CHAPTER ONE.

William emerged from an eternity of nothingness into a fuzzy self awareness; he was alive, breathing, and apparently sitting on something comfortable. Other than that, he had no idea of who he was, or where he was; he was totally confused and amazed in equal parts. Of only one thing could he be certain: his name was William.

How do I know my name. Am I really William, or is that just the first name that popped into my head?

His vision was hazy; all he could see was a few indistinct shapes and some multi coloured orbs that drifted lazily across his limited field of vision like butterflies on a warm summer breeze. Although he was aware of sitting on a soft surface of some kind he suddenly realised he was immobile; he tried to move his head, then his arms and legs, but all to no avail, and silently prayed he wasn’t paralysed as well as apparently half blind.

Why could he not remember anything, and why did nothing make any sense? Perhaps he had been involved in an accident and had been in a coma for weeks, months or even longer; maybe he was recovering from a major surgery; maybe he had suffered serious memory loss, or maybe he was the hapless victim of a kidnap plot? Then, another thought struck him like a kick in the guts - could he be dead? As soon as the thought appeared, he squashed it with logic. I may be disorientated, but I know that death is final, and the idea of an afterlife is just fantasy.

OK I’m obviously not dead, or at least I don’t think I am, so what now?

William knew he had to remain calm, and try and work through this nightmare predicament in which he found himself, but there seemed few viable options considering his current inability to move or even see clearly. He felt a momentary impulse to scream out for help, but quickly realised this would be a futile gesture since his mouth seemed as equally reluctant to function as did the rest of his body. Then it suddenly occurred to him that all of this was probably nothing more than a bad dream brought on by an excess of cheese, pizza or pickled onions unwisely consumed the previous evening.

Yes, it has to be that, nothing else makes any logical sense.

And, with that thought he released a huge mental sigh of relief in the certain knowledge that his misery would soon be at an end. William also realised that he had to be patient; his memory was still annoyingly absent, but he instinctively knew that he had to surrender to his situation, rather than try and fight against it. He let go, and allowed himself to drift like a ship without a sail on an endless expanse of ocean.
This was not what he expected – not even close.

William blinked and blinked again. He rubbed his eyes, and then blinked a third time, but the sight that confronted him refused to change or disappear. The rail carriage he now involuntarily occupied was opulent and gloriously appointed, beyond any sort of luxury and comfort imaginable, and clearly intended for only those of immense wealth or regal birth. On either side of the central aisle, which was overlaid with a deep pile carpet of a blue, greyish hue, were well padded chairs and two-seat sofas complete with head and arm rests; gold braided cushions were scattered randomly over the furniture; intricately designed and ornate wall and ceiling lamps seemed to extend endlessly into the distance, and everywhere he looked William was overwhelmed with the beauty of his surroundings.

He rose unsteadily and almost lost his balance, but everything seemed to work as expected; a few stretches and head rotations confirmed all was in order. Beneath him the carriage was swaying gently from side to side, and he suddenly became aware of the rhythmic clickety-clack, clickety-clack of wheels on metal rails.

Well, crazy as it seems, I guess I must be on a train going somewhere – but how? And where the Hell am I heading?

It occurred to William that he was perhaps experiencing a dream within a dream; it was possible he supposed, but his surroundings suggested otherwise - everything was just so real. He walked a few steps to a small side table supporting a lamp. The table appeared to be made of a varnished mahogany with intricate inlays of a darker material; the lamp emitted a soft, glowing light from beneath a multi-coloured stained glass shade. As far as he could tell there was no obvious source of power for the lamp. He picked it up and found it heavy and pleasingly tactile, almost sensual to the touch. He set it back down carefully and looked around for something else to examine. The Royal blue drapes on each side of the carriage windows were of a heavy, velvet like material, and were supported by antique curtain poles, each curtain held in place by a pale blue tieback. William was not surprised that the curtains felt exactly like – well, curtains. He looked through the nearest window but was none the wiser; no trees, hedges, or anything remotely recognisable, just a grey, soggy mist peering back at him. He turned back inside.

Small, generously padded foot stools and serving tables were placed at regular intervals along one side of the aisle; he kicked one of the tables in frustration, as if this action would solve all his problems. It didn’t.

