

Letters to Mrs Hernandez

By C S Gibbs

Copyright 2013 C S Gibbs

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter One - September 1937

Chapter Two - Same Time, Different Place

Chapter Three - July 1942

Chapter Four - A Mindful Farewell

Chapter Five - September 1942

Chapter Six - A Stranger Calls

Chapter Seven - November 1942

Chapter Eight - All at Sea

Chapter Nine - An Innocent Abroad

Chapter Ten - New Horizons

Chapter Eleven - Cafe Culture

Chapter Twelve - It Takes Four to Tango

Chapter Thirteen - Horsing Around

Chapter Fourteen - A Man of Letters

Chapter Fifteen - Captivated Among the Captive

Chapter Sixteen - Lingua Franca

Chapter Seventeen - Felice Navidad

Chapter Eighteen - A Passage of Time

Chapter Nineteen - Knowing the Right People

Chapter Twenty - Dressed to Impress

Chapter Twenty-one - Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Chapter Twenty-two - Divine Inspiration

Chapter Twenty-three - Such Sweet Sorrow

Chapter Twenty-four - June 1943

Chapter Twenty-five - Correspondence in Transit

Chapter Twenty-six - Ceremonial Scripture

Chapter Twenty-seven - The Empire Builder

Chapter Twenty-eight - February 1944

Chapter Twenty-nine - May 1944

Chapter Thirty - Agony in Paradise

Chapter Thirty-one - Capital Punishment

Chapter Thirty-two - May 1945

Chapter Thirty-three - A Small World

Chapter Thirty-four - Fly-Boy

Chapter Thirty-five - Points of View

Chapter Thirty-six - Tokyo Away-Day

Chapter Thirty-seven - A Lovely Day

Chapter Thirty-eight - Unexpected Guests

Chapter Thirty-nine - No End In Sight

Chapter Forty - Business As Usual

Chapter Forty-one - Sight-seeing

Chapter Forty-two - Bon Voyage

Chapter Forty-three - Road Trip

Chapter Forty-four - Closing Number
Chapter One - September 1937

However much the sun blazed down upon the Hutchinson home that Saturday afternoon, there was still a darkness about the house. The long, faceless stretch of identical, red-earth-brick terraced houses, the sort that could be found all around the coal fields of Derbyshire, stretched the length of the road and showed no change in pattern or demeanour, save for the different coloured doors. At number eleven, the coming and going of sombre folk sporting black attire drove away the bright hues of summer.

"He were a good chap, your father."

Ben sat in the corner of the living room on a wooden chair – one of four in the room – and looked up at the face which addressed him, that of Arthur Luddit, a man of few words at the best of times, who was at this moment failing, even by his own standards, to find something further to say to the boy.

"We'd first worked together at Cossall, Walter and me, just after the Great War. He's been a real pal for all those years, since." The words began to fail Arthur, but he was rescued by another.

"You'll be the man of the house, now, Ben." Interjected Bill Edwards, supping wistfully from a bottle of Home Ales and trying to gee up the barely consolable teenager before him. "It'll not be long before you can take his place down the pit – just another year of schooling for you and then the job'll be yours, eh? I expect your mother will be glad of the income?"

"He'll do no such thing, Billy." A plate of sandwiches parted Arthur and Bill, making way for Ben's mother, who held the plate as though it were a gauntlet to be thrown down. She looked to Bill and awaited further comment.

"Well, Liza, I didn't mean to be rude, like, but I was just being realistic. You've got to look to the future, now, eh?" said Bill.

Liza swept a loose lock of her thick, brown hair back behind her left ear. She reached out, grabbed her son by the chin and fixed her gaze to his.

"You'll not be going down the mines."

She released Ben and spun her unflinching blue eyes to Bill.

"Walter died before his time – under tons of fallen coal. I shall not lose my only son to the same fate." Her voice cracked on the final words.

Bill turned to Arthur for support but all of his words were already long spent. He stared at his half-empty bottle of ale, tugged at his starched collar and made a repost.

"Liza, how are you going to manage? Jobs have been scarce around here for a while and the pit's are all we've got. There's now't else here for us. Face it – his dad were a miner and he'll be one an' all."

"We'll manage."

Fellow mourners and relatives within earshot picked up on the debate. Some looked at the table in the centre of the room – the only other piece of furniture besides the chairs and the sideboard – and noticed that the provisions of sandwiches, tea and beer were mostly depleted. Condolences were once again offered, tears were once again shed, excuses were made and were followed by exits.

Within twenty minutes, widow and son were alone in the house. Crockery, cutlery, glasses and leftovers were gathered and carried to the kitchen at the back of the house. Liza busied herself, using some still-warm water from the kettle to ready the sink for a large bout of pot washing.

Ben loosened his father's only tie and ruffled his dark brown hair, which had been swept back for the first time with the liberal use of his father's hair oil.

"Mam, if I'm not to go down the mines, then what am I to do?" he asked in a voice quite recently broken.

"You are to study, my lad!" Came the firm instruction. "Bill was right when he said that you've got a year of schooling left, but as for the rest of what he said, I'll have none of it. You shall do your very best and find yourself a career outside of the coal mines. You're a bright lad, Benjamin Hutchinson, but no-one's going to see you shine if you're half a mile underground!"

"But Mam, Bill was right - everyone around here goes down the mines. It's what we all do. There's nothing else."

"And who put that lot in charge of you and me?" Liza had kept her peace whilst the guests were in the house, but now there was no need for such composure. Her bottled grief was now spilling over, along with exasperation. "Your life is your own, Ben, to do with as you please – you mustn't let others tell you what your place is – you can make your own way if you try.

"You can get your schooling done and find an apprenticeship in Derby or Nottingham – perhaps at the Lace Market or at Rolls Royce . . . you've got to try, son . . . you're not going to end up like your father – he came back from France in one piece only to die for nothing in a pit collapse! I won't have it!"

Liza stopped abruptly.

She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard on another suppressed tear, then continued with a controlled tone and her first smile in a week.

"Having said that, you should always do as your mother tells you! Now give us a hand with this mess, will you? You can dry."

Chapter Two - Same Time, Different Place

Half a world away, across continents and oceans, the many millions of another island race were busying themselves with their myriad ways of everyday survival. In the capital, one of the city's mightiest rivers – the Sumida – was making its perpetual journey from the heart of Japan out towards Tokyo Bay.

Bestriding the Sumida and linking the ancient heart of the city to the newer regions beyond the eastern bank was the Kachidoki Bridge, and making an ungainly and unaccustomed journey across this ancient bridge from the city's old west was a gleaming, black Nissan Type 70 sedan, which was certainly a rare sight on the streets of Tokyo in 1937.

But a few months old, the large car stood out from its smaller, locally built rivals on account of its sensible form, the use of bright chrome along the sides of the engine hood and the capacious and fully enclosed cab, all of which came courtesy of its Graham-Paige design team in the United States.

The four male occupants of the car were all dressed in smart, western suits instead of their usual uniforms – despite the prominence of their mode of transport, wearing civilian clothes allowed them a lesser degree of conspicuousness.

Gliding alongside tramways, the car moved on toward its destination, which lay in the Koto district of this now sprawling capital.

At the destination concerned, all was peaceful. The house was like so many others in the city: a wooden, two-storied affair of modest proportions with a tiled roof and the almost mandatory cherry blossom tree rising mindfully in the corner of the compact garden, all of which was neatly hemmed in by large, wooden fencing, which rose up and obscured the view of any passer by to the goings on within the first floor.

Indoors, Hitoshi Kimura sat at the desk in his study, pausing from his writings to re-fill his fountain pen from a glass bottle of rich, blue ink. The task would have to wait, though, as there was an excited knock upon his study door, which began to open before he could do so himself.

"Otosan! I set two school records in athletics, today!"

"That's wonderful, my son. In which events?"

"In the sprint and the long jump. My teacher says that I have the makings of a champion," Katsuhiro beamed at his father.

"Those legs of yours are getting so long and strong, now, Katsuhiro. You will soon be taller than your sister – talking of whom, where is she? I think you should go and tell her all about your triumph!"

Katsuhiro nodded in agreement and bounced off in search of his elder sibling, only pausing to tell his advancing mother of his success, before running off to the garden make the announcement for a third, but no less satisfying time.

"The makings of a champion, he says?" Hitoshi addressed his wife as she entered the study.

Masako smiled for a moment, nodded and then sighed. "We must make sure that he does not neglect his other studies, Hitoshi – it is not enough to just be able to run and jump."

"I fear that is all they want from him in school. A thinker, an academic, is no good in their eyes. All he is being prepared for is to go and fight in Manchukuo as soon as he is old enough. As long as he can run, jump and do as he is told, then the school's task is complete."

Again, Masako was in resigned agreement. She straightened her cream blouse and blue, calf-length skirt, "I'll go and get the meal ready – our sporting hero should have quite an appetite after his success, today, don't you think?"

Hitoshi agreed and returned to his desk.

In the garden, Katsuhiro had found his sister. Setsu had been sitting beneath the cherry blossom tree, on a wooden bench, revising for her school exams, but all this had to wait once her younger brother had arrived with his great news. Katsuhiro looked every inch the schoolboy in his uniform of starched white shirt and black shorts, but his close-cropped schoolboy hair could not have been more different to his sister's shoulder-length tresses, which were held back in a ponytail. Setsu had finished her studies for the day and was looking relaxed in her jinbei of knee-length shorts and short-sleeved kimono style jacket which was decorated with a red floral pattern.

The two of them shared the same, broad jaw line as their father, along with fairly narrow noses and broad cheek bones, and despite being three years younger than his sixteen year old sister, Katsuhiro was, indeed, almost as tall as she was.

"A champion, you say? Well, that is something to aim for. You could be the best sprinter in the whole of Japan!" Beamed Setsu.

"Yes, my teacher, Kato-Sensei, thinks that I should train hard and try for a regional competition. Then if I am successful, I could be eligible for officer training in the army or navy."

Setsu's tone changed. "But if you become good at sport, why would you want to go in the army or navy? Why not become a sporting champion and encourage others to success?"

At this, the conditioning that so concerned his father took a hold of Katsuhiro. "Kato-Sensei says that it is the duty of all boys to train hard so that they can perform at their highest level in support of their country and the Emperor. Kato-Sensei tells us that we have to maintain the 'Kokutai' and carry out the Emperor's will. For us all to be in the military is the best way for Japan to remain strong."

Setsu had heard this tone far too much, of late, "Ah, the 'Kokutai' – thats' what we are all doing it for. We shall all maintain the momentum of the kokutai and move Japan forward. Why can't you just do your athletics because you love doing it? Isn't it enough that we are proud of you?"

"When I fight for Japan, you will be proud of me, then, too!"

"No, Katsuhiro, I will be sad when we hear that you are lying dead in a field, somewhere in China, fighting for your precious kokutai. I can see that there is no chance in reasoning with you, today."

"Well, the feeling is mutual. I'm going to my room." With that, Katsuhiro stomped indoors and upstairs.

The door of Hitoshi's study gently and quietly opened – this time, it was Setsu who was making an entrance.

"Otosan, I am worried about Katsuhiro and his talk of joining the army."

"Oh, Setsu, will I never get this pen filled?" Grinned Hitoshi.

Setsu realized that her father was trying to get his work done and stopped in her tracks. He probably had another lecture to complete for university, or another book underway. She approached her father and silently observed him as he submerged the pen's nib in to the blue ink with his right hand, then with his left, pulled back on the small metal lever that was previously sitting flush along the middle of the barrel. He let the lever flip back in to place and held the nib in the ink for a moment. There was the faintest of sounds as the rubber sac within the barrel expanded and sucked in the ink through the nib. Hitoshi then removed the nib and wiped away the excess drops of ink with a rag from his desk drawer.

"Is that a new pen?" Asked Setsu.

"Yes, my dear. Your mother bought it for me, last week, to celebrate the completion of my book. I have not yet had the opportunity to use it."

"May I hold it, please?"

Hitoshi handed the pen to Setsu and she held it gently and examined it in the light. The body and cap were made from a blood-red marbled celluloid, offset by the silver nib, clip and cap ring. Embossed on the side of the barrel in English were the words: Pilot Pen – MFG Co. Ltd. Made in Japan.

"Do the letters 'Ltd' stand for 'limited'?"

"I see that your skills with the English language have become very advanced, my girl!" Laughed Hitoshi. He had taught his daughter well.

"Now, my dear, I would like to finally use this pen and attend to a little work before our evening meal. Would you be so kind as to go and help Okasan prepare the food?"

Setsu kissed her father on the cheek and set off with a happy gait to help her mother – the clash of ideals with her brother washed away for now.

After a few minutes, the food preparation was interrupted by Katsuhiro, who was running down the stairs and pointing excitedly at something in the street outside.

"Look at that car, outside! It's a real beauty – I think it's one of those new Nissans!"

It was, indeed, a Nissan Type 70 sedan, the one that had been making its way towards the Kimura household for the past half hour. No sooner had Katsuhiro finished his exclamations, than the four occupants stepped from the car and made their nonchalant way to the front door.

The knock on the door was aggressive.

Masako dutifully answered the door.

The face that greeted her was just as straight as those of the other three.

"This is the house of Hitori Kimura?"

"Yes. May I ask who is calling?"

"I am Military Police Captain Jiro Araki. You will stand aside and let us speak with your husband."

With that, the four men pushed past Masako and began to walk around the house in search of Hitoshi, who at that moment was entering the hallway to see who was calling at the door. He was immediately confronted by Araki.

"Kimura. We are here on the Emperor's business, concerning serious matters of state."

Hitoshi nodded in agreement, as if he had almost been expecting such a scenario – Araki directed him to sit and stood over him. Masako hurriedly gathered Setsu and Katsuhiro close to her, as the three other intruders began to wander around the house, clearly in search of something.

There was the sound of plunder from the study. After a while, all three men emerged, each one sporting books and pamphlets, which Araki inspected in the manner of a doctor making a diagnosis. He turned with a look of satisfaction and sanctimony, holding two pamphlets to Hitoshi's face.

"The works of Minobe Tatsukichi and Yoshino Sakuzo . . . enemies of the kokutai, if ever I saw them. How can we keep Japan's divine purpose on course with people like you espousing support for this drivel?"

"They are brilliant free thinkers who care more about Japan's future and well being than any of . . ."

Hitoshi's words were cut short by a blow across the face from Araki. Masako screamed and held her children close – both too terrified to speak or move. Araki turned to them and pointed at Hitoshi.

"This man. Your husband. Your father. He is an obstruction to the kokutai."

"But . . . he is a lecturer," protested Masako, "A teacher and translator of English and Spanish. How can he be hurting Japan?"

"He is harbouring and spreading the kind of thoughts that will undermine Japan's efforts in the world. He is to come with us for further questioning. Be grateful that we only take him!"

Upon which, Araki summoned Hitoshi to rise and leave with the three henchmen, who left without closing the front door.

Masako, Setsu and Katsuhiro stood and watched through the open gateway as Hitoshi solemnly climbed in to the back of the car, flanked by two of the silent men. Araki took his place in the passenger seat whilst the third accomplice set the car in motion.

Some people in the street saw what was happening, but tried not to stare. Everyone knew that this was how the Kempeitai, Japan's secret police, operated. Sometimes they were not this subtle in dealing with the 'dissident' types who were not fully behind Japan's military regime and its war in China, but the results were always the same. It was best not to become involved.

Katushiro watched in stunned fascination as the car disappeared from view.

"Okasan, is Otasan really working against Japan? Can it be true?"

"Be quiet, musuko!" Snapped Masako. "Do not talk about your father in such a manner. Go to your room!"

Katsuhiro stormed back up the stairs and Setsu embraced her mother.

"What are we going to do, Okasan? How long do you think they will keep Otosan?"

"I do not know. We must wait for them to finish questioning him. He may well be back before nightfall . . . so, I had better get that meal prepared, so that he can have something to eat when he comes home." Wearing the bravest of faces, Masako made for the kitchen.

The door of the study was still open and Setsu entered to find the room littered with books that had been cast around the floor like autumn leaves. She began picking them up and tidying the once immaculately kept study when she stopped and gazed at her father's desk.

The new pen lay at the side of a fresh sheet of writing paper, upon which, the ink only just dried, was written a haiku.

人生行路も Jinseikouro mo (control your life journey)

宿命を管制 Shukumei o kansei _(and your destiny)_

美しいせつ Utsukushii Setsu _(beautiful Setsu)_

Setsu sat down in her father's chair, replaced the cap on the pen, kissed it, held the paper to her breast and sobbed.

Chapter Three - July 1942

"Lateness is a great discourtesy to others!" Those words echoed around the engine shed at Derby Works and in the ears of tardy apprentices who were now fully aware that some sort of recompense would be due.

"You laddies can be sure that you'll be doing some extra sweeping up when the day is through," thundered the much-travelled Glaswegian brogue of James Carruthers, chief engineer, who for the past four years had been putting Ben Hutchinson and his contemporaries through the rigours of a railway engineering apprenticeship. Today was another day of boiler work on one of the Midland Railway's steam powered behemoths.

Carruthers closed the lid on his watch and placed it back in the pocket of his waistcoat. Buttoning up his work jacket and slicking back his still-blonde hair, he turned to the more punctual apprentices, amongst whom stood Ben, who were waiting attentively for the orders of the day.

"Today, gentlemen, we will be perfecting the fine art of cleaning out the boiler on this here engine. Young Hutchinson, on account of your dedication – not to mention the fact that you are a skinny wee runt of a lad - you can be the first one in!"

It was hardly a privilege, but it was part of the job – Ben clambered inside the engine without complaint and began working his way around the lacework of piping and iron plate which normally pulsed with high-pressure steam. He had done this plenty of times, which is perhaps why, after an hour of applying much elbow grease, he was surprised to find himself suddenly trapped and unable to remove himself from the engine.

"Mr Carruthers! I think I'm stuck! I can't get out!"

"What's that, laddie? You're stuck, you say? Alright. You two laddies – Simpson and Pleasance – come here boys, grab a leg each and we'll have him out in no time."

Two other apprentices clambered up on to the engine and each grabbed one of Ben's protruding legs. The initial attempts at removal only made the incumbent panic and tense up, making it harder to shift him, but this only encouraged the young men and the ensuing tug-of-war ended with a flourish as Ben was finally dislodged, setting the two tug-ees off balance and all three bodies fell from the engine chassis and landed in an undignified heap on the shed floor.

Carruthers approached the sprawling mass of bruised young men, his laughter hiding any hint of compassion.

"Are ye all all right, laddies? Hutchinson, perhaps your mother is feeding you a bit more than I thought? If ye get too fat to clean the engines, you'll be no good to me! Finish the job, boys, and then I think we will all need a cup of tea."

In the new, sprawling dining hall, Carruthers found a table free for himself and his young charges. The room could hold a thousand workers at once and this was an instance where it was largely at capacity. War production had seen the Derby Works take on the manufacture of aircraft parts, on top of railway engine construction and repair. A great many of the workers on their tea break were women bedecked in the most unfeminine of work overalls, their hair tied up and covered with headscarves.

"Och, I've never seen so many women in the workplace, boys," announced Carruthers with a hint of despair, holding court over his apprentices as he took a sip of strong, murky tea. "Even more than in the Great War – it just goes to show that you've never quite seen it all . . ."

"And you have seen quite a lot of things, haven't you, Mr Carruthers," Tom Pleasance egged him on and the old man took the bait. The other apprentices tuned in to their mentor, knowing that they were in for another of the old Scot's tales of yore.

Carruthers, an avid raconteur, needed no further encouragement.

"It's funny you should mention it, boys, but there was a time when I worked for the North British Locomotive Company, about twenty years ago, I found myself out in the Argentine, helping to assemble some of our engines for the Buenos Aires Railways . . . och, I forget where, but we travelled out to some places, I can tell ye. 'Tis a rare and beautiful place, out across the Pampas . . . there were bloody lamas and cactai everywhere, mind you . . . anyway, we had this old chap called Ramirez and he was the foreman for the coach works. He was eighty years old if he was a day and he took himself a wee young bride – a lovely wee lass of about nineteen, she was – her mother was a poor widow and pretty much sold her off for the money.

"Anyway, the top and the bottom of this is that there was still some life in the old dog Ramirez and he sired himself twin boys with this young lassie. We didn'ae think he'd got any lead left in his pencil at that age, but again, just when ye think ye've seen it all, something comes along to take your breath away.

"I'll tell ye, boys, I only hope I've still got it in me when I reach that ripe old age!"

Ben saw his chance and grinned, "Well, it'll not be long before you can find out, eh, Mr Carruthers?"

"Och, you cheeky bugger! I've half a mind to put you back inside that boiler!"

The laughter was shared by all – after four years of working under Carruthers, Ben had done well and knew that the avuncular Scotsman would forgive him such a bold tease. There would have been no such ribaldry four years previously: the tall man from Glasgow had been a stern taskmaster when Ben began his apprenticeship, but in time, all the apprentices began to appreciate Carruther's ability to get the best out of them. His stickling for precision and thoroughness, the pride he took in both his own teaching and the work of his apprentices and, once he could see that his own efforts were being reciprocated, the encouragement and approval he gave to the boys.

Since Ben lost his father, James was the only adult male who had ever taken the time to encourage him in his studies, but then, he seemed to have the time for all of the apprentices – giving up time at the end of the day to make sure that the boys knew how to maintain their machinery and make accurate drafts. On one occasion when Ben was struggling with his mathematics calculations, it was Carruthers who took him to the dining hall, bought him a cup of tea and took him through the equations for an hour to help him succeed.

"Right, my laddies, back t'work! We'll never beat old Adolf if we can'nae get the trains running on time, eh?" Carruthers downed his tea, dregs and all, and led his boys back to the war effort.

***

Work and study over for another week, Ben stepped from the last train home, which puffed its way en route to its last few stops and the long awaited terminus of Nottingham Victoria Station. Even though the German bombers were much less frequent, now, than earlier in the war, the gas lamps still stood dormant – the night time blackout regulations remained in place – so Ben made his way through the darkness, knowing that home was near.

This town has not changed for generations, thought Ben, as he made his way past the municipal sports field and over the stone bridge across the canal. Those long, straight rows of monotone brick houses were so uniformly plain – even the diagonal crosses of tape on each window pane gave each dwelling a sunken eyed expression of submission. "I didn't ask to end up in this time and place, and I've never lived anywhere else," he thought to himself, "But I suppose that everyone has to be somewhere . . . I wonder where else there is to be?"

Ben's reverie was to last no longer. With nothing but the moon for a spotlight, two figures entered, stage right, staggering around the corner, having just been ousted from the pub by wartime closing hours. Ben recognized the gait of the approaching duo and flinched, as he had done in the broad daylight many times on the school yard in the years before, upon seeing the same pair approach him.

"Ey up, youth! Well will you look who it isn't?" came the call through the blackout gloom, as the figure of Ken Blanchard and his sidekick Bobby Watson staggered towards him. In the gloom, Ken and Bobby's respective physiques meant that they had a more than passing resemblance to Laurel and Hardy, but there was to be no comedy routine forthcoming from this duo. Wartime drinking hours were short and to compensate for this, both had put in an extra shift, this evening.

"Here he is . . . boffin Ben's been playing with his train set again!" Grinned Bobby, who began motioning towards Ben, using his full frame to good, intimidatory use. "Been fiddlin' with yer piston, have yer?"

"You should have a proper job, like us, mate," chimed in Ken, "Instead of playing with yer pencil!" Not having Bobby's bulk, Ken kept himself a step further back.

"Aye, well I like what I do, lads, and the job takes a lot out of me, so I'll be off home . . . have a good night, eh?" Ben tried to make his way onward but Bobby barged his shoulder.

"Y'see, Ken. On his way home t'mother. I told yer he was weird – thinks he's too good for us – always had his stuck-up face in a book when we were at school and still has now!"

"Too good t'work down the mine and do some decent graft like yer dad," spat Ken, "Do what yer mother says and be a good boy, eh, Ben?"

"Look, lads, there's no need for this . . ."

"Isn't there?" Bobby pushed Ben in the chest, "We're down the mines grafting whilst your just pushing a pen around?"

"That's not true, Bobby, I work as hard as you, now let me be – besides, what have I ever done to you?"

"What have you done? You breathed, boy! You got in my way! Stuck up sods like you should clear off out of here!"

Bobby made a rush for Ben and swung a wayward, brawny fist, catching his left temple. In the instant of the impact, Ben felt the pain, kept his balance and realized that he was good enough to strike back. He remembered his father's advice on scrapping: that a good punch to the ribs would always inflict some decent pain.

Bobby's midriff was a sizeable target and Ben could not miss – in fact, he landed a better blow than he anticipated and Bobby immediately doubled up and heaved his last pint out in to the gutter.

Ben did not wait to be asked for an encore and made a dash for home.

"You smug get! Clear off and be with yer own kind!" Ken shouted after him as he vainly tried to get Bobby's lumbering frame back on its feet.

Once around the corner, Ben felt a little safer and slowed his pace. "Well, that settles it," he thought, "This is no home for me – I've got to look for something new."

Chapter Four - A mindful farewell

Beyond the garden fence, the domineering presence of the war weighed heavily on the everyday life of all Japanese. However, within the confines of the Kimura house, there was a peace and stillness.

Masako stood up slowly from her seated position, ran her hands gently down her cream coloured kimono to straighten out any creases and surveyed her work in the chashitsu, or tea room. The small room, with its panelled paper walls and tatami mats, was adorned with only three features: a small cavity in the floor by the far left corner, in which stood the kama, an iron kettle, simmering silently upon smoking hot charcoal; to the left of this, the mizusashi, a water container for topping up the kama, whilst in the opposite corner stood a short, wooden table of about six inches in height called a tokonomai, on which stood a plain, porcelain vase.

After a moment of considered observation, Masako decided that the cherry blossom in the vase needed to have its position altered, so that it pointed more directly to the kakejuku that was hanging on the wall behind it. This fabric banner had been made by her grandfather and the calligraphic message upon it was, she felt, most appropriate for today's special ceremony:

Gyounryusui (Clouds pass, water runs)

Satisfied, she made her way out of the chashitsu with small, measured, mindful paces, silently sliding closed the door after her, so that the tea ceremony might begin.

The last four years had been hard on the Kimura family and a lot of their possessions had been sold to help make ends meet, but some items had to be kept at all costs for times such as these, and prized kimonos were such items. Katsuhiro's was a plain, navy blue – as was the custom for males in a tea ceremony - whilst Setsu's was a pale pink with a deep red plum flower pattern. Like her mother, she was wearing a Spring season kimono.

Brother and sister made their way in to the chashitsu with the same elegance that their mother had used on her exit.

The door slid open again, so that brother and sister could enter. Katsuhiro went first, kneeling before the kama and placing a closed fan on the tatami mat in front of him. To his right, Setsu did likewise, joining her brother in a moment of contemplation before the words of the kakejuku.

The door slid open again. Masako was kneeling behind it and laid a kashibon plate of higashi sweets before her. Still on her knees, she glided in to the room, turning to slide the door closed behind her before rising up with the plate, which she then placed before her children, who in turn bowed to their mother.

Katsuhiro and Setsu reached in to their kimonos and produced small paper parcels called kaishi, inside which were bamboo utensils for the higashi sweets. Using the paper as a plate, they picked up the sweets and ate with gentle mindfulness – these sweets had been made with the last remaining grams of powder mix in the house. Goodness knew when their kitchen would offer such bounty again.

After eating, the utensils were folded up inside the kaishi. Katsuhiro was now to the left of his mother, so he placed the closed package of the kaishi into the right sleeve of his kimono. Setsu was to the right of Masako, so she placed her folded kaishi into her left sleeve.

Protocol observed, it was now time to begin mixing and pouring the tea.

Masako picked up the matsumei, containing the tea powder, in her right hand, whilst holding upright in her left hand the chawan tea bowl, which would be shared by all for the drinking. Inside the chawan was a folded white cloth called the chakin, as well as the whisk, the chasen. On top of the chawan sat the long, bamboo chasaku spoon. The matsumei and the chawan were placed before the mizusashi water bowl.

Maintaining the silence, Masako placed two spoonfuls of usucha weak tea powder in to the chawan, then ladelled a small amount of hot water on to it. This mixture was then stirred with the chasen until the water was a pastel shade of green. The bowl was taken by Katsuhiro, all in the room bowed in thanks and after sitting up straight and rotating the bowl in his left hand, Katsuhiro began to drink.

On emptying the bowl, he placed it before him and Masako wiped the bowl with the chakin, rinsed it and then poured the water in to the kensui water bowl which sat next to her. The bowl was now ready for a repeat of the ceremony for Setsu.

On finishing her tea, bows were made, pleasantries exchanged and Masako faithfully retraced her movements and actions from the beginning of the ceremony in order to remove all of her utensils from the chashitsu. Each time that she left the room, she would slide the door shut behind her.

Remaining in their kneeling positions, Katsuhiro and Setsu took a moment to inspect the matsumei and chasuku for cleanliness, then worked their way along the tatami mats, taking turns to move the matsumei and the chasaku to a new position at the side of the still-hot kama. Once the items were in place, Masako could return to the room.

Pleasantries were again exchanged using phrases that had not changed in centuries, then the prized possessions were removed. Siblings bowed in thanks, then turned to bow and pay respects to the written words of their great grandfather which had hung behind them throughout the ceremony. It was now their turn to reverse their entrances, with Setsu being the last to leave, sliding the door closed behind her.

There had been stillness in the chashitsu before their entry, the ceremony saw the family become a part of that stillness, and now, at least within the chashitsu, the stillness continued.

***

"That was a wonderful ceremony, Okasan. It is so long since you have done that for us," Setsu told her mother.

"Well, we have not had too much to celebrate in recent times, but both of you are about to move on to new pastures and I wanted to commemorate that. Both my children are flying the nest – it's a real turning point in all of our lives." She put a hand on a shoulder of each of her children.

"I just wish that Otosan was here to share this day with us."

"I do, too," interrupted Katsuhiro, "But we have done well to manage without him and we must keep being strong."

"Yes, I miss your father very much . . . we all do," said Masako, but the hurt in her voice did not reach Katsuhiro, "But in just a short while you will be leaving us! Do you want some help in packing your bag? Do you have all of your papers?"

"Of course, Okasan! I have been waiting for this day to come. I am going to do my very best in training and see if I can make it as an officer – you will be so proud of me."

"Of course, my dear. Of course. Now, excuse me for a moment, there is a radio broadcast on NHK for the Neighbourhood Association and I don't want to miss it – it's all about fire fighting and it's my turn to lead the group in our meeting, this week."

Masako made a swift exit for the living room and once the sound of the radio could be heard, Setsu felt that she could speak with her brother.

"Katsuhiro, will you stop talking to Okasan about how much you want to join the army?"

"But she is proud of me, you just heard her say so."

"She says that to spare your feelings – she's terrified of losing you in the war."

"I'm not frightened of dying. All of us at school are prepared to do that. It is an honour to fight and die for Japan and the emperor. I'm going to be the best officer in the army, you wait and see."

"Ah, such an honour . . . that's what they all say. You are prepared to die for the emperor, but why? I don't want you to die for anyone. Why aren't you prepared to live for those who love you? Okasan and I don't want you to go away. However much you and I disagree on things, I would hate to hear that you have been killed in some far away land for nothing. How many grieving families have we got on this street alone, Katsuhiro? Do all of those weeping mothers look proud?"

"They know that it is an honour to have their sons give their lives for the emperor, just as it would be for me. Listen, Setsu, do you hear the sound of the radio? Okasan is learning how to fight for Japan – she is prepared to run out and fight the fires from those American bombers. Are you frightened for her? Is she doing the wrong thing?

"It's six months, now, since the Americans first flew their bombers over Tokyo. They'll keep coming unless we defeat them. We've all got to be prepared to make a sacrifice."

"Okasan works hard with the Neighbourhood Association because it stops her from thinking about Otosan. She never got over how they took him away and she doesn't believe their stories about his death."

"They said he had a weak heart," stammered Katsuhiro, "He wasn't strong enough to face their questions."

"Do you have to believe everything you're told by the authorities? They've filled your head with enough rubbish at school!"

"It is not rubbish! They are giving us what we need so that we can win this war for Japan. Besides, your going off to Argentina is hardly going to help us win the war, is it?"

Setsu suddenly realised that this would be one of the last conversations that she would have with her brother for some time. At worst, it could quite possibly be the very last. She tried to take the venom out of the dialogue.

"Yes, you're right. But please, Katsuhiro, be happy for me – I didn't start this war and it's a chance of a lifetime to go and work there – you know how much I love learning Spanish. Don't forget, Japan has to get its food from somewhere, so when I come back, I'll be able to help Japan in its trade with South America."

"Yes, you are right – I suppose that everyone can help in different ways."

"I promise that I'll write to you and tell you how lovely the weather is, not to mention how much food I'm eating!"

Katsuhiro gave a rare chuckle, "I don't suppose you'll be able to fit some of that Pampas beef steak in to an envelope? I'm sure there will come times when I'll be far away and I'll end up missing the taste of sukiyaki!"

Chapter Five - September 1942

The bright red, single decker bus, with 'Barton's' emblazoned on both sides in gold lettering, reached its terminus just off the town square. Housewives with children in tow made their way toward the shops, ration books at the ready for whatever meagre store of essentials was available.

The town was largely ignored by the German bombers, which had much more important things to destroy in neighbouring cities such as Nottingham, Derby and Leicester, all of which sported factories that were 'doing their bit' for the war effort. However, despite that unlikely event of attack, the black out rules still applied and there were plenty of nights when the locals sat behind their extra-thick black curtains and heard the low, ominous pedal notes of the Luftwaffe overhead, en route to delivering destruction, accompanied by a percussion section of anti-aircraft fire.

On this Saturday morning, the austerity of rationing, the near-empty stores and the pallor of the bricks, mortar and masonry were refreshingly well lit by a clear, blue sky. The fresh, crisp air gave Ben a lift as he stepped from the stuffy, cigarette smoke-filled confines of the bus. He made his way around the corner to the cobbled market square, giving a respectful eyes-left to St Mary's church, where he had been Christened – a centuries old place upon whose high old walls rested the steeple, pointing ever heavenwards – before continuing on his way to the far side of the square to the library.

Ben's trajectory was halted by a familiar face. It was Arthur Luddit.

"Ey up, youth, 'ow you getting on? Is your mother well?"

"Aye, not so bad, thanks, Arthur. Are you still busy down the pit?"

"Aye, we are – it's hard, though. We've got a few of them Bevan Boys with us, who don't want t'fight. I reckon some of 'em didn't want t'work, either, but they've got no choice when I'm about! Are y'still working on't railways?"

"I am – nearly finished my apprenticeship, an'all."

"Ah! You've done well, Ben. Do tell your mother that she was right all along, y'know. You can go a long way on't trains, eh?"

"Well, Arthur, I suppose if I got on the train at Derby and didn't get off, I could go all the way to London!"

Arthur laughed, "You've got y'dad's sense of humour, Ben! Any-roads, what brings you to town?"

"I'm going to the library."

Arthur scoffed as if Ben were going to a seedy strip club, "What yer goin' in there for?"

"I like me books, Arthur, it keeps me off the streets."

"Aye . . . aye, each to their own, I suppose. Well, I'd best be off – the lads are waiting for me at The Prince of Wales and no doubt, it'll be my round by the time I get there! Say hello t'your mam for me! Ta-ra, youth!"

Arthur made his way to the pub and Ben turned back on course for his destination.

The old library building was as grey as all the others around it, but some effort had been made with its design – it was a typical work of Victorian Greco-Roman stature, somehow seeming as if it had been stolen from the grandeur of London's Whitehall and placed, surreptitiously, in this small, provincial town, to let the natives know that they were part of the great British Empire – and it stood, along with the church, as a reminder of better times past.

On entering the library, there were always two things that struck Ben: firstly, the reverential silence, as if the readers within were at prayer; secondly, the smell of old books – that musty but strangely compelling scent of old paper and leather which lures one in like an aromatic siren song with the promise of rich, florid words, poetry, prose, edification and entertainment.

Revelling in the atmosphere of silent sanctuary, Ben made for the technology section, but there was someone there already. He knew that figure – sporting the same stance of oblivious fascination that comes from being lost in a book. The young man was dressed much the same as every other male – boy and man – within the library (and perhaps the whole nation): dark overcoat, shirt, tie and sweater, baggy trousers and sensible shoes, but Ben recognised him, nonetheless. It was Tom Pleasance.

"Ey, up, Tom," whispered Ben, so as not to upset the librarians, "What are you reading there?"

"How do, Ben – have a look at this – it's the latest thing in the RAF: the Typhoon. It looks a real beast!"

Ben leaned over and joined Tom as they had a look at the magazine. The feature was on the newest fighter plane to come in to service and both young men marvelled at the sleek and muscular looking aircraft.

"I tell you, Ben, when my time is served, I'm going for the air force – I fancy one of these. Apparently, it does over four hundred miles an hour! Imagine that!"

"Shhhhh!" came the stern reprimand of a nearby reader.

Both young men looked sheepish and mimed the word 'sorry' to the disgruntled old lady, who gave them a near-fatal look, then returned to her copy of 'Competitive Flower Arranging' with a sigh of disbelief at the youth of today.

"I'd better get what I came for – I'll meet you outside in five minutes, mate," suggested Ben.

Giving short-tempered flower arrangers the widest possible berth, Ben and Tom perused the shelves, stamped out their selections and then headed for the exit.

It was nearly noon and the chip shop was just opening. Both men grabbed a bag of chips and went to sit in the church grounds. Placing themselves on a wooden bench, they unwrapped their newspaper bundles and on their faces they felt the hot air rise from the steaming, greasy chips, which were swimming in vinegar and caked in salt.

Between mouthfuls, both young men tried to plan out their futures.

"So, it's the RAF for you, Tom? How long before you can go in?"

"I've only got a couple of months to go before the end of my apprenticeship, then I'll be eligible. I've volunteered, 'cause that way I can choose where I go. I don't want to leave it until I get a call up and end up as a squaddie in the army. I don't fancy all that square bashing and spit and polish stuff."

"How did you go about it?"

"I've been to the recruiting office and I'll be doing the exam and medical next month. How about you, mate?"

"Well, I've got the same time to serve as you, but you're six months older than me, so I think I'll stay at the Derby Works for a little bit and see what happens."

"You don't fancy the RAF, then? We could go together, eh?"

"I think I would, you know. But I don't really fancy that Typhoon – it looks as bulky as one of our engines at work! I reckon a Spitfire would do me just fine – that's one graceful looking 'plane. You know that that Mitchell chap who designed her, he was a railway engineer to start with?"

"Really? It's a good job he made the move, else we'd not have got the Spit. Just goes to show that you can do anything if you try, eh?"

"Maybe you can . . . I'm not sure what I should try for, though. I need something to come along and give me a push, I reckon. Hey, this vinegar is choking me – give us a swig of your water, please, mate."

Despite being old enough to fight in the war, neither young man was old enough to drink. Tom had brought a bottle of water in his satchel and passed it over to Ben, who grinned and raised the bottle in a salute to his friend.

"Let's drink to the future, mate!"

Chapter Six - A Stranger Calls

The knock on the door was assertive, as was the response from the house's occupant.

"I'll be right there!" Called Liza as she hastily put down her broom and scuttled from the back yard to the front door. The door thundered again.

"Alright, alright! Leave the door in the frame, will yer!" Liza was ready to give the visitor an ear bashing but her next sentence stopped short of her vocal chords and she was lost for words. There stood James Carruthers, his tall, broad shouldered figure cutting a dash in his grey flannel three-piece suit, immaculately polished black shoes and long black overcoat. In his left hand was a brown, leather attaché case, whilst his right hand reached up and removed his trilby hat.

"Mrs Hutchinson, I presume? Forgive me for being a wee bit over zealous with my knocking on your door, there, but as your son will no doubt tell you, I never do anything by halves. Is young Ben in?"

"He's just gone to the library, but he'll be back in a bit. Do come in, you can wait for him – would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be capital, Mrs Hutchinson, but I must say that the purpose of my visit is that I need to speak with you, just as much as I do with Ben."

Liza led James in to the front room and he removed his over coat and sat down on one of the wooden chairs at the table. Unbeknownst to him, the room had changed barely a jot since Ben had become the man of the house. James did not need long to survey the room: plain, cream painted walls, old but well-cleaned curtains, a table and four wooden chairs, a sideboard with an old carriage clock and a couple of framed photographs – one of Liza and Walter's wedding day and another of Walter in his army uniform.

Liza brought in a tray from the kitchen, on which was a large, brown tea pot, a jug of milk, a pot of sugar, three teaspoons, two matching cups and saucers and one well-worn brown mug. She had been hoping to make the rationed tea leaves last a couple more brews, but this unexpected visit had necessitated the use of her last fresh spoonful.

"Well," started James, "Firstly, don't worry yourself, I've only come here with good news to tell you."

"That's always nice to hear!"

"Aye, it is – your Ben has been a fine apprentice and he's due to finish serving his time in just over a month. I've come here firstly to congratulate him, then talk to you both about what he can do next."

"So, he'll be staying on at the Derby Works, then?"

"That is certainly a possibility, but I've got a slightly more interesting proposition for the pair of you."

"And what might that be, Mr Carruthers?"

James took a sip of his tea, then reached for his attaché case and removed a small, framed photograph. His eyes lingered upon the picture for a moment and then he continued.

"Before we talk about that, I must say what a pleasure it has been to teach your lad over the last four years. He's been as good a student as I've ever had and I must confess to becoming quite fond of the young fellow."

"That's very kind of you, Mr Carruthers – Ben speaks very well of you, too."

"Och, that's touching to hear that, Mrs Hutchinson. I'd like to show you this photograph – it might help to explain what I have in mind."

James handed Liza the frame. The photograph was a familiar one, as seen in most houses across the country since the start of the Great War: a young man sitting bolt upright in his new, khaki uniform, well-shined brass buttons and soft cloth cap sporting the regimental badge, fresh from training and ready to make his way to the front lines of France and Belgium. It differed from the picture of Walter on the sideboard in that it sported a diagonal black band across the top right corner of the frame.

"Who is this, Mr Carruthers?"

"That was my boy, Euann – Mrs Carruthers and I only had the one child. He was a bonnie young lad, I was so proud of him, as any father would be. He was born out in India – I had good job offer out there, and we went back to Scotland when he was about five. He followed me into railway engineering as an apprentice at North British and served his time just as your young Ben has done – he had the makings of a fine engineer and could have gone anywhere in the world with his talent.

"But the Great War was upon us and he wanted the adventure of the battlefield, Mrs Hutchinson, and couldn'ae wait for his apprenticeship to end, so he could go off and find some excitement. I pleaded with him not to enlist, but he'd just turned twenty one and he was his own man. It broke my heart, but I had to let him do as he chose.

"Sure enough, he got trained up and was shipped out to France just in time for the Germans' big attack in 1918."

"Oh, Mr Carruthers, you don't have to tell me any more – I can imagine the rest," Liza assured him.

"Thank you, but please let me finish. He was captured on that first day and spent the last six months of the war in a prison camp, living on scraps and kicking his heels."

"So, he survived, then? But what about the black band on his picture?" Asked Liza.

"Well, I was coming to the part which galls me to this day. Only days after the Armistice, when they were all waiting to come home, Euann's camp was struck by the Spanish 'flu. He died within a week. My boy went out there in search of glory . . . his head was all full of bravado and all he could see was himself coming home with a chest full of medals, but he didn'ae fire a shot and then he died for nothing, coughing himself to death in a wee wooden hut." James paused, grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his moist eyes.

"Mrs Hutchinson, I know that your Ben will be twenty one himself, next year. I would like to suggest something to you that would allow him to see a bit of the world in a way that my Euann never did - before this war may take control of his life."

Before Liza could speak, the front door opened and Ben returned with his clutch of books from the library, calling along the hallway as he entered. On hearing Ben's voice, James quickly took his son's picture from Liza, placing it with speedy reverence back in to the attaché case.

"Ey up, Mam! I asked the librarian if they'd got 'Gone With The Wind' for you, but they said that somebody's ripped the last page out, so I didn't bother . . ." he stopped in his tracks and stood up straight at the sight of his chief engineer sitting in his front room, supping tea from his mother's only other presentable china cup and saucer.

"Good morning to you, young Ben. I've come here to congratulate you on your fine work as my apprentice. You've been a capital student and I'm proud to say that you'll be time served, next month. I've also got something of a proposition that I need to put to you."

"Well, lad," said his mother, who was now very eager to hear about this proposition, "Sit down and let the man speak."

Ben did as instructed as his mother handed him the well-worn brown mug full of now strongly brewed tea. The trio sat around the dining table like some close-knit committee in full discussion.

"Ben, my boy, you'll be finishing your apprenticeship in a few weeks and I was wondering what your plans were beyond that?"

"Well, I thought that there might be a job for me at the works? We've still got to keep the trains going, haven't we? And there's the aircraft parts, too? Mind you, once I'm twenty one, I might well get called up, don't you think?"

"That's a distinct possibility, laddie, but I've got something else that you might want to think about," said James as he reached back in to his attaché case and pulled out a letter. He then winked at Ben and grinned.

"I have in my hand a piece of paper!"

Liza bit her tongue at James' joke – the quote from Neville Chamberlain, who famously brandished Hitler's signed promise of peace, now rang hollow in many British ears.

"Well, I hope it's got more about it than the last time someone said that!" said Ben.

