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magicalrocketshipsOriginally posted here.
Snippet from a Louis-centric WW2 AU, which owes much of its WW2 detail from Nevil Shute’s Pastorale.
The first bit ends mid-sentence, sorry.
February
Louis wasn’t speaking to anyone, and out of the people he wasn’t speaking to, he definitely wasn’t speaking to the Wing Commander. It was a good thing the Wing Commander never ate in the mess, else Louis was going to have to decide between his righteous anger and his military training, and neither of those were going to end well.
Everyone else did, though.
“Louis,” Harry said, ignoring Louis’ do not disturb vibes and sitting down next to him. They were supposed to be eating some kind of bully beef hash, with overcooked potatoes and not enough gravy. Louis pushed it around his plate and didn’t look up. “Louis.”
“Of all the people I don’t want to talk to,” Louis said, “you’re right up there with the best of them.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said, taking precisely no notice of
June.
Louis sat on the edge of his bed and watched the moonlight glint through the open curtains and onto the washstand at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t quite light enough to read the time off his wrist watch; he flicked the catch on his lighter, light enough to see the time.
Twenty to three in the morning.
The familiar dull roar of the Wellingtons’ engines as they landed had started to fade into something less frequent at some point after two. He hadn’t counted the planes down, but there had been engines enough that most, if not all, the planes had returned. He could time landing down to a t, after so many raids as part of the R-for-Robert crew. Landing, and then taxi-ing to dispersal, and the familiar handover to the ground crew before ten minutes in the truck to Wing Headquarters. Another twenty minutes giving his report, and then the truck to the mess for tired, quiet tea and buns and toast before calling it a night. Bed before three, if you were lucky.
Louis didn’t turn the light on, not wanting to alert anyone to the fact he was still awake. He stood by the window instead, even though there was no view of the aerodrome from this side of the building. In daylight, he could see across the valley and the wood and over to the mill pond at the other side of Combe Magna village. Nothing of the aerodrome.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint sound of someone whistling don’t sit under the apple tree. He closed the window, and straightened the covers on the bed.
One minute. Two.
The faint knock on his door.
Louis opened it, standing back from the door to let him in.
“Hello,” he said.
Snippet from a Louis-centric WW2 AU, which owes much of its WW2 detail from Nevil Shute’s Pastorale.
The first bit ends mid-sentence, sorry.
February
Louis wasn’t speaking to anyone, and out of the people he wasn’t speaking to, he definitely wasn’t speaking to the Wing Commander. It was a good thing the Wing Commander never ate in the mess, else Louis was going to have to decide between his righteous anger and his military training, and neither of those were going to end well.
Everyone else did, though.
“Louis,” Harry said, ignoring Louis’ do not disturb vibes and sitting down next to him. They were supposed to be eating some kind of bully beef hash, with overcooked potatoes and not enough gravy. Louis pushed it around his plate and didn’t look up. “Louis.”
“Of all the people I don’t want to talk to,” Louis said, “you’re right up there with the best of them.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Harry said, taking precisely no notice of
June.
Louis sat on the edge of his bed and watched the moonlight glint through the open curtains and onto the washstand at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t quite light enough to read the time off his wrist watch; he flicked the catch on his lighter, light enough to see the time.
Twenty to three in the morning.
The familiar dull roar of the Wellingtons’ engines as they landed had started to fade into something less frequent at some point after two. He hadn’t counted the planes down, but there had been engines enough that most, if not all, the planes had returned. He could time landing down to a t, after so many raids as part of the R-for-Robert crew. Landing, and then taxi-ing to dispersal, and the familiar handover to the ground crew before ten minutes in the truck to Wing Headquarters. Another twenty minutes giving his report, and then the truck to the mess for tired, quiet tea and buns and toast before calling it a night. Bed before three, if you were lucky.
Louis didn’t turn the light on, not wanting to alert anyone to the fact he was still awake. He stood by the window instead, even though there was no view of the aerodrome from this side of the building. In daylight, he could see across the valley and the wood and over to the mill pond at the other side of Combe Magna village. Nothing of the aerodrome.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint sound of someone whistling don’t sit under the apple tree. He closed the window, and straightened the covers on the bed.
One minute. Two.
The faint knock on his door.
Louis opened it, standing back from the door to let him in.
“Hello,” he said.
