Now I was hopping mad at the Jerries again, seeing red as I took off the bulky bits of my gear—Mae West, I mean life vest, and helmet—and fished cooled-down Ever-Hot bags out of my flight suit. I had to go be grilled by Flight Officer Pennyworth.

There wasn’t anything special about that interrogation. As the rest of Pimms Section filed out to get baths and sandwiches and cups of tea, Phyllis told me apologetically, “Wing Commander Talbot Cromwell wants you in his office.”

So I had to face the Old Roundhead by myself again.

He’d had a hell of a go at me after 7 November. This time I didn’t blame him for wanting to have a go at me, because I knew we shouldn’t have gone after a German fighter, and my new Australian flight crew had survived on blind luck, and Ignacy had essentially ignored everything I’d told him to do.

“Going to have to put another reprimand stamp in your logbook, Flight Lieutenant Beaufort-Stuart,” he told me. “You’ll have to get a better grip on your crews than this, or I’ll replace you as B-Flight’s commander. Adam Stedman in Madeira’s a capable chap.”

I stood in front of his desk as he defaced my logbook, clenching my teeth so hard I started to give myself jaw ache, watching his hands moving. His head was lowered, so I couldn’t see any part of his face but his frowning forehead and wiry eyebrows. Of course he wanted to replace me, and this was the perfect excuse. Stedman was an easygoing, capable fellow, transferred last week from another Blenheim squadron, but he didn’t have any more experience than I did, or know the new crews any better.

“Sir, with respect—” I made myself say it, polite words, without choking. “With respect, it’ll take a couple of flights for these new pilots to learn to fly together. Mazur is a bit of a daredevil, and Morrow’s just inexperienced.”

“It’s not their flying that’s getting them in trouble,” Cromwell said, deep-set eyes making his craggy face grimmer than it had any business being. “It’s their big mouths. ‘Careless talk costs lives’ and all that. But you’re their commander, so you’ll have to be held responsible.”

Now I was confused.

“‘Careless talk costs lives’?” I repeated.

“Your young Australians were chattering like magpies about receiving Morse code in German! It’s all over the aerodrome—the whole squadron knows what Pimms Section did out there today. Half of ’em are jealous and want to go shooting at Messers themselves. The other half want to know what kind of secret ops you’re on. I can’t have such undisciplined behavior, Beaufort-Stuart. There’s a delicate operation going on, and you may have thrown a wrench in it by chasing off that Jerry.”