There was, Flying Officer Barrington thought wryly, a taint of institutionalized hypocrisy in bringing Corporal Pugh up on charges for siphoning petrol to sell on the black market, then motoring to London without batting an eye at the profligate use of that same petrol for the private use of an officer.  Not that he had certain knowledge of its origin; but then he’d taken care not to ask.
His batman stowed his suitcase; and Barrington cheerily told him he’d be back in two days toute de suite, and drove off through the gate.
Truth be told, like all the pilots, he took perqs as his right.  They all did—not just as petty compensation for the daily danger, but because it was the only way they could enjoy a two days’ leave anywhere worth spending it.
Which, for him, was with Katherine, herself expecting to be called up.  However, he hoped to forestall this, if she would accept the ring he intended to buy as soon as he arrived in the city.
He picked her up at her parents’ home, with tickets for the theatre and plans for dinner before and drinks after.  The air raid came as they sat in the restaurant waiting for their meal to be served.  It was bad timing:  he was starving after the long drive, and wished Jerry had had the courtesy to wait at least until after the main course had been eaten.  They would be trapped for hours, moreover; the tickets would be an utter waste of money.  It was no fun for Katherine, and a waste of his leave.  On top of it all, the shelter was full of people who had already marked out their familiar places and brought with them the usual paraphernalia of camp stools, blankets, and baskets.  He and Katherine had to press into one of the less desirable spots, and squat in inadequate light surrounded by strangers.  It was, he thought, an inauspicious start to their engagement—and that would be if he got the chance to pop the question.  (This was hardly the place.)
People continued to hurry into the shelter.  The first bombs shuddered through the earth, deep as they were.  He had never thought himself claustrophobic; but the tunnel was a tomb.
The little case in his pocket dug into his flesh; and he shifted awkwardly.  Katherine took his hand.  To reassure herself, he thought, until he realized from her kindly expression that the grip was for his comfort.  It was different in the air.  He knew what to do, whatever happened. The sky was blue and clear and empty:  you could reach out and touch the face of God, even if, at any moment, bullets might come from the sun and blast you to eternity to join Him in Heaven.
Katherine held his hand; and they looked like a young couple in love.  The old biddy across the way smiled at them.  He scarcely noticed; and Katherine’s regard was only for him, though she didn’t let her worry show.  Nor did he.
“Excuse me, is there a place here?”
He looked up to see a fair-haired man in mufti with an awkward smile.
“Of course,” said Katherine, gathering in her skirt and squeezing closer.  “Do please sit here.  It’s very crowded, I’m afraid.”
“Well, needs must,” the man replied pleasantly.  He sat down and offered a hand.  “My name’s Hammond.”

After the raid, it seemed only polite to Katherine to ask their new acquaintance to join them for dinner; and Barrington could hardly demur.  She had, of course, no idea that the little case was pressing a hole in his pocket; and Hammond seemed a decent sort of chap.  The usual questions had elicited the fact that he’d gone to a different school and Oxford rather than Cambridge, so they had no friends in common; but they clearly spoke the same language.
Hammond agreed to join them for drinks.  (He had, he said, eaten already.)  He nursed a glass of wine as they ate, and continued the light conversation that had made him such an agreeable companion through the hours in the shelter.
When the photographer came round to their table, Katherine was surprised that Barrington agreed; but he was all too aware that, like many a young couple, they faced separation—for the nonce, if not forever.  Too many of his friends had already gone for a burton. If it wasn’t Jerry, it was a bad landing.  (As long as you walked away....)  He’d seen too much strawberry jam.  In war, you lived for today—but he was aware that a young bride lives for tomorrow, when the war is over and her groom comes back and their future begins.
It would be good to capture the memory, should the worst happen.  It would be a comfort, in the event.  He took the photographer’s name and gave his address.  The flash blinded.
An hour and coffee later, the restaurant staff wanted to go home.  It was not their fault the Luftwaffe had decided to take advantage of the clear night.  So the two of them parted from Hammond; and Barrington took Katherine home in a taxi and popped the question at the door.  It was only a week later, when the photograph arrived, that he realized that their new friend was also in the snap.

Squadron Leader Barrington mustered out in a cold February, with no job prospects and the skills of war.  It was the friendship of the Canadian airmen with whom he had served that put in his mind the notion of emigrating.  Katherine, faced with post-war privation, eternal queues, and as-yet-uncleared bomb rubble, found the prospect of a brave new world far more desirable than she would ever have imagined before the war began.
They met their friend Nicholas at a different restaurant (the old one having been hit by a doodlebug in ’44).  As always, he nursed his glass of wine as they ate.  It was so much his habit that they no longer regarded it.
Over dessert, Gordon pulled out the old photograph.  “Do you remember?” he asked.
Nicholas took it from him, and looked at it.  “A lot of water has passed under the bridge since those days,” he remarked.  With his easy, charming smile, he handed the photograph back.  “I will miss the both of you,” he admitted.  “I have few friends left in London nowadays.”
Giving in to impulse, Gordon tore the photograph across.  He handed the larger careful half across the table.  “Here,” he said.  “Keep it.  To remember us by.”