“Sorry to butt in when you’re busy, Jonah; but you’re being too colloquial for the boys. And making it tough for us: now we’ll have to spend ages explaining to them about ‘sculling around’; and we’ll get all tangled up in confusion about rowing...”
Squadron Leader Jones cut him off.
“Sorry James, got to stop you. Bawdsey have been off the air for maintenance. They’ve just come on again and there’s a plot.” He was referring to a major radiolocation (radar) station on the east coast.
“Bovril Two-one, we may have some trade for you.” The listening pilots were galvanised into rapt attention.
James looked sceptical, however. “I’ll bet it’s Christopher’s Beaufort, wrongly plotted.”
“Bovril Two-one from Stingray. Starboard zero-two-zero. Bogey approaching fifteen miles east of you at twenty thousand. Make your angels twenty-three. Over.”
“Stinkray, we turn zero-two-zero, go angels twenty-three.”
“Bogey estimated five aircraft.”
“We look five bogey. Bardzo dobrze... very good.”
“Bovril Two-one. Keep lookout for one Beaufort coming south, north-west of you, about twenty thousand.”
“Tak... yes, we know... is flight commander brother... we don’t see yet.”
James hoped that Christopher was steering a good course. If he was anywhere near the bogeys, which meant unidentified aircraft, and they turned into hostiles, he stood a good chance of being shot down. When Big and Tad got worked up, they’d shoot at anything that looked approximately like a legitimate target.
“Two-one from Stingray. Bogey now definitely hostile. Estimated strength, three, not five.”
There was no acknowledgement and the Polish this time sounded excited.
“Stinkray, we are seeing Beaufort...” More brisk and incomprehensible R/T. “Stinkray, three hostile. Tallyho!”
Now they’d have to wait: controllers did not speak again until they were spoken to, after a tallyho. There were the usual curt messages as the pilots positioned themselves, chose their targets.
Christopher’s getting a ringside view, thought James; wishing he had taken the weather recce himself.
“Stinkray, here Bovril Two-one. Two Heinkel burning... Two-two bale out... please fix... I go shoot down one more Heinkel... Beaufort is shoot at him. Tallyho.”
Everyone’s head turned to look at James. He thought he knew, at that moment, how Lot’s wife must have felt. He could not move. His neck and limbs felt rigid. What the hell was Christopher playing at? Why didn’t he nip into cloud and let Big get on with it?
He knew the answer. First, it would never occur to him to duck out of a fight even if it was strictly no business of his. Second, he had almost certainly assumed that his brother was flying one of those Spits; had come up to bounce him. That would be enough to keep him out of cloud on its own. And stimulate him into the bravado of taking on the better-armed Heinkel. ‘Specially if he thought it had shot me down, James reflected. Damn and blast. He’s got enough brains to have won an open scholarship to Oxford, but not enough common sense to keep a cool head. I hope his C.O. gives him an imperial rocket when he explains why he’s fired his guns.
It seemed to be taking longer to dispose of the last Heinkel than of the first two. James became conscious that his foot was tapping the floor. He stopped. The others were watching, noting, evaluating. He forced himself to show no anxiety.
“Hello Stinkray... Heinkel burning... crew bale out... I am sorry they not burn too... Beaufort O.K. I come back... I pancake.”
Addison caught James’s eye. “Sounds like a good show.”
Ross stood up and stretched. “Let’s watch them in.”
He knew James would not make the first move. Although Big was one of his pilots, it could look as though he were going outside to worry about Christopher coming safely out of cloud in the right place.
The room emptied. As the last pilot reached the door the Ops telephone rang. He turned back to answer it, then ran after the others.
“Sir! That was Ops. A searchlight battery picked Tad up. He’s O.K. They reckon he’ll be back here in half an hour.”
Addison looked wry. “Thank you. I bet they mistook him for a Jerry. He’ll be furious. Especially if they potted at him.”
They heard the Spitfire before they saw it break cloud. The wind whined in its gun ports, from which the canvas covers had been blown away, the Merlin engine burbled smoothly as Big throttled back and came taxiing towards them. He stopped near his bay and they gathered around him. He called down.
