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I look at all the dark and twisted roads ahead and this is the easy one, the obvious one.
This was late 1939, early 1940. The Phoney War. Nothing much happening. Not in Britain, anyway. We were biting our nails, practicing. Waiting.
I don’t really want to go down in history as the one who gave out the details.
Jamie’s the youngest of ’em, the nearest me in age. He’s a pilot.
loml jamie beaufort-stuart
It’s like being in love, discovering your best friend.
They were obviously cut from the same well-read, well-bred, lunatic cloth.
It was wonderful flirting with him, all that razor-edge literary banter, like Beatrice and Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. A battle of wit, and a test, too. But he was playing God. I noticed, I knew it, and I didn’t care. It was such a thrill to be one of the archangels, the avengers, the chosen few.
I would like to write something heroic and inspired before I go up in fireworks, but I am too stupid and sick with dread to think of anything. I can’t even think of anyone else’s memorable defiance to repeat. I wonder what William Wallace said when they were tying him to the horses that would rip him into quarters. All I can think of is Nelson saying, “Kiss me, Hardy.”
I am no longer afraid of getting old. Indeed I can’t believe I ever said anything so stupid. So childish. So offensive and arrogant. But mainly, so very, very stupid. I desperately want to grow old.
crying again
“How did you ever get here, Maddie Brodatt?” “‘Second to the right, and then straight on till morning,’” she answered promptly—it did feel like Neverland. “Crikey, am I so obviously Peter Pan?” Maddie laughed. “The Lost Boys give it away.”
jamie & maddie 4ever aaaghhh they're too cute
I don’t suppose I had any idea what I “wanted” and so I was chosen, not choosing. There’s glory and honor in being chosen. But not much room for free will.
The hair was a small mistake. They took the nerves of steel into account, but not the small mistake. They didn’t notice that he’d hurt me and they didn’t notice that I do make fatal small mistakes from time to time.
Guilt is a marvelous weapon.
It’s awful, telling it like this, isn’t it? As though we didn’t know the ending. As though it could have another ending. It’s like watching Romeo drink poison. Every time you see it you get fooled into thinking his girlfriend might wake up and stop him. Every single time you see it you want to shout, “You stupid ass, just wait a minute, and she’ll open her eyes! Oi, you, you twat, open your eyes, wake up! Don’t die this time!” But they always do.
I played along. I always play along. It is my weakness, the flaw in my armor.
But I have told the truth. Isn’t that ironic? They sent me because I am so good at telling lies. But I have told the truth.
I think her actual last words were “I am glad to die for my country.” I can’t say I honestly believe such sanctimonious twaddle. Kiss me, Hardy. The truth is, I like “Kiss me, Hardy” better. Those are fine last words. Nelson meant that when he said it. Edith Cavell was fooling herself. Nelson was being honest. So am I.
3) Bombs dropping on Jamie. In fact I worry about Jamie a good deal more now that I’ve experienced a little of what he’s up against.
shut tf up. true loveeeee
I understand now why her mother plays Mrs. Darling and leaves the windows open in her children’s bedrooms when they’re away. As long as you can pretend they might come back, there’s hope.
It was Jamie, JAMIE BEAUFORT-STUART. Even in tossing shadows and under a waxing moon I knew him, and he saw me at the same time. He dropped his bicycle and we leaped for each other like kangaroos. He burst out, “MA—” He nearly said my name. He caught himself and stammered a little, then smoothly cried out, “MA CHÉRIE!” and slung me over backward in a swooning Hollywood kiss.
otp forever and ever
Jamie let go of me. “Shut your mucky gob, man.” He stepped close to our fearless leader in the dark, took hold of his jacket by the collar, and in a dead quiet voice that had gone dangerously Scots, threatened heatedly, “Talk like that again wi’ these brave lassies listenin’ an’ Ah’ll tear the filthy English tongue frae yer heid, so Ah will.”
feminist icon jamie beaufort-stuart
I don’t recognize my emotions anymore. There’s no such thing as plain joy or grief. It’s horror and relief and panic and gratitude all jumbled together.
Gone. One moment flying in green sunlight, then the sky suddenly gray and dark. Out like a candle. Here, then gone.
I’ll just keep writing, shall I? Because that wasn’t the end. It wasn’t even a pause.
I am dangerous too, sometimes. That morning I was an antipersonnel mine, a butterfly bomb, unexploded and ticking, and he touched the fuse.
when I read it, when I read what Julie’s written, she is instantly alive again, whole and undamaged. With her words in my mind while I’m reading, she is as real as I am. Gloriously daft, drop-dead charming, full of bookish nonsense and foul language, brave and generous. She’s right here. Afraid and exhausted, alone, but fighting. Flying in silver moonlight in a plane that can’t be landed, stuck in the climb—alive, alive, ALIVE.
there are actual tears in my eyes
Funny—it seemed the most heroic thing in the world when he told me about his friend, dead amazing that anyone could be that brave and selfless. But I didn’t feel heroic when I did it—just too scared to jump.
Then just as I started to put power on, this hand on my shoulder. Just like that—nothing said. He just put his hand through the bulkhead, exactly as she’d done, and squeezed my shoulder. He has very strong fingers. And he kept his hand there the whole way home, even when he was reading the map and giving me headings. So I am not flying alone now after all.
a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France—a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.
