The 71st was on the move, not toward the bombing raids but the sea. Jameson.
She moved the squadron across her quadrant in five-minute increments, noting the number of planes and the general direction, but soon they were no longer hers to keep watch over, and others took their place.
The hours flew, but she was too worried to eat during her break, too anxious to see the 71st return to do much else but hover over that board, because she knew he was flying tonight. When her fifteen minutes were up, she headed back into the filter room and took over her station once more.
She noted with no small sense of satisfaction that the number of bombers on their way out was smaller than coming in. They’d had a few victories tonight.
The radio operator’s next plot came through her headpiece, and she reached for a new marker with a slight smile. The 71st was back in her quadrant.
She placed the marker at the appropriate coordinate, then froze as the radio operator updated the number of aircraft.
Fifteen.
Scarlett stared at the marker for precious seconds as her heart lurched into her throat. She’s wrong. She has to be wrong. Scarlett hit the microphone switch on her headset.
“Could you give me the strength of the 71st again?” she said.
Every head in the room snapped her direction.
Plotters didn’t talk. Ever.
“Fifteen strong,” the operator repeated. “They lost one.”
They lost one. They lost one. They lost one.
Scarlett’s fingers trembled as she replaced the little flag on the marker to one that read fifteen. It wasn’t Jameson. It couldn’t be. She would know, wouldn’t she? If the man she loved with all her heart had gone down—had died—she’d feel it. She’d have to. There was simply no way her heart could continue beating without his. It was an anatomical impossibility.
But Constance hadn’t known…
The next plot came through her headset, and she moved the appropriate markers, changing out the arrows to the timed color groups.
Jameson. Jameson. Jameson. Her limbs moved by muscle memory as her mind swam and her belly churned, dinner curdling as the 71st got closer to Martlesham-Heath. Even after they were hangered and officially off the board, Scarlett couldn’t kick the sick feeling in her stomach.
So far, the Eagle Squadron had been miraculously lucky—they hadn’t lost a pilot. She’d almost become complacent in their luck, but that had ended tonight. Who was it? If it wasn’t Jameson—please, God, don’t be Jameson—then it was someone he knew. Howie? One of the newer Yanks?
She glanced at the clock. She had four more hours to go.
She wanted to ring Martlesham-Heath, to demand the call sign of the downed pilot, but if it was Jameson, she’d know soon enough. They’d no doubt already be waiting for her at home. Howie would never let her find out through the gossip mill.
The time passed in torturous five-minute blocks, ticking away as she moved the markers, changed the arrows, heard the orders called out from Group Headquarters. By the time their watch was over, Scarlett was a tangle of nerves with a rapid heartbeat and not much else.
“Let me drive you home. I know your bicycle is here, but I have the section car,” Constance said after they gathered their things from the cloakroom.
“I’m fine.” Scarlett shook her head as they walked toward their bicycles. The last thing Constance needed was to comfort her.
“He’s okay,” she said softly, touching Scarlett’s wrist. “He has to be. I can’t believe in a God so cruel as to take both our loves. He’s okay.”
“And if he’s not?” Scarlett’s voice was barely a whisper.
“He will be. Come on. Get in the car; no arguments. I’ll tell the other girls to walk back to the hut.” Constance led her to the car, then spoke to the other members of the watch before sliding behind the wheel.
The drive was short—only a few minutes off the station—but for the smallest of moments, Scarlett didn’t want to turn the corner, didn’t want to know. But they did.
There was a car parked outside her house.
“Oh God,” Constance whispered.
Scarlett squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath. “Why don’t you want to take the teller training?”
Constance glanced her way as she pulled up behind the car, which bore the 11 Group insignia. “Right now? You want to talk about that right now?”
“I just always thought you planned to advance.” Her heart beat so fast, it almost blended into a steady thrum.
“Scarlett.”
“There’s more pressure, yes, but more pay with the promotion.” Her hand gripped the handle like a vise.
“Scarlett!” Constance snapped.
She ripped her gaze away from the 11 Group insignia and looked at her sister.
“I promise I will come over tomorrow morning and talk to you about the training, but right now, you cannot stay in the car.”
“Do you wish you’d never opened the letter?” Scarlett whispered.
“It would only have delayed the inevitable.” Constance forced a shaky smile. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”
Scarlett nodded, then pushed her door open and stepped out onto the pavement, readying herself for another set of doors opening.
The car doors didn’t open. Her front door did.
“Hey, you.” Jameson filled the doorway, and Scarlett’s knees nearly gave out.
She broke into a run, and he met her halfway, swinging her into his arms with a hug so tight, she felt the pieces of her click back into place. He was okay. He was home. He was alive.
She buried her face in his neck, breathed in his scent, and held on for dear life, because that’s exactly what he’d become—her life.
“I was so worried,” she said against his skin, unwilling to draw back for even a moment.
…
“I knew you would be. That’s why I got a pass and drove up.” He kept one big hand splayed on her back and held the nape of her neck with the other. Holding Scarlett was all he’d thought about since the moment they’d lost Kolendorski. “I’m okay.”
She just held on tighter.
Jameson looked over Scarlett’s shoulder and nodded at Constance, who watched them with a wistful smile. She nodded back, then turned away, heading for the car she’d brought Scarlett home in.
“Who was it?” Scarlett asked.
“Kolendorski.” He’d liked the guy. “Turned to intercept a bomber and got taken out by two fighters. We all saw him go down in the sea.” No attempt to bail out. No Mayday. He went in vertically with enough force that if he hadn’t been killed before, he’d been dead on impact. No one could survive that kind of crash.