Chapter 32 Chapter Thirty-Two

Victor Henry sat in the Savoy drawing room waiting for Pamela and his fighter pilot.Most of the people passing by were wearing military uniforms, and only a few people with white hair or bald heads wore black frock coats.The young women, radiant in their flimsy summer dresses of bright colours, looked like a company of amorous angels.On the eve of Hitler's brigand attack, Britain was the most relaxed and happy place he had ever seen. There is none of the depressing hedonism of the French in May, who sit with knife and fork waiting to perish.The American had been touring intensely for a week, having seen shipyards, naval and air bases, factories, government offices, and army maneuvers, and wherever he went he had noticed a strong, exhilarating quality of life in the British as a result of ever-increasing production figures. mood.Britain began producing tanks, planes, artillery and ships on an unprecedented record.They now claim they can build planes faster than they can be shot down by Germany.The problem will be with the fighter pilots.If the numbers they told him were true, it was a thousand well-trained pilots who went into battle.Casualties of the war were soaring, and it was useless to replenish the air with raw hands.They couldn't kill the Germans, but the Germans could kill them.Relying solely on the existing fighter pilots, life in Britain in 1940 was very difficult.But what about the rate of casualties among skilled Luftwaffe pilots?That's the point, says Tillett, and I hope Goering has given his all.If this is the case, as long as the British persist, the German air show will stop one day.Once they start bombing British cities indiscriminately, that's the signal, says Tillett.

"We're late," cried Pamela, in her purple silk dress, chirping like a bird, coming lightly towards him.The pilot who came with her was a small, dark-faced, broad-nosed, rather muscular figure.His thick, wavy black hair really needed a fix.If he wasn't wearing his wrinkled blue uniform, the Garrard air captain would have looked more like a young lawyer or businessman than an actor, despite his beautiful blue eyes sunken with fatigue. Sparkling and expressive. The diamonds in Pamela's ears were dazzling.Her hair was pulled up casually for the time being.It seemed to Pug that she had just gotten out of bed rather than having been to a beauty parlor.However, here and now, it is very beautiful!When he thought this way, he felt pain in his heart, and wished he could grow younger so that he could compete with others.They sat down in the crowded barbecue room and ordered drinks.

"Orange water," Air Force Lieutenant Garrard said. "Two dry martinis and a glass of orange water. Excellent, sir," whispered the silver-haired waiter, bowing deeply. Garrard smiled charmingly at Victor Henry, showing straight teeth.His smile made him look like an actor.He tapped quickly and lightly on the starched tablecloth with the fingers of his left hand. "It's a shame to ask for a drink like that in the Savoy, isn't it?" Pamela said to Pug. "I've been told he used to be quite a drunk. But since the day we declared war he's been drinking only oranges." It's water."

"My son is a Navy pilot. I want him to drink orange water," Pug said. "That's not a bad idea. Up there," Garrard pointed to the ceiling, "things change quickly. You have to be quick-eyed, and you have to see others before they see you. Once you find out, you have to react quickly, and you have to do it one after another. Make quick decisions. Circumstances change every second. You have to fly this plane for your precious life. There are young people who drink like hell, and they say drinking takes energy. My job requires all of my energy." "I have a lot to ask you," Victor Henry said. "But maybe you don't want to talk about aerial combat tonight."

"Really?" Garald stared at Pug curiously for a moment, then glanced at Pamela and said, "Not at all. Go ahead." "What's up with the Germans?" "The Germans are good drivers, good shooters. Our papers annoy us, they always say the Germans are weak." "How about their plane?" "The 109 is a good plane, but the Spitfire is just as good. The Tornado is a little slower, but it's easier to maneuver. Their twin-engine 110s are inferior, and don't seem easy to handle. Of course, their Bombers are like birds on eggs, they are easy to hit."