“James, your brother should fly Spitfire... he warjacki...” Big touched his head and made a circular motion with his forefinger. “Is shooting at Heinkel when I am too much far for shoot. I think I share that one with him. You have news about Tad?”
“He’s all right. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
Big climbed down from his cockpit. “Your brother is here in one minute, I think.”
Ross put a hand to his ear and looked eastward. “Here he comes.”
The Beaufort crossed the perimeter, turned steeply on a wingtip, flew straight at the hangars, several feet lower than their roofs; zoomed over them, climbed until it was almost into cloud, stall turned, levelled off to make a run the length of the field with its belly almost brushing the snow and sending it pluming back in a long wake as its slipstream swept two flurries of whirling flakes behind it. It swept around the circuit and came in from the west to land with hardly a judder.
“God! What a line!” James exclaimed. A moment ago he could not have spoken at all. His throat had felt as though he were being garrotted when he saw that stall turn at so low an altitude.
When he greeted Christopher, he said “I can see a method in your madness. Being shot up must seem like kid’s stuff to your crew after what you do to them.”
“Brutality is the chief of my abundant charms. Ask any woman who’s known me.”
It was not easy to deflate Christopher or have the last word with him.
James usually did his best to, but on this occasion he cannily decided that he would bide his time. Christopher was exuberant and obviously delighted to be here. As his big brother he recognised that he had many duties and responsibilities to him still; not least of which was to foster his present joy: he knew only too well how short-lived it could be.
*
The bar was a wartime innovation in officers’ messes.
James was not sure that he approved of it. It used to be pleasant in the old days to sit comfortably in a green leather armchair in the ante-room, press a bell button and tell a white-coated civilian steward to bring one’s round of drinks. There was an unofficerlike quality about standing in a press of usually noisy people and having to thrust one’s way to a counter to be served. One might as well be in a pub; and the essential characteristic of a mess was that it was an officer’s home.
Am I becoming pompous and stuffy? James wondered. He looked around the packed little room and decided that he was not. He was just fastidious. Half these chaps would never have seen the inside of an officers’ mess but for the war. Not only would they not have been accepted for commissioning, but also no mess member would have committed the solecism of inviting them as guests. Probably it was as well that they didn’t have to drink only in the ante-room, which was still a haven of quietness. He would have a quiet chat with Christopher after lunch. Meanwhile, there were several of his comrades who wanted to talk to his brother about Coastal Command’s shipping strikes and there was a lot Christopher wanted to know about their Spitfires.
It was traditional in the Air Force to deride other people’s aircraft and to declare the superiority of one’s own. To boast in any way was abhorrent and there were many established ways of dealing with anyone who did. De-bagging was one; and applying black boot polish to his private parts was an added retribution in the worst cases. Rolling anyone who offended in a carpet with his arms at his sides was another: the victim then had a lot of squir
ming and rolling to do in order to extricate himself. But to tell a bomber pilot that he was a mere bus-driver and a fighter pilot that he was obviously incapable of handling more than one engine were the accepted form. Spitfire and Hurricane pilots could taunt each other: not in personal terms but by disparaging one another’s aeroplanes. Whitley and Hampden pilots could legitimately do the same.
Christopher was well able to hold his own in leg-pulling of this sort. And the Beaufort was something of a mystery to most people. It had come into squadron service only in November 1939 and there were no more than six squadrons flying them.
This lunch-time everyone’s interest on all three of the Nesborough squadrons was focused on Tad, Big, Christopher and Brinsden. Tad had his left arm in a sling: he had injured the wrist and shoulder when he landed.
“Comes this man with gun and says ‘You fookink Hun I blow your head off.’ I say ‘I am R.A.F. officer.’ He tell me ‘You are fookink foreigner, I shoot you.’ I say ‘You let me open Irvine jacket you see R.A.F. wings.’ Then he says more bad words I never hear before and ‘You fookink Huns is sending parachute soldiers here dressed like nuns, so you fly in R.A.F. uniforms too. I kill you.’ Then comes soldiers and one sergeant say ‘You are fookink daft’ to angry farmer. I am more fright for this farmer than I am ever fright for Messerschmitt.”
