Sue, Pennant 741

Cloud cover

The engine stuttered and the propeller creaked and moaned. Moisture bled through the windshield, scarred from battle, and soaked Squadron Leader Brown’s leather flying helmet.

A surprise attack enroute to France - the Luftwaffe had outgunned and outnumbered his men. The cloud cover had been his saving grace, masking his trajectory.

He’d be a goner if he didn’t land soon. But where was the English coastline - the white cliffs that lit up like a runway? There was no break in the cloud, no transparent pockets that showcased the flat green fields of home, or the base. Thick, damp, and silvery grey – the cloud was denser than the fog which sometimes shrouded the coast.

The Engine spluttered again, coughing up tar-like smoke. It was then he saw the beacon, as bright as a lighthouse. It was now or never. He crossed himself, wiped his goggles, pulled back the joystick and manoeuvred the plane towards the light.

His wheels hit stoney ground, the plane juddered and came to a stop. Cloud melted away like ice in a glass of brandy. There were people running towards him.

He must get out of the cockpit: he was a sitting duck. Cranking open the Malcom hood, he climbed out, water dripping from his uniform.

A loud cheer greeted him.

‘Welcome home Squadron Leader,’ a voice said.

Confused, he looked around. The field he’d landed in was barren except for a dozen spitfires, battered but intact. His men had survived.

‘Where am I?’ he asked.

‘Orford Ness,’ the man said. ‘Home of boffins and man-made clouds.’