‘The other two and I were thinking of going to church this morning. Matthew Prior’s a good type and apparently only about a couple of dozen people turn up as a rule. We thought we ought to back him up a bit. All the troops and W.A.A.F. are coming along.’
Reluctantly, Roger put his paper down. ‘I suppose I’d better show willing, then.’
‘Good show. No compulsion, of course, but the padre’ll appreciate it.’
‘One condition: I won’t sit next to Flight Sergeant Moreton-Smith.’
‘I’ve noticed she’s after your scalp.’
‘It’s not that. I know how to side-step her. It’s just that I don’t want to spend three quarters of an hour breathing her Californian Poppy and Phul-Nana at close quarters.’
‘Frankly, I wouldn’t mind at all: provided I could get to close quarters.’
‘Now,’ said Roger, ‘that’s hardly the spirit in which to go to Matins, is it?’
‘I’m going because the padre’s a good type. I might as well do myself some good at the same time if I can.’
That, Roger thought, was supposed to be the purpose anyway: but with a different definition of doing oneself some good.
He accompanied the others without enthusiasm and was perturbed to see the blonde Flight Sergeant Moreton-Smith loitering outside the door of the wooden-hutted church. She sidled in front of him but he adroitly evaded her and found a chair against the wall, with two of the male members of the congregation between them. An occasional waft of her cloying scents drifted to him, but he felt safe.
The concert was well applauded and the choir was clapped and cheered with such appreciation that they had to sing an encore of ‘The Stein Song’ and ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover’ in which the audience joined with more zest than harmony. Roger and the three other officers went to morning service every Sunday - the rest mostly dropped out - until, after another three weeks, his posting arrived. He was going to a station in Lincolnshire to learn to fly four-engined aircraft; specifically, the Halifax. And Flight Sergeant Devonshire was going with him.
The Rev Squadron Leader Matthew Prior helped James to load his luggage into his Morris Eight.
‘I’m very sorry to see you go, Roger. I’m most grateful to you for all you’ve done. We shall miss your singing on Sundays. I’m sorry you haven’t felt up to coming to Communion at all; but I understand.
There’s nothing for you to worry about, you know. Perhaps you’ll think about it at Christmas. Anyway, the best of luck. And God bless you.’
Where have I heard that valediction before? Roger reflected as he drove off to pick up Devonshire at the sergeants’ mess. And it was odd that he had not given a single thought to Kate for the best part of five weeks.
Chapter Six
On a cold, windy, raining, leaden-hued morning in late November, James was at his office desk, trying to keep his mind on the squadron’s paperwork. His predominant concern was not about letters, memoranda, returns, orders, rosters, missing items of equipment or charge sheets dealing with petty offences-about which he would presently have to sit in judgment; with his cap on, the squadron adjutant at his right elbow, and each alleged miscreant facing him in turn, bare-headed, with an escort beside him and the squadron warrant officer to one side reading out the charge.
His predominant concern was about Nicole. More than four months had gone by and he was without news of her. Although she had told him she would be unable to send any messages, he had always had the hope that she would find some way to let him know that she was safe and well. But she had said that she would be away for only three months and it was her overdue return which harassed him.
There were other causes of unhappiness. Since he took command eight months previously, the squadron had lost half the pilots who were with him then by death, wounds and capture. By the time he had taken command, there had already been more than a score of deaths and as many who were wounded, while a few of them, himself included, survived. After the Battle for France and the Battle of Britain he had gone through a period of great depression: not only because of the squadron’s casualties but also on account of the friends on other squadrons whom he had lost. During the autumn and winter months of 1940 he had overcome his sadness and dejection. With the spring, and promotion to lead the squadron, he had been heartened by the prospect of offensive operations over France. Now, once again, he was in gloom because he had lost so many good men on Sweeps, Circuses and Rhubarbs.
The telephone rang. It was Wing Commander Wilson.
‘Can you spare a moment, James?’
‘Right away, sir.’
