“Hey, Westlake. The Air Commodore wants to see you,” Ed Bronson, one of the other pilots, called out into the barracks with a smirk. “Got yourself into trouble?”
“None of your business,” Tom answered. He’d never particularly liked the petty man. For some reason Tom had yet to understand, Bronson had taken a dislike to Tom and never missed an opportunity to show it.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Tom said, after knocking on the open office door.
“Yes. Come in.” The Air Commodore was a man in his forties with reddish-blond hair, freckles and a mustache. Despite his age he still looked like a mischievous boy and the men liked him, for he was always fair and knew when to turn a blind eye. “You’re aware that the 284 Field Squadron finally arrived at Gatow?”
Tom nodded. It was a rhetorical que
