“So how d’you like the Blenheim?’”
“Wizard. Handles like a dream. There’s something highly reassuring about having two engines...”
Christopher grimaced. “Shut the hangar doors, you two.” He had learned the expression from his brother and he grinned now at the mildly startled and faintly indignant expression on both their faces. “We’re sailing today, not flying.”
“All right. But just one question, James: what’s the real gen? Is there going to be a war?”
“Unfortunately Adolf is the only one who can answer that. Anyone on the squadron would lay odds on it. But not yet: not until next spring.”
Christopher made for the door. Patience was not conspicuous in his temperament.
“We’re meeting the girls in ten minutes.”
“‘Jester”, the twenty-five-footer, was at their disposal for the day. Mr. and Mrs. Fenton would spend the time in their garden, which overlooked the water, and if they felt like a sail they would take the dinghy out. These next nine days belonged to the boys: and their many friends. There would be other days when the whole family went sailing together. They both knew that the shadows were lengthening as the sun set on twenty-one years of increasingly uneasy peace. Let the boys enjoy the company of their girls while they could. It was a tacit concern that their sons should make the most of what summer days remained, rather than an explicit one. Stephen and Sheila Fenton had vivid memories of the Great War and the suddenness with which their own generation had had to make the harsh transition from a carefree life to one of constant danger or anxiety. They stood at their gate, waving to their two sons and their nephew as they hurried off to the hard, carrying a picnic basket, to wait for three of their girl friends and ferry them in the yacht’s little tender out to where “Jester” lay at her moorings on the sparkling water.
The boys turned and waved. Stephen and Sheila exchanged a smile before going back into the house. You learned a lot more about yourself and other people in a few months of war than you did in many years of peacetime. They had married in the last year of the Great War, after a two-year courtship. It was only because he had been wounded and told he must stay at home and instruct, never to return to the Front, that Stephen had made a definite proposal. They had never talked about the reason why he had not asked her to set a date during all that preliminary time or why he had asked her when he knew his life was not going to be in danger again: except for some unlikely accident. It was implicit, the same as their shared solicitude for their sons now.
War was a breeder of infamies, Stephen Fenton was telling himself, but although you could never purge it of its grosser elements, it had a kind of nobility. Most human behaviour in normal times seemed to be influenced by money: not necessarily from avarice or rascality, but simply from the struggle for economic survival and to improve one’s own condition and one’s dependents’. In wartime, rogues and fools did not suddenly become virtuous and wise, but — unless they happened to be generals, admirals or air marshals — they were less obtrusive because they had become irrelevant and were overshadowed by the majesty of events.
He had no doubt that the country would be at war within the next twelve months. All he could hope was that his sons would be spared its worst miseries and squalours, have the happiest possible memories of their lives before the war on which to draw, and emerge from it with an awareness that hidden among all the wretchedness was an incomparable human grandeur, if you could find it, not only in others but latent in yourself.
These were not, he reflected, appropriate thoughts for a brilliant summer Saturday morning and he put them aside. But nevertheless he acknowledged a sense of inevitable calamity.
*
Through the succession of sunlit days James drifted happily amid a pattern of pleasures, all of them enhanced by laughing girls. There were mornings and afternoons spent swimming, sailing or playing tennis. Evenings dancing in his own home or one of his friends’, or on the tennis club’s rough boards, to the band music of Roy Fox, Lew Stone, Ambrose, Harry Roy or the piano of Billy Mayerl; of sitting outside a country pub, doing a little drinking, a lot of laughing and as much fondling and kissing afterwards in his parked car as his companion of the moment would permit; or, under the stars, sitting round a driftwood fire on the beach, grilling mackerel and sipping bottled beer, with his arm about the pliant waist of Barbara or Betty, Joyce or Peggy, Margaret or Jennifer.
Thursday 31st August promised to be a day of exceptional heat even for that long, torrid spell. Standing at the open window of his bedroom in his pyjamas, drinking the cup of tea the maid had brought him at eight o’clock, James thought about the hours ahead. Someone had a visiting cousin, an eighteen-year-old blonde called — like at least three others among his friends — Barbara, who had professed a fervent interest in learning to sail. He was taking her out in the National Fourteen that morning. But Christopher had an eager pupil too, seventeen, dark-eyed and raven-haired, and he had promised to hand the dinghy over to Christopher at eleven. Then they were going to picnic on the sands, which would give his mother a chance to make ready for the buffet supper party at home that evening for about twenty of his and Christopher’s friends. In the afternoon the tide would be out. Barbara — the same one — hit a tennis ball with commendable force and accuracy. He and she were going to take on Christopher and his brunette; or someone else if by the time the afternoon came Christopher had fallen under some other enchantment. It would be a good day.
The morning did not disappoint him. Barbara was a quick learner and crewed with agility. They ghosted a mile offshore and picked up a fresh breeze. Close-hauled, the Fourteen heeled sharply and they sat together on the weather gunwale leaning far out to balance her, the boat planing through the water with a hiss, a great plume of foam flying back from her bows, a bubbling trail astern, the wind and spray making the blood run fast, the tiller trembling in his hand. The kiss with which Barbara thanked him was as salty as it was sweet and made his pulse race even more than the wild exhilaration of that long reach into the breeze. There were more, less salty, in prospect later in the garden with the darkness to separate them from the other couples who would be drifting out of the house.
