War and Love - Catalina

War and Love - Catalina

© JoeMo1619 - May 2025 ff.

'War and Love' ('Krieg und Liebe') is a successful series of erotic-historic short stories on Literotica's German language platform. Some of these stories have Anglo-American background, so I'm planning to translate them into English step-by-step.

I got the idea to create these short stories from Leo Tolstoy's novel 'War and Peace' and Theodor Fontane's novel 'Before the storm', two of my three favourite books. Love is the best 'medicine' to overcome the stress and worries of war, something we can see in many actual wars too.

Royal Air Force, United Kingdom, before and during WW II

I, Charles M. Watts, had inherited my passion for aviation in general and flying boats in special since I was a baby. My father had graduated as a mechanical engineer and had served the entire WW I period as flight and engine engineer in the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS), which had been established just before the war's beginning. He was deployed to Southampton Airfield and other location, had married my Southampton born mother during the war and was integrated in the newly established Royal Air Force at its incorporation on April 1st, 1918.

I was born on July 27th, 1917. My parents completed our family with two additional girls over the next few years. After the war's end my father switched to civil aviation because Southampton became the most important UK air base for flying boats. He established in partnership with a financial colleague his own company for service, maintenance and repair of flying boats and land-based aircrafts. His company grew slowly, but steadily, both at the small airport of Southampton as well as the flying boat terminals at the Channel harbour.

Since I joined school, it was the greatest excitement for me to escort my father into his company's workshops, inspecting the flying boats and their technology, becoming larger and more complex with every new model. All employees and mechanics in my father's company knew that I was able to ask detailed questions over hours. But almost all of them stayed patient and answered as good as it was possible. So it was no surprise for anybody that I had chosen my future job from a young age: I wanted to become a pilot.

Consequently, nobody was surprised that I chose after my graduation from King Edward VI.-Grammar-School in Southampton to join the RAF as a volunteer. All medical checks went well and I passed the tests with flying colours. My education as RAF-pilot and flying officer started in summer 1936.

After a training period of two years and a successful examination for my solo flight licence, I was promoted to pilot officer, the lowest officer's rank in the RAF. During a third training year, I learned to fly military aircrafts with two and four engines, followed by additional exams and a further promotion to Flying Officer. I became familiar with twin-engine, land-based bombers like 'Armstrong Whitworth Whitley' and 'Vickers Wellington' as well as twin-engine flying boats like the 'Consolidated PBY Catalina'. Especially the flying boats had been most fascinating for my, absolutely not surprising with my family background. My wing commander at school recognized this and arranged additional training on the brand-new four-engine flying boat 'Short S.25 Sunderland', the military sister model to the civilian flying boats of Imperial Airways. Finishing my three-year-education I was deployed to 210th Squadron as my first RAF-unit, which transferred me for the first time into the north of Scotland - Invergordon, located at the Moray Firth. This seaside loch at the North Sea coast in the Scottish Highlands was the second home of the Royal Navy's Home Fleet, added to the main Navy's war harbour at Scapa Flow on the Orkney Islands. Before the war began, these Navy harbours had been located almost outside the maximum range of German bombers but needed special protection against dangerous submarines. This transfer was the beginning of my six-years-service on RAF flying boats, patrolling the northern Atlantic up to the polar circle as well as the North Sea, protecting merchant ship convoys, hunting and fighting German submarines as well as several rescue and salvage operations.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, before and during WW II

I, Patricia Justin, was born on July 25th, 1916, in Vancouver, Canada. My father was a well-established Canadian aircraft engineer, my parents had already four sons before I was delivered as their one and only daughter. All my elder brothers had been aircraft enthusiasts, a passion encouraged by both of my parents who believed in a bright future of the aircraft industry. Being the youngest child and the only daughter it was rather easy for me to follow in the footsteps of my brothers; aged eighteen I was allowed to train for a private pilot licence at a well-known flying school in my hometown. Finishing high school in 1934 I went to the University of British Colombia to read mathematics and geography. This course combination gave me a lot of opportunities to fly as co-pilot on geographical and cartographical excursions, both with small land-based aeroplanes as well as small flying boats. I got a lot of experience during that time.

In the meantime, my father had been promoted as chief operating officer of Boeing Corp.'s new production plant at Vancouver. The US-American HQ in neighbouring Seattle had expected war in Europe and decided that it would be a clever move to have a production plant at a domestic location in the British Empire. This plant had been designed and constructed under my father's leadership, he was now responsible for the licence production of Consolidated Aircraft Corporation's PBY Catalina, a twin-engine powered flying boat as well as the central section of the heavy bomber B-24 Liberator.

During autumn 1939, I was allowed for the first time to join Boeing's chief test pilot in Vancouver on a test flight with a PBY Catalina and fell in love with this flying boat which was by far the largest aircraft I had ever flown. Like the entire British Empire Canada had joined the United Kingdom in its war with Germany. This new war had significant consequences for Boeing's production plant at Vancouver. RAF's demand for a long-distance flying boat with excellent fuel economic was rocketing. Additional demand from Air Forces in Canada, Australia and New Zealand ripped off all budgets and planning. Boeing came under heavy pressure to increase its production to its maximum and beyond. The exploding order numbers resulted into another key problem: what pilots should fly these finished and operation-ready flying boats to their air bases for UK's war effort? Experienced pilots from the Royal Canadian Air Force had been transferred to England, Scotland and Europe on short notice just after the war's outbreak. But the Canadian Boeing plant didn't employ transfer pilots, just test pilots who had been indispensable. An additional huge problem was the long distance for aircraft deliveries to the RAF. The PBY Catalina had an impressive range of 4,000 kilometres, but the distance to the air bases in the UK had been more than double; a very big logistic problem.

Being a licensed female pilot with experience I was keen to join the RAF or the RCAF; unfortunately this was impossible for a woman. During the Christmas period my father handed me some information that the UK had started to establish a civilian Air-Transport-Auxiliary-Service (short ATA); according to this information a woman with private flight license and proven experience could apply for a job as ATA-pilot, transferring all kinds of military aircraft from the production plants to the airfields.

"I want to apply for this ATA-service", I announced to my parents on Christmas Day. Surprisingly, my father encouraged me to volunteer, which ended in a massive argument with my mother.

"You have paid your daughter an university education and a flying license, so that she doesn't even bother to think of marriage, aged 23. And now you want to allow her to join the war in Europe. Have you gone mad?" The festive, peaceful Christmas atmosphere was gone for this year.

My father defended himself vigorously. "This war pushes us all to the brink, if the Empire is losing it. So we have to get 'all hands-on deck' as the sailors say. And from my point of view this 'all hands' include women too."

But my father didn't stop with words. My key problem was to travel as civilian from Vancouver to England. There was the opportunity to travel with a neutral US-American passenger ship from New York. But from his point of view this alternative wasn't safe. Like all Anglo-Americans he remembered very much the Lusitania-catastrophe which had killed many Americans after being sunk by a German U-boat. "We have to deliver up to four Catalinas per month to England from February onwards", he explained to me on New Year's Day. "We have successfully tested a flying route via New Foundland, Greenland and Iceland. When weather gets better, and we get more daylight at the end of winter I would like to place you into the cockpit as co-pilot of an experienced captain. From my point of view this is significant safer than travelling by ship."

I laughed silently for myself. My father evaluated the flight of a military aircraft as safer than the passage with a civilian ocean liner. My father arranged some additional flight hours with some of Boeing's most experienced test pilots. Then, on March 15th, 1940, I said goodbye to my parents and joined the officially retired squadron commander Gerald Douglas on my first aircraft transfer. My senior pilot had already flown the newly established route via Lake Erie, at Halifax, on Greenland as well as Keflavik harbour on Iceland which was very helpful for me. Additionally, we had been extremely lucky, we had surprisingly good weather and the swell at our intermediate landing points had been easy.

After five very long days in the air we reached our target, RAF Largs nearby Stranrear at the south-western corner of Scotland.

