Short Story: Valentine Sorte

Short Story: Valentine Sorte

The heavy, camouflaged “Lancaster”, “L” for Lion is approaching the target.

Suddenly, the plane lights up to 1000 lux; They’re caught in a searchlight. Everybody “freezes,” then, it’s gone as quickly as it came. Somebody exclaims into the intercom; ‘Holy Cow!’

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Blake Lamont the tall good looking Canadian Tail Gunner of “L” for Lion has two days off. He’s 20 and has been flying in Bombers since he was 17. He’s very tired, they’re “badgering” him to come to a dance in the Sergeant’s Mess tonight. ‘OK’, ‘OK,’ Blake say’s getting into his “DressBlues.” ‘Nice “WAAF’s” there tonight!’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ however, there was one particular WAAF that did catch Blakes eye, in fact their eyes “locked” across the mess hall. She was beautiful, with dark hair. When the music started, Blake wasted no time in asking her to dance, she smiled and accepted. That smile, the green eyes, dimples and dark hair, he would never forget. They danced and talked the night away. It was as if they had always known each other. He walked her to the barracks. They met the next day, for a picnic, Sandra brought scrambled egg sandwiches and orange juice.

They laughed,’ It’s war time!’ There’s slight tension as they talk, Blake’s flying tonight.

Sandra Kemp is a WAAF in the Air Traffic Section. Blake tells her that it’s his Thirtieth sorte. Sandra knows the Tail Gunners life expectancy, now in 1944, is only seven weeks.

That afternoon they part, kissing for the first time, a long lingering kiss. Blake strokes her hair. They promise to meet again when he’s back, they shake hands, tears are in their eyes.

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They get away from the target – they’re immediately “coned” by 6 search lights, the Blue Master is locked on. ‘Corkscrew, Go!’

‘To Port!” shouts the Navigator. Bill pushes the column forward and left, the “Lanc” screams down 1000 ft. at 280 mph. They pull up turning to starboard, full throttle. “G” force is immense.

Level again, heading west, flying through shards of steel. One shard pierces the plane, hitting the armour plate on Blakes seat. More, pepper the underbelly. Channel crossed, Bill finds; no landing gear, losing fuel. He says, ‘We’ll land at the first Airfield’ - ‘This will do,’ scanning the green grass of Suffolk. ‘Flash them with the Aldis lamp, Kevin.’

Skipper Bill says, ‘Everybody into the passage! brace yourselves! we’re doing a “Wheels up,” The “props” bend digging up the airstrip, and “L” for Lion is down. Crew all out, eventually, Blake spots an RAF Hillman coming fast, they stop, a WAAF is waving. Blake walks forward,

‘Sandra!' - tears are streaming down her face.

They hug, covering each other with kisses. ‘Will you be my Valentine?’ asks Blake. ‘Yes, yes Darling,’ Sandra is enveloped in his Sheepskin flying jacket. ‘My last sorte! Darling will you marry me?’

Sandra’s eyes open wide, ‘Yes please!’ jumping up hungrily seeking Blakes lips with her own.