim started to say, and Hugh waved a hand, cutting him off.
“If there’s no one else around, call me Hugh.”
“Hugh, I was wondering if you could tell me where the mess was?”
Hugh nodded, walking to the hut to put away the deckchair in his hand.
“Come on Jim, if we hurry, we can grab the truck going from maintenance towards the Mess. Oh, and by the way”, he turned to Jim, “as you’re in my flight, you’ll be joining in the sortie planning tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good”, Hugh nodded, and with a clap on the back, ushered him to the taxiway where a couple of pilots were standing, ready to clamber on the truck rumbling down the way towards them. After a quick check to make sure that there was space, the two of them jumped on, hanging onto the sides as the truck continued its way towards the messes in order to drop people off for dinner. Jim hung on with one hand, looking out at the busy station closing for the day. Trucks rumbled to and fro, motorbikes and ordinary bicycles weaved in and out of the flow of traffic, and the truck halted to let a truck tow a Spitfire across the road towards the hangers. Jim watched as it went past, wings wobbling with the movement as ungainly on the ground as it was graceful in the air, and patted the bag still on his shoulder. Only a day, Jim, then you can get back up in the air, he told himself, and he swayed as the truck roared back to life, continuing its journey to the red brick buildings in front of them. Once there, the truck swerving to a halt, everyone piled out, splitting to their various messes, waving cheerily, chatting away as they walked along. Jim followed the bundle of pilots in front of him as they pulled caps out of their bags, jammed them on their heads, and poured into the Officer’s Mess in front of him. Jim did the same, and whistled appreciatively as he walked in. Everything looked luxurious, from the chandelier in the ceiling to the paintings on the wall and the soft carpet beneath Jim’s boots. Reflexively he wiped them on the mat provided, before walking forward, watching the rest of the pilots as they walked to their rooms, some reaching to their necks to remove their ties as they disappeared through the doors on the left side of the room. Jim walked forward to the desk at the end of the room, and noticed the pile of papers on the desk. Feet could be seen poking out from underneath, and Jim noticed the splashes of oil on the trousers that they were attached to. Jim coughed, and the figure beneath the desk jumped, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. He swore, then levered itself out until a boy stood in front of Jim, covered in oil and dust. He smoothed his hair so it resembled something that wasn’t a pile of fluff, and grinned at Jim.
“Hello there, sir!”
“…Hello?”
The boy held out a hand for Jim to shake, and Jim took it, blinking slightly.
“Mr Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, at your service sir!”
“Flying Officer Jim Kirk … Listen, are you the mess steward?”
Pavel shook his head and smiled, gesturing to the desk.
“No, I was fixing the desk – some screw fell out, drawers broke and as I was available, I did it. Sergeant Adams is currently in the kitchens checking on the progress of dinner. He should be here in … ah! Here he is, sir!” Pavel grinned and pointed to a sergeant walking through a set of double doors. Jim turned to face him, conscious of the appraising gaze the sergeant was giving him.
“Sergeant Adams?”
The sergeant looked at him and raised an eyebrow, categorising Jim’s uniform and accent.
“Yes, sir, and who might you be?”
“Flying Officer Jim Kirk, I arrived today.”
The sergeant looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, heading towards the desk where he searched through pieces of paper.
“Ah yes, sir, we were told of your arrival. Your luggage has already arrived and has been placed in your room, which is …” He found the list of room designations on the desk, and glanced quickly at it, signalling to Pavel who dived back under the desk to pick up his tools.
“Room Eight, sir. Dinner will be served in half an hour, which should give you enough time to change into something,” he paused and looked at Jim’s crumpled uniform, smelling of sweat and fuel from the flight in his Spitfire, and raised an eyebrow, “more suitable, sir.”
“Thanks sergeant, will do.” With a nod to the sergeant who stiffened slightly at the drill, Jim hauled his bag back onto his shoulder, and set off through the double doors leading to the rooms.