"Indeed, it might just have. Do you remember me talking about my travels abroad?"

"I've heard little else for the last four years, Mr Carruthers!"

"Then you'll know what a time of it I had for myself in The Argentine? This here letter is from the Buenos Aires Great Southern Railway – they sent it to Glasgow, thinking I was still there, and it's been sent down here to Derby.

"I went there after the Great War . . ." James looked at Liza and felt no more need to elucidate before Ben, "We wanted to get away from Glasgow for a while . . . and the North British Locomotive Company had built a lot of engines for the Argentinians. I was offered a contract to work there for a year, overseeing the engine sheds and it was a wonderful place – beautiful country, lovely hot weather and blue skies. A man can do well for himself, there.

"Now, Ben, this letter is asking me to go back and do another six months, but I'm a wee bit too long in the tooth for all of that and I don't travel as well as I used to. But you, Ben . . . I think you should take this contract."

"The Argentine? That's near China, isn't it?" Spluttered Liza.

"No, Mam, it's in . . . er . . . where is it?"

"South America, Mrs Hutchinson, a neutral country a long, long way from the war, here, there, or frankly anywhere." said James, reassuringly. "You would be one of the main engineers at the works in Buenos Aires, and the pay's good, Ben – three times what you're on right now."

"But . . . I don't know the first thing about The Argentine, Mr Carruthers. How would I fit in . . . I don't even speak the language . . . what language do they speak?"

"Spanish, my boy, but that's the locals – there is a huge British colony out there – thousands of them – and they just speak English. Aye, you'd need a wee bit of Spanish to help you get by with the natives, but for the most part, I didn'ae mix with them all that much. Don't worry – you'd be in safe hands, there."

Ben looked intrigued but also baffled. "So I'd be doing work that I know, surrounded by English speakers . . . but I'd be in The Argentine? What about when I turn twenty one and get called up?"

"You'll be doing a reserved occupation – you can worry about your call up when you're twenty one. Before then, I urge you to take this chance to travel, see the world and all of what's out there. Besides, this job is bringing money in to the country, so you're really doing it for Britain, laddie! How's that for the war effort?"

Ben suddenly realized that there really were other places that he could be and was caught in in the euphoria of the moment. Trust his mother to bring him down to earth, though.

"Well, that's all fine and dandy, but where is he going to stay? Who's going to cook his meals for him? Never mind wash his shirts for him!"

"The company provides accommodation, cleaners and three square meals a day in their canteen, Mrs Hutchinson. Let the boy see a bit of the world." James' voice had an air of passion and desperation in his final sentence – the tone he used with his own son all those years ago. The emotion was not lost on Liza and there was a hushed pause at the table.

"So . . ." Liza slowly started, "He'll be living in a company house?"

"Yes," confirmed James with assuredness.

"He'll get three square meals a day?"

"Prime steak from the Pampas. None of that rationing and powdered egg muck, that's for sure!"

"And he'll have his laundry done, every week?"

"He'll be starched up to his eyeballs and bright as a new pin, every day."

Liza turned to her son and gave him one of her trademark firm looks.

"And he'll write to his mother, every week, without fail?"

"I wouldn't do anything less, Mam."

"And you'll stay away from loose girls?"

" . . . I'll be as pure as the driven snow, Mam . . ."

James tipped his head towards Ben and gave him a knowing look. "Just let her believe that for now, boy!"

Liza sat for a moment like a high court judge, deep in deliberation. She then gave her verdict:

"Well, don't just sit there, my lad! Get yourself back to that library and find a book on learning Spanish . . . and whilst your at it, get me 'Gone With the Wind' anyway – I don't care if the last page is missing – I only want to read the bits with Clark Gable in 'em!"

Chapter Seven - November 1942

"Is your journey really necessary?" Ben met the gaze of the quizzical army squaddie who peered out from the propaganda poster. A gaggle of young boys wandered past. With their short-back-and-sides haircuts, school caps, overcoats, short trousers, long socks and sensible brogue shoes, they were as uniformly clad as the group of soldiers who stood nearby. But these young troopers were armed with nothing more sinister than notebooks, which they held at the ready with pencils sharpened to write down the numbers of the Midland Railway's finest steam engines as they passed through Derby Midland Railway Station, en route to all corners of the country, ferrying those whose journeys were truly necessary.

"Of course your journey is necessary, son," mused Liza as she joined Ben by the poster. "But take no notice, all the same. You're going on quite an adventure – think of all the places you're going to see, the people you'll meet and the things you'll do that so few of us will ever dream of. And because of that, the journey is a necessary one."

"You could, of course, stick around here, Ben," chuckled James, looking skywards. "After all, it's such a lovely day!"

All three of them looked to the gloomy heavens and took in the dreary greyness of a most typical English November day: a sheen of unbroken, overcast cloud which ran to all points of the horizon and goodness knows how much farther. The pallid complexion from on high showed no encouragement to those below, but there was an understanding between both parties that rain was a distinct possibility.

The trio stood awaiting the train for London, which would then carry Ben to Southampton, to his ship. All were clad in long overcoats in their standard shades of dull grey and brown, sported by all on the platform and perhaps the entire country on that day. Ben held on to his cardboard suitcase – he had cleaned it up as best as he could and there was a particularly well polished patch on the top right hand corner of the lid, where Ben had vigorously removed the pawnbroker's thickly-pencilled price tag of three shillings and ninepence.

Liza began to well up with emotion.

"Och, Mrs Hutchinson, don't you upset yourself so," said James with heartfelt empathy. "Here, now, the train doesn'ae leave for a while, yet. Hurry yourself to the rest-room and give your face a wee powdering, eh? It'll no do to send your wee lad away with the sound of his mothers sobs in his ears."

Liza nodded in agreement and hurried herself to the ladies' room. James's tall stature and avuncular strength suddenly gave way to a singular air of shiftiness.

"Here, laddie," James uttered to Ben in a hushed and secretive rasp as he whipped a brown paper parcel from his attache case. "Put this package in your suitcase . . . hurry boy, quickly now, so as your mother doesn'ae see." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Liza was still out of sight, then his attention darted back to Ben, who had dutifully stashed away the offending article in his case with all the speed and slight of hand of a superior spiv. James pulled Ben near and put his face close. In what had now become a desperate whisper, he issued a firm order:

"You can open that once you're on your way. That's just between you and me, eh? Not a word, now!" A long index finger prodded the point home. Ben nodded in bewildered agreement.

"Och, here she comes . . . act normal, now!"

"And what are you two boys talking about?" Inquired Liza with a newly recovered grin.

"Oh, Mam . . . he was just doing your job and making sure that I've got enough clean underwear for the journey!" Lied Ben, confident that such a line would put his mother off the scent and set her forth on a maternal lecture. She did not disappoint.

"And quite right, too! What if you're in an accident and you've not got clean undies on? Think of what the doctors would say? I'd die of shame, I tell you!"

A mother's pride in both her son's and her family's dignity were interrupted by a shrill whistle from the stationmaster. It was time to go.

Ben shook hands with James and embraced his mother, who held him as tight as she dared. He then stepped aboard the second-class coach, placed his now bulging case in the overhead rack and made for the open window before anyone else in the compartment had the opportunity.

"Write as often as you can, love!" Blurted Liza. There was no chance of holding back her tears, now.

"Believe you, me, Mrs H. I've given him no excuse on that count." Said James with remarkable assuredness.

Ben gave James a curious glance, "Of course I will, Mam. Er . . . they do have plenty of writing paper in Argentina, don't they? Mind you, I don't know where the post office will be . . ."

A high-pitched gasp of whistling steam cut off Ben's naiveté and with plentiful bellows, the mighty engine at the front of the train began to glide away with its cargo of travellers in tow. The figures on the platform were washed in wafting waves of steam, which brought the greyness of the sky to Earth. It really was goodbye.

There was nothing else to do but wave and smile. But this did not occur to James, who stood behind Liza, miming and gesticulating frantically about the recently deposited package, which of course was now safe from the prying eyes of mother. Liza turned around and gave James a queer look before she suddenly realized that her son was disappearing from view and she whirled back to her waving and doting.

The train made its meandering way through Chaddesden Sidings in search of the main line to the south. Within moments the platform, the station, James and Liza were all hidden from view. Ben was alone and heading forward.

He reached up and retrieved his case, lumbering it down on to his lap. Then he fished out the brown, paper package and looked inside.

Most prominent among the contents was a bottle. It was unopened and contained a brownish-gold liquid. Ben slid the bottle out of the package and read the label: MacAllan's Single Malt Scotch Whiskey – Aged 16 years. Also in the package was a small, narrow cardboard box, about six inches long, a pad of writing paper and envelopes, as well as a single, sealed envelope, on which was written in gloriously cursive script, 'For the attention of Mister Benjamin Hutchinson, Esquire'. Ben opened the envelope and began to read the letter within.

Dear Ben,

Forgive me for insisting that you keep this package hidden from your mother, but I am quite sure that she would not have approved of its most wondrous liquid content.

My heart told me that to give away this bottle of Scotland's finest was an act of madness, but my liver tells me that to keep it all to myself would be an act of alcoholism. I reckon that you might find yourself in need of a wee dram every once in a while on this adventure of yours – besides, one never knows when one will need some company or assistance and I find that nothing oils the wheels of bargaining with a stranger better than a good single malt.

On a less inebriated note, I have also enclosed for you a new Conway-Stewart fountain pen, along with a good quality writing set. I noticed that you did not have something decent with which to write, so now you have no excuse when it comes to writing to your mother - or myself, I hope - to let us know that you are well and good so far from home.

May God speed you to the arms of those who love you,

Your boss, mentor and friend,

James Carruthers

Chapter Eight - All At Sea

SS Mouzinho,

Somewhere at sea

November 15th, 1942

Dear Mum,

Well, I've been at sea for a day, now, and I've got a better pair of sea legs that I thought I'd have – this is my first time on a ship, after all.

London was not how I remember it from our trip there, when I was little. Of course, the war has changed everything, but there is no colour and everyone is just enduring their predicament, just 'keeping on' because it's the only thing they can do. Thank goodness we don't get the daily air-raids that they have. Talking of which, I hope that you are well and not being harassed by Jerry bombers and the like.

There are some things to do on the ship to keep us entertained, such as films in the evening, but mostly, I am 'taking in the sea air' and working on the paperwork that Mr Carruthers gave me (and trying to learn a bit of Spanish, too!)

We are going to dock in Lisbon, today, so I will get this in the post. I don't know when it will reach you, but I will write again and send another letter from wherever we dock after Portugal – somewhere in Africa, I'm told, but that means little to me.

I know that you have an address to write to in Buenos Aires, so I am sure we'll be able to keep in touch a little better once I'm there.

Lots of Love,

Ben

The ship would not dock in Lisbon for long, so the passengers had been told. The longer a neutral ship lingered in port, the more opportunity there was for intrigue by agents from either side – and Lisbon was teeming with them. Cargoes could be surreptitiously stowed aboard, agents could get their wires crossed. Things could get complicated.

Without a visa for Portugal, nor the money, time or the inclination to possibly become involved in an international incident, Ben chose to stay aboard the Mouzinho. He handed his letter to the ship's clerk, who promised to post it whilst he was ashore, along with all of the other mail with which he had been charged by other passengers.

After only a couple of day's sailing, Ben was confronted with the sights of another world. With the Mouzinho now mooring, he could look upon Lisbon. This seaport was a far cry from the ones he had seen in England: the dull murk of brick and concrete with matching sky was all that home had to offer, but here was colour – vivid colour. The bluest of blue skies was without cloud, spreading itself over the undulating urban landscape of almost exclusively white-walled buildings, all offset with russet red tiled roofs. Standing atop a high peak was a beautiful, domed building - a church, perhaps? - in glorious yellow.

All that remained to be done for now was to take in yet more sea air and watch the stevedores as they moved crate after crate to and from the hold of the Mouzinho. What was in the cases, Ben wondered? All that seemed to matter in England was the packaging and dispatching of goods for the war effort, but Portugal was neutral, so what was England sending here? Whatever it may be, Ben thought, we don't seem to be getting much in return!

Whilst musing, Ben found himself staring with inappropriate fascination at some of the stevedores, who were African. These were the first non-European people on which Ben had ever set eyes, apart from actors in films - but those films were in black and white, anyway – so it was in the manner of a child's first encounter with a strutting peacock that Ben gazed on, until one of the men seemed to feel Ben's gaze and turned to meet it with a look that resented the scrutiny.

Ben immediately recoiled and realized that he had been looking at people as if they were exhibits in a museum. The matter was made worse as the man began to laugh at Ben – he called to his colleagues, who, realizing that they were being viewed as a novelty, all gathered and stared back, waving and pointing at Ben.

Turning away with embarrassment, Ben took a wander to the other end of the promenade, to where the more affluent passengers were alighting on another gangplank. Coming from a Derbyshire coal mining town in which every person was of Anglo-Saxon or Viking heritage meant that Ben's perception of race and creed had been rather blinkered. It was enough to witness his first Africans in the flesh, but the Europeans now stepping aboard didn't look like him, either – they were a lot browner, too – but he reasoned that if the weather was like this all year long, then it was no wonder they all looked so tanned. The many different colours of the women's summer dresses made the gathering before him in to a rainbow in brownian motion. He decided to indulge in this culture shock and drink in all that it could give him – just so long as he could avoid detection as a peeping Tom.

On the quayside, a large, black Citroen Traction Avant glided gently to rest near the moorings, with its frog-eyed head lamps blinking towards the ship. A chauffeur stepped out of the Citroen and made to open the left rear door, but the door opened before the chauffeur could reach it, as the occupant, a man, gently but authoritatively waved him away and gestured for him to get the cases from the car's boot. This man was dressed in a cream coloured double breasted suit – much more appropriate for the climate, thought Ben, whose thick, grey woollen suit from Montague Burtons was far too stifling for him in this Mediterranean heat. The man's hair was jet black, neatly coiffured and trimmed around the back and sides, thinning a little at the temples but longer on top and sleeked back with pomade. Ben could see that this man oozed confidence and esteem in the way that he reverently opened the other rear door.

From within the rear seat gloom emerged a pair of slender, yet athletic legs, shod in the latest bright red raised heel shoes. These olive coloured legs moved as if setting themselves down on a cloud, and once on terra firma, their owner could make her full entrance: the view of the legs was curtailed at the knee by a white Summer dress festooned in red flowers, gathered at the waist by a red belt, which in turn served to accentuate the roundness of the hips and bosom on the hour-glass figure. The wide-lapelled open neck was offset with a red cravat, whilst white gloved hands elegantly put sunglasses and a white, wide brimmed hat on face and head, respectively.

The pair picked up a bag each – he a large suitcase that seemed to give him no trouble at all and she a vanity case (red, of course) – leaving one other case for the chauffeur, then linked their free arms and made for the gangplank. Both strode like a pair of dancers making their way to the middle of the floor – it was as if all the brightness of the morning had focussed itself to give them a spotlight. Some of the ship's junior officers tipped their hats to the glamorous couple as they made their way aboard and the couple responded with an air of familiarity.

As with the stevedores, Ben's stare was detected by the star couple, both of whom met and returned the look. But this return gesture was simple and kind, a pair of pure and honest smiles: from the man, an acknowledgeable nod and a subtle raising of the corners of the mouth; from the lady, a Cheshire cat grin from ear to ear, of pearl-white teeth framed by full, strawberry red lips.

This time, Ben felt that he could smile back and then gaze on across the harbour without too much of a guilty conscience. The duo waltzed past and onward to their, no doubt, first class cabin. As he made his way back to his cabin, he wondered who that couple were and what it must feel like to give off that level of confidence – and where one could acquire such a thing.

Chapter Nine - An Innocent Abroad

The next day, Ben was the early bird at the breakfast buffet – the Portuguese did not have to endure rationing as the British did and the opportunity to get such a good feed every day was not going to be wasted, despite the fact that these Portuguese did not seem to know how to do a fry-up. "When in Rome, I suppose . . ." Ben told himself, as he lamented the absence of sausage, bacon, eggs and toast, washed down with industrial quantities of well-stewed tea.

Never mind, though, there were plenty of other items here that rationing had made in to edible gold: bananas, pineapples, oranges, honey, scrambled eggs made from real eggs and not that powdered rubbish, not to mention the bounteous butter dish – were the crew mad to leave this much food unattended? How on Earth could they spare all of this? Ben devilishly considered how he could stash some of this bounty in his cabin.

Passengers were slowly starting to drift in as Ben, with his plate precariously piled high with enough food to make him a wealthy black market spiv back home, made his way through the dining hall to a table by the window. He was by no means tired of looking at the sea, yet.

"That's a big plate of food, my friend. May we join you?"

Ben whirled around to see who was speaking to him in perfect English, albeit with a deep, refined accent. There stood the elegant man from the gangplank, dressed in smart, blue trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar.

"Er . . . yes, feel free."

"Thank you. My wife will be joining us just as soon as she has got her coffee how she likes it," said the man as he placed his bowl of fruit and cup of coffee on the table and sat down, facing Ben.

"My name is Hector, Hector Hernandez," he said as the two men shook hands and Ben introduced himself – Hernandez's grip was a firm and assured one. "And this, finally, is my darling wife, Veronica."

"Please call me Vero," said the lady as she arrived right on cue and placed herself in the seat next to her husband, "We have made this trip quite a few times and saw that you were all on your own. We thought that you might need some company."

This was the first time that Ben had actually seen Vero's face – the previous day she had been harder to identify by her hat and sun glasses, but now he could see her strong features, plumpish cheeks which ran down to a chin which protruded only slightly and was defined by a hint of cleft, the wide-nostrils and the round, dark eyes which shone past her long lashes.

"My name's Ben – Ben Hutchinson."

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance, are you from England?" asked Vero.

"Yes, on my way to Argentina."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hector, "A most fortunate coincidence, for we are heading home to Buenos Aires. What takes you to our beautiful city? No – wait, it must be the railways?"

"Aye . . . I mean, yes, that's right. I'll be working for the Buenos Aires Great Southern Railway in the workshops."

"I know those people very well. We do business together."

"Hector is a farmer," Vero cut in, "Our beef goes on the Great Southern to Buenos Aires and then on ships to you in England!"

"So you put the bully beef in my sandwiches, back home?" chuckled Ben.

"And in many other places, too! Are you travelling alone?"

"Yes, just me."

"Well, that won't do for such a long journey. It is just your luck," said Hector, "That you now have someone with whom you can converse, rather than just being all alone. You will find that Vero can talk enough for both of us!"

Vero giggled like a little girl, then jovially rounded on her husband, "Life would be so dull without engaging conversation, my dear, and this is the first Englishman we have met on our travels for quite a while. He clearly needs a little guidance on how to feed himself – and we can begin with getting him a proper coffee. Come and join me and I'll show you how to ask for one."

Vero ushered Ben out of his seat and over to the buffet. Vero continued.

"We don't serve that watery English tea, here – coffee is our breakfast drink and we like it strong. That way, we can start the day with a bang!" Finding a gap in the diners, she caught the attention of a waiter and gave him quick-fire instructions in Portuguese which was every bit as confident as her English. The waiter nodded and swiftly prepared what would be Ben's first ever espresso.

The espresso cup and saucer seemed Lilliputian to Ben – how was he supposed to get a decent drink out of that thimble? Vero escorted him back to the table whilst Hector poured a glass of water, which he passed to Ben.

"Once you have finished your food, then have the coffee – down in one," he instructed.

"That's never going to wash me food down – there's barely a mouthful in that cup!"

"That is what the water is for. You English intrigue us with your bulky food and drink – if you will let us, we will show you how we eat and drink properly."

In between copious gulps of food, Ben got to know his new-found acquaintances, that they had married young and that Hector was originally a 'gaucho' (Vero defined this as 'a sort of cowboy, but better looking than the ones from the movies!') who worked his way up to become the owner of a large cattle farm, which was a couple of hours' drive out from the city. The pleasantries lasted long enough to see Ben clear his plate and be left with no choice but to face the black as pitch espresso.

'When in Rome,' thought Ben once again and he knocked back the coffee in one. He winced as the first sensation reminded him of the first time he had spent a whole day in the machine sheds in Derby, and struggled to get the taste of iron filings and oil out of his mouth, but then the concentrated caffeine hit raced through his beleaguered bloodstream, which through three years of rationing had been deprived of any genuine sensation of taste or vitality, and he felt alive – supercharged, in fact, like one of his railway engines. His eyes lit up and he grinned at the Hernandezes like a little boy who had just learned to tie his shoe laces.

Hector and Vero laughed. "Not bad for starters," said Hector, "Just wait until we start serving you maté!"

"'Mar-Tay'? What's that?" asked the baffled Englishman.

"One thing at a time, my dear," said Vero, "For now, I am going to have a little read, then I am going for a swim. Will you be joining me, darling?"

"Perhaps – I have some contracts to read through. Will you be swimming, Ben?"

"Oh, no . . . er . . . I mean . . . well, I can't actually swim."

"You can start learning, today!" Exclaimed Vero. "There is an instructor on the ship – we know the crew of this ship very well. I can arrange lessons for you!"

Ben was overwhelmed, but Hector cut in, "Vero, give the young man a little time to find his bearings – he is a long way from home and has only just met us. Ben, would you care to join me by the swimming pool in an hour? You can tell me all about your steam trains – I find such things fascinating."

"I'd love to. I'll see you then."

With that, Ben made his way back to his cabin.

SS Mouzinho,

en route to Africa

November 15th, 1942

Dear Mr Carruthers,

This is my first letter to you since I left Derby. You will be pleased to know that I have already written to Mum and I have just sent that one away for posting in Lisbon.

As I write, we are now underway again, on the way to some place called Lobito, which is in Angola, so one of the officers tells me, and that is where I will post this letter.

Just seeing Lisbon has been an eye-opener, not to mention seeing people from other countries – they all look so different, but I keep telling myself that they are just like you and me, really.

I have just had breakfast with the most remarkable couple – Hector and Vero Hernandez. They seem to have taken a shine to me and are being very kind and hospitable. It's reassuring to have some company on the trip as I was feeling a bit lost on my own. I have a feeling that they are truly as nice as they seem.

I have been going through the plans that you gave me of the engines that the Buenos Aires Great Southern uses – they look pretty much like what I am used to and I think I'll be able to cope with overhauling anything that they have got. I'd better get stuck in to learning some Spanish as well, so that I can get along with everyone there.

Apparently I'm going to learn how to swim whilst I'm on this boat. The pool looks very nice and they have a teacher. I don't know what I'll do for a swimming costume, though. I'll let you know how I get on.

Please say 'hello' to all of the lads at the works and stay out of Jerry's way.

Best wishes,

Ben

All around the SS Mouzinho was blue. The perfect azure sky was contrasted with the lapis lazuli ocean, and between the two was the turquoise of the swimming pool on the centre deck. Making her second dramatic entrance in as many days was Vero, this time in a one-piece swimming costume in lilly white, sporting an embroidered marigold on the crest of her curvy left hip. Her onyx black mane of hair had been coaxed in to a matching cap, also offset with the marigold motif. She made her way along the diving board with equestrian grace, before executing a perfect dive and surfacing to continue with a faultless breast stroke.

"Just look at her, Ben," sighed Hector as the two men lazed on poolside loungers, "Thank God she only swims like Johnny Weismuller!"

"Yes, she's quite a lady, your wife."

"And I know it! I am the luckiest man alive to have her by my side. She gave up everything to be with me, so I try to give her everything I have in return."

"What do you mean, Mr Hernandez?"

"Call me Hector, Ben. We have been together for nearly twenty five years, would you believe? I was a worker on a cattle farm when I met her – the farm was owned by one of your English lords – back then you English ran half the farms in Argentina. We were very profitable and I was working my way up as one of the managers. Vero's father owned one of the other ranches on the plains and was hoping that she would marry an Englishman's son. But I had seen her first and I had other plans!

"Fate smiled on me at this huge agricultural fair – she was with her father and lots of other well-to do people, all on horseback – when her horse suddenly bolted. I, too, was on horseback and I saw my chance. Now, I was born in to the saddle and had been herding cattle as soon as I could sit up straight, so those English boys could not match my riding skills – I jumped my horse over two fences and caught up with her – once I had got her horse under control, I could finally look in to those beautiful eyes and introduce myself.

"I tell you, Ben, there is such a thing as love at first sight – I know, because that's what we felt. That was the easy part – her father was furious that she would choose a gaucho like me over a well-bred gentleman's son, so he forbade us from meeting. Well, taming a horse is one thing, but taming a woman is another altogether – her father soon found out that Vero was not for breaking. We would ride our horses out to the Pampas so that we could meet in secret – this went on for months, until we could stand it no longer and she and I eloped."

"How did you get away with that?"

"Ah, well fortune truly does favour the brave, you know. This was the time of the Great War and the old English lord's son had gone off to fight in France. He did not return and the old man's heart broke in two. He lost interest in the farm and left the running of it to me – he had always treated me and my family well and showed me the ways of the English gentleman. By the war's end, he had gone back to his estate in England and left me in sole charge of the farm. A few years later, he died and left it all to me in his will, so Vero did get to marry a man of the landed gentry, but her father had already disowned her and she has not spoken with her family since then."

Ben had been listening with fascination, having long since consigned to his lap the rather dog-eared, second hand copy of Teach Yourself Spanish.

"That's an incredible story, Hector. You were so brave to stand up to Vero's father."

"Ah, yes, I won her for myself, but it came at a price – there shall be other times to talk of that, though. Look, here comes our Olympian!"

Vero approached, towelling herself after her daily work out.

"Ben, I spoke with the instructor and he will see you in half an hour – there is a class for beginners."

"I'm not really sure if I should," mumbled Ben.

"Don't be shy – you should have a go – it is free of charge."

"Well . . . I've got no swimming costume . . ."

"Ah, that is nothing," proffered Hector, "You can borrow mine – we are about the same size. Come, we will go and fetch it and you can change in your cabin."

Half an hour later, Ben emerged by the pool side, clad only in Hector's trunks and an old football shirt which he always wore when he was doing chores at home – it had seemed a good idea to bring it for when he would do the same chores in Argentina. Needing some encouragement, his eyes searched across the pool to Hector, who had returned to his lounger and looked up from his paperwork to give Ben a nod and a grin.

He took his place along the side of the pool with the other beginners: two old Spanish ladies who could have been politely described as full-figured, but to Ben's eyes, when they stood side by side, they embodied the 'two fat ladies' of bingo fame: number eighty eight.

The instructor was a handsome fellow, with the same size and build as Hector – perhaps even the same barber, it seemed. He peeled off his vest to reveal a torso normally reserved for Greek statues, taking a moment to enjoy the thrill he was giving to the eighty eights, who sighed and then quietly but ravenously feasted upon the view.

"Please, Señor, you must remove . . ." the instructor pointed to Ben's shirt.

With some hesitance and apprehension, Ben complied. The eighty eights made the most of a second opportunity for unabashed ogling and scanned the lily white English flesh before them: certainly, the physique was not quite up to the standards of antiquity (another legacy of rationing) but the slender frame was toned thanks to three years of hard work in the engine sheds. There was an exchange of opinions and then some lewd Spanish cackling, which prompted Hector to look up from his paperwork for a second time and offer a Spanish retort, fixing them with a shame inducing stare.

The eighty eights fell silent for a moment, but Hector carried on.

"My friend, they say you are . . . anaemic!" He laughed.

"Tell 'em that we're all this colour where I come from!"

Hector obliged and the eighty eights responded with another cackle.

"And now," grinned Hector, pointing first at Ben, then at the instructor, "They say that they like chicken just as much as they like beef!" One of the eighty eights flirtingly stroked Ben's arm and engaged him with a doe-eyed look.

"Well that's lovely . . . just as long as they don't expect me to lay 'em an egg!"

With that, Ben held his nose and plunged feet first in to the shallow end of the pool.

***

Dried, rested and now thoroughly exhausted by his swim and yet more study of the workings of North British Locomotive Company steam engines, Ben joined the Hernandezes at their table for dinner. In the corner of the dining hall a pianist issued forth with a steady stream of tangoes, interspersed with a healthy quota of George Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes more akin to Ben's ears. Fresh from finishing (and liking) his first ever avocado, Ben posed a question to Hector.

"So, apart from England, who else buys your beef?"

"Well, a lot of it goes to England – we signed a contract with your government just under a year ago – but there is still some more to go around and business is business, so we look for other markets."

"Such as where?"

"Oh, Hector," cut in Vero, "We sell to the Germans – they like our beef, too. That's why we are on this trip. We met with some people in Spain and they will ship our delivery on to Germany."

Ben looked aghast. "Good grief, you're feeding the Germans?"

"Listen," Hector's voice was calming yet authoritative, "We are not at war with anyone. Look around you . . . no-one is at war, here. Do you think we are selling beef to Herr Hitler himself? Of course not! The Germans are people, just like you and me, who all need to eat. They want our beef and we welcome their money."

"But . . . how can you . . ? It's keeping their army going . . . if they ran out of food, the war might end sooner . . ."

"The soldiers will not go hungry, Ben," said Vero, "It is the women at home and their children who will starve. Would you like to have that happen? What have those children done wrong that they must go without food?" She stopped and gave a sigh of self-restraint. "Forgive me . . . I shall go and lighten the mood – I will be back soon . . ." She made off in the direction on the pianist.

"I suppose she has a point," said Ben.

"My young friend, you must excuse her. She is a passionate lady and the mention of children suffering strikes a chord with her. You see . . . we have never had any children of our own . . . I feel such great shame that I have not been able to give her that. Vero says that it is a curse from her father – call it what you wish, but I would do anything to change that.

"You may have wondered what made the two of us come and take you under our wing – well, Vero saw that you were looking so lost and alone, so she decided to . . . 'adopt' you for a little while. We hope you don't mind!"

"I'm glad of the company and conversation. It would be a very long trip without you."

In the meantime, Vero had sashayed to the piano and with a few kind words (and the promise of a free drink at the bar) had dislodged the pianist. She immediately set about delivering a master class of the tango – her left hand darting from bass note to syncopated chord, whilst her right shimmered up and down the keys, starting with some staccato octaves, before settling down and issuing the melody which turned the heads of all in the room, who cheered and whistled their approval before joining in with the song – some couples sprang up from their tables and made their way to the dance floor. Ben was perplexed by the smooth, languid leg movements, the assertive eye contact and the sheer exoticism of this most un-English of activities.

"Ah, you are not familiar with 'La Cumparsita', my English chum?" Chuckled Hector, "This is the most famous of all tangos. It is something of an anthem across the whole of South America."

"The Compostina? I've never heard it before."

"The Cumparsita! It means 'the little travelling band'. It was made famous by Carlos Gardel."

"Carlos what? Who's he? Is he like George Formby?"

"George Formby? Who is he?" Hector laughed and continued to admire his gifted wife's dexterity, "Carlos Gardel is the greatest singer ever to come from Argentina – he was as great as Caruso."

"So how come I've never heard of him?"

"Because you English don't think that there is anything of interest beyond your precious Empire! Whilst you are busy listening to your George Formby fellow, we had Carlos."

"Had? Where is he now?"

"He died in a 'plane crash a few years back. Vero was practically in mourning for weeks. But, as they say, the music lives on. There is nothing quite like it for reviving the spirits. She will feel so much better after this and I am now assured of a pleasant night!"

Vero had, in the meantime, repeated the chorus a tone higher than before, then, egged on by the accompanying handclaps of the singing and dancing diners, increased the tempo, reaching the climax of the song with a glorious crescendo in which her arms stretched to the two extremities of the keyboard for the high pitched 'plink' and satisfying low bass thud of the emphatic final chord. She stood and took a well deserved bow to rapturous applause, whilst the pianist, his free drink now finished, retook his seat and resumed playing pieces less likely to dislodge the diners' still-undigested food.

The now familiar grin was back in place and Vero swept back to Hector's arms.

"I needed that, my dear!"

"I think we all did, darling. Now, shall we take in some sea air and let you wind down after your great performance?"

"Oh, you are a bold one, Mr Hernandez! You would think that we had only just met!"

"It still feels that way, Mrs Hernandez. Ben, would you care to join us?"

"I'm alright, thanks. I've got some more reading to do. I'll see you at breakfast."

"Sleep well, Ben," smiled Vero, as Hector led her to the promenade.

Ben watched them make their exit, which was every bit as elegant as their arrival on the boat. Even after years of marriage, they looked so in love and it felt wrong to join them now, despite the genuine invitation – three would have been a crowd, he felt. He liked the fact that after only a few days, he had made friends with the Hernandezes and was now so at ease in their company, especially when in conversation with a man such as Hector. Ben also felt great comfort and fortune that such warm and kind people had been placed in his path at that the very time that he had needed them.

Chapter Ten - New Horizons

If he had ever sailed to New York, then Ben would have been able to make a telling comparison between the skyline of Manhattan and the one of Buenos Aires, as both it and the ship slowly drew closer together. Multi-storied buildings of commerce and residence all forced their way upward from the flat earth – at this distance, the architectural influence of Paris, both Art Nouveau and Art Deco, was impossible to discern, but the young Englishman gazed across the vastness of the River Plate, quite recently the watery grave of the German battleship Graf Spee, and realised that he was approaching somewhere new.

Unlike Lisbon, he was to set foot in this new land and become a part of the fittings. For six months, at least, this would be his home.

"We will be arriving, soon, and leaving you for our home in Mercedes. You will, of course, come and visit us, won't you?" asked Vero, who, along with Hector, had joined Ben to take in the view of their homeland.

"If you'll have me, I would love to visit. I hope that I can find the time to come and see you."

"You must make the time, Ben, and of course we will have you as our guest! Now that you are so far away from home, you will find that you need to get some friends around you – your family is not here, so you have to make your own family in your new home. Don't tell me that you are just going to devote yourself to nothing but work while you are here? What sort of adventure is that?"

"Well . . . I am being paid to come and work here. Isn't the word 'adventure' just a fancy name for what I'm doing?"

"All of your life needs to be an adventure! Look at that city over there. It is full of people and places for you, just let them all come your way. By all means do your job, Ben, be proud of what you do, for you have great skills, but use it as a way to enjoy yourself. Work to live, don't live to work!"

"Point taken, Vero. That said, though, I'll need to get settled in to my lodgings and the job, first, though. I'm supposed to be lodging with some family called the Burfords."

"Of course, of course, but take this card – it has our address and telephone number. We love to have guests at our estancia," offered Hector.

"Your what?"

"Estancia. It is our farm house – what you might call a villa, perhaps. Have you ever ridden a horse?"

"Unless riding a donkey at the seaside counts, then no."

"Then you really must learn with us. I can teach you very well."

"And then," cut in Vero, "You can learn from a real expert – me!"

"Excuse me, Ben, whilst I humour my wife. You will most certainly become an expert. We have taught others, too."

"I am looking forward to it already. I shall find it hard to concentrate on my real work."

With that, the wind picked up and the sky darkened. Rain began to fall and it was time to retreat inside. Ben set about his packing and prepared himself to meet with the members of the English 'colony' who were to meet him at the quayside.

Constitucion,

Buenos Aires,

Argentina

November 29th, 1942

Dear Mum,

Here I am in Buenos Aires and it is so very hot. Would you believe that it is Summer here, in November? The world is now upside-down and everything is the other way around.

I was greeted at the harbour by the Burfords, who are an old couple with room to spare in their house because their children have grown up and gone abroad. The house is in the Constiucion area of the city, which is not all that pretty, but it's peaceful and there are no signs of Jerry bombers, but I am told that there are a few Jerry spies prowling around this city. Of course, I shall try to keep out of their way!

I have a nice, clean room at the Burford's and Mrs B. is a good cook (but not as good as you, Mum!) Mr B. works in accounts at the BA Great Southern Railway and is not far from retiring. He keeps talking about how it's all going downhill, here, and that the railways are going to be sold off to the government. He might be right, but for now, the job seems a good one after a week of working here.

The train station at Constitucion is very impressive – I catch the train from there every day to get to the works at a place called Remidios de Escalada. The funny thing is, the station and the works are British built and owned, just like the rest of the railways, here, and it feels so strange to walk around in this heat, surrounded by foreigners, but then a piece of England pops up in front of me. I fitted in at the works, straight away, because it is just like the works at Derby. The engines are just like the ones that I am used to, whilst Mr Carruthers gave me the plans for the ones that I had not seen before.

There are a lot of British staff here, so it is not difficult to make myself understood at work. Once I go home, though, I have to work on my Spanish, a bit.

That Argentine couple that I told you about in my earlier letter have become good friends. They have invited me to their farm out on the Pampas (that is the countryside, by the way) and I hope to go and visit them at the weekend.

Well, that is all the news that is fit to print for now. I shall just find the time to write to Mr Carruthers and to Tom, then get myself off to the post office.

Lots of love,

Ben

Chapter Eleven - Cafe Culture

It had been a short ride on the Subté, Buenos Aires' underground railway, to the centre of the vast city. Again, the stations and the trains themselves were pure British handiwork, reminding him of his rare trips to London, and Ben was still bewildered to find himself in such familiar surroundings but also the alien, knowing that if he needed to ask for directions, he would have to do so in Spanish.

But find his way he had and he now sat in a restaurant on a long street called Florida (wasn't that a place in America, though?).

With its beautiful, wooden wall and ceiling panels and gold plated chandeliers, this was a far cry from the fish and chip shop on Bath Street. The clientele were mostly elderly and engaging themselves in relaxed, considered conversation. They were well dressed and appeared to be in no hurry to be anywhere else. The meal and drinks seemed incidental to the main reason for being there, which was to socialise. Some dined alone, with reading their pursuit of choice.

Seven Greek-style columns supported the ceiling, whilst large, rectangular mirrors on the walls were punctuated by framed paintings of Buenos Aires' old colonial architecture.

As he people-watched, Ben noted the difference between the English approach to dining and those of the Portino locals. There was no need to bolt down one's food in order to get back to work or get down to the pub. Likewise, the drink was consumed with the intention of savouring, rather than sheer intoxication.

The staff waited to be called, rather than prowling, ready to pounce.

Behind the bar stood an elderly gentleman, bald, bespectacled, in a white shirt and sweater. He wandered over to a fellow senior, clearly a regular customer who was lost in a novel, to inform him that there was a telephone call for him at the bar. Clearly, the friends and acquaintances of this scholarly diner knew where to find him.

Today's lesson, then, thought Ben: learn to slow down. This Anglo-Saxon need to hurry up and get on with things is simply not good for one's digestive system.

Though unhurried, the waiters were proving to be efficient and the whole place was immaculately kept. There was no rush. Diners had plenty of matters on which to converse, whilst the food and drink would arrive in due course, to be consumed at no greater a pace.

A couple at the next table appeared to be father and daughter, talking with an easy to and fro, sometimes with silences which were anything but difficult.

There was no music playing, save for the sound of an obscured percussion ensemble of cutlery being washed and sorted from the kitchen. Otherwise, only the cash register provided any distraction. The soft lighting gave the place a feeling of perennial early evening, despite the fact that it was two in the afternoon and through the windows, a steady stream of people could be seen flowing along Florida.

From this stream emerged two figures, gliding through the door and smiling towards him.

Hector and Vero joined him at the table and wasted no time in making themselves comfortable and starting the conversation.

"So, you are happy with where you are staying? Is the food good?"

"Yes, Vero, the Burfords are just lovely, if a little on the old side!"

"And have they made you some Argentine food?"

"Well . . . there has been a lot of beef . . . ham and cheese sandwiches . . . and I thought that those empanada things were going to be exotic, but they look and taste like Cornish pasties! So really, it's like being at home!"

"But a land of plenty, yes? No rationing!"

"And you won't be able to do this in England right now," chimed Hector, who promptly ordered two bottles of Malbec.

The wine arrived and the waiter filled the large glasses almost to the brim. Words ebbed and flowed until Ben's hefty steak arrived, along with Hector's pasta and Vero's Waldorf salad.

"Ben, my boy," said Hector, "You really do not need to do that."

"Do what?" asked Ben through a mouth full of steak.

"You are shovelling your food down your throat like a hungry dog! There is no need to rush and there is no rationing, here! Take your time, savour the food. Now you are with us, you know where your next meal is coming from."

Ben heeded the advice.

"So you will be coming to Mercedes, this weekend?" Vero asked, "Get the train from Once Station and we will be there to collect you at Mercedes station. It will take you about two hours. We are so looking forward to teaching you to ride a horse."

"I really think that I should do that, my dear," suggested Hector.

"Oh really? Well, if Ben likes falling off horses a lot, then that would be ideal! Look, we have other things planned. I am so looking forward to it!"

"My wife loves to organise social gatherings. I hope you are not expecting an uneventful weekend, my friend," quipped Hector.

Vero finished her salad and lit a cigarette.

"Is that all you want, my darling? A salad will not get you through the day." said Hector.

"A salad, a glass of wine and a cigarette are all I need, right now. That is how the women of Paris keep their figures, as well as their admirers!"

"I can remember the days when you used to eat like a horse!"

"True, but if I still did eat like a horse, I would probably look like one, and you would not want that, would you, my darling?"

"A horse is certainly easier to control . . ."

"Darling, in twenty five years, you have never broken me! If I was not your wild mare, think how dull our lives would be!" Her eyes twinkled.

Hector grinned at his wife and turned to Ben.

"She is right – this lady was a live wire when I met her and things have not changed a great deal since. I tell you, the day I first saw her, she nearly caused a fight at the local hockey match. I warn you, she is deadly with that hockey stick!"

"And more things, besides!"

"So get yourself on the four o'clock train on Saturday afternoon. I will be at the station. But you can leave your hockey stick at home."

The trio finished their meal and with the weekend beckoning, bid each other farewell. After a week of largely English experiences in Argentina, the time was coming for an excursion of a more local nature.

Chapter Twelve - It Takes Four to Tango

Ben's train set off from Once Station for his first journey out of Buenos Aires' urban sprawl, heading for Mercedes, on the cusp of the Pampas, but it took a while to leave the metropolis behind: the huge engine works, the football ground, poor folk by the tracks who were looking for something, all caught his eye.

There were more engine sheds before the train pulled in to a new station. At first, Ben could not see the name of it, but then saw a sign that read 'Caballeros'. Ah, he thought, 'That's the Spanish word for 'Men'. How strange to have a station with that name.' He then realised that it was the sign for the gentleman's toilet and within an instant saw that the station was actually called Moron. Aware that he was now a caballero who had literally found his station, he allowed himself a little smile and the train rolled on.

Despite the language difference, this was still largely a very British railway experience. The engine, the coaches and their upholstery, the stations with their sensible stone and brick architecture, were all transplanted from familiar places. Looking around him, he could see details such as door handles and ashtrays, and the wood finishing on the window frames, that he had witnessed being put in place at the works in Derby.

What Ben had never seen before were the hawkers and traders who wandered up and down the coaches, plying their small goods from cardboard boxes and suitcases. One middle aged lady made her way along the corridor, opining the virtues of a brand of cigarettes. Following behind was a young girl of about nine years old, with a full box of said tobacco product. The older lady made plenty of eye contact and looked for a sale – there were plenty of takers. The girl dropped a packet on to Ben's lap. What was this, he thought? A free sample? Compliments of the company? He placed them to the empty seat beside him and looked out of the window – besides, he had never had the money to spare to take up smoking. Yet he need not have worried. After working the coach, the older lady returned to see if Ben and others who had been left a packet were keen on taking up the offer. All unwanted goods were duly collected and taken on to the next coach, where other eager smokers could continue their addiction for a bargain price.

Halfway there, he had to change trains at Moreno. As he waited on the open platform, he could see across the street to the Plaza Mayor, in which a small marching drum band was preparing for some forthcoming attraction. One drummer warmed up with particular zeal, with no hint of care for any peace that he might have been disturbing.

Vendor's stalls ran the length of the platform, offering chipaa, amongst other things, which, on purchase, proved to be a rather tough and flavourless pastry ring of the worst kind of stodge. Ben bought a coffee to wash it down, which was of infinite blackness and strength. Thank goodness that he had only bought a small one, he thought, as anything larger would have kept him awake for a week.

Three stray dogs lazed and dozed on the platform, making no effort to beg, attracting no attention. The stray dogs of Buenos Aires had already brought themselves to Ben's notice, earlier in the week, when he witnessed one crossing the busy road outside Constitucion, meat scraps in its mouth, coolly picking a way through the oncoming cars.

Aboard the train from Moreno, there was a sudden explosion of the rural. Buildings were now single storey and had more space around them, with the concrete giving way to greenery. Also, the people getting on to the train at the new stops appeared less European and more indigenous than the people of Spanish, French, Italian and English extraction who he had so far encountered in the city.

To his English eyes, the Pampas, with its flat farming landscape, could easily pass for Lincolnshire, until the illusion was shattered by the appearance of a Spanish villa or trackside cactus.

Joining him in the compartment were a mother and her boy – a sweet faced child of about eight years old. He had bright eyes and seemed to have no fear as he wandered out in to the corridor and raced up and down to work off his energies. He returned to the compartment and set his attention to Ben – such a foreign looking fellow was a novelty for him and he wandered up and asked a question in Spanish.

"I'm sorry, I can't speak Spanish," was all that Ben could say, but this was no deterrent to the boy, and Ben could almost understand the questions simply from the boy's tone, "Why are you speaking so strangely? Can't you speak Spanish?"

The unstoppable force of young inquisitiveness had met the immovable object of an Englishman with no grasp of any foreign language.