I will never forget for the rest of my life the utterly surprised face of the commanding Wing Commander at RAF Largs when he recognized that the newly arrived Catalina had been flown by a woman transatlantic to his air base. He was, simply said, absolutely bewildered that anybody had given me permission for this transfer mission. I recognized that I had to learn a little bit more about British military culture when I joined ATA as an auxiliary transfer pilot.

One day after our arrival, I took the train from Stranrear to White Waltham Airfield in Berkshire to apply for service at ATA at their headquarter. RAF Largs' Wing Commander Douglas had found his composure again and became impressed by my abilities, so he wrote a special recommendation for my papers, which I added to my documents from the Boeing plant.

I must confess that the rail trip with eight transfers to connecting train and long, long waiting hours had been more stressful than my five-day-long-distance-flight. But after two days on the railroad, I reached my target.

ATA-commander's Pauline Gower reaction on my personal application was similar to my experience at RAF Largs. But after a short moment she welcomed me but pointed out that I had to pass the entrance examination like all other applicants. I was prepared for this, physically as well as mentally.

Two weeks later, I received my acceptance papers. "What I like most about you", smiled Commander Gower, "is the fact that for the first time ATA has a pilot with flying boat experience. I assume that over the next few months or years you will start significant more often from sea than from land. Good luck. Water can be rough and tough."

Over the next few weeks, I got training for a large number of land-based twin- and four-engine-powered aircrafts by all sizes. Finishing this training period I was transferred to Ferry Pool no. 4, located at Prestwick in Ayrshire, Scotland. My active service has started.

RAF Oban, Argyll & Bute, Scotland, Air base of 210 th Squadron, Coastal Command (Flying boats), April 1941

Since my transfer to the 210th Squadron, I, Flying Officer Charles M. Watts, had been flying as a co-pilot aboard the large, four-engine Short S.25 Sunderland flying boats. Stationed at Invergordon, our primary task was to patrol the northern North Sea and its access to the Arctic Ocean, particularly on the lookout for German submarines, whose only route to the Atlantic had to pass through this region. Things changed dramatically in April 1940, when the Wehrmacht occupied Denmark and Norway. Our large but slow flying boats came under increasing pressure from German fighters now operating from Scandinavian airfields with significantly reduced approach times. In the weeks that followed, the Netherlands and Belgium fell, and France capitulated swiftly, granting the German Navy its first Atlantic ports and intensifying the U-boat threat against our merchant shipping.

This fundamentally altered enemy and operational situation led to the 210th Squadron's relocation to the Scottish west coast at RAF Oban and a key decision to replace our Sunderlands with brand-new PBY Catalinas. Squadron Leader Sir James Booth needed considerable persuasion to convince us that this shift to smaller, twin-engine flying boats was advantageous.

"The new Catalinas have almost 50% increased range and can carry nearly double the payload of bombs and depth charges, without compromising defensive armament or anti-submarine weaponry," Sir James explained the new system. He was technically correct, but a pilot's pride was directly proportional to the number of engines on his aircraft. Only after the first two Catalinas arrived for our squadron in early April, and we received a brief introduction before deploying them, did the mood change dramatically. This flying boat was genuinely excellent -- far more maneuverable than the massive Sunderlands - and boasting a significantly faster climb rate. For us pilots, the most convincing feature was its ease of water landings, even in windy or choppy conditions, thanks to its much lower center of gravity.

By early May, I had completed my first four long-range patrols with 'my' new Catalina over the North Atlantic. During the last mission, we had been in the air for nearly 15 hours securing an incoming convoy, alerting the destroyers escorting it to two suspected U-boat targets. My co-pilot, Flight Sergeant Fred Miller, and I landed our Catalina back at base well past midnight and collapsed into bed, utterly exhausted.

It was almost noon when I headed to the small officers' mess for lunch to replace breakfast. It was a stunning spring day, unusually warm for the Highlands. The town of Oban, which lent its name to our station, lay peacefully on the other side of the Sound of Kerrera. Our base was on Kerrera Island, connected to the mainland only by a small ferry. Docked at the quay and slipway were two more brand-new Catalinas, apparently delivered earlier that morning -- evidence that the squadron's re-equipment program was proceeding rapidly.

In the mess, I noticed two pilots and two co-pilots in the uniforms of the ATA (Air Transport Auxiliary). For over a year, the ATA had handled delivery flights for all kinds of new RAF aircraft from factories to their operational bases. During the height of the Battle of Britain, much had been said about the heroic efforts of ATA pilots, especially the female "Attagirls," some of whom delivered up to four fighter planes a day to the southern frontlines. I settled into a club chair, ordered lunch and a strong tea, and glanced over at the ATA quartet.

Then it hit me like a thunderbolt: one of the Second Officers, unusually, wore her hair longer and was obviously a slim, stunningly attractive woman.

"A woman flying a flying boat?" I murmured to myself. "Never seen that before. Flying boats are Class 6 aircraft -- Attagirls don't fly those. How is this possible?"

I must have stared long enough for her to notice, as she suddenly met my gaze and held it confidently. She smiled, then gave me a subtle nod.

At that moment, the steward arrived with my lunch, sparing me the embarrassment of failing to hold her gaze.

After finishing my meal and tea, curiosity got the better of me. I stood up and approached the ATA pilots' table.

"Did you deliver two new Catalinas to us today?" I asked the visibly eldest pilot in what I hoped was an innocuous tone.

"Indeed, Flying Officer. Fresh off the line from Iceland, straight to your station," replied ATA Captain Frank Reich, an experienced flying boat pilot who had flown for Imperial Airways before the war. He invited me to join them, and I pulled up another club chair. Whether by chance or design, I found myself sitting next to the female pilot. Captain Reich, clearly a seasoned hand, introduced his team, and I learned that the woman beside me was ATA Second Officer Patricia Justin.

We spent over an hour in lively technical discussion about the aircraft, our experiences with it, and anecdotes from our respective careers. To my delight, Patricia participated without hesitation in this typical pilot banter. I learned, almost by chance, that her father was the factory manager at Boeing in Vancouver, where our Catalinas were built -- a connection that explained how she came to fly flying boats for the ATA. The four ATA pilots were waiting for the ferry to Oban and a train to Glasgow, where they would return to their official ferry pool base at Prestwick. The three men wandered off to play a game of billiards, leaving Patricia and me alone.

"Have you flown the route from Iceland here often?" I asked, genuinely curious to learn more about her.

"This was my fourth Catalina delivery to the RAF," she replied with a smile. "The first trip was by far the longest -- we ferried a Catalina from the factory in Vancouver to Largs in five legs. I stayed in the UK to do my part for the RAF, joined the ATA, and spent the past year delivering mostly twin-engine bombers and the occasional fighter. Two months ago, I started flying flying boats again."

"Fascinating. You seem to know these machines very well."

Patricia laughed warmly, a laugh with depth. "My father practically assembles them on a production line. I flew numerous seaplanes and flying boats across Canada before the war, so when the RAF had a pressing need for flying boats, it made sense for the ATA to let me represent the Attagirls in this class. Even though that's technically not allowed. But there aren't many pilots in the ATA with flying boat experience -- except for someone like Captain Reich."

Our conversation was open and engaging. When I noticed that the other ATA pilots had finished their billiards game and were calling Patricia to leave, I asked her one last important question. "Do you know when you'll next be flying to RAF Oban?"

"Yes," she replied with a smile. "Captain Reich and I are delivering four more Catalinas here." She took out a small pocket calendar and gave me the planned delivery dates.

"I'll try to make sure I'm here and not out over the Atlantic on those days," I said as we parted. "I'd like to see you again."

"The pleasure would be all mine," she replied before joining her colleagues and heading down to the ferry dock.

I watched her until she disappeared from sight. Only then did I snap back to reality. Her charming presence in uniform had a magical effect on me. Or was it simply the fact that I hadn't seen or spoken to a truly captivating woman in months? Since the intensification of the Atlantic U-boat campaign, my life had followed the relentless rhythm of flying, eating, sleeping, and flying again. The few social diversions at RAF Oban were of little interest -- and afforded even less time -- for active pilots like me.

