Free The Bannister Girls by Jean Saunders Page B

seemingly the only living thing in the universe.
    â€˜Bloody well done, Cap’n Jax,’ Phil’s faintly sarcastic voice bellowed. ‘We’ll be over Jerry’s tail before we know it.’
    â€˜I hope not. We only have to report to base, not get caught up in a fight.’
    â€˜Not much point in being fitted out with a machine gun then, is it?’ Phil was in a belligerent mood, his fingers happy on the trigger, his keen eyes already scanning the skies for a hint of silver against the sun that might indicate an enemy aircraft ahead. Jacques gave a short laugh.
    â€˜There’ll be plenty of time for that. Let’s get this little war horse safely to France first.’
    Phil snorted in reluctant agreement. Despite the deceptively easy flying now, all Jacques’ concentration was needed in controlling the dangerously flimsy machine that often seemed to have a will of its own. It only took a second’s relaxation for the wings to dip and the horrors of a dive begin. Even in training, in the safe skies over Wiltshire, Jacques had seen pilots go into a spin and crash to their deaths before ever seeing enemy action. He knew the risks.
    All the same, his thoughts wandered a little. Ever since meeting Angel Bannister and that one emotional night they had spent together, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind. He had dearly wanted to call on her, but official orders had put that right out of the question.
    As it happened, bad weather had stopped the squadron departing that same morning, but they were all confined to base until they were given orders to fly out. It was an entire day and night of frustration and waiting, closeted with other officers and men in steamy, dank-smelling mess rooms, and he had whiled away the time in sketching and writing to Angel.
    He had despatched one of the bored mechanics into the city to order the flowers to be delivered to Angel’s house,later entrusting the letter to the same young mechanic. Once the squadron had left for France, God knew how long it had been before the boy thought of posting it.
    But in his breast pocket now, Jacques had the perfect likeness of Angel next to his heart, and thanked God for the talent that meant he could at least keep her image near to him, if not her sweet warm self.
    He had known many women, and there were plenty who had wanted to marry the handsome young de Ville, whose family home was a gaunt gothic chateau south of Bordeaux, and who had excellent social connections. No doubt it had been a bitter disappointment to many a French
maman
when his father had agreed to Jacques being educated in England in deference to his mother’s death-bed wishes.
    Comte de Ville had made no protest at his son’s own request to remain in England and serve with the Royal Flying Corps when it was first formed, knowing of Jacques’ obsession with all things that flew. For him, there could have been no better choice.
    Strange how a war could be the catalyst to fulfil a man’s ambitions, Jacques thought briefly. To meet the one girl with whom he wanted to share his life … and to be flying an aircraft over his own country in a way he had never imagined in his wildest dreams…
    A week or so later, Jacques wondered grimly if this was really his vocation after all. The pleasure of flying for its own sake was unchanged, but the dark side of war was revealed to him hourly. Each flight in the squadron flew in shifts, on recce work at first, and ever-increasingly in fighting combat with the fast little German planes that seemed to fill the sky like irritating insects, but with far deadlier effects.
    Already, several of his pals had been shot down. He had seen one of the planes of his own flight, engulfed in orange flames as the short fuel lead from the tank to the engine exploded. He had seen the observer’s hands tear at his face and been near enough to hear him scream in agony, the pilotlosing control as the