“Look, my boy, I want you to put this all as unalarmingly as you can to his parents. I’ve spoken to them already, of course, but I haven’t told them as much as I’ve just told you.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you. I’ll do my best. What about his crew, sir?”
“You won’t know, probably, that his observer was killed two nights earlier.”
“Price, sir?”
“Yes. The replacement who flew with him died of wounds in the dinghy.”
“What about Sergeant Devonshire, sir?”
“Hit in the shoulder. Lost rather a lot of blood, too. I’m afraid they couldn’t get much out of him either.”
“I’m very grateful to you, sir. I’ll telephone my uncle and aunt straight away. Is Roger in Sick Quarters, sir?”
“King’s Lynn General Hospital. There’s one more thing, Fenton. Trivial, comparatively, but I don’t want Hallowes or his parents bothered. There’s a W.A.A.F. here, a Corporal Palmer. Sensible sort of girl. Says she’s engaged to your cousin. She’s kicking up a bit of a shine about being allowed to see him. Know anything about this?”
“Engaged, sir? First I’ve heard of it. And I was talking to Roger only four days ago, sir.”
*
The nearest R.A.F. station to King’s Lynn was Bircham Newton, from where Coastal Command squadrons operated. James flew there the next morning. Christopher, who had much further to fly and was able to borrow only a Tiger Moth, had taken off an hour earlier and arrived a few minutes after him. They lunched in the mess, where neither of them found anyone he knew, and a utility van took them to the hospital.
They had had a lot to talk about besides Roger, but now James sat in silence and Christopher wondered why he was looking so sombre. Not that he was exactly in a singing and dancing mood himself at the prospect of seeing poor old Roger in a bad way and having to hunt around for suitable small talk, he admitted. They still did not know how severe his wound had been or how ill he was as a result of the many hours of cold and wetness.
James said “I hate hospitals. I’d never been in one until a few months ago.”
He did not need to elaborate. Christopher knew what had taken his brother into a hospital for the first time and he knew also that that was why he hated them. Going to visit wounded, mutilated and badly burned friends was an introduction which was enough to make anyone dread the places. This had been the reason for his own first visit to a hospital. Sardonically, he thought that he could add a rider to what James had said and was feeling. He might have pointed out that fighter pilots enjoyed the advantage of fighting within a short distance of their bases. When they were shot down or their aircraft were badly damaged, they could usually be taken to hospital in time to save their lives. Crews on the Coastal Command shipping strike squadrons, such as his, were not so fortunate. Many injured men died on the long flight home across the North Sea. Even more died in the sea when an aircraft was forced down. The same applied to bomber squadrons like Roger’s. And they were even more poorly placed, with the added miles they had to cross over Germany or occupied France, Belgium or Holland.
There was no need for Christopher to make such a comment, even had he been insensitive enough to do so. Whether by telepathy or inherent fair-mindedness, it occurred to James without any prompting.
Whenever he went to visit the sick he underwent the same sequence of emotions. The more precise ones were preceded by a general unease which caused him a kind of queasiness and edgy temper which nothing else brought on. As soon as he entered a hospital he had the illusion of himself being confined against his will. It was as though some omniscient physician would pounce, find him contagious or afflicted by some unsuspected ailment, and clap him into a ward. This gave rise to an illusion of suffocation and claustrophobia, which in turn made him want to turn and rush out. These were reactions which he could partly rationalise, but what he could not find any reason for was the overpowering feeling of loneliness which always overcame him. He thought - he hoped - it was bred by compassion for the plight of the people by whom he was surrounded. People who were seriously injured or ill did have a vast loneliness of the spirit with which to contend. He had never been through it, but he knew this intuitively. By association, he shared in the loneliness of their battle to live and it was this which brought his spirit to its lowest.