Back in the lobby, Pavel turned to face the sergeant, who was pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Sergeant? Is everything okay?”
Sergeant Adams blinked, and looked at Pavel.
“It’s fine, Mr Chekov, now have you finished fixing that drawer?”
“Yes, sergeant!” With a grin, Pavel grabbed the box of tools from the floor, and headed out the entrance. The sergeant sighed slightly, before going back through to the dining room to check on the progress of the dinner.
“Americans in the RAF, what will they think of next ...” he muttered as he strode through the doors.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim straightened his tie before he walked through the double doors leading to the dining room, quickly running a hand through his hair to make sure that it wasn’t resembling a haystack. Breathing deeply, he pushed open the doors, walking into a room full of chatter. Seated at various tables were the officers, drinks in hand, some demonstrating various moves with their hands, while stewards walked around with plates and glasses of drink to top up anyone’s empty glasses. Jim stood in the entrance letting the chatter wash over, noticing the light, airy feel of the room. One of the stewards made their way over, and nodded at Jim.
“Sir, would you care to sit?”
“I would,” Jim replied, smiling as he turned to look at the steward, “but I can’t see a spare seat.”
The steward inclined his head in recognition of the fact, and looked around the room.
“Sir, there appears to be a spare seat at this table. I’ll lead you there and take your order at the same time?
Jim grinned, and clapped the man on the shoulder closest to him.
“Lead the way.”
The steward rolled his eyes at the familiarity, and then made his way over to the spare seat. As they approached, Jim noticed that it consisted of Squadron Leader Pike, Hugh, Flight Lieutenant Grayson and other men with several bars on their shoulders, and he looked at the steward.
“Err, you sure it’s okay if I sit here? This looks like high-brass to me.”
The steward sighed, and looked at Jim.
“Do you want a seat for dinner? Or would you prefer to go hungry, sir?”
Jim raised an eyebrow as they continued to walk forward.
“Just asking …” he muttered under his breath, and they arrived at the table. The steward showed Jim to his seat, waiting patiently while Jim sat down. Pike smiled as Jim ordered his meal, and Hugh leaned over and shook his hand, smiling as well.
“Glad to see you survived Sergeant Adams, Flying Officer Kirk”, he said, and Jim grinned as he replied.
“Just about ... you should have seen the dirty look when he heard my accent though, sir.”
Hugh laughed, taking a sip of his drink.
“Well, there aren’t that many Americans in the Royal Air Force as you can imagine.”
The steward returned with Jim’s drink, and he gratefully took a sip before replying.
“Well, you can’t be American and be in the RAF, learnt that pretty quickly.”
He smiled slightly, and Hugh nodded in acknowledgement of that fact. A dark-haired man and large eyes at the other end of the table sipped his drink and looked ready to ask a question, but was cut off by the arrival of the food. Everyone settled down to their dinner, and the room grew quieter, the only noise being murmuring about various subjects that interspersed with the clinking of cutlery and glasses.
Eventually Jim laid down his cutlery and resisted the temptation to lean back in his chair and sigh in pleasure. As he looked around the rest of the table, he saw the dark haired man down the table smile slightly at Jim. He answered with a grin of his own. Hugh was busy talking to Pike about his initial officer training at RAF Cranwell, gesturing wildly with his hands as Flight Lieutenant Grayson raised his eyebrow at the tale. Pike, however, grinned and laughed, setting down his cutlery, and shaking his head.
“Sometimes, I wonder how on earth you managed to get to Flight Lieutenant, Hugh, I really really do.”
Hugh grinned, and pushed his chair out.
“It’s all thanks to you sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go have a smoke, anyone care to join me?”
Pike shook his head ruefully as Flight Lieutenant Grayson stood up.
“’Fraid I’ll have to pass, gentlemen, if I don’t get this paperwork done, Janice will have my head for breakfast.”
Flight Lieutenant Grayson turned to Pike with furrowed eyebrows.
