Chapter Four: March, 1944
To the east of the base, about three-quarters of a mile along a disused service road, were three small hangars. Built in 1915, the buildings were too small and far away from the main base to be of any practical use. They were checked daily for any traces of occupation, but had otherwise been abandoned to the elements.
The Sunday afternoon of the weekend following the dance to welcome the USAAF, Arty, who was off-duty, borrowed a bicycle and rode out to the hangars. The reason he had prepared for the event of anyone asking, though no one did, was that he had noticed several species of butterfly he did not think he had seen before. Since childhood, butterflies had fascinated Arty and he was confident his knowledge was sufficient to waylay any suspicion that his interest in that particular area of the base was anything other than butterflying.
It was quite a windy afternoon, and changeable, with the windsocks billowing every which way. As the wind’s direction shifted, the creaking of the corrugated metal sheets constructing the three hangars momentarily became louder before fading into the distance once more. Indeed, the foreboding groans were no louder up-close than half a mile away. Arty dismounted and walked his bicycle in between two of the hangars, leaning it against the side of one and stopping still for a few minutes to slow his racing heart. He was in good shape, but the purpose of his mission both excited and frightened him.
When he eventually recovered his faculties, Arty explored each of the hangars in turn, discovering that not one of the three was completely empty: in the first were corroded parts of biplanes that had been out of service since the end of the Great War; the other two housed dribs and drabs of metal crates long since rusted shut. Hay, which had blown in through the gaps, coalesced into loose balls and tumbled around the debris, and it was cold now Arty was out of the weak spring sun. Thoughts of huddling close together against the chill made him shiver all the more. Yes, this place was perfectly suited to their requirements.
The wind was behind him all the way back to the base, where he returned the bicycle and went straight away to the wages office, to tell Jean of his find.
“Wonderful!” Jean hugged him so tightly that her bosoms were squashed flat to his chest. Behind her a couple of the WAAFs were whispering slyly.
“What are they talking about?” Arty asked.
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Jean said. She released him and straightened his shirt. “Last Saturday, after you left, I danced with Jim so I could gather information for you. They’ve been whispering ever since and no doubt think I’m a floozy.”
“Don’t ruin your reputation on my account, Jean.”
“Who cares what they think? What happens next with…” Jean mouthed, “Jim?”
“I need to get a message over. I’m not really sure how.”
Jean patted Arty’s arm. “Leave it to me,” she whispered and then continued to speak normally, “Thank you, Corporal. Please tell Captain Taylor we need…” She turned to the one of the other women. “Two more clerks, would you say, Betty?”
“For the USAAF wages?” Betty asked. Jean nodded. “Aye, Sarge. But one’d do.”
Jean turned back to Arty and winked. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at Jean’s cunning.
“I’ll go and see the captain right away, Sergeant McDowell.” Arty returned the wink before leaving straight for their group captain’s office to make ‘Jean’s’ request.
Captain Taylor was no one’s fool, but he’d arrived at Minton soon after a raid that had killed five servicemen, including his predecessor, and spirits had, understandably, been low. Thus Arty, like everybody else on the base, knew that all one needed to do to get the captain’s authorisation was to convince him that whatever was being asked for would improve morale. Even so, he only agreed to one additional wages clerk until the number of USAAF airmen at Gaskell had been officially confirmed. Arty duly returned to Jean and told her what Taylor had said.
“There’s a transport wagon in need of a good run out.” Jean was already at the door. “I’ll be back within the hour, Betty.”
“Right, Sarge.”
Arty trailed behind Jean, as always stunned by her gall. They entered the garage where three transport wagons were parked in a line, the one to the left brand new. From behind it stepped Charlie Tomkins, his mouth widening into a grin before he came to attention in front of the two NCOs.
“Sergeant McDowell, Corporal Clarke.”
“As you were, LAC Tomkins,” Jean said. “Arty’s offered to accompany me to Gaskell to organise the USAAF payroll. I thought perhaps I could kill three birds with one stone.”
“Three birds, Sarge?”
“Take your new wagon for a spin and collect some of the promised supplies.”
“Sounds good to me, Sarge. Do I need to clear it with the captain?”
“All taken care of.”
Arty’s eyes widened. Captain Taylor knew nothing of Jean’s plans.
“No problem, Sarge,” Charlie said.
Ten minutes later, they were out on the open lane, heading towards Gaskell with Jean behind the wheel of the enormous green transport wagon.
“Where did you learn to drive one of these?” Arty had to shout to be heard over the engine.
“Up in Lincoln. I drove the crews to their bombers.” She glanced Arty’s way, her smile softening with sadness. “I was the last gal a lot of those boys saw,” she added.
Arty stayed silent after that. Theirs was a training base, and only the technicians and engineers were permanently stationed there. Pilots and crewmen would complete their training and move on before they took part in any campaigns. Of course, they all knew what lay ahead, but it was less immediate than delivering half a dozen young men to what might be their final flight.
