Martin moved on past the accommodation huts and mess hall, the memories flooding back with every step. He finally came to the hut that had once housed ancient couches and chairs where the flight crews had restlessly awaited their orders when the weather had been too cold to be outside. The furniture was still there, but covered in dust and cobwebs, the stuffing bursting out at the ripped seams; and he suspected the field mice had made use of it for nests. Then he spotted a couple of deckchairs leaning against the wooden wall. They seemed to be in reasonable condition, so he dusted one down with his handkerchief and carried it outside to test it thoroughly before he sat down.

He could see the whole airfield from here, and if he closed his eyes he could hear the planes landing and taking off – see the enemy air raids which sent everyone scurrying for shelter – recall the death-defying heroics of men like Freddy who’d managed to steer his shot-up kite away from the huts and come screeching down on one wheel – and the bravery of the fire crews who raced alongside to put the fire out and drag the pilot and crew to safety.

Martin opened his eyes, not wanting to see those images any more, or hear those long-remembered sounds of a busy RAF base. He lit a cigarette and gazed over the abandoned field which now seemed so much larger than he’d remembered, and then a movement in the distance caught his eye.

He stilled and watched as the familiar, lonely figure emerged from the deepening shadows of the trees and began to wander unsteadily down the runway, clearly over-refreshed and lost in his own thoughts.

Martin felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders at the sight of his friend, yet he didn’t call to him, but went to fetch the second deckchair. He brushed it down before setting it up beside his, then sat and waited for Roger to notice that he wasn’t alone.

Roger eventually caught sight of him and, after a momentary hesitation, squared his shoulders and strode towards him. Eyeing the deckchair, he gingerly lowered himself into it, and took a sip from his hip flask. ‘I wondered when you’d turn up,’ he said, handing the flask to Martin. ‘Nice view from here, isn’t it?’

Martin nodded, at ease for the first time since he’d set foot back in England. ‘The best in the world, old chum.’

24