“The lads are back!” she cried. “Did you count the planes?”

“Four of ’em! A section and a transport!”

“Maybe they’ll visit today!” Nan said.

Madeira had landed when I got to the airfield. Pimms turned up in full daylight, about ten o’clock in the morning on Wednesday, 20 November 1940.

And there was my old friend Jamie, bonny Jamie Stuart, hoisting himself through the hatch to get out of the Blenheim.

He looked about ten years older than when he’d left Windyedge six weeks ago.

It gave me a shock. His narrow face was thinner, those bright hazel eyes ringed with shadow. I knew 648 Squadron had taken a few knocks since I’d seen them. The Blenheims always did, and the airmen were always shattered after a night in the sky. But Jamie had a whipped-dog air about him, angry and desperate, that I didn’t recognize.

He looked around at the moors to the west. The heather had been in a blaze of purple bloom when he was here at summer’s end, and now it was dull with winter’s coming and a thin layer of frost. The same thing had happened to him.

The other Pimms airmen were climbing out of their Blenheims.

Jamie watched them and his face relaxed a mite. He was counting them in just the way we did. He jumped down off the wing.

“Whoo!” Jamie gave a yell. “We’re home!”

I was hanging around his neck almost before his feet touched the ground.

“Jamie Stuart! Alive and whole! Hurrah, hurrah!” I kissed him for old times, though we’d never been true sweethearts.

He gave me a warm squeeze but gently pushed my face away. “Not in front of the lads, Volunteer McEwen.”

When did Jamie Stuart ever worry about good form? Not himself at all.

“You all right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Just damned if I’ll fly another escort mission without armament. This bloody new commander—you’ll meet him tomorrow, he’s at Deeside just now—we don’t see eye to eye on anything.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. He’d be my commander, too.

“You need a warm Windyedge welcome,” I said. “Down the pub!”

The Pimms lads who knew Windyedge were piling into the Tilly and rocking it to make the rest join them.

“Debriefing!” wailed Flight Officer Phyllis Pennyworth.

“Och, debriefing can wait,” I exclaimed. She was too good sometimes. “Debrief ’em in the Limehouse! Come on, Phyllis.…”

She gave up, and climbed in front next to me.

All nine Pimms lads sang their hearts out for the short ride, and Phyllis seemed tired and happy. How she managed to keep her air-force blue so smart after flying from Shetland in the back of someone’s Blenheim I do not know.

“Oh, Ellen, it’s good to be back here,” Phyllis said to me. “Are we still roommates?”