He got behind the wheel and started the engine.
“If I may be so bold, Commander,” Sergeant Draper said. Bitter looked at her.
“Yes?”
“Might I remind the Commander that we are in England? Where, as Major Canidy puts it,‘the natives drive on the wrong side of the road’?”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
It occurred to him a few minutes later that there was probably a European Theater driver’s license, and he didn’t have one.
What’s the difference? If we are caught with this illegal automobile, the fact that I don’t have a license to drive it won’t matter.
He wondered why he had suddenly had the urge to drive, and, as important, why he had given in to it. Probably because he always seemed to be able to think clearly while he was driving, he concluded after a moment, and he certainly had a lot to think about.
And then he knew that wasn’t true. The reason he was driving was that he had wanted to ride up front. With Sergeant Draper. And driving was the only way he could think of to do that.
“Would you like a cigarette, Commander?” Sergeant Draper asked. “I have both Players and Camels.”
“A Camel, please,” Bitter said.
When she seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to find the cigarettes, he turned his head to look at her.
She had two cigarettes in her mouth, and was lighting both of them at once.
She handed him one. He nodded his thanks and puffed on it.
A moment later, he glanced at his hand on the wheel. On the cigarette he was holding in it was a faint but unmistakable ring of lipstick.
When he puffed on the cigarette again, it seemed to him that he could just faintly feel the lipstick against his lips.
Chapter THREE
Fersfield Army Air Corps Station
Bedfordshire, England
9 January 1943
A blackened hulk of a B-17 lay in a farmer’s field just outside the Fersfield airfield. It had apparently crashed while trying to land, and it more than likely had not been pilot error: The fuselage was torn in several places, and stitched with bullet holes in others.
The MP at the gate was impressed with both the Packard and its naval officer driver, but even more impressed with the passenger; he took a long time examining her identity documents.
Bitter was annoyed. Compared with the crisp and disciplined Marines to be found at Navy bases, Army guards were slovenly and insolent. Marine guards would never act as if they were trying to pick up a female sergeant right under the nose of an officer.
The salute the MP rendered after he had made absolutely sure Sergeant Draper was not a German spy—and after telling her she would be very welcome indeed at the base NCO Club if she had a little time—was more on the order of a casual wave than a proper salute.
There were a great many B-17s on the base, some shiny and new, others battle worn. And some skeletons were shoved together in a corner of the field, with mechanics here and there cannibalizing them for usable parts.
At the far end of the field, Bitter stopped the Packard before a four-by-eight -foot sign identifying six frame huts and a hangar at the 503rd Composite Squadron.
“This must be it,” he said.
“Unless we have been misled,” she said.
He looked at her in surprise. She was smiling at him.
“Sergeant,” he said. “I’ll find out what I can about billeting arrangements for you.”