"Robertson-WendyDarling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

she stuffed four of the small bombs inside it, cushioning them with a change of
underwear. She was back on the flight line before anyone missed her-- thinking
how if she had taken Mum's advice, and gone into munitions work, she would never
have needed to be so devious.

The Storks wanted more than a look at the SE5, so a mock tournament was
arranged, with Wendy as fair lady. Ryan got her scarf. Guynemeyer, the ailing
star of the Stork escadrille, was lifted into one of his three personalized Spad
fighters, to be matched against Ryan in the SE5. Frail as glass on the ground,
Guynemeyer was an absolutely nerveless flier, with the cold hard eyes of a
corpse-fly. Wendy saw her brave knight bested a dozen different ways. The
Frenchman's Spad was all over the SE5, above, below, and on its tail. There was
no way that Ryan could have ever gotten a shot off. When it was over, Ryan shook
Guynemeyer's thin white hand, and returned the wipe to Wendy, saying "Lass, I
never claimed to be the best." It was a delight to see him all the same,
lunching on sweet wine and sugar cakes in the French mess.

Weeks later, back in London, Wendy read that Guynemeyer was dead, shot down in
flames over Poelcapelle. Just like Ryan's Rumpler. It was sobering to know that
being the best was not near good enough.

Her next letter from Ryan did not come from France-- it was posted from a London
hospital. Wendy was off in a shot, without checking on visiting hours. The
hospital confirmed her view of wartime nursing being cram full of the war's
wrecks and rejects, stitched up boys too badly maimed or blinded to be of use--
if they were aircraft they would have been broken up for spares. Since they
weren't aircraft they were filed away in a big building watched over by
underpaid women and offensively chipper young doctors. A useless exercise that
Wendy was well glad to be clear of. Expecting to find Ryan flat on his back,
looking like a day-old corpse, she was cheered to see him in prime spirits,
sitting between clean sheets -- fed, bathed, and flirting with the nurses, who
claimed he had been the perfect patient. "Didn't ask for his Mum more than once
an hour."

Wendy shook her head. "Good old Hun did it again?"

"Righto, he got me another leave." Ryan reached down and patted his leg, swathed
in bandages, but plainly still there. "Couldn't have placed the bullet better
myself."

Now that she saw he was going to live, she felt free to sit down and cry,
shocked at how much she had come to love him.

"Here, here." He took her hand. "Come, stop crying. 'Tis the bunion on my good
foot that hurts the worst." Ryan did his best to be breezy and charming, full of
that refuse- to-grow-up boyishness she so loved in Peter. Not fit to be turned
loose in a drawing room, but a sure friend and would-be protector-- all set to
be her beau sabreur. Lifting his bandages he showed off the red puckered mark
the bullet had put in his leg. "All my own fault, really. Tangled with an
Albatros two-seater over Passchendaele. The Hun was poking along, taking his