“Vampires of the Sky”
by Elysian
The two wheels built up speed as they rolled across the open expanse of bright green
grass. A single, much smaller wheel trailed behind. The sound of the Merlin engine, the
propellor cutting the air like a knife, slowly turned from a throaty roar to the precise constant purr
of perfect engineering. The noise of the air became a loud whisper across the wings. The wheels were a soft
touch on the grass. Slowly, the smaller rear wheel lifted away. The aircraft was moving fast now. William Suffolk gently eased back on the stick and the Spitfire lifted softly from the
grass. The plane gently floated up and away from the earth. It became one with the air. * * * * * * “So you’re a pilot?!” The beautiful blonde spoke to the man who had sidled up next to
her in the pub. The small woman was something spectacular. Blonde, slight wavy hair fell to
midway down her back and highlighted her face. Her elegant figure was wrapped in a white
blouse and a knee length skirt. And yet she seemed to move carelessly, as if unthinking of what
anyone thought of her. Buffy. The man himself wasn’t much bigger than she was. His hair was bright, bright blond. He
was wearing a Royal Air Force uniform. Blue, expertly pressed. The metal epaulets on his
breast shined to gleaming. The clothes seemed expressly tailored to fit him. “Oh, no miss,” he corrected her. “I’m something worse than that.” The blonde was smiling at him now. “Really?” “I’m a bloody monster,” William told her slyly. Laughter danced in his bright blue eyes
as he leaned in just a little closer. “A vampire. All the German mothers tell their little ones
about me. I’m the monster in the fairy tales. I’m the creature that will sweep down upon them
and take them from this world if they grow up to be Nazis.” Buffy laughed. “I’m impressed. I thought I’d simply met another Englishman. And here
I am with something larger than life. My friends would never believe it.” He leaned forward slightly, interested. “So how did you come to be here?” She smiled at him. “This pub or England?” “England,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “I get the feeling you didn’t grow up
around here. Just a feeling mind you.” “What makes you say that, Mister Suffolk?” she asked playfully. He gave her a look that seemed to go right through her. That and the tone of his voice set
her nerves on end and excited her all at once. “The way you can make my toes curl with just the
sound of your voice.” Buffy looked at him confused for a moment before her eyes suddenly widened and she
quickly looked away, down at the mug she was cradling between her hands. What he could see
of her face seemed remarkably red. When moments later there was still silence he hesitantly opened his mouth. “I apologize
if I was . . . I mean I didn’t mean to . . .” “No,” she interrupted him. “No. It’s alright. You just startled me, that’s all. And to
answer your question my father works as an attache for the American ambassador to England.
Though they’re talking about sending us home soon. The families anyway.” “Back to Hollywood.” “Hardly,” Buffy smiled beautifully. “Home is Massachusetts. A little town on the
Atlantic coast south of Boston. But I’m beginning to like this place too. I’ll be sad to go.” “What’s not to like? It’s a nice place. Certainly easy on the eyes,” he said looking at her.
“And you can meet so many remarkable people. So why go?” “Because the war is coming. The Germans are in Paris, sad as that is. Soon they’ll be
coming here. Haven’t you heard?” “I’m bloody anticipating it.” She was looking at him wide-eyed. The mug on the bar beside her suddenly forgotten.
“In the name of God, why?” He thought about his answer for a few moments. The look in his eyes when they met hers
again was heartrending. “Because this is home. Because nothing short of blatant appeasement
on our part will stop them from coming. Basically turning our back on who we bloody are. And
when the Jerries come I will stand up to be counted. I will fight. I will matter. Because if I can
ever stand for something in this world I will stand for this.” * * * * * * Six small planes moving together against a clear blue sky. Circles within circles painted
on the wings marking them as English aircraft. “Slayer Squadron airborne,” said Wes. “Altitude eleven thousand.” “Watcher Control, roger that,” a static voice responded after a pause. “Just hold on a few
moments.” William glimpsed the pilot to the right side of him lean over to one side for a moment as
if he was looking for something. “Jesus, that’s a long way down!” William grinned. “I always knew you were a pansy, Liam,” he teased. “I’m not a pansy, William,” an irate voice came back. “I’m just not exactly keen on
diggin’ one last furrow in the dirt. I dug enough holes back in Ireland. Anyhow, you know what
they say. There’s no such thing as bad flying. Just bad landings.” William laughed. “You would say that.” “You ‘ave to admit,” said Liam. “If your Spitfire comes apart up here, that’s one hell of a
bad landing.” “Would both of you shut up please for just a moment,” Wes barked. “Slayer leader, this is Watcher Control. I have some trade for you, Wes. Eighteen miles
to the east of you. Twenty-plus bandits at angels-one-six, heading northwest.” “Copy,” replied Wes. “Slayer Squadron turning northeast. Heading zero-four-five.
