Roger was not entirely sure why he had started going to church regularly. It was not until he had been taking Daphne Palmer out for three or four months that he had learned that she was a regular worshipper at the station church when her Operations Room duties permitted. That was one reason for starting to go himself soon after. He had accompanied his parents as a matter of course during school holidays, but when he joined the R.A.F. Volunteer Reserve in 1936 he spent all his Sundays flying or studying for his wings. He put in a dutiful appearance at Christmas. At Easter he was flying.
There was a stability about any regular practice which he found reassuring. There was also a reassuring continuity of the settled life he had once enjoyed. When he examined the directing force - unwillingly and briefly - he confessed that it was not chiefly a religious one. Church-going on Sunday had never had a great deal to do with God, in his family. It had been a social custom to which the principal figures in the community, the parish, were expected to subscribe. It was a performance which he associated with some pleasant sherry-drinking afterwards in his own home, his cousins the Fentons’, or friends’, before a heavy lunch. God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world; a serene conclusion which was all the more readily attained with the benison of a good fino or oloroso. And God, naturally, was British; indeed, surely an Englishman, no substitute Scot, Welshman or Ulsterman.
After a lapse of nearly four years it had been noticeably calmative to resume the rhythm of observance. He had sung in the choir at school and brought now a fair baritone to swell the sounds of a harmonium and a congregation numbering some fifty (out of over five hundred on the station) in the wooden hut. He sat where he could watch Daphne and hear her piping soprano. Sometimes he was able to procure the chair next to her and then he glowed with affection as well as a sense of rectitude.
Stability and continuity were important to his essentially conservative disposition. (The fact that his mother had been reluctant to wean him had something to do with that as well.) It was comforting that, despite the heavy casualties the squadron had suffered in the first five months of war and again during the evacuation at Dunkirk, it was still commanded by Wing Commander Dean: even more gaunt and bony-looking now from the strain of responsibility; that Squadron Leader Eastman, his sharp blue eyes and bristling straw-coloured moustache wilder than ever, survived as his flight commander; and that his former captain, Ginger Pike - accompanied everywhere by his bulldog, Jorkins - had come back as deputy flight commander when he had recovered from his wounds; the monolithic, portly and glabrous figure of Group Captain Brand still commanded the station.
Briefings after a year and a half of war were still sparse and often perfunctory and informal. No new electronic aids to navigation or bomb-aiming had yet appeared. The only significant development had been in the size of bombs: a 2000 lb bomb was in service and a 4000-pounder was imminent. This did not affect the Blenheims, whose total bombload was 1000 lb; usually in four bombs each of 250 lb. There was little to tell the crews except where they were to go, what the weather would probably be like and the state of the enemy night fighters, flak and searchlight defences. Even their route to the target was often left to their own discretion. When a squadron was given several different destinations on the same night, it was first come first served: the earlier a crew went to briefing, the wider choice it had; briefings were not always carried out for all crews together.
Roger left the church hut with Group Captain and Mrs. Brand, who conscientiously set a good example, half a dozen other air crew, a handful of ground officers, the senior W.A.A.F. officer and another W.A.A.F. officer. The last of these, who was buck-toothed and bandy-legged, had been casting coy glances at him from the time she had first seen him at morning service. He tried to hide in the station commander’s shadow, side-stepped the group of officers and intercepted Daphne as she emerged.
“Good morning, sir.” This was accompanied by a disingenuous smile.
“Good morning. May I have a word with you?”
The two girls who had accompanied her grinned, giggled and walked briskly ahead. Roger and Daphne sauntered.
“I’ve had a call from James. He and Christopher and I want to arrange our next leave together. We’re all due for seven days. We thought we’d try for the first week in March.”
She said nothing. Her eyes were on him, acquiescent and prompting. There was no need for her to speak.
“I thought perhaps you might like to come down to Hayling and meet my people.” He hurried on: “For three or four days, I mean; then you’ll probably want to go and see your own family.”
“Thank you, Roger. That would be very nice.” The sharp chilly wind had brought colour to her cheeks, which became brighter. “You must come and stay with us some time. Perhaps we could spend half our leave with your parents and half at Reigate.”
“Well... I rather think we all feel we should spend the whole of this leave at home... it’s been a long time and...”
“I quite understand. All right, I’d like to come for three days, then. But I want to spend some time at home too.”
Was there a reproving note, he wondered?
“Of course.”
They walked in silence for a moment. It was clear to both of them that neither was going to talk more about the future, nor did either know where this invitation was leading. The trouble about life these days was that it had no pattern. You could never predict where anything was likely to end. Roger reflected, in those few seconds, that it was odd how many seemingly innocuous circumstances there were, in these times, which unexpectedly made him feel as though he had been put through a wringer. He glanced at Daphne. She was looking straight ahead, walking very straight with a demure and courteous expression on her face: and now he came to think of it this was very much her Sunday morning face and no doubt she had walked like this from church all her life with her parents, her brother and sister. For some indefinable reason it made him feel clammy under the tight band of his Service Dress cap.
