Free Our Yanks by Margaret Mayhew

towards some huts. As he reached the nearest, the door opened and a Yank came out. He was wearing overalls and a cloth cap with the peak sticking straight up in the air. ‘Hi, kiddo. Want somebody?’
    He shook his head boldly. ‘Just looking round.’
    â€˜Sure. Want to see the radio shack?’ The Yank opened the door behind him again and beckoned. ‘Come right on in.’
    The hut was long and narrow with wooden workbenches all round the sides and electric lights with metal shades hanging low from the ceiling. More Yanks, dressed the same, looked up from valves and coils and wires and grinned at him. ‘Hi there! What’s your name, kid?’
    â€˜Tom,’ he said. ‘Tom Hazlet.’
    â€˜You from the village, Tom?’
    He nodded. They let him wander round the workbenches and watch them repairing and testing things and warm himself at one of the two iron stoves that heated the hut. His wet clothes steamed as they began to dry out.
    â€˜Like some toast, kid?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t mind,’ he said casually. He was starving hungry.
    They opened the stove doors and started toasting thick slices of bread on the end of screwdrivers. When they were done, they spread something on them out of a jar and handed one to him. ‘Peanut butter, kid. Ever tried it?’
    He shook his head. It tasted sweet and nutty and kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. He unstuck it with his tongue and swallowed.
    â€˜Like it?’
    â€˜Yes, thanks.’
    â€˜Want some more?’
    â€˜Yes, please.’
    He had three more slices, sitting on a crate by the stove. They’d painted pictures of girls in their underclothes on the whitewashed wall near him – skimpy, frilly things nothing like the women’s underclothes he’d ever seen hanging out on clothes lines. He turned his head sideways to look at them more closely.
    â€˜Say, kid, can you bring us some bread from that bakery in the village when you’re next up? We’ll give you the money.’
    â€˜Course I can. Easy.’ They tossed him over some coins. He counted them up quickly and stowed them in his pocket.
    â€˜How about eggs?’ another said. ‘Real, fresh eggs? Not that powdered garbage. We don’t get none, ’cept for our pilots. A penny each if you can get us some.’
    He hesitated. He could get the bread all right because it wasn’t rationed, but fresh eggs were different. They were hardly ever in the shop. Mam kept a few hens but he couldn’t take those eggs. Lots of other people kept them, though, including Farmer Dixon. ‘I might be able to manage a few,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll try.’
    â€˜You got a sister, Tom?’ one of them drawled, chewing gum.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What’s her name?’
    â€˜Nell.’
    â€˜How old’s Nell?’
    â€˜She’s ten months.’
    They all crowed with laughter and he laughed, too, though he didn’t really see the joke. He was finishing his last bit of toast when the fighters started coming back. The first one went roaring over the hut, rattling the windows. He jumped up and ran to look out.
    â€˜Know what those are, kid?’
    â€˜They’re P-38s,’ he said. ‘Lightnings.’ He knew because he’d asked the Yanks in the village.
    â€˜Want to go an’ watch ’em?’
    â€˜If it’s all right.’
    â€˜Sure it’s OK. You ain’t no spy. Come on.’ One of them took him outside and called to another Yank going by on a bike. ‘Hey, Chester. This is Tom. Wants to take a look at the planes. Can you take him out there with you?’
    He rode in front, balanced on the crossbar, and they raced round the concrete track at the edge of the aerodrome and out to the far side where there was a hoop-shaped corrugated-iron hangar, some canvas tents pitched on the grass and several huts that looked as if they’d been made out of old