Ten days later, Captain Reich and ATA Second Officer Justin landed the next brand-new Catalina at Oban. The captain immediately took a boat to Oban, as he had a lunch appointment with an old pilot colleague from his Imperial Airways days, who was now working with the RAF staff. This left the task of preparing the formal handover protocol to his co-pilot. I had arranged to oversee the handover on behalf of our squadron. Patricia greeted my involvement with a particularly warm smile before walking me through the protocol in a matter-of-fact and professional manner.

The Catalina now needed additional equipment -- our mechanics would install the latest radar system and outfit the aircraft with anti-aircraft weaponry, which was only added upon arrival.

"Doesn't it worry you that during these transfer flights you might become easy prey, without any air defense or armament?" I asked with some concern.

"We're not flying combat missions. If we spot a submarine, we report its position from a safe altitude and leave the rest to the Navy," she replied, offering that charming smile again.

"Ever had encounters with German fighters?"

"Yes, twice, while ferrying planes to England. Just got lucky," she said, tapping her leather flight helmet. "Flying boats across the Atlantic is actually much safer in that regard. The main issue is the weather during takeoff and landing. Better forecasts would be nice." She laughed heartily.

We completed our duties and crossed back to the base.

"How much time do you have today?"

"Oh, a bit more. The captain will need my help to take one of your old Sunderlands to Loch Ryan. Officially, ATA women aren't allowed to fly Sunderlands, but no one else is available. The RAF urgently needs flying boats for the submarine war, so there's no room for bureaucratic delays." She shrugged. "The captain knows these aircraft inside out -- they're almost identical to his former civilian planes. I'm just his copilot and follow his instructions."

Her ease in tackling such tasks earned my respect.

"Are you staying overnight?"

"Yes. We're set to pick up the Sunderland early tomorrow."

"And where are you staying?"

"In a hotel in Oban. I can head over whenever I want." She paused briefly and looked at me directly. "When's your next mission?"

"Tomorrow morning. We're flying to Poolewe to escort a convoy. It'll be a long day."

"Then perhaps we could have dinner together tonight?"

"Gladly. Where?"

"In Oban. The hotel food is supposed to be decent, and they accept meal vouchers. Can you manage that?"

I nodded. "I'll inform the squadron leader and take the last ferry back. It's doable."

That evening at 6 PM, we dined together. Earlier, I had shown Patricia some of the island's untouched natural beauty, including a short walk to the Atlantic side. We spent time on a small sandy beach, watching the tide gradually take over. Seagulls and other seabirds flew above, occasionally breaking the serene silence with their calls.

"This feels just like home when we leave the city," Patricia said suddenly. "Simple, untouched nature and utter peace. Sometimes I think we humans just disrupt it all."

I chuckled softly. "I feel the same sometimes, especially during endless patrols over the Atlantic when absolutely nothing happens."

At some point that afternoon, we stood hand in hand on the beach, savoring the moment. Nothing more happened.

Dinner consisted of crab soup and baked haddock with young potatoes, paired with a delightful ale from the local brewery. We had three hours before the last ferry, and our conversation filled the time as we shared our lives and flying experiences with surprising intimacy and honesty.

Shortly before 9 PM, I glanced at my watch and paid the bill.

"What's next?" Patricia asked directly.

I thought for a moment. "I have an idea. Do you know when you'll bring the next Catalina to RAF Oban?"

"In about ten days, two more planes should be ready for transfer in Reykjavik."

"I haven't taken a day off since last summer."

Patricia laughed. "Neither have I since my first day with the ATA."

"Could you arrange to take two or three days off after your next arrival in Oban before heading back to Prestwick?"

Patricia considered it. "I'll need to request it tomorrow after I return, but it should be possible."

"Great. Please let me know as soon as you get approval."

"And what's your plan?"

"From above, the Isle of Kerrera looks like an untouched paradise. There's a small estate farm at Balliemore that used to rent out two wooden cabins for nature lovers before the war. I stayed there for a night last autumn. You can hike there from the base, and there's Gylen Castle -- a typical Scottish ruin said to be haunted -- on the island's southern tip. We could explore it in a day. Shall I book one of the cabins for three days? We'd need to bring our own food and drinks."

Patricia beamed. "Wonderful idea! During university fieldwork, I often stayed in cabins like that and had amazing experiences. Let's do it. You'll just need to find me a sleeping bag since I won't have one in my kit."

I promised to handle everything. As we parted at the ferry dock, we found ourselves in an unexpected, heartfelt embrace, followed by a deep kiss -- an intense, promising moment.

Three days later, I received a personal letter from Patricia confirming her arrival date and approval for three days of leave.

Over the following days, Fred Miller, as co-pilot, and I flew four North Atlantic missions with our eight-man regular crew, each lasting twelve to fourteen hours. The monotony of the flights, combined with the high level of concentration required, often made my thoughts drift back to Patricia, who had to endure the same experience while covering the approximately eight-hour flight from Iceland to Scotland. The only difference was that she focused less on the sea below and more on ensuring a punctual and safe arrival. On the ferry flights, which were crewed by only two pilots, the co-pilot also had to take on the duties of the navigator -- a task for which she, as a graduate mathematician and geographer/cartographer, was perfectly prepared. Moreover, the ferry Catalina always flew without radar and air defense armament; both were installed only after arrival in Scotland or England, and thus, there was no corresponding crew. This was a fundamental political-military decision, as the ATA, despite its close ties to the RAF, was officially a civilian airline and thus considered non-combatant. This was the decisive reason why women were even accepted as pilots -- they were not soldiers.

Patricia and Captain Reich arrived at RAF Oban nine hours late. That alone was enough reason for me to become increasingly worried, as there was naturally no updated information about their flight or arrival time. We had to wait. Since I had returned from my last mission in the bright night before and was now well rested, I paced around our base like a nervous tiger.

"The plane arrived late and then had a minor technical problem that the mechanics had to fix first," Patricia explained after she had handed over the new Catalina to our squadron. Her captain had immediately taken the ferry back to Oban after landing because he wanted to catch the next train and knew that his co-pilot planned to stay on Kerrera for a few days for a short vacation. "But the great thing about the white nights in the north is that you can take off and fly whenever you want. It's always bright."

Patricia seemed surprisingly little exhausted from her flight. You could tell from her air of routine that the eight-hour flight in reasonably good weather was no longer a strain for her. One and a half hours after landing, she had finished her duties, changed her shoes, shouldered her backpack, and we started walking the small country path south toward Balliemore. The sleeping bag I had organized for her was strapped to the top of her backpack.

"We look like two infantry soldiers, just without rifles," she joked as we had to walk in single file along a narrow ridge trail. Otherwise, we kept a leisurely pace that afternoon, so it took us one and a half hours to cover the roughly five-kilometer cross-country trail.

The simple wooden hut had been prepared for us by the farm; we quickly said hello at the farmhouse and then climbed the hill to the two huts.

"Wonderful!" Patricia commented when we reached our destination. "What a fantastic view over the sound to the mainland." Indeed, the view on this early summer day was unique. Oban hid behind the mountain range on the opposite shore; you could really only see the bay of Oban with the navy and civilian ships at anchor. But the natural scenery was exhilarating for my Canadian pilot friend. Next to the hut, about 30 meters away, a stream with crystal-clear water flowed down the hill, and a first sip proved to be a cool refreshment for us.

We were incredibly lucky with the weather. It was warm, partly sunny, but windy, which protected us from the pesky midges -- the Scottish midges -- that can make life hell for you in summer when there's no wind. Patricia and I dropped our gear in the hut and then sat down with freshly filled bottles of water on the wooden bench next to the entrance. Patricia first took off her sturdy hiking boots and socks and then walked the few steps to the stream to cool her bare feet.

"Oh, how refreshing," she exclaimed happily. "This is just as beautiful as in northern Canada. Simply fantastic!" She looked at me challengingly. "Fancy a really refreshing dip?"

