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wanting to leave her, Peter sat down beside her on the wet sand. At first he looked out to sea, and then he looked at the girl sitting at his side. How beautiful she was, even in anger. A strap of her costume had slipped from her shoulder partially revealing small breasts so appetizing he wanted to bend his head and kiss them. In open admiration he studied her face, her tiny hands, her shapely legs stretched out upon the wet sand. Her skin, the colour of fresh cream, was smooth and without blemish. Reaching out a hand he gently touched her arm. “I am sorry,” he repeated, quietly and sincerely.
    â€œPlease go away and leave me alone,” she answered coldly, pulling her arm away from his touch and looking not at him but instead out across the water.
    â€œYou’re very beautiful,” he said to her. “I’m sorry, but not too sorry. At least I’ve had this opportunity to meet you. My name is Peter.”
    She remained silent. He’s very young, she thought. Perhaps fourteen or fifteen. He must be a schoolboy, and all schoolboys do silly things. And he didn’t look evil. Surely he meant her no harm. He was only a little boy wanting to play. And he seemed to be a gentle boy. Looking up into his sincere eyes, she said, “You are young boy. You make bad because you young.”
    Peter replied, “Well, that’s nonsense. Anyway, I’m older than I look.”
    â€œYou go school here? Why you live in Singapore? Your daddy is army boy?” she asked.
    â€œGood grief, no! I’m not a schoolboy,” Peter said, laughing. “I’m nineteen. I’m in the RAF.”
    Obviously puzzled, she looked quizzically into his face.
    â€œI’m an airman. I’m stationed here at Changi,” he said. He flapped his arms as if he were a bird in flight. Her anger melted and she forced herself not to giggle at the sight of him looking so serious while flapping his arms up and down. Of course she knew what an airman was, but he looked far too young to be a serviceman. “You know, a bird,” he was saying. “An airman is like a bird. He flies.”
    â€œDo you fly?” she asked, almost unable to control her laughter. Her anger had melted and she was interested in this boy. He looked so innocent, and he made her laugh.
    â€œNo, I don’t fly. Well, not very often. Only when I’m being posted from one camp to another.”
    â€œYou are an officer?” she asked. “You are very young to be an officer.”
    â€œNo. I’m not an officer. I’m just an airman. A tiny cog in the wheel,” said Peter, warming more and more to her company.
    â€œA tiny cog in the wheel! I do not understand.”
    â€œIt’s just a saying, meaning I’m someone who helps in a small way.”
    â€œOh! I see,” she was saying, when suddenly, rising from the nearby runway with a roar, and slowly gaining altitude as it passed low over their heads, a Handley Page Hastings aircraft, a four-engine aircraft of Transport Command headed north, its course altering due west as it approached the coastline of Malaya. It was probably on its first leg to England, thought Peter.
    â€œWhat work you do? You fly big one, same as that?” asked the girl at his side.
    Peter laughed, “No, I’m not a pilot, nothing so exciting. I’m a cook.”
    â€œA cook!” She repeated the two words as if more amazed than if he had said he flew big planes. “You are very young to be RAF cook,” she said. “What you say your name is?”
    â€œPeter,” he answered.
    â€œPeter,” she repeated, and then again, “Peter,” as if turning the name over in her mind.
    â€œYes, Peter,” he was saying, loving the way she pronounced his name. He decided to try his Chinese on her. “Now that you know my name, what is your name?” he asked in Cantonese.
    A look of intense surprise came upon the girl’s face.