Damn!, he thought, what now?

He looked in both directions wondering which way was forward; certainly the view from the carriage windows gave no clue. Some exotic looking flowers a few tables down attracted his attention, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. The flowers were beautifully arranged in what appeared to be a Grecian urn decorated with geometric patterns and human figures. The orchids and blooms were an explosion of colours and hues, many of which were unfamiliar to him. The fragrant aroma was overpowering – musky, sweet and yet delicately perfumed, evocative of long forgotten times and places.
William walked towards what he thought was the direction of travel. Each carriage was about twenty eight of his steps in length, and about seven feet in height above the central aisle. At each end a doorway with intricately carved wooden borders led into the next carriage, the space between each pair of doorways being less than two feet. He passed through endless carriages for what seemed like hours, each carriage seemingly an exact duplicate of the one that preceded it, each window offering the same gloomy and disheartening view as its neighbours.

William felt totally helpless, and imagined himself trapped in some demonic maze, except the maze was a straight line that led nowhere. He could see no way out; the windows did not apparently open, and it suddenly dawned on him that there were no carriage doors either.

This is crazy! No way in, and no way to leave. It just doesn’t make sense.

The train moved on relentlessly, swaying gently from side to side, wheels click-clacking rhythmically, and seemingly oblivious to William’s plight and his growing desperation. He resumed his pointless search for something, anything that might provide a sliver of hope. The light throughout the train was steady and unwavering in luminosity, so there was no way to tell if it was day or night, much less a specific time of day. He knew many hours had passed since waking; it could be just a few hours, or it could be much, much longer. He thought by now he should at least be tired and hungry, but was neither; in fact he wasn’t even thirsty, and that was really odd. He sat down and surveyed his immediate surroundings again; the inspiration he so badly needed was not forthcoming. He slumped further into the comfortable sofa. And the train rumbled on.

William hadn’t really noticed his clothing before now. His trousers were high waisted and featured a blue-black herringbone pattern reminiscent of the 1940s era; his white shirt with blue narrow stripes was loose fitting, as were the trousers; a red moleskin waistcoat with four buttons completed the outfit. His socks were lime green, woollen probably; the shoes were laced, and appeared to be cut from quality brown leather, apparently an expensive brogue shoe designed for the discerning gentleman of the period. The two side pockets in the trousers were disappointingly empty, as were the two small front pockets of his dapper waistcoat; a small back pocket in the trousers proved equally unrewarding. He checked both wrists for watch and strap imprints. Nothing. Maybe a watch had been taken from him whilst comatose, or maybe he had never owned a watch. And, even if he knew the time of day, it wouldn’t really help.

These carriages are immaculate, he thought, No sign of anything being used or moved, no magazines, leftover food, or anything that would indicate prior human presence.

There were no marks or scratches on the tables, no food or water stains; everything appeared factory fresh. He dragged a finger across a table-top. Not even dust marred the pristine surfaces. Mystery upon mystery. William sank further into his seat. And the train rumbled on.


CHAPTER TWO.

The reflection that peered back from the mirror was not inspiring; his eyes were dark ringed and puffy, the inevitable result of too little sleep, and his features were gaunt and somewhat emaciated. The small scar on his left cheek from a childhood mishap was accentuated by his dark complexion; in better times he would have been considered handsome But now, not so good looking. He knew he should be eating more, but over the last few weeks he had lost his appetite completely. He looked and felt a total mess, and wondered how long he could go on like this. Pilot Officer ‘Billy’ Bayliss was just 20 years of age and living on his nerves. He wasn’t alone. Most of his fellow pilots were the same: sleep deprivation, battle fatigue, nerves shattered, wondering if the next mission would be their last. But nobody complained; they just got on with it. There was nothing else they could do.

Billy had lost many good friends since he joined an operational fighter squadron just four months ago. He was only too aware that the average life expectancy of a new pilot was about 4 weeks; he was living on luck and borrowed time. He looked away from the mirror and finished dressing. It was 5.00 in the morning and the first rays of sunlight were already breaking over the eastern horizon. Just time for a quick breakfast of toast and a hot mug of sweet tea before the morning briefing at 5.30. He joined other pilots on their way to the mess, just as eager to get the day over and done, and only too aware that this could be their final breakfast.