"What do you mean?" I somehow hadn't quite understood her. Instead of answering, she walked back to the bank and began to undress piece by piece. "You'll see. This little pool here is perfect for a full-body refresh."

Indeed, the stream had formed a small natural dam of stones, behind which a pool about seventy centimeters deep had formed -- roughly the size of four bathtubs.

Patricia had already taken off her uniform and was unbuttoning her blouse when I finally caught on. "Isn't the water a bit too cold?" I asked cautiously.

"What do you mean, 'too cold'?" She shrugged her shoulders and let her blouse slide off. "It depends on the definition. I'd guess the water is about ten to twelve degrees. We're not planning to bathe for hours, just freshen up." Now she looked at me, by now dressed only in her underwear, with a challenging smile. "Come on then!"

I didn't need to be told twice and also began to strip off my uniform along with the rest of my clothes. At the same time, I watched with some amazement and growing delight as this Canadian pilot didn't stop halfway. She stripped completely naked.

"Wow!" I blurted out in open admiration. "You look fantastic."

"Thank you." Her reply had a distinctly flirtatious tone. She cupped her relatively small but absolutely firm breasts, topped with two boldly jutting nipples, with both hands. "I think I look pretty good too." Holding this provocative pose, she watched the final phase of my striptease, then took two steps toward me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and pressed her breasts and nipples against my rather hairy chest. Her kiss was a warm and highly erotic promise.

"I had a pretty wild time as a student, especially on excursions into the Canadian tundra," she explained to me and kissed me again. "You're the first man I've held in my arms since my flight to Europe. And I need a man like you. Now!" After another kiss, she took my hand, and we walked into this natural pool in the stream, which reached up to our knees. The water was damn cold.

"Three quick dips and stay in for just a few seconds," Patricia commanded. "That's how we do it in Canada."

I followed her lead. The pool water was really refreshing and had an immediate effect on my already aroused manhood, which tightened up firmly. But after the third dip, I felt much cleaner; the sweat from our hike seemed to be washed away, and then I noticed how my body was warming up from the inside after the cool down -- especially when we stood on the bank again, and the sun dried and heated our naked skin.

Again Patricia and I had wrapped our arms around each other and kissed us like two wild teenager. Our inner heat increased further. Our hands expolred each other, we recognised very soon that both of us had been extremely horny. My best friend grew harder and harder as a result of her hand massage, on the other side my middle finger felt her growing wetness.

We stood in the middle of mother nature and loved us with our hands and mouths. In the end I had pushed three fingers of my right hand in her pussy and fucked her slowly, getting excited by the growing flow of her love juices. Patrica on her side had distributed my pre-cum all over my cock's head and wanked my cock with strong strikes.

Patricia's legs started to tremble. She bit into my lobe and whispered: "Let's do it to the end. It gives us the strength to make long lasting fucks later."

I had almost no time to agree. She wrapped her arms around my neck, closed her hands like for a prayer and exploded with a loud and enthusiastic orgasmic cry. I had a lot of work to do to hold her tight and to balance us, almost falling. Patricia's orgasm pushed me over my own orgasm cliff, rubbing my cock in her dense bush I sprayed my crème in six full-blown eruptions over her pubic hair, her belly up to the bottom side of her breasts.

Breathing heavily and panting, we stood together like that for quite a while longer. She had that incredible smile on her lips -- a smile of a woman who had just experienced a full orgasm. Then a shiver went through her, and her smile grew wider, almost teasingly provocative.

"We should take a quick dip in the pool again. Then we'll be fresh and clean for a second round later."

I followed her instruction and example. Ten minutes later, we had gathered our clothes and were sitting again in front of our wooden cabin, this time with a simple wool blanket from the cabin draped over our naked bodies. Patricia snuggled up to me and rested her head on my shoulder.

"I think we both really, really needed that," she suddenly murmured.

I nodded. "Yeah. The war demands a lot from us on one hand, and on the other, it leaves many things neglected."

"True." Patricia lifted her head and kissed me. "And we're going to make up for that a little over the next two days."

We ate naked, each wrapped only in a blanket, on the small terrace of the wooden cabin, enjoying the cold dinner we had brought with us, washing it down with a pint bottle of red ale each. I felt it was one of the most beautiful and romantic dinners of my life.

"Have you ever made love to a woman under the open sky?" Patricia asked directly at the end of our dinner.

I shook my head. "No. I never had the opportunity or the partner for it."

Patricia laughed coquettishly. "Well, then it's about time, my dear Charles." With these words, she stood up, let her blanket fall from her body, and pulled me up as well. Then her hand began its wandering, massaging journey again, and soon succeeded.

Satisfied with her success she turned around, felt on her hands and knees and presented me her backside in all its beauty. Between her wide legs I was able to see her gleaming pussy. "I love this position most", was her explanation. "Come behind and conquer me!"

Her wish was my command. I knew this position very well and knew exactly what she was looking for. What I didn't knew was the fact that Patricia really enjoyed doggy-style fucks. Any thrust from my side was answered with a similar response, when we clashed together it resulted in a smacking plash. I moved my hands from her arse cheeks forward, grabbed her tits and squeezed her nipples between my thumbs and my trigger fingers. She cried out loud excited and encouraged ne, to continue. Then her shoulders cracked down and Patricias backside moved even higher.

„Harder! Faster!" was Patricias command. I fulfilled her desire and was rewarded with fierce moans, coming from the depth of her throat.

I recognized that our first encounter nearby the burn had wonderful consequences. I sustained my hard almost brutal speed without an early explosion into rampaging Patricia. She enjoyed two heavy orgasms. Then she extended one arm, grabbed my balls and squeezed them hard. Enough for me to reach my target. I exploded deep and pumped half a dozen creamy loads deep into her pussy.

Totally exhausted and sweaty I placed my upper body on her back, squeezed her tits again and murmured short, charming words into her ear. At least we pulled ourselves up.

She turned around, knelt in front of me, embraced me, and kissed me. "You are a wonderful lover. Exactly what I've been looking for for a year and a half." Then she looked me deeply in the eyes from a short distance. "So what do we do now?"

I grinned at her. "For the next 36 hours, we enjoy ourselves and love each other as if there's no tomorrow. And then we'll see what happens."

Patricia shook her head and got goosebumps. "One shouldn't tempt fate. But if we have to part again the day after tomorrow, then let's take with us so many beautiful memories that they remain in our hearts forever. We're both pilots in the war. If one of us falls from the sky in our aircraft, let this memory live on in the other as a legacy."

I shuddered at Patricia's words. Of course, each of us knew that every flight carried the risk of not returning. We just didn't talk about it. Still, I confirmed her words. "Yes. I can already say that you'll have a place in my heart forever and always."

Patricia laughed, freely and effortlessly. "Then let's see what becomes of us."

The next 36 hours truly consisted of a strenuous march to the ruins of Gylen Castle -- unfortunately, we didn't encounter any ghosts -- and of much, intense lovemaking and sex, during which I experienced another new delight. Patricia rode me and my best friend like a cowgirl, a lovemaking style that brought us both so much joy and pleasure that we tried it twice.

Right on time at the end of our authorized short leave, we returned to our base. Patricia took the next ferry and train to Prestwick, and I prepared with my crew for our next mission, which was scheduled to begin at 3 a. m. the following morning. The white nights stretched as far south as Oban, Scotland, in mid-June, except for two hours after midnight.

Patricia and I had promised to write to each other at least twice a week. And we managed to keep that promise. A regular exchange of letters began, just as open, intimate, and honest as our two days in Balliemore. But it would take more than eight weeks, until mid-August, before my beloved returned to RAF Oban to deliver the final Catalinas to our squadron. In the meantime, the world around us and the entire war had fundamentally changed: on June 22nd, 1941, the German Wehrmacht began its attack on the Soviet Union. The air war over the British Isles abruptly declined, but the submarine war in the Atlantic and the Arctic Sea grew larger and more threatening. In addition to the convoys from North America to Britain, there were now convoys heading to the ice-free Arctic port of Murmansk, transporting American and British military supplies to our new ally. This greatly expanded the responsibilities of our long-range flying boats for convoy escort and submarine hunting, and we needed more aircraft, pilots, and crews for the job.