In the end, it was youth that gave way to ignorance and the boy shrugged and retreated to his mother, who smiled at Ben and spoke softly to her son about the importance of not bothering pale looking strangers.

Outside, the ramshackle, tiny dwellings of the poor abounded. Some were proudly kept, others were less so. A graveyard came in to view, surrounded by a high perimeter wall, above which rose the tightly packed, elaborate stone monuments of the clearly well-to-do departed, which created a miniature skyline, all determinedly reaching for the heavens. It seemed strange to him that out here, the dead warranted better accommodation than the living.

One more stop to go. An old man who had joined the train a couple of stops previously had been sipping away on a cup of maté – Ben was yet to try this fabled drink of the Argentinians, but had seen some of the locals at the engine works with their wooden cups and metal straws, slurping away at this strange drink. He was intrigued, especially when the man finished his drink, rose from his seat and emptied the leaves from his cup out of the window.

It was the last event of the journey, as the train had finally reached Mercedes. The spire of the cathedral rose high above the rest of the low-level buildings in this provincial farming town, whilst the station house was another piece of Victoriana – a plain building made of squares and rectangles, with large double doors in between its classical columns.

Ben alighted with around two dozen other passengers.

At first, he was walking toward the stairs of the underpass, to get across to the exit, but soon realized that he was on his own in this endeavour.

All the other passengers were simply stepping off from the platform and taking the short and simple path across the tracks.

Ben was stunned by this relaxed Latin disregard for protocol, which to his upright and proper British sensibilities was 'simply not the done thing' in extremis! He looked around for the stationmaster, who would surely restore order, only to find him standing in the middle of the tracks, assisting an elderly lady with her bags.

"Well, I am certainly not in Kansas any more," he said to himself, "Or Derby, for that matter!"

"No, señor, tu es en Mercedes!" came the familiar voice of Hector from behind him.

"Welcome to Las Pampas, my friend. I see that you are becoming acquainted with our customs."

"It's certainly not what I'm used to. They'd all get fined ten shillings if they did that in England."

"Yes, that is true, but they are not in England. They can all see that the track is clear. There is no sign of danger and no harm is being done. See, the old lady over there is across the track, now, and on her way home. She would have struggled with all of those stairs."

Logic had triumphed over regulation and the two men stepped from the platform and strode across the tracks. Ben felt a surge of self-consciousness for indulging in this most defiant of behaviour – for him, it felt like something of a taboo, but no one else batted an eyelid.

Outside the station sat another Citroen Traction Avant (imported especially by Hector at the behest of Vero to satisfy her love of Parisian chic), engine purring for the most part, but giving the occasional, impatient growl.

After putting Ben's case in the boot, Hector showed him in to the back of the car and then climbed in to the passenger seat.

"I believe that you have met our driver before?"

With her hands clasped on to the steering wheel and clad in driving gloves, Vero turned around, dropping her head and winking over the top of her sunglasses.

"Buenas tardes, señor!" she grinned, cheekily, her ivory teeth clenching a cigarette holder.

"Goodness me, a lady chauffeur!" remarked Ben.

"My dear boy," proffered Hector, "This is by far the best way to travel."

"And the fastest!" exclaimed Vero, who bashed the accelerator to the floor, launching the car forward with a near-demented fanfare on the horn. Pedestrians before them darted for safety like frightened mice.

Both men were pinned back in their seats.

"But . . ." concluded Hector, "Not necessarily the safest!"

Drumrolling over the cobbled road in front of the station, Vero tore through Mercedes as if she were approaching take off speed. Due to some occasional blinking, Ben missed the chance to look properly at the beautiful church, the cathedral and the elegant plaza mayor, amongst the town's tidy grid system of sleepy side roads.

"Don't you worry about the police?" asked Ben.

"Why should I? They've never caught me!"

Vero's great velocity was checked after reaching the outskirts of the town. Once the grid system of houses gave way to farmland, so ended the luxury of a sealed road and the race was over, as Vero had to negotiate a rougher track, criss-crossed with the deep scarring of tractor and lorry tyres and pock marked with an infection of cattle hoof prints.

The car arrived at its destination with the sun just preparing to set, so that the flat terrain was floodlit with a golden glow, framing the estancia and its surrounding high hedgerows. An archway over the entrance gates sported the lettering, Estancia Fuga. Ben asked its meaning.

"Fuga means 'escape'," offered Hector.

"Like a country retreat? An escape from the city?"

"Oh, darling, you are too diplomatic, again," interrupted Vero, as she parked the car and switched off the engine. The trio disembarked and faced each other over the roof of the car. She spoke to Hector, first.

"You know as well as I do that it has another meaning and that is why we chose it!"

"Yes, it can also mean 'elopement'." surrendered Hector.

"Which, to be honest," said Vero, turning to Ben, "Is what we did so that we could be together. And we are still together, still happily eloping. Come, Ben, let us show you our little hideaway."

The wide, single storey estancia's pale yellow plasterwork was still glowing in the dying sun, with weeping trees gracing its flanks. The white painted window frames were largely open to allow some ventilation, but the housekeeper was closing them in anticipation of the nightly festivities of the local insect population.

After climbing the few steps up to the front porch, they made their way through the main entrance at the house's left corner. Ben found himself stepping in to an entrance hall bedecked with pictures of life on the Pampas, of gauchos, lords, ladies and livestock, all set upon simple, white plastered walls. The housekeeper appeared again. She was a blonde lady in her late thirties, wearing a brown floral dress with a white pinafore.

"This is Sandra, our cook and housekeeper – she will take your things to your room. Make yourself comfortable," said Vero, "We will have some dinner, soon."

Ben sat upon the sofa, which was facing a huge fireplace. The polished wooden floor was graced with cow hides, which were also draped over the furniture. In the corner stood a frame, upon which was a saddle.

"You should have a sit upon that and get ready for your first horse ride, in the morning," urged Hector, "I'll have you riding like a gaucho in no time."

"And then I'll teach you how to do it properly!" chuckled Vero, still keen to keep the joke going.

"My dear, haven't you got something more important to do, such as mucking out the horses?"

"In these shoes?" Vero glanced down at her post-box red shoes, with open toes and raised heels, then looked aghast at her husband. "As a matter of fact, I do have something important to do: prepare myself for dinner. Don't forget that we have company. Why don't you check if your young understudy has any dance moves?" She gestured towards Ben, who looked horrified at the thought of having to dance.

"Don't worry, Ben. He dances better than he rides horses."
"That's because you dance like a horse!"

"Ciao!" Vero skipped out of the door and her high-heeled shoes beat a tango beat retreat up the stairs.

Hector raised his recently poured whiskey to the final fingers of orange sunset that were reaching through the wide front windows and enjoyed the orange and yellow hues within the glass. He passed a matching tumbler to Ben, then savoured the warm aromas of the liquid and finally took a welcome sip.

"So, Ben, you have danced before? Which steps do you know?"

"Well, there's the Lambeth Waltz . . . after that there's just the Hokey Cokey, I suppose. Not much, really."

"So you cannot tango?"

"Not a step."

"Well, Vero has challenged me to make a young gentleman of you and we shall start with the tango."

The two men worked their way through their whiskeys as Hector versed Ben on the basics of the tango, its history and significance to the Argentine people. Several Carlos Gardel songs took a turn on the gramophone that sat on a tall table to the right of the fireplace and Hector demonstrated how the first move was based upon a simple, five step pattern which simply repeated throughout the songs.

Ben copied Hector until he had mastered the moves, followed by seven and nine-step moves.

"And now, my young Fred Astaire, we have to do this together," instructed Hector, "I will be Ginger Rogers . . . for now, at least! Don't be shy, now!"

Ben hesitated at the notion of joining hands and partnering Señora Hector.

"Come, my introverted English friend, this is how my father taught me. He told me two old truths about the tango: firstly, that it is the vertical expression of horizontal desire."

"Yes, I've heard that one, before."

"Of course. So you will also be familiar with the phrase, 'It is not the kill, but the thrill of the chase'?"

"Yes, I'm familiar with that one, too."

"Good. So let me tell you now that there is no greater chase than the tango! Now, let us learn and one day, when you are fighting off the female admirers, you will thank me for this lesson!"

Hector replaced the gramophone needle at the start of the record and counted the pair of them in.

By the fourth playing of the record, the hesitations and stumbles were gone, as was Ben's other left foot.

"Look! The pupil is becoming a master!" Exclaimed Hector. "Now, let me take over. It is your turn to be Ginger."

"Actually, I always saw myself as more of a Marlene Dietrich."

"You are not tall enough. Now shut up and dance!"

The odd couple strutted and glided across the estancia's tiled floor, knocking the cowhide rugs and high-backed chairs as if they were skittles. Hector accompanied his masterful moves with a running commentary:

"One day, you should try this one," and "This move is Vero's favourite!"

Barely audible above the noise of the gramophone and Ben's thundering hooves was the sound of high-heeled shoes descending from a lengthy and indulgent hour of self-pampering and outfitting, but Hector picked up on the familiar tones and, with the music reaching its final phrase, decided to finish with a flourish.

"And now for the grande finale!"

Laughing, he grabbed Ben and flung him away, then pulled him back like a drunken rag doll.

Spinning him around and tipping him over on to his back Hector dropped down on one knee and caught his Marlene with consummate panache.

The final chord struck and the door opened. A figure entered and stood right in front of the hapless Hollywood pairing.

There was a long pause, accompanied only by the scratching sound of the gramophone needle, which was clicking its way repeatedly around the end of the record.

Still leaning back across Hector's knee and staring upwards at this figure in the doorway, Ben could see the upside-down face looking back at him in silent amusement.

But this was not Vero. Certainly, the hair was jet black and the skin was tanned, the lips were full and the eyes were dark, but these eyes were . . . oriental ones.

The stranger spoke.

"Well, considering that you have yet to say anything, that was quite an introduction." Despite the foreign accent (which Ben could not place, but then, he could hardly place any accent that was not from Britain) the neat, clipped vowels were strangely akin to those of a BBC Radio announcer.

"Oh, er, yes," stammered Ben as he clambered to his feet, and Hector set about winding up the gramophone and putting yet another Carlos Gardel disc on the turntable. "I'm Ben Hutchinson. And you are?"

"Setsu Kimura."

The two shook hands and the eyes of both new acquaintances finally met in the upright and locked in a gaze.

Fascination filled the both of them. Setsu had never seen eyes so blue, whilst Ben never any so shiningly dark. Throughout the gaze, the handshake had quite unconsciously transformed in to a deliberate holding of hands, with no great need or desire on either part to relinquish.

Thoughts fly faster than the blinking of an eye, and both young people experienced a flood of ideas and questions during that first instance of meeting. Setsu wondered about the young man and in an instant set about making an analysis of him: such a pale complexion, so thin and with his clothes hanging off him, especially on his shoulders – he looked like he could do with a decent meal and a better tailor. He spoke English, so was he American or British? Either way, he was almost certainly, therefore, a man whom she would have to officially regard as an enemy . . . a spy, perhaps? But that was only if she chose to see him that way. She was not at war with anyone, herself. Anyway, surely spies look more sinister? No, he looked too honest, that smile was genuine and rather appealing. She would have to speak with Vero at the first available opportunity.

Ben, on the other hand, was perplexed. He had only seen oriental people in geography books at school, or badly portrayed by heavily made up Americans in Fu Manchu films at the cinema. They looked so different in real life. Was she from China? But she spoke very good English, so perhaps she was from Singapore? If it was the latter, then that would make her pretty much British, anyway? Whatever nationality she was, she certainly was so very . . . beautiful. The lips were full and dark, which made her smile all the more pearly white. She was quite tall for a lady – he thought that all Orientals were short (that was the stereotype, wasn't it?) and she was a very elegant dresser in her blue floral one-piece. Perhaps Vero had helped her to choose it? Was Vero trying to fix him up with this lady? He would have to speak with her at the first available opportunity.

"That's saved me from having to introduce the pair of you to each other," said Vero, brushing past them both to berate Hector for his dance floor antics.

"So this is what happens when I leave you two boys alone? I suppose that you will be wanting to play with your toy soldiers now?"

"What a good idea, darling!" Laughed Hector, "But first, let us have some drinks."

He set his sights on a bottle of Malbec as Sandra entered with the first large platter for the meal and the quartet settled at the dining table, with the men facing the ladies. Hector led the conversation.

"Setsu has been a friend of ours for a while, now. She is working at the International School in the city. We met when she did some work for us."

"Yes," cut in Setsu, "They needed someone to translate for them at a business meeting, so that Hector could sell some more of his beef overseas."

"Would that be to China?" asked Ben.

"No," and here, Setsu looked a shade pensive, but pressed on with her answer, knowing that it would certainly provoke some sort of reaction from Ben, "It was for Japan."

"So you speak Japanese?"

"Yes. I am Japanese."

There was little that Ben could find to say. For the first time in such a long while, he had met a girl and been utterly smitten on the spot. Of course, this had happened on rare occasions in the past, notably once in the queue for tea at the works - but his excitement was usually given at least a day or two of fermentation before any hopes could be raised or dashed (usually, it had been the latter). Never before had he scaled so quickly the heights of romantic optimism, only to find that in an instant he would tumble from the summit in an avalanche of disappointment.

He sat, facing Setsu, with Hector to his left, and feigned interest in the sumptuous meal, which Sandra had laid out on the table. For the first time since leaving England, Ben found that he had lost his appetite – the morcisha, pulpa and seco would normally have been bolted down with the gusto of a golden retriever, but his mind reverberated to the simple, agonising refrain: she is stunning, I just want to talk to her, but she is the enemy.

The small talk and banter of the other three diners passed him by, but then he remembered Hector's words, "No-one is at war, here."

This thought was suddenly more than a consolation, it was a revelation.

Knowing that he was not only a guest in a foreign land, but also a guest in a neutral land, he realised that this was not a place to take sides and he could leave the war behind him for a while. As much as he cared for his mother and did not wish to see Britain surrender to Germany, he was facing the fact that he was currently removed from all that and was now a part of something else.

This really was a turn up for the books. He had been befriended by someone who was trading not just with the Germans, but also with Japan, and now here he was, having dinner with the enemy! If this got out, back home, he'd be shot as a traitor!

Yet, this man who traded with his enemies was no enemy himself, but had proved to be a friend, whilst this other enemy, sitting across from him at the dinner table, he was now beginning to realise, was perhaps the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. How, now, to proceed, he wondered?

"Well . . . are you sure it's safe for us to be having dinner together?"

"Don't worry, Ben, she is not a spy! Oh, and Setsu, we can tell you that Ben is not, either!" Vero assured the pair of them.

"After all, who is your enemy? Why is someone your enemy? Are you someone's enemy because the politicians and the newspapers say that you have to be so? Remember, there is no war, here," said Hector, "There are only people here, and we should all judge one another as just that. Setsu has been so very helpful to us and we have invited her here a few times."

Setsu continued, "Yes, this is my sixth time here and I have learned to ride a horse with Vero. I am spending the year in Buenos Aires, working as a teacher, after which, I will have to go back to Japan. My mother will need me to help her."

"Mine will need me, when I go back in six months' time," echoed Ben.

"What will you do when you go back to England?" asked Setsu.

"I suppose I will have to join up and do my bit for the war. If I can, I'll try and join the air force."

"Do you want to do that?"

"Well, I suppose that I have to do it."

"Why?"  
"Because . . . because I do. There is a war on and we all have to go."

"Really?" Setsu sat forward and moved her elbows on to the table. This was a very un-Japanese thing for her to do, but she had learned this aggressive form of debating from her father.

"Have you wondered why you have to go? Your Mister Churchill has told you that Hitler is a threat to you, whilst my Mister Tojo has told me that Britain is a threat to me. So does that mean that you and I have to kill each other?"

"Yes, but they are attacking us . . ."

"Only because they have been told to do it. They don't have to go along with it, do they?"

This young woman was proving to be very feisty and opinionated. She reminded Ben of his mother. She continued:

"Why should I have to try and kill you just because someone told me to do it? There is no war, here. I am not at war with you. They are getting lots of strangers to kill each other. If they want to fight so much, then why doesn't Churchill go and fight Hitler? That would save us all a lot of trouble and we can all stay at home.

"Besides," she continued, "What makes an enemy? If one man kills another he is either a hero or a villain, depending on which side he is fighting for. In Japan, the newspapers tell us that the English and the Americans are evil, but I am sure that your newspapers will tell you the same thing about the Japanese. Speaking for myself, I don't want to kill anyone and I really don't feel the need to rule the world!"

Ben knew that such talk could get him sent to jail in England, but here in a distant land, it sounded like common sense.

"Well, Ben," interjected Hector, "You are to be here in Argentina for the next six months, so you need not worry about the war for a while. Try some of the morcisha, it's delicious."

With that, the quartet ate, drank and were merry. Vero regaled everyone with her version of how she first met Hector ("I tell you, my horse did not bolt – I was trying to get away from Hector, but his horse was faster!") and Hector recalled his gaucho roots with stories of his days on the Pampas, herding the cattle.

"I was never happier as a young man," he said, "Than when I was sleeping under a clear night sky, with only the sound of the cattle. Of course, I now get the sound of Vero, which is not much different!"

"You'll be sleeping under the stars again, tonight, Señor Hernandez!" came the firm words of his wife.

"That sounds fine to me!" Hector laughed, then rapidly changed the subject, "Our guest has yet to try our famous Pampas drink, maté."

Sandra was called and asked to prepare four cups of this fabled drink and she duly returned with what looked to Ben to be four large egg cups with silver covers, from which protruded metal drinking straws.

He was instructed to put a huge spoonful of sugar in to the cup, for which he needed little encouragement. On opening the lid from the cup, he was confronted with what looked like a bowl of long grass, steaming in hot water. He said as much to his hosts.

"Oh, don't be silly, this is just like your English tea," offered Setsu, showing a playful side that encouraged Ben even more.

"But tea leaves are small and black, and they just sit at the bottom of the cup. This is like a compost bin and there's not even any milk in it!"

"Compost? Milk? You English are such barbarians! There are many kinds of tea. Have you never had green tea?"

"Green tea?"

"Yes, green tea. Without milk!" Setsu looked at Hector and Vero, "We really are going to have to educate him!"

Outnumbered, Ben dropped a hefty spoonful of sugar on this strange brew, closed the lid and took a determined suck on the straw. It reminded him of the tea at the Derby works that had been brewing all morning, but with a plenty of sugar and a subtle hint of cigarette ash, followed by a bitter aftertaste reminiscent of that first espresso on the boat. Although it should not have been, it was strangely appealing.

The watching trio awaited his verdict.

"Er . . . it's not bad."

"You will learn to love it, but remember to sip at maté and enjoy it like a fine whiskey," insisted Hector.

"Now, my young student, show the ladies all that I have taught you about the Tango!"

Vero struck up the band on the gramophone and sashayed her way towards Hector. The pair entwined and spun on the polished floor and Hector spun his lady about him like a fleet footed conjurer. Vero gave an ironic sigh of gleeful surrender as she was tipped backwards, but sounded much more genuine with her purr of approval as she was drawn upright again. The couple turned and paused at the end of the phrase and Vero winked over Hector's should at the young couple on the sofa.

"Come, you two – it is your time to dance!"

Before Ben could think of an excuse, Hector had swept Vero away and he stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. He was given no choice on his next move, as Setsu boldly offered her hand and waited to be led in dance.

This lass is a bold one, he thought.

"Follow me at the start of the next phrase, Ben!" called Hector, "Do your five step move. Ready? Uno, dos tres, quattro!"

There was nothing else for it – he made his first steps, doing exactly what he had been told to do. And it was easy. Easy because Setsu also knew the moves.

"He taught me, too!" she smiled at Ben.

She really likes me, he said to himself. This was almost becoming too much for the young man, who was currently being confused by the bombardment of hospitality and good fortune that was coming his way. There was nothing else to do but keep enjoying the moment.

And enjoy it he did, as did everyone. The tangos came thick and fast and spun to a gentle finish as Hector declared that a nightcap was in order. Even the ladies joined the men in a brandy before retiring and the ladies made their exits, first.

With his Spanish still so poor, Ben could not be sure what the two women were saying as they chattered their way along the corridor to the stairway, but the tone of it was excitable.

"That is quite a wonderful young lady, eh, my boy?" asked Hector with a knowing look.

"Yes . . . I've never met anyone from Japan. She's lovely."

"And she clearly likes you, too. Vero was right, you know."

"I knew it! She's fixing us up! Well, I'm not complaining. I tell you what, though, I'll get shot if anyone in England finds out about this."

"But they will not, my friend. Besides, this war will not last forever. Enjoy what is happening. The world is yours to make of as you please – not what some politician tells you it should be. Now, get some sleep. You are to go horse riding, tomorrow."

"Alright. Goodnight. Thank you for everything." Ben made for the corridor, but paused and looked back before leaving.

"I've just got one question about my room, Hector. There seem to be two toilets in the bathroom, but one is a bit smaller than the other. Is that just for children to use?"

Hector's laughter seemed cruel. "Oh, my poor English boy! Setsu was right, you really are a barbarian! I will explain in the morning. Now, go and get some sleep."

With that, both men retired. It had been quite an evening.

Chapter Thirteen - Horsing Around

Fresh air, peace, quiet and a belly full of food and wine made for a sound night's sleep. Ben awoke in his room to the only sound of urgency in the Pampas: bleating sheep, lowing cattle, squawking geese and the intermittent neighing of horses.

The Summer sun was back from its slumber, peeking through the gaps in the curtains, rousing Ben, who looked about his room. The bare, wooden floor would have been a sign of poverty back home, but looked rather rustic and classy in this setting. He looked beyond his large, iron-framed bed to the tall double door entrance, to the right of which were huge windows with wooden shutters.

Joints cracking, he stretched his way past the wardrobe and cabinet to the en-suite bathroom, inside which he gave another puzzled look to that strange, 'miniature' lavatory bowl. He was getting used to having showers, now – another bonus of the new world that left him feeling invigorated, each day – and made his previous usual morning routine of boiling the kettle for a bowl of hot water so that he might have a strip wash and shave seem rather mediaeval.

Scrubbed, booted and clad in a pair of slacks, a plain, blue shirt and a brown sweater, Ben made his way to join the others for breakfast.

Sandra had filled the table with fresh fruit, bread rolls, butter and coffee. This was going to be a good day.

On stepping outside, Hector appeared, and for the first time since they had met, he was not in his usual formal attire of suits or smart shirts. True to his roots, he was in his gaucho clothes: his boots were the corrugada style, where the long leg of the boot was pulled down towards the ankles, tucked in to which were his loose fitting cotton trousers that were held up by a ratras - a black leather belt that was marked with metal studs and coins. His plain, white shirt was offset with a neckerchief and draped atop his head was the essential black beret. From his pocket, he produced a similar blue beret and crowned Ben with it.

"Now you look more like a gaucho, let us make you ride like one!"

As they walked out across the estancia's grounds, past the large coop for the chickens and amid wandering geese, Hector prepared Ben for his first horse ride.

"There is your steed, my good fellow."

He pointed to a russet coloured horse who was standing, motionless, as Sergio, the groundsman, brushed him down.

"His name is 'Corcho', which means 'cork', because he can go off like a cork from a bottle! But don't worry, you're in good hands."

"Don't you mean 'good hooves'?" asked Ben.

Mounting Corcho proved to be the easy part, as the horse remained stationary.

"You have to show him who is the boss, Ben!" called Hector, "Get your heels in to him and shake the reigns!"

Ben obliged and suddenly Corcho began to move forwards. On he went, striding grumpily, for about fifty yards, before performing a sudden u-turn and bringing his new rider back to his starting place.

Ben looked hopelessly at Hector, who by now was mounted on his own, powerful looking grey steed. Hector responded by demonstrating the use of the reigns in steering the horse and the need for constant reminders that the rider is in charge.

"Now, take Corcho for a run around the field and do not give him any chance to challenge you! Be in charge, take the lead – handling a horse is just like handling a woman!"

"And which woman might that be?" called Vero, riding up to her caught-in-the-act husband on a white and brown mottled mare.

"That would be any woman who dares to criticize my skill with the tango!"

"Fair enough, my dear, but don't think about using your whip on me!" With that, Vero took her elegant mount for a lap of the field.

Ben, meanwhile, was overcoming his initial awkwardness and enjoying increasing success in turning and getting Corcho to up his ante. After a couple of laps of the field, he was controlling the horse with ease and confidence, having learned to relax and not to go against the metronomic jolts that were being sent up through his torso, threatening to shake loose his pectoral muscles.

The price of this new found skill was swiftly becoming apparent, as he learned the true meaning of 'saddle soreness'. On completing a third lap of the field he returned to the stable and the applauding Hector.

Dismounting in a manner that should have been accompanied by loud creaking noises, Ben patted Corcho and turned to his mentor.

"Ow! Bloody hell, now I know why John Wayne walks the way he does . . . but I don't know why he doesn't speak like Shirley Temple!" He strained and ached his way around Corcho, trying to get his joints working again and somehow walk off all of his new pains.

"You will have to build up your strength quickly, Ben, because the rest of our riding party is here," advised Hector, turning his gaze to the approaching pair of horses and feminine riders.

On seeing Setsu, mounted comfortably on a chocolate coloured horse, Ben found himself with a reason to straighten up and forget his ills. He smiled and did his best to look ready for another spell on horseback.

The ladies were dressed in similar attire: both sported long riding boots, earth-coloured trousers and check-patterned cotton shirts. Vero wore a deep green coloured waistcoat and set the whole ensemble off with a narrow-brimmed pampeano hat, whilst Setsu wore a sleeveless sweater and a broader brimmed, flat-topped campero hat.

The foursome set off along the country lanes and from his raised vantage point on Corcho's back, Ben realised that he could see the vast, flat plains of the Pampas stretching off to all points of the compass. Riding alongside Hector, he shrugged off the growing pains of horsemanship and resolved to enjoy yet another new experience, whilst also wondering when he could get to ride alongside Setsu.

"You see, my friend, Corcho is now doing your bidding," he raised his voice to ensure that his wife was within earshot, "Like I said, you have to show them who is the boss – just like with a woman!" He immediately set off at a gallop, knowing that, perhaps, the doghouse awaited him.

Vero took the bait and tore past Ben and Corcho, in hot pursuit of her teasing spouse.

Setsu drove her horse forward to take full advantage of the opportunity given to her by Vero. There was a period of speechlessness on both parts, filled with fleeting moments of eye contact and half-smiles, which seemed to last an uncomfortably long time, but it was broken by Setsu.

"I thought that this was a cattle farm," she pondered out loud, in Ben's general direction, "So where are all of the cows?"

"Well, it is Sunday, after all, so perhaps they've got the day off?" offered Ben, "They've had a hard week of eating grass and going 'moo', so Hector must have arranged for them to go to the city and have a wander around Retiro, or something."

"That's a possibility," mused Setsu, who paused at what she had heard and then called out, "Mooooo! Is that what cows in England say?"

"It's about the only word they know in England. They seem to say it here, too. Why? How do you say 'moo' in Japanese?"

"Maaaa!" laughed Setsu.

"Ha, ha! That's brilliant! What about sheep, do they go 'baa'?"

"Hmmm. That's a tricky one . . . I think you'll find that they say 'meh'!"

"I see. That would certainly require an interpreter. And chickens, do they go 'cluck'?"

"No! Of course, not! They say 'a ho'!" Both of them laughed.

"Ah, learning a foreign language can be so very difficult. Especially if you're a chicken. That said, how did you learn to speak such good English?"

"My father was a university professor who taught English. He taught me from when I was about six years old. I liked it because he always made the time to spend with me and teach me – he taught me how to write in English with a fountain pen – it was an old American one called a Conklin.

"My brother was not so academic, so he spent more time playing with his friends than I did, but I am now so glad that I had that time with my father, because I now have so many good memories of him."

"Has he passed away?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. My dad is gone, too. He died in a mining accident."

"A what?"

"He was a coal miner. The roof of the mine collapsed and he was killed. His mates stayed under ground for two days, trying to dig him out. Even when they realised that he was gone, they stayed and got his body back to the surface . . . I miss him, too. He was a strong and honest man – not very outspoken, but then, he didn't need to be with my mother around."

"What sort of things did you do with your father?"

"He loved his football. He taught me how to play and I ended up good enough to be in the school team. We used to go and watch Derby play and it was great fun. They had a good team right up until the war began. He was a keen reader, too, which he passed on to me. Not many people in our town liked books, but he encouraged me to learn."

"You are like me, in that you have good memories of your father and you had him taken away from you. If I had to lose him, then I almost wish that it been an accident, but it wasn't . . . He was taken away by the secret police. They did not like what he was writing in his leaflets, or the people that were his friends. My father was a strong willed man and he was not afraid to speak his mind."

Ben felt the need to say some words of support.

"I think I can see some of that in you, Setsu!"

"Well, at least I can say what I want, here in Argentina. In Japan, if you do not approve of the people in charge, then you are in danger. The secret police came and took him away and we never saw him again. The police said that he had a heart attack whilst in his cell, but I don't believe it. They did not give us any more information and we were not even allowed to see his body. I hate those people."

There was a difficult moment of silence. Ben knew that he could say nothing to ease her feelings, but had to say something.

"I am so sorry to hear that. Please tell me about your mother."

"She is in Japan, all on her own. She is a gentle, quiet lady, very kind, always trying to do the right thing, what is best. Sometimes she just concentrates on helping others so that she does not have to think about her own troubles."

"That sounds like my mum, but I don't think I would describe her as quiet. If she is not happy about something, she will let everyone know about it.

"Sometimes, when I read her letters, even though it's just words on a piece of paper, I can feel her nagging me!"

"She nags you from the other side of the world? What does she nag you about?"

"Oh, the usual sort of things, you know, like am I eating properly and is my underwear clean. I should imagine that your mother is the same with you?"

"No!" she laughed, "My mother knows that I can feed myself and I can certainly keep my own underwear clean, thank you! Did you see where Vero and Hector went?"

The pair rode on at a canter, in search of their hosts.

***

About a half a mile ahead, Hector and Vero had dismounted under a cluster of trees and were preparing a picnic.

"Do you think that we lost them?" asked Hector.

"No, Setsu knows this spot, they will be here in a few minutes."

"Well, are you sure that you know what you are doing, my sweet little match maker?" mused Hector as he unwrapped a block of cheese from a lily white handkerchief, "You are still convinced that they are a good pairing?"

"Oh, yes! You saw their faces when they first met – they looked hypnotized! I knew as soon as I met that young English fellow that I should introduce him to Setsu."

"And you are happy to leave them alone, together, so soon?"

"What are you saying? Just look at them – she is too proper a young lady to let him try anything, and besides, he is far too shy."

"Ah," cut in Hector, "He may be shy, but he is still a young man and there is only one thing that goes through a young man's mind! It used to go through mine all the time when I was his age!"

"So you think that he won't be able to control himself and will jump on Setsu at the first available opportunity? Give the boy some credit, Hector. I am sure he would do no such thing. Well . . . not yet, at least."

"Aha! So perhaps you should have stayed as their chaperone? You should not have left them alone so soon! And what if he does try it on with her? I say well done to the boy. He is a young man, Vero, with a young man's energy and desires. You can't blame a young man for following his natural urges?"

"No," Vero conceded, "But I can stop him for a while, until the time is right."

"Oh. Why so righteous all of a sudden? I don't remember you putting up much of a fight with me in our early days."

"That was different! I was rebelling against my father. I put up a bitter fight against the men that he chose for me."

"I am so very, very glad to hear that, my darling."

"So you should be!" she teasingly slapped his shoulder with her riding gloves.

"Hector, you are my only one. My chosen one. We are together through sheer fate, but that fate has decided not to bless us with children of our own. In Setsu and Ben, I just have this feeling in my heart that fate is working around us again and has sent them to us so that they can be together – it sounds ridiculous, but there is something about them.

"I saw fate in action right before my eyes, last night, and I want to protect them from any harm that rushing their relationship might would cause. You have told Ben not to rush things – the way he hurries around and bolts his food down, so don't let him rush this, Hector."

With perfect timing, as the high morning sun reaching its zenith and the long shadows of morning shrank under the surrounding trees, the two young subjects of debate arrived, riding alongside each other and still engaged in eager, inquisitive conversation.

The sight of the approaching couple riding side by side evoked the strongest of memories for Vero. She thought back to her teenage years and the circumstances that led to her first meeting with Hector.

She had been so much like her mother in both looks and attitude – beautiful, wilful and rebellious, yet eager to make something of herself in this man's world. Yes, her mother, Constanza, had certainly done well to catch the eye of a man like Juan Estrada, a successful farmer and notable land owner in the district. They first met in the tailor's shop where Constanza worked as a seamstress. The young Juan needed to be measured for a suit, in readiness for an important business meeting and he was impressed with the way in which she bossed him around in order to get his measurements – normally, no-one spoke to him like that, but he liked the feistiness of this woman. Not surprisingly, he asked her to accompany him to the meeting as his secretary and things moved rapidly from there.

Quite how Señor Estrada had expanded his land ownership was never fully made clear. Despite no questions being asked about such matters, it was his ambition in life to emulate the elegant immigrant aristocracy of the British colony, who had come to Argentina with their Angus beef cattle, Clydesdale sheep, railways and odd team sports of football and rugby, in search of business, profit and the good life – all of which they seemed to have found. Suffice to say, nothing was going to stand in the way of this local boy getting himself a slice of the British pie and Señor Estrada was not a fellow with whom one should trifle – a tall and imposing figure who was often quick to find means of retribution when his ambitions were thwarted – and whilst Constanza's family were thrilled with the financial security that their daughter's marriage would bring, they harboured fears that their rather forthright girl would not sit well within the shackles of matrimony with a man such as Estrada.

As it turned out, their worries were unfounded, as the couple complimented each other remarkably well. Estrada was spellbound by his beautiful Constanza, who stepped up to the role of society wife and proved a great organiser and hostess of social functions, oiling the wheels of his business and enchanting potential customers and investors.

The headstrong and ultra-competitive landowner had found his match. For a man who had to be first in everything, from beating rivals in to submission (be that psychologically or physically) in order to secure a contract, or winning a game of cards in the local bar, Estrada had no qualms in meeting his wife on equal terms. She had the wit, guile and sheer tenacity to stand up to him, not to mention the deepest of brown eyes and the seductive wiles of a first rate temptress.

So, when their first child was born, it was no surprise that little Veronica was the very image of her mother, and as she grew, her personality was only ever going to be inherited from Constanza.

But Constanza's influence was cut short. Vero's birth had been a difficult one and as a result, no other children followed. Never one to take advice and become a delicate, wilting society lady, Constanza ignored the doctor's words and continued to live her life to the full. She regularly rode her horse around the estate, played ladies' hockey for the local team and smoked her favourite cigarettes when she wanted and as much as she wanted.

Shortly after Vero's ninth birthday, she lost her mother to cancer.

Estrada swallowed his grief and directed his energies in to his work, and in making sure that his daughter would fulfil his ambitions for her. He hoped to see young Vero grow up to be the embodiment of the English aristocratic ladies that he so deeply admired. It was his wish for her to marry the son of an English gentleman from one of the other surrounding estates and mark the dawn of a farming and land-owning dynasty, over which he could proudly preside in his autumn years. But this would not be an easy task with a daughter such as Vero. Every governess tended their resignations within a few months of their employment, stating that this obstinate child was un-teachable. Vero did, though, learn how to ride a horse, but to his dismay, she declared that, "Those side-saddles are for timid old virgins," (something that her mother told her in one of her many moments of hard-nosed philosophy). She practised piano in order to become a 'proper' young lady, but quickly eschewed Bach, Schumann and the oh-so-English Sullivan in favour of Joplin and that dreadfully common music of the poor in Buenos Aires: the tango.

Juan found himself at his wit's end with his offspring, but every time he confronted her, ready to release his anger and disappointment, he would see in her face his beloved wife and he would forgive her. Of course, it was surely just a phase, Juan told himself. Vero would grow out of this and settle down, balancing her headstrong ways with a sense of purpose, just as her mother had done. All that remained was for her to be paired off with a young suitor whose father just happened to be a filthy-rich, land-owning English farmer. There were a few young fellows who fitted the bill and they were introduced at dinner parties, only to be rejected, one by one. There was no way that love could be forced upon one so free-willed as Vero.

Juan's dreams finally evaporated on that fateful day when Vero's horse bolted at the agricultural fair. At first, he was impressed by the skill of the young horseman who gave chase to the galloping gelding that was threatening his daughter's life. Easing around and over every obstacle as if his horse were gliding on air itself, he caught up with the tempestuous horse, pulled up alongside, and seemed to calm the creature with little more than a touch of the hand and a kind word.

They rode back side-by-side, gazing at each other, with Hector holding the reins of both steeds in his hand. The smiling young man returned Vero to her father and introduced himself. Not surprisingly, his daughter's eyes were fixed on nothing other than this handsome rider's face.

At first, Juan congratulated him on his expert riding skills and calmness – Hector responded with great eloquence and there was nothing in his speech or dress to suggest that he was anything less than a young gentleman. However, on explaining that he was nothing more than a gaucho from another farm, Juan was quick to make sure that Hector was sent on his way, with grateful but reserved thanks. This was not the sort of prospect for my daughter, he thought.

How wrong she had proved him to be, she thought to herself, seeing so much of herself and Hector in the image of Setsu and Ben.

The foursome gathered in the shade of a large tree and set about their picnic of empanadas, sausage, cheese, bread and wine.

"Tomorrow," said Hector, "We will drive you back to the city and show you a few sites. We have an apartment there and I need to meet with some associates on Monday, so it is convenient for us all."

"And whilst you are in your meeting, earning us more money, I shall be out spending it all!" announced Vero with particular zeal.

***

They arrived back at the estancia in the middle of the afternoon. Everyone retired for an hour's rest, before reconvening in preparation for dinner. Ben made the most of this respite, for his joints ached tremendously, even though he had found the going much easier once he and Setsu had begun to talk openly. That had made him relax and for a while he had forgotten his discomfort whilst on horseback.

Now, though, he lay on his bed, feeling his muscles loosen off and enjoying the state of torpor in which he found himself. Yet, despite this physical exhaustion, his mind was alert and racing with thoughts of this astounding young woman who had suddenly entered his life. Was it the sheer novelty of her exoticism that attracted him so? Well, of course that was a part of it, but there was more. Much more. He could have conversations with her and not have to force the issue. They shared common experiences, even though they were from different cultures and she was so very intelligent – was she out of his league? Such a thing was hard to tell, as he had not had much time (and certainly little opportunity) to meet girls back home. Almost always, he had been too busy with his studies and almost certainly, he had been too shy.

What to do next? How to go about finding another situation where he could talk to her? She was in her room, but to go there now would not be right. He would be imposing. He would have to wait.

A tap on the door interrupted his deliberating. He stirred and willed the stranger to be Setsu. The door creaked open.

"Can I come in, Ben?"

It was Hector.

"I have been meaning to have a little talk with you since you have met Setsu. You two seem to be getting along very well."

"Yes, she is lovely company. But then, Vero did have all of this in mind when you invited me here, didn't she?"

"Of course! She likes to play matchmaker and I think she sees you two as possibly her greatest work. Please don't be offended by her doings – she means well."

Ben found himself in something of a quandary. Was he just a toy in a game, with Vero pulling his puppet strings, or was this simply the most wonderful circumstance falling in to his lap?

"What does Vero think she is doing?"

Hector took a breath and motioned to the door.

"Let's go for a stroll, outside, and I will do my best to explain," he offered.

The two men made their way out of the estancia and took a walk towards the paddocks. There were three large fields behind the estancia's grounds and a wall of tall evergreens hemmed in the whole area.

"You know," said Hector, "That Vero and I have had no children."

"Yes, you told me on the boat."

"Of course, we tried. Vero had three miscarriages. There was nothing we could do – no doctor could help us. Whether or not it was a curse from her father – who knows? What I do know is that Vero feels a need to create her own family. I know that she comes over all brash and overbearing . . ."

"Really?" laughed Ben, "I hadn't noticed!"

"But you have not seen the tears she has cried to me about not having a family. She sees something special in you two and so far, I think that her intuition has served her well. More to the point, I think that there is a chance for you to improve on today's good start with Setsu. If you think you would like that?"

"I would, very much. What do you think I should do?"

"Well, you could go over to the stables, there and talk to her again."

Ben followed Hector's gaze and saw Setsu outside the stable, brushing down the chocolate mare on which she had ridden so competently, that day. He needed no more encouragement, so with a knowing nod, he set off for his quarry.

As he approached Setsu, who was turned away from him whilst she studiously brushed her horse's back, he was at first struck by her slender figure. The sweater that she wore was tight fitting and accentuated her hips, so that the broad, sweeping action of brushing became something of a swaying, inviting dance. He urgently began to rack his mind for an opening line. Something witty, intelligent and engaging that would show this educated, multi-lingual lady that he could be an intellectual sparring partner.

"Th . . . that's a nice looking hindquarters," he blurted.

Setsu turned around, giving him an incredulous look. He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"On . . . on the horse, I mean," he stammered, "It's a great looking animal . . . very muscular . . . very . . . horsey."

"Horsey?"

Shut up. Shut up, he told himself. He might as well just book that ticket home, now. So much for verbal sparring. He had gone in with his gloves down and now found himself on the ropes. Surely there was no saving this situation?

"Horsey, you say? Well, she has four legs, a mane of hair, eats hay and runs quickly. I think that your choice of word is a very accurate one. In fact, I would go as far as to say that this one has that little extra 'horsiness'!"

Was this a deserved helping of sarcasm, or was it a let off? He could not be sure, but had a feeling that the next exchange would be quite vital if he was to rescue himself.

"So . . . you ride the horse well. When did you learn?" That was better – a move to safer ground, he told himself.

"When I first came out here, about three months ago. Vero taught me. She's a very good teacher."

Setsu was enjoying this. She could feel Ben's eagerness to talk to her, just to be with her, and she felt a spark of excitement that she knew was mutual. There was more to this, for her, than curiosity and novelty value. There was simply a 'vibration' between them that she could sense and she was happy to encourage his attention – something she had never really felt the need for in the past, but then, she had been so studious in Japan and had struggled to find any interest in the boys back home, most of whom seemed to conform to her brother's views of the world.

Happy to continue, she told him of her first horse riding experiences and how she took to it so easily, that she felt a rapport with her horse and wished that she had learned to do it earlier.

As she talked, Ben was hanging on to her every word. He was simply thrilled to be in her presence, alone in a field with her all to himself. He drank in every syllable and registered it, showing far more attention than he ever did in his studies, even though his eyes were torn between her beautiful face and the rather daring way in which she wore her shirt – obviously influenced by Vero, the neck of the shirt was open down to where it protruded from the vee of the sweater. The cavalier neckerchief topped it off, forming a triangle of bare flesh on view for Ben that sent his blood pressure racing.

Setsu, herself, was never previously one to be flirtatious, but was feeling a new sense of liberty in Argentina and, with Vero as a mentor, she was enjoying the fresh, uninhibited air of personal freedom that was not allowed to her, back home. She saw his eyes moving over her and felt a buzz of delicious guilt.

"Do you know how to brush a horse down? Let me show you."

Setsu took the brush and smoothed it over her mare's flanks, creating arced contours in the fine hair.

"Now, you try," she said, handing him the brush.

As he swept his hand along the horse's body, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

"No, do it like this," she said, correcting his strokes, whilst still keeping hold of his hand.

At this unexpected touch, his heart began to pound and drive his libidinous subconscious to dream of better things to come. He turned to look her in the eyes and found her waiting for his gaze, as their heads gently leaned towards one another in anticipation of a first kiss.

"Ah! There you are! I have been looking for the pair of you all over the place!" called Vero as she approached them from half way across the paddock with what appeared to be more urgency than normal.

"Setsu, you have done a great job on the horses. It is time for dinner, so come in, you two. Sandra has prepared the table!"

Thwarted, the young couple joined Vero, who positioned herself between the two of them.

"So, Ben, what do you think of your first day at an estancia? Do you feel at home on the Pampas? You must feel like a gaucho, now?" There was a high-pitched ring in Vero's voice that was akin to a favourite aunt talking to an infant.

"Yes . . . it's been nice . . . I liked riding the horse . . ." came the reply through lips that were now thin instead of puckered.

"And Setsu, you did a beautiful job on the horses, you have learned a lot from being here." Vero sounded like a schoolmistress.

"Luis has shown me a great deal about looking after the horses," uttered Setsu, sounding like a little girl who had been given an unwanted gift. She stared at the ground, feeling defeated by Vero's superior mother figure.

With heads bowed and little appetite for what would, no doubt, be another of Sandra's sumptuous feasts, the frustrated pair trudged back to the estancia, finding it hard to understand the spring in Vero's step.

***

Dinner had passed quietly, allowing Setsu and Ben's passions to slow themselves for a while. Hector took the lead in the conversation.

"Yes, you should have seen her father's face when he realised that I was only a gaucho! When I brought his daughter back, safe and sound, for just a few moments, I was a good prospect in his eyes. He liked the way I spoke and I was in my best riding clothes, that day.

"Then he asked me about my occupation and when I said that I was working on the Chalmerston estate, it all went down hill, because he could tell that I was no son of old Lord Chalmerston. 'You are just a gaucho?' he asked, then he said through gritted teeth, 'Well, I thank you for assisting my daughter, I bid you good day. Be on your way."

Hector puffed on his cigar and looked at Vero, who took up the story.