Mornin’ Billy, called a familiar voice from behind, you ready for today’s party?

Always ready David, replied Billy with no real conviction, wonder what’s in store for us today?

Babysitting the bloody bombers again is my guess!

Billy and David had started their basic training together in early 1939, just over a year ago, and had become close friends. The transition from civilian to RAF pilot was a long and arduous journey; many had fallen by the wayside during the course, and less than half of the original group had made it through to gain their coveted RAF wings. Both were the same age, from similar middle-class backgrounds, and equally determined to become fighter pilots. Their friendship was forged from adversity and many shared experiences; when times were difficult they knew they could rely on each other. The two men were brothers in all but name.

The briefing confirmed David’s suspicions: escort to twenty four heavy bombers tasked to attack a large industrial complex near Hamburg. Hopefully, the squadron of twelve Spitfires would rendezvous with the bombers at 20,000 feet, just off the East Anglian coast near Great Yarmouth. The Spitfires could only stay with the bombers as far as the Dutch coast - after that, they would fly onto Hamburg without fighter protection.

Should be a piece of cake David, what do you think?

Hmm, not so sure Billy, depends. If enemy fighters stumble on us, then it could get interesting.

Billy felt anxious and excited at the same time. He was still looking for his first confirmed kill; on his last sortie he had badly damaged an enemy fighter, but not enough to bring it down. Later, on the same day, he narrowly escaped being shot down himself; his aircraft was severely hit, and he barely made it back to base. He was seriously shaken by the experience. David had already claimed two enemy kills during the last two weeks, and was well on the way to becoming an ‘ace’. Although Billy was considered an above average pilot, he still felt the need to prove himself in combat; as far as he was concerned this meant bringing down an enemy aircraft. Until he could do that he would never really feel an effective member of the squadron. Maybe today would be that day.

The twelve fighters climbed rapidly into the morning haze. By now the sun was well above the horizon, and another long and hot summer’s day lay ahead of them. Billy looked across to Davids aircraft and returned the friendly wave; even from this distance David appeared relaxed and full of purpose. He was the most confident and likeable man that Billy had ever had the pleasure to know, as well as being a natural and gifted pilot, and Billy was proud to call him his friend. If anyone could see out this crazy war, then it would be David.

The flight levelled off just above 20,000 feet as it approached the East Anglian coast. Billy scanned the horizon, savouring the calm and serene vista, the stunning backdrop of a cerulean blue sky, and felt privileged; it was hard to believe there was a war going on just a few miles across the water. Somehow, he felt safe, cocooned in his cosy cockpit, a world away from the carnage and death and destruction below. It was an illusion of course; he knew that. Danger was ever present, and a moment’s lack of concentration could prove fatal. An instructor once told him that the one that gets you will be the one you never see. He was a wise man.

The flight leader’s voice crackled through the radio, disturbing his reverie.

Flight leader to all sections, anyone see those bombers yet? We should be on top of them by now.

Blue 2 to flight leader, several contacts at 11 o’clock, just below the horizon.

David was renowned for his excellent eyesight and Monty, the flight leader, was not surprised that David had spotted the bombers before anyone else.

Well done Blue 2! OK boys let’s go and chaperone these heavies. Radio silence unless I say otherwise.

The bombers droned slowly towards the Dutch coast, the Spitfires weaving gently from side to side 2000 feet above them, like concerned sheep herders protecting a vulnerable flock. All eyes were strained for the first sign of danger; it could come from any direction, but was more likely from above, and out of the blinding sun ahead of them. Soon, the Spitfires would have to return to base and leave the bombers to fend for themselves. Billy checked his fuel gauges. Less than half tanks remaining; he reckoned another ten minutes, at the most. With luck they would be back at base in 45 minutes or so, steaming hot tea and sandwiches waiting for them, maybe time to catch up with some much needed sleep. After that, sitting around at dispersal, chatting, reading old magazines, playing chess, waiting for the phone to ring. That’s all they seemed to do these days; just one long waiting game until the next call to action. Billy looked down at the lumbering bombers and thanked God he was flying an advanced fighter like the Spitfire; he truly admired and respected the bomber boys, but they had the rough end of it, for sure. Most of the crews were lucky to see out a dozen missions before being severely wounded, killed or shot down over enemy territory.

