A bombsight was fixed to the same wires, and he had it pressed to his face. Below him were photographs of the mainland. He crept slowly along the wires, pushing himself with little taps of his feet. He finished and pulled himself back to the start and did it again. The map table was lit by four floodlights clamped to the ribs of the Nissen hut. It was cold. There was no heater in the map room. Frankie blew on his fingers. A few more runs. A few more and he’d quit. He closed his eyes and saw, once again, the man tucked into a ball, arms clasped around his knees, spinning slowly over the top of the right wing. He opened his eyes to make it stop. There were no runs that morning because of the weather, and Molesworth was unusually quiet. No prep, no returning planes. No battle orders fluttered from the bulletin board outside the briefing room. The wind picked at the metal skin of the hut, and the light drizzle hitting the metal sounded like low radio static. It was calming.