Big reached up and patted Christopher on the shoulder. “Before you leave, we paint half one swastika on your aeroplane.”
“We don’t shoot that sort of line in Coastal.” Christopher grinned broadly. His own brother’s Spitfire had sixteen swastikas adorning its fuselage. There were twelve on Tiny Ross’s and the same number on Walter Addison’s. Big had ten and Tad seven.
Wing commander Wilson, whose aircraft sported eleven swastikas, said “You led with your chin, Big.”
“What is meanink, sir?”
“Forget it. James will explain later.”
“When I’ve got an hour to spare,” James said. “What I don’t understand is how those Heinkel air gunners failed to shoot down a lumbering great flying brick like a Beaufort. They must have been blind.”
Big, who had not fully grasped the rules of the internecine game, looked approvingly at Christopher, then turned to James.
“Your brother evasive very good, his front gunner shoot very good. Christopher make...” He demonstrated evasive action with the hand which was not holding a half-pint beer mug.
Christopher assumed a modest demeanour. “Nothing to it, old boy, when one has to do it every day: usually with at least four One-o-nines or One-one-os attacking at the same time.”
Tug Wilson took his pipe from his mouth. “I hesitate to de-bag a guest, Christopher: but one more crack like that and I can’t guarantee your immunity.”
Christopher’s grin returned. “Sorry, sir. I forgot how sensitive you fighter types are. Now, if you had the range to escort us... or, I should say, for us to escort you...” There was loud protest. “you could see for yourselves.”
The wing commander looked at Brinsden. “What were you doing while all this was going on? Spotting?”
“I stayed at my navigation table, sir. One can’t keep hopping up and down merely because the aircraft’s under attack. As Christopher said, sir, doing without fighter escort, we’re used to it.”
Ronnie Brinsden’s pink-cheeked blue-eyed youthfulness gave him an air of innocence. His words provoked as big an uproar as his pilot’s had.
Tug Wilson pretended to be astounded. “Good God! You two ought to go on the music halls. You’d both better have another drink: while you have the chance.”
James had been disturbed by his first sight of Christopher after three months. His face was thinner and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He had always been boisterous but in his manner was a febrile ebullience which he had never evinced before. Remembering his own tension a few months ago from the cumulative effects of unremitting action against odds of never less than three to one, James looked at Christopher’s hands. Both were clasped about his tankard and he wondered whether Christopher were holding it in this way and so tightly to keep them steady.
After lunch the ante-room was crowded. James took Christopher up to his room, told him to take the one easy chair and himself half-lay on the bed.
Christopher looked around. “I haven’t had a room to myself since the day I joined. I share with Ronnie. He’s a damn good type, but it does help to have a place where one can be on one’s own.” As though he had noticed that James was about to ask questions, he went on quickly. “That’s very good.” He indicated a framed photograph of Nicole. “Who’d have thought she’d turn out to be such a poppet? How is she? Have you seen her lately?”
“Not for a month. She’s fine. I’m going to London on Thursday.”
“Give her my love. Are you busy these days?”
“These days! We’re doing a hell of a lot of night flying. Complete waste of time. Everyone’s brassed off. Patrols along the east coast. It’s hopeless trying to intercept at night with Spitfires. Or Hurricanes. We haven’t a good enough field of view. And landing’s dicey: not quite so bad for the Hurricanes, but with the narrow undercart on the Spit we’ve had several prangs. It wouldn’t be so bad if we had concrete runways, but on grass and by the light of only a single string of lights on a mobile flarepath, it’s asking for trouble.”
“What else can we do? I hear they’ve put the Defiants onto night fighting, and what about the Fighter Interception Unit Blenheims: haven’t they got some new radiolocation equipment which is supposed to pick up Jerry bombers in the dark?”
“That’s A.I.; airborne interception. Yes, the Blenheims have had it for some time. Have you seen a Beaufighter?”
“I had to fly down to the factory at Bristol once: I saw them there. They’re going to be pretty good at night, aren’t they?”