Billy scanned the horizon yet again; it seemed clear above and below, as far as he could tell. His eyes were aching with the effort, as well as every other muscle in his body, and beads of sweat slowly trickled down and into his oxygen mask. He looked into the cockpit at the array of engine instruments, all reading as expected, the powerful engine in front of him purring like a contented kitten. He relaxed and looked out again. Jesus, was that a reflection up ahead?

Blue 1 to flight leader, possible bandits ahead, 12 o’clock! Billy tried to sound calm, hoping the fear in his voice was not apparent. He might be just seeing things, but he couldn’t be certain; better to risk breaking radio silence than the alternative.
The enemy fighters appeared out of nowhere, at least eight of them, hurtling towards the hapless bomber formation, guns blazing with deadly intent. By some miracle they had not seen the Spitfires above, now trailing about a mile behind the bombers. Monty issued the orders with practised ease, clearly and succinctly, as if he were ordering high tea in an upmarket cafe.

Blue section maintain station, everyone else pick your targets, break, break!

Billy and David, and the third pilot comprising blue section, Archie, fresh out of training, had a grandstand view of the developing melee below them, and they were desperate to join in. Monty had kept them there as insurance should another wave of fighters appear, but it didn’t make it any easier to sit there, in relative safety, whilst the others risked their lives defending the bombers. Billy watched as the fighters frantically zip-zagged around the sky, like a swarm of demented hornets, each pilot trying to gain an advantage over his opponent. It was utter chaos, and difficult to distinguish friend from foe; miraculously the bombers appeared completely unscathed by the initial onslaught.

After a few minutes of combat the Spitfires started to be gain the upper hand; Billy started to breathe again as he witnessed an enemy fighter spewing oily black smoke from its engine, then slowly and majestically roll onto its back, before entering a final death spiral. Almost immediately, another one exploded in a ball of flames, pieces of debris fluttering down like confetti into the unforgiving sea below. Enemy or not, Billy took no joy in the death of a fellow pilot. He hoped it was quick and painless. A third enemy fighter began streaming a trail of white smoke, entering a slow but steady descent away from the bombers. The odds were no longer with the enemy, and they knew it; one by one, they retreated towards the safety of home, at least four Spitfires in hot pursuit.

OK boys well done, we’ve given them a good hiding. All aircraft on me, loose formation.

The bombers had been lucky; even with fighter cover it was a miracle none of them had been destroyed or severely damaged. Many of them had been raked with machine gun fire, and at least two had sustained minor engine damage. Monty checked in with their flight leader. All bombers reported good to continue.

Good luck boys, take care, escort leader out.

Billy did not envy the bombers as they slowly disappeared into the distant horizon. Despite their best efforts to protect them, many were unlikely to return that day. He sighed inwardly and started turning back towards the English coast, the two aircraft of blue section following in loose formation. Archie was on his immediate right, maybe a hundred yards behind, head down in the cockpit, and seemingly occupied with something or other. Probably checking his fuel gauges Billy imagined. David was holding station just beyond and slightly ahead of Archie’s aircraft. He looked over to Billy and gave him a cheery thumbs up. From this distance Billy could not see any real detail, but he knew David was smiling like a Cheshire cat beneath his mask and goggles. It would take them at least another 20 minutes to reach the relative safety of English coastal waters; after that a clear run back to base, and a much needed rest. Billy could see the rest of the squadron were now gathered in loose formation beneath them. Monty had kept blue section as top cover for the return trip, which seemed a sensible decision. With luck, the rest of the flight should be a clear run, though Billy would only fully relax when their wheels touched solid ground.

Monty’s reassuring voice crackled through the silence:

Flight leader to all sections. Keep your eyes peeled, we’re not home yet boys.

The miles slipped away as the squadron edged ever nearer to the safety of friendly territory. Billy was exhausted from too many relentless missions, and longed to be back on mother earth. He pulled himself together with an effort of will; he needed to focus, concentrate on the job at hand. He was too young to die just yet.

DAKKA-DAKKA-DAKKA!!!