‘Look at me, man, if you’ve got the guts. Look me in the eye and swear you will never say anything against me or try to ruin my reputation, ever again.’

Frank took a breath and cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that . . .’

‘No excuses. I want an apology. Here. Now.’ Vic’s legs were shaking. He’d never been so angry.

Frank began to mutter. ‘Everyone knows you’re so bloody brilliant, I thought nothing could touch you. I was jealous, I suppose . . .’

‘You’re a grown man, Frank. Time to start acting like one.’

At last Frank looked up. Green eyes met brown for a long moment.

‘You’re right, mate. I’m sorry.’

Vic took a deep breath, blinking away the tears of relief that had unaccountably, embarrassingly, begun to flood his eyes. ‘Okay. You give me your word? If you don’t, I’ll spill the beans to Rowe about that test you so “successfully demonstrated” today.’

Frank nodded and held out his hand.

After a second, Vic reciprocated.

The spirit of co-operation in the team improved beyond all recognition. Within a few months they had developed a new, compact ‘powered’ system, ready for testing. A trial at RAF Martlesham proved successful. Immediately they began work on Mark II and Mark III versions. ‘Identification, Friend or Foe’ was ready for installation in all RAF aircraft.

As they read in the newspapers about pogroms against Jewish people and the thousands of shops and synagogues that were smashed, looted and burned, the prospect of war seemed to become even more real. Although the violence was attributed to ‘right-wing thugs’, no one doubted that it was sanctioned by Hitler. And how could anyone expect such a man to abide by the terms of the so-called ‘peace with honour’ enshrined in the Munich Agreement?

‘Not worth the paper the bloody thing’s printed on,’ Vic’s father muttered over Christmas dinner. Aunt Vera, although still gaunt, had recovered sufficiently from her unspecified disease to cook the festive meal this year. ‘I hope you clever chaps get that death ray machine working damned soon, or we’ll be in for it.’

‘Language, dear,’ his aunt tutted mildly.

‘Huh. That’ll be the least of our worries,’ his father retorted. ‘We’ll all be talking German if they have their way.’

15

‘Look at you,’ she shouted, throwing her arms around him. ‘Ma, Pa, it’s Mark!’

‘You don’t have to tell the whole ruddy street, sis,’ he said, shrugging her off. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

Where was the sallow-faced brother who’d left for RAF training just a few months ago? Here, home for Christmas, was a broad-shouldered man, tanned and handsome in his blue-grey uniform, who seemed to have grown at least six inches since she’d last seen him. On his upper lip, as though in compensation for the brutal haircut, grew a moustache, immaculately shaved and shaped just as Ray’s used to be.