At bottom, it’s a form of fear, he acknowledged in his private thoughts. There is compassion in it, but fear is present too. A layman never knows quite where he stands in a hospital. It’s bad enough going in as a visitor. It must be a hundred times as intimidating to be a patient and assailed by all those medical odours which, for him, carried the threat of pain and the brisk touch of cold, impersonal hands; to be abandoned to quick-stepping, inscrutable nurses whose sole response to any plea or query was a forced cheerfulness and optimism.
The whole medical profession purveyed reassurance with the same confidence as it measured doses into a medicine glass.
More than once he had helped to extract a mangled comrade from his cockpit and heard the M.O. tell him cheerfully that they’d have him right as rain in a moment, as soon as they got him into Sick Quarters: knowing that the pulped or incinerated mess on the stretcher was unlikely to live as long as it took to carry him to the ambulance a few yards away. He did not condemn this. He entirely approved of it. It was just that it made him hope he would never be in hospital, because he would never believe a word anyone said to him; and he had made up his mind that it would be a waste of time to ask how Roger really was.
A gentle-faced nursing sister, exuding static energy barely confined, as though she itched to pop thermometers into their mouths and then dash off to fetch a kidney dish bristling with hypodermic syringes, dire-looking scalpels and forceps, met them as they went through glass doors at the end of a corridor.
“Flying Officer Hallowes’ parents are with him. But you can go in. It’s this room, on the left.”
“Is he on his own, Sister?” James had a sinking feeling as he asked. Private rooms did not augur well.
She smiled without replying and spun on her heel with the briskness of a Dervish, to disappear like a stage genie through a door immediately to her right. The well-starched rustle of her garments echoed in his ears for a second.
They went in cautiously. Their aunt and uncle were sitting beside Roger’s bed with an air of helpless anxiety. Both rose to their feet with quick, nervous smiles. There were handshakes and kisses and low-voiced greetings and thanks to the two “boys” for coming all this way.
“How is he?”
James had never seen Roger so pale, even when he had been knocked out and concussed once in a rugger match at school. His face had the matt pallor of chalk and his lips were almost bereft of colour.
“He hasn’t been awake since we got here this morning,” Beryl Hallowes said. “They’ve been keeping him doped.” She looked at her husband.
“He has quite a bad leg wound,” he said. “The bone was broken. But the surgeon assures us he’ll make a perfect recovery.” His eyes held doubts; which were reflected in James’s thoughts and in Christopher’s. “He was very weak when they brought him in: loss of blood. Thank God he’s such a sturdy chap. He might not have come through it, otherwise. He caught pneumonia, too.”
“Well, he’s over the worst now.” Christopher squeezed his aunt’s hand and she tried to smile at him.
“How did you get here?” James asked. “How long are you staying?”
“We came by train. My petrol coupons wouldn’t stretch to using the car. I’ll stay until he comes round and knows we’re both here. Your aunt will stay on for a few days more. We’ve taken a room at a pub.”
“We’ve both got to fly back quite soon, I’m afraid. But we’ll come again as soon as we can. Have you seen Devonshire?”
James saw his aunt’s eyes moisten.
“Yes, poor boy. He’s very sick. He wasn’t awake either. No one’s been to see him yet. His home’s in London, there are lots of trains,
but I expect it’s difficult for his father to get away at short notice: he works at the docks.”
“There’ll be someone coming from the squadron, anyway,” Denis Hallowes said.
Before leaving the hospital, they went into the room where Devonshire, also on his own, lay sedated. Sallow at the best of times, he looked, in his illness, as though his face were moulded in glazed china clay of not very good quality. A film of sweat lay on it and suffering had stretched it tautly over the bones, so that the pores and blackheads were made prominent.
“Poor little bugger,” James said quietly. “Roger told me his home was bombed flat about three months ago. I expect it’s taking a long time to get in touch with his people.”
He felt a constriction in his throat and dismissed it with irritation, attributing it to his own disquiet over the verdict of the court of inquiry: which had been concluded the previous evening and whose findings should have been promulgated by the time he returned to camp.
