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I put my hand on the hock and began to push it away from me into the uterus.

  “Now pull,” I said. “But carefully. Don’t jerk.”

  Like a man in a dream he did as I said and within seconds the foot popped out of the vulva.

  “Hell!” said Mr. Edwards.

  “Now for the other one,” I murmured as I removed the loop.

  I repeated the procedure, the farmer, slightly pop-eyed, pulling on the twine. The second little hoof, yellow and moist, joined its fellow on the outside almost immediately.

  “Bloody hell!” said Mr. Edwards.

  “Right,” I said. “Grab a leg and we’ll have him out in a couple of ticks.”

  We each took a hold and leaned back, but the big cow did the job for us, giving a great heave which deposited the calf wet and wriggling into my arms. I staggered back and dropped with it on to the straw.

  “Grand bull calf, Mr. Edwards,” I said. “Better give him a rub down.”

  The farmer shot me a disbelieving glance then twisted some hay into a wisp and began to dry off the little creature.

  “If you ever get stuck with a breech presentation again,” I said, “I’ll show you what you ought to do. You have to push and pull at the same time and that’s where the twine comes in. As you repel the hock with your hand somebody else pulls the foot round, but you’ll notice I have the twine between the calf’s cleats and that’s important. That way it lifts the sharp little foot up and prevents injury to the vaginal wall.”

  The farmer nodded dumbly and went on with his rubbing. When he had finished he looked up at me in bewilderment and his lips moved soundlessly a few times before he spoke.

  “What the … how … how the heck do you know all that?”

  I told him.

  There was a long pause then he exploded.

  “You young bugger! You kept that dark, didn’t you?”

  “Well … you never asked me.”

  He scratched his head. “Well, I don’t want to be nosey with you lads that helps me. Some folks don’t like it …” His voice trailed away.

  We dried our arms and donned our shirts in silence. Before leaving he looked over at the calf, already making strenuous efforts to rise as its mother licked it.

  “He’s a lively little beggar,” he said. “And we might have lost ’im. I’m right grateful to you.” He put an arm round my shoulders. “Anyway, come on, Mister Veterinary Surgeon, and we’ll ’ave some supper.”

  Half way across the yard he stopped and regarded me ruefully. “You know, I must have looked proper daft to you, fumblin’ away inside there for an hour and damn near killin’ myself, then you step up and do it in a couple of minutes. I feel as weak as a girl.”

  “Not in the least Mr. Edwards,” I replied. ‘It’s …” I hesitated a moment. “It’s not a question of strength, it’s just knowing how to do it.”

  He nodded, then became very still and the seconds stretched out as he stared at me. Suddenly his teeth shone as the brown face broke into an ever-widening grin which developed into a great shout of laughter.

  He was still laughing helplessly when we reached the house and as I opened the kitchen door he leaned against the wall and wiped his eyes.

  “You young devil!” he said. “I allus had a feeling there was something behind that innocent face of yours.”

  CHAPTER 27

  AT LAST WE WERE on our way to Flying School. It was at Windsor and that didn’t seem far on the map, but it was a typical wartime journey of endless stops and changes and interminable waits. It went on all through the night and we took our sleep in snatches. I stole an hour’s fitful slumber on the waiting-room table at a tiny nameless station and despite my hard pillowless bed I drifted deliriously back to Darrowby.

  I was bumping along the rutted track to Nether Lees Farm, hanging on to the jerking wheel. I could see the house below me, its faded red tiles showing above the sheltering trees, and behind the buildings the scrubby hillside rose to the moor.

  Up there the trees were stunted and sparse and dotted widely over the steep flanks. Higher still there was only scree and cliff and right at the top, beckoning in the sunshine, I saw the beginning of the moor—smooth, unbroken and bare.

  A scar on the broad sweep of green showed where long ago they quarried the stones to build the massive farmhouses and the enduring walls which have stood against the unrelenting climate for hundreds of years. Those houses and those endlessly marching walls would still be there when I was gone and forgotten.

  Helen was with me in the car. I loved it when she came with me on my rounds, and after the visit to the farm we climbed up the fell-side, panting through the scent of the warm bracken, feeling the old excitement as we neared the summit.

  Then we were on the top, facing into the wide free moorland and the clean Yorkshire wind and the cloud shadows racing over the greens and browns. Helen’s hand was warm in mine as we wandered among the heather through green islets nibbled to a velvet sward by the sheep. She raised a finger as a curlew’s lonely cry sounded across the wild tapestry and the wonder in her eyes shone through the dark flurry of hair blowing across her face.

  The gentle shaking at my shoulder pulled me back to wakefulness, to the hiss of steam and the clatter of boots. The table top was hard against my hip and my neck was stiff where it had rested on my pack.

  “Train’s in, Jim.” An airman was looking down at me. “I hated to wake you—you were smiling.”

  Two hours later, sweaty, unshaven, half asleep, laden with kit, we shuffled into the airfield at Windsor. Sitting in the wooden building we only half listened to the corporal giving us our introductory address. Then suddenly his words struck home.

  “There’s one other thing,” he said. “Remember to wear your identity discs at all times. We had two prangs last week—couple of fellers burned beyond recognition and neither of ’em was wearing his discs. We didn’t know who they were.” He spread his hands appealingly. “This sort of thing makes a lot of work for us, so remember what I’ve told you.”

  In a moment we were all wide awake and listening intently. Probably thinking as I was—that we had only been playing at being airmen up till now.

  I looked through the window at the wind sock blowing over the long flat stretch of green, at the scattered aircraft, the fire tender, the huddle of low wooden huts. The playing was over now. This was where everything started.

  CHAPTER 28

  THIS WAS A VERY different uniform. The Wellingtons and breeches of my country vet days seemed far away as I climbed into the baggy flying suit and pulled on the sheepskin boots and the gloves—the silk ones first then the big clumsy pair on top. It was all new but I had a feeling of pride.

  Leather helmet and goggles next, then I fastened on my parachute passing the straps over my shoulders and between my legs and buckling them against my chest before shuffling out of the flight hut on to the long stretch of sunlit grass.

  Flying Officer Woodham was waiting for me there. He was to be my instructor and he glanced at me apprehensively as though he didn’t relish the prospect. With his dark boyish good looks he resembled all the pictures I had seen of Battle of Britain pilots and in fact, like all our instructors, he had been through this crisis in our history. They had been sent here as a kind of holiday after their tremendous experience but it was said that they regarded their operations against the enemy as a picnic compared with this. They had faced the might of the Luftwaffe without flinching but we terrified them.

  As we walked over the grass I could see one of my friends coming in to land. The little biplane slewed and weaved crazily in the sky, just missed a clump of trees then about fifty feet from the ground it dropped like a stone, bounced high on its wheels, bounced twice again then zig-zagged to a halt. The helmeted head in the rear cockpit jerked and nodded as though it were making some pointed remarks to the head in front. Flying Officer Woodham’s face was expressionless but I knew what he was thinking. It was his turn next.

  The Tiger Moth looked