"It's going to be another hot one Sir," Tillie said as he and his assistant finished replacing the valve cover on the Hurricane's engine. It was hard to imagine, standing there shivering in the dawn twilight,that in only a few hours the temperature in the North African desert would be high enough to fry an egg.

"Indeed, Tillie. Like everyday, huh?" I replied. I smiled up at the mechanic on his scaffold as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned.

"Are you coming to breakfast?"

"Aye, sir. Soon. I just want to finish a few things here." Catching my yawn, he yawned himself then frowned at me for passing it on.

I laughed and waved as I headed off to the mess tent. Thinking of the heat being hot enough to fry eggs reminded me what breakfast was. Dried eggs and spam. Gah. No wonder I was losing weight. The sound the of the morning's air patrol caught my attention momentarily as it echoed softly in the distance. It was a reassuring sound.

I snapped a salute to the flags as I went by the makeshift parade ground, then noticed the Base Chief Warrant Officer bellowing orders to the lads of the Base Defense Force as they went through their weekly BCWO inspection. Even in war there is no escaping the weekly inspection.

There is something awe inspiring about British Regimental Sergeant Majors and Chief Warrant Officers that seems to be missing from their Canadian or American counterparts. No matter how hard they try, the Canucks and Yanks just never quite carry the same level of authority and contempt that a British army RSM does. Especially if he's a Scotsman like CWO McPherson, who at that moment was red faced and cursing "the gods that allowed the birth of..." well you get the point. RSMs and CWOs have a knack for being incredibly abusive without ever being profane. That would be vulgar and, according to CWO McPherson, no RSM/CWO should ever need to be vulgar. It is unbecoming.

I stood and watched the inspection for a few moments, then quickly pulled my hands from my pockets as the BCWO turned to me.

"Good morning Sir!" he bellowed at me in his thick highland lilt. "Are your hands cold this morning? Would you like a pair of wee mittens? I am sure one o' these fine young bunnies can part with a pair".

"G-Good morning Chief," I stammered. As a pilot and Flight Lieutenant, I technically out-ranked him, but there is not a man of any rank, on any base anywhere in the world who does not fear the BCWO. He is the highest ranking non-commissioned officer on the base and HE IS GOD. Even base commanders know where the real power lays.

"The boys are looking sharp this morning," I continued with a weak smile.

"What? This sorry lot of dung slingers?" the BCWO's eyebrows rising in disbelief. "Ha!" He snorted, but gave me a small wink as he turned to hurl more insults at the formation. While he had to keep up appearances, he knew as well as I that these boys had saved our asses and aircraft from German and Italian attacks on more than one occasion. They were tired, hungry and hurting, but they never complained. Morale on this base was still pretty good, even though the war in this part of the world was not going very well.

* * *

I had just about reached the mess tent when the raid bells started clanging.

"They do this on purpose you know. Jerry likes to ruin our breakfast." Johnny had a small tight smile as he turned to run back toward the airstrip. Johnny was probably the base's best Hurricane pilot. This Tennessee bred farm boy, on loan from the US Army Air Corps, had already scored seven kills in his twelve .303 cal gun equipped Hurricane II-B against the far superior Messerschmitt BF109, and had 11 Junkers Ju87 Stuka Dive Bomber's and Heinkel HE11 medium bombers, painted on his fuselage. Nineteen kills in air to air combat.

It's an impressive score.