Above the Clouds

My darling Rose,

It is not yet dawn. I am sitting in the dispersal hut with the rest of the squadron, waiting for the telephone to ring — the call that will send us scrambling into the air. The grass is wet and the mist is low over the airfield. It looks like a painting, Rose. An English watercolour. If I could bottle this light and send it to you, I would.

The smell in here is always the same: engine oil, cigarette smoke, damp wool, and the peculiar sweetness of the grass outside. Biscuit, the squadron dog — a scruffy little terrier with one ear that won’t stand up — is asleep at my feet, twitching as he dreams of chasing rabbits. The men are playing cards. Johnny’s singing “Roll Out the Barrel” again, badly, and everyone is pretending to be annoyed. We are masters of pretending here. We pretend we are not afraid.

But I am afraid, Rose. Not all the time — the fear comes in moments. When the telephone rings. When I see the black specks on the horizon. When I climb through clouds and the world falls away and I remember how small I am. But then I remember your face, the way you looked at me at the station, and the fear becomes something else. It becomes fuel.

Flying is the most beautiful thing I have ever done. The Spitfire is not a machine — she is alive. When I take her up through the clouds and break into sunlight, with the English countryside spread beneath me like a patchwork quilt, I feel something I cannot describe. It is almost worth the terror, for the view. Almost.

If this morning is my last, I want you to know something. I did not fight for kings or countries. I did not fight for flags or speeches. I fought for quiet English things. Rose gardens and pub gardens. Sunday roasts and the way rain smells on warm pavement. The sound of your voice. The way you say my name — “Jimmy” — like it is the only word that matters.

The telephone just rang. The scramble bell will go any second.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

If I don’t come back, tell our children — if we are lucky enough to have them — that their father died looking at the most beautiful sky he had ever seen.

Yours, in this life and whatever comes after, Jimmy