"How's the morale of the RAF?" Garrard put a cigarette to his mouth and lit it quickly with one hand. "I can say that morale is high. But not as advertised in the papers. Not the heroic patriotism that is said. I still remember the first time I fought over Britain, the one that the air fighter control center said There were little black dots there. I had that feeling. I thought to myself: 'These blind Germans, they're really here, why are they invading our airspace? You bastards. See if I pick you up Come down!' I didn’t expect after this. I was very busy trying not to get knocked down. This will be the case in the future.” He silently smoked a cigarette, his eyes wide open, staring into the distance, he fingers flicked constantly.He changed his position in the chair, as if he thought the chair was too hard. "It's a task and we have to do it to the best of our ability. We've fought more battles here than in France. Colonel, you can tell your son that fear is an important factor, especially if the war lasts." .Learn to live with fear. Some people just can't. We call such people demoralized. The harsh truth is: the shorter the range, the greater the accuracy. But it's up to you to shorten the range. Ancient The art of war doesn't apply here. You know in war there are always some guys who fire from afar and run out of ammunition and then turn around and run back. Some chase the enemy plane into the clouds and never find it; some never find it Enemy plane, take off for nothing. Everyone will soon know who did it. No one blames them. After a while, they will be transferred from work." He was silent again, eyes downcast tightly. Holding the smoking cigarette in his hands, he was obviously thinking about some past events.He shifted again in his chair, looked up at Victor Henry, and then at Pamela, who was looking intently into his face. "Well, for better or for worse, it's always exciting that we're fighting the Germans, Colonel Henry. We're now flying planes that can fly over the whole of the British Isles in half an hour. The best battery ever. We're now It's something that very few people have done, or have done, and probably never will." He looked around the elegant little dining room, which was filled with well-dressed women and men in military uniform .He smiled wildly, rolled his eyes, and said, "If you're interested in stunts, then—" He cocked his thumb up, "look up there."

"Your orange water, sir," said the waiter, bowing. "It's just in time," said Garrard. "I talk too much." Pug raised his glass to Garrard and said, "Thank you, I wish you happiness, and may you strike hard at your enemies." Garrard opened his mouth and smiled, took a sip, and kept moving in the chair. "You know, I'm kind of an actor. Give me a hint and I can talk. What plane does your son fly?" "Sbd, Douglas Dreadnought," said Pug. "He's a pilot on an aircraft carrier." Garald nodded slowly, his fingers moving faster and faster. "A dive bomber?"

"yes." "We still have arguments about this aircraft. The Germans copied it from your navy. Our command is not interested in it. We think the pilot will have difficulty in a predictable vertical course. Our lad Shot a lot of Sturga dive planes. Also, the dives had to go well. The bombs hit the target. But I have to give my hat off to the pilots on the carriers who landed on a wobbly little patch of sea. I But to return to the embrace of my vast and stable mother earth, which I love more and more." "Oh, I have a rival," said Pamela. "I'm glad she's so old and flat." Galad raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. "But you'd like her to fall in love with me, wouldn't you, Pam?"

During the meal, he told Victor Henry in detail about the tactics adopted by the fighters of both sides.Garrard, in high spirits, dropped his hands abruptly to indicate a manipulative situation, and rattled off a slew of jargon.He looked relaxed now, sitting comfortably in his chair, smiling with great excitement.All he was talking about was important information, and Pug wanted to keep it in his head as much as possible.He ordered roast beef, and French red wine, but he drank very little of it.Pamela finally complained that she drank the bottle all by herself. "I need a lot of energy," said Pug, "more than Teddy."

"I'm tired of the abstinent heroes. I'd rather be a cowardly drunk myself." Garrard was eating his second roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, he ate a lot, and said that he had lost almost eight pounds in the past three weeks, and he would make it up in three days, when the head waiter told him Send a note.Garrard crumpled up the note, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and went out.After a while, he returned to his seat, smiled at them, and continued eating. "Things have changed, Pam," he said suddenly, as he finished his meal. "Our camp rotation has been cancelled. We won't be able to leave until the weather gets cooler." He smiled at Victor Henry, and tapped on the table with ten fingers. "I don't care. It makes me uneasy if I'm on the sidelines when it's hot around here."