"It happens a lot, does it not? When a father tells his daughter to stay away from a boy, there is only one outcome. It made me want him all the more. So we started writing letters and arranging to see one another. I tell you, compared to us, Romeo and Juliet were a couple of amateurs!

"I put him off the scent by settling in to my studies, so that when I started going for a weekly horse ride, he was not so suspicious. At first, he thought that it was a good thing for me to relax and take a break from my books. But, of course, it could not last. I was still keeping all of his favoured suitors at arm's length and he began to suspect something. He found one of Hector's letters and fell in to a rage. To keep us apart, he was going to send me to a finishing school in Switzerland!

"But I managed to get one more letter out to Hector and our escape was planned. It was just like in an old movie – at midnight, under a full moon, Hector came for me with two horses. I climbed out of the window in my riding gear, carrying a small bag of belongings and we rode off together! I never went back, again."

Setsu was intrigued.

"But where did you go?"

"Old Lord Chalmerston was very fond of me," said Hector, "And he was no great admirer of Señor Estrada, but he knew that Estrada would come looking for us, so he told me that it was best for us to go away together, until things had died down.

"At first, I thought that he would send us to another farming estate, maybe down towards Patagonia, or even across the River Plate to Uruguay, but he had family a little further afield."

"Where?" asked Ben.

"In New Zealand!" laughed Hector, "We were there for a whole year. A very eventful year, too."

"But that," interrupted Vero, "Is another story. Come, Setsu, it is nearly time for us to take you two back to the city, so let me help you pack your things."

With that, she practically whisked Setsu from the room, leaving the two men to finish their drinks.

***

With Hector at the wheel, the drive to the centre of Buenos Aires had been without palpitation, especially as Vero had insisted on keeping Setsu with her in the back of the car, much to Ben's annoyance.

"Shall we see the two of you again, next weekend?" asked Hector, "You know that you are welcome."

"I would love to," said Ben, seeing an opportunity, "Setsu, why don't you and I catch the train together from Once station?"

"I have a better idea!" cut in Vero, "Hector, why don't you and I join them in the city? We have our apartment, there, and we can show these two around the sights. How does that sound?"

"It sounds as if you have already made up your mind, my dear!" said Hector.

"So, we are all agreed, then? Oh, Hector, dear, it would be best if we took Ben home, first. Constitucion is not far from here. Then we can take Setsu home."

"Are you sure, Vero?" asked Setsu, "I think you can get to my apartment from here before we get to Constitucion?"

"Oh, maybe, but I think that Ben needs to get home, first. He has got to get up for an early start tomorrow." She patted Setsu's hand with headstrong reassurance.

The car rolled on through the fading Sunday evening light, until it reached Ben's lodgings. He shook hands with Hector and turned to farewell the ladies in the back. Vero moved first and planted a kiss on his cheek, then, by discreet use of a gently restraining hand, made sure that Setsu could offer nothing more than a hand shake.

As Ben stood on the pavement, smiling and waving, he was not surprised to see Hector turn the car around and head back in the direction from which they had just come. So, he thought, it really would have been quicker to take Setsu home first, but Vero was obviously not going to let him see where she lives. Not yet, anyway. Knowing that such an obstacle could easily be overcome, he smiled and went indoors.

"You see, Setsu," beamed Vero, "I told you that you would like him."

"Alright," conceded Setsu, who always felt so unabashed in Vero's company, "Yes, but why did you not tell me that he is English? I am supposed to be at war with him!"

"Ah, that is nothing. All wars end, eventually. Life is too short not to enjoy ones-self. So you are happy to see him again, next week?"

"Of course. Where shall we go?"

"How about the race course and the zoo? Hector loves a gamble on the horses."

Hector slowed the car to the side of the narrow, Parisian-looking street as they approached the apartment block. Setsu hugged and kissed them both and made her way up the stairs to her small room.

"You really are working on those two, aren't you, Vero?" said Hector as he turned the car for home, "But don't be so heavy handed with them. It is best not to try and control things so much."

"But you agree with me that they are a great match for each other? They need to be given direction and I intend to be the perfect chaperone. I know what I am doing – I am making sure that things develop at the right pace. It takes time to grow the perfect rose."

"I agree, darling, but just be careful with the way that you spread your manure! Do you really think that taking Ben home first will stop him from finding out where Setsu lives?"

"He is new in the city. He does not know his way around. I don't want him going to her apartment, just yet."

"That's as may be, but he is a smart young fellow and you are forgetting one thing. He knows where she works. And if he wants to, it won't take him long to find it."

The car rolled along in silence for a moment. It was not often that Vero was lost for words.

Chapter Fourteen - A Man of Letters

The grid system of the Buenos Aires streets was causing Ben some confusion. Back home, the urban streets meandered on a path almost of their own choosing, following the route of rivers and streams, crossing paths with one another at will, or simply ending abruptly for little or no reason. Two thousand years of building and demolition had produced a Gordian knot of lanes, roads, streets and avenues, yet despite this, it was their unpredictable nature that made them unique, memorable and navigable.

The same could not be said of this city in the new world, with much fewer decades under its belt, the modern planners had made all roads look the same to this newcomer, and without a distinctive bend here or crumbling piece of Georgian architecture there, he found himself in the ridiculous situation of going around in circles within a maze of perfect squares.

There were, though, reasons for being lost at this moment. In the intervening days since the weekend, Ben had been constantly distracted at work, unable to focus on the tasks in hand, never mind being unable to sleep at night. To his workmates, he had passed off his condition as a case of the local food disagreeing with his stubborn English innards, but the truth was more private than that.

Lost and in need of salvation, there was nothing else for it but to take a deep breath and attempt to speak in broken Spanish to a local.

Ben moved apprehensively toward a cafe, outside which sat a well-dressed elderly gentleman, peacefully buried in a book whilst taking idle, intermittent sips from his glass of blood-red wine.

"Por favor, Senor. Donde esta Escuela Internacional?"

The man pointed to the junction across from the cafe.

""Coja la segunda calle y escuela esta a mano izquierda."

The second street on the left . . . the second street on the left. Ben thanked the man, who waved him on his way, and raced into the road, making that common error of the Englishman abroad of looking to his right for the oncoming car, only to realise after a couple of steps that not everyone in the world drives on the left hand side of the road.

There was a screech of brakes and a loud honk of a car horn. The driver of the suddenly stationary vehicle spat forth a furious rebuke of finest Latin fire, the words of which registered little to the stumbling but unharmed foreigner, but the full force of the context was clear in any language.

"Er . . . Perdon!" he offered as he sidestepped his way across the street as quickly as possible.

The second street on the left . . . nearly there . . . nearly there.

At last, he reached his destination, but found himself hesitating at the door. No, it would not be right to go in and perhaps ruin everything, he thought, but the job had to be finished, or he would certainly endure another sleepless night.

Reaching in to his jacket pocket, he carefully removed the ivory white envelope and looked at it one last time. This letter had to be delivered by hand – he could not leave it to chance that it might be lost in the sorting office, or perhaps by some quirk of fate, there would have been a rain shower on collection day, resulting in the address being smudged and the letter consigned to the waste paper bin – this way, it would reach its recipient.

He looked at the address: To Miss Setsu Kimura, Escuela Internacional, Buenos Aires.

The handwriting was his best and he had flourished the capital letters to make sure that his effort was emphasised.

"Here goes something, or nothing," he though, as he smoothed the envelope again and moved toward the letter box with trepidation to post the letter, allowing himself a lingering grip before finally dropping it through the slot.

Ben paused and stared at the letterbox for a moment. That would have to do, he thought, but then a mild panic seized him as he realised that the school was still open and he could be spotted. It was midday and he did not want to run in to anyone, especially Setsu. That would make him seem far too eager. That would cause a bad show.

Making an abrupt about turn, Ben briskly made his way back to work.

***

"Before you go to lunch, class, remember to study for tomorrow's test on reflexive verbs. Very well, class dismissed!"

The fifteen students placed their chairs neatly behind their desks and made for the door, all bidding Miss Kimura farewell until their next generous helping of English grammar. It had been a good morning and with her fourth class of the day now complete, Setsu was looking forward to her lunch hour.

She had done well at the international school since her arrival, overcoming her initial discomfort at being so far from the familiar, but her sense of determination and bright personality had made her an effective and popular member of staff. There were a fair number of successful Japanese ex-pats in Buenos Aires who had done well enough to send their children to a private school, so the demand for a Japanese-speaking teacher meant that there was plenty of work for someone of Setsu's capabilities. Besides, the pay was good and she could send plenty back to her mother in Tokyo to help her cope with price rises and food shortages.

Setsu was cleaning the black board when Sylvia, the receptionist, entered the classroom.

"Hola, Setsu, there is a letter here for you!" She placed the still-warm envelope on to Setsu's desk.

"Oh, gracias, Sylvia. I wonder if it is from my mother or brother?"

"Well, there is no stamp or post mark on it, so it must have been hand-delivered."

"I'd better have a look, then."

Setsu examined the envelope. She did not recognise the handwriting and it did not have the same lilt to it as the other Argentines with whom she worked. Curious, she opened the letter and began to read.

There was a moment of silence, broken by Sylvia.

"Well, who is it from?"

"Oh . . . It's nothing, just a note from a parent asking me to give some extra work to their child. Let's get something to eat."

With that, the two women made their way off to the refectory.

***

Later that evening, Setsu had readied herself for bed. Tired, she clambered in to her single bed, and with the bedside lamp to read by, she opened the letter to read it again.

Constitucion,

Buenos Aires

December 8th, 1942

Dear Setsu,

I hope that you don't mind me writing this letter, but I really wanted to say just how very much I enjoyed your company over the weekend at Vero and Hector's estancia.

I know that we might have got off to a little of a shaky start, but once we got talking I found you to be quite the most wonderful company – your conversation was fascinating and I really like your sense of humour.

This whole trip to Argentina has been a real eye-opener for me and there is one new experience after another. I have never met anyone from Argentina before and certainly never expected to meet anyone from Japan, especially someone who is such great company as you – not to mention the fact that you did not seem to mind my terrible dancing.

What I really want to say is that I hope very much to see you again, soon, and that you will tell me a lot more about yourself and Japan. I shall be spending every available weekend at the Hernandez's – it would be so wonderful to see you there again, soon.

Yours sincerely,

Ben Hutchinson

It must have been the tenth time that she had read the letter since arriving home, that evening. She folded the letter up and carefully slipped it back in to its envelope, before placing it on the bedside cabinet. Smiling, she switched off the lamp, sighed and drifted off to sleep.

Some miles to the west of the soundly slumbering Setsu, lay the letter's author. If he could, in any way, have been aware of the success of his stylographic venture, then he, too would have drifted off to a contented dreamland. However, the besotted intoxication which had seized him and denied him a good night's rest since the weekend at the estancia was now replaced by the sheer terror of rejection. Still he could not sleep.

The letter had seemed like such a good idea. An ideal way to express his feelings to Setsu and set his restless mind at ease with the knowledge that he was doing something, anything, to register his interest in her. After all, was the pen not mightier than the sword? If not, then perhaps he would swap his pen for a sword so that he could fall on it?

Oh, for a response, he thought. How long would he have to wait? It now became apparent to him that no amount of counting sheep was going to clear his mind.

It was going to be another long, restless night, and there could well be plenty more where that came from.

Chapter Fifteen - Captivated Among the Captive

Setsu had been something of a dark horse for as long as she could remember. At school her classmates and teachers had tolerated her, although she had felt their suspicion of her and their assumption (which was actually largely correct) that her parents had been 'putting ideas in her head' with regard to the national psyche.

Yet, she knew better than to give anyone a reason to question her. She was dedicated to her studies and made no effort to bring attention to herself, feeling that it was best to give the illusion of fitting in, even though the more she did this, the less she felt a part of her society.

Here in Buenos Aires, even though she looked so very different to the locals, she felt that she fitted in a little better. Or, rather, at this moment, she only stood out for her looks, rather than her personality or the actions of her parents. Her striking features did attract the admiring stares of a few red-blooded Latin males as she stood at the Plaza Italia, but she brushed such things aside. For as she stood just outside the entrance to the Jardin Zoologico, her own attention was focussed on the gaze of one young man in particular who approached from the Subte steps that emerged from below ground.

"Hello!" beamed Ben, "Have you had a good week?"

"Yes, very busy. How about you?" She wondered if he realised just how many times that she had read his letter over the last five nights.

"Oh, fine, nothing much to report, just working on the trains," lied Ben. If only she knew of those sleepless nights and the age that he had taken in front of the bathroom mirror, this morning. He felt a surge of boldness and reached out, taking both her hands.

"It really is lovely to see you." Again, their eyes locked and for a moment there were no distractions, but the moment was short.

"Hello, you two! Have you been here long?"

Vero and Hector sashayed forwards, looking every bit the city slickers.

"So, you found your way here to Palermo just fine, I see?" asked Vero, as Setsu dropped her hands from Ben's as if she had been caught stealing. Right on cue, a light smattering of rain began to fall, completing the sense of dampened emotion. Ever the boy scouts, both Hector and Ben had come prepared for this and opened their umbrellas. Hector covered himself and Vero, who sidled up to him and slid her right arm under his left, then smiled at her husband. Sensing that she had been something of a killjoy, she gave an approving and encouraging nod to Setsu to do likewise. Setsu needed no further prompting and the sudden sensation of contact from her gave Ben a charge of excitement. Cosily paired off, the group entered the zoo.

Inside, small talk was exchanged, nature's wonders were remarked upon and feeding times were observed with fascination, but all the time Setsu and Ben felt that they were the exhibits most under scrutiny by Vero. As they stood before the menagerie, Setsu gazed through the ornate iron cages at the parakeets and thought out loud.

"Look at those beautiful colours. They are all like little rainbows. I think I know how they feel in there."

"What do you mean?" asked Ben.

"In Japan, I felt like I was a colourful bird who wanted to fly wherever I wanted and sing as loud as I liked, but I was kept in a cage. You are not allowed to stand out – you have to fit in to what they want you to do. I had to agree with everything they told me to think. Yes, I was a caged bird. But coming here, I feel so free."

"I felt rather like that in England. I had to be the same as everyone else. I got pushed around for not being the same," said Ben, as they turned and walked away, still arm in arm, still watched by Vero.

As they reached the baboon enclosure, it was feeding time and the four of them watched as the keepers threw apples on to the top of the cages and the inmates climbed up and grabbed the fruit through the bars, some of them racing to snatch their food before others could reach it.

The rain continued to patter gently and Setsu snuggled up to Ben. This was a golden chance and, like the hungry primates, Ben was going to snatch his prize. He turned his umbrella to block Vero's view of the pair of them, then with his free hand, he reached up and gently touched Setsu's chin. He turned her face to his and planted a kiss on her lips.

That felt good, he thought. Such boldness had not filled him since he found himself on the back row of the local cinema with Mildred Poole, who had fought off his advances with an empty chocolate box – the contents of which she had wolfed down before even the opening feature had finished.

There was no such resistance from Setsu, but there was an awkward moment, which gave way to reciprocation, as she quickly leaned back and returned the compliment.

"Let's go and get a coffee, you two!" came the almost predictable, diversionary tactic from Vero the nanny, who again was trying to lead them anywhere but astray.

"Perhaps we can lose them in the reptile house?" mused Ben as they turned to follow their chaperone.

"You are clearly a romantic English gentleman, eh?" said Setsu, "Courting a lady among the reptiles. How could I resist? We had better go for that coffee first, though!"

***

After coffee, Hector mercifully steered Vero away to a safe distance near the zebras, knowing that their mutual love of horses would keep his wife distracted for a few minutes, at least. Away from those watchful eyes, Setsu led Ben to the condor's cage. A tall, bottle-shaped construction, inside which, on a perch high up at the top, sat a lone bird. From his vantage point over the sea of rooftops, he gazed ever eastwards to the Andes.

"You said that you felt like those parrots," said Ben, "But I know how that fellow feels."

"You certainly could do with a bit more colour, yes." offered Setsu, cheekily, holding her hand up to his to remind him, again, of his snow-white complexion.

"No, silly. I mean that he is a long way from his home and his future is not in his own hands any more. Someone else is in control of his life."

"But you were free to come here?"

"Yes, but that is just for six months. After that, I will have no choice in what I do. I shall have to go home. I might be a long way from the war, right now, but I can't escape it. There is a cage waiting for me.

"I have only been here for a couple of weeks, but I have already seen enough to realise that there is so much more of the world that I want to see."

"I feel the same," said Setsu, "I will have to leave here, shortly after you. I have to go back to Japan. My contract at the school will end and my visa will expire. Anyway, I need to go home and help my mother. She is all on her own and I worry about her."

"What will you do for work when you go back?"

"I hope that I can carry on teaching, but I might have to work in a factory, making weapons. I hope not. Just like you, I only want to support my mother and make sure that she is all right. How about you? Do you want to join the army?"

Ben thought of his friend, Tom, "I think I'd like to join the air force, if I can. I don't know if I'll get a choice. The papers will arrive in the post and I will have to go."

"Yes," said Setsu, "But do you want to go?"

"Want to? Not really. Does anyone want to go to war? It's my duty, I suppose. Everyone else is doing their bit for the war. It's my country, my home, and I have to play my part."

"My brother cannot wait to 'play his part'. I am so scared for him. He is like all the others – he believes what they have told him at school about what an honour it is to die for the Emperor. When I listen to him coming out with all that rubbish, I sometimes think that he is looking forward to getting killed. Why would you want to go and kill people, then be killed yourself? Why does there have to be a war?"

It was the first time that Ben had heard anyone talking so vehemently against the idea of war. Back home, everyone was doggedly getting on with the business of the war. It affected everyone and he had never been given any reason to doubt his environment.

"Like I said, I'm just like that bird in the cage. I have to go back or my life would be ruined. I'd be hunted down and hung for desertion."

"You see," said Setsu, her hackles raising somewhat, "They will find you and kill you if you refuse to go and murder others for them. Don't you think that is insane?"

"Well . . . it's not murder, is it? They are the enemy."

"Am I your enemy? You kissed me, a while ago!"

"That was different. I . . . like you a lot. Now that I've got to know you."

"Aha! There you are, you see? My father said that if we all talked to one another, then no wars would happen. That's why he was taken away. So, do you still want to go away to war? Why don't you go back and then refuse to fight?"

Setsu could feel Ben wavering under such a new concept. He was grappling with the notion of not having to play a part in the war and it was sitting uncomfortably with him.

"I . . . I would be locked up as one of those conscientious objectors. I'd be jailed and branded a coward, then my life would be ruined. They'd make sure that I never get another job after the war. My mum would be an outcast and the shame would be enormous. I couldn't do that to her. So, I don't have a choice, I have to go back and fight."

Setsu pursed her usually full lips and wondered for a moment.

"Can you imagine what would happen if all the people got together and told their leaders that they refused to fight?"

"That would never happen."

"You don't think so? Maybe not now, but in the future, I hope that people get tired of these stupid wars and the people who cause them. I hope that they will stand up and tell those murderers to go away. There are not many of them, really, you know, but there are millions of us. People don't realise how strong they can be, when they all work together."

"Now you sound like that Lenin! Up the revolution!" He raised his fist in a mock salute. "It's a nice idea, but I don't think we'll live to see it."

"Believe it!" urged Setsu. She looked Ben in the eyes and her tone was one of utter conviction. "I know it sounds silly, but if you believe in something, then you can really make it happen. We can do almost anything if we try."

"Alright, alright, I believe you," said Ben with a disarming tone, "One other thing that I believe, right now . . . is that I believe that I might like an ice cream. Would you like to join me?"

Setsu's incendiary mood was diffused and as the sun began to peek through the gaps in the cloud, they wandered off in search of the food kiosk.

Constitucion,

Buenos Aires,

Argentina

December 15th, 1942

Dear Mum,

Hello again from Las Pampas! As ever, I hope that you are well and happy. I can't get used to the fact that it is nearly Christmas and it is red hot, here! When Santa gets here, he will probably pass out in the heat. Mind you, I suppose that is better than him flying over Germany and getting shot to bits.

You will be pleased to know that all is well – the job is fine, I am eating like a king and, yes, my underwear is still clean.

The Argentines are a lot more like us than you would think, Mum. They eat the same sort of food as us and their countryside looks just like ours, whilst all of the chaps at work are a perfectly pleasant bunch. It has made me see how little we know of people in other countries, and that we actually have so much in common, if we would only bother to look.

The Burfords are a rum pair. Mrs B. has made it her mission to put some meat on my bones, whilst Mr B. is a bit on the puritanical side and has informed me in no uncertain terms that I am not to bring home any loose women. Of course, I have done no such thing, but only because I haven't managed to find one, yet.

Please write and tell me all about what is happening with you and home. It takes ages for us to hear anything about what's happening back in England – if someone has an English newspaper at work, all of us British chaps want to have a read of it. In fact, if you could please send a copy of the local paper, that would be lovely, thanks.

I shall close for now. Please write soon.

Love,

Ben

Chapter Sixteen - Lingua Franca

The French call it La Malade Anglais – The English Disease – the inability, or unwillingness (and more commonly, the latter is the cause of the former) to learn and converse in any language other than English.

Being the landlords of one quarter of the globe's surface had led to a belief among many English folk that the study of French, Spanish, or any other tongue spread by colonialism was surplus to requirements. To roam within the vast borders of The Empire On Which The Sun Never Sets was a sure-fire guarantee that, even when a British subject should have been so unfortunate as to have found himself completely surrounded by Johnny Foreigner, the chances were that at least one of the blighters would have a half-grasp of the King's English. And rightly so, some would say. After all, if God had wanted another language to dominate the planet, surely He would have put Shakespeare in Paris?

Alas, Ben was no less a product of this malady than any of his countrymen. At first, he had made an effort with some study of Spanish, but on finding himself largely in the company of English speakers, his necessity to study diminished, as did his grasp of the local lingo.

Consequently, when he was, indeed, the only true Briton in the room, he would exist heroically on little more than hola, si, no, bueno and adios, augmented only by ample use of por favor, perdon and gracias, without which he was sure that his mother would have, once again, died of shame.

All this was to change, though, on the next visit to the Estancia Fuga. Whilst out on his second major excursion on horseback with the Hernandezes, riding alongside Setsu and enjoying a conversation on everything and nothing, the matter of the group's lingua franca was raised.

"It occurs to me," pondered Setsu, "That there are four of us here and we are all speaking in English. Yet for three of us, it is not our own language."

"That's true," said Ben, "But you all speak English so well."

"Ah, flattery will get you nearly everywhere, Ben-san, but your good hosts are native Spanish speakers and this is a Spanish speaking country. I am a fluent Spanish speaker, too, so why do we not speak in Spanish when we are together?"

"Bravo!" called Hector, "The lady has a very good point."

"Oh, come on, I can hardly speak the language!" protested Ben.

"That is only because you have not needed to," said Vero, "What if you had to speak in Spanish?"

"Well, that's easy – I don't," replied Ben, "There are lots of English speakers at work, I live with some English people and you all speak English."

There was a momentary pause in the conversation as they rode along the vast billiard table of The Pampas.

"But what if we only spoke Spanish?" offered Setsu, "Then you would have to make a little more effort. You are in Argentina. It is time that you spoke to us in Spanish. From now on, we will all speak in Spanish."

"Agreed," echoed Vero and Hector in unison.

Any protest in Anglo-Saxon was waved away, though desperate pleas for clemency in grammatically unsound schoolboy Spanish were graciously applauded and then duly unacknowledged. Even the adoring Setsu proved to be no ally, siding with her hosts.

Perhaps they had a point, thought Ben. He had five more months in which to improve and if he was going to spend every other weekend at the Estancia, then he had no better incentive than being able to speak with Setsu to motivate his studies.

They rode on and he asked for vocabulary, finding that his riding partners were very willing teachers. As the sun continued to shine and sing through the trees, he found that the language was not as fearsome as he first thought. In fact, half of it sounded like English, anyway. Besides, he was enjoying being the centre of attention and having three tutors – and he was eager to be teacher's pet to Setsu. The two of them rode on ahead, both aware of Vero's watchful gaze, but they made sure that they were out of earshot.

"It's alright, you can speak in English, now, Ben."

"Oh, thank you! I've had enough Spanish for one day."

"Yes, of course, but you do understand that you should make some effort and improve your Spanish. It would mean a lot to Hector and Vero. They are good to both of us."

"Yes. They are so kind. Don't you wonder why?"

Setsu looked back at her hosts, waved, smiled and turned back to Ben.

"I've known them a little longer than you and I honestly think that they just like having you and I around them. They enjoy our company as much as we like theirs and we are giving them a sense of family. What's wrong with that?"

"Aye, I know they say that you can't choose your relatives, but you can make your own family up from the people you like the most."

"Yes. And here we are, a long way from home, but we have found a new home and we are like a little family, for now, at least."

For now, at least. Those words rang true. This would all be for just a short time, so there was nothing more to do than enjoy every moment of it. Almost telepathically, the two of them turned and waved back at Hector and Vero, who returned the compliment, then they turned back and faced each other and laughed.

***

Constitucion,

Buenos Aires,

Argentina

December 22nd, 1942

Dear Mr Carutthers,

A very Merry Christmas to you from Buenos Aires! I still can't get used to the idea that it is almost Christmas Day, here, and I am in shirt sleeves. It is so hot and sunny here – more than it ever gets in Summer back home.

I have had no problems settling in to the works and it is all plain sailing. Of course, that is all thanks to you having taught me nearly everything I know! I really want to thank you for sending me out here. I am having a real busman's holiday and life is wonderful. I can see why you had such a great time, here. The war feels a very, very long way away, right now.

Buenos Aires is such a classy looking place, with lots of style. I didn't know that there were places like this outside of the Hollywood films.

Because of the hot weather, I have barely needed to touch the whiskey. I guess I'll need a snifter when Winter comes, next year, so I'll save it for then. Of course, I shall try to keep a few drams left in the bottle, so that we can share some together, when I come home.

Until then, keep warm, and Dig for Victory!

Best wishes,

Ben

Chapter Seventeen - Felice Navidad

Palermo,

Buenos Aires,

Argentina

December 24th, 1942

Dear Katsuhiro,

Tomorrow, they are celebrating Christmas in Argentina, so I thought it would be lovely to send you my best wishes.

The trouble is, I do not know where in the world my wishes are going, because you have to keep your whereabouts private. Of course, I understand that, but it would make me feel better if I knew where you were. So, where ever you may be, I hope that you are safe and I send you my love and mother's too.

You probably do not want to hear about how good the food is, here, or how lovely a place it is, either! But please be assured that I am well and having a wonderful time. Work is fine. The children are very well behaved and the staff are friendly. Everyone here has made me feel welcome. I am still enjoying the friendship of that couple whom I mentioned in previous letters and they have helped me learn to ride a horse.

I have not heard from you in a long while, so I hope that you will find the time to write to mother or me, just to let us know that you are in good health. I know that the army will be keeping you busy and it is so very important to you that you do your best, that I understand that you have to put your duties first.

Well, that is all I have to write for today. I look forward to receiving a letter from you.

Your sister,

Setsu

It had only been an hour since she had finished writing to her brother, when Setsu made her way to the post office and sent her letter on its way to somewhere. Like a message in a bottle, it would somehow find its way to Katsuhiro and hopefully wake him from his militaristic trance and remind him that he had a family that cared for him.

On leaving the post office, she reached her rendezvous point with Vero outside Once Station.

Dressed to kill, once again, Vero was cutting a dash in a pencil skirt and a crisp, cream blouse. Her usually minimal accessory of a handbag (which contained her two essentials of travel: money and cigarettes) was today augmented by a large shopping bag, bulging with last minute impulse buys.

The two women exchanged pleasantries, bought their tickets, and took their places on the train bound for Mercedes.

"I have just sent a letter to my brother," Setsu began, "I do care about him very much, even though we never agree on the war or what Japan is fighting for. I just hope that he is safe, wherever he has been sent."

"So you don't know where he is – has he not told you?" Asked Vero, as she lit another cigarette.

"Of course not – that would be a security risk. Besides, he hasn't written to me since he left for training. What a fine brother he is! The truth is, we would argue so much at home, especially about the war. His head is so full of government lies and all he wants to do is go and kill the Americans and British. I don't know what to say to him, anymore, but I still worry about him."

Vero laughed. "Ah, boys will be boys, won't they? They have all of that energy and don't know what to do with it. Then a war comes and they get so excited – you should have seen how many of our young men volunteered to go and fight – and we're not even at war with anyone!

"Then they get their chance to go away and march around in uniforms, running around and doing all of that school boy adventure stuff, before they go off and start shooting each other, and all you hear from them is how much they hate it and that they want to come home for a quiet life! I tell you, Setsu, there is no understanding men!"

The train rolled through Moreno and the two women looked out across the flat fields, which were emerald green in the summer sun.

"Look, Setsu, I'm sure that brother of yours will be fine – hasn't he always done well in everything?"

Setsu nodded.

"Well, then he'll take care of himself, won't he? Besides, you have a lovely young man to meet again, this evening. Hector is going to pick him up from work and drive him to Mercedes, so we have time to get the estancia ready for this evening – Sandra is getting lots of Christmas food ready for us. I am so pleased that you two are getting on so well."

Setsu just smiled and did not wish to say any more. She knew that there was more than just a novelty to her growing relationship with Ben – it went beyond language and culture for her, because over the past few weeks, she had simply known that he was a good soul and that she wanted to be near him. Of course, she could have arranged to meet Ben in the city and travel to Mercedes with him, but Vero was too canny for that and made sure to arrange the train journey for Setsu and herself. Hector did not have that much business in the city, that day, but Vero made sure that he was on hand to fetch Ben. Despite Matron Vero's controlling hand, Setsu was sure of one thing: she was aching to see Ben again.

***

"Not long, now, before you get to see your lady, again, Ben?" Remarked Hector as he steered the Citroen out of Lujan on the final stretch homeward.

"You have not seen her since last weekend and I know that she and Vero will have got something prepared for us when we arrive. I hope you are hungry."

Ben laughed off the remark, as they both knew that his appetite was seldom, if ever, found wanting. With two days off work for Christmas, there was the promise of a wonderful holiday, offering relaxation and sunshine in the most tranquil of surroundings. He compared this with the works' annual summer seaside trip, back in pre-war England, where at the crack of dawn the holiday special trains would choke the railway station and sidings whilst hundreds of employees swarmed on the platform, packing the carriages to bursting point, ready for a three-hour incarceration en route to such east coast exotica as Skegness or Yarmouth.

The day would be filled with beer, chips, sand castles, donkey rides, kiss-me-quick hats, penny arcades, music hall turns and toffee apples, before everyone would stagger back to the train station, tipsy and sunburned, for the journey home.

Things would certainly be different, this Christmas. And so it proved to be as the car pulled up before the estancia, where Vero and Setsu stepped out to greet their men.

Each of the women wore a flower in her hair – another of Vero's touches that set the tone for the evening – the deep red ceibo, which stood out beautifully against their jet black hair.

"Do you like the flowers?" Asked Vero, "I read in the papers that it has just been made the national flower of Argentina, so it seems right that we should wear them. Besides, we could not find a lotus for our Japanese girl, here!"

The four went inside for dinner.

Chapter Eighteen - A Passage of Time

Constitucion,

Buenos Aires

March 17th, 1943

Dear Setsu,

Hello again. I have only just returned from another weekend with you at the estancia, but I truly miss you already and cannot wait for the weekend to come, so I simply have to write to you.

Writing to you allows me to actually express some of the things that I cannot say to you when we are together with Vero and Hector.

One thing I want to say is that I feel so happy and free when I am with you. I am so glad that I can talk about anything with you and we never seem lost for anything to say.

To be honest, I have never been in a proper relationship with anyone. The fact that you are from Japan is not an issue for me – though I know that it would be if anyone in our native countries were to find out. Maybe one day they will see that we are not all supposed to be enemies? I just hope that this war ends soon and we can leave such things behind us.

The past four months have been so wonderful with you and I hope that, somehow, we will be together for much, much longer.

I cannot wait to see you again.

Love,

Ben

***

Retiro,

Buenos Aires

April 23rd, 1943

My Dear Ben,

I am writing during my lunch break, so I will have to be brief. I do so love your letters! They help to keep me close to you when we are away from each other.

I have heard from my mother and she is making enquiries for me to teach when I return to Japan. Please believe me that I do not wish to be parted from you, but when I read my mother's letters, I know that I she needs me to go home and help her.

All I want to do, right now, is enjoy every moment I have with you. Like you, I never really had a relationship with anyone in Japan. Yes, many people in our countries would say that you and I should not be allowed to feel the way we do about each other, but then who put those people in charge of our lives?

I do not care for the war makers but I care about what can happen to us. I promise that I will never stop believing in our love for each other. As long as we can keep in touch, we will keep our hopes alive.

The weekend is coming, soon, and I will see you then, my dear!

Lots of love,

Setsu

Chapter Nineteen - Knowing the Right People

"You are not looking yourself, Ben," suggested Setsu, "It is not like you to be off your food."

She was right. Normally, any plate put before her English beau was condemned to a swift demolition, followed by kind offers to see off the remains from anyone else's plate. So, with the evidence of a half-eaten meal before her, Setsu did not require the skills of a Poirot, Holmes, or even a Doctor Watson to ascertain that something was amiss.

The intervening four months had been blissful. They had spent almost every weekend together at the estancia, learning all about one another, enjoying each other's company in an atmosphere of familial gentility that Vero and Hector provided for them. All four of them had become a de facto family. As Ben's Spanish had improved, so had his self-confidence, so it was strange to see him looking so melancholic on this mid-Autumn evening.

"I've had a letter from home," he sighed.

"Oh, is it bad news?" asked Vero.

"Well, yes and no. Don't worry, everyone back home is fine, it's just that my mum reminded me that I will be turning twenty one, soon, and that I will have to register for the forces."

From the outset, he had known that this would be the case. Just a little six month jaunt in to uncharted territory was all that this was going to be, before it was back to all the things that he knew. He had set off thinking that all things foreign would not be for him, that he would feel like a fish out of water amongst all of those non-Anglo types, but after four months of nothing but friendship, this letter had served as a blow – an unwanted reminder that this dream could not be his for ever and that he would have to give it up.

"Ah, do not let that concern you too much, Ben," said Hector. "By the time you get home, sign up and finish your training, the war will be as good as over."

"What makes you so sure of that?" asked Vero.

"It is simple: economics," continued Hector. "This war is costing millions of dollars a day for all sides. The Germans are in Russia, the British are in Italy and the Americans have started against the Japanese in the Pacific. One day, they are all going to get letters from their bank managers and they will all have to find a way to stop this.

"So, both of you, do not worry. It is a long, long way to Tokyo and the Americans won't want to pay their passage. It will all be over before you have to fire a shot at anyone."

"I hope that you are right, Hector. I really don't think that I could kill anyone."

"And nor should you! I have fought with men in the past but I have never wanted to take their lives."

"I recall," interjected Vero, "That you fought with my father and I am quite sure that he wanted to kill you."

"Yes, that is true, my dear," Hector began to glow with the glory of his past triumph, "The old lion was no match for the young jaguar, though! And it's a good thing that I did win, eh, my sweet?"

"Oh . . . yes . . !" gasped Vero, hamming up her gratitude like a bad vaudevillian, "I tell myself that almost every . . . month or so."

Vero was doing her best to steer the conversation in to calmer and jollier waters, but she would have to wait before she could weigh anchor.

"When you go back, will you have any say in what you will do?" asked Setsu.

"I don't know. I might just get sent off to whatever I'm given – army, navy or air force."

"But what if you could choose?"

"Do I have a choice in this?"

"You can make one if you try. What would you like to do?"

"Well, I'd rather not go to war at all, but I feel that I have to. So if I had to make a choice, then I would join the Royal Air Force and be a pilot, like my friend, Tom. But I don't know how I can go about that from here."

"Oh, my boy, that is easy," cut in Hector. "There have been many young men from Argentina who have joined the RAF. They have a whole squadron, there, made up from our boys! I am sure that we can get you on the right track, there. More to the point, there is a certain beauty in you joining the air force, because it will take you a long time to train as a pilot. By the time you have finished your training, it will all be over!"

Setsu grabbed Ben's hand and smiled.

"That sounds like the best plan. You can 'do your bit' somewhere safe, without being called a coward and this whole stupid war can burn itself out. I like the sound of that. How do we go about signing him up?"

Hector lit himself a cigar. He felt that he had already earned it for what he was currently planning.

"Just leave it to me. Next Saturday, Ben, you and I shall meet in the city. I know just the place to take you and just the man to whom you must be introduced."

"So, you know the right people, Hector?"

"Ben, darling," said Vero, "We are the right people!"

Chapter Twenty - Dressed to Impress

At first, it had not made sense. On Monday morning, Ben had received a message from Hector to meet him at a Florida cafe after work. Over a coffee, Hector divulged little about the coming weekend's meeting with 'the right people', but was most pressing about two things: firstly, did he have a bit of spare cash? And secondly, did he not realise that a young man of his standing ought to find himself a decent tailor?

After admitting that he had been very careful with his money and that he had barely even walked past a tailor's shop in his entire life, never mind gone in one, Hector decided which way the die would be cast for the evening.

"My boy, it is time that you were properly dressed. You need to look like a gentleman on Saturday."

"But I always thought that I dressed well?"

"For a railway engineer, perhaps? But for a future pilot? You need to make some changes."

"What's wrong with the clothes I've got?" He was almost a little hurt. Had he not brought his best clothes to Argentina? Mrs Burford was just as thorough with her laundry as his mother had always been – he knew that if he had lied in his letters regarding the cleanliness of his clothes (especially his underwear), that Liza would somehow have sensed the truth.

"Ben, when Vero and I first met you, you were so thin that your clothes were hanging off your shoulders. Now, they are falling off you in tatters!" He motioned to the fraying seams of his jacket and shirt.

"Alright, alright. You've taught me to dance like Fred Astaire, so I suppose I ought to try and dress like him. Where are we going?"

Hector stubbed out his cigar and gave an assuring nod, "Finish your coffee and come with me."

They left the cafe and strolled along the pedestrianized road, zig zagging their way through the streams of city folk, many of them on their way to and from the banks that dominated the area, making turns that began to make what was in fact a short journey somewhat labyrinthine, until they arrived, halfway along a narrow side street, at a small shop.

A wood panelled front with a well-lit interior, the sign above the brass-framed windows read 'James Taplin (Establecido 1913)'. On show in the window were two mannequins – one in a black, pin-striped, three piece suit and the other in a dark blue, double breasted affair.

"An English tailor in Buenos Aires? I should have guessed," smiled Ben.

"English? Well, you could say that," said Hector, "He was born here, of Welsh parentage, and has been making me look presentable for twenty years. Now it is your turn. Let us go in."

There was a soft, tinkling bell that lacked any urgency and again echoed the laid-back feel of the city. For a moment, they were left to wait and take in the sight of sets of dark, wooden pigeon-hole cupboards on either side of the room, which were stacked with crisply folded shirts. The glass-topped counter at the end of the room was filled with shiny cufflinks, tie-pins and colourful ties that denoted one's affiliation to a club, university or company. There was a stirring from the back room and Señor Taplin made his entrance from a curtained doorway at the back of the shop.

In his mid-fifties, Señor Taplin was of medium height, with thinning hair, high cheekbones and a trimmed moustache. He wore a suit of his own design – a deep blue double breasted one with red pin stripes – along with a plain, white shirt and a dark, woollen tie. He clasped his hands together, smiled and greeted his familiar customer.

"Señor Hernandez, welcome. I was not expecting to see you so soon after your last visit. What can I do for you?"

"Buenos tardes, Señor Taplin. I have come here to see what you can do for my young friend, Mister Hutchinson, here. He is from England and I am taking him to meet some rather important gentlemen on Saturday. I know that this is at rather short notice, but do you think that you can manage to produce something for him by then?"

Señor Taplin was a craftsman and at first, he was a little surprised, thinking that Hector would know better than to ask for a quality suit in anything less than two weeks, but he could see that faith was being put in him and that Hector could have easily gone somewhere else for a quick bit of tailoring. He looked Ben up and down. Yes, this skinny fellow was in need of a good suit (and business was a little slow, this week).

"It will be a bit of a rushed, job, Señor," he told Ben. "If it is to be of my usual standards, then I will need to see you for a fitting for the next three evenings."

Hector nodded in agreement, encouraging Ben to do likewise.

"May I ask what this appointment will be, Señor?" he asked Hector.

"Mr Hutchinson is coming with me on Saturday to my club to talk about an appointment overseas. He will want to look his best and feel comfortable in there. We will be talking with Mr Bartholomew – I know that he is one of your customers, too."

"Oh, of course, Señor," smiled Taplin, "A very pleasant gentleman, Mr Bartholomew. Please give him my regards when you meet him."

Señor Taplin then began to speak to Ben in what was to him yet another new language – that of tailoring. Words and terms such as vents, blind cuffs, lustre, drape and gorge all required explanations, but Hector assured him that these things were all part of a well-dressed gentleman's essential knowledge – and all gentlemen should be well-dressed!

Measurements were taken and material was chosen. Despite Hector's initial feeling that Ben should eschew his dour, Anglo-Saxon tendency to constantly dress in the bland, dark hues of an English Winter, and choose some slightly lighter shade, he conceded that it would be best to settle for an honest-to-goodness, never-let-you-down suit in charcoal grey, worsted wool from the Pampas.

Over the next five days, Señor Taplin made good his word and worked beyond his normal tempo to ensure that Ben looked every inch a man of the world, even if he had, as yet, seen very little of it. The quality, feel and craftsmanship was not lost on him, nor was the fact that this double breasted work of art had cost a whole week's wages. He did not have to convince himself that it was worth it, though, because when he saw himself in the mirror, feeling like a young prince, he knew that it was worth every peso.

So it was on the aforementioned Saturday that the young prince and his mentor, both dressed to kill, drove their way through Palermo, along the Avenida del Libertador, en route to do business with some man of great import named Bartholomew.

Past the Plaza Alemania, they came to the majestic Monumento a la Magna Carta. The elegant city parks with their lush green lawns and regiments of trees, surrounded by grand architecture brought memories to mind for Ben of a boyhood trip to London with his father (to watch Derby play Arsenal). To the left was the Jardin Zoologico and he afforded himself a smile, as he remembered the scene of the first kiss he had stolen from Setsu.

Eventually, the car pulled off the main road and along a short drive way, coming to rest outside an imposing looking building of sand-coloured stone, owing more to the Greco-Roman school than the Parisian.

A uniformed usher stepped forward from the building's main entrance and stood to attention by Hector's car door. He wound down the window to be greeted cordially by the man, whom Hector instructed to park the car.

Alighting from the car at Hector's bidding, Ben followed him, receiving some advice as they went.

"Ben, please do not be offended, but I think you should not say too much until I have made some introductions for you. We are going to meet a truly influential man in here and he may not always be as open and welcoming as Vero and I. Sometimes I think that some of these people are too serious for their own good."
"I understand," Ben assured him. "To be honest, I am not sure what it is going to be like in there."

"Oh, perhaps I have intimidated you with my words. Look, as long as you can drink a whiskey and brandy without coughing, I think you will be fine!"

They strode in to the building and Hector signed Ben in to the guest book as waiting staff bid him welcome. The concierge asked about Ben's identity and was assured by Hector that he was a worthwhile guest.

Hector led and they headed towards the mottled glass doors of the smoking room, which were opened by an obliging steward. On entering, it seemed impossible to make out any faces in the dense, Cuban fug, but Hector knew exactly where to find his quarry and forged ahead to his target.

In the corner of the wood-panelled lounge, just beyond the grand, marble fireplace and almost cocooned in the easiest of bottle-green leather chairs, sat a thoroughly relaxed figure, nursing a double brandy whilst adding to the already industrial atmosphere with a Havana of lung-withering proportions. His suit, another Taplin original, was a well kept and trusted version of Ben's (who could now see the logic of his new attire, amongst this well-heeled company – by simply looking the part, he did not feel overwhelmed in these lofty surroundings) and its occupant looked up and greeted Hector with a nod, then rose to shake his hand.

"Hernandez, on time as ever. It's good to see you again. This must be the young fellow of whom you spoke."

His accent was clearly that of the English establishment. It was clipped and clear, neither high nor low in pitch – the sort that Ben had only heard on the BBC, but never in person. Sure enough, though, the sound and the image fitted perfectly: his hair, the colour of damp sand, was swept back neatly, the eyes were blue and sharp, the nose and jawline were streamlined and solid, whilst the lips were non-too thin and, if ever any more proof of English-ness were required, they housed a less than well aligned set of teeth that did not smile too much. This man was officer material.

"Yes," responded Hector, "This is my young friend, Mister Ben Hutchinson. Ben, please meet your fellow countryman, Mister Richard Bartholomew. He works for your embassy, here in Buenos Aires."

The men shook hands and sat down, pausing to order drinks and join in with the rest of the smoking fray.

"Do, please, indulge in one of Cuba's finest, chaps – one of the real perks of being out here is that a fellow can get his hands on these," enthused Bartholomew. "And how is Buenos Aires suiting you, Hutchinson?"

Ben was used to being addressed by just his surname, but for an instant he felt as if that was Bartholomew's way of putting a working-class boy in his place, but then he realised that he had barely said a word to the man, not enough to belie his origins, and this this was obviously the way that these men addressed one another.

"Very well, thank you," he responded, "I only wish that I could stay for longer, but my contract and visa are only for six months and I've only two more months remaining."