Tug Wilson’s polite way of putting it did not make it any less of a command; and James was only too glad to leave his desk at any time. Particularly when he had to hear charges. Inactivity caused by bad weather invariably produced a crop of Service crimes. James detested having to punish his hard-working ground crews and was always lenient. Off the record, he always told them that whatever punishment he was giving them was not so much for the offence as for being stupid enough to be caught: and they squirmed more at his unofficial rebukes than at a few days’ confinement to camp and all the chores that entailed.
The Wing Leader’s office was hazy with pipe smoke. James saluted, feeling the fumes sting his eyes and nostrils and wondering what plans Tug was about to reveal for flying in this impossible weather.
Instead of telling him to sit down, Wilson grinned at him, rose, and came round from behind his desk with his hand outstretched.
‘Congratulations, James. Your D.S.O. has just been signalled.’
They shook hands and James forgot about the dire weather, about his depression, about Nicole, in his delight.
‘Thank you, sir. But it’s really an award to the whole squadron.’
Wilson wore the Distinguished Service Order himself, so could not contradict this.
‘That’s as may be, but you’re the chap who’s mentioned in the Gazette; for your leadership. Well done. Sit down, James.’
Wilson resumed his seat while James drew up a chair and removed his cap. He picked up one of the half-dozen pipes on his desk and began ramming tobacco into it: Carlyle Mixture, which made the air heavy with the aroma of Latakia. He looked musingly at James.
‘Squadron in good shape?’
James looked surprised. ‘Yes, sir. Except for being browned off about the weather.’
‘I meant administratively. No loose ends hanging around?’
‘Nothing serious. Just the usual odds and ends of argument about returns and inventories and spares holdings.’ James grinned. There was no need to elaborate. Everyone knew the constituents of administrative irritation.
‘Ready to hand over at a moment’s notice, then.’
James sat up sharply. ‘Hand over, sir?’
‘’Fraid so, old boy. And there’s no use your trying any arguments. The Group Captain will want to see you presently, to congratulate you on your gong and to tell you about your posting.’
‘I’m not due for a posting, sir.’
‘You know damn well you’re long overdue. That’s why any protest would be a waste of time. We wouldn’t let you go if we could hang on to you. You can go and see the A.O.C. if you like.’ Wilson smiled and chuckled. ‘In fact you will be seeing the A.O.C. But it won’t make a blind bit of difference.’
‘Why have I got to see the A.O.C., sir?’
‘Because you’re posted to his Staff. It’s Uxbridge for you, James: H.Q. Eleven Group.’ This was the group which covered south-east England and in which James had done almost all his service.
‘A ground job? Oh, no. If I’ve got to come off ops, why not at least an O.T.U.?’
‘Because the A.O.C. wants the benefit of your experience in planning future operations. It won’t be so bad: Tiny Ross is being sent on rest too; he’ll be your colleague at Group.’
‘How long am I likely to have to stay chairborne?’ James’s face and his tone both expressed deep gloom. He was delighted to hear about hi
s old friend Ross, but wasn’t giving an inch.
‘Not long, I should say. Six months?’ The Wing Commander cocked an eyebrow as he relit his pipe for the fourth time.
‘Six months! I’ll have to go on a refresher course at the end of it. Six months without flying?’
‘Who said anything about no flying? You’ll have the use of a Spitfire; based at Northolt. It’ll be part of your job to fly round the group wings and keep in touch.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. But not the same as flying ops. Who’s getting the squadron? Sandy Lane, I hope. The boys won’t take kindly to an outsider.’ Wilson sat back and laughed. ‘You sounded positively threatening then, James. Yes, you’re to hand over to Sandy by stand-down tomorrow evening, and report to Group by eleven a.m. the day after tomorrow.’
‘Well, if I’ve got to hand over, Sandy’s the only one to whom I’d give the squadron with any kind of willingness.’