In the dead air around the small dining table, Victor Henry felt that this order was more than a harbinger of the dangers of re-calling a tired and restless pilot and sending him to the skies again.This is a sign that the Royal Air Force has struggled to cope.Pamela asked, "When do you have to go back to camp, tomorrow?" "Accordingly, I should be going back now, but I'm so happy to be with you and enjoy my steak so much." "I can take you to Bi Jingshan by car." "Really, Pam, they'll bring people back from all kinds of sleazy hotels, public places, and they'll gather the people they find and go together." He looked at his watch. "I'm going, but it's early in the evening. You should see Noel Coward. It's funny, I hear." Pug said hastily, "I think I'll let you two talk." The RAF pilot looked him in the eyes and said: "Why, can't you listen to Pamela's drunken gibberish just a little longer? Don't go. For the first time in weeks she's in good spirits." Woolen cloth." "Well. I guess I can take it," said Pug.The pilot and Pamela rose to their feet.Pamela said, "Are you going? Well, we can walk slowly through this corridor." Pug stood up and held out his hand.Tad Garrard said, "Good luck to you, Colonel Henry, and good luck to your son in the Dreadnought. Tell him I recommend orange water. Come and see us at Mount Pigeon Airfield." Pug was left alone at the table.He sat down and wiped his right hand with a napkin.Garrard's hands were very wet. One afternoon a few days later, he actually paid a visit to Tad Garrard's squadron.Big King Hill is located in southeast London.This was the route German bombers would take if they crossed the English Channel to attack their nearest airfield.The Luftwaffe decided to bomb Bijing Mountain, so the airport presented a bleak scene: aircraft wreckage, burned roofless hangars, bombed runways, and charred wood, bombed gutters, blasted mud and The blasted cement gave off a soaring stench everywhere.When Pug arrived, the rollers were roaring around repairing the runway, and two planes had just landed.Stubby fighter jets were parked all over the airport, and mechanics in overalls climbed up and down, busy repairing them, and chattering dirty words happily and loudly.The airport seemed very busy. Garrard looked haggard.But much happier than at the Savoy diner.In an evacuated barracks, he introduced Pug Henry to a dozen young men with sunken eyes and disheveled hair, all dressed in wrinkled military uniforms, wool-trimmed boots and yellow life jackets , lounging in chairs or iron hammocks, some with bald heads, others with their narrow blue hats cocked over one eye.The arrival of the U.S. Navy captain in civilian uniform brought their conversation to a sudden halt, and there was an awkward silence, save for the jazz on the radio.Then a red-faced pilot who looked as though he had never been shaved, handed Pug a cup of strong tea, and attacked the Navy's futility in a friendly tone.He said he had been shot down by a British destroyer while flying over the English Channel, so he may have been biased.Pug said that to the honor of the Navy he regretted the folly, but as a friend of Britain he admired such marksmanship.His words caused a roar of laughter.Then they talked about flying again, somewhat restrained at first, and then they forgot about the guests.He can't listen to some jargon carefully, but the scene in front of him is clear at a glance: always on alert, almost sleepless nights, too many planes were lost in accidents and battles, and the German fighters far outnumbered them, but in this squadron with a sharply reduced number Here, there is a heroic and exciting high morale of fighting to the death.Pug learned that almost half of the pilots had died since the war began. After the six o'clock news, they stopped talking and gathered around the radio.There was only one small battle that day, and the ratio of the two sides shooting down aircraft was three to two, with the Luftwaffe at the bottom.The pilots gave each other thumbs up and laughed childishly. "They're fine young men," Garrard said on the road as he escorted Victor Henry into the car. "Of course, when you came in. Cut them off from their conversation about women. I'm a middle-aged man in the squadron, and they