Sowerbutt's Guest

Sowerbutt, Spaghetti and Nero stood beside the Ford A Model watching the aircraft’s approach, ready to drive out onto the airfield the minute it landed. The other men were following the plane’s arrival from their posts around the airfield.

The slight military man had been driven down to RAF Fighter Command HQ at Bentley Priory near Stanmore to make sure there were no slip-ups, his officers on similar missions at operational airfields across the Home Counties. The signals sergeant was in the upstairs room of the Bull, checking on the messages relayed over the emergency channel and sipping a glass of Old Bushmills. Percy was pedalling hard on his vintage bike along Faldo Road for the fourth time that night with the latest estimated time of arrival. As he heard the two Daimler-Benz engines thundering overhead, he realised his trip was wasted.
Four airmen hurried across the grass field, lighting oil lamps positioned along the main approach. The aircraft slowly turned, lost height and made its final approach, its swastika markings clearly visible in the moonlight. The Hurricanes circled in the distance, their pilots watching every move. “OK lads, as soon as it lands we’ll head out and pick up the VIP,” Sowerbutt said.
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