The Oslo Affair (Shadows of War, #2) by CW Browning (read after .txt) 📗

that stretched over his face and he looked at Rob beside him to find him shaking his head. This wasn’t the first time they’d heard complaints from the farmers, and it wouldn’t be last. For some reason, they seemed to think they could get through this war without having the inconvenience of planes flying overhead.

“Third, whoever pinched the tub of propeller grease from the hangars, please return it.” Ashmore looked up again and this time there was a decided twinkle in his eyes. “I can’t imagine what you would want with the wretched stuff, but I’ve a few angry ground-crew sergeants in my office. We can’t get any more until the end of the month, so be considerate and return it from whence it came, please.”

After some quick scanning and shuffling of the papers in his hands, Ashmore tossed them aside.

“Right. The rest is rubbish.”

“And that wasn’t?” Rob muttered loud enough to draw several grins from around the room.

Ashmore leaned against the desk behind him and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We have a long day ahead of us,” he said. “Low-level formation flying, away from the farmers’ fields if we can help it.” Groans rose up and he was betrayed into a chuckle. “I know, I know. However, an end is in sight. Tomorrow we’ll be rotating out sections and practicing night-flying. Today, A flight will go up first, then B flight. C flight will go after lunch, then we’ll start over. You know the routine.” Ashmore reached behind him and picked up his notes again. “Oh! Before we go, just one more thing. HQ sent down some papers. They’re Polish phrases you have to memorize.”

“Polish phrases?” Andrew “Mother” Hampton drawled from the back of the room. “What the bloody hell for?”

“We’re getting some Polish refugees who were in the air force over there. May be helpful in communications. It would also be helpful if you end up bailing out over Poland,” Ashmore added dryly.

“If I ditch in Poland, they should bloody well speak English,” Mother muttered and Miles grinned.

“That’s a bit much, Hampton,” Ashmore said, unperturbed. “It’s their country, after all. But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for quite some time. Not unless you plan on transferring over to bombers.”

“Good Lord, no!”

“Well then, read these over and you’ll be tested tomorrow morning. And it is classified, so no blabbing at the pub if you don’t mind. I know it’s a nuisance, but do your best.” Ashmore threw the papers back down on the desk and picked up his flying gloves. “Right. Off we go.”

Miles and Rob got up and ambled out of the briefing room to where a truck waited. They climbed into the back and held on to the sides as it ground into gear and began jostling and bouncing across the field to the dispersal hut that served as the ‘ready’ room, where the pilots spent their time between flights. Taking a deep breath, Miles inhaled the cool, morning air and gazed out across the expanse of grass. They bumped along, passing the rows of Spitfires lined up along the landing strip. The sight of the fighters never ceased to fill him with an overwhelming excitement and anticipation. This was where he felt alive.

After about five minutes of bone-jarring bumping, the truck rumbled to a stop outside the wooden hut. Inside were a few chairs and a desk where the adjutant sat with a phone, ready to dispatch fighters to meet enemy threats at a moment’s notice. It was a standard set up that had been proven to work. Except the enemy wasn’t showing any signs of threat, and the only time that phone rang was to inform them that tea was up.

Miles and Rob climbed down and strolled over to the deck chairs scattered about outside. They were in B flight and they watched as A flight went out to their planes and started their engines.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” Slippy remarked, flopping onto the grass and squinting up at the sky. “Not a cloud up there.”

“Could do with a few more degrees on the temperature,” Chris said, burying his hands in his jacket pockets and pulling up the leather and wool collar of his flight jacket.

Slippy squinted at him. “I thought all you Americans got mountains of snow in the colonies.”

Chris ignored the reference to the colonies. Everyone mentioned it at least half a dozen times a day. They hadn’t figured out yet that it didn’t bother him to be called a Yank from the Colonies.

“Only after Christmas where I come from,” he said easily. “Of course, I don’t expect someone from the Mother Country to understand, but America is much bigger than you realize.”

“Can’t be bothered to realize,” Slippy replied, undisturbed. “I don’t normally associate with rabble rousers and war-makers.”

“You know, for such a sophisticated and upper-crust society, it’s amazing how you dwell on ancient history,” Chris said with a good-natured laugh.

Miles settled in a wooden chair next to a small card table and stretched.

“It’s unlikely Slippy dwells on anything,” he remarked, tapping his forehead significantly. “Runs in the family, y’know.”

Everyone laughed, including Slippy.

“Now, now, none of that, if you please.” A new voice said cheerfully. “Don’t you know there’s a war on? We can’t have laughing at the ready, now can we?”

Miles turned to look at the newcomer carrying a clipboard in his hand. Bertram Rodford, or Bertie as they all called him, was the intelligence officer. His easy sense of humor and brutal honesty had made him a favorite with the pilots. He had been a professor of history at the university before the war broke out, commanding the respect of pilots who were not known for their affinity of the written word, historical or otherwise. His primary duty was de-briefing the pilots after every sortie. If this ‘Phoney War’ ever got off the ground, Bertie would be the one who sorted fact from fiction, using the pilots’ views of the air battles.

“A flight’s only just gone up,”