Raising altitude to angels-one-eight.” The lead fighter tipped up on it’s wing and banked left in a smoothly elegant motion.
Another fighter matched the maneuver a moment later. It was precise poetry of movement
against a pristine sky. * * * * * * “What’s it like,” Buffy asked as they were walking down the sidewalk. High above the
sky had faded to a deep dark violet turning to shades of reds, oranges and lavender among the
clouds near the western horizon. The first twinkling of stars were becoming visible. “To fly. To
just go up past the clouds where even birds don’t go.” “It’s . . . indescribable.” William wore a look of such a depth of humility as he gave
thought to it. They had stopped by the entrance to someone’s elegantly crafted flower garden. It
was a splash of color in the deepening twilight. The wrought iron archway had grown thick with
creepers. “I’m not a poet. I don’t have words. When I fly . . . I just feel . . . free. Like there’s
nothing that can touch me.” His fingers softly stroked the soft skin along the curve of her cheek.
“There’s nothing in the world that I can’t do.” He leaned forward slowly and captured her soft lips. He tasted that first breath of her
surprised excitement. For a few brief moments their mouths moved together in thoughtless
harmony. For those few brief moments they were alive. The air that pressed down on them felt
heavy with it. Felt . . . warm. Inviting. Home and hearth and a soft, warm bed. She smiled at him as he pulled away. Her voice was soft. Like a thought that had grown
wings. She felt as if she were being held up by his arms. “I think I can fly.” He was looking at Buffy like a man enchanted. Like something had unexpectedly
redefined the universe into something indescribably wonderful. The fingers of one of his hands
were still discovering the soft contours of her cheek. “I think we both can.” * * * * * * England stretched on forever. It was like a portrait, but far more vibrant, more alive, than
any portrait could have ever been. The verdant colour of the trees and wide fields canvassed
everything with unyielding life, unbroken with the exception of the few gravel roads that creased
the landscape with hints of pale colour. Short and stout rock walls or wire fences lined many of
these roads on either side. The six lonely Spitfires glided high above the pristine landscape on the wisp of a dream.
Six tiny airplanes against a clear, unbroken sky. Scanning the landscape ahead, William began to make out dark shapes moving against
the backdrop ahead and slightly to the left.. Large lumbering aircraft moving together like a
small herd of bison. Like fat hawks gliding slowly on the thermals high above the earth in search
of prey. The six RAF Spitfires were at an altitude at least two thousand feet higher. “I see them,” said William, gesturing downward with his whole arm so the pilots flying in
formation off to either side of him could easily see. “Heinkels. Ten o’clock low. I count . . .
twenty-three.” “Tallyho,” said Wes. “Turkey-shoot. William, Liam, you take the rear starboard.