Our personal August encounter was brief, very loving, and at the same time emotionally painful. I had returned very late to Oban after a sixteen-hour flight. On our return from patrol, we had spotted three shipwrecked sailors in a small dinghy and decided, given the relatively calm seas in the middle of the Atlantic, to land on the water and rescue them. Technically, it wasn't a big challenge -- the Catalina was built and equipped for such rescue missions. And it wasn't the first time we had done such an operation in the open Atlantic. We positioned our flying boat properly and picked up the three utterly exhausted Canadian sailors who had been drifting at sea for three days and had already given up hope of rescue. They had run out of their meagre drinking water supply the evening before and had almost died of thirst while drifting in the ocean.

We were ready for take-off, and my crew helped the three men into the bunks in the second-to-last bulkhead, normally the rest areas for the crew during particularly long flights. My flight sergeant and I had turned the Catalina into the wind and were just powering up the engines when, not fifty meters away, a German submarine surfaced. Whether it had already spotted us through its periscope or it was pure coincidence, we couldn't say. But before the U-boat had its hatch open and manned its anti-aircraft gun, we were already airborne and veering slowly off in a safe direction. I ordered my entire crew to battle stations, and the rescued sailors had to take care of themselves for the time being.

Our Catalina was armed with the standard anti-submarine weaponry we carried on patrols: two depth charges on the starboard side and a torpedo on the port side. For us pilots, the main challenge was that we had to deploy both weapons in quick succession, as the unbalanced load over longer distances could cause serious flight issues.

"Attack on submarine," I commanded over the intercom and gave instructions especially to the nose gunner to guide us into the right position. Slowly, our Catalina circled around and returned to the spot of the sudden encounter. From the trail on the water's surface, we could tell the submarine captain had decided to dive and not directly engage us. We first released the torpedo during our approach to the suspected position, then dropped the two depth charges, whose massive water plumes were reported by our tail gunner. But it quickly became clear that neither we nor the submarine had sustained any damage from the sudden encounter.

Because of my delayed return, Patricia and I were left with just two hours, which allowed for nothing more than some heartfelt embraces and emotional kisses. There wasn't even time for a walk to the Atlantic shore. Then the ferry to Oban awaited her, so she could return to her duties.

"Love during wartime is difficult," I said at our farewell, and Patricia nodded.

"But I hope that one day we'll be able to live out our love," she replied, her voice unusually trembling. "Take care of yourself! I'd love to share it with you."

She gave me a goodbye kiss--for the first time, completely unashamed, in public.

The next eight months, our relationship was reduced to writing and reading letters. There wasn't the slightest chance of fitting in a personal meeting due to our respective service duties -- not even at Christmas, which Patricia spent in Iceland because the aircraft to be taken over from Canada were significantly delayed.

The dark winter months were marked by an almost inhuman workload. We were in the air four to five times a week, with average missions lasting more than 13 hours. The increasing number of North Sea convoys meant our outbound and return flights became significantly longer. Then we received news of the Japanese attack on the American fleet at Pearl Harbor, during which more than eighty percent of all stationed Catalinas were destroyed, followed by the United States' entry into the war on the side of the Allies.

With the news of these events, our squadron leader gathered all present flight officers and flying sergeants in the mess and gave a brief speech:

"With the entry into the war of the Soviet Union, first attacked by the enemy, and now the United States, the Allied coalition at the side of the United Kingdom has grown in strength. We are no longer alone in our fight against Nazi Germany. And that is why we will win this war, however long it may last." None of those present could have foreseen that the end of the war was still three and a half years away -- and that about half of those gathered would not live to see it.

The RAF and Coastal Command drew the right conclusions from the changing operational conditions and the increasingly risky long flight times. In early February, our experienced squadron, including the entire ground crew, was relocated from RAF Oban to RAF Sullom Voe on the Shetland Islands in the North Atlantic. However, anyone who had expected that the two-hour shorter outbound and return flights would reduce our workload was mistaken. On the contrary, our flights now reached deep into the northern seas as the days grew longer. The supply of Soviet troops with weapons and ammunition, primarily from America, was in full swing.

This relocation had a wonderful side effect for Patricia and me that neither of us had expected. Initially, we thought that my posting to the Shetland Islands would stretch our long-distance relationship -- limited to letters -- indefinitely. But starting in April 1942, our squadron received brand-new Catalina aircraft of types IIa and III, which were not only more powerful and better armed but also equipped with the RAF's latest radar technology. The central workspace of our aircraft, where the navigator and radar officer sat side by side and back-to-back with the now doubly equipped radio operator -- who could now use both Morse code and voice radio -- was outfitted with the most modern equipment. The engineer's station, elevated directly beneath the wings and engines, had also been significantly upgraded thanks to the new engines.

Patricia had been promoted to First Officer after Captain Reich was medically discharged, and she had switched her cockpit seat from the right to the left side.

"I'm warming up your seat for you now," Patricia teased after her first handover in the Shetlands, which unfortunately wasn't accompanied by a longer stay. After a short rest of just a few hours--during which she truly only wanted to sleep--she boarded one of our Type I Catalinas and flew it to the southwest Welsh base at Pembroke Dock. Overall, this first personal meeting after ten months was rather sobering. We had expected a lot from it in our letters--probably too much. Now, our encounter consisted of little more than a "Hello" and "Goodbye," a few hugs, and a few still wonderfully warm and loving kisses.

"I haven't taken a single day of leave since our few days on Kerrera," Patricia told me at our farewell. "Maybe this time I'll manage to stay a few days in the Shetlands. I'll write to you. Maybe you can arrange something as beautiful as Balliemore."

I took that as both a promise and an offer -- especially after Patricia mentioned that she'd been granted three days' leave for her third transfer flight.

By coincidence, after my relocation to the Shetland Islands, I reunited with an old classmate from King Edward VI Grammar School. Alan Brown had married a woman from Shetland before the war. She had worked as a receptionist at one of the best hotels in Southampton. After Alan was severely wounded during his infantry unit's retreat to Dunkirk and was subsequently discharged from the Army as unfit for duty, he followed his wife to the Shetlands. Her parents had run a hotel in Symbister, on the island of Whalsay just off the main island, before the war. It was now permanently rented to a mysterious British-Norwegian agency. However, the hotel had three additional guest cottages, which were currently underutilized. I managed to reserve one of them for Patricia and me.

The head of our mechanics team drove Patricia and me to the small ferry port in Laxo, just five kilometres from our base, from where we crossed over in a small ferry boat. To our surprise, we saw --alongside the usual Shetland fishing boats -- two very different-looking boats with Norwegian names and markings moored in the well-sheltered harbour of Symbister.

For three days, Patricia and I ignored the war and everything related to it. On the first evening, Alan and his wife invited us for dinner at the hotel just a few hundred meters from our rented cottage. The rest of the time, we fended for ourselves with the supplies we brought or that the couple delivered to our cottage.

"I've learned something new," Patricia admitted to me on the second day, after we had enjoyed each other the previous evening in the usual passionate way. I looked at her in such surprise that she felt compelled to explain immediately. "Don't get me wrong! I haven't been with any other man over the past ten months."

"Then what's your new experience?" I asked, intrigued.

"You'll find out soon enough. And my teacher -- if you can call her that -- is my doctor in Prestwick. We became real friends over the winter, and she's very knowledgeable -- not just for professional reasons."

"Why is your teacher a doctor?" My curiosity grew even more.

Patricia took a deep breath. "It's simple. The ATA can't afford avoidable pilot absences. And pregnancy counts as one -- at least for us Attagirls. That's why our house doctor in Prestwick, who looks after the handful of female soldiers in our ferry pool instead of a staff doctor, was tasked with educating us on how to have good sex without the risk of pregnancy." She now grinned from ear to ear. "And I learned a lot of new things -- which you'll enjoy today, tomorrow, and hopefully well into our future together."