“But surely sir, the paperwork is a necessary part of maintaining a well-run station; it is only natural that Sergeant Rand would make sure that it was filled out in a timely manner.”
Hugh laughed and swung an arm over Flight Lieutenant Grayson’s shoulders, clapping his other hand over his mouth.
“Spock! Just ‘cos you’re incredibly efficient at getting your paperwork done, doesn’t mean that anyone else is. Come on, if we don’t get to have a smoke soon, Sergeant Adams will find us and try and get us on the Mess Committee again!”
With a hurried salute from both, they left, Hugh guiding Spock away despite his protests.
At the table, Pike shook his head and laughed, before stood up himself. He looked at Jim who had been debating heading out for a smoke himself, and he pointed a finger at him.
“If you get Flight Lieutenant McCoy into trouble, I’ll have your head, Jim.”
“It was one fight sir! And they started it!” Jim protested, and the dark-haired man at the table raised his own eyebrow at Jim’s defence.
“Of course they did, Jim,” replied Pike, and Jim resisted the urge to poke his tongue out at his back as he turned and walked away. Jim turned back, and Flight Lieutenant McCoy looked at him, speaking as he placed his cutlery down on his plate.
“So you’re brand new, and you’ve already got into a fight?”
Jim shook his head, going to stand up.
“No, the fight was when the Squadron Leader and I first met –“ Jim paused, and looked at the other man.
“What did you say?”
“That you’re brand new and you already -”
Jim waved his hand impatiently.
“No, not that. Your accent … there’s no way in hell that you’re from Britain – I haven’t heard such a Deep South drawl since I was in the Deep South!”
The other man stood up, and gave him a withering look.
“Says the man who’s speaking broad Yankee.”
Jim dropped his hand and looked at the other guy.
“Fair enough, but still …”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offering one to McCoy.
“Let’s start again, shall we? My name’s Jim Kirk.”
The other man walked round the side of the table, and gave Jim a strong handshake, replying as he took one of Jim’s cigarettes.
“McCoy. Leonard McCoy.”
McCoy pulled out his lighter and gestured towards the double doors at the end of the Mess. Both of them walked out into the quiet night air, and McCoy leaned against the brick wall of the Mess and lit his cigarette, passing the lighter to Jim and inhaling deeply, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Nothing like a smoke after a day of no surgeries …”
Jim lit his cigarette and leaned against the wall, taking a long drag before he replied.
“Or after a day of flying. I’m guessing you work in the Med-Centre if you do surgeries?”
McCoy tilted his head in reply.
“How long you been there?”
“Long enough to know better,” McCoy replied, and the two of them fell into silence, letting the smoke from their cigarettes drift out into the clear night sky. Around was the quiet chatter of other smokers, while the stars glittered in the sky above, the only source of illumination apart from the quick overspill of light when someone stepped in and out of the Mess.
“So is Flight Lieutenant Grayson’s name really Spock?” Jim asked.
McCoy nodded.
“Yeah, apparently it’s from his dad’s side of the family, something to do with his aristocratic heritage.”
“Fair enough,” Jim replied, shrugging, “and I thought having Tiberius as my middle name was bad.”
McCoy snorted in laughter before speaking. “Try having Horatio. Now that’s bad.”
“Very true!” Jim said, and the two of them laughed a little, before lapsing back into silence.
Eventually Leonard finished his cigarette and dropped the stub on the ground, grinding it out with the ball of his foot as he turned to look at Jim.
“Well, nice as it was to meet a new member of the station, I’m going to have to go or I won’t get home and to bed before midnight. Nice to meet you Mister Kirk. Oh,” as he turned to walk away, “you’ll be expected to come to the Med-Centre tomorrow for a physical before you fly, remember that.”
Jim nodded, taking a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing his own out and walking forward, shaking McCoy’s hand.