McDonald and I will take the port. Harris and Osborne, hold back a bit and keep an eye out for
any fighter escort.” Two of the rearmost fighters banked off to one side and began to gain a little more
altitude. The other four split into pairs, drifting off to either side, and then suddenly each pair
healed over, trading wing for wing and went into a shallow dive down toward the formation of
Nazi bombers. The Nazi bombers had twin engines, one on each wing to either side of the fuselage. The
nose of the aircraft around the cockpit almost seemed to be made of one giant cone of glass, each
piece fitted together tightly. A large black cross was painted on the fuselage of each toward the
back. A swastika was painted on the tail. A blister-like shape made a hump across the top of
each aircraft. Sunlight glistened off the glass panels that shaped each of the blisters. Machine
guns protruded from the back. The guns flashed. Tracers lashed out at the English Spitfires diving down on them
making bright streaks across the blue sky. The Spitfires fired back. Their cannons sending streams of bullets ripping through the
skin of the Heinkels. William walked the fire from his guns down across the length of the
bomber as he passed. A few bullets tore through the blister on top, splashing something dark and
red across the inside of the glass. The top cannon, from that bomber, fell irredeemably silent. He let his sights fall on the next bomber in line, watching the eight cannons in his Spitfire
tear that one up as well. The trail of bullets raking down and across one of the massive engines
along its wing. He saw sparks and then the flash of a small explosion. Debris punched holes all
along that side of the fuselage. Black smoke trailed along behind. A few moments later, the bomber suddenly healed over, in the way of much smaller
aircraft, and began to fall in a wild, uncontrolled plummet toward the earth, trailing sooty black
smoke the whole way down and etching a dark line across the sky. * * * * * * A knock on a door and the door opened. William was standing on the doorstep. His uniform was neatly pressed. In one word:
immaculate. He had removed his cap and had it tucked neatly under one arm. The man that opened the door to meet him was older. Perhaps in his early forties. Brown
hair. Dressed in a suit. He had just a bit of a smile. “Mister Summers, I presume,” William said, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to
finally meet you.” “Call me Hank, please.” The man took the offered hand briefly. “William, is it?” “It is.” “Lieutenant?” William shook his head. “Flying Officer, I’m afraid. Though I expect I’ll be promoted
sometime soon.” “Daddy, is William here?” Buffy came up from behind Hank. Her face absolutely lit up
when she saw William. She ran up and he took her softly in his arms. For a brief moment they
came together and kissed. Still in his arms after they separated, she looked up at him. “I missed you,” she told him quietly. “Missed you too, luv.” They shared one more soft kiss. A elusive taste of something beyond comprehension. Buffy looked up from William’s arms and finally seemed to realize that her father was
standing right there beside them. Hank shook his head at the unspoken question. They had done
nothing wrong. Hank looked at Buffy as she slipped out of William’s arms. “Could you . . . excuse us for
a few moments please, William?” “Sure.” “I’m sure you’ll be able to find the den on your own.” William walked away. Hank spoke softly, but still loud enough that William managed to
overhear him. “He’s a fighter pilot.” “Yes,” Buffy answered. After a few long moments of silence she came out and said,
“William is a good man.” “I have no doubt that he is,” said Hank gently. His voice was softly sincere. “But are you
sure that he’s the right man for you?” “Daddy!” “Buffy, I love you. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” “I won’t,” she said staunchly. “You’re a dreamer, Buffy,” Hank told her. “You always have been. And I love you for
it. But in this case it can do nothing but get you hurt. The Germans have rolled all the way
across Europe as if they were fighting children. It’s an army the likes of which this world has
never seen. And they’re coming to England next. A man who fights on the ground has a chance.
A man in the air has nothing but luck. “That man . . . is going to die.” * * * * * * Gunfire from each of the bombers lashed out at William’s Spitfire as he flashed past at
high speed. Glimpses of faces inside the closest bomber, pale unremarkable faces, one hunched
over another gun in the tip of the nose cone firing out at him fruitlessly. And then he was past them, with nothing but open air ahead of him. Azure sky and the
scattered white wisps of cloud. One of William’s hands cranked the throttle back, reducing
speed as the other pushed the stick hard to the right side, banking the fighter and twisting it
around into a turn. The G-forces pushed him back into his seat. As the bombers appeared in his
forward view, hanging in the sky front of him again, he straightened his course and slipped the
throttle back up a little. He settled his aim on the nose of the lead-most Heinkel bomber. His thumb settled over
the firing stud . . . and pressed. Bullets ripped through the glass and metal, tearing massive
gashes through the bomber’s surfaces in less than a moment. One could only wonder what it did
to the people inside. The ravaged bomber dropped down out of formation and suddenly began to lose altitude. “Fighters,” someone called out. “One-oh-nines. Six o’clock high, coming down now.” * * * * * * Buffy leaned over and whispered softly in his ear. “I think my sister likes you.” William glanced across the dining room table at the slender brunette sitting between
Hank and Buffy’s mother. Buffy’s sister, Dawn, could hardly have been any older than thirteen.