Flight Lieutenant Lane was James’s senior flight commander. *
‘I’m sure the Eleven Group Staff will be delighted to hear that you approve of their choice.’ Wilson seemed to be enjoying a joke. He reached for his telephone. ‘I’ll see if the station commander wants to see you yet.’ He asked the operator to put him through and presently James heard him say ‘I’ve got Fenton with me, sir. D’you want me to send him over?’ James listened to a crepitation in the earpiece and watched Wilson’s lips twitch while they stared at each other. ‘He’s off the boil now, sir. But he’ll probably start to bubble again when he gets into your office.’ Wilson listened again, laughed, said ‘I’ll tell him,’ and hung up.
‘You’re to go over straight away. And the Group Captain says you’ll be wasting your time if you get steamed up again: he recommended you for the job. Bad luck, James. We’ll miss you. Never mind: we’ll have a hell of a party tomorrow night to see you off. And congratulations again. Come and see us when you’ve settled in, and I’ll let you come on a Sweep with us.’
‘Too kind, I’m sure.’ But James was able to laugh about it.
*
Christopher was enraptured by the Beaufighter: if one could so describe the effect on anyone as masculine as lie of an aircraft as tough and virile as the Beau.
They were the most aggressive-looking aeroplanes he had ever seen. Until he went to the O.T.U. where he would learn to fly them, he had seen them only at a distance and usually in the air. Close up, they were formidably pugnacious.
The Beaufighter was, throughout the war, the most heavily-armed fighter in the Allied Air Forces. The Mark IC, to which Christopher was introduced, was a long-range day fighter variant with four 20 mm cannons beneath the nose, four.303 machine-guns in its starboard wing and two in its port wing.
It had sturdy, compact lines and reminded Christopher of a fighting bull or a middleweight boxer with exceptionally powerful shoulders. It was a beefy brute but genial to fly and amazingly manoeuvrable. 'The pilot sat well forward. Its short, blunt nose was well below him and did not impede his view, which, through a large bullet-proof windscreen and windows, was excellent up and down, but obstructed on either side by the big engines which protruded beyond the pilot’s seat.
It was powered by two 1770 h.p. Bristol Hercules SVIIs and had a top speed of 330 m.p.h. These imparted a vicious swing to starboard on take-off, caused by torque, and many pilots killed themselves and their observers by failing to apply enough left rudder. This lethal characteristic, however, was regarded as merely endearing by those who had mastered it. Later, modifications were made to the tail unit to reduce this tendency.
Thirteen feet astern of the cockpit, in a separate compartment, sat the observer. In the night fighter variants he was provided with a radar set for homing onto enemy aircraft in the dark. In the long-range day fighter he had instead a navigation desk and extra radio and navigational aids; which, with the Beau's range of over 1500 miles, he needed.
When Christopher found that he was not about to be trained for night-fighter operations in Fighter Command, he was disappointed. Within a few hours, however, after talking to instructors who had come from Coastal Command’s own long-range day fighter squadrons, he was satisfied.
His observer was an Australian, a laconic, blackhaired ex-insurance salesman from Brisbane, Harry Malahide; twenty-five years old, the same height as Christopher but a stone lighter. He had failed a pilot’s course after forty hours’ flying and was inclined to be sour, and suspicious of all pilots’ ability. Christopher was undecided whether to treat him with his usual well-bred politeness and wait for him to show signs of friendliness or to jolt him into it by winning his respect at once.
In the event, his essential character resolved the matter. He had done twenty hours on Beaufighters before Malahide was crewed up with him, and had found that sitting right in the nose, on the central line as in the Hurricanes which had so delighted him at advanced training school, instead of offset to the port side as in a Beaufort, was an irresistible temptation to perform aerobatics. The hefty control column and wheel grips, the vast expanse of perspex surrounding him, compounded this.
Christopher’s introduction to Malahide had not been auspicious. They had met in the mess bar on the evening of the latter’s arrival, ten days after Christopher. Seeing the morose-looking stranger standing on his own, Christopher had asked him to have a drink.
At once Malahide had said ‘No, I’ll shout you one.’ And, presently, ‘You’re the first bloody Pom who’s ever offered to shout me a drink the first words he spoke to me.’
Christopher, who knew perfectly well, asked ‘What is a Pom?’
‘You are, cobber.’
‘A pilot? Australian slang for pilot?’
