George came to see me yesterday and now, as I write this, he’s soundly asleep in my bed. I’m quite certain that he could sleep for days. He was so tired when he arrived that I barely recognised him. He looked as though he had bruises under his eyes but it was simply dark rings from too much flying. His eyes too looked distant and I wondered whether it was not just tiredness but whether he had seen things that I will never see and never wish to see. He was thinner as well and I said that I’d try and get hold of some extra bacon and some rabbit while he was staying, to fatten him up a bit. I found out that he likes rabbit. George told me that he used to go shooting them, and pheasants and pigeons, with an uncle of his near St Albans. ‘That’s why Tudor Jones, the Intelligence Officer at Biggin Hill, reckons I’m a good shot in my Hurricane, you see,’ he explained to me.

Jimmy finally got his wish to meet George as well. We went into the garden after George arrived in his car and Jimmy showed us a plane that he had fashioned, with some help from his father, out of some pieces of wood with glued-together matchsticks for a propeller. He buzzed around the garden holding the plane in his right hand, soaring one moment, then diving down above the carrots, skimming the leaves with an improvised wooden undercarriage.

‘Be careful of those carrots,’ shouted out Mrs Partridge, who had also heard of George’s arrival and come straight to the house, ‘you’ll bring out the carrot flies if you brush the leaves too much.’

George laughed and Jimmy came and stood in front of him, panting a little, like a dog that’s just brought back a stick.

‘I’ve been watching you flying out of my window there,’ said Jimmy, pointing at his house.

‘How do you know it was me?’ said George.

‘Well, Mrs Sheridan told me you were a very good pilot and I think you can tell when you look up at the sky who the really good pilots are.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked George, sounding genuinely intrigued.

‘Well, I’ve seen some fighting going on between the Hurricanes and the Messerschmitts and I think that the ones that stay and fight and don’t run away look like they’ll last the longest. But once you dive away from the fight you’ve got your back to the enemy and they’ll shoot you in the back, won’t they Mr Sheridan.’

‘Well, yes, Jimmy, they will shoot you in the back if you give them the chance, just as I would with them. That’s the way it goes up there. And you’re right: good pilots always turn round and face the fight. That’s not just a good lesson for pilots, either; it’s a good lesson for life. Have courage. Be brave. Face your fears.’

I was impressed by George’s words but a little scared of whether this heroic attitude was really the best way to stay alive. Surely sometimes it is alright to run away, isn’t it?

Afterwards, we went back into the house, sat at the kitchen table and talked over a cup of tea. George told me that his squadron was being moved to Wales but that he had insisted that he wanted to stay. They’d eventually agreed. He said it was better for us. If he was in Wales he would never get to see me unless I got a transfer.

That may be true, but he said that the squadron was being moved because they need a rest. Surely George needs a rest as well. I went to scrub some potatoes and after I had got them where they had been drying in the shed, I carried on talking to him.

‘Wouldn’t it be good if you had a rest? You must be so tired after all the flying you’ve done and they must think you need it.’

George didn’t reply. I looked up from the potatoes and saw that he had fallen asleep, still sitting upright in his chair.