“When enough squadrons have got them. They’ve got A.I. as well. The sooner we can get back to our proper job the better. Preferably on the south coast. We can’t do much here, so far from France. Meanwhile the squadrons here take it in turn a week at a time to flog around at night and we never see a thing.”
“Heard from Roger lately?”
“He rang up the other day and had a word.” James could not refrain from an ironical smile. “He’s still keen on Daphne and she still seems to be leading him by the nose.”
“Isn’t he getting any there yet?”
“I’m damn sure he’s not. He’s going to have to walk her down the aisle before she lets him. Nicole thinks so, too.”
“How are you two getting on?”
“I’m very fond of her. How are you doing these days?”
“There’s plenty of it around. Half the girls seem to want to give it away now there’s a war on. Or have you been too preoccupied to notice?”
“Don’t be bloody cheeky. And don’t keep steering me away from the main issue the whole time. You’re looking pretty God-awful. What’s really going on? Is it rough?”
Christopher looked him in the eye, then looked away and took a deep breath. “It’s ruddy marvellous... and bloody awful. When you put a torp into a big, fat Jerry ship, there’s nothing to beat it... not even going with a girl. It’s wizard, James: a damn great whoosh of flames and a hell of a bang and the bastard goes down... leaving any Huns who’ve survived swimming around in the drink... and it’s damn cold... and oily. But the rest of it...” Involuntarily, Christopher shuddered. “Those flak ships... and the flak on every ship, if we do a strike on a convoy... and the E boats... and if the weather’s not absolutely clampers, there’s always a swarm of one-o-nines... out at sea we get one-one-os... and the J.U. eight-eights come right across to this side, chasing us.” There was sweat on his forehead and his eyes had a sad, feverish light.
“Poor old boy. I think Roger went through the same sort of thing in the early days.”
“Well, it was no picnic for you last year, either.”
They were both in the same position of being insecurely po
ised between life and death and there was no consolation or reassurance that either could offer to the other.
James said “We must get some leave at the same time: it’s tough on Mummy and Dad that we haven’t been home together since Christmas ‘thirty-nine. We’ll arrange it so that Roger can wangle his leave at the same time.”
Christopher smiled in a way that suggested a bantering affection. “Old Roger! Who would have expected him to turn out to be such a desperate character? I’d have thought he’d make an ideal instructor. I still can’t picture him dicing around through flak and fighters in his Blenheim. Still, I suppose he’s such a stolid type he hardly notices them. Too unimaginative.”
“He’s certainly unimaginative about Daphne.”
It was a relief for them both to have something to laugh about.
*
Low cloud favoured daylight bombing raids. Since last autumn the Blenheims had been going out less frequently than during the first twelve months of the war. Their losses and those of the Wellington squadrons on daylight operations had forced Bomber Command to resort mostly to night attacks. Navigation by night over many hundreds of miles was fraught with uncertainties. Observers had to rely on dead reckoning, which was subject to vagaries even in good conditions. Meteorological information was scanty and forecasts were vague. Wind strengths and directions were seldom as predicted. Temperature changes affected navigation. There were no radio beams. Fixes and bearings could not be obtained from long distances.
In May 1940, of a hundred Hampdens, Whitleys and Wellingtons which set out to bomb the Ruhr one night, less than a quarter found their targets.
In February 1941, night bombers’ equipment for finding their way was no better; but the crews - those which had survived - had acquired skill as their experience increased.
Blenheim squadrons were still operating by day, but because of the loss factor they were working increasingly by night. Roger Hallowes had thought, last autumn, when his squadron did a period of intensive night flying practice, that it was being taken off daylight sorties altogether. He hoped so; as fervently as he was capable of feeling any emotion. He had taken to attending the station chaplain’s service every Sunday, unless flying prevented him. He had thought about praying for the squadron to be taken off daylight operations. That seemed to smack of cowardice, so he had prayed instead for his comrades and himself to be spared from death and wounds; although he admitted to himself that what he really meant was that they would be switched entirely to night raids. His prayers had not been much of a success, for the squadron continued to suffer casualties. Perhaps, in fact probably, he told himself, he did not believe enough in the power of prayer.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 21