“I’m on ops tonight.”
“I know. I saw your name on the board.”
The words they were exchanging had no direct relationship to what was going through Roger’s head. With some people, he had found, it was always possible to know what they were trying to tell one even though they did not say a word. One knew what message they wanted to convey by the way they sat or walked or tilted their heads. He was receiving Daphne’s message, he believed. The way she was walking, looking serious and a little prim, but deliberately lingering so as to fall further behind the others, to create more intimacy between them, was warning him that asking her home to meet his family was a grave and significant step; and had he really thought about all its implications? She was also warning him that she was much too pretty and sensible to be left unclaimed much longer, surrounded by attractive and lively young men who were only too eager to take his place as her constant companion.
Roger’s thoughts were too fragmented for his usual cogent thinking. He had been pulled in one direction by the solemnity of the church service, another by his thoughts about his cousins and home. Always, either in the background or the forefront of his mind, was the strong and most insistent pull exerted by the knowledge that every other event in his current life was subordinate to the major fact of having to fly on operations. And now Daphne had introduced a fourth tug to strain at the already burdened vessel of his preoccupations.
Somewhere along the way, he thought, I have lost the ability to cope with more than one exigency at a time.
He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. It was not an action he normally permitted himself in public, as they were both always in uniform; but nobody was looking their way.
“As I can’t go off camp, would you like to come for a walk around the peri track this afternoon?”
At the end of the perimeter track remote from the station buildings there was farmland and the illusion of normal life going on, unaffected by war. A farmyard and stables adjoined one part of th
e airfield boundary. The farmer went out with a gun every Sunday, after pheasants and pigeons. His teenaged children schooled their horses over jumps in a paddock. There was much to see.
Daphne looked up at him. “You know I’m on watch this evening Roger. I’m going to get some sleep this afternoon. And so should you. I’m sorry. I know we haven’t been able to spend much time together lately. We ought to have a long talk.”
Roger had a discomfiting impression that Daphne too often introduced unshaped but potentially embarrassing major implications into issues which were concerned only with trivial ones. He did not quite see how they had become embroiled in a matter which had caused her to speak in such a grave tone. But he was quite certain that it would be unwise to engage in a long talk with Corporal Daphne Palmer until after they had met each other’s families and not before.
Meanwhile he would enjoy a couple of pints of beer in the mess before lunch. In fact he could have three or four, since he wouldn’t be meeting Daphne that afternoon. It would help him to sleep more soundly; following her advice. And as he wouldn’t be kissing her, she wouldn’t be able to complain that there was beer on his breath.
TWO
Now that Ginger Pike was a flight lieutenant, he took Jorkins with him whenever he visited the Operations Room. This went even for briefings. Jorkins, anyway, would have been admitted in his own right. He was a favourite with everyone and the station’s unofficial mascot. His wrinkled visage and stertorous breathing aroused a smile on sight. His prognathous jaw, bared fangs and minatory stare - all quite harmless - were enough to dissuade the nervous from barring his entry anywhere. He gave himself away by the readiness with which he wagged his stumpy tail.
The squadron was putting up eight aircraft that night. The first take-off was at 2100 hrs and the rest would follow at five-minute intervals. Briefing was at 1800, which allowed the crews time to rest beforehand and eat a hot meal afterwards.
Roger filed into the Ops Room behind Pike - Jorkins at heel - with Stan Price, his Canadian observer, immediately behind him. His wireless operator-air gunner, Sergeant Devonshire, was already there.
It still gave Roger a pang of guilt, which he knew was unreasonable, when he saw Ginger at briefings with another Wop/A.G. He couldn’t stifle a feeling that he had stolen Creamy Devonshire from him during Pike’s six months’ grounding.
Loyalty to Ginger Pike as his first aircraft captain, as much as his liking for him, caused Roger to regard Pike’s present observer - a real one, like Price, not a second pilot acting as navigator, such as he had been - and Wop/A.G. askance. He could not help feeling that they were not good enough for Ginger, but he knew that if they were not efficient Ginger would have rid himself of them. He just didn’t like the look of them compared with his own two. And he was sure that Ginger would willingly have swapped.
Wing Commander Dean, all big red hands and prominent red knuckles, was not flying on this operation but attended all his squadron’s briefings. Squadron Leader Eastman was flying and they stood together.
Both had the same thought as the crews came in. There was a valuable accumulation of experience on tap tonight. Pike, with his D.F.C., Roger Hallowes with the D.F.M. he had won shortly before being commissioned, Sergeant Devonshire, D.F.M., Eastman with his own D.F.C.; and half a dozen more who had won their decorations on the squadron.
Even before he looked towards the table where Daphne worked, Roger, in common with everyone else, sought the big wall map. Marked with red tape, the route they must follow led their eyes to Dortmund. When he turned his head to meet her gaze her face was pale and expressionless. She attempted a smile, but it was no more than a stiff little upturn of her lips while her eyes remained distressed. He felt the thin, vibrating excitement which was the precursor of fear when he returned his attention to that dire red track which led across Holland to the Ruhr.