"After which," pre-empted Bartholomew, "You will be needing to go home and do your bit, eh? Hector tells me that you rather fancy being a fly boy and that sounds like a capital idea.

"Got a younger brother, myself, who was a pilot in the RAF back in the twenties. He had himself a whale of a time out in the desert sorting out some bunch of mad mullahs called the Kurds, I believe – not sure what they'd done to warrant it, but one assumes that they deserved a thrashing and someone had to teach them a lesson, I suppose. Lots of shooting at camels and the like. Real fun and games, apparently. I fancied it, myself, but I used to get so bloody sick when flying, so I went in to the Guards, instead." He took an enthused mouthful of brandy.

"Listen, I've made a couple of calls and I think I might just have something for you."

The two guests sat forward in their chairs.

"Have you heard of the EATS? That's the Empire Air Training Scheme – Britain has lots of young pilots being trained all over the empire, in Canada, Australia and the like. Well, what would you say to training in New Zealand?

"Look, they only have a small population and are always in need of recruits for pilot training, there. I sent a couple of messages down the wires to the New Zealand legation in Washington and the news is that they say that they can fit you in, provided you can get yourself over there. We can get the references sorted out between us and then send word home through the proper channels that you are signed up for King and Country. Then you can go down to the South Pacific and fly your Tiger Moth! How does that sound?"

Ben looked agog at Hector. It sounded so improbable, but perhaps this was the next part of the adventure (his mother would never believe this!)

"Thank you, that sounds wonderful. How will I get there, though?" he asked.

"We can find you a berth on a merchant vessel – no problem. Until then, you can just enjoy the rest of your time here," offered Hector.

"What we have to do, right now," continued Bartholomew, "Is get you sorted out with a medical certificate. Here is the address of our doctor. Jennings is his name – he's a fine chap. It should be a formality – you look like a strapping young chap. Where are you from, exactly, Hutchinson?"

"Derbyshire." Those three syllables, spoken in his natural dialect ('Daa-bih-shuh') were enough to instantly stereotype him for Bartholomew, who puffed out a bellyful of cigar smoke with a guffaw.

"Good Lord, man, you sound like a coal miner when you say that! Never mind learning to fly – if you want to get by in the RAF, you'd better take some elocution lessons, old man!"

Ben felt crushed. The months in Argentina had allowed him to feel unshackled by the constraints put upon him by distinctions of class and social standing. At work, he was respected for his ability as an engineer and to his Argentine colleagues he was simply English, rather than lowly English. It had taken just a few minutes in the company of the Mother Country's elite and he was now back in his pigeonhole.

"But his accent sounds just fine to me," pondered Hector, "I think that he sounds just like you, Richard. I think that you will find him to be a well-spoken young man, and not just in English, but in Spanish, also."

"Well, you might be advised to carry on speaking in Spanish, my boy. I say this as friendly advice. If you can't brush the coal dust off of that accent, then you'll never make it as an officer, I can tell you that.

"Come on, Hector, you should know how it works. Do you think that you would have got this far in life if you still spoke like a country gaucho?"

Bartholomew's knowing look held both men for a moment and they both knew that he was right. Liza had nagged Ben to say his words nicely and Hector realised at an early age that if he was going to mix with the people at the top, he would have to speak like them.

"Alright," conceded Ben, "Perhaps I don't sound like Leslie Howard, and I might well have grown up in D H Lawrence country, but I've proved my worth as an engineer and I'll prove my worth as a pilot, too. Don't judge me on my accent, alone."

Bartholomew sat back with his first proper smile of the engagement.

"Well said, young sir. Well said. I'll drink to that," he gave Ben an approving nod, then raised his brandy glass and finished it in one.

"In fact, we all need to drink to that!" He called the waiter and ordered three double brandies. The three men then set about re-lighting their cigars, by which time the drinks arrived. Glasses were raised and Hector led the toast.

"Here is to you, my friend, and the next part of your journey!"

Chapter Twenty-one - Cold hands, warm heart

"Cough!" Instructed Doctor Jennings, whose wiry, liver-spotted hands were every bit as cold as Ben had dreaded they would be.

"No problems, there. Now, turn around and bend over, please."

This was the fearsome stuff of legend – everyone who had taken their medical for the armed forces would nudge and wink about those shameless hands grasping down below. Whilst Ben had prepared himself for the infamous test of his manhood, he was not quite prepared for the further indignation of a speculative inspection for haemorrhoids.

This, however, was certainly not the stuff of heroes. The likes of Gary Cooper and David Niven would never have to endure this sort of humiliation in the movies, that was for sure.

"Well, Mr Hutchinson, I can assure you that that was just as pleasurable for me as it was for you, but it's all over now. Do please get dressed and take a seat."

The learned doctor lit a cigarette and set about signing off the paperwork on his desk whilst Ben gladly climbed back in to his suit.

"So, young Ben, remind me, again, of your height and weight, please."

"Well, last time I checked, I was five foot eleven inches and eleven stones."

"And that last time was back in England, yes?"

"That's right."

"Clearly, the last six months in Argentina have been good to you, my lad. You have grown and inch in height and gained almost a stone in weight!"

"You're joking!"

"Not at all. I don't wish to sound rude, but your diet, growing up, was probably not all that rounded, whilst three years of rationing was never going to put much on your waistline. Since you've been here, you've had prime steak every other day and you've been getting lots of exercise just by doing your very physical job. It really has built you up, young fellow!"

"I must say, I don't think I've ever felt better."

"A proper diet, lots of exercise, fresh air and a country that is thousands of miles away from the war – it's all combined to make you in to a fine young specimen of a man, which is almost a shame, Ben."

"A shame? I'm not sure I follow you, Dr Jennings?"

"It means that I have to give you an A-one grade for active service, so you are just what the air force is looking for. Consequently, you are perfect material to become a fighter pilot, which will immediately put your life expectancy in danger. You see, it's the pilots who get shot at the most – there are only so many things to shoot at up in the sky, and there are no trees and rocks to hide behind up there – not to mention all the crashes and accidents that they get involved in.

"This is the stupidity of it all. It is precisely because you are a strapping, intelligent young man with twenty-twenty vision that you are best equipped to be put right in the firing line, doing the most dangerous job. If you were some asthmatic runt with bow legs and a squint, you would end up as a filing clerk in some remote office, seeing out the war without getting so much as a scratch. But you are going up in the wild, blue yonder, risking life and limb at three hundred miles an hour, with some hot shot Jerry haring after you in his Messerschmitt! So much for survival of the fittest – all the good ones are getting themselves shot to ribbons!"

"You present quite a strong case. What do you suggest I do, then?"

"To be honest, I agree with your good friend, Mr Hernandez, that you might be well served spending a couple of years training – the whole thing could be over before you get around to the sharp end of things, and believe me, I would be quite happy for you to miss out on that. I was in the last war and it was no picnic. Ah, that reminds me, I do feel the need to ask you a personal question, if I may, Ben?"

"Well, after that doing that cough for you, I don't really see how anything could be more personal! Fire away."

"Are you currently courting? Have you got yourself a young lady friend?"

The question did catch Ben off guard. In reality, he and Setsu really were in a relationship, but it was almost as if he could not admit to it even to himself because of its nature. Regardless, it was a relationship and it was not the business of Dr Jennings to know Setsu's identity and certainly not her nationality.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I've been seeing a very lovely young lady for the last few months, here in Buenos Aires."

"Ah, yes, the girls here are simply charming. Do you think that it has potential? Will you be keeping in touch with her once you have gone away?"

If only you knew, thought Ben. "Yes, I will certainly be writing to her a great deal, I hope."

"So you'll be staying faithful to her, then?"

"Yes, I am sure of it. What are you driving at, Dr Jennings?"

"To cut to the quick, Ben, I am advising you not to put yourself about with the ladies whilst you are away – especially in the brothels."

Ben was lost for words. The very cheek of it! Is this how he got his thrills in his old age?

"Please don't be offended, Ben. As I said, I was in the Great War – I was an army doctor out in Egypt and let me tell you, it was not the Turkish army that did for a lot of our boys, it was the whores in Cairo. I am sure that I treated as many men for the clap as I did for bullet wounds. We had to send thousands of them home with a dose – goodness knows what they told their wives, but there was no cure then and there's no cure, now. So please take my advice and keep away from those girls at the docks, otherwise the next time a doctor grabs you, down there, and tells you to cough, something might just drop off!"

Ben could only grin. The truth was rather hard to explain, but then, how would it have sounded to tell the old physician that he only had eyes for Setsu, but that his matronly Argentine friend was keeping his advances, urges and thoughts at bay? Chastity was compulsory at the moment, but he could wait.

"I can assure you that I'll be sticking with this lady, Dr Jennings."

"I'm glad to hear it. She must be a lovely girl. Is she a local or of English stock?"

"Oh . . . er . . . she's not really what you'd call a local girl, she's from further west of here."

"Ah, I think I know what you mean. Those indigenous types from the Andes are quite stunning, I find. Very different from us Anglo-Saxons in their looks."

"Well, you could say that . . . she's certainly not like the other girls I've courted, that's for sure."

"Make sure that you two write plenty of letters to each other. It will certainly help to keep the pair of you together. It did for my wife and I when I was away with the army. Well, I shall send all your medical forms onward and I wish you all the best on this next venture. Take care, Ben."

Ben shook the hand that had so recently been cradling his most delicate body parts and left.

Chapter Twenty-two - Divine Inspiration

For five months, Vero had revelled in her role as matchmaker and chaperone. Nature had denied her the chance to have children of her own, to give succour and support to young ones in need of nurture. Was that how it was meant to be, she wondered? Well, clearly it had as far as her own biology was concerned, but now the improbable pieces had come to her without any effort: Setsu proved to be just the young lady in need of her guidance and to find her a nice young man was to be the icing on the cake. To have just such a young fellow appear before them on the liner from Lisbon was too good an opportunity to miss. Now, she could stand back and admire her work.

From her vantage point on the front steps leading from the estancia to the large garden, she could see the two young lovers, eagerly awaiting the food being prepared by Sandra on the outdoor stove, close to the drooping fronds of the willow tree. They looked so happy and relaxed – Setsu was again wearing a flower in her hair (since Ben had mentioned how lovely it looked, she had done so for him at every opportunity) and Ben had changed from the skinny, shy boy in to a confident young man.

Autumn was drawing in and this was surely going to be the last good weekend before the steady march toward Winter would begin.

Vero now felt a cloud of doubt, as she suddenly wondered if she had created impending misery for these two. Instead of the Montagues and Capulets, it was the empires of Japan and Britain that would forbid their relationship and in a little over a month's time, they would be pulled apart by the war.

Was it her own arrogance that had made her think that two strangers from opposing nations should be brought together? Perhaps it was, but then, why not? If this world is to become a better place, then why not start with this? One small effort in bringing people together and ending ignorance.

Yet how on Earth were they to remain in touch whilst this stupid war continued? She had created this situation and felt a surge of responsibility to find some way to keep them together throughout the coming months or years.

Vero looked skyward and offered her prayers to the infinite: I know that you are up there, listening, she thought, and you have your reasons for denying me a child, but you have put these two in my charge and I stand justified in doing what I felt was right by bringing them together. You have helped me to create a new love, so now you must give me a way to preserve it.

She paused for inspiration from her trusted wine and cigarette, waiting for some guidance from above.

Clearly, there was a good connection to the divine, that evening, as the answer suddenly arrived and Vero beamed with satisfaction. The answer was so clear to her and she could not wait to share it.

She strode over to Ben and Setsu with her usual assured swagger.

"You two, come and sit with me, I have something to tell you."

She ushered them to wooden chairs under a tree and began to explain her wonderful idea as though she were reading a bedtime story.

"I have it! I know just what to do in order to help the pair of you keep in touch once you are away from us."

Setsu looked puzzled.

"You do? I was getting so worried about that."

Vero smiled, "It has been so obvious that I could not see it. The answer lies right here with neutral Argentina. There are no restrictions on either of you sending letters here, so all you have to do is send them to me!

"I will just put your letters in to new envelopes with your addresses on them and it will look as though they have been sent to you from me."

"That's brilliant," said Ben, "But any letters to or from me will still be read by a censor, so we would have to be careful."

"That is true," agreed Vero, "So you should not use your names. Just sign yourselves as 'S' for Setsu and 'B' for Ben."

Setsu did not look so confident in Vero's plan.

"Yes, that will work well for Ben, but I don't know how I would send any letters out of Japan, and how will you send anything to me?"

"Ah, I have thought of that, too," beamed Vero, "Hector and I have friends at the Ministry of Trade who can send letters to the Argentine embassy in Tokyo. All you will have to do is visit there maybe once a month to send and collect your letters. You see – I told you that we are the right people!"

Setsu looked re-assured and raised a glass.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. Let us all drink to you and to our letters. The letters to Señora Hernandez."

***

The evening dusk began to cast its dull cloak over the garden, so with the food consumed and the fire beckoning, the people of Estancia Fuga made their way indoors.

Vero and Hector had gone to check that their beloved horses were settled for the night, whilst Sandra busied herself in the kitchen. Sitting by the newly lit fire, Ben and Setsu pondered Vero's master plan.

"I promise that I will write to you. We will keep in touch. You told me that we can make things happen if we believe in them, and I believe in what we can do," said Ben.

"I promise the same to you," declared Setsu. "The war is beyond our control but if we both stay determined, then we can do this. I think it will work – we can make it work. We know that we have to go, but at least this way we can keep in touch," started Setsu. "Letters are such precious things. They can carry so much of your feelings and even though they are just pieces of paper, they can bring you close together."

"Actually, I was thinking about that and I would like to suggest something," said Ben, who reached in to his pocket, producing the Conway-Stewart pen that had been gifted to him by James Carruthers.

"This was given to me by a very special man. The fellow who set me on the path that led me to you. I would like you to have this, so that when you write to me, you are doing so with . . . well, a part of me."

Setsu took the pen and smiled, almost fetching a tear to her eye. She immediately got up and walked to the cabinet by the door, on which stood her handbag.

"That is such a beautiful gesture," she said as she walked back towards him, offering him her blood-red Pilot fountain pen.

"This was my father's and it would mean so much to me if you would write your letters with this pen. Then I would know that every word was written with love."

The pair rose to their feet, embraced and kissed.

"Well, that's the horses put to bed! Who's for a little night-cap, then?" Vero strode in to the room with Hector trailing but closing in on the drinks cabinet with singular purpose. Foiled again, Ben and Setsu broke from their clinch and sat down in separate seats, both of them realising that for now, the best way for them to express their feelings would be to simply write them down.

Chapter Twenty-three - Such Sweet Sorrow

Winter had taken hold upon the Pampas. The stubbled crops had faded to palest yellow under an unblinking sun in an ice-blue sky. Evergreen trees still sang a continual diaphanous whisper as the soft breeze sighed through their branches.

Again, the owners of Estancia Fuga sat and dined with their two young guests, as they had done so many times over the last six months. Sandra's food was as delicious and filling as ever and the roaring fire had kept everyone warm.

Despite this, the four people felt a degree of emptiness and coldness because this was the last time that they would all be together for quite some time. The following morning, Ben would leave for New Zealand, whilst only three weeks after that, Setsu would make her return to Japan.

Despite this muted air, Vero knew that the night was going to move on to better things. After dessert, she had excused herself, saying that she was going to help Sandra in the kitchen, but the drinks were not the main focus of her agenda.

"I'll take the coffee, Sandra. You go upstairs and make sure that the fires are all going well in Setsu and Ben's rooms – I think you know why!"

Sandra gave her a baffled look?

"Both rooms? But I thought that tonight was the night?"

"I can't be sure which room they will end up in! I can hardly tell them which one to go in, myself!"

"You can't be sure? Oh, come on, Señora, what do your instincts tell you?"

"Well, custom dictates that it should be the man who leads the lady to his room, but Setsu is definitely the more assertive one . . . oh, I can't decide!"

"Well, what about your first time with Hector? Didn't you go to his room?"

"We didn't have a room – we had the Pampas!"

Sandra paused for a moment.

"Was it his field or your field?"

"I can't remember. I was too busy staring at the stars!"

Both women cackled saucily, then settled, lest they attracted any attention from the dining room.

"Look, Sandra, just put some extra logs on both fires to be on the safe side."

"Very good, Señora," Sandra made for the stairs, but Vero suddenly called her back.

"Put some extra logs on our fire, too, please. Tonight is not just a night for young love – there is plenty of room for old love, too!"

Sandra smiled and continued upstairs.

"Here is the coffee!" announced Vero as she entered the dining room.

"I'm not sure if I should have any," said Ben, "You know how it keeps me awake and, for once, I actually have to get up early, tomorrow."

Ben stopped himself. He saw the look from Vero and could actually read it: tonight was different. Tonight was meant to be a long night. Tonight, the chaperone's shackles would be off.

"Perhaps just this once, eh?"

Now it was clear where the night was leading, Vero could relax, too. No more need to use delaying tactics or be an obstruction.

He would look at Setsu with nervous excitement and then look away almost in panic, trying to engage in Vero's small talk or indulge Hector in his passion for cigars, but it was becoming less and less possible to focus on anything other than being together with Setsu, but alone with her.

"You know, Ben, a cigar is so lonely without a brandy. Will you join me? And, my dear Señoras, surely you will indulge in a canã?"

All agreed and Hector poured out the helpings: two for relaxation and two for Dutch courage.

The quartet sat and watched the flames of the fire dance over the steadily fading logs. Their heat would be exhausted by morning – as with all things, there is only a given time in which to burn brightly.

Vero and Hector savoured their drinks with a subtle swiftness and it was Vero's turn to take the lead. She knew that their part in the play was over for tonight and that it was time to leave the young actors alone for their most intimate scene.

"Come, my old puma, let us put these glasses in the kitchen and make our way upstairs. I may have need of you on such a cold night!"

The noble cat rose and followed his lioness, pausing at the door to address his young wards.

"I bid you both the tenderest of goodnights. Or should that be a night of good tenderness?"

Before the dumbstruck lovers could reply, the puma was grabbed and led away by his mistress, upstairs to blissful captivity.

There was no more need for words. Both knew that the night was going to end this way. Drinks were left by the fireside and Setsu followed Vero's example by taking Ben's hand and leading him upstairs.

Accompanied by nothing more than the crackling of the fire, Setsu opened her bedroom door and led her man inside. Previously, any opportunity to steal kisses had been sincere but formal, whilst hands had been held with restraint and embraces had been both reserved and difficult. That time was now past and such fear and inhibition were to be forgotten.

Alone, the fire and the light of the full moon spilling through the window gave them all the illumination that was required as finally lips could meet with unrestrained fullness, bodies could press together, hands could clasp and pull at clothes. Any notion of innocence was banished by pure instinct.

Breathing quickened to gasping, pulses racing, as both lay together on the bed and felt the scintillating first sensation of bare skin on skin. Animal drive mixed with gentleness, as the blind urges were tempered by the unwillingness to inflict discomfort, but the lusty vigour was knowingly met with willing surrender.

Eyes met in the moonlight and locked in a gaze that, though wordless, exchanged a thousand pages of unwavering devotion.

This night would never come again. They wanted every touch to last forever – it needed to last forever - for after tomorrow, each breath, thought and sensation from this night would be all that they would have to sustain each other for goodness knew how long.

All passion spent, they lay sleeping in a tight embrace, which would last until sunrise.

Chapter Twenty-four - June 1943

The stormy seas of the Terra Del Fuego were long past and beneath the dreamy blue skies of the South Pacific, the long, white clouds clearly flagged the presence below of New Zealand.

Standing on prow of the merchant vessel, Ben again marvelled at the new sights before him: the myriad of tiny islands that peppered the approach to Auckland Harbour, some of which, with their jade green grass and undulating hillocks seemed to be uncanny microcosms of his native Derbyshire landscape, albeit thankfully free of coal mines and their accompanying slag heaps. That said, with landscapes so similar, it was no wonder that both places were famous for being largely covered with sheep.

Squinting in the bright mid-morning light, it was again the sheer vivid colour that struck him. As in Lisbon the clouds dissipated in the growing heat and the sky seemed like a perfect, stretched wall of polished azure. The sea was the deepest of emerald greens, whilst between the ocean and the heavens the grass did truly appear to be greener.

From a distance, there seemed barely room to shoe-horn in another vessel at the bustling quayside. British and American ships filled every available space as worker ant sailors, troops and stevedores toiled, embarked, disembarked or just plain busy-bodied about their work, all with the ultimate collective aim of heading for Tokyo.

The ship tip-toed through the precarious approach to the quayside and finally moored by the large, white cargo sheds of Queen's Wharf.

Estancia Fuga,

Mercedes, Buenos Aires

November 9th, 1943

Dear Ben,

As I write, it is Summer again and you must be getting ready for Christmas in the sunshine, just like we did, last year.

All I can think of is how much I miss you already. You have been gone for a few months and it feels like a lifetime. Vero is doing her best to keep me happy and we are riding horses and shopping a great deal.

Mother is well and still sending me letters telling me to eat properly and hurry home to her. I do not mind, as it gives her something on which to focus. I still have heard so very little from my brother – I think that he has forgotten about us!

New Zealand sounds so very beautiful, especially after the Pampas was so flat! I hope that I can see it with you, one day, very soon. Is the weather really hot there, like it is supposed to be in Australia? Do they have crocodiles? I hope not!

Can you please send some photographs of yourself, and maybe even of you with your aeroplane? That would be very special.

I must close, as I do not get as much time to write as I would like. Write soon, be safe.

Love,

S.

Christchurch, New Zealand

December 17th, 1943

Dear S,

Hello again! All is going well with my training. I have been flying a much bigger aeroplane called a Harvard which is very much more powerful than the biplane Tiger Moth and I must admit that on my first go in one I was so taken with flying it that I lost all track of time!

My C.O. gave me a bit of a talking to for that, but I could hardly help but enjoy the sights – this really is the most beautiful country that I have ever seen. You will be pleased to know that I have worked hard to make up for my error and am in good books again now.

One of my fellow trainees is a Maori chap named Te Kawau (that means 'cormorant', he tells me) and he has invited me to one of his 'iwi' (that's their word for tribe, which is apparently called Ngati Whatua o Orakei – I must ask him what that means, again!) gatherings called 'Matariki' – which is their new year celebrations (don't ask me why it isn't on the 31st of December). It should all be very interesting.

I hope that you are well and that this letter reaches you before you head for home. I feel as though a part of me is missing.

I shall close for now – I need to study for a test on meteorology! I will write again as soon as possible.

Lots of love,

Ben

Chapter Twenty-five - Correspondence In Transit

There was music in the air. Everywhere and everything was music. Birds in the trees led the way with their merry descants. Insects numbering in their thousands, though somehow all hidden from view, made their shrill and unending tremolando. Cattle added their off-key baritone improvisations and from a distance, came the steely rhythms and rattly bangs of the trains that Ben once maintained.

All this music of the Earth's sphere was insignificant, though, in comparison to one melodious offering in particular. From across the fields one could hear the notes dancing their way through the air, and if one followed them back to their source, over field and along pathway, traversing streams and passing between trees, one would eventually find it emanating from the widely flung-open windows of the Estancia Hernandez.

For there at the grand piano sat Vero, lost in the sound of a tango, her left hand leading the music with percussive drive, her right tackling the melody, whilst still finding room for harmonies and grace notes. She worked the sustain pedal with her right foot as though she was at a sewing machine and though her left foot could have been used for the soft pedal, Vero's mood was indelicate – such a glorious day required passion, and passion should be played fortissimo!

A cigarette holder was gripped between the maestro's teeth and she puffed discreetly with her eyes closed, tipping her head from side to side, loose hair swaying with the lolling rhythms.

Sandra paused at the doorway clutching the day's mail. She knew better than to interrupt the mistress when she was in full flight. Besides, it was always a joy to witness such a performance.

Vero sensed the presence in the room and like a half-waking lioness she opened one eye and acknowledged Sandra – it was time to reach the climax of the performance.

"Bring them to me, please!" she called without missing a beat and then raced towards the final chord. In one single movement, Vero rose to her feet whilst racing upwards on the right of the keyboard with her right hand, glancing downwards to make sure that the final note was plinked in to place by her trailing left hand, she moved toward Sandra.

"Bravo! Today's letters, Senora."

"Gracias, Sandra. I shall sit outside to read them. Please fetch me a glass of water." Vero strolled to the patio.

The timing of the deliveries was remarkable. For amid the business letters for Hector sat two far-flung postmarks: one from Japan and another from New Zealand. Her husband's letters of commerce would have to wait – there was something much more important to be processed, here!

Vero opened the two letters and removed them from their crumpled envelopes. It was at this moment that she found herself consumed by both unabashed excitement and voyeuristic guilt. In her hands sat the thoughts, feelings and outpourings of the two young people for whom she cared so much, who had found love in each other and who she, herself, had come to love as if they were her own. She felt pride in being able to maintain their love against all obstacles and circumstances. It was her duty to allow Setsu and Ben to find some sunshine together in a world so clouded by war and ignorance, so the letters would be re-packaged promptly and sent on their rightful ways.

Just as soon, that is, as they had been read and checked. After all, Vero felt a maternal urge to ensure that there was nothing in the letters that would compromise either of them. She could not live with herself if she felt that she had allowed Setsu or Ben to be endangered. Not only that, but this was better than any romantic novel – who needed mere fiction when you could have the real thing happening right here?

She called in to the house and Sandra appeared promptly. "On second thoughts, I'll have a glass of red wine! And please tell Luis to ready the horses – you and I will need to ride to the railway station in half an hour. Please pack me a bag for an overnight stay in the city."

She pored over the letters and felt the passion of every word. She wished that she could hold the pair of them together in her arms, right at that moment, but again, time was of the essence. If she was to get these letters on to the second leg of their journey, it was time to show some urgency.

Finishing her wine, Vero made her way to her writing desk, across from the piano. She chose a pair of her favourite envelopes and slipped the letters in to them. On the first, she wrote: Senorita Setsu Kimura, courtesy of the Argentine Embassy, Tokyo, whilst the second stated: Mr B. Hutchinson, Royal New Zealand Air Force, Christchurch, New Zealand.

"Senora, Luis asked me to tell you that the horses are ready, and I have laid out your riding clothes for you. Your overnight bag will be packed by the time you are changed." announced Sandra from the doorway.

Vero readied herself as quickly as she could. With Hector away in the car, horseback was the best option. She knew that there would be a train to Buenos Aires at noon, so if she rode quickly, she could be at the station in half an hour. All she had to do was get to the city, then she could stay in their apartment overnight and visit the foreign office in the morning. Nothing felt more important to her.

Stepping out of the house in her riding clothes, Vero smiled at Sandra, who was also dressed for the ride. Both women mounted their horses – neither of which were riding side-saddle – and set off at a canter.

Chapter Twenty-six - Ceremonial Scripture

"Setsu! I am going over to Mr and Mrs Sakamoto's house for the Neighbourhood Association meeting," called Masako to her daughter, who duly emerged from the kitchen to meet her mother in the hallway.

"What time will you be home, Okasan?"

"Well, we are having a talk on clothing distribution, then there is the NHK broadcast on the radio, so I will probably be home by eight. What will you do with yourself all on your own?"

"Oh, I have work to do and I think I shall write a letter to Katsuhiro."

"You are a good girl. Make sure that you tell him how much I miss him!"

Masako kissed her daughter on the cheek and made her way. Home by eight. That was all the information Setsu needed and now she would make the most of the available free time.

On hearing the front door close, Setsu set about her first priority: making good her words and writing to Katsuhiro. She did this with an almost guilty swiftness, but there was no shortage of sincerity and love in her words.

As to where this letter was going, she knew nothing – that was only for the military to know. The address was merely to Katsuhiro's regiment. Whether it was to China, Indonesia, Burma, Malaya, Singapore, Thailand, The Philippines, Formosa, or any of the other places now under Japanese rule, she could only wonder. All she knew was that this piece of paper was to go on a voyage to some distant land and hopefully, wherever Katsuhiro would be, the letter would find him and make her thoughts, feelings and actions in this time and place come to life for him.

Her sisterly duties complete, Setsu's attention turned to her even greater affair of the heart and she made determined strides for the chashitsu. On reaching the door and sliding it open, Setsu slowed her pace and breathing, easing herself in to the room on her knees and slowly, silently, sliding along the tatami mats.

On reaching the opening in the floor in which the iron kama kettle usually sat, she stopped and from within the pocket of her jinbei shorts produced her father's old six inch metal type scale ruler, which she then place on the floor in front of her. With deftness, she rolled back the tatami mat on her right, exposing the bare wooden floorboards, then picked up the ruler and carefully prised back the wood. Two pieces came away neatly and she placed the ruler on the floor in front of her. There was now room for her to reach in with her right hand, which she did, her arm going in to the gap beyond her elbow.

She reached down under the fire box and found her treasure, which she slowly and dotingly removed through the gap in the floorboards, making sure that it emerged silently and without blemish.

It was a large tealeaf tin, about ten inches long by six inches wide. Smiling, Setsu held it before her for a moment in both hands, and then placed it on the tatami mat in front of her knees, next to the ruler, which she then took up again and used to help place the floorboards back in position and leave no sign of disturbance.

The ruler was placed back in her pocket and she picked up the tin, rose mindfully and made her exit, sliding the door to the chashitsu closed and returning the room to its usual hushed state.

Setsu strode with restrained urgency in to her father's study, sat down at the writing desk and placed the box before her. She prised the tin open and removed a bundle wrapped in cloth, then she peeled back the folds of cotton to expose the contents. The topmost item was also wrapped in cotton – she unwrapped this and held it up before her: it was the blue and black marbled Conway-Stewart fountain pen. Then her gaze turned to the rest of the contents and her heart quickened for a moment as she picked up the precious bundle of Ben's letters.

She laid the bundle gently at the top left corner of the desk, picking up the most recent one and opening it out so that its words could speak out and smile at her whilst she wrote her reply.

Writing paper was put in place at the centre of the desk's leather panel. The pen was cleaned and filled with ink, then accurately placed to the right of the paper. There was, however, still more protocol to be observed before the perfect letter could be written. Setsu rose from her chair, turned gracefully and exited the study, returning moments later with a flower from the garden, which she placed with precision beside the fountain pen.

Still standing, Setsu reached back behind her head and removed her hairgrip. Her long, coal-black hair began to fall loose and she momentarily eschewed her Japanese decorum and replaced it with Vero's bohemian Latin flair, shaking her locks until it became a ruffled mane that tumbled over her shoulders. With the desired look and feel now achieved, the Zen attitude returned and Setsu picked up the flower, placing it in her hair, just behind her right ear.

Everything was now in place. She was ready to be with Ben. Setsu sat down at the desk, picked up the pen and began to write.

My Darling B,

It means so much to receive each letter from you. Saying goodbye to you was one of the most difficult things that I have ever done. I miss you so terribly and every letter that you send is now precious to me.

I see each letter as more than just a piece of paper and writing – it is both from you and a part of you. In fact, the very process of writing is a social interaction with you – I hope that you feel as I do, in that when I read your letters, I hear your voice and I feel as though your are truly in the room with me. To know that you held that paper, that the words you wrote were shaped by your hand and came from your heart, makes every page come alive for me.

I know that we might be apart for quite some time, but until we are together again, our letters must become us – it is the closest we can be to true togetherness.

I have found work! I am to begin work as a schoolteacher, soon. I am a little nervous about this, even though I have plenty of experience of it, because I have never actually taught in Japan. However, here is such a shortage of people to do this job and I want to help the children learn, so I will do my best. Please wish me luck.

Mother is well and is devoting herself to the Neighbourhood Association, whilst my brother is away with the army, now. Much the same as with you, I do not know exactly where he is. I worry for him as much as for you and pray that both he and you will return to me soon.

Keep yourself safe and write to me as soon as you can.

All my love,

S.

It hurt to end the letter. Sealing the envelope felt like saying goodbye all over again. There was so much more to write, but time only allowed for fleeting pleasantries and vague suggestions of what one really wanted to say at greater length, now it was time to make sure that all trace of this illicit communication was removed. There would surely be another time to come in which so much more could be said.

Steps were re-traced and all evidence hidden. Setsu had just completed re-grooming her hair when she heard the sound of Masako returning with the unshakeable Japanese punctuality that puts all other nations to shame It was, indeed, eight o'clock, precisely.

Chapter Twenty-seven - The Empire Builder

Kunio Sanu took another mouthful of sake and gazed about his office. It was a simple and basic affair, but then it had to be, as his last one had burned down in an air raid and he lacked the means and resources to furnish a new one. The desk and chair had been salvaged from a nearby office that had also been bombed, and besides that, the walls and floor were bare, save for two items.

From the ruins of his own home, he had managed to save two prized photographs and they hung on the wall to his left.

The first one was of his father, Yuudai, proudly wearing the uniform of the Japanese Imperial Navy. It had been taken in 1905, just before he was to sail with the fleet to engage the Russians at what would become the famous Battle of the Tsushima Strait. Kunio still clearly remembered standing on the quayside as an excited infant, holding his mother's hand, as the two of them stood with so many others and waved the departing warships farewell.

Shortly after this bombastic and emotional departure, a freak wave washed Yuudai overboard and he was lost, presumed drowned, before any sight was made of the Tsar's battleships.

A few days later, with the news that the Russian fleet lay at the bottom of the Sea of Japan, a nation rejoiced. Little Kunio was told by his mother that his father had given his life in the defence of Japan and that he should be the proudest little boy in the land. From that day, he vowed to follow in his father's footsteps. He would fight for Japan and show the western bullies that his country was strong. They could build their own empire, too.

Sure enough, the young Kunio joined the navy as soon as he was old enough, training as a gunner, and he waited eagerly for the call to arms. The prayer was answered in the best possible manner in 1918, when the Allied Powers of Europe and America asked Japan to help them occupy parts of Russia in the wake of the Bolshevik Revolution. This could not have been better for Kunio, who itched for the chance to avenge his family against the Russians.

His warship docked in Vladivostok in the autumn of that year, having escorted troop ships and supply vessels for what promised to be a major campaign.

Given some much-needed shore leave, Kunio was encouraged to go ashore with some of his older crewmates and they ventured in to the seaport in search of a bar.

They found a quiet bistro and settled in, fully aware that they were strangers in town and had a responsibility to behave and not disgrace their ship or their country. A couple of the older sea dogs amongst the group regaled the younger ones with their first-hand tales of the great victories of 1905 and so entranced were those in attendance that they barely noticed the steady arrival of more and more American Marines whose numbers eventually brought the place to capacity.

Some of the Marines were already a little the worse for drink and began to eye the Japanese sailors with contempt, hurling quips and insults in their direction. The older sailors told Kunio and his friends to take no heed, but a group of the Marines seemed to have a problem with them and began gesturing and posturing towards them, becoming more and more aggressive, until the Japanese sailors decided that they really ought to leave.

There was much pushing and shoving from the taller Americans, but before the door could be reached, a particularly drunken Marine grabbed the diminutive Kunio, picking him up bodily and declaring, "Look at this little Jap! Ain't he cute? I think I'll take him home and keep him as a pet!"

It was enough for the other sailors, who waded in to the throng to rescue their frightened young comrade. As they strove to extrapolate him, things descended in to a dirty brawl, punches were sloppily thrown, wrestling broke out and men tried to restrain their compatriots to try and diffuse the pathetic scene.

Somehow, Kunio was dragged free and the sailors ran for the door. Bursting out on to the street, they ran for the docks, followed by a rag-tag detachment of Marines, still yet to have their due pound of flesh.

The light was fading and the locals looked on as the hapless Japanese ran like foxes on the run, pursued by their much larger hounds. With one more corner to turn, it looked as if Kunio and his crew-mates would reach safety, but as they reached the corner, the men were thrown to the four winds by a speeding car full of American Military Policemen who were on their way to try and stop the commotion in the city.

Kunio was too busy running for his life and looking over his shoulder to see the car coming. Despite swerving to try and miss him, the side of the Americans' car thumped in to the young man, who was thrown to the cobbled road and knocked unconscious. The car continued to skid, going over Kunio's prone body, whilst the trailing wheel dragged itself over his left leg.

All those in attendance gasped and winced at the sight and sound of the accident. The chasing Marines stopped in their tracks, sobered by what they saw.

The ship's surgeon worked a minor miracle in saving Kunio's leg, but his days in the navy were over and he would always walk with a limp.

There was a knock on his office door, which transported him back from his lamentation of a quarter of a century ago. He faltered back to his chair, quickly placed his sake bottle and glass back in their draw, mopped his moist brow and gathered his thoughts.

"Enter!"

The door opened silently and a young lady stepped in to the room, bowing to her superior.

"You sent for me, Sanu Sensei."

"Yes, Kimura San, come forward."

Setsu dutifully stood before the desk.

"You have been working here for a few weeks, now, and I am mostly pleased with your work at the school."

"Thank you, Sanu Sensei," said Setsu with another bow.

"But I must inform you that you need to make a greater effort in your teaching of military drill. It is of the uttermost importance that the children are conducted in this with the strongest of discipline. Without it, they will be ill prepared for military service! In future, you must show more assertiveness and firmness – you will find that the children will respect you all the more for it."

Setsu bit her tongue for a moment.

"I will try my best to carry out my duties, Sanu Sensei."

"You will do more than try!" snapped Kunio, "You will carry out your duty to the letter! These young people will need to fight for their country, soon, and if you cannot give them the skill and discipline that they need for the coming battle, then I shall do it myself!"

That was the last thing that Setsu wanted. In her short time at the school, she had seen how Kunio meted out his discipline: by the rod. Students stood bolt upright when he walked by and for some of the younger ones it was all that they could do not to tremble in his presence. She sometimes felt that same dis-ease when he spoke to her in the school corridor – oh so often leaning close enough that she could smell the drink on his breath.

"You see," he continued, "I think that your time abroad with those white devils has made you a little weak at heart. Although, to be fair, Kimura San, I find your ability to teach mathematics and literature perfectly adequate, but you seem to have too much of that Western, feminine softness about you. One wonders what occupies your thoughts, sometimes."

His eyes dwelt on her hips and bosom.

"You need to either lose that, or hide it well, if you are to do your job effectively. I have decided that I must observe your teaching of today's final class. Please feel assured that, should you need further guidance from me, I am always available, Kimura San."

There was a pause.

"That is all. You may go."

Setsu bowed again and felt his gaze follow her out of the room.

***

"Forward march! Forward march! Soldiers, forward march!" chorused the students, quoting the opening line of their textbooks.

Kunio nodded his approval toward Setsu. She looked at the class before her – seventeen children of ages from seven to fourteen years old. All the girls wore traditional looking kimono dresses with their hair tied back, whilst all of the boys were in military uniform, their heads closely shorn.

The majority of children had been evacuated from Tokyo in the preceding months, but now that fuel and food were in such short supply, there were scarce few takers in the countryside for those that remained.

The classroom was as hastily put together as Kunio's office, with crudely constructed wooden benches that were arranged in neat rows. The girls sat on one side of the room and the boys on the other. Setsu would dictate from the remaining books that she was given, and the students wrote as best as they could with stubs of pencils and scraps of paper.

The building was an old sake distillery, but the machinery had all been requisitioned long ago for the war effort, leaving a shell of a dwelling. The two main rooms had been taken over as makeshift classrooms.

For the past three weeks, they had managed in this fashion, carrying on as if this was somehow normal.

"It is now time for our history class," Setsu informed her charges. She began to quote from her school textbook on the matter of the Kokutai no bongi - 'The Fundamentals of the National Polity' - and how Japan was superior to other nations, whilst also emphasising the importance of the home, the family and ancestors. The Emperor, it said, was 'a living god who rules our country with the benevolent wishes of his Imperial Founder and his other imperial ancestors.'

Kunio looked on with approval, whilst Setsu forced the words from her mouth – she had not realised that she was this good an actress. How long could she keep this going?

"We will end our class, today, with a patriotic song."

At this, Kunio stole a march, and hobbled from his observation post at the back of the room to take centre stage.

"Pay attention, class. We have a new song to learn and I have written out the words on this sheet. You two boys here will hold this up."

He ordered the two tallest boys in the room to stand either side of him and unfurl a cloth sheet, on which he had written the words. The title read 'Wipe Out Americans and Britons'.

In a gravelly monotone, he taught the class something close to the melody by getting them to sing back each line as he bellowed it toward them.

"The time to eliminate has come!" chorused the children.

Kunio sang the lines with relish and conducted the performance with an ever-growing martial frenzy. On reaching the final line, 'We, the Imperial subjects, are ready to die!' he fixed his young charges with a steely gaze.

With the performance over, he dismissed the class for the day and turned to Setsu.

"There, you see? That is how to encourage your students and make sure that they have their hearts and minds in the right place!"

Setsu bowed again, "Yes, Sanu Sensei. I learned much from watching you."

"You did well with the lecture on the Kokutai. If you keep this up, you will be a fine teacher. Now, we need to talk more about your drill instruction."

"I am grateful for your guidance, Sensei. But if you will excuse me, I really must set off for home. I must get back to help my mother with the Neighbourhood Association."

Kunio thought that he could sense some unease in her voice, but he put that down to her feminine vulnerability.

"Of course," he sighed, "It is important that you support your mother. The two of you are alone, yes?"

"Yes," she nodded, "We have had to leave our house because of the air raids and move to the Shitamachi district. It takes me a long time to travel there."

"It must be so difficult for you to survive without a man to provide for the two of you. I am not just available to support you with your teaching, Kimura San. A young, unmarried lady like you could benefit from my support. Please bear that in mind. I know that I could be of great benefit to the pair of you."

Again, Setsu nodded and bowed.

"Thank you, Sanu Sensei. Please excuse me. I must leave, now."

"Very well. Have a safe journey home."

With that, Setsu left the room, again feeling those eyes following her every step.

***

Setsu hurried to the tram stop and was pleased that she did not have to wait for long. She luckily found herself a seat on the vehicle and allowed herself to relax.

The journey home, though, would be taking a rather longer route than usual, for today was a special day. With yet more of the self-discipline of a Shinto-approved ritual, Setsu had developed a routine to which she had adhered for the last year and a half. On the first available working day of every new month, she would make a journey to the city for her favourite errand.

Oblivious to the other passengers, she let the stops roll by. With her back to the window of the tram and the view before her obscured by other passengers, she was spared the sight of ever more bomb damage as the tram gently rattled its way from the west of the city to the central area.

For now, some areas had for the most part been spared the wrath of the US Air Force, and it was here that Setsu alighted and made her way along the main road for a couple of minutes, before stopping to cross the road. This was a routine that she had practiced many times, now, where she would use the action of looking for traffic to also look around her and make sure that she was going un-noticed.

Satisfied that the rush-hour crowd had secured her a degree of anonymity, she crossed the road and boldly approached the door of the Argentine Embassy.

The doorman acknowledged her with a reassuring nod, having seen her make this monthly visit several times, now, and she made her way to the reception desk, where her favourite and riskiest formality was about to be played out again.

Florita Rios was still engaged in a telephone conversation and had not yet looked up from the sheet of paper on which she was writing down a message. Her shoulder length, light brown hair was pulled back tightly and gave her an unapproachable look. She assured the Uruguayan civil servant that the meeting would take place at the agreed time and hung up the receiver. Only then did she look up and see Setsu, feigning indifference to this young local who could have been anyone.

"Buenos tardes. May I help you?"

Maintaining the formality, Setsu reached in to the fold of her kimono, producing a letter, then responded with her stock reply.

"Buenos tardes, señora. I would be very grateful if you could please pass on this letter to my friend, Señora Hernandez, in Buenos Aires. I have addressed it in full. The envelope is un-sealed, if you wish to inspect the contents."

Florita perused the envelope with an air of nonchalant officialdom.

"This all appears to be in order. I shall place it with our other mail. It will leave within the week. Thank you."

This should have made Setsu's heart skip to know that another of her letters was starting its long journey to Ben, but was suddenly struck with disquiet. Was there nothing more?

"You will need to sign this visitor's register, please," added Florita, almost as an afterthought. She passed over a clip-board and pen, gently reaching forward and guiding Setsu's left hand to the back of the board, pinned to the back of which by Florita's thumb was an envelope. For the first time in this exchange, her blue eyes met Setsu's with a look of friendship.

"Just the one, this month," she whispered with a nod, "See you next time, my friend."

Setsu gave a reserved smile and quietly thanked Florita as she tucked the precious communication in to her kimono and headed back to the tram stop and her final leg of the journey home.

Always, those first steps out of the embassy gave her a flush of self-consciousness, as though the mass of pedestrians, motorists and passengers might all turn their gaze toward her and wonder what she was doing there, but once she began to merge and mingle with the stream of bodies, she felt invisible again.

This was becoming a habit – a dangerous one, but a worthwhile one. There was no other way to do this, as the night-time curfew limited both parties to office hours and the Argentines did not wish to bring attention to themselves by passing by Setsu's home on a regular basis. She knew that if she were caught, only she would be brought to book for this and diplomatic immunity would take care of all other parties. Yet, all of this could be forgotten for now, as all she could think of was getting home and reading Ben's latest letter.

She allowed herself a small smile and quickly put her head down, striving to maintain her inconspicuousness.

And blend in with the crowd she did, for she was not a familiar face in this part of the city, save for one keen observer who had alighted after her from the tram.

Once again, his eyes locked on to her slender frame and the way that her hips swayed with her now confident strides – but Kunio's lustful gaze was also laced with curious anger. Just what was this young woman doing consorting with westerners? This was not the first time he had followed her and seen her visit the embassy – she must be a spy!

