Whatever the Cost (All Out War Book 2) by Tavian Brack

Author:Tavian Brack [Brack, Tavian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The pilot’s club was solemnly quiet when Sharp entered through the flapping double doors. There were only a handful of pilots in there having a drink, reading a book, or smoking a pipe. Whatever it was that got them through the hell that they’d been put through. Some soft music was playing in the backroom behind the bar.

Christopher ran his hand through his hair and leaned up against the end of the makeshift bar. The bartender, an enlisted man who clerked for some air commodore or some such thing, made his way down to him, apron around his waist and towel draped over his shoulder.

“Evening, sir. Drink for you?”

Sharp rubbed his sore cheekbones then replied, “Brown ale, please.”

“Coming right up, sir,” the man answered and walked back toward the taps.

Sharp took a brief look around the room. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people here. Normally, after a long day, half the pilots on base would have been gathered here for some well-deserved downtime. But they’d taken such a pasting this afternoon that he wasn’t surprised that so few pilots were here this evening. But, everyone was entitled to a free drink after every fight. The bartender returned a moment later with the frothy ale.

“Thank you,” Sharp told him and dropped a wooden coin on the bar along with a couple of pence for the man.

“Thank you, sir.”

Two of the other pilots at the end of the bar nodded a greeting to Sharp that he returned.

“Sir,” a voice called over from the lounge part of the makeshift club. Between two wooden pillars was an area set up as a sitting area with leather chairs and a couch. Pilots often looking for a quiet area to just sit and enjoy a few restful minutes would often go there rather than sit up at the bar or at one of the small tables dotted throughout.

Sharp picked up his drink and made his way over. Lieutenant Davries, one of his, was sitting in one of the luxurious cushioned chairs, sipping on an ale of his own. He started to stand up at Sharp’s approach, but Christopher quickly waved him back down.

Today had been an ordeal and Sharp wasn’t much in the mood for protocol. 239 Squadron had gone up today to meet a flock of German bombers heading toward the Bristol Channel. Forty or fifty bombers escorted by a wing of the newer Focke-Wulf that had just been introduced. Reports on the new German aircraft had been mostly accurate enough, if not a bit conservative. The truth was the new fighter was incredibly versatile. Ten of them had been present during today’s encounter, against six of Sharp’s Hurricanes. And it had not gone well for the RAF. Despite a valiant effort, and an assist from 87 Squadron, they’d only managed to shoot down half a dozen enemy bombers and a single fighter, compared to three of his planes shot down with one pilot KIA. The Luftwaffe bombers managed to push through and hit the dockyard at Bristol.

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