I took Patricia in my arms. "I can hardly wait."

Her grin still stretched from ear to ear, only briefly interrupted by a kissable mouth. "Then undress me. And I'll do the same to you."

I had already loved following Patricia's instructions the first time in Balliemore. And once again, it paid off to be obedient.

We got naked, we embraced each other, and we kissed us warm and intensively. Our hands started to explore our erogenous and most sensitive parts, becoming more and more familiar with the desires of our partner. Suddenly Patricia felt on her knee just in front of me, inspected my growing cock on closed range and played with both hands along my penis shaft, my glans and my balls. Without any warning she kissed my lightning red glans, opened her mouth and took by best friend between her lips and into her mouth. Her tongue circled around the head of my cock, then she moved forward and allowed me to penetrate her mouth deeper and deeper. Then she moved back with her head, opened her lips and her mouth wider and took me deeper again. I moaned and buzzed like a bear liking a honey pot. It was an unbelievable feeling to watch her work from my bird view. Abruptly she stopped her treatment, pushed me onto the bed just behind me, knelt down and started again. I went crazy but she was so skilful with her hands, mouth and tongue, that I never reached the spraying point of no return.

„Now comes novelty number 2", was her announcement. With one quick movement she straddled onto my long-stretched body. But in a one-eighty-turn! Suddenly I faced her wet, shining and tempting scent just in front of my face and my own mouth. Seconds later she pressed her pussy on my mouth. "Lick me out!" was her next command. Then she got silent again, starting to give me a deep and intensive blow job. I creampied her first, deep into her throat. Few seconds later Patricia cried out, pressed her pussy strongly on my mouth and flooded my face with her own love juices.

„Unbelievable," was my compliment to her some minutes later when we embraced us in a more common position. "Your doctor had given you some brilliant advice. I have never experienced an excited woman like you."

Patricia nibbled on my earlobe, then sat up and kissed me deeply and passionately. "For me, that was a revelation. I never thought this kind of sex could be so beautiful," she whispered into my ear. "And the best part is that you can't get pregnant this way and still give both the man and yourself complete fulfilment."

The next morning, Patricia shared more insights from her doctor. "The day before yesterday, it was still safe to have sex the normal way. A woman with a regular cycle can calculate when she can and can't get pregnant. And that 'dangerous' time started for me yesterday. So we have to enjoy ourselves in other ways."

"If it's as exciting as yesterday, then absolutely." I smiled at my lover with a knowing look.

Patricia straightened up in her chair and leaned forward. "We can make love with our mouths again." She raised her eyebrows. "Or you can use my back entrance. But I'll have to prepare for that."

"Your butt?" Somehow, I had only ever heard that mentioned in derogatory or mocking terms about gay men.

"Yes. In other civilizations, women do that quite regularly to avoid getting pregnant all the time. For example, in the Orient." She shrugged her shoulders. "I've never tried it, but my ATA comrade Angela is really into it."

I took a deep breath and thought for a few seconds, while I could immediately feel my manhood stiffen at the thought of using Patricia's backside. "Do you need any special preparation for that?"

Patricia grinned. "Angela says it's best to completely empty yourself beforehand. Otherwise, it can turn into a real mess."

I reached across the table and took Patricia's hand. "If you'd like to try it, I'd be happy to join you. It's a first time for both of us."

"Then give me an hour, Charles. I'll be ready for you."

Indeed, Patricia came to me an hour later, after disappearing a few times in the meantime. "I'm ready, my dear," she announced with audible desire in her voice. "And I brought the most important tool with me." She held a small bottle of skin oil in her hand. "Come!"

Patricia commanded precisely how I had to prepare her backdoor. I used the oil and lubricated my fingers and her arsehole. Then I pushed the first finger into her, followed by a second one rather quickly. Then I played and widened her until I was able to add a third finger. Patricia already moaned loud and tempting, wanking my cock harder and harder.

"I think, I am ready", was her announcement. She turned herself on her back and curled herself up, presenting both love entrances up in the air. "Now, come to me!"

I knelt in front of her open pussy and arsehole, lubricated my cock with additional oil and placed my penis tip at the entrance of her widened arse. I needed three strong, but cautious pushes to enter her backdoor entrance, then Patricia pressed herself against my cock and took it in entirely in three additional pushes.

"I'm in", I proclaimed with some pride, while Patricia was heavily breathing.

"I feel it," was her short answer. "It feels really curious and exciting. So now: fuck me and let us see what happens."

I started with slow, long, deep penetrations, favourable acknowledged by my lover. Then we were able to increase our fucking speed. I had pressed my hands into her knee pits and fixed her position in the best possible way. Few minutes later we reached a really crazy fucking mood, encouraging each other with dirty words and drifted both into an intoxicated mindset. Suddenly I felt that her intestinal muscles started to fap my cock. We exploded in the same moment with loud cries, and I recognized with some excitement that Patricia's pussy ejected two small spouts. Dripping with sweat we collapsed on each other, Patrcia stretched herself under me and release my shrinking cock from her backdoor.

I don't know how long we lay together in a tight embrace as our arousal slowly subsided. But I felt like I was in seventh heaven. I had a lover who gave me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction, and who was herself completely fulfilled.

"I love you," she whispered in my ear. "You're the best man I can imagine."

"I love you just as deeply and intensely. And I can't imagine a better woman to share my life with."

Patricia propped herself up slightly on one elbow. "Then all we have to do is survive this war." She laughed with a hint of sarcasm. "No matter how long it may last."

On the way back to our operations station, we spoke little to each other.

My ground mechanic had picked us up again at the ferry in Laxo, and then reality set back in. Five hours later, Patricia took off from Sullom Voe with a young officer cadet from our squadron as co-pilot -- he had been assigned to a training course -- and flew, of all things, my old Catalina to Wales to its new station.

I didn't witness the two subsequent transfers of new Catalinas with Patricia as pilot, as I was on long-range patrol over the North Atlantic at the time. Due to the increasingly harsh demands of these long and extensive missions, Coastal Command merged the 210th and 240th Squadrons under a joint command in August and established an additional base for us in the Russian Kola Inlet. We could use it during long missions to refuel, rearm, and rest. Escorting the convoys to the Russian Arctic port of Murmansk placed the highest demands on both our Catalinas and us as pilots and crew. In northern Norway, German fighter squadrons were stationed at airfields in Kirkenes and Tromsø, hunting our slow aircraft in the sky, which was illuminated 24 hours a day by the midnight sun. This danger only became more bearable in autumn as the periods of darkness rapidly increased. During those times, our dark-painted aircraft became nearly invisible to the Germans, while we could still "see" everything with our brand-new radar equipment.

More than once, I returned to our Shetland base with a shot-up flying boat and a half-frozen crew. After a fifteen-hour mission in November, our mechanics counted twenty-two bullet holes in our flying boat during the short daylight period. Fortunately, only the rear gunner suffered a grazing wound, and none of the critical parts of our aircraft were damaged. Our Catalinas were wonderfully robust flying boats that could endure a lot of damage. They were less flying combat machines and more excellent flying observation posts. But with our depth charges and torpedoes, we were still five times faster in hunting submarines than the fastest destroyer and, thanks to our superior radar, we could see the German U-boats at night while they could only hear but not see us.

Patricia and I continued to write to each other regularly and with a frankness that would have brought a blush to the cheeks of any censorship officer reading along. We both lived in hope that one day we would be reunited and start a life together in an undefined future.

This time, our wait for a personal encounter was even longer than the first time. For reasons I couldn't initially understand, Coastal Command split our squadron into two parts -- one was sent to Gibraltar to support Allied operations in the western Mediterranean and North Africa, while the other was moved first to Wales and then to southwest England to operate as submarine hunters and convoy escorts in the Atlantic and the Bay of Biscay.

