Breaking Point by John Rhodes

Author:John Rhodes [Rhodes, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781733079204
Publisher: Suncoast Publishing
Published: 2019-09-24T07:00:00+00:00

0730 hours, Friday, September 6, 1940

11 Group Headquarters, Uxbridge, Middlesex, England

Eleanor knocked and entered Park's office. He was on the telephone; he waved her to a chair and indicated, with a series of one-arm gesticulations, that she should pour herself a cup of tea, light a cigarette, and make herself comfortable. In the meantime he continued his conversation.

"Look, Harry, I've lost six squadron leaders in eight days. There's simply no reserve ... I simply don't have anyone to send to Oldchurch to take over 339."

He paused to listen to the reply. Eleanor had trained herself not to listen to Park's conversations with other officers, but he must be talking to Pound, and the mentions of Oldchurch and 339 were irresistible.

"I don't know this chap Shaux," Park said into the telephone. "However, I do know Debenham—vaguely—and I don't care for him. But I simply can't afford to transfer a squadron CO in unless I absolutely have to."

He paused again. Eleanor gave up the effort not to listen.

"That's very unfortunate," Park muttered. "Still, everyone's under tremendous strain, and some people are bound to reach their breaking point ... Alcohol? Poor chap; it's happened enough times before, God knows ... Now, tell me about Shaux."

Eleanor eyed the extension telephone with longing, barely restraining herself from snatching it up.

"Really? Jack Shaux? Of course, I remember him very well; a good man, used to fly in his kilt, as I recall—heaven help the ladies if he'd come down on a parachute! He died at the very end, right before the armistice; I was there when he went down ... So, this chap you're proposing is Jack's son? I didn't know Jack was even married, let alone had a son."

It had never occurred to Eleanor that Johnnie Shaux had parents; he had always seemed sui generis, created whole and complete as an Oxford undergraduate, seated in a shaft of sunlight in the Bodleian Library in Oxford, reading a mathematical text she needed to borrow. Now, it seemed, he had a father who had also been a fighter pilot, a colleague of Park's and Pound's, who had been shot down in 1918.

It was strange somehow—Johnnie, who was simply Johnnie, had become more complicated, as if he had suddenly expanded into another, hitherto unrevealed dimension.

"Look, Harry, I trust your judgment without reservation, as you know," Park said. "If you think he can handle it, we'll give him a shot at it ... God knows, we're so shorthanded I'd put a bus driver in a Hurricane, if he were foolish enough to volunteer for it."

Park stood. Clearly his conversation with Pound was coming to a close. It appeared that Johnnie was going to replace the odious Debenham, who had been extremely rude to her during her trip to Oldchurch. She opened her report and checked her notes; Park's unvarying politeness and encouragement did not mean she could be unprepared for a briefing.

"I agree entirely," Park said into the telephone. "Very well, I'll look after that as well. You can tell him if you wish to.

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