The station commander surveyed the men assembled around the big table in the centre of the floor, his pouched eyes gathering their attention.
There were distractions: the general information displayed around the walls; the girls; particularly if one happened to be up the ladder, adjusting matters on map or board, which drew attention to her legs and a possible peep up her skirt.
“Your target tonight is Dortmund. The oil plant and blast furnaces... secondary targets the power station and marshalling yards...”
The station Intelligence officer, a squadron leader with Great War medal ribbons and a faded observer’s badge, made no bones about what he had to tell them. Their targets were ringed by some of the strongest defences in Germany: flak, searchlights and night fighters. Group Headquarters had given them a circuitous route but there was no possibility of avoiding flying through some of it.
The weather forecaster, a seedy civilian in a spotty dark grey suit with dandruff on the shoulders, delivered a baleful prediction. “Cloud base over the target area, five thousand feet... fog developing in eastern England from midnight onwards, worsening as the night wears on... not expected to clear until late tomorrow morning...”
When it was over and the observers were drawing maps and charts, Roger made his way through the throng to Daphne. She looked up at him with the same candid anxiety.
He bent over the table and smiled. “They’ll scrub it. We won’t be flying tonight, in this weather. We’ll be having a party in the mess.”
She shook her head. “There are some American Air Force officers visiting Group. They’re coming here later. Tonight’s op is meant to impress them.”
“Well, I don’t feel like a party tonight. Just as soon go and dodge around in that low cloud where Jerry can’t find us. See you later.”
“I’ll be here.” Their parting was tainted by the protean shape of self-delusion as each tried to believe that the night held no threat that could not be evaded.
Jorkins snuffled his way out to the darkness of the wintry early evening, the invincible and mysterious darkness that covered the three hundred miles between Baxton and Dortmund. It was not far to go: less than two hours each way, with tonight’s forecast winds. Roger, following Ginger Pike through the steel door, from the warm, ducted air of the basement room to the biting freshness out of doors, tried to convince himself of the transcendent good fortune that had attended him and the lack of opportunity for harm to afflict him during his brief passage across Holland and the German borderland.
He walked beside Ginger Pike: two burly figures, neither more than average height, their breath condensing. Creamy Devonshire kept pace with them, his place there assured by old association, friendship, his right by achievement that superseded divisions of rank. Stan Price, a head taller than any of the three of them, solidly built, noisily cheerful, walked behind with Pike’s crew.
Roger wondered what particular line of thought the others were pursuing about what lay before them. He himself was cogitating ruefully on the subtle despotism of international politics. Churchill wanted American support: which would come only with assurance that Britain would win; so the squadron had to fly that night, come what may. He and his comrades were instruments of the profitable servitudes of life: theirs the servitude, the politicians’ - ostensibly the country’s - the profit.
“Where are you, Jorkins, you bugger?” Ginger Pike’s bass roar. It was a calumny. Jorkins was eminently heterosexual in his proclivities: there had been trouble, over the past three years since he and Ginger came to Baxton, involving several of the station and neighbourhood bitches. Jorkins sowed his seed with the disregard of a Tudor monarch or Edward VII.
There were growls and squeals from somewhere ahead, the scrabble of scampering paws on the road, a rush of air, a blurred white shape. The Station Warrant Officer’s female lurcher tore past. Ginger grabbed his bulldog’s collar and yanked him, struggling, to a halt.
“You dirty old devil, getting your end away in the blackout.”
Pike clipped a lead onto Jorkins’s collar.
When Devonshire and the other sergeant detached to go to the
sergeants’ mess, the two observers overtook their pilots and fell into place four abreast. In the darkness, some confidences were possible. Excessive candour, however, remained inadmissible.
Roger ventured a reference to what was in all their minds; some means of frustrating the worst consequences of the invincible ignorance which apparently prevailed among the operations planners.
“You’d better keep a good lookout astern, Ginger. I’m going to open the taps and catch you up as soon as I can.”
“Better open them wide, old son. I’ll be chasing Larry Eastman. I don’t like being alone in the dark either.”
“Thought you might be. What height are you going to fly?”
“I’m not crossing the Dutch coast at lower than twenty thousand for anybody, even if there’s cloud down to five.”
“If you see another Blenheim up there, it’ll be us.”
*
Roger’s aeroplane was parked next to Pike’s. In the old days, when they and Devonshire flew together, the three of them had formed a habit of each patting Jorkins goodbye before they went aboard. None of them was prepared to admit to superstition but all of them would have felt uneasy if any had neglected the ritual. Tonight, on an impulse, Roger walked over to where Pike stood with his crew and the bulldog. He squatted down and ran a gloved hand along Jorkins’s flat skull and plump back. Jorkins wriggled with pleasure and slobbered in the faint light of the taxi track.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 22