“Call me Jim, and nice to meet a fellow outcast from the US over here, McCoy.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow and laughed, walking away. As he did so, Jim heard him say “Yeh, you too …”
As he headed out into the darkness, Jim looked at the abandoned stubs on the ground, frowning slightly. He walked inside, through the Mess and into his room, kicking off his boots to one corner of the room and throwing his jacket over the back of the only chair inside as he did so. Flopping down onto the bed, he lifted up the teddy-bear perched on the pillow, and threw it into the air. Once, twice, he watched the small bear revolve in the air before he caught it, and as he did so, his eyes fell on the letter he had delivered to his room before dinner. He reached for it, frown on his face. He twisted it in his hands, debating whether or not to open it. Decisively, he put the letter back on the desk and walked to his wardrobe; getting changed and heading back to the bed.
“I’ll read it tomorrow,” he told the silent room, and as he snuggled down beneath the covers and turned off the small bedside light, his gaze fell on the bear still on his pillow. He reached out and placed it gently on the bedside table, looking at the fur shining softly in the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains.
“Night, Dad” Jim whispered into the silence, and he drifted into sleep, wondering sleepily whether McCoy had joined the RAF for the same reasons as he had.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim staggered into the briefing room the next morning, clutching a cup of coffee as though it was a lifeline. He had luckily brushed his hair as he raced around his room trying to get ready and out before the briefing started, and his uniform was neat enough to pass Sergeant Adams’ beady eye, but as he sat down in one of the chairs and blearily felt for the pencil and paper he had put in his pockets before leaving, he cursed all the cheery morning people who had greeted him on the way to the room.
He found the pencil and paper and settled into the chair, taking a large gulp of coffee, grimacing at the temperature. The drink had cooled during the time it took him to get from the Mess to the briefing room, but no matter, its caffeine, I’ll drink it anyway, he thought and he kept drinking. As he did, he watched the rest of the squadron and the key personnel from the other areas of the station file in, all holding mugs with varying hot drinks, one half barely awake while the other half chattered away happily, perfectly happy to be up before dawn.
“Stupid morning people …” he muttered, and found himself the recipient of a weird look from a woman who had sat herself next to him, carefully smoothing out her skirt before she sat. Jim looked at her dark hair and her extremely long legs that elegantly crossed as she rested a pad of paper and a pencil on her knees, and looked back, sipping his cold coffee with a grin. His morning was looking up. He finished his drink and turned to face her.
“I think I now know why people like mornings if they get to see someone as beautiful as you every day.”
She arches an eyebrow and looked at him.
“Really, that’s the best line you could come up with?”
Jim grinned, leaning forward slightly.
“Well, I was planning to save the line about you having fallen from heaven till our second date.”
“And what makes you so sure that you’ll have a first?” she replied, a small smile gracing her face.
“Well, how else will I find out your name?”
“You won’t, sir,” she said, and turned back to the front.
“Oh come on, don’t you at least want to know my name before you completely reject me?”
“I’m fine without it … sir,” came the reply, and Jim grinned.
“You are fine without it … its Jim, Jim Kirk.”
She didn’t move, and Jim turned back to face the table, careful not to look at her.
“If you don’t tell me your name, I’m gonna have to make one up, you know.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to him.
“It’s Uhura. Flight Sergeant Uhura.”
Jim looked back to her, shock on his face.
“Uhura? No way! That was going to be the name I made up for you! So … is your first name flight sergeant then?”
She laughed and shook her head, turning back as the final people trickled into the room. Jim looked up to see Pike enter along with a number of people with a fair number of bars on their shoulder. The room settled down, settling into position. On the other side of Uhura, Spock sat himself down and nodded a good morning to Jim and her. Before Jim could reply, the station commander stood behind the podium at the front of the room, and everyone fell silent.
