The Complete Flying Officer X Stories by H.E. Bates Page A

and then automatically polished the clean brown counter with the duster. There was no one else in the bar except a young man without a hat, with a long scarf of many colours round his neck. The weather was very mild and I do not know why he waswearing the scarf, except that perhaps he was suffering from something.
    â€œHello,” he said. He was drinking a long dark beer.
    â€œGood evening,” we said.
    â€œYou fellows from Stanton?” he said.
    We were from Stanton but we did not say anything.
    â€œThat’s a big station now,” he said.
    We did not say anything.
    â€œHow big a station would it be?” he asked.
    Rex and Johnnie and Mac were all drinking and could not speak.
    â€œFour or five hundred?”
    â€œPossibly. There are a great many W.A.A.F.,” I said.
    â€œDo you operate Stirlings and Wellingtons from there,” he said, “or only Stirlings?”
    â€œWe have quite a few Moths,” I said.
    â€œThat’s a kite I like,” Rex said. Rex is a Canadian and comes from Saskatchewan. At that time he had done six Berlin trips, four daylights on Brest, two to Turin, and some others. “That’s a kite you can have fun in. You get ’way up there and have no one to talk to but yourself.”
    â€œIn a bomber,” the young man said, “it’s very different.”
    â€œFour more li tales,” Scottie said.
    The young man drank his beer and moved closer up the bar.
    â€œHave this one with me,” he said, “won’t you?”
    â€œThanks,” we said. “We have one coming up.”
    The young man slung one end of his scarf over hisshoulder. I looked at his face and his hands. They were very pink and very clean and very healthy and it seemed to me that, after all, he could not be suffering from anything. I could only think that perhaps he was studying something instead.
    â€œThat was a nasty affair you had this week,” he said.
    We did not say anything.
    â€œDo aircraft often catch fire? I mean, in that way?”
    We did not say anything.
    â€œDo you suppose the crash rate over here is higher than the losses over there?” he said.
    Perhaps we did not feel very talkative, but once more we did not speak.
    â€œWhat happens when people crash?” the young man said. “I mean, what’s it feel like in the mess — when you hear?”
    I honestly wanted to answer him. I honestly had something to say to him that was clear and important and unmistakable, but I could not frame it into words.
    â€œIt must be awfully embarrassing,” he said.
    â€œAwfully,” I said.
    â€œThere is nothing much you can say,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said, “there is nothing much you can say.”
    Rex and Johnnie and Scottie were staring into their beer. Rex has come all the way from Canada because he hates something; he has a farm in Saskatchewan and a young wife who, in the picture he carries in his wallet, has a face that is brave and shining in the snow. Scottie is thirty-five and has children and says: “I’m not a youngman any more,” because he hopes you will tell him he is not too old. Johnnie is very young and has blue clear eyes that are cool and glassy and far distant. Only his flying life has begun.
    â€œIt must be very interesting to see the different reactions,” the young man said:
    â€œTo what?”
    â€œWell, you know.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe times when people don’t come back. There must be a feeling in the mess — a sort of — well, you know.”
    â€œSort of,” I said.
    I do not know if, for a moment or two, he went on talking. I kept looking at the long loose scarf, that seemed to have no purpose, and the pink clean hands that clasped the mug of beer.
    â€œYou must have had a lot of people go from that station,” he said.
    â€œWhat do you expect?” I said. “There’s a war.”
    â€œYes, I suppose