Quickening his off-beat pace, he gave chase. Shouldering his way through the people before him, he closed to within a couple of bodies' distance, before there was a sudden halt at a junction and everyone massed at the kerb side, awaiting the go-ahead of the policeman in the centre of the road who was directing the traffic. He saw his chance and barged forward, grabbing Setsu by the arm.

"Kimura! You must explain yourself!"

"Sanu Sensei?" stammered Setsu. The people around her looked for a moment, but the signal to cross had been given by the policeman and the tide of people began to move around them.

"What are you doing with the foreigners? Why are you going to their embassy? Are you betraying Japan?"

"No . . . Sensei . . . I am a . . . loyal subject of the Emperor."

"Lies! You will come with me!" He motioned towards the police officer, "Come, quickly, I need your help! This woman needs to be questioned!"

Some of the passing pedestrians turned their heads and showed signs of interest and the policeman was distracted enough to begin heading towards them.

Setsu began to try and wrest her arm free from Kunio's grip, but he was a strong man.

"Who are you talking to? What are you telling them?"

His words were cut short by the sound of the air raid siren. People scattered for the shelters and for a moment, Kunio was distracted by this as he again tried to catch the policeman's eye. Setsu saw her chance and broke free from his grip, running for the safety that the crowd would give her.

The policeman now had more important duties and told Kunio to forget his quarrel and take cover. Kunio began to chase after Setsu.

"Come back! You are running because you know you are guilty!"

His words became mixed with the growing sound of the approaching aircraft and the first explosions of their bombs. Woefully ineffective anti-aircraft fire added to the racket.

She had to stay with the crowd – to run in to the middle of the street would be madness, but this was slowing her escape and even the hobbling Kunio could still give chase with his eyes fixed on her.

The crowds were now thinning as they reached the shelters and underground train stations – filing in to the entrances and sighing with collective relief as the bombs began to fall with greater rapidity and closer proximity.

Running in to the shelter was no sanctuary at all, for there she would be cornered, thought Setsu, so the only place to go was back on to the street to take her chances with the bombs. She turned and pushed her way back from the entrance.

"Where are you going?" Asked an elderly lady. "It's not safe out there!"

Setsu raced along the pavement, turning back to see the advancing Kunio. She gave the old lady a look of despair, turned and ran.

An explosion on the other side of the road sent debris flashing in front of her and she was hurled to the wall of the building opposite by the blast. Reeling and driven by fear, she picked herself up and stumbled on as a fire crew tore past in their engine. For a fleeting moment as they drove by, the crew saw the dust-covered girl being chased by the lame old man and collectively gaped at the ridiculous scene, but then left them to their own fates as they returned their thoughts to the serious matters at hand.

Bomb after bomb exploded around them and a resounding salvo of blasts brought down the buildings ahead of Setsu, cutting off the way forward. Looking about her, there was an alleyway across the road.

The heat from the flames was now reaching her and the smoke was obscuring her view, but she made it to the alley, only to find that it was a dead end, with no doors or pathways out.

"Kimura!"

She turned around and saw Kunio at the entrance to the alley, some twenty yards away. Dishevelled and frenzied, he began to limp slowly towards her.

"You cannot run away now," he spat, "Your name means 'faithfulness', but I feel that you would be better advised to call yourself 'traitor'!"

"It's not what you think . . ."

"Be quiet! I know an enemy of Japan when I see one! We need no trial for this! I find you guilty!"

He reached in to his jacket and produced a revolver, shakily aiming it at Setsu.

She froze, unable to scream, awaiting the bullet's ultimate sting. She looked straight at Kunio's contorted face and deep in to his eyes.

In another instant, he would have fired, but the bomb that exploded across the street, behind him, sent a piece of shrapnel hurtling towards him that ripped his head clean from his shoulders. The blast flung the decapitated body straight at Setsu, shielding her from the bomb's debris, and the pair of them flew along the alley in a macabre embrace, thumping in to the wall.

The raid passed and the all clear was sounded.

Winded and dazed by the impact, she lay there shaking, until finally, she managed to catch her breath and clamber to her feet.

Battered, shocked and covered in blood that, fortunately, was not her own, she did her best to remove some of the dust, debris and entrails about her person, then paused to reach inside her kimono and retrieve the precious letter. Comforted, but too battered to smile, she lovingly replaced the letter and dragged herself towards the street.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Estancia Fuga,

Mercedes,

Buenos Aires

1st of February, 1944

Dear Setsu,

Today, Hector and I heard the news that Argentina is actually making a stand and is breaking off diplomatic relations with Germany and Japan. This is a real change in our circumstances, as this will mean that I can no longer send your letters through our embassy.

Please do not worry, though. As you know, we ARE the right people, so Hector and I have made arrangements with another good friend and from now on, you are to collect our letters from the Swedish embassy. Carry on as you have done in the past and all will be well. Ask for a lady named Viola Norling – she will be expecting you.

I am so glad that we can keep our arrangement alive. Every time I receive your letters I send them on, knowing how much joy they bring.

I must tell you that all is very well, here. Our beautiful Summer is coming to a close, now, and there is much work to do in preparing the farms before the cold weather comes. You will be looking toward Spring and the warmer weather – let us hope that it also brings us peace, so that we might all be together again, soon.

With love from both of us,

Vero

Chapter Twenty-nine - May 1944

The train rolled on its way north from Wellington to Auckland. Ben had noted that the narrower gauged tracks would mean a slower speed and a steady fifty miles per hour seemed to be the norm. It had only been ten months since he had arrived in New Zealand and he was still marvelling at the landscape and its beautiful, reeling peaks and hollows, awash with the deep greens of grass and the now golden yellow leaves of autumn.

He had found a peace and serenity in this country that possibly eclipsed that of the Pampas, perhaps because the British cultural heritage allowed him to assimilate himself so easily, whilst both countries shared a farming heritage, plenty of space in which to relax and a wonderfully calm state of mind.

It was in that state of calm that he found himself at that moment – a feeling laced with a certain irony given that he was wearing his blue air force uniform, as he had done for the past year, whilst there was also a plenitude of uniformed reminders of the war seated about the second-class carriage, the conflict still felt as far away as it had in Argentina. People idled, smoked and chatted away as they drank tea from their robust Crown Lynn mugs, all of which bore the legend 'NZR' of New Zealand Railways.

"Hey, mate, this is the bit you wanted to see again – just coming up!" Te Kawau shook Ben from his reverie and pointed out of the window.

Sure enough, the train was approaching the famous Ruarimu Spiral – a feat of railway engineering that James Carruthers had spoken of in mystical terms – in which the track would twice loop around itself, whilst going through a tunnel, then perform a horse-shoe bend before heading northwards – all whilst heading downhill.

Many other passengers readied themselves to take in this mid-journey sideshow and some even began making their way to the rear carriage of the train, so that as the train's locomotive swung to the right on the first loop, those looking out of the right hand side of the trailing carriage could see the train's engine coming towards them.

"One of the wonders of the world, mate, tucked away here in little old New Zealand!" marvelled Te Kawau, as he slumped back in to his seat and gathered his great-coat around him before slicking back his thick, shining black hair. He was a tall, handsome and confident young man, just a couple of years older than Ben, with a square jaw and keen, dark eyes.

The two young men had struck up a friendship once they had met at their Service Flying Training School, where they were now learning to fly the fast, but now largely obsolete Kittyhawk fighter, in preparation for even more powerful aircraft on a front line, somewhere in the world.

Both had been intrigued by the other's accents – Te Kawau was an eloquent speaker, yet his Maori twang set him apart from the other Kiwis on the course (indeed, he was the only Maori there) and he would giggle at the way Ben pronounced words such as 'cup' and 'lovely', often repeating the guttural vowels back to the Englishman.

"Oh, you'll like Auckland, mate. It's a really big place, now – even bigger than Wellington or Christchurch," he opined.

"I passed through it, last year, on the way down to Christchurch," replied Ben, "But you really need to brace yourself for somewhere like London, if you get sent there – it makes Auckland look like a village!"

Ben loved the fact that New Zealand's largest urban areas were so uncrowded and unencumbered by tall, claustrophobic brickwork – any city that felt like a village was fine by him.

"My family are looking forward to meeting you. You'll really enjoy Matariki – it's something we always try to get together for. There will be plenty there from the Iwi. You don't do this sort of thing, do you?" asked Te Kawau.

"What, you mean gathering the family together? Well, just at Christmas, or if there's a wedding or funeral, I suppose. Mind you, my family is so small that we could gather in a telephone box."

"You don't have anything like the Iwi, do you?"

Te Kawau had mentioned this a couple of times and it all sounded rather exotic to Ben – just like the tribes of Africa or the American Indians. Te Kawau continued.

"The Iwi, it's more than a family, it's more than just a tribe – it's the community, the people, their mana, land and way of life, all kind of rolled in to one. You just have your families, don't you? Hey, how many in your family, Ben?"

"Just my mum and me, really."

At this, Te Kawau looked puzzled.

"So you've got no brothers or sisters, then?"

"Nope."

"Well blow me down! I've got four brothers and two sisters – I've lost count of the cousins, uncles and aunties! Hey – I bet in your house you never had to wait as long as I did to use the dunny!"

Ben laughed, "Yeah, I guess so. Hey, this Matariki thing, just run it by me again what it's all about, please."

"Well," Te Kawau sat forward, eagerly, "What you call the Plaeadies star cluster, we call Matariki. When those stars rise and the new moon comes, then that's the start of our new year. It's going to happen, tomorrow, and we're going to have to get up early! We've still got about five hours before we get to Auckland, so I recommend that we both try and get some rest."

With that, both men sank even further in to their cossack blue great-coats and tried to doze away, as their train rolled steadily onward.

***

The crowd gathered at the top of One Tree Hill. Even in the first light of dawn, the panoramic view was breathtaking. To the east lay the bulk of the ever growing city of Auckland, with its packed harbour, to the north side of which lay the naval base of Devonport and the stubby peak of Mount Victoria, on which sat the big gun. Idle since before the Great War, the gun was built to fend off the empirical attentions of the last Tsar. Fired just once, the gun was silenced by the locals who complained about the noise.

Buildings of late Victorian and more recent design cluttered the central district, but beyond that lay greenery, peppered with single storey housing which boasted front and back gardens more generous than Ben had ever seen in his home town.

By the time the landscape reached Cornwall Park and the slopes of One Tree Hill, it was hard to imagine that one was located in a city.

To the west, the intermittence continued, as small settlements lay scattered among the greenery all the way to the Manukau Harbour in the southwest and the Bombay Hills on the southern horizon.

"Here we go, Ben," whispered Te Kawau, "Just go with the feel of the thing and I'm sure you'll make sense of it."

Te Kawau's grandfather, Te Kani, positioned himself with his back to the now rising sun. The fifty or so present stood in an arched group around him and listened intently.

Te Kani was an elderly man whose face was worn with lines of experience. He made a warm speech, of which Ben understood not one word, but true to Te Kawau's prediction, the sentiment went beyond language and he felt welcome.

To his untrained and unaccustomed ear, the Maori words had a musical feel to them, almost like a long forgotten nursery rhyme. To his left, an elderly Maori lady listened intently, eyes closed, with blissful dedication, to the words which she knew from childhood, singing the words, breathing them in and out, welcoming back each sacred phrase like a long-lost friend.

"Teno koto, teno koto, teno koto," recited Te Kani as he appeared to reach the end of his speech, before pausing and glancing at Ben, "And welcome," he smiled.

The speech ended and another man took centre stage. He was a little younger, but also had an air of worldliness and confidence about him. This man began to recite a chant which was rhythmically driving and melodic, broken in to percussive phrases of language which, though the words clearly differed in each phrase, were marked by a modal refrain of five ascending notes.

Again, the gentle lady to Ben's left sang along in a half-whispered and reverential unison. As he looked about him, Ben saw that many of the people in the largely elderly group were doing likewise.

This was a different form of togetherness and community. It was not rooted in industry, religion, nor in social standing. It was no society of enthusiasts – be that a dance troupe or train spotters – this concept of Iwi was something that he had not seen before.

What, Ben wondered, were the Iwi of the British people? His community was one of industry, as were many back home: miners, ship builders, car makers, steel workers. Without the demands of the economy, the mines, factories and the shipyards would die, as would the communities they supported. Here, though, was a community and togetherness which was centred upon the people and the land. People and land, thought Ben, would still be around long after the coal was gone, so how much longer could the place he once called home sustain itself?

Chapter Thirty - Agony in Paradise

The saying goes that sometimes it is better to travel than it is to arrive and no soldier in the Japanese Imperial Army was more aware of that than young Lieutenant Katsuhiro Kimura.

His basic training had gone so well. He had lapped up all that his instructors had to teach him with ravenous zeal, whilst tackling every task, be it physical, mental or practical, with the vigour of a young man eager to prove himself and make sure that his superiors knew that he was officer material of the highest order.

So, it was no surprise to anyone, least of all Katsuhiro himself, when he was duly sent for officer training. This was the fulfilment of his destiny – one that was intertwined with that of Japan itself. As he had been told so many times at school, at his basic training and then at the academy, Asia was for the Asians and it was Japan's sacred duty to rid the continent of the western invaders.

After putting himself through the mill of exams, physical training, tactical and strategic manuals, assault courses, hand to hand combat, rifle practise, the use of explosives, morse code signalling and more, all driven by the obsessive, Bushido code of the officer corps, he was finally ready. He was now an instrument of the Imperial Army's will and nothing else mattered to him. To die for the Emperor was an honour he would cherish.

And yet, this mind set had proved to be his undoing, for it was duly noted that young Kimura was destined for a commission, but also that his single-mindedness was his achilles heel. Perhaps he showed a lack of awareness and consideration for his fellow cadets and that did not make for an ideal leader of men. Not to worry though, it was said behind closed doors – young Kimura just needs a little longer in the army and he will begin to understand the true meaning of teamwork. He will, in due course, learn to gain the trust of others and then his selfless attitude will serve as an example to the lower ranks. Indeed, with the Americans rapidly island-hopping toward the homeland and the British driving ever southward through Burma, perhaps the time would soon come for young men such as Kimura to step forward?

Unaware of his future being decided for him, the anticipation of that first posting overseas had lingered on like a perfect honeymoon for Katsuhiro. On embarking from Tokyo harbour, the sense of expectation amongst him and his men was palpable. Their destination was kept secret for security purposes, but that mattered not one jot, for soon, the enemy would be engaged.

It was a delight to be asked by his captain to organize morning exercises and daily sporting competitions. To be chosen from among all of the other young junior officers was a sign of recognition, perhaps? His prowess on the sports field had been noted and he would grasp this opportunity to maintain morale and raise fitness so that the troops would be battle ready on arrival.

So well went the journey, that the harbour at Singapore appeared quite suddenly, as did embarkation on a troop train heading north in to Malaya. Even the drudgery of the two day long journey could do nothing to take the wind from Katsuhiro's sails, for now they were moving through Japan's new empire, which had been ruled by the British for over a century, but snatched back from them in just a matter of weeks by his fellow dynamic liberators.

We have driven them all the way back to India, he though to himself as he stared out at the unceasing wall of rubber trees that lined the railway sidings, and then mused upon how he would play his part in driving the British back ever farther. A couple more days of travelling through Thailand would get them to Burma, where the real fireworks would begin.

But there were to be no fireworks. No charge for Katsuhiro to lead or immediate sacrifice to be made. The high command was well aware of the need to keep some powder dry for the coming struggles and Katsuhiro was one such grain of powder.

After journeying half way through Thailand, the train gave way to trucks, which in turn gave way to a troop ship, which finally weighed anchor on the island of Phuket.

"This must be a mistake, Sir," exalted Katsuhiro to his captain. "Are we just here to sharpen up before moving on?"

"No, Kimura. Our orders are that was are to be stationed here until further notice."

"Well, how long is that likely to be, Sir?"

"As long as it takes, Kimura. I suggest that you focus on organizing a more extensive roster for the morning exercises and sporting leagues. We could be here for a while."

With that, the captain left his frustrated young lieutenant with nowhere to direct his anguish at being denied his rightful place. How could the war simply wait for him?

The following weeks became months, the morning exercises and athletics league became dreary routines. Rifle drill, grenade practise, yet more morse code . . . it all became a numb haze. This drudgery was actually more painful, more soul-destroying than any of the agonies he endured during officer training: the physical and emotional pains inflicted by the perverse and sadistic instructors was all done for a reason – to ready him for battle – and it was for that reason that he had endured. But where was that battle, now? What was he to do with all of this preparedness? He was ready to explode like one of his grenades.

His captain had made matters worse by insisting that he maintain a garden. Such things were intended to give the junior officers a focus away from the aggressive, physical side of their soldiering duties.

At first Katsuhiro struggled to find a purpose in this, but his superiors had given him an order and he was to carry it out. Obedience was vital.

He tried to use the gardening as a form of meditation, as previous emperors and warriors had done, so that he could somehow foster a sense of calmness which would stand him in good stead on the battlefield. This would give him an edge over any British officer who, he thought, could surely never cope under fire in the same way as him.

He would master his rage, he decided, and tame it, then store it – ready to be unleashed on the enemy when called upon and then directed by him, through his men, with unfailing results.

***

Katsuhiro had endured many months of Shinto-fuelled gardening and his bottled rage was now maturing in to an impressive vintage, when he was given an unexpected outlet for his desire take on the enemy.

"Kimura! How would you like to do some reconnaissance work out in the bay to the south?" asked his commanding officer.

Katshuhiro gave a startled look up from tending his lotus flowers and seemed barely able to accept the fact that he was being asked to contemplate something more challenging than agriculture.

"Reconnaissance, sir?"

"Yes. Go and seek out the best locations for machine gun and mortar posts, in case of a marine assault. The English have made some amphibious landings in Burma, so we need to be ready for such things. Take Nakamura and Yamazaki with you, as the three of you would be in charge of such posts in a combat situation.

"You can use a staff car. Be ready to leave in half an hour. Oh, and Kimura, once you have done your survey, you and the others ought to use this time to relax a little. It is very peaceful out there, so take in the beauty of it all while you can."

Katsuhiro bowed and raced off to prepare himself.

***

It was with a sense of excitement that the three green lieutenants drove through the centre of Patong, barely able to believe their good luck at being given such an undertaking, for this was a rare luxury, as it was no secret that fuel was scarce and in much greater demand on Japan's many front lines.

As they passed the shanty huts and ramshackle market stalls, the men talked of how shambolic much of Asia appeared to them.

"Of course," started Nakamura, "If those English, Americans and the like were as good as they claimed, bringing their so-called order to the world, then why is everywhere such a mess? If this is how they rule, then it's a good thing that we are driving them out!"

"Agreed," nodded Yamazaki, the only one of the three who could drive, "They're just a bunch of white gorillas, those westerners – nowhere near as cultivated as us. Once we've got established in these places, we can start to clear up their mess and do things properly, don't you think?"

Nakamura turned from his position in the passenger seat and glared with his round face at Katsuhiro, who had been barely able to get a word in.

"My brother was out in Jakarta and he told me that the Dutch were no better, there."

"I thought," pondered Katsuhiro, "That the Europeans had been kept out of Thailand?"

"Well, doesn't that show you just how much they need us, here? Look around you?" laughed Yamazaki, his eyes furtively glancing from the road to his companions and back again, "Once this war is over, we can clean everything up, get it all running our way, then all Asians can show those white monkeys who the real masters are!"

The drive out of Patong had taken them along the straight sea road, then meandering uphill, snaking through the wooded surroundings until the road peaked and then descended, the track becoming ever more uneven until they arrived at the enclave.

The three men stepped from their vehicle and walked on for a few minutes until they emerged into open space and surveyed their surroundings.

They stood on the arced beach in the centre of a small bay of about half a mile in diameter, whilst stretching before them was the larger bay of Patong, with the settlement to the east and the rising, forested hills to the north. To their west, the bay was completed by a rising curve of rock, which pointed it's crooked finger out towards the Indian Ocean.

"Well, if this isn't paradise, then I don't know what is," said Yamazaki breaking the silence.

"It will do just fine for me," said Nakamura "And I don't intend to waste a moment. Let's have that swim!"

"But, what about surveying the area? We need to get a report back to the captain," urged Katsuhiro, but his words were largely unheeded by the others.

"Oh, there is plenty of time for that," laughed Nakamura, dismissively, "It's nearly midday and it's the best time for a swim."

The men began to remove their beleaguered fatigues, all except for one. Katsuhiro stood, sheepishly, unwilling to join in with the activity.

"Aren't you coming in, Katsuhiro?" asked Nakamura

"Well . . . I don't think so . . . I think I should stay here and keep watch. It's better that way. We'll be safer if there is any trouble."

"Trouble?" laughed Yamazaki "We're in the back end of Thailand! Who's going to spring a surprise attack on us, here? The locals are terrified of us and the British are not even in Malaya. Relax and enjoy this afternoon. We won't get this time off again, soon."

"I still think I'd rather keep watch, if you don't mind."

"Well," shrugged Nakamura "Please yourself. I don't intend to miss out on the fun – come on, let's go!"

With that, the two young men raced their underfed, naked frames to the water's edge. The tide was in and the waters were calm as they galloped and dived in to the warm, deep blue bay.

"You're right, Yamazaki," called Nakamura as he trod water, "This really is a paradise. I think I'll bring my wife here after the war and we'll make ourselves a baby on the beach!"

"Really?" laughed Yamazaki, "Whereabouts, exactly?"

"Oh, right about where Katsuhiro is standing! Hey, Kimura! Don't mess up my special spot. My wife and I have got some work to do, there!"

Standing like a badly planted shrub on the beach, Katsuhiro reacted to Nakamura's taunting as if he had actually stepped on the procreating couple and moved a couple of paces to his left.

"And don't stand there, either!" joined in Yamazaki "Because I'm going to be right there with my wife!"

The two men hooted with laughter, but Katsuhiro could only amble away in disgust. They left him to his reverie and set off for the rocks that lay some one hundred yards out to sea.

Katsuhiro felt like such a square peg. He actually liked being with those two – they seemed to tolerate his company and made him feel accepted, but he could not cope with their banter, or match them in verbal jousting. Running around naked on a beach and splashing around in the sunshine was all very well for some, he thought, but it was not proper soldiering, not what he had trained for, yet here he was, still waiting for his war to begin. He strolled around the beach, looking at the highest spots on the rocky surroundings and pondered on the best places for machine gun nests – which ones, he thought, would give the best range of fire in the event of a marine assault?

His strategies were cut short by Nakamura's cutting tones.

"Hey, Katsuhiro, we are going for a walk up to the hills. Are you coming?" The two men were hurriedly drying themselves and clambering back in to their clothes.

"No, thanks, I think I'll just carry on keeping a look out for you. And I think I'll check out this eastern side of the bay."

"Well, you have done a good job, so far, Kimura!" laughed Yamazaki, "We might have been ambushed by the whole US Marine Corps if you had not been there!"

"Enough, now," cut in Nakamura "Sometimes we just need a bit of piece and quiet. Let's face it, we are all in each other's pockets on the base. Leave him be if he wants to have a stroll around by himself."

Nakamura's words seemed to pacify Yamazaki and the mood softened.

"Just take some time to relax, Kimura. You should have a little swim whilst we're gone. That would do you some good."

Feeling vindicated, Katsuhiro gave his comrades a cheerful wave and watched them disappear in to the trees around the walking track that would lead them ever further uphill.

Relax, though Katsuhiro? What was there to relax about? Such a thing would be a sign of weakness, unpreparedness and vulnerability. He needed to stay alert and focussed if he was to remain in readiness for the call. Of course, he had been stuck in this backwater for months, now, but things can change in an instant during wartime – for all he knew, they could be shipping out, tomorrow, to some front line destination.

Again, he took in the panorama of the bay, looking for the best places for defensive positions, wondering about the logistics of moving men, weapons and munitions to awkward looking outcrops. But could they be obscured from the view of those attacking from the sea? There was only one way to find out – he would have to take that swim, after all.

He admitted to himself that the gentle surf did, indeed, look warm and inviting, so he began to disrobe, setting himself the target of swimming out to the rocks, just as his friends had done.

The hot, golden sand burned his bare feet, so he skipped lightly forwards and took a plunge, submerging himself and feeling invigorated as his body merged with the water. Coming back up for air, he looked about him and saw the beauty of the place, the cloudless blue sky and verdant green of the forest, then set off for the rocks – but he would do it faster than the others, he decided.

And faster he was, with better technique, reaching the rocks and treading water for a couple of minutes in order to make mental notes on his chosen points in the hills, before turning gracefully and heading back with swift, sure strokes, showing no hint of tiredness. This is what a truly capable officer can do, he thought. Now that he had proved himself, he took a moment to tread water again and look at the delightful little bay from this new vantage point. Looking up to the rocky outcrop on his right, he actually caught sight of Nakamura wandering up the pathway, who then stopped, returned the gaze and then called Yamazaki to him. The two stood and waved, audibly cheering their introverted friend's decision to have that much-needed swim. Katsuhiro waved back and smiled as he felt an unaccustomed, warm rush of comradeship between himself and the others. It was as if they were his only family, out here. He thought of his own family.

Without any conscious intention, his train of thought suddenly became derailed. And with the force of just such a heavy locomotive careering from the tracks, his long-held, blinkered mind set took the most enormous of blows: just what, he finally asked himself, was the point of all this?

He was alone on a remote beach, far from the military camp, with no need to cower before senior officers and with no regular soldiers to berate, with no sign of a war and, for the first instance since he started his basic training, no need to act like a soldier. After being taught nothing but propaganda at school and having every last ounce of individuality beaten from him by his army training, there had been no need to question anything, but now he suddenly felt a veil lifting.

The others had talked of their wives, earlier, whilst he could do no such thing - he had been married to the kokutai and had allowed himself no time to pursue such matters. For the first time in weeks, he thought of his home.

I will write to mother and to Setsu, he told himself. I have been so busy trying to be a good soldier that I have not been a good son or brother. Yet, he would still be a good soldier, and a good soldier can have a swim – it is good exercise and might come in useful, depending on where he might be sent to fight. It was time to swim for the shore.

After treading water in the upright position, he tipped himself forward, ready to begin a strong breaststroke back to the shore, but he was halted by a sharp, searing pain in his right thigh and suddenly his legs lost all of their strength, quickly followed by his arms. His breathing became desperate and his heart pounded like a drum.

Floundering, he could barely keep his head above water – and even if he could have done this, he could barely breathe, anyway, whilst his dizzying mind and blurring vision were both short of focus.

"Kimura! Kimura! What's wrong? We are coming!" called Yamazaki as he raced down the track to the beach, with Nakamura in close pursuit. By the time the duo reached the beach, they could see Katsuhiro's limp frame floating in the water, motionless.

Not wasting an instant, they ran in to the water to retrieve him and within frantic moments, they had dragged his sorry body on to the sand.

Tipping him on to his front, Nakamura knelt over Katsuhiro and thumped his back in a vain attempt to clear his lungs, but he was limp and barely able to breathe.

"Look at his leg!" called Yamazaki, pointing at the long, swollen, red marks on Katushiros' right thigh, "It must have been a jellyfish! We need to get him help."

With a desperate sense of togetherness, they lifted their ailing friend and carried him to the car, driving back to base as fast as they dared.

Chapter Thirty-one - Capital Punishment

The sound of the air raid sirens was now so familiar that everyone in Tokyo knew what to expect and what to do. Masako and Setsu were no exceptions and they quickly donned their fatigues, arming themselves with their water buckets and mops before heading to the local air raid shelter.

Unbeknownst to them, this raid was to be anything but routine, as the United States Air Force was on this night approaching in numbers so vast that no one on the ground would have been able to envisage them.

What remained of Japan's withered air defences could not contend with the sheer weight of numbers before it – a fact of which the Americans were only too aware. Well over three hundred and thirty B-29 bombers would be flying without fear at invitingly low altitudes, largely stripped of their defensive armament, so that they might carry yet more payload. Despite this, only a handful of fighters would be available to make a feeble attempt at resistance. To make matters all the more deadly, on this night, each of the sleek new bombers carried a cargo that would reduce the largely wooden structures of Tokyo to ash: napalm.

At first, mother and daughter stood in the air raid shelter, ready with the other members of the Neighbourhood Association to spring forth and do battle with whatever fires came their way. All were silent, wondering if they would be needed, as on many a night, there were other districts that were hit more severely, and they had never really been faced with a major blaze in their area.

Setsu looked around her at the people in the shelter: wives and mothers, elderly men and women, some small children – most had been evacuated – whilst all available young men were now away fighting, or training to fight.

Propaganda broadcasts on NHK had been steeling the people to make greater efforts in their fight for Japan – to embrace still more hardships and austerities for the greater good. At the school, she had been given a list of government guidelines for healthy eating which suggested mixing sawdust with flour to make dumplings or eating acorns and used tealeaves for starch and minerals, respectively. The children in her class had squirmed in their seats at the suggestion of eating silkworm cocoons, grasshoppers, mice, rats, moles and snakes. Apparently, if well sterilized, the rats tasted like small birds. 'Eat this way – Endless supplies of materials by ingenuity' read the title, but it all sounded rather desperate to her.

Every day the bombers came. Every day there was more and more destruction from the Americans and less and less resistance from Japan. How much longer could they carry on?

She stood up, straightened her monpe – baggy pantaloons that were gathered at the ankle – and flopped her cloth firefighting hood over her head. Grasping her bamboo mop with its rope-strung head as though she were a Roman standard bearer, she marched to the door.

"I'm going for a look – it sounds like we might be busy, tonight."

Mr Sakamoto and Masako followed her and the trio made their way up the wooden flight of steps to the entrance of the shelter, which had been dug in to the ground behind the local bath house a couple of years earlier. From above ground, it resembled a very low-rising pyramid, or a badly rising cake – an underground wooden shed covered in sandbags and earth, which offered a modicum of protection from near-misses, but gave those unlucky enough to receive a direct hit no comfort other than the fact that in already being buried, the funeral costs would be lower.

The trio poked their heads out in to the dark, spring night. The sky was clear but the air was anything but crisp. From all directions, sounds of the exploding bombs began to get closer, whilst in the distance the flames became more and more visible – reaching up to the skies in a reckless dance.

Above them, they could clearly see the bombers in the midnight sky, some of which were flying at around five hundred feet. Their long, sleek, silver airframes reflected the orange glow of flames from the ground.

People began appearing in the streets, running to the west. Normally, the dutiful people of Japan followed their orders and stayed in their shelters, but there had been a collective realisation that no shelters would save them, tonight. Policemen and firemen, both powerless against the waves of fire, were ushering people along the streets toward the bridges and possible safety. Where they were able, the firemen doused the passers by to give them a faint hope of protection, whilst others ran towards buckets and barrels of water that were placed in front of people's homes and hurriedly splashed any available water over themselves.

The napalm bombs scattered their liquid flame in all directions, raising the temperature ever higher. People's clothes began to ignite spontaneously, either from their ankles, or starting with their cotton hoods – burning people ran, crawled and died in the streets.

"We cannot stay here!" declared Mr Sakamoto, only just competing with the approaching thunder of destruction. "What use are buckets of water against this? If we don't burn, the heat and smoke will get us!"

"But where should we go?" asked Masako.

"They are heading for the canals and the river," said Setsu, "The flames are everywhere and if we stay here, we will certainly die. We have to go, now! Tell everyone in the shelter that they need to come with us!"

Mr Sakamoto hurriedly urged all those in the shelter to make their exit and as they moved along the streets they were joined by more and more people – human tributaries all making their terrified way to the Sumida.

Buildings of paper and wood vanished in the flames, whilst those of brick and stone that were not yet crumbling were houses of inferno – the flames flashing and spitting from the window frames where the long-gone glass had either shattered or simply melted from the merciless heat.

Many fell and were trampled in the rush: the infirm, the elderly and mothers laden with their infants. Bodies lay burning and unmoving. Everywhere Setsu looked there was terror. The air was thick with the choking stench of petrol from the napalm, mixing with the smell of burning flesh and making her stomach turn, whilst the din of the explosions, the whooshes of flame that crashed and crackled over the screams of the frightened made it almost impossible to make herself heard when she tried to speak to her mother.

Masako and Setsu had held hands as they ran and staggered their way to the river, losing touch with all those others from the shelter. By the time they reached the riverside, the waters were filled with people in their thousands – shoulder to shoulder, thrashing and screaming.

Those who were not drowning in the water were drowning in their own fears.

The two women tried to push their way through the mass of bodies, many of which were dead and black from the fire. Suddenly, the Japanese sense of order and communal discipline was gone – panic had taken over and the blind desire to survive was ruling the minds of many. People had sunk in to the mud, only to be squashed by others.

Those on the bridges found no safe haven, as the structure's metal frames began to buckle and the bridges themselves gave way under the weight of so many. They fell or jumped in to the water, landing on others below, or simply drowning in the depths.

In some areas, the river heated to boiling point and those hoping to find sanctuary in the waters found yet more damnation.

On land, the bombs had whipped up a monstrous firestorm and the winds gusted in a demonic dance of flame. There was no safe place to be found. They fought to hold on to each other, to stay afloat in the water, pushing, shoving to stay alive in the heaving mass. Setsu looked at her mother, who was consumed with fright.

"We have to stay alive!" she screamed. "We have to survive this night!"

Chapter Thirty-two

Trincomalee,

Ceylon

May 8th, 1945

My Darling,

I hope that this letter finds you safe and well. Once again I am globetrotting and now find myself here in Ceylon. Again, it is hot – so hot I cannot believe it. At night, we have to sleep with nets over our beds because of the mosquitos – mind you, the locals can be just as dangerous.

Yesterday, a group of us were put in the back of a truck and sent to a radio station at the top of a mountain. The driver was a Sikh chap and he suddenly steered us towards the edge of a cliff, then back again in to the side of the road, tipping over the truck and sending all of us tumbling out of the back!

Fortunately, everyone was just about in one piece and when we asked the driver what on earth he was doing, he told us that he saw a snake in the road and that it was a bad omen for him to run it over. He did not seem to think that killing all of us was a bad omen.

I have been training hard, here, and soon I will be moving on. I cannot tell you where that will be, but I have a feeling that it will somehow lead me closer to being with you again.

The longer that I am away from you, the farther I seem to travel, the more and more I need to see you again.

As ever, please be safe, be happy and keep me in your thoughts as I keep you.

All my love,

B.

Chapter Thirty-three - A Small World

Ben thought that he had seen busy harbours in Lisbon, Buenos Aires and Auckland, but now he stood at the quayside in Sydney and his jaw dropped at the vastness of it all.

The colossal Harbour Bridge was almost insignificant amidst the assemblage of naval tonnage that crammed the waters: aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, tankers, destroyers, troop ships and more stood at their moorings like slumbering beasts as launches taxied uniformed men of great import to and from places where vital decisions were being made.

Among these ironclad behemoths was the aircraft carrier HMS Indefatigable, which was to be his home for the immediate future and he set about trying to find it.

His new uniform felt good and reminded him of that trip to Taplin's Tailor's back in Buenos Aires – the two years that had passed since that time now felt like an age. He was now dressed in black, with a double-breasted jacket, fronted with eight brass buttons and on the end of each sleeve was a wavy gold band which made a single loop over the top of his wrists, denoting that he was now a Sub-Lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve.

Tipping his white-topped officer's cap back a little to take in the view, he paused and took a moment to reminisce about how this latest episode of the odyssey had played out. From New Zealand, to Canada, to the Naval Operational Unit in Sri Lanka, then all the way back to the Antipodes to Australia and the NAS training centre at Schofields, near Sydney, where he had crammed in as many hours as possible in a Seafire, including the hair-raising take offs and landing-on to a carrier deck.

"Well, will you look at that! They'll let anyone in to the wavy navy these days!"

The last thing Ben expected to hear on the other side of the planet was an East Midland accent. He whirled around and was even more astounded than he had been by the sight of the fleet to see his old friend Tom Pleasance standing before him in an almost identical naval uniform.

"Small world, eh, m'duck?" said Ben.

The two men shook hands, grinned and laughed. The markings on Tom's sleeves showed two wavy stripes, again with a single loop above the wrist.

"Hey," said Tom, "Who are you calling 'duck'? Y'should be calling me 'sir'! I'm a Lieutenant, now – not one of you subbies!"

"Flippin' 'eck, I'd better get used to that! Have you got time for a cup of tea?"

"Tea? Do you remember the last time we had a drink together? It was a bottle of water! Let's go and get something a little stronger, shall we?"

The two men made off in search of a bar and found themselves in a typical dockside pub that was teeming with sailors, airmen and marines. Outside, American and Australian military police hovered around and it was hard to tell if they were keeping the peace or looking for trouble. Either way, there was none to be found from these two pilots and upon getting themselves a couple of pints of foaming Australian ale, they made a dash for a snug that had just that moment been vacated by a fast moving GI and a bleach-blonde prostitute, neither of whom had any time to waste.

Ben did his best to recount his journey so far, with the glaring omission of a certain Japanese lady, but then turned the conversation to his old friend.

"So, you're in the navy, then? What about the RAF and that Typhoon you fancied?" asked Ben.

"Well, mate, I did it! I made it in – passed the medical and the exams, then got sent out to Canada for me training. Did Tiger Moths and Harvards – I bet you did, too?" Ben nodded.

"I got on a Typhoon squadron just after D-Day and did some serious tank busting in France – oh, aye, that machine's a right rasper, mate! I showed them that I was one of the best pilots on the squadron and was given lots of duties in terms of organization, administration and the like, but when I asked them just before Christmas if I could be promoted above flight sergeant, the CO just turned around and said, 'Not with an accent like that, you oik!' and told me to get back in my box. Some of those RAF brass hats don't want the likes of you and me being officers, you know.

"So, when I saw that the navy wanted pilots and I saw that I could have a commission, I threw my name in the hat and they took me, with my common accent and all!"

"So you gave up your Typhoon for a Seafire, then?" asked Ben as he supped at his pint.

"No, mate, I'm on a Corsair squadron, so I've swapped one beast for another. We did the raids on Soengi-Gerong in Indonesia, a few months back – that's wiped out the Jap's oil supply. They'll be lucky if they can fly paper aeroplanes, now.

"Since then, we've been tearing around the Pacific, trying to knock out their airstrips to keep those bloody suicide attackers off the backs of the Yanks."

Ben nodded with fascination. He had heard of these so-called kamikazes, but mostly through gossip and rumour. The idea of a man flying his own aircraft in to a ship as a human bomb seemed barely believable. It also sounded terrifying. Tom glanced around at the surrounding Americans. He lowered his voice and continued.

"Y'see, the Yanks don't want us here – they want to take Japan all for themselves and take all the glory. You know what they're like, all mouth and trousers. They think they're the only ones that've been wronged by the Japs, but I'll tell you what – they bloody well need us here. Sure, they've got amazing carriers, more than twice the size of ours, with some fantastic aircraft and men, but they've got wooden decks. So, just one of those Jap suicide attacks can wipe them out for months.

"Our carriers are smaller, but we've got armour plated decks. We've had a few of them suicide attackers hit us, but I'll tell you what – they just bounce off us! Sure, they make a bloody mess and you'd best get out of the way, but the first time we got hit, we were back in action within an hour! We had a Yank on board and he couldn't believe it! One of our lads on deck found the Jap pilot's arm – he put it in a bucket and threw it over the side!

"So, they need us here to help keep up the numbers in the air. Mind you, we need them to keep us at sea – this lot don't go anywhere without taking the kitchen sink with 'em – they're stocked up to the eyeballs with food, fuel and ammo. It's like they've never heard of rationing!"

Ben tried to drink in all of the information along with his beer.

"How was Argentina, then? Did you pull some nice lass on the Pampas, then?"

How to answer that? Vagueness seemed the best policy, given where the two men were heading.

"Yeah, I met a nice one."

"Are you still in touch?"

"I'm trying to, but it's hard to get the letters through, especially with all of this travelling around."

"I know what you mean. I'll tell you what, the brass hats don't like us to have girls, you know. They reckon that we take more risks when we don't have a missus and kids to worry about. Hey! Why don't we give those two girls at the bar a pull? They don't look too keen on those squaddies that are chatting 'em up – we could be in, there!"

The words of Doctor Jennings suddenly sprang forth in Ben's mind, but the thoughts of Setsu came through even stronger. He had not heard word from her in months, but that was no reason to believe that she was not still thinking of him as much as he was of her.

"I tell you what, mate, I really need to get to my ship and show my face. You go and knock yourself out. Let's try and meet here, again, before we sail, eh?"

The two men shook hands and Ben set off for the Indefatigable, wondering if Tom faced greater peril in the arms of Sydney's working girls than he did in the skies of the Pacific.

***

After finding his new home moored at number three jetty and then showing the appropriate paperwork to the officer on watch, Ben made his way on to the Indefatigable and reported to the commanding officer of his squadron. Lieutenant-Commander Paul Rydall was a man for whom the adjective phlegmatic was created – from his firm handshake and re-assuring eye contact, to his measured tone of speech, he made the young pilot feel that he was in the hands of a seasoned veteran.

His mouse-brown hair was matched to his sailor's beard that had been allowed to grow for the past two weeks, whilst the Indefatigable had been in dry dock for repairs.

"You're here for Bradley, aren't you? He had a nasty prang just before we got back to Sydney – bad landing-on when his wheels gave out. The poor chap broke an arm, three ribs and fractured his skull, so he'll not be back for a while, yet. I read that you trained in New Zealand – that's a rarity for an Englishman. Most chaps have been at Gosport and then off to the States, but you were at Schofields, weren't you?"

Ben nodded.

"Hmm, we've had one or two from there and some of them don't tend to last long. I don't think they're getting them ready, there. Tell me, how much carrier practise have you had?"

"Well, I've done over a dozen take-offs and landings-on, Sir."

"That's not bad . . . have you crashed a Seafire, yet?"

"No, Sir."

"Ah . . . you will. Or rather, don't be surprised if you do. Anyway, come with me and I'll show you your quarters. You'll be sharing with Morrison. You should have plenty to talk about with him – he's a New Zealander – very quiet and efficient fellows, those Kiwis, if a little rough around the edges."

Eventually he found his shoebox of a cabin and Rydall left him to his own devices. Under the metal frame of the bed he stowed his satchel bag and faithful cardboard case, the same one that he had carried with him at the railway station in Derby (he had grown quite attached to the battered old thing and felt that it needed to make the whole journey with him, wherever that might ultimately end up).

The bunk opposite to his was neatly made up but there was no sign of his room-mate – there were still a few hours of shore leave and most were away making sure that they used up every minute. However, Ben felt that he had an opportunity to explore his new environs and set off in search of the main hangar, in which, of course, he would find his new Seafire.

The Seafires took up the least amount of space in the hangar, with their elliptical wings folded upwards above the cockpit. This slender and elegant fighter had become a symbol to the British of their defiance in the face of Hitler's horde, a sign that a struggling nation on the back foot could still produce a world beating piece of technology and the men to fly it. However, it was never meant to put to sea – once in the air, the Seafire could reign supreme with its swiftsure agility and deadly finishing, but it was getting up there and back that was the problem. Taking off and landing on the lush green fields of England was one thing, but thumping on to the swaying, cast-iron deck of an undulating aircraft carrier was nothing less than a dreadful prospect.

Elsewhere in the hangar sat the Seafire's more sea-worthy shipmates: the muscular Fairey Firefly, which was also a fighter, and the barrel-chested Grumman Avenger bomber. Both lacked the Seafire's turn of speed and manoeuvrability, but they were robust machines and boasted more than double the endurance times and a seat for an on-board observer to help find the way home across empty miles of ocean.

Two aircraftsmen were opening up the panels on a Seafire's engine, when one of them caught a glimpse of Ben.

"Ah, can I help you, Sir?" asked the smaller of the two, a man in his mid forties with a skinny frame, thinning black hair and the rumpled complexion that can only be achieved by a singular dedication to unfiltered cigarettes.

"Yes," replied Ben, "I'm the new pilot on the squadron and I'd like to have a look at my Seafire, please."

"Oh, you'll be the one to replace Mr Bradley, then?" exclaimed the small man with what was proving to be a big, broad Geordie accent from England's North East.

"Well, this was his kite and it's yours, now. He made a right hash of his landing-on and rattled his brains a wee bit. Typical of them Schofield's pilots we've been getting."

"I've just been training there."

"Oh, aye . . . of course, well, I'm sure that you're going to be fine, Sir – far better than Mr Bradley was. Sorry, Sir, what is your name?"

"Ben Hutchinson . . . Sub-Lieutenant, that is." Ben had actually not got used to the idea of being an officer and found it strange that a fellow working class man who was twice his age should be addressing him as 'Sir'.

"A pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Sir. I'm Leading Air Mechanic Archie Pettit."

The pair shook hands and Archie gestured towards the other engineer.

"And this lummox, here, is called Aircraftsman Donald Roddick, but you can call 'im 'Stilton'."
The subject of the conversation turned his huge frame around. Comfortably over six feet three and boasting the solid frame of a young man used to hard graft and hearty eating, he gave a warm smile across his face, which had full, round features – especially the chubby, high cheekbones and the sparkling, piggy eyes. He offered an oil-stained hand and spoke with his jolly, Devonian accent, which immediately conjured images of tranquil English farms.

"Much pleased t'meet yer, Sir."

"I have to ask why you're called 'Stilton'?"

The big man suddenly looked a little sheepish. "It weren't moi idea, Sir, but that's what they all calls me."