The station commander sighed and looked out at the sea of faces.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get this briefing out the way quickly, there are a lot of things to be done. First off, the weather report is the same as yesterday, cloud at Angels twenty up until eight hundred hours, with a westerly wind of three knots. As far as we know, there aren’t any planned raids, but we will still have a patrol up in order to make sure that we are not sneaked up upon, and I expect all of Fighter Control to keep an eye on the RDF plots to make sure of the same. There are no expected convoys through the Channel or VIP flights, there will be a flight from the ATS due in at twelve hundred hours, and finally,” he took off his glasses and placed them on the podium, looking out at the people in front of him. “I need hardly remind you that we are at war. I hope to God that we don’t lose people during this, but for God’s sake, remember the drills, follow the tactics given, and don’t get yourselves killed. Nothing further, go to your duties.”
The entire room came to attention, and erupted in a sea of chatter as everyone started getting up. Jim stood up and ran his hand through his hair quickly, looking to the side where Spock and Uhura were in quiet conversation. Leaving them to it, he started edging his way through the crowd; hand still clutched firmly round the coffee mug, and was almost out the door when a hand clapped onto his shoulder.
He turned, and saw the grinning face of Hugh. He held out an envelope and Jim took a few seconds to focus his eyes, widening them when he realised that it was the envelope from his room. His hands went automatically to his pockets where he had stuffed it that morning before heading out and Hugh laughed, placing it in Jim’s hands.
“Guessing this is yours, then, Kirk.”
Jim nodded, smiling even with his body calling for more caffeine.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, mindful of the officers milling past. Hugh nodded in acknowledgement, and hand still on Jim’s shoulder, he steered him out the door and into the bright sunshine. He let go and Jim turned to face him. If anything, the grin had grown evil in only thirty seconds.
“We’ll be at the dispersal hut when you’re finished with the Med-Centre, Kirk.”
“Thanks, sir, make me feel better won’t you.”
“I try my best, Kirk See you soon – if you get allowed out of there quickly” he finished, and Jim slumped his shoulders, jamming his cap on his head as he did so.
“Yes, sir.”
He stepped back and saluted, the resulting drill causing Sergeant Adams to wince as he went past.
Hugh rolled his eyes and headed off to the truck waiting to take the pilots round to the other side of the airfield. Jim sighed as it headed off without him, turning and starting to trudge his way to the Med-Centre. Knowing his luck, he would be kept by the doctors until well after flying time.
-x-x-x-x-x-
“Look, McCoy, it’s not like I’ve not been cleared for duty before!” Jim pleaded, but McCoy crossed his arms and frowned, looking at Jim.
“I’m not other doctors, kid, I’m going to check your heartbeat and ribs before you decide to have a heart attack and fall out of the sky, leaving me with more paperwork. Now, shirt off.”
Jim scowled and did as he was told, and McCoy pulled on a pair of gloves, stepping forward and bending down in order to examine Jim’s chest. The first touch of McCoy’s hands sent shivers down his spine, and Jim reflexively shuddered. McCoy looked at him and Jim hurriedly spoke.
“I’m ticklish.”
McCoy shook his head and Jim could hear him mutter under his breath. Jim rolled his eyes in response. The room filled with silence, occasionally broken by McCoy’s mutterings as he found another area to explore, and Jim looked up at the ceiling. He looked back down at the top of McCoy’s head.
“So why are you in the RAF?”
McCoy didn’t answer, and Jim poked him in the chest with his hand.
“What?”
“You’re from America, why are you in the RAF as a doctor?”
McCoy’s eyebrow rose as he leaned back.
“I could ask you the same, kid, now will you let me finish the examination before I grow old and die.”
Jim shrugged. “Wanted to fly the Spitfire. Your turn.”
At McCoy’s continued raised eyebrow, Jim grinned.
“It’s not like there’s any other topic of conversation, is there?”
McCoy rolled his eyes and looked at Jim.
“I joined because the RAF need surgeons, luckily I also practiced as a general practitioner, so I was welcomed with open arms. Now, hush while I finish.”
“Did you live over here already then?”
McCoy huffed and removed his hands from Jim’s torso, stripping off the gloves and putting them in the bin.