In the entrance hall they saw a trim, tawny-haired girl in W.A.A.F. uniform talking to a porter and a woman behind the reception counter. The porter was elderly, thin and stooped: tubercular-looking; he ought to be in a ward himself, thought James, hawking fragments of disintegrating lung into a bowl held impassively by that sister with the Loretta Young face we talked to upstairs. The woman had a square, tough, peasant’s face with fuzz on it which shone in the glare of the overhead light. It was already dark indoors. And she ought to be in a gym somewhere, training to take the British Middleweight Title away from Jock McEvoy.
They heard the sounds of argument.
Christopher, reacting to a girl like one of Pavlov’s dogs to a bell that suggested the offer of food, broke into a smile.
“Hello, Daphne.”
She turned and at once her eyes flashed with triumph. She came neatly to attention and saluted. They were both carrying their caps, so the acknowledgment she got was a nod accompanied by an expression of amusement.
“Sir... James, will you please explain to these officious people that they can’t stop me going up to see Roger.”
“Oh, but they can, you know.”
The lady pugilist smirked and James would have sworn that she loosened her shoulders; she shrugged, anyhow.
“We’ve just seen him,” Christopher said. “He’s out for the count.” The same thought had struck him about the stocky lady and he glanced at her, implying that she would appreciate the figure of speech.
“I don’t care. I just want to see him, even if I can’t talk to him.”
The porter looked sour and contemptuous. His colleague shifted her feet and made a curious giratory, pursing movement with her lips. As though she’s rubbing her boots in the rosin and settling her gumshield comfortably, James thought.
He said “His people are with him.”
“I’d like to meet them.”
James and Christopher exchanged a look. Aunt Beryl and Uncle Denis were not ready for Corporal Daphne Palmer, was the signal that passed between them. Not at this moment, and probably not at all.
Christopher deferred to his elder brother to carry the conversational ball, with a lift of the eyebrows.
“Not now, Daphne. Besides, you heard what this lady and the porter said. You’re not authorised to go up to the wards.”
“I’ve got the best authority there could be: Roger himself, if he were awake.”
“Conscious would be more accurate. You come back in a few days, and they’ll probably let you. We can give you a lift back to camp.”
“Come along.” Christopher took her by the arm.
She shook him off.
“I want to see the Matron.”
The square-faced woman spoke. Her voice was hoarse and low-pitched; as though a good bit of leather had been slung at her larynx - dirty fighting, that - in her time.
“Matron’s got better things to do. We wouldn’t even tell her you’re here.”
“But I’m Pilot Officer Hallowes’...” Daphne cut herself short and compressed her lips, growing red in the face.
“If you was ‘is sister,” the porter said, grinning, “we could let you in. Seeing as you ain’t, we can’t.” There was no question in anyone’s mind about what he insinuated.
“Come on,” James said. “You’re coming with us.”
“No, I’m not. Now I’ve come all this way, on a twenty-four-hour pass, I’m at least going to the flicks.”
“How did you get here?”
“By train and hitch-hiking.”
“Have you got yourself a bed at Bircham Newton?”
“Yes.”
“Well, full marks to you, Daphne, for effort. Very loyal. You’ve been to a lot of trouble. Come back with us and Christopher will fly you to Baxton in his Tiger Moth. Much more comfortable than trains or hitching, and you’re only wasting your time here.”
“I’ll willingly do that,” said Christopher. “You’re wasting your time here.”
Daphne looked at him, at James, then back at Christopher, silently contemplative.
“All right. Thank you.”
As they turned to leave, James expected the squat figure behind the counter to raise her clasped hands above her head in a gesture of victory. A clear win on points, but no doubt she would have preferred a knockout.
*
There was still abundant light when James landed. A message awaited him to report to the squadron commander with Pilot Officer Uwodzicielski.
Big was expecting him, in the crew room.
