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Davis had turned and answered casually: ‘’Cause there’s f-all to do!’ In short, Davis was calm, steadfast and utterly dependable, and Hislop had come to like and respect the man.
    Squatting beside Davis was Private ‘Jock’ Johnston, a quiet, dour Scot. Johnston was slow of speech but he had a cool, clear head, and he was a demon with a wireless set. No matter what the situation, he could be relied upon to get the signal through, and Hislop could ask no more of the man.
    Hislop’s third Phantom operator was somewhat less predictable, though through no fault of his own. Prior to joining the Phantoms, Sullivan had seen serious action with the commandos, and it had served to put his nerves on edge. Never lacking in courage, he became noticeably tense and jumpy in moments of real danger, which Hislop found somewhat disconcerting.
    And, in truth, Hislop found the entire Op Loyton undertaking rather daunting – largely due to their present company. His first impression of the SAS had been that they were some kind of rabid, warmongering ‘Foreign Legion’. During operations overseas they seemed to have acquired soldiers of every nationality, including a smattering of Germans. Upon the Regiment’s 1944 return to the UK, there had proved to be no official record of many of their number ever having served in the British Army.
    ‘All the time I served with the SAS I never quite overcame the impression that I belonged to a species of banditi,’ Hislop recalled. ‘The enterprise of the SAS troops on exercises shook the local authorities accustomed to the more staid practices of home-based troops. On one occasion they held up a train in order to get a lift.’
    Following his racing injuries, Hislop’s jockeying exploits had been sadly curtailed. He’d opted instead to start breeding and training racehorses. He’d just started getting serious about it, acquiring two promising steeds, Orama and Milk Bar, when the D-Day landings had taken place, after which he’d been ordered to deploy on the present mission.
    Normally, dwelling on such thoughts of ‘the Turf’ served to put steel into Hislop’s soul – a steel that he didn’t quite believe was innately his. As he tensed himself at the Whitley’s bomb-bay exit, lining up with the SAS ‘banditi’, the words of a favourite poem flashed through his mind.
     
    So the coward will dare on the gallant horse
    What he never would dare alone,
    Because he exults in a borrowed force,
    And a hardihood not his own.
     
    All thoughts of cowardice were driven from Hislop’s head as the Whitley began its run-in to the DZ. Within moments, a forest clearing hove into view, one marked by a series of blazing fires. Even from this altitude the bonfires looked massive, as if groups of French villagers had somehow decided to celebrate Guy Fawkes.
    Hislop found himself wondering whether maybe the Maquis hadn’t overdone things a little. Surely, as well as being visible from the bomb bay of the Whitley, the conflagrations would be seen by the enemy, drawing them towards the DZ. He comforted himself with thoughts of their RAF Fairford briefing, at which they’d been told that only a handful of German troops were stationed in the area, and even those were of a low calibre.
    The timbre of the twin engines dropped to a throaty grumble as the plane descended. The flames could be seen illuminating the whites of upturned faces, as whoever was below scanned the skies for the aircraft they could now doubtless hear. The pilot began his final approach, the red ‘action stations’ jump light flickering on. Moments later it switched to green, the dispatcher yelling: ‘GO! GO! GO!’
    The first stick of six – led by Druce – threw their legs forward, leading with the one weighed down by the leg bag, and, as one, vanished through the floor. The second stick – including Hislop and his Phantoms – lined up beside the windswept, empty grave as the aircraft climbed again, swinging around