She was beautiful, blessed with flawless porcelain skin, straight, shiny brown hair and an almost
angelic grace, when she wasn’t tripping all over her own feet that was. William saw the way her
eyes moved away from him when he looked in her direction. William smiled. “I always was a sly hand with the ladies,” he said in a soft voice only Buffy could hear.
Their fingers were softly entwined underneath the table. “Was beginning to fear I was losing my
touch. Always good to know there’s . . . opportunities.” After a sharp look Buffy whispered back. “The only opportunity you’ll have is that of
seeing my right hook if you keep it up, Mister Suffolk.” There was something in her voice
somehow both harsh and . . . playful. He merely smiled at her. He lifted his hand and softly ran his fingers across her silky
blond hair. “You . . . are the only girl for me, Miss Summers. It is time enough that you knew
that. Every other girl is only a mere shadow in comparison to your presence. I’m in love with
you.” He lifted one of her small hands and softly pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles along the
back of her hand. He let the hand slip away and realized the attention they were getting. Buffy’s
family were all watching them and their rather visible show of affection. There was a hint of a
smile on her mother’s face. “Thank you,” said William, “for the meal, Mrs. Summers.” “Call me, Joyce please,” Buffy’s mother told him kindly. “And a man like you will
always be a welcome presence at my table. I should hope . . . that you will be a welcome
addition to this table for many years to come.” “Well, thank you . . . Joyce.” “You’re welcome, William,” responded Joyce, gifting the young man with a heartfelt
smile. “I’m just glad to have had the opportunity to serve you a good meal. I imagine it might be
awhile before you have a chance for that again.” “Yes,” said William. “I imagine it will.” Hank raised his glass. “To England.” Joyce, Buffy, Dawn and William each matched the gesture. The words brought both
profound pride and unqualified sadness to each to them that was clear in some measure on each
of their faces. It was as if each of them were watching something beautiful and beloved die
slowly before their eyes. “England,” the others echoed. * * * * * * “Slayers,” Wes called out to them. “Break. Break.” William pushed his throttle control forward with his left hand. It was almost as if he
could suddenly feel the power go straight through the frame of the small fighter. Like a panther
suddenly tense with energy in those moments as it darts out of the tall grass after its prey. His Spitfire turned up on its side as he darted it around one of the Heinkel bombers oh so
close. It was like the fighter answered to his whim. His every thought and inclination. It was chaos. A large herd of Heinkel bombers, a few dark gray shapes of the small and
fast German Me-109 escort fighters swooping down across the formation like hunting hawks, in
search of the four British Spitfires which were racing out in every direction. It was an eclectic symphony of motion against an azure sky.
* * * * * *
England, the summer of 1940
It was perfect.
The hotel room was small, clean. Just another hotel room in a city full of them. No
better and certainly no worse than any other.
But it was perfect as Buffy settled back on the bed, her pale skin and silky dress
incandescent in the moonlight slanting in through the window. It was perfect as a moonlit
William hovered over her, his face as still as marble. As the world shrunk down to only the bed
and the thin white sheets and look in each-other’s eyes.
In these moments, it was perfect.
“I told my father tonight that I didn’t plan on leaving,” Buffy had told him earlier. “I’m
here for the duration. However long that is.”
William had looked at her with deep, expressive blue eyes. There was a softness to his
face that betrayed every myriad emotion. “And what did he have to say about that?”
“He . . . wasn’t happy,” Buffy told him, “but he accepted it. I guess he had expected it.”
She gave him a slow watery smile. “A girl has to know where she stands.” She approached him
slowly, unshy and unequivocal. “I’m with you, Will. I’ll always be with you. A few short weeks
and I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Reverently, William rolled the stockings down her perfect legs and then slipped them off.
First one, and then the other. He sat back, eyes never leaving her, and began to unbutton his
shirt. He slipped the shirt off, revealing a sculpted, muscular chest.
