Stefan’s mask was still plugged into the interphone, and over his earphones he heard Hans laughing coarsely. Max’s voice added to the exchange.

‘Tell Pieter to knock it off for me, will you?’

Stef obliged. ‘Max says stop arsing around.’

‘All right, all right,’ said Pieter. He patted Stef on the shoulder to show the kid he was just messing with him and carried on towards the aft bulkhead, leaving Stef and the navigator’s compartment behind him. He ducked as he passed through the bulkhead and entered the waist section.

Just ahead on the floor was the bulge of the ball turret, beyond that on either side the openings for both of the waist-guns. It was noticeably colder and noisier in this section of the fuselage, as the wind angrily whistled past the open gun ports. The floor between the two machine guns, which were offset by a few feet to allow two waist-gunners to operate simultaneously without bumping into each other, was overlaid with wooden planks. It was the only floor space of the plane to have planking to ensure neither gun operator would trip over one of the ribs that ringed the fuselage. Hans was sitting on the wooden floor hugging his knees.

Pieter shouted, ‘Hans, what the fuck are you doing down there?’

‘Fucking freezing up by the gun. I’m just having a break.’

Pieter wasn’t entirely without sympathy for Hans. He was feeling the bitter cold too. They were all used to the sealed comfort of their Heinkel 111.

Pieter pointed at one of the MG-81s that had been installed in place of the Brownings. ‘Is it okay to — ?’

Hans nodded. ‘Sure, you’ll freeze your bloody balls off after a few seconds though.’

Pieter climbed onto the planked floor and stood behind the gun. He held it in his hands and stared out through the waist-gun porthole. The wind battered his face as he looked out upon the grey-blue world outside and he struggled to keep his eyes open as streams of tears quickly emerged and were blown horizontally across his cheeks. He remembered to pull down his goggles and was able to look out again more comfortably.

He hunkered down behind the gun and, with one eye closed, aimed along the sight and down the barrels. He squeezed the trigger momentarily and let a dozen rounds off. Most of the shells dropped outside and were instantly whisked away by the wind. Three or four rattled down inside onto the wooden floor.

Hans reached out for them and eagerly scooped them up, placing them in the pocket of his flying jacket to savour the fading warmth of the casings through the thick leather.

He placed a hand to his ear and then nodded, Max was on the interphone saying something. ‘He’s test firing the portside gun, Max,’ Hans replied. He nodded and then pulled his mask from his face and shouted out to Pieter. ‘He says stop messing around with the guns.’

Pieter nodded back at him and reluctantly let go of the waist-gun.

The curse of the co-pilot… fuck all to do.

It angered and frustrated him that he’d been trained as well as any pilot, but rarely had a chance to put those skills into practice. To be fair, Max was better than a lot of pilots who tended to hog the flying time and rarely allowed their co-pilots to refresh their skills. However, on this mission the flying time was too long for one pilot; once they were clear of France, Max would hand over to Pieter to cross the Atlantic, and once they approached America, Max would take over again.

Nonetheless, he resented the hours ahead of them during which he’d have nothing to do but worry, and wait.

Chapter 36

Mission Time: 3 Hours, 55 Minutes Elapsed

6.00 a.m. 300 miles from Nantes

Lieutenant Daniel Ferrelli yawned and as he did so his ears popped. The bright sunlight of early morning reflected brilliantly off the cloud layer below them and he was forced to squint irritably. The overpowering brightness and trapped warmth within the Mustang’s cockpit made him feel ‘woozy’, tired. It was that relaxed, Sunday afternoon feeling, after the pot roast, and in front of a crackling fire, where sleep could come and go easily.

He removed one glove and rubbed his eyes.

You fall asleep, asshole, and they’ll be sending what they find of you home in a matchbox.