"R. Garcia y Robertson - Wendy Darling, RFC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

тАЬWhat would you expect when the prime pastime is flogging the serfs? Makes
America seem civilized.тАЭ Mother gave her the sweet mocking smile that reminded
Wendy of Peter, showing off the one kiss you could never get.

There was the usual riff in Parliament over the raid. The Minister of War
proudly announced, тАЬnot a single soldier had been killed.тАЭ Not just a lie, but a stupid
one as well. The MP for the City of London wanted the bells of St. Paul rung
backwards in case of attackтАФ тАЬSo bank clerks would be warned to get the money
back in the vaults.тАЭ Young Winston ChurchillтАЩs prewar promise that enemy
aeroplanes would be met by a тАЬswarm of hornetsтАЭ was sarcastically recalled. Wendy
doubted any man in office cared a fig for the infantsтАЩ class, until she read a crack
fighter squadron was to be brought back from the front. тАЬThe best machines. The
best pilots,тАЭ she crowed. тАЬTo be based in Bekesbourne, between London and
Flanders, directly in the path of the attack. ThereтАЩs my billet. Fliers straight from the
front, probably in desperate need of mothering.тАЭ

Mother raised an eyebrow. тАЬWe donтАЩt know the Royal Flying Corps wants
young women hanging about their aerodromes.тАЭ

тАЬOh Mum, it would be a pilotтАЩs dream.тАЭ

She took the train to Canterbury тАФ in cricket weather, a beautiful hot blue day
with hardly a cloud. Perfect bomber weather as well, with southeast England laid out
like a plate. Getting to the aerodrome was alarmingly easy. Fliers from Fifty-sixth
Squadron were roaming the streets of Canterbury, searching for willing young
women. She was swept up in a crowd of pretty barmaids and errant school girls. By
dinnertime Wendy was standing in an evening dress at the edge of the field, sipping
French champagne, while a pair of pilots stunted to impress them. White tables
glittered with silver and china.

The planes were like nothing Wendy had ever seen, brand new Scout
Experimentals. SE5 biplanes, bristling with machine guns, speed built into every line,
their long lean fuselages half taken up by Hispano racing engines. Climbing a
thousand feet a minute, they looped, rolled, and plunged into screaming divesтАФ all
without the least sign of coming apart in midair. And she never expected the fliers to
be so young. One of the stunters, Ryan Donnelly, was introduced as an тАЬold manтАЭ
тАФ at it over two years тАФ a strapping young Irishman who had survived the Fokker
scare, the Battle of Somme, Bloody April, and the latest push in Flanders. That
spring he had turned nineteen. At twenty-two, Wendy felt twice his age.

She danced with this pink-cheeked killer under a candle-lit marquee, while the
squadron band played brassy music тАФ тАЬPack up Your TroublesтАЭ and тАЬSwanee
River.тАЭ Ryan was able to say the most appalling things in a sweet Irish brogue.
When she complimented the band, he laughed briskly. тАЬThankee. The Major scouts
the depots. Aims to have the best squadron band in the bloody RFC. Whenever a
new horn player or violinist shows up, he swaps them for some fellow whoтАЩs lost his
nerve.тАЭ

She mentioned the raid. Ryan replied, тАЬCapital bit of work. God bless Old
Jerry. God bless the Gotha.тАЭ He sounded like Peter giving a cheer for the pirates.