Cautiously, she reached out and touched his chest. Soft hair on soft skin over hard
muscle. Her fingers drifted lower, discovering the tightness of the muscles around his midriff.
The shallow portion in the center that was his navel. She unbuttoned his trousers, tugging them
down and releasing his manhood.
Experimentally moved her hand along his shaft, discovering it for the first time. The way
it responded to her movements, tightening against his body. The way he responded. The
expressive look on his face.
Buffy let him carefully help her out of her dress, turning on her side to make it easy for
him to release the fasteners on the back, and then dutifully raising her arms to help him lift the
yards of soft fabric up and off her. Her underthings did not remain on her any longer than it took
him to remove them.
They traded soft kisses as he eased her back onto the soft bed. Their bare skin pressed
against each-other. Bare soft skin, warmed by more than friction as it rubbed against bare skin.
Her soft breasts were momentarily flattened against his bare chest.
She settled her legs around William to cradle him as he fitted himself between her legs.
She put her arms over his shoulders. He reached down between them, rolling on a condom,
taking hold of himself and fitting himself against her. Buffy gasped as she felt him slowly press
himself into her for the first time. He remained still as he waited for her to adjust to the feel of
him inside of her. Moments later he softened his hold on her to a gentle promise as he slowly
pressed forward.
Buffy flinched as he slipped past her maidenhead, drawing a sharp breath in through her
teeth. Her bright eyes were narrow. Her small mouth hung open, briefly giving voice to a soft
breathy noise. For a few long moments William held himself still until much of her pain had
subsided and then he began to move, first a slow motion of his hips, testing her, and then a little
faster.
Discovering the possibilities, her hips began to move back against him. In imperfect
starts they slowly learned to collaborate their movement, each ever more refined iteration on the
constant verge of a discovery of an endless moment of perfect ecstasy.
She was breathless. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were in constant motion on his
bare back. One palm, pressed flat against the sweating skin between his shoulder blades, holding
him firm against her as they moved. Unconscious breathy noises fell from her lips with each
collaborative thrust which slowly turned to kittenish mews.
The feelings were rising up inside her in an insatiable tide. Muscles she never knew she
had started tightening. A pleasant little knot deep inside her slowly tightening in on itself. More.
And yet tighter still.
And then something in the universe snapped.
Something inside her broke free. The knot that she’d never realized she had until
moments before let go, wave after wave of bliss, contentment, warmth . . . absolute fucking
euphoria exploded outward from deep inside of her. Her muscles clamped down on him. Her
loud cry stole her breath.
William whispered a contented groan into her ear. “Buffy.”
Her hips thrust back against him one last time. Her eyes drifted closed as she felt the
immeasurable tide crash up and over her. Through her. She fell irredeemably beneath it. Her
heart pounded crazily against her ribs.
Breathlessly, she gasped his name, “Oh god . . . Will!”
* * * * * *
A faint, thin smile creased William’s face as he flew.
“Watch it,” someone called out. “He’s coming up on you now.”
“Get those bastards,” cried another voice.
The sky, visible through the Spitfire’s canopy, tilted as William twisted the RAF fighter
around in a tight arc to the left onto
“Take that you Boche bastard!” Wes cried out.
A flash of light illuminated the English sky in one corner of William’s vision . . .
“Say hello to England!” Wes said with playfully bitter voice as his victim’s fiery aircraft
tumbled from the sky..
. . . but William’s Spitfire was already twisting off to the right, in search of his illusive
prey. He caught up to it and as his gun sights settled over the small dark shape of the Me-109 his
thumb pressed down on the firing stud, sending a quick burst of his guns flashing out across the
sky. The targeted Me-109 started into a dive to escape him, but the second burst that followed
the first one caught the German fighter dead on, punching through right up into the belly of the
beast.
The Me-109 was suddenly plummeting in an out of control spin straight down toward the
earth far below. A dark line of smoke chased it from the sky.
William’s attention was drawn away by motion off to one side. In the near distance he
could see a Spitfire in winding pursuit of a German fighter. Trailing a distance behind the
Spitfire was another German Me-109 fighter. Three aircraft, one after another, cutting the same
winding course across the sky.
