times after.”
“Excellent. We were caught with our pants down both this last skirmish as well as the one where the eighty-eight ambushed our column. We don’t want that to happen again if it’s humanly possible. The regiment is authorized reconnaissance aircraft; however, neither planes nor pilots were available. Now, thanks to you we have a pilot and a plane has suddenly appeared. Just don’t ask how we got it, except that a division north of here is wondering why they’re a plane short. You will command a detachment to fly it and any others we can dredge up. Levin will take over your duties. Take maybe five minutes to figure out what you’ll need and get back to me.”
Poor Levin, Jack thought. But at least he’d be back in the air, even though in an innocuous little plane. And, he laughed, no more tucking Stoddard into bed each night in a den surrounded by barb wire.
“Have you told Levin, sir?”
“Yeah, and now he’s telling your former lieutenants just what a joy it will be for them to have a Jewish commanding officer. He’s also telling them they’ll have to be circumcised.”
When Phips woke up, he wasn’t certain where he was. He’d been partying just like he’d been almost every night since it’d become public knowledge that his plane had bombed Hitler into Valhalla, or wherever dead Nazis thought they’d go. At least he wasn’t too badly hung over. God, there had been some memorable celebrations with him as the guest of honor. Finally, he remembered that he was in a very large bed in an expensive suite in Claridge’s Hotel in the center of London.
He rolled over and felt warm flesh beside him. He was naked, and so was the woman beside him. Who the hell was she? Oh yeah, her name was Margie and she was an English civilian working at SHAEF. Last night she told him she was thrilled to meet the man who killed Hitler, and then proceeded to prove it.
Phips thought he was becoming quite the man of the world. He’d met Ike, who showed steel behind his affable exterior; Churchill, who was shorter than he thought; King George, pleasant but even shorter than Churchill; Montgomery, who seemed a conceited twit; and a horde of generals and admirals.
And, for the first time in his life, he’d gotten laid. Margie wasn’t the first, however. That encounter had been more than a week ago and there had been several since then, including a couple with “Lady” in front of their names and, he thought wickedly, ladies they weren’t. All England, it seemed, wanted to honor him one way or another. He wondered if the rest of the crew of the Mother’s Milk were doing as well. Probably, he thought. Somebody’d commented that his copilot, Stover, had movie star looks. He was probably sleeping with chicks who made Margie look ugly and Margie was far from ugly. In fact, she was the best looking woman he’d ever been with. She hated Hitler and the Nazis. She’d been engaged and her fiance had been killed in North Africa.
Then he recalled that his bomber’s new name was American Girl, and that she’d been repainted, dismantled for shipment, and was on her way to the U.S. where she’d be on display. So would he, Phips remembered. He had a train to catch.
There was a knock on the door and it opened to admit Colonel Granville. “Rise and shine, Phips. or you’ll be late for your trip back home.”
Margie sat up abruptly and smiled. She made no effort to cover herself. “Good morning, Colonel.”
Granville rolled his eyes in an effort not to stare at her exquisite breasts. “And a hearty English good morning to you, Margie. You’re looking exceptionally lovely.”
Margie giggled, got out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom, treating them both to a marvelous view of her voluptuous body and dimpled bottom. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, “while I take care of some personal things.”
Phips looked at his watch. “Am I that late?”
“If you move your ass, you’ll make it. We go to Victoria Station and you catch the train to Liverpool where another officer will take over as tour guide. You’ll meet the rest of your crew in Liverpool and take the Queen Mary to New York. Don’t get too excited about the accommodations, she’s been made over into a troop ship.”
Phips grinned. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll be good to get home, although England’s beginning to grow on me.”
Margie emerged from the bathroom. She’d managed to get clothed in only a few seconds, which probably meant she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. She grinned wickedly. “What’s growing on you, Phipsie?”
Two hours later Granville was standing in Piccadilly Square. Phips was well on his way to Liverpool and he hoped Margie made it back to the office in time to do some real work. He also hoped she had managed to put on some underwear.
He checked his watch and looked around nervously. Jessica wasn’t really late. How could anyone be late when civilian schedules meant nothing and military ones were changed all the time?
The square was filled with people. Most of the men and quite a few of the women were in uniform, and, even though it was early afternoon, a large number of them were drunk. When he got home, he’d have a lot of stories to tell his wife and kids. He wondered if he’d tell about Phips and Margie and decided he would. His wife would love it and his kids would be old enough to appreciate it. Hell, at the rate the war was going, they would all be retired before he got home.
He also decided that London had the potential to be a lovely city if only someone would clean it up. He didn’t mean the sandbags piled many feet high around buildings to provide a little protection against German bombs and rockets. So far these had generally fallen on the West End and not that much on the center of London. They said that the Battle of Britain was over and that Nazi bombers were a thing of the past. He wasn’t so sure. The Nazis had begun launching their rockets at anything in or near London with utter disregard to where they landed. Regardless, when the war was over the sandbags would disappear quickly.
No, by cleaning up the city, he meant getting rid of the many centuries worth of soot caused by the hundreds of thousands of coal fires used to heat London’s homes and businesses. The city’s buildings were almost all a uniform gray-black and cried out for a good scrubbing.
“Uncle!”
He grinned and turned. The young woman ran into his arms and they hugged fiercely. He kissed her on the cheek. “My favorite niece in London. I don’t believe it.”
Jessica Granville laughed. She was his only niece. She was twenty-one, almost as tall as he and slender. Her brown hair was cut almost boyishly short and she wore an American dress that style-starved British women passing by stared at enviously. She was well-fed and ruddily healthy, which also bothered British women and caused the men to stare. So many Brits were pale and drab thanks to clothing and food shortages.
At first glance, many people thought Jessica was plain, but when she talked or laughed, they found her vivacious. “I see you got rid of Phips,” she said. He’d written her of life with the accidental hero. “Too bad, I wanted to meet him.”
He told her how so many British women had managed to meet him and she laughed again. “Phipsie? Good lord. At least his departure means I have a room for the short while.”
Tom had shamelessly used his influence and managed to change Phips’ room at the Claridge to Jessica’s name. She would be able to pay for it. Her allowance from her family was more than adequate. Must be nice to have money, he mused.
“So tell me again, what are you going to be doing here in London?”
She took his arm and they strolled down Haymarket in the general direction of the Thames. “I’m with the Red Cross. When we get to France, I’ll be working with refugees and those broadly being referred to as displaced persons. My job will be to try to unite them with their families.”
“Good luck. There are hordes of them already and I don’t think the real refugee crisis has even begun.”
They paused as a column of American trucks drove by. “And you didn’t want to join the WACs? With two years of college under your belt, I could have pulled some strings and gotten you into women’s OCS, or whatever they call it. At least you’d have a commission.”
She shook her head vehemently. “And then I’d be supervising either a bunch of typists or a gaggle of
