The Wing Commander

Book One

by Ellen Margret

Even as a child Pru adored Varian Verney, but he thought her an irritating little chit, and did not hesitate to tell her so. She bet him half-a-crown she would one day make it as a pilot but his response was to call her a gormless brat. When she rescued him from occupied France during World War Two, he knew he would have to pay up, but he did more than that. He fell head over heels in love with the beautiful Ferry Pilot.

Excerpt

Chapter One

He had been told a person's life flashed before them in the seconds before they died. It seemed reasonable enough to him, and since he was about to die, why wasn't his life reeling through his head? Maybe concentrating on keeping his crippled Spitfire in the air for as long as he could had become top priority. He’ d rapidly reached a decision that he would rather die, engulfed in a ball of flames as his Spit hit the French shore, than drown in the English Channel with his plane plummeting into the murky depths. Either way, he was going to die, but he did have the satisfaction of knowing he he’d brought down three German planes on that sortie. Damn good dogfights they'd been, too. Well, good until Jerry came at him from the direction of the sun and let off a round of fire from his Focke-Wulfe. That took out his wheels and drained his Spit of most of its fuel. Still, he got that pilot even with his damaged Spit, and when the German plane hit the water far below, he felt not a pang of remorse. This was war, and there could be no room for sentiment.

"Right then, Wing Commander Varian Verney, this is it, old chap," he muttered. "You've had thirty-four bloody good years on God's earth, and it had to end sometime. No more women, wine and cigars for you."

He winced as he continued to struggle with the controls of the floundering plane. Bailing out proved impossible; his parachute lay in tatters beneath him. The pain high up in his right thigh made him glance down and he saw a rapidly spreading patch of bright red blood.

"That's not good. Chunk of metal in the leg," he grunted, "courtesy of good old Jerry. Still, it won't hurt for much longer. Be dead soon."He stared at the beach looming ahead. "Damn fine sunset. Turning the beach blood red," he muttered. "Odd shade of red. Reminds me of little Pixie's hair. Haven't seen the chit in years. Irritating little madam who couldn't keep her mouth shut and--" He said no more. His Spit crashed onto the French beach, and the screaming engine died.

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