Over the radio came the sound of laughter. “Alright!”
“Behind you, Liam,” William called out. “On your six.”
The trailing Me-109 fired and William watched the bullets punch into Liam’s aircraft like
little pencils punching holes through paper. A thin, dark skein of smoke began to trail around
behind Liam’s airplane.
Over the radio was heard the soft noise of Liam’s curses. “The stick’s gone all loose. I
don’t have any aileron control.”
“Get out, you prat,” pleaded William. “Jump!”
“I’m losing altitu . . .”
The thick smoke from Liam’s Spitfire suddenly exploded outward into a flash of flame
along the length of fuselage. The wings flipped in on each other and came together, as if some
invisible giant had reached out, taken hold of Liam’s fighter, and folded it in half.
The remains of Liam’s aircraft fell from the sky in a flaming wreck.
* * * * * *
“What do you think about,” Buffy asked. She and William were laying on the hotel bed side by side looking at each-other. The thin bed sheet clung to her form in a tantalizing way. “When you fight?”
William was silent for a few endless moments. “I managed to fly a few missions in
France and Holland before they recalled my squadron to England,” William replied quietly. “The
bloody war was so fast. I’m not sure I thought about anything those first few times. I mean it’s
not so easy to think. I remember what I felt. A whole sea of emotion that came up to drown me
like the tide. I think I was excited to begin with. Bloody stupid thing to feel, but I still can’t help
it. But then I started to get scared. Started to second guess everything. It’s a long way up . . . to
twenty thousand feet. In the first few combat missions, I can’t recollect a single coherent
thought. Little things. Things I said to my squadron mates. Nonsense words. But nothing I can
really remember all that clear. Mostly just the emotion. A person shouldn’t be able to feel that
much. A person should die by feeling that much.
“All the way up near angels twenty there’s no time for . . . I mean once you’re in the thick
of it that’s it . . . When I came out of training I had a plan. I thought it was smart. Had it all
carefully laid out. But it didn’t mean anything. All that planning went ta shite. Exhilaration.
Absolute bloody terror. The world spinning around your head in bloody chaos. And then
coming out of it. Your heart beating so loud in your ears you swear you can hear it. Turning and
seeing a squad mate off one wing. Turning the other direction and seeing only empty air.
“You want to know what I remember most. It isn’t the combat. It’s those quiet moments
when you get back home. Sitting in the barracks, or down at the pub if you actually got the
chance. Sitting with my mates and seeing that look in one of their eyes. I don’t know what it is,
but I know that look We never say a word. We just raise our glass. A toast. One moment’s . . .
tribute. To the friends left behind. To the one who just never came home.”
“Promise me that you’ll come back to me,” Buffy whispered to him. Moisture welled up
in her eyes. “Promise that you’ll always come back.”
William looked at her desperately. “I can’t . . .”
“Promise me,” Buffy demanded, tears falling down her face.
William leaned closer and softly kissed away her tears. One hand gently cradled her face
like something precious. Close in, he looked her in the eyes.
He whispered softly, “I promise you.”
He kissed her mouth just as softly. Her arms came up around his shoulders and they
settled back onto the bed.
* * * * * *
William flew.
He tipped his Spitfire up onto one wing and banked it hard in a way that made his
stomach twist and settle for a brief moment in the depth of his gut.
And suddenly there was a small dark shape coming out of the clear sky at him head-on.
The shape of a Luftwaffe Me-109 fighter. William settled his reflector sights over the shape and
pressed down on the firing stud. The eight guns along the length of the Spitfire’s wings spoke
with a static roar.
The 109s guns flashed back at him. A bullet crashed through the glass right in front of
William, across the cockpit, and out again somewhere over his shoulder on the other side. Left
behind was a single hole in the glass, encircled by a whitish halo of tiny cracks.
The two airplanes passed each-other in the sky at high speed, going in opposite directions.
William sent his fighter skidding into a turn. He throttled back on the throttle control,
allowing the Spitfire to make the turn even tighter, saving himself those scarce seconds he would
need. He quickly found the shape of his opponent in the sky. His thumb settled down against the
firing stud, sending one last machine gun burst his way.