‘Naow.’ Malahide looked mildly disgusted; as a man might who has just caught the whiff from a tannery on a hot day: bad, but not incurable if one moved up-wind. ‘A Britisher.’
‘Ah, a Briton. Why ‘Pom’?’
‘Pomegranate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Britishers who come out to Australia have red faces. Like Pomegranates. Not like us: we live in a sunny country.’ He smiled faintly, a fractional parting of thin lips and slight wrinkling at the corners of the eyes.
Christopher looked at Malahide’s pristine dark blue Royal Australian Air Force uniform cuff with its thin ring of pilot officer’s braid and wondered if he were a veteran sergeant recently commissioned.
‘Going on your second tour?’
‘No.’ Malahide frowned briefly. ‘I joined up the same bloody day war was declared, but I wasted time on a pilot’s course before I started my observer training and came over here. This your first tour?’ ‘I’ve just come off four months’ rest.’
Malahide eyed him up and down. ‘Yeah? What were you on before that?’
‘Beauforts.’
‘What squadron.’
Christopher told him.
‘How long were you on ops?’
‘Ten months.’
One corner of Malahide’s mouth turned up. ‘You went on rest pretty quick, didn’t you?’
‘It didn’t seem so quick to me. We had seventy per cent casualties among the crews who were on the squadron when I joined.’
‘Did you, by Christ! Have another drink.’
‘My round… my shout.’
‘O.K.’ Malahide’s smile was wider this time. ‘How many hours have you got, cobber? What’s your name? I’m Harry Malahide.’
‘Christopher Fenton. Seven hundred and a bit.’ ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Ten days.’
‘Got yourself an observer?’
‘Not yet. I’ve been learning to fly the Beau.’ ‘What’s the system here? Do the instructors pair us off, or do we have a choice?’
‘Both.’
Christopher introduced Malahide to other pupils and instructors in the bar and Malahide followed him into dinner. Afterwards he invited Christopher to continue drinking.
‘Only a couple of pints. I’m on early tomorrow.’ Chri
stopher found himself being asked a lot of questions about shipping strikes until finally Malahide said, with an air of magnanimity, ‘I’ll navigate for you, if you like.’
Christopher laughed. ‘I wasn’t much thinking of taking on a sprog. There are some second-tour observers around.’
Malahide’s face turned brick red. ‘Bugger you, then.’ He picked up his tankard and drained it, turned on his heel and was about to walk off.
Christopher grabbed his arm. ‘Hang on, Harry. Don’t blow your top. You sound to me like a type who deserves a decent pilot. I’ll take you on.’
‘Right.’ Malahide returned to the bar. ‘Two more pints, digger.’ He hammered his empty tankard on the bar. The bar steward looked perplexed at being called a digger.
Malahide regarded Christopher with a grin which, this time, was unrestrained.
‘So you’re a decent pilot are you? You’ve got a bloody nerve.’ He sucked at his fresh pint. ‘What happened to your crew? Are they on a second tour? Or haven’t you kept in touch?’
Christopher felt as though he had run blindly round a corner and fallen down a pit. It still made him want to vomit from nervous reaction every time the thought of Ronnie Brinsden, Tom Doyle and Fred Curran emerged from the dark corner of his mind into which he had thrust them. He did not answer at once and when he did his voice was gruff.
‘I’ve never gone in for spiritualism. It would need a medium to put us in touch.’
‘Yeah? What happened?’
‘I had to make a belly landing… got banged about a bit and grounded for a week or two. The C.O’s crew were on leave, so he took mine. Jerry got’em.’
‘That was crook. Bloody hard kack.’
The expression on Christopher’s face gave back no change from this expression of sympathy and after another long stare Malahide turned to his beer.
Christopher went to bed telling himself that trouble lay ahead. Neither of them had asked the other his age but it was obvious that his new observer was five or six years the older. Apparently he resented being under the authority of a much younger man and had an inferiority complex about his failure to qualify as a pilot. There was also the habit of goading the British which seemed to be innate in Australians. Christopher had known quite a few since joining the R.A.F.
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