A Magnificent Agony

Excerpt 1

Blue One kicked over into a dive. In tight formation Rob followed. The Spitfire shuddered, buffeted by shrieking wind. This is it. This is real. It all seemed unreal, a slowly unfolding nightmare in which he was standing still while the JU that was his target was hurtling towards him. The big braking flaps on the Junkers' wings were wide open, suspending the dive-bomber like a hawk stalking a rabbit. Rob's thumb flipped up the safety cover on the end of his control stick, exposing the trigger button of his eight .303 Browning guns, then settled on the tit while he crouched forward in the cockpit, tense, gauging his timing. These aren't men I'm shooting at. The rational of a man who has never seen combat, hasn't yet known the hate, the anger, the terrible fear. Passing ducks in a shooting gallery at a fair, that's what they are. Just a bit closer,---

In a shower of glass, Rob's canopy shattered. His stunned reflexes triggered a useless burst of gunfire. Tracers flicked by, stitched holes in his right wing. With a sick feeling raking his guts he wrenched over the control stick, then hauled it back into his belly. His Spitfire flashed into a tight turn, the seat pressing irresistibly against him while blood drained from his face and he fought against blacking out. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this. Abruptly changing direction at a speed a hundred miles per hour faster than he'd ever before flown did cruel things to the human body.

Trailing smoke, a Spitfire spun down, missing him by feet. Green Vic. Some poor bloke from Green. The recognition invaded the frantic numbness of Rob's mind as he leveled out, then pushed the throttle to the firewall, fish-tailing while he searched the air above and behind him for his attacker. From dead astern, tracer bullets streamed by again. Teeth set against the pull of the centrifugal force, Rob whipped into a left turn, the Spitfire's broad wings clawing the air. It was cold as hell up here, but he was sweating.

There was the bastard, an Me109, banking with him, struggling to stay on his tail! Rob kept the stick jammed back hard, the Rolls-Royce engine screaming. He was gaining, turning inside the German. Now he was behind the ME! His breath returned.Gone was the clutch of fear. Now he had the tight concentration of a prize fighter who's just been hit a good lick and is starting to counter-punch. No longer was the thing that fluttered about like a moth in his gunsight impersonal. In that plane was a German, a Nazi, a man who had just tried to kill him. Hate welled up, the back-lash of terror, hate such as Rob had never known in his sheltered, aristocratic life.

The Nazi bucked, fish-tailed. Following like a tom-cat after a female, Rob got him in his sights, then pressed the trigger. The eight machine-guns chattered.

'Bloody hell!'

His tracers had straddled his target. Four hundred yards, Cochrane! Start shooting from four hundred yards! You were too blessed close!

Twisting into a half roll, the 109 dived. Rob followed. At the top of his roll, his engine coughed, sputtered, lost power. Rob stopped breathing. The motor caught immediately, but his target was gone. Leveling out, Rob decreased speed a bit to conserve fuel while he streaked away from the combat, circled wide, then banked to begin his climb.

Attack three? What a farce! That thought crossed Rob's mind. Toss the ruddy textbook out the window! Air combat has all the organization of a pub brawl!

Excerpt 2

THE SS MEN DID NOT PERMIT MONIQUE to dress. Shoeless, in her panties and bra and with her shabby bathrobe thrown over her, she was escorted to a black command car, then driven to the Hotel Meurice.

401. She noted the number on the door as she was prodded through it into a large and grandly furnished suite. Double glass doors leading to the balcony stood open, but the street noise from below was only a murmur. Trembling, biting her lip, she clutched her robe around her. Heels clicked with the sound of a hand slap as the troopers barked, 'Heil Hitler!', spoke a few words in German, saluted again, then went out.

An ornate writing desk was positioned in front of the window. Behind it stood a man in black SS trousers and shirt. With the light behind him, Monique couldn't see his face. His uniform coat, his tie and his military belt were hung over a chair.

The man picked up a paper from his desk, glanced at it, put it down, then walked slowly toward her. Now Monique recognized him. He was one of those who had come to Caf Coq Rouge last night, she was sure of it, the oldest of the four. A short, slight man, his hair was jet black shot with gray at the temples, startling against his porcelain white skin.

'Mlle. Monique Moulin, is it?' His French was quite good. Some nasals were wrong and it was grotesquely guttural, but good French. 'You are Monique Moulin?'

Feeling like a trapped rabbit, she nodded. Here she would be politely questioned. If her captor wasn't satisfied, she would be taken where blood and vomit and excrement didn't matter. There, the questions would be repeated, not so politely. The man smiled. She thought it pained him to do it.

(425 pages)