don't talk to me much about it. These young men have a lot to do when they're not flying." ’” He smiled knowingly at Pug. "Some people wonder, how do they still have the energy to climb into their plane? But, they climbed anyway, and it's not bad at all." "It's a golden age to be alive and young," Pug said. "Yeah. You asked me how morale was. Now you've seen it for yourself." As they shook hands by the car, Garrard said shyly, "I should thank you." "Thank me for what?" "Pamela is going back to England. She told me she was not making up her mind when they chanced upon you in Washington. She decided to consult with you, and your words had a great influence on her." "Well, I'm flattered. I think I'm right. I'm sure she'll do just fine without her father." "Taoji? He will live a better life than us all." "It's not going well," Major General Tillett said.He drove through the many beetle-like, wet black taxis in front of Marbo.The weather became rainy and foggy.Pearl-grey gloom hung over the hot and humid London, which had no atmosphere of war.On the sidewalk, people are bustling with umbrellas.The red double-decker buses and the rubber raincoats of the police all glistened in the rain.Mysterious London in its drab, peacetime dressing gown. "The morale of Bi Jingshan is not bad," said Pug. "Have you been? Morale is no problem! The numbers are terrible. Maybe Fatty Goering is short of fighter pilots too. We are short, that's for sure. Terribly short. We don't know the other side of the hill situation. We just hang on and hope for the future." As they drove on, the rain gradually stopped.Not long after, the weak sunlight shone on the endless rows of damp and dirty red houses, and also shot into the car.Tillet said: "Our meteorologists have done a very good job. They said that the Germans may come today after the rain. It is strange to say that Britain has the best summer in a century, and it happens that the Germans are coming to air raids." "Is the weather a good thing or a bad thing?" "It's good for the Germans to pick targets and drop bombs. But our interceptors are also easier to spot the enemy and shoot them down. If we had to choose, our young people still prefer sunny days." He speaks of Napoleon's constant luck with the weather, and he cites that several campaigns between Charles XII and Wallenstein were turned around by unexpected storms.Pug admired Tillett's erudition.In this respect, he is powerless to parry, and he cannot think of anyone who can surpass him.It seems that Tilet has studied every battle in history.A strategic blunder by Xerxes I or Julius Caesar irritated him as much as Hermann Göring had irritated him.An hour later, their car drove to a small town.The car drove along a sewage canal, then approached a cluster of soot-filled buildings surrounded by tall barbed wire.A soldier at the door saluted them and let them in.Pug asked, "What's this place?" "Uxbridge. Didn't you want to see the Eleventh Fighter Group Operations Command?" said Tileken. "Ah, yes." For three weeks, Tillett never mentioned his request, and neither did Victor Henry. A smiling, round-faced Air Force captain came out to receive them.He was a nobleman, and his name was long, and Tilett spoke too quickly for Pug to catch.The aristocratic gentleman led them down the long spiral staircase from the dazzling sunlight to the basement. "One might expect a White Rabbit in a place like this, wouldn't one, Colonel?" he said in an Oxford tone. "But here's doing business by the watch. I'm afraid there's nothing to see here." They entered the narrow second-floor balcony of a strange little theatre.The place where the stage and the curtain are hung is a black wall, and the wall is full of rows of light bulbs. Except for the top row of red lights, the rest are all white lights.A line along the wall bears the names of the various phases of RAF preparation.On the floor below were a dozen or so girls in military uniform, some wearing earphones with long cords, working around a large map of southern England on a table.On both sides of the wall, in a glass cabin resembling a radio control room, some men hunched over desks with headphones on and wrote.The place smelled of underground earth and cement, and it was quiet and