At first, I thought I was one of the lucky ones after years of storms and cold over the North Atlantic, as I was assigned to the Gibraltar expedition. I was wrong. Flying a Catalina with its otherwise well-designed and panoramic glass dome in 40°C heat and bright sunshine from a cloudless sky was a sweaty affair that could only be endured by wearing non-regulation clothing. Shortly after our relocation, my Christmas leave plans were dashed by a surprise leave ban due to the Allied landing in North Africa and the subsequent army advances toward Tunisia.

All the more delighted was I to learn that Coastal Command -- which still oversaw our flying boat units -- assigned me on April 1, 1943, to a three-month training course, qualifying me for the role of Flying Lieutenant and deputy Squadron Leader (equivalent to a Captain and company commander in the Army). After three and a half years of almost uninterrupted front-line service, attending Air Force school felt like a real vacation. For the first time since the war began, I had the luxury of regular weekends, and Patricia and I actually managed to spend two weekends together. I must admit, those weekends were emotionally and physically intense. But we both returned to our posts with the certainty that we were meant for each other.

After a brief return to Gibraltar, I was transferred on October 1 to the half of our squadron stationed in southwest England, promoted to Flight Lieutenant, and took over half the unit as deputy Squadron Leader. After just a few weeks -- our Gibraltar-based squadron half was no longer needed, but the submarine threat in the Atlantic and North Sea remained high -- we all found ourselves back at RAF Sullom Voe in the Shetland Islands and resumed the same routine that had been interrupted a little over a year earlier.

For Patricia and me, this redeployment to the Shetlands was déjà vu. Our squadron again received a full replacement of our flying boats. This time, Patricia and a surprisingly elderly ATA officer ferried brand-new Type IV flying boats, whose engines, 25% more powerful, significantly improved flight performance. I now had direct influence over our flight service and readiness schedules, so I could ensure that I was present and available whenever Patricia visited. By now, it was an open secret in our squadron that we were involved with each other, but no one minded. And so, we could truly enjoy the few hours of togetherness that our tight duty and flight schedules allowed us. Thanks to the educational session by the doctor from Prestwick, we had a brief, passionate, but safe sex life that gave us the strength to endure the coming months of long-distance letter-writing.

However, one unplanned event in the summer of 1944 would shape us for the rest of our lives. Allied troops had now landed in France. Securing the convoys from North America -- lifelines of supplies and ammunition for our troops -- had become even more critical. The mission plan called for a simultaneous long-range operation with four new Type IV flying boats, combined with some Sunderland flying boats, to secure a particularly important transport. I was assigned to lead the mission with my Catalina and crew. Half an hour before take-off, my co-pilot was suddenly in the toilet with severe stomach and intestinal cramps, unsure whether his stomach contents would leave him faster from above or below.

"Totally unfit to fly," I reported to my Squadron Leader, who had only returned from a similar fifteen-hour mission with four other planes a few hours earlier.

"So what do you suggest now?" was his tired reply. "Do you have anyone who can replace your young co-pilot?" He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "The men who just returned with me would all be a flight safety risk."

"Yes, I do. But I need your approval for it."

My squadron leader looked at me, tired and annoyed. He just wanted to go to bed. "Why do you need my approval?"

"We currently have a very experienced Catalina pilot at our base who already knows our new Type IV very well. But she doesn't belong to our squadron."

"Then ask him if he'll fly the mission with you. That shouldn't be too difficult."

"It might be. It's First Officer Justin, the ATA pilot who has been ferrying us the latest Catalinas from Iceland for years."

My squadron leader suddenly understood what I was suggesting. He was silent for a moment, thinking. "Have you spoken to her yet?"

"No, sir. But I'm sure she'll agree if I ask her."

"Then do that. And make sure you get going as quickly as possible. The mission is important."

Ten minutes later, I had the agreement of my completely surprised lover to fly with me on her first -- actually completely illegal -- military mission as my co-pilot. It didn't take her twenty minutes to be ready for deployment.

After a smooth take-off, when our flying boat was in the air, we briefly shook hands. "This is our engagement flight," I suddenly said to her, after making sure the intercom was turned off. "I can't think of a better time or place. I don't have a ring with me, and I can't kneel down in this cockpit. Still, Patricia Justin, will you be my wife?"

Patricia looked over at me and beamed. "Yes, Charles. There's nothing I want more." Then she looked back at the instruments and the vast, silver-shimmering sea below us. "Let's fly through the rest of our lives together."

We kept our in-flight engagement to ourselves, but I managed to have a local goldsmith in Lerwick make a beautiful engagement ring with a Celtic pattern and a bright blue sapphire, which I discreetly slipped onto Patricia's finger six weeks later during her next ferry stay at our base. She wore the ring for the rest of the war on a necklace, discreetly hidden under her uniform.

For the rest of the year, our relationship returned to being conducted entirely through letters. I flew my missions over the Atlantic and had two direct engagements with German submarines, which, unlike earlier in the war, no longer immediately dived upon alarm but instead sought direct confrontation with their deck guns. For the first time, I had to report fatal injuries in my crew. After the second engagement in the half-light of dawn, during which both my nose gunner and tail gunner were fatally wounded, my ground crew later counted thirty-one bullet holes in our Catalina that had to be painstakingly repaired. It proved fortunate that the kerosene tanks built into the wings had, for the first time, been fitted with an additional layer that automatically sealed potential leaks. Whether my squadron comrade, flying a second Catalina alongside me, had placed his depth charges more effectively than I had was uncertain. We had both observed the massive water plume from his bombs -- it was significantly larger than usual. But whether the submarine had dived or sunk was not immediately clear to us.

In early January 1945, with Allied troops having already crossed the German border, I was allowed to attend my six-month staff officer training course, qualifying me for promotion to squadron leader - equivalent to a major -- and later to wing commander -- similar to a lieutenant colonel. Patricia's ferry pool station was just two hours away from our school by train, which allowed our relationship to finally settle into a somewhat regular weekend routine. We greatly enjoyed this phase and began to make plans for the future.

"When do you think the Germans will finally surrender?"

We discussed this question more than once, as the carefully censored newspaper reports clearly documented that Allied troops were advancing week by week on both the Western and Eastern fronts. We were fairly certain that the goal would be reached by summer at the latest.

"And what will we do then?"

This second question took centre stage from March onward.

"Based on all the information we have in Prestwick, I'm pretty sure the ATA service will be shut down very quickly after the war ends."

"That sounds right," was my opinion. "The remaining ferry work after the victory can certainly be handled by the RAF alone. And flying squadrons will also rapidly reduce their number of pilots, crews, and ground personnel. Just like what happened to my father after the First World War. He was lucky to transition into civil aviation with his training, university degree, and practical experience." I became thoughtful.

"I'm just a pilot. And after the war, there will be many of us looking for work somewhere."

Patricia and I sat in thoughtful silence for a while. Then my fiancée leaned forward, took my hand, and looked me deep in the eyes.

"Can you imagine emigrating to Canada and living in Vancouver?"

I chuckled quietly. "And what would we do there?"

A visible jolt went through Patricia; she visibly straightened up. "I would like to return to my university and write a doctoral thesis. That would lay the foundation for me to work in academia afterward."

I registered Patricia's announcement with mild surprise. Apparently, she didn't plan to start a family right away, but to continue her professional career. That was news to me.

Patricia seemed to read my thoughts. "I believe that an academic career can be wonderfully combined with family life as a woman and mother."

"And what would I do then? I'm a pilot. I got graduated with a grammar school diploma that would qualify me to attend university. But I'd have to start from scratch."

"I can ask my father. He's a top executive at Boeing and has the right connections. That's why I asked you if you can imagine building a life in Vancouver."

"What matters most to me is marrying you and starting a family with you. Where that happens is secondary."

"Then you should seriously consider this alternative. I'll write to my father and ask if he sees any possibilities for you."

