Free A Different World by Mary Nichols Page A

what was in her mind when her father came home at lunchtime. He reacted predictably. Duty came before his own comfort and he would continue to do his duty and it went without saying that his wife would support him in that. The Lord would take care of them and keep them safe.
    After they had had their meal, Louise and her mother did the washing-up while her father went to his study to compose the next day’s sermon. Louise had a feeling it would be centred on duty.
    ‘How is Tony?’ Faith asked.
    ‘He was well last time I heard from him. Sent you his regards.’
    ‘What’s he doing?’ She put a washed plate on the drainer. Louise picked it up to dry it.
    ‘Training to be a pilot.’
    ‘Do you worry about him?’
    ‘Of course, all the time, but I don’t let him know that. He’s hoping to get some leave when he finishes his training. Then he’ll be posted.’
    ‘Do you know where?’
    ‘No idea.’
    ‘I hope it’s not to one of those airfields being bombed.’
    ‘So do I, but I don’t expect he’ll be given a choice.’
    ‘How long can you stay?’
    ‘Just tonight, Mum. I’ll have to go back tomorrow afternoon.’
    ‘But it’s the school holidays.’
    ‘I know, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I am responsible for the children, even in the holidays. And I have to prepare for next term and liaise with Mr Langford over the arrangements.’
    ‘Of course, I understand. You’ll come to Communion in the morning?’
    ‘Yes, I’ll leave after lunch.’
    Her father was so engrossed in preparing his sermon that he hardly noticed Louise was there. Perhaps he was softening towards her or perhaps he had given her up as a lost cause. Whichever it was, she was careful to say nothing that might cause dissension. She certainly said nothing of her meeting with Jan Grabowski. That would have been asking for a lecture on the perils of picking up strange men in railway carriages. But she had not forgotten him or her promise to write to him.
     
    After persistent lobbying and in the face of a great shortage of pilots, Jan had been transferred from Blackpool, where they had been training, to an English fighter squadron in Tangmere, and though it wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for, it was a step in the right direction. He would teach those stiff-necked Britishers how to fly.
    He arrived to find Witold already there, ensconced in the officers’ mess, a favourite of the WAAF waitresses who served him. It hadn’t taken his friend long to convince the RAF he could fly as well as any of them, and the next day Jan did the same. He foundhimself in combat for the first time with those he had called ‘wet behind the ears’ and discovered they had plenty of courage, if little experience. But they learnt quickly, at least those who survived did. The casualty rate was horrifying. Jan’s first ‘kill’, a Messerschmitt 109 shot down into the Channel, brought great rejoicing. At last he was having a crack at the enemy and his first taste of revenge.
    A week later Witold came to him with momentous news. Short of hearing from Rulka, it was the best news in the world. ‘They’re giving us our own squadrons,’ Witold told him gleefully. ‘The Polish Air Force flies again. Get your things together, we’re off to join them.’
    It wasn’t quite what they expected, they discovered when they arrived at Northolt and joined their compatriots, many of whom they had not seen since leaving Poland. According to the agreement thrashed out between the Air Ministry and the Polish government in exile, every senior Polish Officer would have an equivalent British one and they would still be under British command. Officially designated 303 Squadron, it did not take the Polish flyers long to rename it the Ko ś ciuszko Squadron and to paint the squadron’s emblem on the Hurricanes they were to fly.
    But they were still not operational. The station commander was adamant they had to learn English and understand what was meant by angels