cool. "Burner-Walker, here comes your American guest," said Tillett.The blond officer in the middle of the balcony turned and smiled. "Ah, coming! We were delighted to hear you were coming. Come and sit next to me, will you?" He shook hands with them. "There's nothing to do right now, but there's going to be something to do soon. As soon as the weather in the Channel turns from bad to good, the Germans will come down from the sky." Burner-Walker wiped his face with one hand. The thin pink chin gave Pug a mischievous glance. "I said, the planes you collected are of great use." "They're not very useful in air combat," Pug said. "These planes are great for patrolling. Putting down an incoming fleet. Pilots love them." Burner-Walker looked him in the eye. "Look here, can you make these planes in two days?" Pug just grinned. Burner-Walker shook his head and stroked his curls. "I really wanted to offer you help, but you gave me the impression that you could handle it all by yourself, and we'd be fools instead. Ah, here's a mutual acquaintance. Weren't you with the Tudsburys when I first saw you at the Washington reception?" Pamela came in to change another girl's shift.She looked up, smiled at Victor, and went to work, never looking at him again. "It looks obvious, doesn't it?" said Burner-Walker, pointing to the map and the wall. "Stanmore Fighter Command is in charge of air defense, but he makes each group his own. Our area is the south-east of England. This is a lively area, the closest to Germany, and London is here." He pointed with his bony arm looking at that wall.Wave up and down. "The six rows of light bulbs represent the six fighter control stations of our group. The vertical row of light bulbs represents a combat squadron. Twenty-two squadrons in all. In theory, we command over five hundred fighter pilots." Burner-Walker He pursed his lips. "That's in theory. We're currently borrowing pilots from other brigades. That's it, we still lack a lot. But..." He pointed to the foot of the black wall, and the white light bulbs at the foot of the wall lit up, forming a row Serrated. "The lights on the wall come on from bottom to top to indicate combat readiness, followed by take-off, spotting the enemy, and finally, of course, the exchange of fire. It's a row of red light bulbs. Our six sub-stations talk to us and the pilots. We Putting it all together here. When the air battle was intense, the Major General of the Air Force came to take command himself. Ah, yes. Those poor people locked in the glass room on the left were collecting intelligence from the ground observation station. The one on the right People gathered intelligence from air defense stations. So the news about the German planes in our airspace was quickly reflected from here." Here Pug wasn't as surprised as he had been in Venteno.He already knew that such a system existed; but now that he observed it carefully, a sense of awe emerged spontaneously. "Sir, according to you, don't you need hundreds of thousands of miles of cables? Thousands of lines and a lot of equipment. When were these installed?" "Ah, we had a plan two years ago, and the politicians didn't agree with it because they thought it was too much money. We didn't get the money until after Munich. It's a headwind, isn't it? Hey, here we go. I Believe the Germans are here." The white bulbs on the black wall started to go up.The young noble sitting next to Burner-Walker handed him the phone.Burner-Walker spoke instantly in RAF code, and his eyes moved from the wall to the table on which the map lay.He then returned the phone to its original location. "Yes, the Venteno radar station is now reporting that the enemy has begun to attack, and some are preparing to attack. Two of them have more than forty fighters, and one has more than sixty fighters." Tilet said: "Goering is such an ass, why didn't he destroy our radar station? This must be a historic mistake of his." "Oh, he tried," said Burner-Walker. "But it's not so easy to do. Unless they hit the tower and blow it to pieces. Otherwise, it stands up like a palm tree after a storm." "Then he should keep bombing." The white light bulb keeps going up on the board.The combat command post immediately showed a busy scene.However, no one showed