When Skies Have Fallen
Page 17
Chapter Twelve: March, 1945, RAF Minton
At midday, Arty and his men headed out in the chilly mist and drizzle to retrieve the wreckage of the Lancaster, which had, fortuitously for Socks and Soot but not so much for the farmer, landed a good two hundred yards away from the hangars, in the middle of the wheat field. The two young cats were nowhere to be found, although it was their napping time of day and they were likely taking shelter. For the time being, Arty chose to assume this was the case and returned to the base with his fellow airmen, his plan being to visit again when he went off-duty that evening.
The atmosphere at Minton was very subdued—no doubt the same was true across the country—and it made for an arduous day, with no let-up from the foreboding grey sky. The men worked on in cold, damp silence, physically and emotionally drained by long hours of hard graft, and by a war that looked set to never end. Come on, lads. Final push! The words of Jean’s lost flight lieutenant rang in Arty’s ears. In his exhaustion, his sorrow for Jean’s loss threatened to overwhelm him, and in some respects talking to Jim had made it worse. Much as it was a relief to hear his voice, Arty was now missing Jim more than ever, but he would get through this; they would get through this.
In spite of the rain and their damp spirits, by 1800 hours the base was ready for another night of emergency landings, and the group captain ordered recreation time for all except those on guard duty. Arty met up with Charlie and their friends for dinner, where they were joined by Jean and the other wages clerks. The conversation was light and flirtatious and not entirely a façade. Arty listened to Charlie complimenting Jean’s hair, which was, as always, shining like the shell of a chestnut. When she was on duty, her hair was pinned in a tight roll just above her collar, but she let it down when they were dancing, and it was that vision inspiring the sentiment presently gushing from Charlie. Like waves washing against golden sands, the delicate flutter of rose petals on the breeze… Arty had never heard the man wax so poetical, and he received a fair bit of ribbing for it from the other men in their company.
After they had eaten, Charlie and the others set off for the NAAFI bar, but Jean noticed Arty’s delay and hung back.
“Don’t you fancy a beer?” she asked.
“I’ll come for one later,” he said, stuffing leftover scraps of rabbit into his handkerchief. “You go on. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll take you out there in one of the wagons,” Jean offered.
“You’ll get yourself in bother.”
“And you’ll catch your death. Come on, let’s go and visit your boys.”
Arty knew better than to argue with Jean once her mind was made up and followed her out to the garage, where she walked straight past the three transport wagons, to the group captain’s Humber.
“Jean…” Arty beseeched, but she was already in the car. She started the engine and looked at Arty expectantly. With a reluctant sigh he climbed in beside her. “We’ll get court-martialled for this.”
“Only if they catch us,” Jean said with a grin as she steered around the wagons and took the car out into the open. A guard drew to a halt, saluted, and then peered through the windscreen, his jaw dropping when he saw Jean and Arty inside. Jean put her finger to her lips and winked at the man. He shook his head and laughed. Arty hid behind his hands.
“You’re a dreadful influence, Sergeant McDowell.”
“Life’s short, Arty, and it’s meant to be lived.”
How could he argue with that?
Jean drove out onto the disused service road, the Humber’s suspension taking quite a battering from the potholes and cracks in the ancient surface. Arty cringed each time a loose stone hit the car’s sleek, dark green bodywork. It was a beautiful vehicle, with a powerful six-cylinder engine, capable of speeds of up to eighty miles an hour. Thankfully, Jean was taking a much more sedentary thirty miles an hour, which was still a little too fast, given the poorness of the road, although they were at the hangars before Arty had time to voice his concerns. Jean slowed the car to a stop and left the engine running; the light was fading fast, and they couldn’t stay long.
As soon as Arty opened the car door, Socks and Soot came sauntering towards him, their hungry, gravelly mews bringing tears to his eyes. He was so glad to see them alive and well.
“Evening, chaps,” he said. They weaved around his ankles, purring and rubbing their faces on his trouser legs. Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, he divvied up the rabbit meat, half on each palm, and crouched down with hands cupped. The two cats guzzled the meat in seconds but stayed for Arty to fuss them. To his shame the tears pricked again and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Socks and Soot brushed their backs against his palms, and he quietly sobbed, feeling wretched and guilty for the indulgence. He didn’t hear Jean approach, but there she was, crouched beside him, an arm around his shoulders. She didn’t speak; she just stayed at his side, waiting for the tears to cease.
It was quite a fight, but Arty pulled himself together and slowly straightened his legs, wincing at the pain in his knee, still not fully recovered from the jarring it had received in London. Most of the time it gave him no trouble, but he’d been crouched in the fine rain long enough for his shirt to have stuck to his back and he was achy all over. He shivered.
“We should go,” Jean said. Arty nodded but delayed a moment longer just to watch the cats trot back to the shelter of the old, tattered hangar: their home.