“Do you ever stop talking, kid?”
“The name’s Jim, and no, I don’t, Sam always used to tell me to shut up when I was little. I would burble all day about anything.”
McCoy rolled his eyes as he sat down at his desk and started writing on Jim’s medical record.
“I can believe that,” he drawled, “put your shirt back on before you catch your death of cold.”
Jim pouted as he did so, speaking slyly.
“But what if a nurse comes in? You’d deny her my naked chest?”
McCoy finished writing and drew one long look up and down Jim’s chest.
“Yes, I’d spare her the horror of seeing it.”
“Doctor McCoy, you wound me!”
“It isn’t permanent kid, now … as far as I can see, you’re in good shape. Now, clear off, I bet you’re excited to be getting back up into the air.”
Jim stood and retied his tie, looking at McCoy.
“What makes you say that?”
“The fact that you’ve been staring out that window at the airfield with a look of longing normally seen on a puppy wanting a walk. Now, get with you, Mr Kirk.”
Jim grinned as he headed towards the door.
“Not going to call me Jim?”
In response, McCoy waved and turned back to his papers. Jim laughed, and headed out the room, closing the door behind him. Barely thirty seconds later Leonard heard Jim hitch a lift with another pilot, and the rumble of the motorcycle fade into the distance as they headed off towards the hanger.
Leonard sighed and looked at the pile of papers on his desk detailing Jim’s medical record.
“You’re going to cause me hell, kid aren’t you,” he muttered, and got back to writing down his report.
-x-x-x-x-x-
Jim dropped off the back of the motorcycle and waved as the pilot continued on to the dispersal hut, and he headed into the cavernous hanger on his right. Even from a hundred or so feet away the air was ringing with banging of hammers against metal, whirring of machines, rumbling Spitfire and Hurricane engines being tested and as he walked in, he fought the urge to cover his ears from the din. His nose filled with the smell of petrol and grease, while his heart almost sank at the sight of half-dismantled Spitfires with their engine cowling removed. Every engineer was covered in half overalls and whirring round the hanger like bees, he noticed Pavel running around covered in grease and oil, dragging a box of parts behind him and Jim waved. Pavel looked up, waving back as he carried on walking, and in the middle of it all … Jim halted and stared.
His Spitfire had her engine cowling removed and half an engineer stuck out of the cockpit, the legs waving as muffled cursing could be made out in the din. Jim hurried over, barely managing to not hug the plane and tell her that it was going to be alright. As he drew closer, the techie removed himself and slid down the fuselage, landing on the ground with bended knees and a spanner in his hand which he lovingly thwacked against her body.
Jim couldn’t help it; he moaned in protest.
The engineer looked at him and grinned, walking over to Jim and clapping a grease-covered hand on his shoulders.
“I’ll be guessing from your horrified expression that this beauty is your aircraft, me lad?” he said in a broad Scottish accent. Jim nodded dumbly.
“Well, she is a beauty indeed! All I had to do was give her engine a little tweak so that she could stand my special formula of fuel and oil, mark my words, lad, she’ll be singing the moment you take her up into the air. You’ve taken very good care of this lovely lady!”
Jim finally found his voice and looked at the engineer, finally registering the officer tapes attached to the shirt under the grime.
“Yes Flight Lieutenant …” he turned back to his Spitfire, “she is going to be okay, isn’t she?”
“Course, lad!” The engineer boomed, “all I have to do shut the engine cowling and she’ll be towed out ready for you to fly her! I promise you, or my name isn’t Montgomery Scott!”
“Montgomery?”
“Aye, my mother must have had a grudge against me. Just call me Scotty” he confided, and walked over, slamming the engine cowling shut and wiping a clean rag around the edges and over the cockpit in order to remove any traces of grime and grease. Jim looked at Scotty lovingly talking to his Spitfire, and suddenly felt a lot better about it being taken apart.