a look of panic, and their voices were very low.The Air Force Major is coming.He was thin, serious-looking, with a thin mustache, and he was like two brothers to General Tillets.When he came in, he paid no attention to the visitor at first, and then greeted Tilet with a very warm smile on his face, which made him look amiable. The red light at the Bi Jingshan control station came on first.Victor Henry saw Pamela look up at the lights.She and the other girls were busy fiddling with arrows and dials, and it was immediately clear on the table that four groups of planes were attacking the south of England along different routes.The low, chirping reports of people answering the phone on the ground mixed together.There was no one chatting in the balcony.Henry sat there and watched the red lights turn on one by one, he was attracted like watching a football game.In about twenty minutes, half the squadrons on the board had their red lights on. "Pretty much," Burner-Walker said casually, without urgent orders. "We dispatched almost two hundred planes. While these planes came down to refuel and reload, another group was covering." "Does the red light on your board ever come on at full capacity?" Burner-Walker pursed his lips. "Yes, that is not up to you to choose. At present, the reserve force is almost exhausted." Pug tried to imagine how many planes were now darting through the clouds in that distant, blue sky.How many German and British youths, like young Warren and Byron, were killed in this airplane fight.Pamela's cool orange-water lover, the dumpy actor, is also wearing a yellow lifejacket now, flying through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, while keeping an eye out for white in the plane's reflectors The square nose of the plane appears, or shoots at the enemy plane painted with a black cross.Bi Jingshan's two bulbs light up and turn white: return to base. "Battles seldom last more than an hour from the time the German planes take off," said Burner-Walker. "They run out of gas very quickly and have to go back. They often fall into the sea like exhausted bats. The captives say, The Luftwaffe gave the English Channel an indecent name, your American equivalent of a 'shithole'." After a few minutes, the red lights went out one by one.The air force major general left.The girls below took all the signs off the table.Sir Burner-Walker answered the phone, was debriefed, wiped his face furiously with his bony, hairy hands, and turned to Pug.His eyes were full of red silk. "Would you like to speak to Pamela Tudsbury?" "Of course. How's the situation?" Burner-Walker shrugged exhaustedly and said, "We can't turn back every bomber. I'm afraid there are quite a few planes that have gone through the line and done their worst. We lost quite a few planes. So did they. We'll have to wait a day or two for the exact numbers. I don't think we played badly." When Pug walked out with the young nobleman, leaving Tilett to talk to the dispirited senior official, Pug glanced back at the theater. On the wall, there were only light bulbs at or near the bottom of the wall. on.The room was quiet, exuding a strong earthy smell.The stairs to the ground seemed longer and steeper.Pug was tired, though he had done nothing but sat and watched.He was out of breath, his heart was racing, and he was happy to see the sun.Pamela stood outside in the sun in her blue uniform. "Ah, you visited, but today wasn't the best day. The Tedder fell." Her voice was calm, chatty, but she shook his cold hands nervously. . "Are you sure?" "Yes. He may have parachuted. However, his plane fell into the sea. Two of his fellow squadrons reported that he fell." Eyes on his face. "Pam, you said they used to climb out of the water and get back to work pretty quickly." "Oh, of course. That's up to Taid. I've got a special pass. I'm going to London tonight. Can you treat me to dinner?" A week passed and another week passed.Garrard never came back.Pamela came to London several times.Victor Henry once remarked to her that she seemed to fight only when she felt like it.She replied: "I have behaved terribly. I have tried my best to take advantage of other people's sympathy and good temper to make people over-accommodate me. I will be locked