"That's because," cut in Archie, "We all have to bunk down with 'im and 'is feet stinks like old cheese! You count yourself lucky, Sir, that you're bunking away from that!"

"Oh, give o'er, will yer?" grumbled Stilton, "Oi can't helps it if moi feet smells a bit – it's bein' in 'ere in the tropics – it gets so hot and sets 'em off, I tells yer!"

"Alright, Stilton, alright. We cannot stand around all day chatting, can we?" reasoned Archie, "We'd best give this engine a good test."

Ben could not resist the chance to learn a little more about the maintenance of his new Seafire and asked if he could watch the two men work. On explaining that he was, himself, an engineer, Archie felt a sense of camaraderie.

"We can get you a spare pair of overalls. Let's get stuck in, Sir!"

The three men spent the next hour running and tuning the Rolls Royce Merlin engine to make sure that it was fully capable of running without any danger of faults. Ben's life would depend on this engine.

All seemed satisfactory and the trio began to tidy their mess, when another Sub-Lieutenant approached them. This man was stocky, with a round face and a dour expression.

"You men! Pettit, Roddick . . . and you!" he barked, pointing at Ben.

"When you've finished with that kite, I want you to double check the engine on my Seafire – the bloody thing stalled, last time out, and I don't want it to happen again!"

Both Archie and Stilton acknowledged the officer and headed off in search of the Seafire in question, while Ben continued to wipe oil from his hands with a rag. The officer strutted towards him.

"Well? Jump to it, then. You've just been given an order by an officer," he nagged. There was a time when Ben would have tugged his forelock to such men and attitudes, but things were different, now.

"That's no way to speak to your men. Your life is in the hands of these fellows."

"And who are you to talk to an officer in this way? Don't you know your place?"

Ben retrieved his officer's cap from the top of his Seafire's wing and placed it on his head.

"Sub-Lieutenant Ben Hutchinson. I arrived today to replace Bradley. I believe he had a bad landing. Sorry, I didn't get your name?"

"Ah . . . Sub-Lieutenant Raymond Cully – same squadron as you. Are you from up north? You sound like a bloody coal miner?"

"Well, me dad bloody was, for your information."

"Er . . . oh, of course . . . but you shouldn't be mixing with the lower ranks. It's not the done thing."

"Well, it's the thing I've just done! They're a good bunch of lads and I've got a lot of faith in what they can do with my kite. Look, I'm going to get cleaned up and settle in to my quarters."

"I'm surprised that you don't just want to bunk down with that lot, there. You seem to be one of them," blurted Cully.

"Hey, can you tell me where you keep your brush?" asked Ben.

"What brush?"

"The same one that you use to tar everybody with? I'll catch you later." Ben made a hurried exit for the washrooms, less than impressed with, but more than wary of this new comrade.

On returning to his cabin, he took the time to compose a letter. Rumour had it that the ship was to sail in a couple of days' time, so it was important to get a message out.

He opened his suitcase and lovingly took out the precious bundle of letters that were tied together with Setsu's silk hair ribbon. All were stamped and postmarked from Argentina, bearing Vero's handwriting on the envelopes, but with Setsu's letters within, save for the last few, which also contained Vero's letters. Nothing had been forthcoming from Japan since March, but he had to write. Taking Setsu's pen and giving it a kiss, he set about the letter. Knowing that what ever he wrote would be read and possibly censored, he chose his words carefully.

HMS Indefatigable

Thursday, 5th of July, 1945

Dear Vero,

I know that this letter will find you and I hope that all is well for Hector and you. As I write, I cannot tell you where I am, what I am doing, nor where I am heading, but I am sure that you can imagine the answers to all of them.

I am now in a new squadron and have met some of the chaps – some fine, whilst others have not made the best of first impressions, but it will take time to get to know them all. One thing is for sure: we are all going, quite soon, to be very much be in the thick of it.

I only hope that this war ends as soon as possible so that we (all of us) can be together again. Please, please, let me know if you have any news from afar.

Your letters are so very important to me and I am always happy to receive them. Somehow, what ever you send to me will find its way here, so write as soon as you can. I will write as often as time allows, but things might get a bit hectic, soon.

Oh, there is not enough room on these aerogrammes to say a great deal more, so all I can write is that I send all of you all my love.

Yours,

Ben

No sooner had he finished his signature than the door opened and in stepped Morrison.

"You must be Hutch? The CO said that you were here. I'm Jack Morrison – the fellas call me Jacky."

This was turning in to a day of introductions and the two shook hands.

"You met any other boys from the squadron, yet?"

"A couple of engineers and a chap called Cully."

"Oh, him? I tell yer, mate, there have been a couple of times when I wished I could shoot him down. He thinks us New Zealanders are second class. Bloody English snob. Oh, sorry, no offence, mate!"

"None taken! We're not all Little Lord Fauntleroys, you know."

Morrison gave a gruff laugh that suited the rest of him: swarthy and strong looking, with jet-black hair and thin lips. He noticed the bundle of letters.

"Just been writing home, eh? Is that to family or your special girl?"

"Er . . . yes, she's my special girl, that's for sure."

"Well, she must mean a lot to you if you've had that many letters off her. Come on, I'll show you where the NAAFI is and you can get that posted off. Then I can show you where the bar is on here."

"There's a bar on board?"

"Too bloody right, mate. The Yank ships are all dry – no booze on board, can you believe it? Let's go and knock the tops off a couple of beers and I'll fill you in on the rest of the boys."

Ben hastily put the letters and pen away and followed his new comrade.

Chapter Thirty-four - Fly-Boy

It had all seemed so glamorous in the newsreels and the way that Tom had talked about it, and now Ben was living the excitement of being a real-life fighter pilot on the front line.

There he sat, flying at 3,000 feet in his Seafire – one of the fastest fighters in the Pacific Theatre – and already he was bored.

At first, Combat Air Patrol had sounded daring, but due to his being the greenest pilot on the squadron, he was not being used for the attacks on the Japanese mainland and this was his fifth turn of uneventful duty in as many days. After an hour of circling the fleet with no sign of any change in the weather or circumstance, there was little to do.

Upon Indefatigable's rejoining of the British Pacific Fleet and rendezvous with American forces, Ben was astounded at the sheer size of the combined fleets – over one hundred ships were on view and stretched to all points of the compass. His jaw dropped further when Jacky had pointed out that what he could see was just a fraction of what the Americans were currently using against Japan.

"This British fleet is the biggest one in the history of the Royal Navy, but compared to the size of what the Yanks have got out here, it's nothing!" marvelled the young kiwi.

The sky on this late July day was a clear, unsullied blue and the vast fleet, below, looked like toy boats on a flat, shimmering lake of glass.

This was far too tranquil for a war. As with the previous patrols, he was flying huge circuits as one of eight aircraft, which were in groups of four. To make matters worse, he was one of a tail-end pair and had been partnered with Cully. At least the insistence of radio silence wherever possible spared him having to talk with the stuck-up twit.

However, any chance of avoiding Cully was ruined when he manoeuvred his aircraft closer to Ben's and tried to communicate through the system of morse code hand signals known as 'zogging'. Ben smiled and nodded at Cully, feigning interest for want of anything better to do. He even gave a few responses, just to show willing – but something far more interesting suddenly presented itself.

"Bogies at eighteen miles. Steer to 070 degrees and climb to four thousand feet."

The command from Indefatigable crackled through their headsets and all eight aircraft did as instructed. Ben signed off to Cully with a final zog: a classic, two-fingered salute.

This sounded like a textbook attack by the Japanese – the Allies had got used to their method, in which a group of barely experienced pilots would fumble their aircraft towards their targets, nursed along by the presence of much more experienced pilots, all flying at as low an altitude as they dared in order to avoid radar detection. Once this group had reached within twenty miles of the Allied ships, the senior pilots would suddenly climb up and allow themselves to be picked up on radar screens to act as a decoy, whilst the younger pilots would stagger on, hopefully undetected, to carry out their kamikaze attacks.

If they had been detected at eighteen miles' range, then by the time they were engaged by Allied aircraft, there would only be a couple of minutes in which to stop the attack.

Sure enough, on the horizon, Ben saw the swarm of dots approaching the fleet. A flight of American Corsairs was harrying them and were already scoring significant hits, so by the time the Seafires began to position themselves to make attacking sweeps, only two Japanese aircraft remained. Both were Zero fighters, once the scourge of the Pacific skies but now outclassed by almost all of its rivals. Out of ammunition, the Corsairs left the remaining pair to the Seafires.

Cully swooped with vigour and let rip with a burst from his guns on the leading aircraft of the pair. He appeared to make a couple of hits, and another burst might well have done the trick, but his guns suddenly jammed. Redundant, he pulled away.

Now Ben found himself in position for a shot at the following Zero. Moving himself behind, he increased his speed and closed in, trying to get the Zero in to his gun sight for a clear shot, but it was not easy. The Japanese was weaving as he looked for a suitable target, which would almost certainly be a carrier, and the fleet was now very much in sight.

This had all been so much easier in training, shooting at a fabric windsock that was towed behind a slow biplane.

Ben fired but his shots were well askew of his target. He tried to stay calm and do his job, just as he had practised so many times before, but when suddenly confronted with having to do this for real, the pressure began to tell on him. He flapped around, trying to get a better position and fired wildly again, spraying his bullets and cannon shells awry.

Becoming desperate, he tried the trickiest of all measures: a deflection shot, firing to where he thought the target would be moving, so that it would fly in to his oncoming bullets. He clearly had over-reached himself as the Zero darted away from his volley and escaped further punishment.

With his twelve seconds' worth of ammunition now spent, Ben's first attempt at being a master hunter of the skies had proved a fruitless one.

Besides, the Zeros had entered the fleet's Gun Defence Zone and the anti-aircraft fire of the Allied ships began to explode before him. He left the Zeros to their fate and headed for home. It was madness to fly in to such an onslaught.

The leading Zero was now clearly labouring after taking hits from the Corsairs and Cully – perhaps his shots had wounded the pilot? As it limped onward, it dipped ever lower before being dealt a final blow by a particularly good shot from a nearby destroyer. The Zero dropped a wing in to the sea and then cartwheeled across the waves – wings and fuselage buckling as though they were made of paper – coming to a halt in a sensational splash of spray and sinking in a matter of moments.

Alone, the second Zero ploughed a suicidal furrow through its own valley of death, now fixing its sights on an American cruiser, which turned every available gun on to the tiny aircraft. Like a little metal moth attracted by the deadliest of flames, the Zero moved ever onward, but with nothing else in the sky to draw away the combined fire of the surrounding warships, it was a lost cause. The Zero succumbed to the hailstorm as a shell whacked in to its engine – causing its fuel and high explosive to combine in a bright and deafening blast and the mangled wreckage tumbled to its watery grave. Another life given for the Emperor.

It was time to land-on to the Indefatigable and Ben made the slow approach to the rear of the huge vessel. Standing on the deck was 'bats' - the signalman armed with two large, wooden paddles that resembled table tennis bats – who was helping him to correct his approach.

It was all going routinely and Ben should have had little to think about other than making a safe landing, but his mind raced with the thoughts of his first taste of action. Had he really just tried to kill a man? Surely it was no matter – the man was hell-bent on killing himself and taking others with him, anyway – someone had to stop him, right? This is a war, he told himself – we won't get it won and finished unless we see them off. But what if, he suddenly pondered, that was Setsu's friend . . . or even her brother?

Setsu. He had not had much time to turn his thoughts to her since the Indefatigable had left Sydney and he had sent his last letter. How was she? Where was she? Alive or dead? God forbid, no, that she might be dead. It felt like an age since he had received a letter.

He dragged his thoughts back to landing-on and slowed his approach speed whilst executing a slow turn to the left. Nearly there – this should be fine. 'Bats' was bringing him in routinely as the stern of the ship grew ever closer. Landing a Seafire was notoriously difficult because the tail of the aircraft needed to be kept low down, so that the hook beneath it could catch one of the arrester wires strung across the deck to bring it to a stand still. However, owing to the aircraft's long nose, much of Ben's view ahead was, therefore, obscured.

No matter, though, as he dropped the aircraft softly on to the hard, armour plated deck, expecting that sudden heave as it came to an abrupt halt, but one of the wheels gave way and the Seafire tipped forward, its propeller blades thrashing and bending against the deck with a deafening thud-thud-thud before the engine gave out with a cacophonous rasp.

The instant silence seemed to last an hour, but it was only a matter of seconds before Stilton was clambering on to the wing and peering in to the cockpit.

"Are yers alright, Sir? Come on, let's get yers out of it!"

Brought back to his senses, Ben clambered free of his lame Seafire and gave the Devonian an assured nod before heading to the ready room to give a report on the kamikazes and his crash landing.

"Pranged one at last, eh, Hutchinson? Looks like your landing on is as good as your shooting!" smirked Cully as he hung up his life jacket. Ben was too shaken and embarrassed to say anything. Cully continued to twist the knife. "As for your shooting, you wouldn't have splashed that Jap if you'd had all day. The poor little monkey had to do it for you!"

"Cully, that's enough," deadpanned Rydall as he entered the room. "We all know how hard it is to land-on a Seafire. Find me someone who hasn't pranged one!"

Cully looked at his feet and Rydall turned to Ben and grinned.

"Welcome to the pancake club, Hutch. You really are one of us, now! We've all had something like that happen to us, out here. Just get some rest and don't worry about it. We need you to be back in the air, tomorrow."

On the deck, Archie gave the stricken fighter an inspection and shook his head. Five minutes earlier, it had been a highly expensive piece of military hardware, incorporating cutting edge aerodynamics and engineering. Now, it was deemed beyond repair, so the deck crews massed and pushed what had suddenly become a pile of scrap metal over the edge of the deck and in to the depths of the Pacific Ocean. A new Seafire would be flown over from a supply carrier at the first opportunity.

***

The hangar deck was crammed from wall to wall and ceiling to floor with men, machinery and aircraft. The room did not ring to the sound of electrical tools – it pounded.

Sweltering in this giant metal cauldron, men sweated and toiled, swarming like worker ants in the gaps between the aircraft, heads and torsos buried in cavities as engines were overhauled, undercarriages were strengthened, weapons were cleaned and radios checked.

Wiping the grime from their brows as they checked the fuel pump on Ben's replacement Seafire stood Archie and Stilton. There seemed to be nothing wrong with the engine, but one thing was amiss between the two men.

"Look, Stilton, if you say you've finished, then why do I need to look at it?" asked a frustrated Archie.

"Well, I needs you to have a look so I can rest easy."

"But if it's okay, then I don't need to, do I? If you've done what it says in the manual, then it should be fine . . . ah . . . the manual. I get it. That's the problem, isn't it?"

Stilton went silent.

"You can't bloody well read what's in the book, can yer?"

The words hurt.

"I've done me best with it. It should be fine."

"Should be? Should be?" Archie raised his voice above the din of machinery, "That's no good to Mr Hutchinson when he's halfway up in the blue yonder and his bloody fuel pump gives out! He'll be shark food in no time!"

"Don't you think Oi knows that? That's why I needs yer help with this!"

"You need more help than I can give yer! How am I supposed to teach you to read when there's a bloody war on? How did you even get through training?"

"Oh, now you're gonna teach me how to read, eh? Since when did you become a bloody teacher? I tell yer what, can you lip read?"

"Yeah!"

The noise of the tools drowned out the words, but Stilton's lips formed the short syllables which directed Archie to 'go forth and multiply', whilst also questioning his parentage. The distraught Stilton then made off for the toilet.

As Stilton made his exit, he was called at from the hatchway by Cully.

"Ah, you'll do. I need someone to help me with a presentation I'm doing on the new drop tanks for the squadron. I need you to join me at thirteen hundred hours to give me a briefing on how they are fitted."

Amid the noise, his words failed to register with their target and the frustrated Stilton ploughed onward in search of solace and a place in which to empty his bladder. This would not do for Cully, who shuffled toward the vanishing engineer and accosted him.

"You, man! Are you ignoring me? I just gave you an order! Drop tanks at thirteen hundred! Know your place!"

Stilton was jolted from his thoughts. He turned to the round-faced man whose hand was on his arm and his first instinct was to brush him aside, but then he noticed the epaulettes on the man's shoulders and realised that it was Cully. He was not in the mood, but tried to gather himself. Appropriately, there was a sudden cessation of workshop noise.

"Er, Oi'm sorry, sir, but Oi didn't hear you, sir."

"You didn't hear me? Listen, man, you were given an order by an officer of the King's navy and you will obey that order whether you heard it or not!"

The silence continued, as the engineer tried to digest Cully's words. Stilton was the first to admit that he was a simple man, not one for Shakespeare or any of that fancy stuff, but he did credit himself with a modicum of common sense. However, even an honest farmer's son could find no logic in what had just been said and so he felt justified in offering the bluntest of responses.

The high decibel clatter of machinery suddenly erupted again, which masked the sound of his words, but even the most hopeless student of lip reading could have interpreted Stilton's guttural repost.

***

"Mr Hutchinson, sir? It's about Stilton."

Archie entered Ben's office and began to explain. "He's in the glass house for swearing at Mister Cully. Can you go and speak with him, please, Sir?"

Having just been appointed the squadron's diarist, in lieu of the departed Bradley, Ben had been making another entry in the book – documenting the missions flown that day and all those involved. He placed the book back on the shelf, picked up a notebook and followed Archie out of the office.

It had been less than a couple of weeks since he had joined the ship and much of this small, floating city was still a mystery to him. The pair trudged through one grey, steel corridor after another, ducking through doorways. Everywhere, from every available fixing, seamen were strung up in their hammocks, all trying to get some precious sleep before their next shift. Descending deck after deck, he finally reached the cell in which Stilton was incarcerated.

A rating was on hand to open the door. On entering the tiny cell, Ben saw Stilton sitting on a bunk, looking forlorn. He looked up, sighed and then looked down again at a piece of paper that he had in front of him.

"They've told me that Oi've got to write a statement, but Oi can't seem to find the words."

"Let me have a look," offered Ben and Stilton meekly handed over the paper.

"Hmm. I like your choice of words towards Cully. Mind you, the spelling needs a bit of work, eh? This one, here, needs a 'c' in between the 'u' and the 'k', and as for where Cully can stick his drop tank, you need to put an 'e' on the end."

The two men laughed.

"Oi'm just not that good at all that readin' and writin', sir. Oi never had the time fer schooling."

"When did you leave school?"

"Well, Oi left, official, like, when Oi was about fourteen, but Oi'd never really been at school that much in the first place. Y'see, sir, Oi'm the eldest one of eight in the family – we're all farmers, we are, from Devonshire. Our dad, 'e was in the Great War and 'e was gassed, 'e was, so 'e was never that strong once he comes back from France. That means that as soon as Oi was old enough, Oi had to work on the farm with him, y'see? Oi couldn't be goin' t'school when we had to get the cows milked, could Oi?"

Ben had seen this in his home town, too, with families who needed to send their boys to work at the first opportunity, rather than let them make their own choices with their lives.

"So, when the war comes, Oi gets me papers for the navy and goes off to Plymouth for basic training. Now, Oi didn't know what they was going to do with me, 'cause I sure ain't no doctor or nuthin', but on my first day there, we's all bein' driven in this truck, all us new recruits, and the truck only breaks down, don't it? Now, I steps up and fixes the engine, don't Oi, 'cause even though Oi don't read and write that much, Oi knows how to fix a tractor! So, somebody tells the brass hats about this, and Oi gets myself sent to work on the engines."

"That's amazing, Stilton, but how did you pass the written exams?"

"Ah, well that's when you finds out how things really works in high places, see? 'Cause every time an exam comes up, Oi only gets sent home fer a bit of 'compassionate leave', don't Oi? Mind you, the CO always gives us express orders to come back from the farm with two dozen eggs and some king sized cheeses! And what d'yer know – every time Oi comes back with the eggs and the cheese, Oi seems to have passed me exams!"

So this is how we beat the Germans, though Ben. Will it be enough to beat the Japanese, too, he thought? He turned back to the matter in hand.

"Look, Stilton, you'd better let me write this."

Chapter Thirty-five - Points of View

"I'll tell you what, chaps, I can't believe that my bloody guns jammed today! You know, I haven't splashed a Jap in weeks and can't wait to get over to Tokyo and do a few more in."

There was a moment's silence in the bar. Cully had expected this opening line to be the start of a gripping conversation, but Jacky and Ben simply stared in to their whiskeys. Their own lively banter on what they both missed about New Zealand had been cut short by Cully's ham-fisted interjection. Both men were tempted to give him the cold shoulder, but Jacky tried to make the best of the situation.

"So, you think we're going over, tomorrow? Over the mainland?"

"Must be!" replied Cully with zeal. He seemed unaware that his aloofness caused him any unpopularity amongst his peers and would cheerily expect those who had only recently been belittled by him to then join him in lively chit chat as if nothing had ever happened.

"I saw the chaps fitting the long range drop tanks, this evening, whilst I heard from up top that we've moved closer to the Jap mainland. I wonder what we're going to hit?" He continued, eagerly.

"I expect," mused Ben, "That it'll be anything that the Yanks can't be bothered with, just to keep us out of the way!"

"It doesn't matter what we're given," blurted Cully, "We've got to get in there and do our bit to finish them off. Look at what the Japs took from us: Hong Kong, Malaya, Burma, Singapore. We're taking it all back, now and the final push isn't far off. The more of those little yellow monkeys that we do for now, the less of them there'll be when we put our boys on the ground in Tokyo."

Ben knew that he could not show any sign of compassion for the Japanese. Everyone on board had heard stories of the brutality meted out by their military to prisoners of war and civilians, alike. He knew that, had he not met Setsu, his own views on the Japanese would be similarly tainted.

Any talk along the lines of the Japanese not all being so bad would be seen as treasonous amongst the rest of the crew, but he felt an almost perverse need to test the waters of Cully's bigotry.

"So, how many Japs have you splashed, then?"

Cully could not resist the chance to boast.

"Three, so far – all verified kills, too. None of this shared, half-kill rot for me! You can see them all marked off on the side of my kite!

"Two of them were Zeros and the other was a Judy bomber – easy meat, those. The Zeros were on suicide runs, so I was really just putting them out of their misery. Letting the little buggers fly on was just delaying the inevitable. They were dead men, anyway."

"Did you get up close to them – see their faces?" asked Ben.

"On the Judy, yes. I swept down out of the sun on that one and gave it a good blast – took out the pilot and she started going down slowly. I came about and could see the gunner trying to bail out, so I got up close so I could see his little yellow face and finished him off."

Jacky was unimpressed.

"You shot the poor sod as he was making a jump for it, Cully? That's not cricket, mate. I know they're the enemy and all that, but you could've let the bloke jump and take his chances."

"The Japs don't play cricket!" argued Cully, "I'm not going to let him get home and then go straight back up in the air the next day to do for a few of us. Not likely. They don't think about letting us go when they're crashing in to our ships, do they? They're just a bunch of yellow savages, so I'm not letting any of them off lightly. Every Jap we splash is a life spared for us, I say. I don't know about you, but I'm raring to go, tomorrow."

"I couldn't agree more," said Jacky wearily, "I'm raring to go to the NAAFI. Tell you what, Hutch, why don't we go and get the low down from the boys. You owe me a beer in there, anyway!"

Seizing the chance of escape from any further contact with Cully, Ben drained his glass and made for the exit, but something urged him to show some degree of courtesy – after all, they would all be relying on each other in the morning. Nodding to Cully, he said, "Get a good night's kip, eh? See you in the ready room, tomorrow."

Both he and Jacky knew that Cully would not lower himself to go and drink with the non-commissioned ranks, especially now that Stilton had been denied two days of shore leave for their recent spat.

Dropping deeper in to the ship, the two men found Archie and Stilton, along with Seamen aplenty in the NAAFI. Unaccustomed to seeing officers on their patch, there was a flurry of salutes and a hasty smartening-up of unkempt uniforms, though this was hardly an issue in the circumstances. The summer heat had made things barely tolerable below decks and most crew were stripped down to shorts and shirts. Some men were lucky to have picked up rope-soled sandals, which made walking on the baking hot flight deck much easier in the searing sun.

"Easy, fellas, easy," smiled Jacky as Ben set off to grab those beers, "Save all that for above decks. It's only us two. What's the news on tomorrow?"

Archie filled him in on the long-range fuel tanks and the amount of time that should give them in the air, then looked at the two young pilots with concern.

"You two fellas'll be alright over there, won't you?"

"Why shouldn't we be?" asked Ben.

"I've been having a read of this paper, like," said Archie, brandishing a recent copy of The White Ensign, "Have a listen to this, eh." He began to recite:

"The Japanese is a human being. He is not a physical freak, and he has all the ordinary human physical limitations.

Where he differs from ourselves is in the field of ideas, where his upbringing, education, and traditions give him a very different view of life from our own.

This upbringing and education, which are very thorough and consistent, tend to make him obedient, loyal, ready to endure and if necessary to die, with great love for his country and very strong sense of duty."

The men looked at one another and gave a mixture of grins, shrugs and nods. Ben bit his tongue, knowing that he might well be the only man on the ship, if not in the whole fleet, that had actually met anyone from Japan.

The closest anyone else would have got to contact with a Japanese would have been the kamikaze pilot from earlier that day. Had the writer of this article even met anyone from Japan?

Despite that, pondered Ben, Setsu was hardly a model for the Imperial war machine, but there were countless others who were. It was they that he was to fight. Archie continued.

"In short, the Japanese must either be surprised, killed in battle, or starved."

Stilton had listened with a look of great concern and looked at the others for some sort of reassurance.

"They don't sound like 'umans, do they? So they're not going to surrender unless we kills 'em all? How we gonna do that? There's gotta be millions of 'em!"

The kamikaze attacks had struck fear in to everyone at first, but as with anything that happens with regularity, it became something of the norm. This is how the Japanese were and adaptations had to be made in order to fight them and beat them. No one was under any illusions that the coming invasion of mainland Japan was going to be anything other than the most catastrophic war of attrition.

"I've heard," said Jacky, "That the Yanks are pressing a million of those purple heart medals that they give to their wounded. Once their troops are in Japan, they expect that many casualties."

Archie found this bizarre and nearly spilled his precious beer.

"Yer gets a medal for getting wounded?" he stammered, "I've heard it all, now. What if yer just sittin' on the khazi and a bomb goes off? Yer get's a bit of shrapnel in yer jacksie and you're a hero? Anyway, it's not the Japs that frighten me so much as the thought of bunking down next to Stilton again, tonight, with his stinky feet!"

The big farmer's boy was all too often the butt of Archie's ribbings, especially when the two of them were working together, but he now felt a little empowered by the presence of Ben and Jacky.

"Never you mind my feet," came the repost, "What about you when you've had a belly full of those saveloys and peas? Oi've got to kip next to you whilst you gives off bloody poison gas all night!"

All four men laughed. They were mutually sick of the same servings of tinned food, day in and day out. The only options on the menu seemed to be tinned saveloys or tinned herrings in tomato sauce (lovingly referred to as 'herrings-in'), whilst dessert offered a choice of tinned fruit or tinned fruit.

"And not only that," continued Stilton, who was now on something of a roll, "But 'e's not the only one who gasses off all night. I can tell half the blokes on our deck by the sounds they makes at night! They've all got their own accents, I tells yer. Like bird calls, they is, but at least birds fly away and don't leave no smell!"

"Bird calls!" laughed Archie, "You sound like a bofors gun going off - that's how I know that it's you at night."

"Well, you sounds like a Spitfire on a cold morning, you does," came back Stilton, "Phut, phut, phut, blaaaargh!"

It felt good to laugh about such trivial and bawdy things and forget, even for a moment, the dangerous business that awaited everyone in the morning.

Chapter Thirty-six - Tokyo Away Day

The deck of the Indefatigable was packed with aircraft. Engines running, they taxied for take off one by one, their folded wings being lowered as they neared their place at the front, getting the right revs and waiting for their cue from bats, as crew men helped steady the wings, then crouch beneath them as the signal was given.

Time after time the Avengers and Fireflies made their dash forward over the bow, then for a second they dropped almost from sight, only to bob up again and gain height, up to join the ever growing formation that was circling the fleet.

Owing to their short range, the Seafires (sporting their huge, teardrop shaped fuel tanks under their bellies) were the last to go. Ben found taking off more disconcerting than landing-on, but managed again to lift his aircraft upward after that stomach-churning dip off the flight deck.

Within minutes, the whole squadron had assembled and the entire force massed, setting forth to Japan.

The briefing had been straightforward enough and every airman was clear on his task. The Avengers and Fireflies were armed with bombs and rockets to attack specific naval installations, whilst the Seafires were there to provide fighter protection, but were allowed to indulge in 'Ramrod' attacks on any target they deemed fit, should the opportunity arise.

The weather was still unbearably hot. Up above the cloud there was nowhere to hide from the sun and Ben felt himself roasting in the cockpit. There was no need for a flying jacket, today. He had readied himself like all the other aircrew on this day, in preparation for the heat and also in case of his being shot down and captured in Japan.

Regular dress shoes were much more comfortable in this climate, though shorts were eschewed, today, in favour of long, khaki trousers with knee pockets for a map (magnetised buttons were stitched in to the trouser flies, to be used as a makeshift compass). Under his life jacket, he wore a plain, khaki shirt, with no insignia or sign of rank, nor any identification with the exception of dog tags – they had been told that Japanese intelligence served up their most horrific torture methods to captured officers, so it was best for everyone to pass themselves off as non-commissioned aircrew with no knowledge of any value.

Ben's thought's suddenly dwelled on how his own father might have felt when he was getting ready to go 'over the top' in the trenches of The Great War. Dad had never spoken about the war – none of the men who came back ever said a word about it – so Ben could only wonder if they shared the same fears, all these years apart. Was there truly a 'bullet with your name on it'? It was best not to think on such things.

"Keep in formation. We should be approaching the coastline, now," came the assured voice of Rydall, who was watching from on high.

He could not be sure, though, as thick cloud was ahead and stretched beyond the horizon.

"That's a fair bit of quilt, there," quipped Rydall. "We'll carry on and see if there's a break in it."

Ben had mixed emotions. There was a job to be done, here, a duty to fulfil. This was to be his small part in helping to bring this war to an end and he was prepared for it, yet he yearned to gaze down and see Setsu's homeland for the first time and could see nothing but cloud. Was she there? If only he could just fly straight down and find her.

On they flew, over the endless blanket of white. No hostile aircraft came to greet them and they continued onward in a state of alertness and frustration.

Rydall gave the order for Ben's flight and several others to drop their fuel tanks, then turn and head for home. There was no point in wasting fuel, time and men in this situation. The war would have to wait for another day.

The sense of relief amongst the pilots was equalled by a sense of anti-climax, as all concerned had prepared themselves for action, but were to be denied on this day.

Paired with Cully again, Ben found himself once more as a 'tail end Charlie', keeping watch over those ahead, though there really was no-one to watch over him. The cloud was starting to break up as he scanned the skies, catching sight of Cully, who was zogging once more from his Seafire.

His signals were quite animated and spelled out the word 'ship'. Ben looked down over his port wing and, sure enough, through a small gap in the cloud, he caught a glimpse of a large vessel with a single funnel spouting black smoke. It was steaming for Japan and was boldly painted in green and white, which clearly identified it as a hospital ship. Such ships were to be treated as neutral and left well alone, so Ben looked for Cully to inform him of as much.

Cully, though, had peeled away from the formation with the clear intent of investigating further and was making for the gap in the cloud.

The decision to follow him was instantaneous. It was bad enough that Cully had broken ranks in the first place and to follow him and do likewise was madness, but Cully was driven by bloodlust, whilst Ben was weighed down with reason. The million to one notion that Setsu's brother could be one of the men on that ship was enough to make him drive his Seafire in pursuit of Cully.

Breaking under the cloud cover, he saw Cully's Seafire make a low pass over the ship, which was enough for him to have a good look and see that it was unarmed. Surely he would now climb away and re-join the formation?

Cully gained some height and swung around, but then began to head back towards the ship. He was preparing an attack!

Ben raced over the ship. He could see men on the decks, some of whom were clearly sporting bandaged wounds, whilst others were on crutches. They had seen the two enemy planes and were hurrying below deck as best as they could, some were even carrying comrades who clearly could not move well.

What to do? Cully had to be stopped. Ben steered his Seafire directly at the oncoming Cully to obstruct him. The two aircraft were heading straight for each other and every time Cully tried to manoeuvre for a better angle, Ben matched his move and blocked his attack. Someone would have to back out, but Ben was sure that it would not be him and pressed forward.

A collision was imminent, but Cully pulled up and away, hurtling back over the ship. Not a bullet had been spent, but enough fuel had been wasted to make a second pass impossible.

Both men knew that they had to get back to the formation and get back to the Indefatigable.

***

The landings-on had gone remarkably well and Ben touched down softly, with fuel to spare.

As he clambered from his cockpit, Archie and Stilton greeted him.

"So, Sir, what was it like, eh? Your first look at Japan?" asked Stilton with the eagerness of a schoolboy.

"It was closed for the day due to fog, so I came home," said Ben with mock gloom.

"So you went all that way for nothing and didn't even bring us back a souvenir, then?" smirked Archie.

"Well, I would have, but you didn't give me any sweets for the journey!"

"Ah, so that's where we're going wrong, Sir?" Archie turned to Stilton, "Well, you heard the man – next time we ready the kite, we need fuel tanks filled to the brim, all ammo cans loaded . . . and a bag of gobstoppers in the cockpit for Lord Muck, here!"

"That's the ticket, lads! With organization like this, we'll win the war in no time!" Chuckled Ben, as he made his way off to de-briefing. The smile was to be short lived, though.

"You bloody oaf! What were you playing at?"

The outburst was accompanied by a shove in the back and Ben whirled around to face an incandescent Cully, who continued to push at Ben's chest. Archie, Stilton and others gathered around the fray.

"What was I playing at? You need to get your bumps felt, mate! That was a hospital ship."

"It makes no odds! They're all as good as dead, anyway. I was just going to send those yellow monkeys on their way a bit sooner. Besides, you're no bloody good at shooting Japs for yourself and now you're stopping me from doing it for you! Your sort should know your place and leave this business to the right people."

Cully gave another shove and Ben responded by moving toward him, his hackles now raised. Archie stepped forward and grabbed Ben's clenched fist, whilst Stilton positioned his considerable bulk between the two pilots.

"You two! What the bloody hell is going on?" called Rydall, who had leaped down from the wing of his Seafire to stop the fracas. "Get inside! I only hope for your sakes that the Admiral didn't see that!"

Like two brawling schoolboys caught on the yard, the young pilots trudged and fumed in to the de-briefing room with Rydall in close attendance.

"I wish," pondered Archie, "That I'd let Mr Hutchinson hit that southern pillock."

"I knows what you mean," agreed Stilton, "Oi'd love to see that, too. But Oi don't want to see Mr Hutchinson get himself court-martialled."

In the de-briefing room, Rydall ushered the pair in to a corner and set about nipping the whole situation in the bud.

"What was all that about, eh, boys? Hutch, you speak first and make it short and sweet. I've got better things to do than deal with you two."

Ben had not felt like this since he had disappointed Charles Carruthers with some poor draftsmanship, but he steeled himself and looked Rydall in the eye.

"Cully broke formation and was going to attack a Jap hospital ship. I followed him and put him off."

Rydall stared at him as he took in the information, then pursed his lips and took a long breath through his nose. His stare turned to Cully.

"Is this true?"

"It was a legitimate target, sir! We were on a ramrod!"

"It was a hospital ship, you bloody fool!" bellowed Rydall, right in to Cully's face, causing the rest of the pilots in the room to fall silent, then turn away and start embarrassed small talk in hushed tones.

"If word gets back to the Japs that we're attacking their wounded, then they'll take it out on our boys in the POW camps! Honestly, Cully, if we weren't so short of pilots, I'd fly you back to Sydney, myself. Get to your quarters. I'll deal with you, later. Hutch, I want to see you in the office, right after de-briefing."

***

With his flying clothes still damp with sweat, Ben entered the squadron's office. Rydall was hurriedly filling out a form on his desk and without looking up from the paper, instructed him to sit down. He continued to write as though no-one was there. Ben assumed that this was a tactic to make him feel uneasy and did his best not to prove that this was the case. Finally, Rydall looked up from the page.

"It's bad enough, Hutch, that you broke formation, but to get involved in a caper like that was a bit of a shocker."

His tone was much calmer that Ben had expected – this did not sound like the pre-amble to a court-martial, or was this just the calm before the storm?

"Hopefully," continued Rydall, "Nothing more will come of this. I'm putting you and Cully on separate flights, to keep you out of each other's way. Oh, and you're docked a day's shore leave when we're next in port."

Ben winced a little, but realised that it could have been worse.

"I'm docking Cully three days, though. Think yourselves lucky that no-one higher up saw it. You'd both be in hot water for that. The fact is that I need both of you here and on top of your games until this current stint is over. I expect you to be on your best behaviour from now on. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Ben nodded.

Rydall got up and strode to a cupboard. After unlocking it, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He filled both liberally and passed one to Ben.

"I noticed that he took a dislike from you right from the off, Hutch," he sighed.

"Let me tell you a few things about Cully," he continued. "I know the fellow from when he was a young lad. In fact, his elder brother George and I were at Cambridge together – we spent a couple of summers at his family estate, in Hampshire.

"It would have been the summer of '23 when I first set eyes on young Howard – he would have been six or seven, then and he was as spoilt as could be. George's father was in the Great War, just like yours and mine, only Cully senior didn't make it back from Passchendale in '17.

"George was old enough to remember his father and took it all with the stiff upper lip, but his mother never got over it – and young Howard was the spitting image of his late daddy, so she doted on him as though there was no tomorrow. As you can imagine, with a mother who never said 'no' and a house full of servants that dared not say anything, it's no wonder our Cully minor has turned out the way he has!"

Ben took the story in. Rydall leaned forward in his chair, "And how about you, Ben? To use the well-worn question, what did your daddy do in the war?"

Ben knew that he was among the many who would give a similar answer to what he was about to say:

"He was a private in the Sherwood Foresters. He was gassed in 1918 and invalided out, just as the big push was coming. He survived that, but didn't survive a pit collapse, when I was fourteen . . ."

"They gave a lot for the cause, didn't they?" sighed Rydall. "My old man found himself out in Mesopotamia. He thought that he might just be able to see it out in the desert, looking for Johnny Turk, rather than dodging the shells in France. He ended up like half the troops out there, dead or dying of dysentery – he didn't sit out the war, the poor devil damned near squatted it out! They shipped him home with a DSO, for doing nothing more than writhing in a sand dune with his trousers 'round his ankles. Mother said that he weighed now more than eight stones when he got home. He was never the same again.

"So there you are, Hutch, both our fathers went out to fight for King and Country, to 'do their bit', and for what? The Great War changed nothing for Britain – the same people were in charge and life didn't improve for anyone. At least this time, we are truly fighting for something: Hitler's lot, Mussolini, the Japs – they all need to be stopped. There is a truly better world to be won, here, don't you think, Ben? If we can get through this one, there has got to be something for us all?"

Rydall dismissed Ben and he took a slow walk back to his cabin. 'Something for us all?' he pondered. Did that include all people, or just those on the right side?

Chapter Thirty-Seven - A Lovely Day

Despite the noise of the Seafire's engine, it all felt remarkably peaceful. The summer sky was devoid of cloud and the heat from the sun was boundless. Below, from the great height that the squadrons had reached in order to gain optimum cruising speed and be well prepared for attack, the Pacific Ocean could not have looked more tranquil or inviting.

It was such a beautiful day. A perfect day for spending with loved ones one a sandy beach, or in a city park, laughing, playing cricket, drinking cloudy lemonade and eating cold ice cream. It was also a perfect day for war – ideal flying conditions with maximum visibility. Looking around him, Ben took strength from the two dozen Seafires around him, all of which were positioned above the fleet's attack aircraft. Further above were the Hellcats, one of which contained the operation commander for the day, who would look down from on high and direct proceedings. Below were the Fireflies and Avengers that were to deliver the heavy blows to today's targets along the Japanese coastline – naval installations, shipping and gun emplacements. Something like eighty aircraft were on their way with one intent.

The briefing had been detailed and he had noted everything down regarding his airspeed, altitude, formation, co-ordinates and the like, but this was all a formality. The distilled essence of today's job was simple: shoot down any Jap fighters that you see, whilst if there aren't any, shoot anything else Japanese that you can see on the ground.

Slowly inching over the horizon was a sight that brought Ben back from his reverie, as the coast of Japan came in to view.

From the great height of three thousand feet, he could take in a stunning panorama of jagged coastline, lush greenery and imperious mountains. So this was Setsu's land. His heart swelled for a moment as he thought of her and prayed that the war was truly in its final days, that this raid would be all that was needed and that peace was imminent. Then somehow, he could find her, down there in Japan. At least he knew that today, he would not fire his guns at Setsu, as their targets were far south of Tokyo.

It was time to prepare, both in terms of the aircraft and mind set. This time, there was no cloud to obscure Setsu's homeland, no excuse for not 'doing one's bit'. Soon, it would be time to drop the extra fuel tank from beneath the aircraft.

The coast was now in clear view and Ben could make out the settlements on the ground, even the ant-sized people as they ran for cover from the invaders in the sky. It looks so beautiful, so special, the people down there are real people, just like anywhere else, he thought, but forced himself to banish any humanitarian ideals in favour of self-preservation as the first signs of anti-aircraft fire materialized before him and the other aircraft. The black clouds of flak bursts began to appear around them with a deep booming sound – they looked so harmless, hanging in the air like drops of ink in to a glass of water, yet they could rip his Seafire to shreds in an instant. The aircraft climbed en masse to rise above the danger.

He tried to stay focused, but found his mind wandering. Where were the Japanese fighter planes, he wondered? Surely they would be here to meet us? Were they elsewhere, fighting the larger American forces, or, perhaps, did they just have nothing left?

It was time to drop his fuel tank. He jettisoned the tank and switched to the internal fuel supply – it should have been routine, but something was badly wrong. The Merlin engine groaned, wheezed and lost power, suddenly overheating – whilst running on the fuel from the drop tank, fuel in the pipes from the main tank had sat idle, becoming hotter and hotter with the heat from the engine. The Seafire shook and dipped and he frantically tried to correct the slide, but it was too late. Losing altitude, he dropped in to the area of flak, the lethal black candyfloss bursts were all around him as the gunners on the ground suddenly became aware of this straggler from the pack and took aim.

He could feel the force of the blasts shaking his slender Seafire, some stray pieces of flak rattled his tail plane, but Ben felt that he was getting control back and would soon be able to climb again.

It was not to be. There was a deafening thwack of sound and the Seafire lurched to its left as a flack burst tore in to the underside of his right wing. He fought to wrest back control, get the revs back up and start climbing, but he could feel the aircraft spinning, losing altitude, going downwards . . . downwards.

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Unexpected Guests

Five months can pass by so very quickly when one is in love, yet when there is nothing but grief and suffering, those same days and weeks will pass in a stunned lament.

Setsu could not fully recall how she had survived the night of the Tokyo firebombing, but she had relived its horrors in her sleep ever since.

She had carried her mother away from the furnace and found safety, but in the morning she found that Masako had died. Whether it was asphyxiation or a heart attack did not matter, because there was no doctor available to pass such a judgement. Even if there had been, the dead lay in their tens of thousands and all that mattered was that they were removed and disposed of before there were any outbreaks of disease. There was neither the time nor the facility to diagnose anything beyond being dead or alive.

Sobbing, she had helped the silent members of some other Neighbourhood Association place Masako's body on the back of a cart, on which it was slowly wheeled away to some unknown and insignificant resting place. This was such a discourteous way to treat any human being, she thought, especially one who had taught her the importance of ceremony and reverence.

Unable and unwilling to return home, she told herself that somehow, life had to go on. She was found another teaching position, to the far south of the city. The environment was much the same, the food was becoming ever more scarce and the teachings seemed increasingly futile with every passing air raid, but she endured, she continued and she survived.

The school was in a quiet district, made all the more quiet by the lack of traffic on the streets. Fuel shortages had gone beyond all expectations and a car on the road was a rare sight, indeed.

It was hardly surprising, then, as Setsu robotically drove her students through an algebra class that she found herself just as distracted as her students by the sight of a car appearing outside the school.

In more peaceful times a teacher would have lambasted the students for being so inattentive, but on seeing this particular car and its occupants Setsu's blood ran cold and she was reduced to standing motionless.

The memories of years before, that last day that she had seen her father, came flooding back, as she saw the trio of Kempaitai officers enter the building.

The fourteen children were of widely differing ages and sizes. Still sitting in their neat rows, they whispered to each other and wondered what was afoot.

Setsu's guard was dropped and she allowed the chatter to continue as she grappled with those twisted memories and then her mind ran riot with what the purpose of this visit might be. What if someone had searched the ruins of her family home and found the letters? There would be no way to explain such a thing. Was her secret finally out?

The door opened and the school's secretary entered with one of the Kempaitai men.

"Children!" the secretary addressed the class, "You are to go to the yard for exercise. Form two lines and make your way." She clapped her hands twice and the girls and boys made their respective single files and marched past the immobile Setsu.

"Kimura San, this is Captain Oshiro and he has asked that you will accompany him. He needs your help in an investigation. You must leave right away."

Oshiro said nothing but motioned toward the door. Setsu nodded and walked to the corridor, in which stood the two other officers. They stood either side of her and the quartet trooped to the car with still no words being said.

