Extract from Dartmouth Conspiracy
Through patchy cloudlets of exploding shells, Karl could see the overlap of slates on the quarterdeck roof. His grip shifted on the control column; he could feel the bomb-release button under the ball of his thumb. He swerved out of line, pressed the button—and felt a jerk as the bomb-load fell away.
A hedge was speeding towards him from rising ground behind the college. He pulled back. Too late; the hill was steep. A green flash, then a blinding screen of foliage flattened itself for a split second against his windscreen. He had no time to thank God that he was still flying—Boxhammer was screaming into his earphones: ‘Achtung Sie Kommen! Sie Kommen! Spitfire, Deich…’
A hail of steel dashed itself to fragments against the bullet-proof armour behind Karl’s head. A blizzard of kapok blew out of his life jacket; fragments of armoured glass were in his face. A gale inflated his cheeks; a curtain of pink mist obscured his vision. He was blind. His neck was numb.
In a strange moment of calm he could hear Helga’s voice—reading slow words from the back of the lucky photograph in his pocket…
Pink changed to brown as engine-oil rippled over his goggles; he pushed them onto his forehead, tried to focus on the enlarging blur of a church tower racing towards him. He lifted over, missed its spiky projections, and dived down on the far side to shield himself from the following Spitfire for a vital, life-saving second. Bedroom windows level with his wing-tips, children on the ground below with upturned faces like a scattering of handkerchiefs.
He wrenched back on the controls. The flat-topped bulk of the third tower raced back under the cowling.
Then he was staring wide-eyed into inky darkness—which flashed into sudden brightness to reveal farm workers, unfocused, distorted, hurling themselves to the ground as he powered through a storm of flying straw between narrow rows of corn-stacks.
Following the hill’s contour Karl gathered precious speed until he was forced to flatten the dive to stop himself plunging into the sea.
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A hedge was speeding towards him from rising ground behind the college. He pulled back. Too late; the hill was steep. A green flash, then a blinding screen of foliage flattened itself for a split second against his windscreen. He had no time to thank God that he was still flying—Boxhammer was screaming into his earphones: ‘Achtung Sie Kommen! Sie Kommen! Spitfire, Deich…’
A hail of steel dashed itself to fragments against the bullet-proof armour behind Karl’s head. A blizzard of kapok blew out of his life jacket; fragments of armoured glass were in his face. A gale inflated his cheeks; a curtain of pink mist obscured his vision. He was blind. His neck was numb.
In a strange moment of calm he could hear Helga’s voice—reading slow words from the back of the lucky photograph in his pocket…
Pink changed to brown as engine-oil rippled over his goggles; he pushed them onto his forehead, tried to focus on the enlarging blur of a church tower racing towards him. He lifted over, missed its spiky projections, and dived down on the far side to shield himself from the following Spitfire for a vital, life-saving second. Bedroom windows level with his wing-tips, children on the ground below with upturned faces like a scattering of handkerchiefs.
He wrenched back on the controls. The flat-topped bulk of the third tower raced back under the cowling.
Then he was staring wide-eyed into inky darkness—which flashed into sudden brightness to reveal farm workers, unfocused, distorted, hurling themselves to the ground as he powered through a storm of flying straw between narrow rows of corn-stacks.
Following the hill’s contour Karl gathered precious speed until he was forced to flatten the dive to stop himself plunging into the sea.
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Extract from Fly the Storm
She followed Otto across the room. The singers fell silent and the ladies at the bar pouted in surprise.
Otto thumped the top of the piano and held up his hands. ‘Gentlemen, I should like to introduce you to Mademoiselle Lucette Moreaux, she is an accomplished pianist.’ Blanche kept her head down in spite of the cheers and heartily wished she were somewhere else while Otto continued: ‘This is Lutz, he cooks three hundred meals every day but I’m afraid he’ll never make a pianist. Get off that stool, Lutz, and make way for the lady.’
The man shrugged, retrieved his beer and stepped back. Otto gripped the shoulder of another man and turned to wink at Blanche. ‘Here’s another musician, the ever-smiling Helmut Voss. I keep him so busy servicing my aircraft that he complains he has no time to practise on that spittle-filled harmonica of his.’ Helmut blew a quick scale.
Blanche hesitated. ‘I prefer to play from written music but I might manage Gentille Allouette if that’s all right by everyone.’
Otto’s arm tightened around her waist. ‘They know that one already, sung it so many times they’ve become heartily sick of plucking feathers from the body parts of French skylarks, gentle or otherwise. We like new songs, isn’t that right lads?’
Blanche straddled the stool, her feet found the pedals, she spread her fingers on the keys and the men closed in around her. The sharp edge of a metal button pressed against her naked shoulder. Somebody’s hand ruffled her hair and she had to swallow against something sour rising in her throat. Trying to smile she said, ‘Let’s start with this one. None of you will know the words so I’ll say each line before I play it.’
An overhead light drew sparks from her ring as she played. The men began to sing in a ragged unison of basses, baritones and tenors. The bar girls watched in mute surprise.
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Otto thumped the top of the piano and held up his hands. ‘Gentlemen, I should like to introduce you to Mademoiselle Lucette Moreaux, she is an accomplished pianist.’ Blanche kept her head down in spite of the cheers and heartily wished she were somewhere else while Otto continued: ‘This is Lutz, he cooks three hundred meals every day but I’m afraid he’ll never make a pianist. Get off that stool, Lutz, and make way for the lady.’
The man shrugged, retrieved his beer and stepped back. Otto gripped the shoulder of another man and turned to wink at Blanche. ‘Here’s another musician, the ever-smiling Helmut Voss. I keep him so busy servicing my aircraft that he complains he has no time to practise on that spittle-filled harmonica of his.’ Helmut blew a quick scale.
Blanche hesitated. ‘I prefer to play from written music but I might manage Gentille Allouette if that’s all right by everyone.’
Otto’s arm tightened around her waist. ‘They know that one already, sung it so many times they’ve become heartily sick of plucking feathers from the body parts of French skylarks, gentle or otherwise. We like new songs, isn’t that right lads?’
Blanche straddled the stool, her feet found the pedals, she spread her fingers on the keys and the men closed in around her. The sharp edge of a metal button pressed against her naked shoulder. Somebody’s hand ruffled her hair and she had to swallow against something sour rising in her throat. Trying to smile she said, ‘Let’s start with this one. None of you will know the words so I’ll say each line before I play it.’
An overhead light drew sparks from her ring as she played. The men began to sing in a ragged unison of basses, baritones and tenors. The bar girls watched in mute surprise.
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