up in the barracks soon. But then you Gone. Now, you are still here." The Americans here thought that Pug Henry had picked up a young Auxiliary Air Force woman.To comfort Pamela, he often took her to Fred Flynn's apartment.Apartment in Belgrave Square, the center of the British and American gathering.Shortly after Fehling and Rhoda had an argument on Christmas Eve, the Germans deported Fehling for revealing some facts about the bombing of Hamburg.Flynn was flirting with girls in London again, and by his own account he was often exhausted to the radio studio.His provocative and moving portraits of wartime Britain elicited deep sympathy from Americans, and isolationists thought he was clearly taking British money. The second time Victor Henry brought Pamela to the apartment, Flynn met Pug alone in the hallway and said, "Dear Mr. Henry, are you sneaking? She's small, but Very sophisticated." "She's my friend's daughter." "Yes, Tarky Tudsbury is an old friend of mine, too." "That's right. That's her. Her fiancé was an RAF pilot who went missing in action." A knowing smile appeared on Flynn's round face. "I see. She should find some comfort." Pug looked up at him.The reporter was over six feet tall and well built. "Do you want to have a good meal?" Flynn's smile disappeared. "Pug, are you serious?" "I'm serious." "I was just asking. Did Rhoda have a letter?" "She misses me terribly. New York is smoky. She's sick of it, it's unbearably hot." "It's normal. My old friend Rhoda." The men who came in and out of the apartment were often accompanied by women, often somewhat drunk.Among these people were Army and Army Air Corps observers, newspaper reporters, film actors, businessmen, who danced with Pamela and joked with her, but all regarded her as Victor Henry's mistress and left her alone. Once in early September he and Pamela had a drink at her apartment and talked about these things."Fornication, fornication—still war and fornication—other than that is out of fashion," Pug said. She stared at him with wide eyes. "Oh, I didn't expect you to be an expert on Shakespeare." "The Bible and Shakespeare are the only things I read for entertainment, Pamela, besides westerns," said Pug, rather gravely. "It's good to read them. In the Navy you get a chance to read a lot of Shakespeare." "Well, we don't have much promiscuity here," said Pamela. "It's just that people don't know." "Are you complaining, girl?" "Of course not, you stupid old man. I can't imagine how your wife can stand you." "Well, I'm a good-natured, patient, good partner who never blames anyone." "God bless you, you are right." At this time, the air raid sirens suddenly wailed and howled.Despite hearing it so many times, Pug still felt his heart stop beating. "My God!" said Pamela. "They're coming! That's not it. What's up with the hapless Fighter Command?" She stood side by side with Victor Henry on the small balcony outside her sitting room, glass of iced whiskey in hand, watching a Rows of bombers form an irregular large V-shaped group.The plane flew across the blue, clear sky.Clearly visible in the fading slanting light, anti-aircraft guns were fired here and there, but they were doing nothing but white and black puffs of smoke around the bombers. "I'm afraid I got involved with the fighter convoy at the southernmost point." Victor Henry's voice trembled.The number of bombers surprised him greatly.The air was filled with the regular, angry buzzing of billions of bees as a swarm of planes descended like invaders in a futuristic movie.The sound of the bang bang antiaircraft guns paled in comparison.A group of V-shaped aircraft flew past; but the blue distance.A few more teams appeared.When they fly over the city, the size and number of them is unbelievable.The bombers were not flying very high, and the anti-aircraft guns seemed to explode in the V formation, but the planes continued straight ahead.The muffled sound of bomb explosions resounded throughout the city, and gray-white flames soared in the sun with gunpowder smoke."They seem to have chosen the dock," said Pug. "I'll get you another drink, okay? I must, must have a drink." She took his glass and hurried back to the house. Bombers continue to appear from the southeast.Pug might have been right to consider Major General Tillet; was this a sign of German weakness, Goering's final showdown?It's a sign of weakness!But what a terrible price the German fighter convoy had to pay for this unbelievably calm mass bombing.British fighter jets could shoot down these big, slow planes as well as tin ducks.They have already confirmed this.But now, the bombers continued to fly, unscrupulously demonstrating over London, like an exhibition of terrifying flying machines. She served her drink and glanced at the air. "Oh, God bless, there's a lot more coming!" She leans against the railing.Leaning on his shoulder.