Of course, from this distance he was just a uniform. Rather than return the wave, he saluted her. Sometimes she was joined by her father, once or twice by her mother, but the girl’s presence in the farmyard was a constant for every raid. He had never met the farmer’s daughter nor did he know her name, but he was disproportionately fond of her. Still thought the same now that he was a man. Poor mice, he had thought when he was a boy. Wasn’t there a nursery rhyme in there somewhere? No, he was thinking of the farmer’s wife, wasn’t he? – cutting off tails with a carving knife. If they flew over it when they were coming in to land they knew they had overshot and were in trouble.įrom here he could see the farmer’s daughter in the yard, feeding the geese. At night a red light shone from its roof to stop them crashing into it. The farmhouse itself stood square and immoveable over to the left. A man could count his life in harvests reaped. He didn’t expect to see the alchemy of spring, to see the dull brown earth change to bright green and then pale gold. Everyone was superstitious.īeyond the hedge there were bare fields, ploughed over last autumn. The men referred to it as his ‘daily constitutional’ and fretted when he didn’t take it. He walked as far as the hedge that signalled the end of the airfield.
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