Scotty finished off, and signalled to another engineer heading through with a pile of tools, and the engineer nodded. Putting down the tools, he grabbed several others and all of them started to clear a path towards the exit. Scotty turned and beamed at Jim.
“Like I said, lad, she’ll sing when you take her up. Now, be off with you!”
Jim grinned and followed his instructions, taking one last look at the Spitfire as he headed out of the hanger, and walked towards the dispersal hut.
-x-x-x-x-
Jim settled down on an available deck-chair and brought out the envelope that had been left in his room, looking up into the clear blue sky as he did so. All around him pilots sat and chatted, some with books and the daily papers, others with flight plans and manuals, others with sets of cards. From his seat, he could hear the wireless blare out into the sunshine, and everyone around him kept looking out at the various aircraft in front of them. Jim stared out at his Spitfire glinting in the sunlight, and sighed happily, knowing that he was at least due to fly tomorrow – even if it was practising the tactics that made him want to vomit. He settled down further into his chair and started reading, scanning through and picking out the most important information as he tuned out the sounds of the other conversations happening around him. The afternoon drifted on as everyone kept half an ear on the phone in the dispersal hut, but relaxed while they still could.
The phone rang loudly, and everyone sat up in their seats, getting ready to run if necessary. The corporal inside reached for the phone and Pike came out of his office – a worried crease already starting to form on his brow.
“Dispersal?”
Everyone was silent, waiting.
The corporal visibly relaxed and placed the phone down, reaching over the desk to call out of the open window.
“Stand down, lads.”
Sighs of relief were heard from everyone, and Pike wiped his brow in relief, turning to enter his office and carry on with the paperwork he had to do before the duty sergeant told him off. Meanwhile, Jim lowered his parachute back down to the floor where it had been resting against his chair, and got back to reading, trying to work out his reply. He tapped his fingers against the paper as he did so, the light tapping sound mixing with the sound of engines in the distance as trucks rumbled along the roads. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spock settle into his chair and pull out the paper, pulling his cap down so that a shadow fell upon the paper to make it easier to read. Jim grinned, and looked back at the letter in his hands, tapping it thoughtfully.
The phone went. Everyone shot up. The corporal answered, and reached across the desk, yelling at the men as he did so.
“Scramble, lads! Scramble!”
Pike raced out of his office, pulling on his parachute and helmet as he did so. The pilots did the same as they ran towards the waiting aircraft. The techies were already there doing the pre-flight checks and dragging the chocks out of the way, hauling pilots up and into their seats, making sure that the cockpits were shut securely. Jim jumped onto the wing of his aircraft and ran forward, leaping into his seat and stuffing the bear that had been inside his parachute into the little gap between the instrument panel and the cockpit, letting the techie reach across and help strap him in. He flicked switches and scanned the area in front of him, aircraft already taxiing out, wobbling on the ground, pilot’s heads visibly moving from side to side as they tried to see past the Spitfire’s high nose. Jim signalled to the techie on the wing and he jumped off, pulling the chocks out the way and signalling that he was clear to start up the engine. A thumb to the button, and his Spitfire roared into life, joining the rumble that was filling the sky as everyone took off as quick as they could. He looked left, right, forward, started taxiing out even as he switched on the radio and flicked the identification beacon on, talking under his breath as the plane crawled forward in the queue of Spitfires all waiting to get off the ground.
“Fuel and oil correct, brakes work, flaps work, rudder works, ailerons work, cockpit clear, all clear above and behind, R/T works, pedals work, right, surge forward on the throttle, don’t let the nose up too early even if she wants to, got to get up but not die at the same time …” he took a quick glance at the teddy bear and reached out, stroking its nose quickly as he lined up to take-off, listening in to the approvals from Fighter Control, watching as the Spitfires in front of him surged forward and took off , and his space came. He eased forward on the throttle, and soon came the fight as he battled to keep his plane on the ground as she rumbled forward, picking up speed, as desperate to get into the air as Jim. Eventually, the airspeed indicator reached the right amount of knots, and Jim pulled back on the control column, letting her leap into the sky, suddenly graceful as light, eager to perform. Jim felt his stomach lift slightly as they left the ground, and then he started scanning the skies for other aircraft, knowing that a split second would make the difference between shooting down the enemy, and being shot down himself.