“Do you drive, Arty?” Jean asked.
“I’ve never tried. My sister said she’d show me how sometime.”
“Ah,” Jean said with a knowing smile.
“What?”
“Not once have you talked down to me, or tried to take over, and I’d decided it was because of…you know.”
In spite of the wind blowing in Arty’s face, he still felt his cheeks becoming warm. Jean glanced his way again and laughed.
“But now I see it’s just that you are well used to strong women. Tell me more about your sister.”
And so Arty told Jean all about Sissy, who was christened Mary, but had never been known as such. Sissy was smart and had she been born a boy, she would have studied at Oxford, but their father, who had studied there himself, refused to allow it. Instead, Sissy left the grammar school and went out to work, first as a maid to a wealthy London couple, who were friends with the Italian gentleman, Antonio Adessi: the supposed acquaintance of D H Lawrence. At a dinner hosted by Sissy’s employers, she impressed Adessi so much he offered her the position of housekeeper, and she accepted without hesitation. Now he had been sent back to Italy, Sissy was once more living at home and loathing every single second.
“She and your father don’t see eye to eye?” Jean asked.
Arty chortled. “To put it mildly.”
They had arrived at Gaskell and as soon as their details were checked they were ushered straight through the gate. Jean, who knew the base well, took a shortcut to the main barracks, which was hidden behind two enormous hangars, both wide open. At the far end of the runway a bomber landed and a group of men started walking to meet it. Everything seemed so laid back: men worked with pipes, cigars and cigarettes hanging from their mouths; some were even sprawled on the grass at the side of the runway. It was a world away from Minton, and Arty wasn’t sure he liked it.
Jean stopped the wagon and jumped down to the ground. Arty stepped a little more carefully. It was a very long way down, and he was feeling jittery. What a fool he would make of himself were he to accidentally miss his footing, and how glad he was that he’d been so cautious, for when he looked up, Jim was already on his way over, a big smile on his face.
“We’re here on WAAF business, Sergeant Johnson,” Jean explained. “I need to speak with your commanding officer.” She leaned closer. “And I’ve come for more of those stockings.”
The deep boom of Jim’s laughter sent a shiver through Arty that he wasn’t quick enough to disguise, and Jim’s eyes fleetingly met his.
Jean turned to Arty. “Perhaps, Corporal, you could give Sergeant Johnson a hand with loading the supplies onto the wagon?”
“Yes, Sarge,” he replied, not entirely sure his sweating hands would be of any use.
“Great,” Jim said. “Sergeant McDowell, I’ll take you up to Major Johnson—no relation—and then we’ll get those supplies together.”
Arty watched Jean and Jim march to the control tower and go inside. He leaned against the truck and closed his eyes, his ears tuning in to the sounds around him, American voices, so many different accents all mingling together until he could not discern a single word they were saying. These men, and they were all men, were so far away from home, their families, their loved ones. How hard that must be. Arty had always insisted he would never marry, though not for that reason. He much preferred the prospect of a life alone to one of lies. Not even Jean, for whom he cared a great deal and considered very beautiful, could tempt his passions in that direction, and she was the only one who had ever come close.
A life alone. Now he considered it properly, could he stand to follow that path? He felt so uncertain, afraid, and yet he could not walk away. He imagined what Sissy would say if she were here now, at his side, waiting on Jim’s return. She would be with Jean; take a chance, she’d say. Follow your heart.
“Corporal R. T. Clarke is a thinker and a dreamer.”
Arty opened his eyes, squinting against the sun. Jim stood in front of him, still smiling, always smiling, his blue eyes sparkling.
“And a man of his word,” Jim added.
Arty nodded and found he too was smiling.
“Come with me,” Jim said. “We’ll grab a few things and talk while we load them on the jeep.”
“Jeep?”
“It’s new, isn’t it?” Jim asked, setting off at a slow stroll, which Arty at first assumed was to give him a chance to catch up, but Jim seemed in no rush, and as they walked across to the hangar, Arty observed that they all moved at the same slow pace.
“What’s new?”
“The truck.”
“Ah! Yes. I believe it is. Is it always so…” Arty stopped short of suggesting the Americans were lackadaisical, but by British standards they were exactly that.
“We can jump to it when we have good cause. Ain’t you seen us dance?” Jim tormented, and Arty laughed. Yes, he had seen that this was true.
To the left of the hangar there was a large, single-storey building, to which Jim indicated. “It’s full of junk, so everything’s stashed in here for the time being.” Jim opened the small door in the back of the hangar and beckoned Arty to follow him inside, which he did. The through draught was tremendous and the door behind them slammed loudly, echoing for several seconds. Arty’s eyes had not yet become accustomed to the relative darkness of his immediate surroundings, although he could make out the silhouettes of two bombers against the light streaming in from the front of the hangar.