他用胳膊搂住她，她偎在他身边，他俩就这样站在一起，注视着德国空军为了迫使英国投降而开始轰炸。这是九月七日。 沿河，硝烟弥漫，射向天空的炮火更多、更猛烈了。城里一些地方，没有击中目标的炸弹燃起一小堆一小堆的火焰。在头一阵惊恐过去之后，以后倒也不觉得怎么可怕了。声音离得很远，一块块的火焰散布在一大片红色和灰色的完好的建筑物中间。显得疏疏落落。伦敦真是一个非常、非常广阔的城市。小胖子戈林这次大举进袭并没有给它带来多大损失。只有熊熊燃烧的泰晤士河岸仿佛受了些创伤。这就是从帕米拉的凉台上看到的首次全面空袭的景象。 他们在警报解除后步行到莎荷去吃饭，那边也是这番景象。人行道上熙来攘往的伦敦人精神振奋，毫不气馁，甚至显得趾高气扬。不相识的人互相交谈，有说有笑，还翘起大拇指。交通与往常一样拥挤。马路上看不到被破坏的痕迹。远处救火车的叮当声和天空弥漫的硝烟，是戈林大举进袭在这个区留下的唯一痕迹。电影院外面，甚至距平时一样排着长队，戏院售票处也在很快地出售戏票。 当他们饱餐了一顿美味的意大利晚餐，踏着夕阳朝泰晤士河走去时，景象才开始变样。硝烟的气味变得更浓烈；浓烟滚滚。衬着低空的云块，在摇曳的红色和黄色火光下。给人一种置身地狱的感觉。马路上的人越来越多，连走路都十分困难了。这里的人们显得更沉默寡言。亨利和帕米拉走到用绳子拦起的街道上，这里人声嘈杂，水龙喷着水，消防队员们喊叫着用水龙带对准烧黑了的房屋，朝舔出窗外的火舌喷水。帕米拉绕过几条小巷和小街道，来到河边，混在看热闹的人群中间。 令人窒息的火烧的恶臭污染了大气，在这闷热的夏夜，河上又吹来阵阵酷热的风。月亮在低空透过滚滚浓烟，射出布满尘土的红光。对岸的熊熊火光映在黑油油的水面上。大桥慢腾腾地吐出逃难的人群，有的赶看大车，有的推着儿童车，有的坐着轮椅。他们大多衣衫褴褛，也有戴着帽子的工人，还有一群衣不蔽体的孩子。只有这些孩子走过来时，还高高兴兴，到处乱跑。 维克多•亨利抬头望着天空。繁星透过烟雾的隙缝在闪烁。 “你知道，今天夜里天气非常好，”他说。“这些火光就是信号，百英里以外也能看到。他们还会飞回来的。” 帕米拉突然冷静地说：“我得回乌克斯桥去了。我觉得不大舒服。”她低头看看自己的灰色薄绸衣裙。“我觉得好象不该不穿军服。” 帕格和帕米拉在离河边好几条街的地方，刚刚找到一辆出租汽车。警报器又惨叫起来。身材瘦小的司机用手碰碰自己的帽子向他们行礼，说：“来吧，照常营业。打倒希特勒！” 帕米拉进屋换衣服，维克多•亨利从凉台上注视着夜袭开始。破坏、骚动、壮丽的火烧场面、摇曳不定的蓝白色探照灯光、轰炸机马达密集的轰鸣、刚刚开始的砰砰的高射炮声——这一切都使他的感官敏锐起来。帕米拉•塔茨伯利穿着空军妇女辅助队员的制服，走上月光朦胧的凉台，在帕格眼里，她简直成了绝代的美人。她穿着平底鞋，显得更矮小些，但这身朴素的服装使她苗条的身材更加娇媚可爱了。他这么认为。 “他们来了吗？”她问。 “就要到了。” 她又偎倚着他。他又用一只手臂搂着她。“该死，这些狗杂种，不会错过目标的。”他说。“有这些火光引导他们。” “柏林也会起火的。”帕米拉突然之间变得凶狠难看，脸上带着冷酷、愤怒的表情，涂了口红的嘴唇上流露出仇恨。 河岸上蹿起新的火苗。四下蔓延，越烧越旺。远处一片漆黑的泰晤士河上吐出更多的火舌。但这座大城市的大部分地区却是一片黑沉沉的寂静。一架小轰炸机从浓烟弥漫的空中坠落，象一枝蜡烛似的燃烧着，两条交叉的探照灯光把它紧紧钉住。 “天啊！打中了一架。他们打中了一架。再多打几架下来吧！” 即刻就有两架轰炸机坠落下来，有一架带着一团烈火象一颗陨星似的笔直落下来，另一架兜了几个圈子，冒起黑烟盘旋起来，终于在半空中象远处的一串炮竹似的爆炸开来。他们立刻听见一声尖锐的炸裂声。 “啊！好极啦。好极啦！”电话铃响了。 “啊呀！”她尖声大笑起来。”一定是乌克斯桥来的。召回开小差的人哩。说不定要请我上军事法庭哩。” 她过了一会儿回来，带着困惑的表情说：“好象是你的电话。” "Who is calling?" “他不肯说。好象很重要。很不耐烦。” 梯莱特将军的声音：“是亨利吗？好极啦。您的朋友费林建议我往这里给您打电话试试。喂，您该记得吧，两个星期以前，有天早晨您去拜访的一位胖老头，他说您为了工作想参加一次小小的远征。去看看熟悉的异国风光，记得吗？”维克多•亨利感到脊背一凉。 "I remember." “那么，这次旅行就要开始了。要是您感兴趣的话，今天晚上等这次倒霉的空袭结束以后，我来看您，再详细告诉您吧。喂，亨利，您听见了吗？” “听见了，少将。您参加这次旅行吗？” “我嘛，天晓得，亲爱的，当然不罗。我是个胆小的老头子，旅途奔波对我已经不适合了。再说，也没有请我去啊。” "When to set off?" “我猜想他们大概明天动身。” “我能给您回电话吗？” “我应该在一小时内把您的回答转告他。” “我很快就给您回电话。” "Well." “告诉我，您认为我应该去吗？” “呃，既然您问，我想您准是疯了。他们要去的地方热得要命。是一年里最坏的季节。除非您特别喜欢那种风景。我可是不喜欢。” “您的电话号码没有变吧？” “已经改了。”梯莱特告诉他另一个号码。“我坐在这里等着。” 当他走上凉台时，她转向他，脸色开朗起来。“他们又打下两架。我们的夜班战斗机一定没有睡觉。至少，我们捞回了几架。” 帕格凝望着外面奇妙的景象：熊熊烈火、探照灯光、熄了灯的城市上空冲天的红色和黄色烟柱。“在华盛顿，我给你出过好主意。也许你认为那是个好主意吧。” “是啊，真是这样。”她用眼睛探询着他的目光。“谁给你来的电话？” “到屋里去。我现在要喝点酒。” 他们坐在通向凉台的敞开的落地窗旁两张扶手椅里。他朝前俯着身子，用臂肘撑着膝盖，双手捧着酒杯。“帕米拉， 英国皇家空军明晚要轰炸柏林。看来已经请我去当观察员了。 " 帕米拉的脸在黯淡的灯光下绷紧了。她咬着下唇，凝望着他。这种表情并不讨人欢喜。她的眼睛象猫头鹰一样瞪得滚圆。“我知道了，你去不去？” “我正在考虑。我认为这是个混帐的馊主意，梯莱特少将也认为这样。可是，他同时又转达了这次邀请。我不得不接受，否则我只有溜走。” “奇怪，他们为什么要请你，你又不是空军。” “你们的首相先生见到我的时候随便提了一句。他显然记忆力很好。” “你想听听我的意见吗？” “我正要问你。” “拒绝他。迅速、坚决、彻底地拒绝！” “好，为什么呢？” “这不是你份内的事。特别不是一个美国驻柏林的海军武官份内的事。” “真是这样。” “你活着回来的可能性是三比五。这样太对不住你妻子了。” “我起初也这么想。”帕格说着，停顿了一下，从凉台的门朝外望了望。夜晚，高射炮砰砰作响，探照灯的蓝色光束划过夜空。“不过，你们的首相认为我走一趟说不定还有点用处。” 帕米拉•塔茨伯利生气地把手一挥。“简直胡闹。温尼①对于作战这方面永远毕不了业。他大概自己想去，以为别人都跟他一样。很久以前，他在南非毫无必要地被俘了。五月和六月份，他一次又一次地飞到法国，得罪了将军们，他上前线露了露面，给自己找来不少麻烦。他是个伟大的人物，可是这是他的许多缺点之一。” ①温斯顿的昵称，指丘吉尔。 维克多•亨利点上一支香烟，深深喷了一口，用手指不断翻转火柴盒。“我应该很快给梯莱特将军回电话。我还是挂电话吧。”他走到电话机旁。她连忙说：“等一等，你怎么说呢？” “我准备接受。” 帕米拉鼻子里大声吸了一口气，说：“那你为什么要来征求我的意见呢？” “我想，你也许会提出一个我没有想到的很好的反对理由。” “你自己提出了最好的反对理由。这是件蠢事嘛。” “我并不坚持。我的工作是搜集情报。这可是绝好机会。这里还有点讽刺的意味，帕米拉。美国海军没有参战，我到这里来看看你们打得怎么样。问题在于，我怎么插手呢？这个问题我是逃避不了的。” “你考虑得太多了。你的总统对此会有什么意见呢？他叫你上这里来送死吗？” “事后他会祝贺我的。” “除非你真能回来接受祝贺。” 当他重新去拿话筒的时候，帕米拉•塔茨伯利说：“我要去找弗莱德•费林作伴，或者找跟他一样的人。”这句话使帕格的手臂停住不动了。她说：“我是非常认真的。我想念台德想得厉害。我不能忍受再失去你。我爱慕你比你想象的深得多。我并不是道德的化身，你要知道。你把我完全看错了。” 他看着这个生气的姑娘，自己脸上皱纹更深更重了。他心跳得几乎连话也说不出来。“我要说，乘人之危是很不道德的。” “你不了解我。一点也不了解。在'不来梅号'上时，你把我当成一个女学生看待，你的看法从来没有真正改变过。你的妻子不知用什么办法使你二十五年来一直保持这么单纯。” 维克多•亨利说：“帕姆，我确实想，我不会命定要在乘英国轰炸机飞到柏林上空时被击落。我回来再看你。” 他给梯莱特打电话，帕米拉气愤愤地睁大了眼睛。“笨蛋，”她说。“苯蛋！”