Driving along, the silence within the car was becoming too painful for Setsu. She recognised the looks from those on the side of the road who saw the car rolling past – they would draw their own conclusions as to why she was being driven away by the Kempaitai and none of those conclusions would be positive. The ever-tightening knot in her stomach grew larger. Her mind was wracked with thoughts of these men in the car and what their kind did to her father – this is how he must have felt as he was driven away, all those years ago, knowing that he would almost certainly not be making a return journey.

The streets had been cleared of bomb damage, but the houses lay in ruins on all sides.

Suddenly, the car slowed and paused. The three men all looked to the left.

"There it is, that's the one the American came from," said Oshiro.

To the left of the car, some fifty feet away, smouldered and smoked the crumpled remains of a fighter plane. There were still traces of grey and green colour about its fuselage, but there was no white star to be seen amongst its markings, only a white roundel with a blue centre. Certainly nothing, thought Setsu, to define it as American.

"This is what you are needed for," said the man to Setsu's right, "We have captured the American from that aircraft and you are to translate for us when we question him."

Setsu bit her lip and remained silent. She nodded but could do nothing more.

The car rolled on. Another ten minutes passed like hours and finally the car pulled up outside a police station.

"You will come with us," came the instruction.

Led straight through the reception area without any questions from the policemen present, the entourage made its way along corridors, past offices, until it reached the cells, stopping before the last door.

"You will translate our words in to English and give his answers back to us immediately. Nothing more. Do you understand?" instructed Oshiro.

" . . . Of course . . . I will do my duty."

The door swung open and Setsu baulked at the smell of sweat, vomit and blood, which rushed to her nostrils. Before stepping in to the cell, she heard the sound of coughing and spitting.

She froze at the sight before her in the bare cell. There sat a man on a wooden chair. His head was bowed down as far as it was allowed, as his hands were bound behind the back of the chair. The long locks on the top of his head were lank and sodden with sweat – they hung down loosely and obscured his face.

He wore a khaki uniform of a shirt and trousers, with black shoes, but there were no markings or indication of his rank or unit on his epaulettes or the front of his shirt – though he did have the mandatory 'dog tags' around his neck.

The man stirred slightly, coughed and spat again, adding to the pool of blood, vomit and spit which lay on the floor.

It could not be, could it? This surely could not be him, thought Setsu? How on earth could she contain herself? What if this was Ben? What if he said the wrong thing? They could both die this day.

"Tell the American that he has desecrated Japan's sacred land. He will die unless he gives us the information we require," came the barked order from Oshiro. Setsu complied.

At first, there was no response. Still the man did not look up. The only sounds he made were gasps for breath and sighs of pain, but then, slowly, he spoke.

"Get your facts straight. I'm not a bloody yank. I'm an Englishman."

That voice. That accent. It sounded so familiar. Setsu was frozen to the spot.

"He . . . he says that he is English."

"English? No matter. We want the location of his ship and his fleet. Tell him now."

Before Setsu could begin, the head stirred.

"You know the drill, Jap. All you'll get is me name."

Slowly, the head rose, and then defiantly shook back the long hair to reveal the face. The eyes were blue, the nose was long and straight – albeit battered and bloodied – the broad mouth was misshapen by ruddied, swollen lips, but they formed an ironic smile, showing teeth with yet more blood stains.

"Tom Pleasance. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Oh, and for the record, you can tell him that I'm a flight sergeant – we've heard what you lot do to officers."

Setsu was torn between relief that this was not her Ben, and the grief of what had been done to this stranger.

"You have to tell these men about your ship. Please tell them the name of your ship and its location," tried Setsu.

"You seem like a nice young lass, so it wouldn't be proper for me to tell you where to shove it."

"I am sorry, I do not understand. Please tell these officers what they want to know."

'What is he saying?" demanded Oshiro. "Tell him to answer or he will be punished further."

Setsu complied and Tom gave her a look of resignation.

"You have to tell them what they want to know."

"Or what, love?"

Oshiro growled again, but Setsu was overtaken by opportunity. She realised that no one but Tom could understand her English and made a bold move.

"Please let me try and speak to him. I will do my best," she found herself saying, before turning to Tom.

"Look, they can't understand us, so please listen. I am not your enemy. I think that they mean to kill you no matter what you say, but please just say something, anything, to make them think that they have done their job. Perhaps, then, they may let you live."

"Is this some sort of trick?"

"No. I want to help you."

"Why?"

"Please, do you know a pilot called Ben? Ben Hutchinson? Is he with you? Is he safe?"

The look on Tom's face changed from indignation to bewilderment. He suddenly spoke to Setsu almost as though he knew her.

"Ben? How do know that name? What do you know about him? Has be been shot down? Captured . . ?" Suddenly, though, his tone changed.

"Wait, hang on, this is just a bloody ruse, isn't it? You could have got that name from anywhere. I'll tell you what I'll give you and your mates: sod all! Translate that if you can!"

Setsu was struggling to keep her composure and Oshiro prodded her arm, ordering her to explain what was being said.

"He will not tell you anything. I am sorry."

"Take him out and have him executed," came the cold response. The two other Kempeitai men in the room moved towards Tom and began to wrestle him from the chair. Tom nodded as he was raised to his feet and made a parting shot at Setsu as he was dragged from the room.

"Alright, I think I can see where this is going. Tell your mates, here, that it'll not be long before it's their turn for the high jump!"

The room finally fell silent. Setsu was escorted back to the car and driven to school in silence. Although the journey back should have been one filled with relief, her mind was a tumult with the thoughts of the young airman and the feeling that the Kempaitai officers had seen something untoward in her exchanges with him. Would they now be watching her, too?

The poor young pilot. It was only minutes since she spoke with him and he was probably already dead. Yet, he knew Ben! He must be with the fleet. Please, please, let him be safe, she prayed.

For the first time in months, she felt a tiny glimmer of hope, that there was a future – something worth living for. She gazed past the nonchalant Kempaitai men, out of the window and beyond the rubble and ash of the bombed city, to the clear, blue Summer sky, allowing herself just a moment to dream of what could lie under that same sky in a more peaceful future.

Yet, the present came hurtling back to her as a volley of bullets tore along the length of the street. They were being attacked from the air!

"Take evasive action!" called Oshiro and the driver pushed his foot to the floor in an attempt to speed away. It was a futile gesture, though, as the car was hardly a swift one and the lone, attacking aircraft was completing it's circle and coming back for another go.

Theirs was the only car on the road and the lack of any standing buildings along the whole stretch gave it nowhere to hide. It was such an inviting target.

A second burst of shots rained down, some of them whipping across the front of the car, shattering the windscreen and bursting a tyre, whilst steam and smoke to erupted from the now bullet riddled engine.

Unable to see, the driver was in a state of helpless panic and the car veered blindly across the road, crashing in to a wall that was all that remained of a hardware store.

Passers by ran to the wrecked car and began to remove the passengers, whom they laid at the side of the road. None of them were moving.

Making one more pass to inspect its handiwork, the Seafire roared past at low level. Looking down, Sub-lieutenant Cully allowed himself some degree of satisfaction. There had been scant pickings on this ramrod, today, and the car seemed fair game. After all, any Japs with a car had to be important, didn't they? Better to get them now than let them get us, tomorrow, he told himself as he gained height and set a course for the Indefatigable.

***

The last forty minutes had been the most trying of Ben's life, as he had used every piece of training, every sinew and ounce of concentration to keep his tattered Seafire in the air and on course for the Indefatigable. Somehow, he had dodged the rest of the flak, coaxed the ailing Seafire back from its last gasps and made a turn for home. As if he were some sort of fraught music hall plate spinner, his mind and hands had darted from dial to dial on his instrument panel: fuel temperature, altimeter, air-speed indicator, rev counter, fuel gauge, oxygen regulator, artificial horizon and radio homing device. His left hand like a frantic pendulum, switching between the control column and the throttle, constantly doing whatever he could to keep the nose of the aircraft from dipping, then glancing from side to side to make sure that his wing tips were level with the horizon, his eyes lingering for painful instances on the gaping wound in the leading edge of his starboard wing, which was haemorrhaging fuel – never mind having to keep an eye out for enemy aircraft which could pick off a stricken kite like his.

He had never felt so alone. No one was going to get him out of this. As an apprentice at the railway works, when a deadline had been missed and work was still to be done, Mr Carruthers would often send him and the other boys home, rather than make them stay for costly over time, but now, he had to stay and finish the job.

Beneath him, the Pacific Ocean that on the outward journey had looked so tranquil, now offered only dread. Whether he was to ditch the 'plane or bail out, his chances of being recovered by a lone Walrus flying boat were slim at best. No, he did not fancy being shark food. The only two options available were to keep the machine in the air or to die.

There was no time to dwell on any of this. Even when, from the corner of his eye, he caught fleeting images of two Fairey Firefly fighters from Indefatigable, watching his back and willing him to make it home. This should have brought him comfort and reassurance, but no one from those fighters was going to reach out and grab him. He still had to land.

"You're nearly there, get yourself ready. Pussycat is awaiting your homecoming," came the very calm voice from one of the Fireflies, referring to the Indefatigable's radio code name.

Almost without realising it, Ben went through the routine approach for landing: arrester hook down, undercarriage lowered – he had to do this manually owing to hydraulic failure – flaps down, reduce speed to 65 knots, keep the nose high, open the canopy for a quick escape, just in case . . . it was all done by the book and by instinct.

Indefatigable was now in sight, sailing in to the wind for him. There were oil smears on his windshield, but through them he could see the deck marked with a large 'F' (for the other code name of 'Flounder'), the arrester wires and the crew waiting for him. There was no way out of this moment.

It ended in seconds: the held breath, the instant of no return, the sudden thump of wheels on to the armour plated landing deck and the clean catch of the arrester hook, slowing the ailing fighter plane from the speed of a racing express train to a dead stop in a matter of a few yards.

Had that just happened? Was it over? He was too exhausted, too mentally numb to move or think. He barely noticed Archie leaning in to the cockpit and directly over him to shut down the engine. Nor did he register Stilton's clawing hands unbuckling his straps so that the two men could drag his limp body out of the aircraft.

"Can you hear me, Sir? Are you alright?" came Stilton's drawl – which had taken on an unexpected maternal tone.

"'Course you're alright, aren't you, Sir?" rallied Archie, as he helped to grapple with Ben's limp weight.

"Isn't it typical, eh? Last week, he comes back from a CAP in a pristine Seafire and wraps it 'round the deck. Today, he come's back in a pepper pot and lands her on a sixpence! Bloody marvellous! Come on, let's get him inside."

With his crew's support, Ben was somehow walking, being guided to the sick bay. The first real sensation of which he was truly aware since landing was the bed on which he was laid. Some words were said by the doctor and examinations were made.

"He'll be alright," came the prognosis, "He's just exhausted. Let him sleep it off." That was all the encouragement Ben needed as his eyes rolled back and he drifted off to a listless sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Nine - No End In Sight

HMS Indefatigable,

Somewhere out at sea

Tuesday, 6th of August, 1945

Dear Vero,

I know that I have written the date, above, but today could be any day. I am losing track of time and am hoping that this will end, soon.

We have a small respite in our efforts today. Until yesterday, we were flying, eating and sleeping around the clock and it has been the hardest of slogs. If the food was a little better then that would make things easier to take, but we are out here at sea and all we ever get to eat are herrings and saveloys – I do miss having some good Pampas steak! Perhaps now that Argentina is also at war with Japan, you might be able to make that your contribution to the war effort?

Everything we are doing here seems to be in readiness for the biggest of final pushes, but I wonder just how long that will take in coming, as well as how long it will take to bring things to a close.

All I can do is carry on, as we are all doing. Maybe, then, something will come along which means that we can all go home. Mind you, after all of my travelling, I wonder where home is now. I think I would like to come back to Argentina – but not alone. Let us all hope that, somehow, that might still come true.

Please excuse this letter for being somewhat dour. I should really have written something more upbeat, but writing a letter is the only way one can let off steam in this environment.

Please send my love and best wishes to Hector and everyone at the estancia. As always, I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours,

Ben

He put the letter in to its envelope, but did not seal it, knowing that it would be read and quite possibly censored by some officer or other whose job it was to check every letter sent to and from the ship. The Indefatigable was away from the action, replenishing its stores, which was a major undertaking, but also a good opportunity to post a few letters at the NAAFI.

Clutching matching envelopes addressed to his mother and Charles Carruthers, he made his way through the labyrinth of corridors which were rank with the heated stench of men who had been grafting and labouring for days on end without respite, made all the worse by the tropical humidity.

As soon as the ship was ready, she would be sailing on to a new position and the whole cycle would begin again. Where would the targets be this time?

Chapter Forty - Business As Usual

No one had heard of the atomic bomb. Hiroshima was an unknown. Certainly, it was never a target for the fleet, but now, it lay in radioactive ruin. The news of the previous day's horrendous attack had swept through the fleet like wild fire and was greeted with astonishment and optimism that the war was almost at an end. Stilton, in particular, had difficulty envisaging a whole city being destroyed by a single bomb.

"Well, it must've been a great, huge whale of a bomb, don't yer think? Wouldn't they need a bomber about the size of this ship, sir?" he pondered.

It took Archie, Jacky and Ben's collective efforts to create the image in Stilton's mind of exactly what had taken place, even though they, themselves, were not entirely sure how such weapons could actually work.

One thing on which they all agreed was that the end was near. Surely the Japanese would surrender any time soon?

Two days had passed and still there was no word from the Imperial High Command, so again the fleet attacked and again Ben found himself massing in the skies with an airborne armada.

It seemed futile, now, to be kicking a nation when it was clearly down on its knees, but with no sign of a capitulation there was to be no change in play.

The coastline came in to view and targets were selected. There were no enemy aircraft to try and stop them as the Avengers and Fireflies set about the ships in the harbour below. Anti-aircraft fire was scant and no-one in the sky felt any threat to themselves.

Ben's flight turned its attention to one of the few gun installations on the edge of the bay and put in to practise what they had been rehearsing, circling their target and diving on it from different angles. The gunners on the ground could only shoot at one target at a time, but were being attacked from all angles at once.

It was hardly a fair fight. The gun crew's shooting was wildly inaccurate – they must have been young and inexperienced – and posed almost no threat to the vulture-like posse of Seafires.

By the time Ben took his first dive and let rip with his two cannons, there was little remaining of the target. The gun was now silent and those men firing it who had not run away were already dead on the ground.

Heading back, Ben wondered if it were at all possible to get himself in to Japan. If the surrender came, soon, what kind of opportunity would present itself and allow him to find Setsu?

Was she alive? That question burned inside him. Still no word came from Vero – every envelope from Buenos Aires offered promise, but for months, now, they had only contained letters from Vero, herself.

Certainly, he had 'done his bit' in this war, but had he done too much? Had he contributed to Setsu's death? Even if he did not fire the shot himself, he had protected the fleet and therefore the men and aircraft that may have dropped the bomb which could have killed her. Guilty by association. That's what they called it, didn't they?

He tried to change his guilty train of thought. What if the bullet or bomb with Setsu's name on it had not yet been fired or dropped? The sooner this war ends, the less people will die, he told himself.

That would have to do, for now.

After landing-on, Jacky joined him in the de-briefing room.

"Have you heard? The yanks have dropped another one, mate!" he gasped.

"Another what?"

"Another one of those atomic bombs. Some place called Nagasaki. I've never heard of it but it it's up in smoke, now. They've got to throw in the towel, after this one, don't you reckon?"

Nagasaki. Well, it was not Tokyo, thought Ben, assuming (and praying) that Setsu had not, somehow, found herself in either of those two destroyed cities. He hoped that as in England, she might have been sent out to the countryside with the children who had been evacuated from the major cities. All of those children needed teachers, didn't they?

He clung to the idea that she was alive and thinking of him as much as he was of her. Yet, now, he let the idea grow that he could truly find her. Somehow and soon.

Chapter Forty-one - Sight-seeing

Just before he set off in his Seafire, a message from the fleet's American commander, Admiral Halsey, was read over the speaker system:

"It is likely that kamikazes will attack the fleet as a final fling. Any ex-enemy aircraft attacking the fleet is to be shot down in a friendly manner."

It was now possible to laugh at such things. The mood was lighter since the cease-fire had been announced on the 15th of August. Yes, there were still the occasional attacks from some rogue pilots who could not accept the concept of defeat, but on the Indefatigable, with the official surrender just days away, there was now a feeling that matters were very much approaching the home stretch.

Much of the British Pacific Fleet had been disbanded and sent home immediately after the cease-fire was called. There was no point in their being there and the sheer cost in manpower and resources was so vast that the majority Britain's largest ever naval assembly of over seven hundred ships was sent packing at the first opportunity. The Forgotten Fleet, scarcely mentioned back home, sailed off in to obscurity with its achievements destined to become little more than footnotes in the history books.

What remained was a skeleton crew of ships, led by the battleship King George V and the Indefatigable, which was the only remaining fleet carrier.

Ben, himself, should also have been sent packing, but found that he was required for reconnaissance flights over Japan, in search of prisoner of war camps.

Each time a camp was found, Avengers were loaded up with humanitarian payloads of supplies, lovingly wrapped in special bundles that were made up by the ship's sailmaker and then dropped over their target to the grateful POWs, who waved excitedly and plundered the contents. On board, many laughed at the notion that, finally, someone would be pleased at the sight of saveloys and 'herrings-in'.

This whole exercise could not have been more opportune for Ben and he set about this task with a zeal that astonished friends and superiors alike. Both Jacky and Rydall remarked at the quality of his map reading skills and his ability to pinpoint the camps.

If those men, or anyone else, had gathered a notion of Ben's motives, then there would have been serious trouble, but his desire to somehow find Setsu drove him to pore over the maps of the city. Every spare moment saw him checking again and again the location of her home. The address that she had given to him over two years ago, that he kept hidden and could never use to send those precious letters, was just a spec on the map, but it was one that he had to find.

Each flight over Japan was a chance to find that spec, but this was a large country and there were so many other places to search. Flying over Tokyo had been someone else's job.

However, he took it as a sign that fate was, indeed, lending that helping hand again, when he found himself detailed to search the far outskirts of Tokyo. Knowing that he would want as much time as possible over the city, he asked Stilton to only arm the cannons in his Seafire and leave the four machine guns empty. Perhaps that lessening of weight might allow him extra, precious minutes to carry out his search?

Airborne and heading for Tokyo, Ben looked down upon HMS Speaker, an aircraft carrier that had flown off all of her aircraft to make room for the POWs who were being repatriated. Climbing high above the city, he had to force himself to carry out his duty to the navy and find a POW camp, first. Business before pleasure.

To the north west of the sprawling city, the landscape became hillier and less densely populated. Ben looked at his watch. He had been flying for an hour and would have to turn back, soon, if he was to have any time to search for Setsu's home.

If he could just find it, then he could focus on how to get ashore. The lucky members of the 'contact teams' had been formed from British and Australian volunteers and were rounding up as many men as they could. Rydall had shown Ben the order that these teams were to use 'any means that they could command' to get in to Japan and find the camps. That sounded like the perfect modus operandi for what Ben had in mind.

Although he had momentarily allowed his thoughts to wander, yet again, it took away that sense of desperation that he was feeling as he scanned the landscape for that elusive camp. Yet, as is often the case, when one searches with single-minded focus, one seldom succeeds, but often our desires manifest when one is not looking!

Beyond the hills and away from any conurbation, a large, fenced settlement came in to view. The buildings were large and it resembled a military base, but there was white lettering daubed on the roof, which read: 'POW BRITISH HURRY!'

"Seek and you shall find!" he called aloud and sped his Seafire onward for a closer look.

He swooped down to just a few hundred feet above. It was, indeed, a British POW camp and in the parade ground, below, he could see figures clad in shorts waving and jumping at him, their skinny, bare torsos were evidence of their years in spartan captivity.

Ben waved back and pulled up to get a good view and make his map reference. The sooner he could do this, the more time he would allow himself in search of his true prize.

After circling for five minutes, he was satisfied with his work and from the thigh-pocket on his trousers, he pulled another map – the one with Setsu's home on it.

Speeding onward, he looked for landmarks (the Imperial Palace was a giveaway) and followed the route of the Sumida until he was sure that he was above the Koto district. He closed in on what he thought must be the right spot, checking the map over and over. This had to be it, he thought. If all else failed, he was sure of the square mile that he needed to search.

With fuel running low, he turned for home, praying that this was the break through that he needed.

Chapter Forty-two - Bon Voyage

"You're sure that it's one of ours and you can find it?" quizzed Rydall.

"Positive! Here is the location," Ben pointed everything out on the map and wrote out the co-ordinates, again.

"Well, I've been on to the boys on KGV and they are up to their eyes in it – really got their hands full. I've told them that I'm going to send you over to the harbour and you can lead a couple of trucks to go and fetch those chaps. It'll give them an extra pair of hands and it should keep you out of mischief, eh?"

Ben was almost lost for words that he was actually going ashore.

"The Walrus is going to fly you in to the harbour and you can find your way from there. I'm told that there will be a Corporal Latimer to meet you. You're leaving in one hour. Well, don't just sit there – go and get ready!"

It was all the encouragement he needed.

In his cabin, he made an extra special effort to smarten himself up, searching for clean socks and that one pair of underpants that he knew was not in a state of complete disrepair. His shirt seemed passable, but he did have to scrub, frenziedly, at a beer stain on his shorts. The fact that he was supposed to be engaged in the repatriation of long-suffering prisoners of war was a mere side show to him, now, as he was consumed by the prospect of perhaps seeing Setsu again. It seemed so improbable, but if, by chance, he could find her, he wanted to look at his best.

Pulling on his officer's cap and slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off for the deck and the awaiting Walrus sea plane which was to take him to the docks.

He passed through via the hangar, in the hope of spotting Archie and Stilton. They were there, as ever, hard at work on a Seafire.

"Ey up, lads, I've just come to say 'cheerio' – I'm off to Tokyo to go and help out with the POWs!"

"Why, bonnie lad!" smiled Archie, "As if them poor buggers have not got enough to worry about, they're sending you over there to complete their misery!"

Stilton rose up from underneath the wing and grinned from ear to ear.

"'Ere, sir, d'you reckon you might bring us back one of them geesher girls? I thinks that they're proper pretty!"

The bonhomie was halted as Cully appeared in the nearby hangar doorway. He glared at Ben and moved toward him with an arrogant swagger.

"So, little mister coal miner gets his day at the sea side, eh? You never knew your place, here, so perhaps you'll go down a treat, there? Seeing as you were so bad at killing the Japs, you ought to do a better job of kissing up to them."

Ben ignored his remark and turned back to Archie and Stilton.

"I'd best be off. I'll see you tomorrow, I think. Cheers, lads."

"That's it, off to be with your little yellow friends," spat Cully as Ben slowly turned to walk past him.

"Go and get your fill of your geesha girl while your at it, eh, Hutchinson? Mind you, it might be a tricky fit for you – everyone knows that Jap girls are slit the other way, eh?"

Cully's backside hit the floor before his brain knew anything about it and he found himself forced to choose from one of three reasons as to why he was in such great discomfort. The first reason was the pain in his cheekbone, caused by the satisfyingly accurate blow that had just been administered via a much-deserved and long-overdue haymaker, courtesy of Ben's right fist. The second, equally painful reason was the jarring in his hindquarters, which began the very instant that Cully had collapsed to the hangar floor in a manner befitting a large sack of potatoes. Or, perhaps, the greater pain was the psychological one of having been knocked senseless by an insubordinate of the lower echelon. Bruises to the face could heal, but a dented ego would always bear a scar.

Reeling to, he slowly clambered to his feet as a crowd gathered. After nearly two weeks of cease fire, this was the first bit of excitement in a while.

"You . . . you struck an officer! Come back here, Hutchinson! I'll see that you're court-martialled for this!"

"Court-martialled for what?" asked Rydall, who stepped through the surrounding throng of onlookers who quickly and quietly dispersed upon his curt order, "Back to work, chaps."

"But," spluttered Cully, "You saw it! They all saw it!"

"Listen," said Rydall, "You've always insisted that a man should know his place, haven't you, Cully? Well, you've just been put in yours. Now, go and clean yourself up and then take over as squadron archivist whilst Hutchinson's away. Off you go."

Rydall nodded at Ben, who returned the gesture and set off for the flight deck.

Beneath the Seafire's wing, Archie grinned at Stilton, "Well, he did knock him down in a friendly manner, I thought!"

Chapter Forty-three - Road Trip

As Ben alighted from the Walrus flying boat in to a small launch, he could make out the figure of Corporal Ron Latimer standing at the dockside. He was not difficult to spot amid the flurry of American uniforms. He was a solidly built, swarthy fellow and those standard issue baggie shorts, which exposed the equally standard pasty legs and knobbly knees marked him out as British. Such garb would never have made the grade with the US military. Say what you like about the Yanks, thought Ben, but they don't half dress well.

"Mr Hutchinson, sir? I'm Corporal Latimer. Please come with me." Came the opening line, in broad London accent.

The harbour was teeming with ships, men and supplies, just as Ben had seen in Sydney, Auckland, Buenos Aires and Lisbon. Japan had been conquered and the victors were moving in.

The pair walked towards a couple of waiting trucks which had American drivers sitting at the wheels, waiting for the off.

"These two trucks are for us, sir," said Latimer, "It's all the Yanks can spare us, but it'll do for now. We might have to do a few runs, depending on how many fellas there are. We've got some clean uniforms and some food, though, so they can have a feed whilst we're sorting things out."

Ben looked in to the back of the truck, which was laden with tinned food and spare uniforms.

"They can spare us all this and the trucks, too?" exclaimed Ben.

"You know what they say about an army marching on its stomach?" asked Latimer, "Well, from what I've seen, nobody marches on a fuller one than the Yanks!"

Before the first truck sat a jeep, which was to be Latimer and Ben's mount for this adventure. The two men clambered aboard and Latimer turned from the steering wheel and nodded to the driver of the first truck, who nodded back and started his engine.

Through the checkpoint and in to Tokyo they ventured. Ben looked around and tried to take in his first glimpses of the city at ground level, to somehow take everything on board and absorb every sight and sensation.

This was no sight seeing pleasure cruise, though, as the streets were war torn, dishevelled and broken. What remained of shop and office buildings were now rubble. The people still busied themselves around these places, though and Ben wondered what they were doing. Back in Britain, despite the air raids, the factories had been protected at all costs and there was always some industrial hive of activity, somewhere. Yet here, there was nothing – this is what happens to a city under attack when it can no longer defend itself, he thought.

On they drove, attracting surprisingly little attention from the locals. The Americans and British had been hurrying around Tokyo for over ten days, now, so they were hardly a novelty any more. The ruins gave way to districts that had been spared the bombings and had only been subjected to occasional attacks. Ben now felt that he was seeing something resembling the real Japan.

Out of the city and in to the farm lands, Ben used his map and focussed on the hills that were now the only thing between his little convoy and the POW camp. As they rounded the hill, the camp came in to view, its white signage still clear on the roof top.

The gates of the camp were open and no Japanese troops were in evidence. On seeing the approaching vehicles, there was a flurry in the central courtyard as men rushed in to the barrack houses to fetch fellow prisoners, or to grab items of uniform.

Sure enough, plenty emerged again, hastily donning shirts and berets, smartening themselves up as they lined up on parade for their illustrious liberators.

"I hope that they're not expecting Lord Mountbatten, or anything!" said Latimer.

"Hmm. If they are, then they're in for a disappointment. A subbie, a corporal and two yanks is hardly red carpet material, is it?" laughed Ben.

The trio of vehicles came to a halt and Ben led Latimer and the two Americans toward the parade.

"I'm sorry, lads," said Ben, turning to the Americans, "But I never asked your names. I didn't mean to be rude."

"No offence, sir," came the reply from the nearest one, "I'm Private Leonard Spenkmeier and this is Private Ira Levin. We've already met with Corporal Latimer."

"Well, then that just leaves me. I'm Ben, but you'd better call me 'Sir'. Let's go and meet the inmates."

Before them, in perfect rank and file stood some two hundred men, clothed in rags and with their ribs showing, but still clinging to military discipline and order. Most of them had been captured in places such as Singapore, Burma and Malaya during Japan's initial victories after Pearl Harbor and had spent the vast majority of their time in the military in captivity.

The quartet moved towards the assembly and a sergeant major called the men to attention. The commanding officer strode forward – this man reminded Ben of Mr Bartholomew, back at the club in Buenos Aires – over three years as a prisoner had done nothing to diminish his training and standing as an officer. He stood bolt upright and gave a cast-iron salute that Ben reciprocated.

"Major Terence A'Court, Royal Engineers."

"Sub-lieutenant Ben Hutchinson, Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve."

"Good God, a subbie from the wavy navy! I thought we deserved more than this!" laughed A'Court.

The 'wavy navy' had earned itself a reputation in the forces for being rather lax in its ways and casual in its attitude to military discipline. Ben felt a compulsion to maintain these fine standards.

"We can always clear off again, if you like?" grinned back Ben.

"Far from it," said A'Court with a sense of relief as he reached forward to shake Ben's hand.

"We've been here so long, we'd have been happy to see Mickey Mouse turn up!"

"Well," Ben turned to Spenkmeier and Levin, "We've brought a couple of yanks, if that counts? And this young cockney marine is Corporal Latimer. Shall we get the ball rolling? It's time you and your lads went home."

The parade was split up in to details to distribute the supplies from the rear of the trucks under Spenkmeier and Levin's direction, whilst Ben and Latimer began to process the prisoners and the order in which they were to go home. The most infirm were first, followed by those who had been captive for the longest time.

Both young men could not help but smile at the way in which some of the prisoners, now clad in their first new uniforms in years, gleefully opened tins of saveloys and devoured the contents as if they were children with ice cream.

The two trucks were filled to the brim with homeward bound men and it was time to leave. There was no time for a return run, so it was agreed that the remainder of men would remain overnight, with their new supplies, ready to be collected in the morning, prior to which another Avenger laden with further supplies would be dispatched at first light.

With that, the jeep and two trucks set off.

As they wound their way back to the harbour, Ben's mind was brought back to his other mission for the day. As they again passed through some of the devastated areas of Tokyo, his mind began to race once more on where Setsu might be and whether or not she was still alive. Was it really worth risking so much, today, just to find her house?

Of course it was. When else was he going to be this close, he asked himself.

At the quayside, he shook hands with A'Court and waved him and his men farewell as they made their way to HMS Speaker and their long journey home.

Suddenly, he was consumed by the need for a plan. How could he get out of here and find his way to Koto?

All of his life, Ben had been a paper boat, carried along by the stream of circumstance. He had been lucky enough to be guided on his way by a succession of kind souls who had steered him clear of danger and made sure his passage was one of progress. He had been guided to learn a trade, to South America, to New Zealand and ultimately to the land of the woman he loved.

For the first time, he was faced with making a life changing decision on his own. Setsu had to be found and now. But how to go about it? To go through proper channels would be pointless and ignored, whilst to do nothing was unthinkable. All that remained was to do the unacceptable: he would have to find his way out of the harbour and search for her alone. If he was caught, then he would certainly be court-martialled, sent to jail and left to rot, but he was too close to turn back, now. If he could not find Setsu, then there was nothing else to look forward to – they could do what they wanted with him.

He looked around for inspiration and found it quickly. In fact, it had been staring him in the face, all day.

Levin was loading up another truck with supplies and would surely be out of the harbour in no time. He wandered over to the American and shook his hand.

"I just wanted to say thank you for everything, today."

"Much obliged, sir. Hey, you're awful friendly for an officer."

"Well, I'm only wavy navy, we're almost human, you know. Hey, mate, where are your off to with that truck, now?"

Levin showed him on a map and Ben could scarcely believe his luck. The route was passing within a mile of Koto! All he needed now was a way to get on board one of those trucks.

"Oh," he exclaimed, racking his brain for a good lie, "That reminds me, our squadron lost one of our fighters, there. Do you think that I could come along with you and if we see it, have a quick search? There . . . there might be some things on it, like maps, or something, that we need to keep from the Japs. I'll go and let my CO know that I'll be riding with you."

He ran back to Latimer before Levin could say anything.

"Corporal Latimer! I need that check sheet of yours for a minute."

"What for, sir?"

"Er . . . well, there might, I think, be some discrepancies . . . yes, discrepancies, with the saveloys and I . . . need to check them."

"I'm not sure I follow you, sir?"

"Oh . . . just give it here!" Ben snatched the clipboard from the bemused Latimer.

"Ah, yes. We didn't get enough supplies for the return visit, tomorrow. Levin says that if I go with him, we can pick up some more saveloys."

"But sir," gasped Latimer, "I'm sure we left them with plenty of saveloys. It's not like we want to see them again!"

"Don't argue with an officer of the King's Navy!" snapped Ben, "Just know your bloody place, eh?" He scurried away before any more argument could be offered and was too transfixed by his goal to realise that he had just paraphrased his worst enemy.

Levin was starting his engine and Ben leaped up in to the cabin to sit along side him.

"Are you sure that you've got clearance, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, yes. No problem. My job is done for the day, so they've let me go." he bluffed again.

Levin shrugged and steered the truck out of the docks as just one of a long train of vehicles that were en route to setting up new bases as Japan prepared to become an occupied country for the first time in its history.

Ben kept his map pressed to his lap and prayed that the roads had not changed since it was printed. He checked every junction and street, looked for every landmark and public building that was still standing to give him an indication of where he was, whilst also checking with Levin as to which street was coming next.

After half an hour, he saw that they were close to Koto, but that the trucks at the front of the convoy were now heading in a different direction. It was time to go it alone.

"This'll do, mate!" he called. "The Seafire went down about half a mile down there." He pointed in what he hoped was the right direction.

"Sir," said Levin, "I'm not sure that I should let you do this on your own. It could well be dangerous. I might get in to trouble for bringing you here."

"No, mate, you'll be fine," Ben assured him. "Besides, I'm an officer and I told you to bring me here. You were only following orders."

"It's your funeral, sir," said Levin. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yes," said Ben with conviction. "Well, perhaps not . . ."

"Good luck, buddy!"

Ben thanked Levin and set off with determination, but no real direction. Only a blind will to find Setsu drove him forward.

This, indeed, was Dante's vision made real. Ben marched forward through street after street of ruin, populated by shadows that once stood as people – their gazes averted, heads bowed in browbeaten bewilderment, still trying to absorb the very concept of defeat, of surrender and impending occupation.

How is one to find a way through this, thought Ben to himself? There is nothing here but destruction – how do I find something that has been destroyed?

Like their fellow sufferers across the globe, the people of Tokyo had responded to their bombing by carrying on. The streets were being cleared, all were getting by as best as they could under the circumstances. But these clear streets had no landmarks left – the wooden buildings were rendered faceless by the countless tons of napalm dropped by bombers that had swarmed in numbers of a thousand at a time.

Despite being ignored by the vast number of Japanese around him, Ben had attracted the fixed attention of two conquering heroes in the near distance. They made their own presence and intention clear with the oncoming sound of their jeep, which ploughed a singular furrow in Ben's direction through the bomb damaged Tokyo street, pulling up along side him with a screech of the brakes and a flourish of air-raid induced ash and dust from the tyres.

The jeep's two stern-faced occupants sported the white-banded helmets of the United States Military Police. For Ben, the invader, surrounded by his vanquished foes, there was now no greater enemy than his so-called allies. The MP at the jeep's wheel was first to speak.

"Now, with legs that white, buddy, you gotta be a Limey!" The Brooklyn accent was instantly recognizable – true to form, the voice was housed in a large framed man, sporting olive, Italian skin and brown eyes which had clearly seen it all many times over and commanded a strong stare. The figure in the passenger seat echoed the first sentiment.

"I do declare that I have not seen flesh so pale since I was last at my grand-daddy's chicken farm in Virginia!" The tones were the product of several generations of Southern Gentlemanly lineage. His face was long, thin and a perfect mount for piercing blue eyes that longed to gaze again upon those blue, rich mountains. The Son of the South continued.

"My companion and I would be much obliged if you could justify your person being here in this current predicament."

The Brooklyn accent intervened with a translation, "What my partner, here, is trying to ask you is, what in the name of Tokyo Rose are you doin' out here, pal?"

"I'm not sure I can explain it . . . it's rather a long story . . ." was all that Ben could muster in reply.

The passenger seat was not impressed. "Well, I heartily suggest that you abridge your story right now, young pilgrim, 'cause we're about to haul you back to HQ for a whole lot of interrogation."

Ben had not got this far to fall at the final hurdle. "Listen, please . . . I know you've got a job to do, but I don't want to cause trouble. I just . . . I need to find . . . I need to find her. I can't go back without trying to find her. She's the reason I'm here."

"You got yourself a woman here, so soon? My, my, you are one fast worker, young pilgrim!" Laughed the Southerner.

"We met before the war . . . I need to find her . . . I know the address is here, somewhere." Ben was becoming desperate; the Southerner was running out of patience.

"I see no reason to listen to this idle banter, pilgrim – give me a reason to believe your story."

Ben had only one card to play. "Well, there is this reason." He reached in to his duffle bag, but this was not viewed well by the Virginian eyes currently scrutinizing him. A gun was drawn and pointed straight at Ben. The Southern drawl issued forth:

"Hold it right there, pilgrim. Now, ease your hand out of that there bag, nice and slowly. So as I can see the hairs growing on your lily-white arm."

Brooklyn tried to ease the situation, "Aw, c'mon, pal. We've seen worse than this, together. Cut the Limey some slack, will ya?"

Ben was still too concerned with the gun pointing at him and obliged, following the instructions to the letter. His near-petrified hand withdrew from the neck of the duffle bag at a snail's pace, exiting with a half-full bottle of MacAllan's whiskey held within its grasp.

"Is this a good enough reason, fellas?" Asked Ben.

It had been almost three years since James Carruthers had given him the bottle, but his reasoning had never been more accurate. The two Americans may have been upholders of the law, but they, too, had been stuck on board of 'dry' ships and were more than happy to entertain this finely matured Scottish bargaining tool.

Ben explained his story and the two men listened as they drank, then drank as they listened, then drank some more. He even showed them photographs of he and Setsu, including one that Setsu had given him, which showed her with her family outside their house.

"Okay," said Brooklyn, "I say we help the kid. It's been a quiet kinda day and this'll be a good story for my wife."

"I say," hissed the Virginian as he stared at Ben, "That we proceed with caution. One false move, boy, and I'll send you back to your momma in a casket."

That was still encouragement enough for Ben and he jumped in to the passenger seat of the jeep as Brooklyn fired up the engine and set off. The Virginian sat behind Ben, with a suspicious hand still on his revolver.

"Don't take too much heed of old red neck in the back, there," smiled Brooklyn as he sped the jeep forward, "He's always itchin' for a lynchin', but he ain't such a bad guy, once you gets to knowin' him.

"Y'see, I was a cabbie in New York before all this war started, an' I think I'm pretty good at readin' people. Y'always gotta be able t'read people, the way they's actin'. It helps you get by on the street. I'm lookin' at you and I'm thinkin': 'This kid's for real.' You got yourself an honest face an' I don't think you'd be out here riskin' your butt if it wasn't for a broad. Hey, she must be kinda special, huh?"

Ben nodded, then returned to his map. This was it. They were at Setsu's street.

Brooklyn slowed the jeep to a stop.

"Are y'sure this is the place, kid? There ain't too much left of it."

Ben nodded again. He was sure that this was the right street, but every house was a burned out shell. Surely, she wasn't living there? Did she die there? His heart sank. Love and blind optimism had driven him forward to this point, chasing as hopeless a dream as was possible. Still, he had to see this to the end. If he was to find Setsu's final resting place, then he could somehow walk away again.

"I think it's just down there. If you don't mind, I'd like to go there on my own."

Slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off at a funereal pace.

As they watched him trudge away, The Virginian turned to Brooklyn with a quizzical face.

"Why did you not just drive the vehicle up to the doorway? Must we really go through this morbid ritual?"

"If we're about to see a grown man cry," said Brooklyn softly, "I don't want to be close enough to see the tears."

Ben was far enough away, now, and he had found the house. He looked again at the photograph of the house. He had gazed at that picture so many times and wondered what it would feel like to walk up to that house and enter it. But now, it was all gone. He walked over the stumpy remnants of fence posts and struts that stuck out from the charred ground, gazing around and trying to imagine which room was which. He stopped at the small, stone square, near which lay a burned out kama kettle.

This was all that remained.

He reached in to his duffle bag and pulled out a bundle of Setsu's letters and her pen. Clasping them between his hands, he raised them to his face and sobbed.

"Aw, look at the poor kid . . . it hurts a man to see it," said Brooklyn from afar.

"You Italians get so sentimental – you shouldn't indulge a man in such pointless pursuits."

"Just put your burning cross down for once and have a heart, will ya? It's because I am Italian that I understand what this kid's goin' through. The trouble with you Southerners is that you ain't never been to the opera. For cryin' out loud, man, can't you see that this is goddamn Madame Butterfly in reverse? I'm gonna go and get the kid and we'll take him back."

"What are we going to charge him with? Just a regular AWOL?"

"We ain't gonna charge him with nuthin'! It's kinda like what the French got . . . whadda they call it? A crime of passion? Yeah, that's it, a crime of passion. Any man can understand that, except maybe you! Besides, he ain't hurt nobody and we got a good shot of scotch off of the kid."

"Well, then go and get him. I am mightily hungry and it's going to get dark, soon."

"Okay, okay, I'm goin' already!"

Brooklyn turned and set on his way to retrieve Ben, but stopped after only a few paces. He stood still and watched the scene ahead of him.

Most of the houses on the street were in utter ruin, so there were very few people around. A couple of women stood talking in the doorway of one of the remaining buildings and were at first oblivious to the wandering foreigner in their midst. One of the women then caught sight of Ben and pointed at the invader.

At first, they motioned to go indoors and keep out of the way of this tall, pale stranger, but one of the women remained in the street and stared.

This fragile looking woman then began to fixedly approach Ben from behind and increase her walking pace. Brooklyn pulled his revolver and began to move hastily towards Ben – if this woman was about to do something, then he needed to get in range for a clear shot. The woman reached in to her jacket as if to pull out a weapon. If Brooklyn was going to shoot, then now was the time. One clear shot to the head would do it. He took aim.

"Stop!"

The Virginian's hand stayed Brooklyn's pistol. The two Americans stood and watched as the figure approached and gently tapped the Englishman's shoulder.

"Ben . . ? Is it you? You have come for me?"

Ben turned and looked at Setsu and immediately the pair embraced. The months of suffering were showing on her face but suddenly she could smile through it.

"I have walked for days to come back here. It has not been safe until now. How did you know to come here?"

Lost for words and choking back his tears, Ben held up her letters and fountain pen.

"I was wondering if you might need your pen back . . ."

For the first time in an age, Setsu laughed, reaching in to her bundle, she pulled out Ben's pen.

"It's alright," she said, "I've got one right here . . !"

They held up the pens to each other, laughed, cried and finally kissed.

Brooklyn held his breath, then exhaled and smiled. "I think we're gonna be okay," he said, turning to the Virginian, only to find that the icy man of the south was himself moved tears by the spectacle. Brooklyn laughed, shoved him on the shoulder and bundled him back to the jeep.

"I think we both need another drink, buddy!" he chuckled, "Now, where's the rest of that Scotch?"

Chapter Forty-four - Closing Number

"The post has arrived, Señora," called Sandra from the hallway.

"Bring it to me at the piano, please," replied Vero.

Sandra strolled in with a single letter on a platter, complete with letter opener, which she gently placed on the top of the piano.

Vero opened it with eagerness, pausing before opening the letter to turn and smile at Sandra, who was nosily leaning over the piano for a better look.

Rio de Janeiro,

Brazil

26th of April, 1946

Dear Vero and Hector,

Greetings from sunny Brazil! We have been here for two days and already we have learned to do a new dance called the samba! It is not as graceful as the tango, but once you've had a couple of drinks, it's a lot of fun.

Once again, we cannot thank you enough for all that you did. Shipping mum and Mr Carruthers over to Argentina for the wedding was such a kind gift.

Have you got the photographs, yet? We are enclosing one of us on the beach, just in case you forget what we look like.

We'll be back in about ten days, so behave yourselves until then.

Lots of love to all at Estancia Fuga,

Ben & Setsu

(aka Mr & Mrs Hutchinson!)

Vero stroked the picture lovingly, then turned and slipped it on to the front of another picture frame atop the piano. This picture had just arrived from the photographers and showed her and Hector standing alongside Liza, Charles and the happy couple.

It was a beautiful day, so she flung open the windows, sat back at the piano and began to play another joyous tango.

The End
Acknowledgements

I would like to offer the greatest of thanks to the following people, whose kindness has brought this book to life: Jacqui Barrow for her support and wonderful proof reading, not to mention her tolerance and tempering of my excessive use of commas – I would never have finished this book without your support; Mia Kan and Trudi Wigg for guiding and correcting my Japanese details and language; Jim East for his time, details and encouragement; Michael Wynd and all those who allowed me to research at the Royal New Zealand Navy Museum in Devonport; Peter Bonney, Historian of the HMS Indefatigable Association, for his blessing – your words made me realize that I ought to make this book a reality; the staff of La Vasquita in Mercedes, Argentina, for your tranquillity, inspirational setting and divine cuisine; Patricia Terremere and Silvia Corvalan for correcting my spelling and pronunciation in Spanish.