“Sit down,” Addison said. “You’re both in the clear. In fact, nobody’s going to get a rocket. The evidence wasn’t clear enough.” He kept a straight face. Obscure and contradictory evidence carefully calculated to baffle the non-technical was a familiar content of inquiries. “You were both probably not where everyone thought you were and neither were the hostiles. The C.H. and C.H.L.” (types of radar) “aren’t accurate enough for absolute precision. Owing to atmospheric conditions, the D/F bearings were all second or third class. With so much room for error, plus the technical problems of the ack-ack locators and predictors, and the searchlights, the only fair conclusion is that it was a general dog’s breakfast.”
As soon as they were outside, Big looked up at James with the familiar puzzled expression.
“What is ‘rocket’ and ‘General Dog’s breakfast’? Who is this General?”
“Big, it would be easiest for me to learn Polish so that I can put you in the picture every time you don’t twig... I mean, don’t understand. But that would take too long, so I’ll try to explain...”
“Please, James, explain ‘put in picture’ also. And how is ‘tvik’ meanink ‘understandink’?”
“D’you mind waiting until the bar opens and I can have a large Scotch first?”
FOUR
Nicole shared a requisitioned two-bedroom flat near Regent’s Park with another French woman officer of the Aviation Militaire who also worked in a joint planning section at the Air Ministry.
Her colleague was some six years the older and had a lover, a captain who was a pilot on a Spitfire squadron of the Free French Air Force based in Hampshire. Whenever he could come to London for a night or a few days’ leave he shared her bedroom. When James came to London he stayed at the R.A.F. Club in Piccadilly or a hotel.
He knew the story about the Frenchman who was able to identify a female’s pubic hair from a male’s. It ended with the exclamation “Vive la différence!” which had become a catch phrase. He did not echo this sentiment in regard to the disparity between his accommodation and the French captain’s; but he accepted it philosophically and sometimes thought to himself “Voilà la différence”, albeit with more wistfulness than resignation.
When he rang the doorbell on the evening after his visit to Roger, Nicole made no bones about the warmth of her feeling for him. Her uninhibited kiss made him wonder, as it did at every meeting - regrettably infrequent - whether it was the prelude to a closer intimacy. So did her first words after th
eir greetings.
“Sabine has gone to spend three nights near Pierre’s airfield.”
She held his hand while they went into the drawing-room.
Expectation was short-lived. If she’d wanted me to stay here, she’d have let me know, he reminded himself.
Worth a try, however.
“If I’d known, I could have brought my suitcase and borrowed her bed.”
Nicole’s eyes reflected amusement and mischief as much as they shared her quiet laugh. She put her arms around his neck again and they held a tight embrace without speaking.
“When did Sabine go?” He was reluctant to abandon an initiative which held such alluring possibilities for development.
“Yesterday.”
She mocked him again with the way she shaped her mouth when she smiled, and with another little splutter of laughter.
He sighed. The deep breath which inflated his chest increased his awareness of the resilience of her breasts, his arms still close around her. He was acutely conscious of her and of his healthy desire for her, and his discontent.
The discontent passed quickly. The easy companionship he shared with her had something of the comradeship he enjoyed readily with the other pilots on his squadron and indeed wherever he went in the Service. It was a kind of friendship which acknowledged implicit obligations while making no explicit demands. Their way of life imposed various esoteric tests, particularly in time of war, and to fail one test was to fail irredeemably and for ever. Between Nicole and himself there was also mutual testing: of chivalry and understanding on his part, and on hers also of understanding and of liberality.
Perhaps the opportunity which existed on this short leave - had she ensured it? - was the ultimate proving before she rewarded him: an occasion to show that he knew the difference between opportunity and opportunism. There was an empirical element in this which conflicted with what he knew, and had known for a decade and a half, about her. Yet she was French and there was no one more pragmatical than a Frenchwoman in affairs of love, despite their reputed coquetry.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 28