“This way,” Jim instructed. Arty turned and followed the sound of Jim’s footsteps, deadened by what Arty could now see were boxes and crates, the stacks getting taller the further they were from the door, creating a corridor, with the wall on one side and the stacks on the other. In places the passageway was so narrow Arty had to turn sideways, all the while aware of his heart thudding harder and faster as he registered the partial privacy afforded by their location. But he was a coward with no assurance Jim’s intentions were anything more than loading him up with American swag to take back to Minton. Surely if the man failed to make his move now, Arty would have his answer. On the other hand, he might be feeling just as Arty did, and for fear they would miss what might be their only chance.
Jim was almost at the end of the narrow clearing when he drew to a halt, turned back, and, without word or warning, grabbed Arty by the shoulders and kissed him firmly on the lips. It happened so quickly that were it not for Jim’s continuing hold on him he may well have decided it was nothing more than wishful thinking. In the moments that followed, neither man moved, but then Jim pulled his hands away and coughed nervously.
“I…er…I guess I—”
“Don’t be sorry,” Arty whispered.
“Oh, thank God. For a second I thought I got you all wrong.” Jim advanced again, and this time their mouths connected in a kiss that was like the hunger of the starved, craving the feast they had been denied for so long. At first, their lips stayed tightly closed, as each fought to control their urges, until Arty could stand it no more. With his palms on Jim’s cheeks, his instincts took over, his lips relaxing, softening as both men opened their mouths, each stealing the other’s gasped breath, while their bodies hardened. It was what Arty had been waiting his whole life for. This one kiss.
Jim’s tongue poked playfully at Arty’s, which surprised him at first; he had never kissed anyone before, save his sister, aunt and mother. Jim did it again, and Arty poked back. They laughed in silence, nervous, delighted, needing more, and when Jim’s tongue entered Arty’s mouth a third time, Arty married their lips so that Jim could not so easily escape; nor did he try to.
Beyond the barricade of boxes, tools clanged and men called out to each other, a distant reality blurred by this stolen moment that could have lasted forever and still have been too short. There would be many more to come, unless they were caught in the act now. With a great deal of reluctance, Arty and Jim slowed their kiss and finally withdrew, both too frustrated to feel bashful.
“Take these,” Jim said, passing across a box of stockings. “I’ll bring the cigarettes out in a second.”
Arty nodded and squeezed his way back to the door, the effort of holding the box of stockings above his head enough to temporarily take his mind away from the pulsing ache between his legs. Out in the open once more, and blinded by the brightness, he loaded the stockings onto the back of the wagon, remaining where he was while Jim passed him the boxes of cigarettes.
“We’ll get the candy next,” Jim said.
“Sweets?” Arty asked.
“Yup. And chocolate. This hasn’t been cleared, by the way, but it won’t be a problem. You comin’?”
“Yes.” Arty jumped down from the wagon and followed Jim back to the hangar, beyond disappointed to discover they no longer had the secluded space to themselves.
“Aw, shoot,” Jim said as he led the way through that same narrow passage. He put his hand behind his back and his fingers made contact with Arty’s thigh. The tingle zapped straight to his privates, and he coughed to cover his reaction. He heard Jim give a low chuckle.
Loaded up with boxes of sweets and chocolate, they carried them out and then sat together on the back of the wagon, legs dangling. Jim lit a cigarette and passed it to Arty, who rarely smoked, but liked the idea of sharing a smoke with Jim. He liked the idea of sharing everything with Jim.
“How long are you here for?” Arty asked. “Do you know?”
“It’s classified, but I can tell you that it’s for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s tough on the people back home.”
“Yeah. How about your folks? Do they live close by?”
“Not far. About fifty miles from here. I get home more often than most.”
Jim sighed deeply, and Arty noticed his gaze become distant, thinking of the people that mattered to him. It occurred to Arty that Jim might have a girlfriend or wife, and though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer, he had to know.
“Is there anyone special, back home?”
Jim continued to stare into the distance, but he was smiling no
w. “No. Only Mom and Pop. My little brother, Joshua, is stationed in England too.” Jim turned both the smile and the question on Arty. He shook his head.
“Dad, Mum, and Sissy, my older sister. My uncle also lives with us, but he’s fighting in France.”
“Jeez.” Jim said no more on it, instead giving Arty’s arm a friendly squeeze. Arty nodded sorrowfully: yes. It was hard on all of them with family at the front line, and they’d had no word from Uncle Bill in months, but better that than a telegram from his CO.
They finished the cigarette, and there was still no sign of Jean.
“I ought to get back,” Jim said with notable reluctance.
Arty didn’t want Jim to leave yet either. He was sorely tempted to suggest they try sneaking another kiss, but it could wait until they met at the old hangars. Checking no one was close enough to hear, he quickly muttered, “I’ve found us somewhere. Three disused hangars, three-quarters of a mile due east of Minton.”
“When?”
“Tuesday afternoon or Friday morning.”
“Tuesday.” Jim considered. “I can do Tuesday.”
“It’s a date then.”
“You betcha.”
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When Skies Have Fallen Page 7