The cool voice from the day before came onto the radio, and Jim’s eyes widened in recognition even as he continued to scan the sky. It was the voice of Uhura, who had refused his advances but still smiled. He shook his head, and concentrated on listening to what she was saying.
“Red squadron, bandits are at Angels Twenty, bearing one two four degrees, distance twenty miles. Blue squadron and Rabbit squadron have also been scrambled. Raid is twenty plus fighters. I repeat, bandits are at Angels Twenty -”
A flash of light, and Jim instinctively swerved, looking for whatever had caused it. He breathed a sigh of relief, it was only the rest of the squadron forming up into a V. He slotted into his position that he had been told during the sortie planning, and heard Pike’s crisp tones over the radio as everyone gathered.
“Right gentlemen, pay attention, and for God’s sake don’t shoot your fellow squadron members down! The bastards will be around somewhere, I want eyes searching all the time -”
“Sir! Two ‘o’ clock Angels Twenty!” Hugh’s voice cut across and Jim looked up, seeing a flash of light near the sun.
“Bugger! Break!”
Everyone peeled off and Jim swerved just in time to avoid the tracer falling through the sky, shortly followed by the scream of a Stuka. He looked up as he twisted into a tight turn, and saw several other Stukas fall, and then –
“Messerschmitt at three o clock” came Spock’s cool voice over the radio, “form manoeuvre no. five immediately.”
Several planes started to follow Spock’s order and Jim gaped in shock even as he yelled down the mike.
“Are you insane?! We’ll get shot down – shit! Spock, on your left!” He spun, gritting his teeth against the rush of blood to his head as he aimed a burst of rounds at the Messerschmitt trying to attach itself to Spock’s tail. Spock twisted his Spitfire seemingly on the spot, turning tight enough to aim his own burst of rounds, and Jim turned back to the Stukas who were being chased by the rest of the squadron. His blood thumped in his ears as he lined up for a shot, taking a deep breath as he squeezed the button and sent rounds forward. Smoke began to pour, the plane headed down but Jim couldn’t follow it down, he spun his Spitfire round trying to avoid clipping the Spitfire that went screaming past him in a terminal dive, he carried on turning and looked for the other Stukas but could only see shooting wreckage, tracer that flew past in streams of white, planes twisting and diving in the effortless blue that was whirling round and round and changing with the green of the ground as Jim went whizzing up and down and round and round in a bid to stay alive. He felt a jolt and turned to see another Messerschmitt swoop past and craned his head round to the wings, but nothing was on fire, he couldn’t see anything hanging off, so he turned back and concentrated on keeping the rest of the squadron alive. Crackles hit the radio as pilots yelled at each other for backup, to “get out of the fucking way!” as they chased the enemy aircraft, unfamiliar squadron markings blurred past with faces as the planes dog-fought so close they could have reached out to touch each other, and –
Jim ran out of fight. He took a moment to breathe, to check the instruments and fuel gauges, noticed that the enemy were peeling away, making for the safety of the Continent, and suddenly he could hear again, his blood stopped pumping in his ears as he heard Pike calling for everyone to head back to base. He took one look at the disappearing aircraft and took a deep breath, turning his Spitfire in a leisurely half-circle and turned towards the setting sun, heading for base.
As he flew along, he quickly counted the planes in front and noticed one less than when they went out, and sighed. He patted the side of the cockpit, and spoke, careful not to hit the transmission button as he did so.
“Thanks old girl, you did a good job today.”
He would deny it later, but he swore the engine rumbled in response as the teddy bear stayed looking at Jim from the corner where it was squished.
-x-x-x-x-
Part 2/6
