James was tall, limbs leggy like a crane fly. He’d had to fold himself into the cockpit. At the end of an arduous eight hours, his navigator would help him down the ladder. These were his seldom shared memories, though his great-grandchildren liked to ask, triggered by poppies or school projects.
The scent of onions and beef gravy reminded him of the pasties he’d shove near those pipes before they’d set off. He never knew who had the idea first, probably that Australian chap. But when they saw the White Cliffs, they were tucked into, with relief, with often wonderment why they were the sole bomber to return.
Sated with lunch and a few more glasses, James’s stick tap tapped out the unsteady pace of the return climb. Once home, he picked at some grapes and fiddled about with the modem. The only wireless he knew was George his operator. A steady fellow. Like Eric, who’s plane was lost. Then there was Arthur who’d trained with him on those biplanes. Dylan got killed on his first raid.
James studied the pictures on the walls. The signed certificates from monarchs now deceased. A card from the King was hidden between the books.
When his daughter visited later, she found him feverish. He lashed out at the paramedics, clutched the doorframe, calmed only when strapped in with a blanket.
Plane trails crossed in the sky. Family gathered: words landed silently.
The next day she went to the ward where porters pushed loaded trolleys. She heard a familiar voice shouting, ‘Give me more pie!’