The 109 burst into a spectacular display of fire, breaking into many pieces as it tumbled
from the sky.
There was a sudden roar. The sound of dozens of tiny somethings smashing through the
skin of William’s aircraft. William glanced off to the left to glimpse another 109 diving down on
him, guns blazing.
William sent his fighter into a wild spin, but the damage was done. Smoke welled up out
of the engine, flying back against and then around the cockpit canopy. What the oil pressure
gauge told him wasn’t good. And the engine was making an ominous noise now, a rhythmic
chunk-chunk sound that spelled certain doom.
“Fuck!”
He let go of the stick. The aircraft was in a slow spin around itself as it settled into a
steepening dive down from the sky.
William reached up and tried to pull open the Spitfire’s canopy. After moving about an
inch it wouldn’t move at all. “No.” He was disbelieving. He pulled harder. “No. No. No.”
Nothing.
“Open, goddamn it!!” This time he jerked the handle so hard that pain exploded in his
shoulder. “Son-of-a-bitch!”
He finally gave up on the canopy and began wrestling with the stick again. He could see
the miles of farmland below coming up on him. The constant smoke from the engine against the
canopy glass at moments felt like looking out at the world through tinted glasses.
The altitude indicator was spinning off the distance to the ground.
William reached out to where the undercarriage control was mounted against the right
sidewall. He gently took hold of the handle, ratcheting it forward slightly to disengage it from
the slot, sideways through the gate, and then directly back from the position marked ‘up’ to the
one marked ‘down’. But this was not met with the low mechanical chunks and whirs he had
come to expect. Nothing happened.
“Of course . . . no fucking landing gear.” William drew back and kicked the
undercarriage control. “Fuck!”
The loud chunk-chunk noise of the engine was getting louder and louder and with a
deafening metallic screech of sundered metal something inside it broke free and, for a few
moments, was simply a thunderous banging noise from the engine compartment. With stunning
suddenness the engine simply locked up and was silent. The propellor at the tip of the aircraft
was a still shape against the sky.
It was forever dead.
William wrestled with the control stick and the rudder pedals, mercilessly
The earth swam up in the canopy impossibly close; visible was tall yellowed grass, trees,
a nondescript scrap of farmland. William tensed. His blue eyes widened. Clear in those eyes
was an endless sea of earth rending terror. And with an earth shattering noise and a shriek of
steel the aircraft slammed into the earth.
The Spitfire ploughed across the surface of the field. The wing clipped a tree, ripping it from the side. The wreckage of what was once a Royal Air Force fighter plane rolled over once and settled to a final stop a few feet short of the base of a rock wall.
And then for long minutes afterwards everything was still.
The distant sound of a dog barking at a nearby farmhouse. The sound of the birds all
around. The whisper of the wind in the trees.
A silent ribbon of smoke rising from the scattered remains.
Nothing else.
Somewhere in the distance a bird crooned a mournful noise.
* * * * * *
Buffy sat quietly in a chair listening to music from the radio. The room was dark. The
music was a melancholic, almost despondent
A few tears, glistening in the darkness, welled up in her eyes and ran down her face.
Buffy reached up languidly and brushed the tears from her face with a squashed handful of her
blanket.
Buffy raised her head as a soft noise carried itself to her through the empty corridors of
the house. Buffy put her blanket aside and slowly rose from the soft cushioned couch.
She slowly drifted out into the hallway, and, after a moment, hearing another faint noise,
slowly began walking down the dark corridor. A few sculptures and vases on small tables,
picture frames and nicknacks were shapes in the dark to either side of the hall. A door loomed
high in front of her.
She reached out, taking hold of the door handle, and pulled open the door to reveal
William standing on the doorstep looking at her. He was wearing his RAF uniform. There was a
cut high up on his brow. One small one down through an eyebrow. Another across on side of
his chin. One of his arms hung from a sling against his chest.
He seemed almost content to drink her up with his eyes.
Buffy’s eyes melted as she looked at him.
They each took a step forward. His arm came around her. Hers came around him
carefully, and with tears in her eyes she welcomed him home.
Buffy fantasy fics are a new thing for me. Please help cure my nervousness and review.