 They shall not grow old, read by Killian Murphy. The two of us set outside the hangar on wooden boxes. It was noon. The sun was high and the heat of the sun was like a close fire. It was hotter than hell out there by the hangar. We could feel the hot air touching the inside of our lungs when we breathed and we found it better if we almost closed our lips and breathed in quickly. It was cooler that way. The sun was upon our shoulders and upon our backs and all the time the sweat seeped out from our skin trickled down our necks over our chests and down our stomachs. It collected just where our belts were tied around the tops of our trousers and it filtered under the tightness of our belts where the wet was very uncomfortable and made prickly heat on the skin. Our two hurricanes were standing a few yards away each with that patient smug look which fighter planes have when the engine's not running and beyond them the thin black strip of the runway sloped down towards the beaches and towards the sea. The black surface of the runway and the white grassy sand and the sides of the runway shimmered and shimmered in the sun. The heat haze hung like a vapor over the aerodrome. The stag looked at his watch. He ought to be back, he said. The two of us were on readiness sitting there for orders to take off. The stag moved his feet in the hot ground. He ought to be back, he said. It was two and a half hours since Finn had gone and he certainly should have come back by now. I looked up into the sky and listened. There was the noise of airmen talking beside the petrol wagon and there was the faint pounding of the sea upon the beaches but there was no sign of an aeroplane. We sat a little while longer without speaking. Looks as though he's had it, I said. Yep, said the stag. Looks like it. The stag got up and put his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts. I got up too. We were looking northwards into the clear sky and we shifted our feet on the ground because of the softness of the tower and because of the heat. What was the name of that girl? Said the stag without turning his head. Nicky, I answered. The stag sat down again on his wooden box still with his hands in his pockets and he looked down at the ground between his feet. The stag was the oldest pilot in the squadron. He was 27. He had a mass of coarse ginger hair which he never brushed. His face was pale even after all this time in the sun and covered with freckles. His mouth was wide and tight closed. He was not tall but his shoulders under his khaki shirt were broad and thick like those of a wrestler. He was a quiet person. He'd probably be all right. He's sad to look you up. Anyway, I'd like to meet the Vichy Frenchman who can get Finn. Sample complete. Ready to continue?