He and Christopher were walking home from the beach with Roger to change for tennis when they saw their mother come out of the gate and turn quickly in their direction.
“Mummy’s in a hurry,” Christopher said.
James had seen the yellow envelope in her hand and began to walk faster. The other two, catching his sudden urgency, kept pace.
Sheila proffered the telegram. “This has just come for you.”
Her look held James’s for a moment before he glanced away, ripping open the envelope. When he spoke he still did not look up at her: he did not want to see again the expression in her eyes.
“I’ve got to report back at once.” He slipped his hand under his mother’s arm. “It’s probably a false alarm. There was nothing on the wireless news, was there, Mummy?”
“No, dear.” Her voice was almost under control, but she could not suppress the tremor he felt as he held her arm. “I telephoned Dad: I guessed what was in the telegram. He wants me to call him again if it was a recall, so that he can come straight home. You can wait a few minutes, can’t you?”
He pressed her arm and smiled. “I’m a slow packer, you know that.”
Roger’s face was flushed and there was an edge to his voice which none of them had heard before.
“Does this mean the balloon’s gone up? I’d better ring H.Q.”
“Just a precaution, I should think. It might even be only a mobilisation exercise.” James hoped he was convincing his mother; he was not convincing himself, or, by his expression, Christopher.
“I’d better go and get in touch with the V.R. Or there may be a message or a telegram for me at home.” Roger lived only fifty yards up the road. “Good luck, anyway, James. I’ll see you later, Auntie. Cheerio Christopher: I’ll let you know if I get any news.”
/> They watched him hasten away. James said “I’ve never seen Roger so worked up: not even about that redhead last summer!”
Sheila smiled faintly. “Poor old Roger joined the bank from prudence rather than choice. He’d love to be called up full-time, I’m sure. I hate to spoil his fun, but I hope he’s going to be disappointed.”
She and her sister, Roger’s mother, had been over this ground many times. She sometimes found herself wishing that James had stuck to accountancy. But, of course, that was no safeguard: if war came, he was of military age anyway. All parents had the same dilemma, just as had had those of her own parents’ generation. The country went to war and they wished their sons would not go, yet would feel ashamed if they did not.
Christopher went up with James to his room and stood about disconsolately but with an underlying excitement which James recognised by his restlessness and quickened speech. His younger brother had never been able to hide these symptoms, James reflected with affection. He paused for a moment in his packing and looked directly at him.
“You won’t do anything damn silly, now, will you?”
“Depends what you mean by...”
“Impetuous. No rushing off to the nearest recruiting office. Wait and see what happens.”
“Oriel will keep my place for me, they won’t take my scholarship away if I join up.”
“They will if no war has been declared.”
“Oh, I’ll wait for that. I can wait twenty-four hours! “
“Don’t be an ass. If there’s going to be a war, it’ll probably take days before anything definite happens.”
“Days, even. I don’t mind waiting. Term doesn’t start till October.”
“Well, don’t rush it.”
While he waited for his father to come home, James telephoned his squadron adjutant to confirm that he had received the telegram and would report for duty within a couple of hours.
Christopher waited at his elbow.
“Did he say anything?”
“No. Except that there was no need to telephone! Sounded browned off. Must be busy.”
They heard their father’s car drive up and their mother came into the hall from the drawing-room to accompany them out. James put an arm about her shoulders.
“Sorry to miss the party tonight, after all your trouble.”
“We’ll have a bigger and better one as soon as you come home again, darling. This will probably blow over and you’ll still have three days’ leave left.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “That’s right.”
He met his father on the steps.
“What did the telegram say?”
“Nothing much.” James showed it to him.
“Oh, well, maybe it’s just precautionary.”
“I expect so. If it is, I’ll be back to finish the rest of my leave. Thanks, Dad, for coming back to say goodbye.”
James shook hands with his father, kissed his mother and patted his brother on the shoulder.
“Don’t forget what I told you. And enjoy the party tonight.”
“We ought to cancel it.”
“I don’t think much of that for an idea.” James turned to his parents. “You won’t, will you?”
His mother shook her head. She did not trust her voice. Tears were prickling her eyes.
They all had the same thought. Christopher might as well enjoy the party as best he could: it would be his turn soon to go off to the war.
TWO
The first change at Stanswick that James noticed as he drove along the western boundary of the airfield was that all the aircraft had been removed from the vicinity of the hangars and were now parked around the perimeter.
The aerodrome was rectangular. The officers’ mess faced it on the west. The hangars were on its north side. During the past few months pens had been built along the western, southern and eastern sides to protect the aeroplanes from bomb blast and to disperse them so that they would be less vulnerable to bombing than if they remained in or near the hangars. His father had told him that aircraft had been dispersed for the same reason in France during the last war. But there had been no dispersal bays built for them. They were hidden under trees wherever possible or covered with camouflage netting. Modern bays or pens were built of brick to a height sufficient to overtop a fighter, and earth was banked around these walls. The banks were already lush with grass, the bricks held their pristine redness, the concrete floors were as yet unstained by oil.
