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Benny’s laughter echoed in the bomb-cratered street. Lucy smiled at his gaiety.
An aircraft droned overhead, searchlights coned it and flak peppered the blackness, pinpricks of flame in the night.
Benny’s laughter vanished. After twenty bomber ops he knew what flak was like.
“Let’s get home,” Lucy said.
Benny paused, his gaze still on the sky. His eyes were older, remote, filled with some strange emotion Lucy didn’t understand. Every time he got leave he seemed to count the hours till he could go back. He was addicted to it, to ops. What a stupid war. Poor Benny.
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