She was tall. Hell, she had to be 5’-11.” With cascading red hair, a body to die for and a ready, hearty laugh. A lot of freckles. He had never seen freckles before arriving in England. They had met at one of the many parties people threw during the Blitz, one of those living-for-the-moment-who-knows-what-tomorrow-will-bring shindigs. Lots of laughter, alcohol and bullshit. The most popular record played on the phonograph (after “There’ll Always Be an England”) was the old 20s flapper anthem, “I Don’t Care.”
She had been standing in a corner, with four RAF types slinging bullshit as hard as they could, hovering around her like dogs in heat. Her dress clung to her curves. She had a smile that could glow in the dark. He had never seen anything like it in the small Norwegian town he grew up in. “Shit, she’s out of my league. She’ll wave me away like a troublesome insect,” he thought. “Ah, to hell with it. I’m going to try, if no other reason than to stick it to those cocky RAF fucks.”
He sauntered over. When there was a slight break in the conversation, he made his play. “Hello.” Just “hello? Arne, you asshole, that was pathetic. You have to do better than that!” The RAF men turned and looked him over. Not recognizing a Norwegian uniform, they turned to look at each other and grinned. She didn’t. With a killer smile and an extended hand, she said “Hello, Norway, I’m Tilda Colquhoun.”
They were together almost constantly after that. Dinners, walks, long conversations over wine which was new to both of them, exquisite love-making and making of plans.
He was called to Scotland. It was the next morning, fuzzy with sleep, that she told him she was a Scot and wanted to know where in the country he was going. “I’m going up there for some training. They don’t tell us until we’re airborne, but I’ll write you every day.”
And he did. She was not able to respond since the location was secret. The training was rigorous and helped keep his mind off of her. Four weeks of parachute jumps, rappelling down cliff sides, weapons and explosives familiarization, hand-to-hand combat exercises and a “wee hike” three days a week of twenty-five miles.
Training completed, with a seventy-two hour pass in his pocket, he almost ran from the London train station to her flat. But there was no flat. There was no building. Just an enormous pile of concrete rubble with clouds of smoke and dust almost obliterating what was left. Adjoining buildings, with all their windows blown out, stared with hollow eyes. Their structures, ruined by the blast, leaned inward where the other building had been and looked down curiously at their obliterated neighbor. A small clutch of people stood around. A small, almost tiny old lady wept quietly. A burly policeman stood guard. A crew of rescue workers swarmed over the pile, looking for survivors and bodies.
He almost shrieked, “What happened?”
The policeman looked at him as if he were the village idiot. “V-2. Direct hit.” Then, softening, “You got some someone here?”
“Yeah, Tilda Colquhoun. Tall, redhead, late 20s.”
The policeman looked over to the elderly woman crying and said gently “Mrs. Christie, do you know anything about a redheaded lass named Tilda Colquhoun?”
The woman nodded her head slowly.
The air went out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He thought his head would explode. He covered his face with his hands and groaned, “Ahh Gud, ahh Gud.” He staggered, stumbling over some rubble and flopped down.
“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill every one of those goose stepping, square head bastards. I’ll kill every one!”
From Chapter III, World War II Black Ops, Vol. 1