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A compelling story of an RAF pilot and a Red Cross nurse during the Battle of Dunkirk that finds hope and love in the midst of war
☁️☁️☁️
Jack Collins...
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THREE Supermarine Spitfire's soars over the vast English Channel, the planes' Rolls-Royce Merlin engines hummed as it passes the water that stretches across the horizon, the sun glinting against the choppy waves.
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Fortis 1, Spitfire pilot, Farrier, stares into the horizon, his eye brows furrowed. "Check fuel, Fortis 1 and 2" A static-y voice said over the radio, Farrier reaches forward, chart on his lap, and presses a button next to the fuel gauge, the needle shoot up to three-quarters full. "Seventy gallons" he responded, pressing the mask over his face.
Adjacent to Farrier's Spitfire, his wing mate, Collins in his Spitfire's cockpit, does the same, he spoke through in his Scottish accent "Sixty-eight gallons, Fortis Leader" again, he removes the mask, looking around in his cockpit, his brows furrowed. Fortis Leader came through again. "Stay down at five hundred feet to leave fuel for forty minutes fighting time over Dunkirk"
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Pilot Collins pressed the mask on his face again, responding as he scans his surroundings again, "Understood. Vector 1,2,8, angels point five" "And keep an eye on that gauge, even when it gets lively" Farrier presses the mask on his face, securing it this time. Fortis Leader continues "Save enough to get back"
