By the following morning, dark rain clouds had boiled in across the English Channel.
   In a Nissen hut at Marston airdrome a group of young airmen were preparing for another sortie over Europe. Tensions were running high.
   “A couple of our airships ’ad taken some flack on the way back and as we neared Dover, Richard Parker’s ship started to lose altitude. I screamed at him PULL UP, PULL UP; you’ll ’it the cliff, Richard. He ploughed straight in and went up in flames.”
   “Bloody ’ell!”
   “The shock wave from the explosion ’it my ship and I took a whack on the side of me ’ead. When I came to me gondola was full of pink fairies! Not real ones, of course. I think I was elusernatin’ or somethink. I ’ad an egg on me noggin for a week after!”
   “Bloody ’ell! Did they give you any medicine? For your head, like.”
   “Yeah, but I’d rather they’d given me a gong!”
   “Jones, Brown, cut the idle banter and pay attention. I trust you understood the briefing?”
   “Yes Sir.”
   “Yes Cap.”
   “So that’s it chaps,” said Group Captain Priest, “we’ll be going in as part of the seventh wave. Any questions?”
   Perched in a rusty cage, the squadron’s mascot, a budgie named Pendragon, examined a young airman with its enquiring eyes.
   “What’s wrong with Stevens?” asked navigator Rex Tyler.
   “Per’aps ’e wants ’is mummy to come tuck ’im in bed an’ give ’im a goodnight kiss,” laughed Eddy Jones, a pilot.
   The Group Captain looked to the far end of the hut where Stevens stood cowering in a corner.
   “Don’t stand there shaking, Stevens. Come and have a cup of tea with the lads. Anyone else for Rosy? Cup of tea, Rex?”
   “Not for me, thanks.”
   “How about you, Joe. Fancy a cuppa?”
   “Not at the moment, Sir. I’ll just finish these chips,” replied the Flight Lieutenant. “Could you pass me the salt?”
   “Certainly, old chap. Do you want the vinegar, Joe?”
   “Thanks.”
   “I’ve ’eard a whisper about a secret offensive,” said Rex Tyler.
   “Do tell,” said Joe as he munched on a chip.
   “Well, I’ve only got this second hand, but the story is that Wing Commander Baker is putting together a new squadron. They ’ave newfangled flying machines called aeroplanes. Made from bits of wood and string. Apparently they’re going to form an Air Force, whatever that is!”
   “That’s no story,” interjected Group Captain Priest, “it’s a fact. I know a chap what won his wings with Ginger Baker’s air force. It’s formed from the very cream of British aviators.”
   “Really, Judas? Then ’ow come we weren’t invited to join!” joked Flight Lieutenant Brown. For the first time in weeks, laughter broke out in the Nissen hut.
   “Talking of top aviators,” said an enthused Stevens as he dragged himself from the corner of the hut and walked over to join his fellow airmen. “I hear the Yanks are sending over one of their top guns to help train the new recruits.”
   “A Yank to train our yardbirds. We don’t need ’elp from the Yanks!” exclaimed Joe Brown.
   “Nevertheless, it’s happening,” replied the Group Captain. “A fellow by the name of Van Halen.”
   “Who?”
   “Van Halen. Apparently he’s their ace pilot.”
   “Sounds Dutch, to me,” said Jones.
   “Whatever, ’e’s still a foreigner,” groaned Brown.
   “Foreigner or not,” continued Group Captain Priest, “the man is coming here to aid us. We need all the help we can get if we are to see Europe free of the Hun.”
   “But what’s it got to do with America? This is our scrap.”
   “Because it is their interests to maintain the status quo in Europe.”
   Brown looked sombre. “God knows we’re in dire straits, what with food rationing an’ the refugee problem. But in my opinion, for what it’s worth, if we get into bed with the Yanks we’ll just be keeping more bad company.”
   “Oh for heaven’s sake,” exclaimed Priest, “America is a gentle giant.”
   “White snake is more like it.”
   “That’s quite enough of that sort of talk,” scolded the Group Captain. “Where’s your British sprit? The Empire wasn’t built on a hatred of foreigners. Come lads, offer a stiff upper lip and raise your mugs to join me in a toast. The Queen.”
   “The Queen,” chorused the young airmen, each of them raising a chipped china mug.

   By late morning it had stopped raining and a rainbow arced across the horizon. Two eagles took flight from the nearby woodlands and circled the airdrome.
   Group Captain Priest cast his gaze to the heavens. “God help us all,” he muttered.