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‘I know it seems short, but it’s more than long enough to be putting your life on the line. We lose too many of our airmen every day. It’s good to give you some time away from the furnace.’

‘Not me, sir. I prefer to be on the frontline. But I suppose healing can be my downtime.’ That made his superior give a mirthless smile.

‘John, you walk with care, and don’t exert yourself too much pushing that wheelchair. Those ribs are just knitting together properly,’ Nurse Maria warned.

The squadron leader saluted, and her stern expression broke into a smile.

It was a short trip; really, Peter could have walked it with the aid of a crutch, but he accepted the indignity of being fussed over for the reward of a gloriously peaceful dawn. John, it seemed, despite his friendliness, was the silent type, preferring a tranquil cigarette and his thoughts to making conversation.

Peter turned away to watch the great orb of the heavens appear first as a sharp slit of light on the dark horizon. Within a minute, it began to look like a thin, illuminated slice of orange in a deep whisky-coloured sky. From there on he watched as though he were seeing sunrise for the first time. ‘Truly, is there anything more majestic than sunrise?’ he murmured.

John’s cigarette crackled lightly, echoing the orange fire of the horizon before his fingers came away from his mouth, flicking ash from the tip of the cigarette. ‘It’s humbling, isn’t it?’

‘Makes you wonder why we bother with war and our petty little squabbles down here, when something so much bigger than us is going on.’

He sensed John’s smile. ‘Tell that to Hitler.’

Peter snorted. ‘I know.’

‘And how long are you in hospital for?’ John asked, now that the silence was broken. He took another drag and Peter watched the sky brighten to a refreshing iced-tea colour. Now the sun was a thick slice of orange.

‘Er, who knows,’ he answered, lifting his arm in the sling. ‘I think there are some complications. Plus they tell me I have a concussion. I want to sneer, sir, but I do have moments of horrible dizziness, so I know in my heart that I’d be dangerous in one of our birds.’

‘Especially the way you fly, Fox,’ the squadron leader remarked. Peter cut him a look. ‘Yes, we all know the derring-do of Flight Lieutenant Fox. It’s like you have a death wish, but the angels just don’t want you yet.’ He laughed. ‘I’m certain, however, that the Luftwaffe do. How many have you shot down now? Five?’

Peter cleared his throat. ‘Seven, sir… in Malta.’

His senior gave an impressed grunt. ‘Seven. But we need you to stay alive, Fox. You’ll be a marked man now by the Luftwaffe, but they won’t let your name breathe fear, or your presence humble their pilots in any way. If they know it’s you in the air, they’ll commit two of their best, most fearless pilots to not only shoot your plane down, but to finish you off hanging by your parachute too. You won’t be able to dodge two Messerschmitts on your tail.’

Peter gave a wry smile. ‘Don’t count on it, sir.’

‘And you don’t be a fool, Fox,’ John said, no humour in his tone now. ‘You owe it to your country and to the people of Malta, who are counting on us to stay alive. We take enough risks as it is without you getting cocky.’

‘I promise I’m not cocky, sir,’ Peter said, meaning it.

‘Whatever you are, Peter, old chap, your fame is beginning to rise. I don’t want anyone believing they’re invincible. There’s always tomorrow to get your nemesis, so survive today as best you can and send the Krauts packing.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Peter nodded obediently. What else could he say? It was wise advice but it didn’t stop the urge to fling the crutch, pull off the sling and demand to head into the sky and do his bit for England, for Malta, for the Allies.

‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean for us to talk shop. But I don’t know if I’ll get this opportunity again. Nothing formal – I think you’re a marvel, but I need you to not squander yourself in pursuit of heroics. You’re no good to us as a dead pilot, or to your wife as a dead husband. Our lives are given cheaply enough as it is.’

‘No, sir,’ Peter said, surprised the man knew that much about his life.

‘How are you coping without your wife… family?’

‘Fine, sir,’ Peter said. ‘My wife understands.’

‘Well, she’s special then.’

Peter blinked. In truth, he’d barely thought much about Delia, nor about how she might be coping back in England. Oh, he wrote each fortnight, polite, jolly letters that didn’t say much but wished her safe, and he always signed off, ‘Affectionately yours, P.’ It was hardly passionate, but they weren’t exactly a passionate couple. Loyal, considerate, friendly, maybe, but he’d never really felt passionate towards Delia… not like Phoebe or some of the other lovers he’d enjoyed before his wedding. None had been serious relationships, all of them happening because of youthful lust. Phoebe Barnett, in his youth, had interested him in all the right ways. She was gorgeous, witty, wealthy and pursued by every eligible bachelor west of London. He wasn’t interested in her money. No, he was simply lost to her effervescence, her love of life, but there was no future for them. She’d liked him because he amused her, and while he appeared steady and reliable, he had a wild streak, driving much faster than anyone she knew, taking risks, but it was not a match made in heaven and they’d parted ways, a little bruised but knowing it was the right decision.

‘Frankly,’ Peter said now, realising John was waiting for a response, ‘I just want to get back to base and see what I can do around there to help, but I’m being told that would be rather stupid right now. I suppose I really should listen to the people in the know.’

John nodded, flicking the butt of his cigarette over the top of the wall towards the sea. ‘Yes, you should. But it seems your mind’s alert, even if your body is bashed up. I have no doubt you could be of genuine use here. What about putting your hand up to work at HQ, underground, alongside the Wing Commander?’

Peter’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘Really, sir? May I?’

John shrugged. ‘You could be useful at least while you recuperate, although I have to warn you, Fox, it’s a long way down.’