At the end of April, while the British press reported extensively on the first meeting of Russian and American troops at Torgau on the Elbe and wildly speculated about an imminent end to the war in Europe, a long letter arrived from James and Margaret Justin, Patricia's parents. It began with two deeply sad pieces of news. Patricia's brother Jonathan had crashed his plane in the Pacific War and died. A second brother, Thomas, who like us was also a Catalina pilot, had crash-landed his heavily damaged aircraft while returning to his deployment. He was seriously injured and lay in a hospital in the Philippines with a spinal injury and multiple broken bones.

"My parents would be overjoyed to welcome us to Vancouver and help us start a civilian family life," Patricia summarized the letter. "My mother even added a handwritten postscript to my father's letter, saying that the return of her only daughter and her marriage to a fellow pilot would be her greatest joy."

I was delighted by my future in-laws' response. "That just leaves the question of how we'll support ourselves and where we'll live. Once I finish my course, I can definitely apply for transfer to the reserves. In the coming weeks, so many officers from all branches will be discharged into civilian life that my application will surely be accepted. And then?"

"First of all, both of us have saved a significant portion of our pay over the past few years. Neither of us had any opportunity to spend money."

I nodded. "And neither of us has a household or flat to dissolve. We lived either at our postings or in our flying boats. Our personal belongings fit into two suitcases and a backpack."

"So that should be enough to finance a start in Vancouver. We might even be able to buy a house." Patricia began making concrete plans.

"Good. If I follow your ideas and plans, we could try to relocate in July or August, once we've both left active duty." I looked at my fiancée thoughtfully. "Do I need a special visa for Canada?"

"If you want to immigrate, probably yes. But I have an idea that could massively simplify that."

"And what's that?"

Now Patricia laughed with the happiest laugh she had. "By getting married in Southampton! Best right after the war ends. I'm sure your parents would be thrilled. Then we can have a church wedding in Vancouver. That way, both families are equally happy."

At first, I was a bit shocked. Sure, we had promised to marry after the war, if we both survived our service. Now we were close to that goal.

"Good!" I said slowly. Patricia was visibly surprised by my lack of immediate enthusiasm, so I felt the need to show more determination. "Looking at the overall situation, the war in Europe will be over by mid-year at the latest."

Patricia nodded in agreement. "I think so too. That's why I expect to leave the ATA by July 1st."

"My staff officer course ends at the same time. Whether there will be any active military role for me after that is doubtful, especially if I apply for reserve status after the war ends in Europe." I smiled challengingly at Patricia. "First week of July? Shall we get married in the first week of July?"

She took two deep, audible breaths. Her answer was short and clear. "Yes!"

That very day, we wrote to my parents in Southampton to share the happy news and ask for their help in preparing. My parents' reaction could only be described as euphoric. My mother organized everything necessary and official over the following days. Then the date was set: Friday, July 6th, 1945, would be Patricia's and my wedding day.

In early May, events accelerated. Adolf Hitler committed suicide, and eight days later came VE-Day, as the press called the day of Germany's surrender. All of Britain erupted in celebration. Even at our staff officer school, instruction collapsed into chaos for four days. Patricia came to my station on May 10th, having completed three domestic ferry flights in recent days. Her ferry pool had ceased operations for the time being.

We had both survived more than a thousand take-offs, missions, and landings over nearly six years of war. Patricia and I rented a hotel room near my school and spent the whole night making love.

"That was the first time in my life a man came in all three holes in one night," Patricia confessed with a tone of proud satisfaction. "And it was incredibly beautiful and fulfilling."

"Happy to do it again," I grinned. "You're a fantastic lover."

"And you're a potent one."

By now, we had discovered our favourite ways of making love. The most intense and passionate sex we had was during mutual oral games -- regardless of who was on top. I owed eternal gratitude to the examining doctor in Prestwick for the rest of my life.

Patricia and I did, in fact, get married on July 6, 1945, in a small ceremony at the Southampton registry office, followed by a family celebration at my parents' undamaged home. In August, we crossed the Atlantic for the first time by ship and then travelled by train across the vast country from east to west. On the day we arrived, the Second World War finally ended with Japan's surrender.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, after the end of World War II

Patricia's parents had already bought a house in their immediate neighbourhood as a wedding gift before we arrived. So we didn't have to dip into our savings for our first family home. Our church wedding took place in mid-September in glorious late summer weather, which we took as a good sign, since Patricia had previously told me that Vancouver, much like Scotland, was a very rainy place.

As planned, my newlywed wife returned to her alma mater to work on a doctoral thesis. Surprisingly, she received a grant in mathematics rather than geography for her research -- a circumstance that would prove extremely fortunate in the years to come, as she became pregnant twice in quick succession. John C. Watts was born in August 1946, followed by his sister Jennifer in October 1947.

Even before we moved, my father-in-law had already used all his connections to secure us a financially stable future. "I'll take care of it," he had told Patricia and me, plainly and simply. So, on the second day after our arrival, we were sitting in his home office discussing the options. "With the end of the war in Europe and the Pacific, an incredible number of both young and experienced pilots are returning to North America, all looking for work," he analysed the situation bluntly. "And many, like you, are professional pilots without additional training."

I hung my head a little because my father-in-law's assessment was spot on. "On top of that," I added, "I flew only Catalinas during the war, while other pilots are coming back with hundreds of hours in four-engine bombers."

"Exactly. Those are the pilots who will have the best chances with the new generation of commercial aircraft. Our Boeing 377 Stratocruiser, currently still on the drawing board and expected to be market-ready within the next two years, is essentially just a civilian development of the military C-97 Stratofreighter. And it's the same at Douglas, Lockheed, and all the other companies."

"So, where do you see opportunities for me, if my chances as a pilot are so limited?" I hoped my father-in-law had an answer.

He did. "We are on the brink of a massive transformation in our industry. Over the past five or six years, the key measure was the number of combat-ready aircraft. Now, we have to find new markets, supply the emerging civil aviation sector, develop new concepts for the military sector, and especially integrate jet engine technology into civil aviation. For all of this, we need engineers on the one hand, and on the other hand, an entirely new type of sales engineer." He refilled my coffee and asked if I'd like a bourbon with it. I gratefully accepted. "Look, Charles," he continued, "we produce a technically sophisticated product. To sell it, one must be able to answer a wide range of technical questions from our customers -- which include airlines, air forces around the world, service companies like your father's, and so on. Teaching a businessperson the necessary technical knowledge is incredibly difficult -- almost impossible. But teaching an engineer or technically experienced pilot the business and sales side is comparatively easy, if the man is the right fit." He took a deep breath. "And from how my daughter describes her husband, you might be that kind of man."

I had a flood of questions, which my father-in-law answered patiently. Then he summarized: "Within the Boeing organization, we have a sales division at our main plant in Seattle that handles the U. S. market. We, as Boeing of Canada, along with our sister companies in the UK and Australia, are responsible for sales throughout the British Empire. I can offer you a well-paid position as an experienced pilot-turned-sales engineer in our organization starting September 1st. Your desk will be here in Vancouver, but the job will involve regular travel. And we'll provide proper training and orientation."

After expressing my interest in principle, my father-in-law arranged a meeting with his personnel manager three days later. The financial offer was so attractive for a future father that I accepted. I couldn't have landed in a better position.

Our shared love for the Catalina aircraft continued to burn in both Patricia and me. We kept our pilot licences active by flying enough hours privately each year. In the early 1950s, we read in our local newspaper that the British Columbia Forestry Service had acquired three used Catalinas to convert them into firefighting planes. I contacted the Forestry Service, which was delighted by Patricia's and my offer to fly these Catalinas as volunteers in emergency operations. Since 1953, we've flown an average of three to four such missions per year, always making sure never to fly together out of consideration for our family. The Atlantic convoy mission -- born out of chance and which I called our "engagement flight" -- remained the only time in our lives we sat in the same cockpit.

Postscript:

As mentioned in the foreword ‚War and Love' is a successful series of independent stories in my mother language German. In total I have already published 17 stories under this headline. Although I live in Scotland for more than twenty years this is my first attempt to translate one of my stories into English. I hope, I have been successful.

Depending on the feedback from English speaking readers I will continue to translate other stories of this series over the next two years.