The silver Hurricanes and Spitfires stood each in the mouth of its bay, ready to be pushed into shelter. Airmen worked around them with pots of green and brown paint, putting on an irregular camouflage pattern. The undersides of the wings were painted black on one side and white on the other: to facilitate recognition of friend from foe, James was told. The sight of this transformation brought home to James that there was no going back from the brink of war. It seemed an offence, a spoiling of the aircraft’s inherent beauty, and angered him more than any of the Nazis’ acts of aggression. It struck directly at a way of life which he cherished and at the aeroplanes in which he took great pride.
It was teatime in the mess. He drove straight there to change into uniform and was surprised to find that everyone seemed to be present and the atmosphere was no different from usual. Ross was one of the first people he saw, and he went to join him.
“What’s going on, Tiny?”
“Have a good leave?”
“Yes, thanks. What’s the gen?”
“Nothing much. We’re all on readiness tomorrow at first light.”
“Are we going to declare war overnight, then?”
“Shouldn’t think so. It’s up to the Germans. If they invade Poland, we’re bound to declare war: and the French.”
Everyone knew that; both countries had guaranteed it to Poland.
“Has anyone said anything? I mean, has the Station Commander spoken on the Tannoy or paraded everyone?”
“Not a word. We’re going back on duty after tea. There’s a lot to do.”
“Hang on while I change.”
“All right. I’ll drive you over.”
On the way to the squadron crew room in Ross’s seven-year-old Alvis Speed Twenty, James plied him with questions; but Ross’s answers were vague.
“I’ve been giving a hand with camouflaging the aircraft, and I’ve helped to sort out some maps, and we’ve all been doing odd jobs in the crew hut out at our dispersal point.”
It seemed a boring, tame way to prepare for action: no practice battle climb, air gunnery or formation attacks. Hardly worth curtailing his leave for, James thought.
He had seen the squadron adjutant in the mess at tea but not spoken to him. When he went into his office to report, the adjutant offered nothing dramatic either.
“Sorry to spoil your leave, James. Both flight commanders are with the C.O. I should go and see what’s happening at dispersals, if I were you.”
There was nothing much doing there except the usual leg-pulling and some pointed questions about his leave. At six everyone stood down and, after changing into a civilian suit, James joined his friends in the ante-room over a beer and further speculation about what Hitler and the British Government would do next.
They went to bed early and at about four in the morning were called to go to dispersals on readiness. They dozed in armchairs in the crew room but woke up sharply when the B.B.C. announced that Hitler had invaded Poland. Presently the two flights went to breakfast in turns. The squadron spent the rest of the day on readiness until five, when, apparently, someone with a crystal ball at Air Ministry decided that there would be no declaration of war that day. Nor, apparently, was it considered necessary to repeat the readiness at first light on the morrow. Someone said the bomber squadrons were standing by to take off and attack Germany at any hour of the day or night, which amused the fighter pilots and gave them an added incentive for a party. Their long, frustrating day had already provided one.
James went to bed after midnight an
d somewhat unsteadily. His batman woke him with tea at the usual time. He had a headache. Saturday 2nd September did not drag as badly as the previous day. Both squadrons flew in the intervals of waiting for the B.B.C. to announce war. Britain and France had demanded Germany’s immediate withdrawal from Poland: where the Luftwaffe had, reportedly, shot down most of the Polish Air Force.
Everyone stayed up to listen to the late news: most of them with a frequently replenished tankard of beer to hand. They were all asleep well before midnight.
On Sunday 3rd September the whole station was confined to camp but off duty. The news came that at 11.15 the Prime Minister would address the nation on the wireless.
Long before that time, the officers, the married ones who lived in quarters or off camp as well as the bachelors, assembled in the mess ante-room. There was hardly any conversation. They read the newspapers and waited. Neville Chamberlain’s mournful voice informed the country that a state of war existed between Britain and Germany.
The two squadrons at Stanswick came to readiness. The pilots sat in the sun outside their crew rooms and speculated about what would happen next. Some of them had dogs, for which they occasionally threw a ball or a stick to fetch. Each crew room had a wireless set. Alongside was another Nissen hut for the ground crews and use as a workshop, which also had a wireless. In the crew room there was a telephone on a line directly from the Operations Room. The pilots eyed it from time to time, expecting it to ring and order them into the air. One at a time the squadrons went to lunch. The hours dragged. The B.B.C. programmes on Sundays were not enlivening. There was a rumour that the air raid warning sirens in London had sounded but that the All Clear had been given soon after. It was said that it had been a false alarm, a matter of mistaken identity.
At dusk the squadrons were stood down. From time to time one of the living-in flight commanders would telephone the Operations Room to ask if anything was happening. Word came that No. 1 Squadron at Tangmere, on the Sussex coast, had scrambled a section to intercept a German raid; another false alarm. The same squadron scrambled a second section, but still there was no sign of the enemy.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 2