When they returned to camp he looked in at the mess bar to see who was there whom he knew. There were two pilots and an air gunner whom he had known in the Volunteer Reserve or at Baxton. With them was a pretty, ash blonde W.A.A.F. assistant section officer with grey eyes and a friendly manner. They were ridiculing a war film they had been to see at the station cinema. A.S.O. Lingham touched his medal ribbons with a pointed and varnished nail.
“Two of the characters even had their D.F.Cs upside down. And there was so much nonsense about the Army... I can’t tell you, Roger.”
One of the others said “Kate’s husband is a captain in the Yeomanry: she’s well clued up about the pongoes.”
Roger had not noticed her wedding ring but he had noticed the admiring look she gave him and the agreeable piquancy when she touched him with her fingertip.
“Where is he stationed?” What Roger meant was, why wasn’t she with him instead of in the W.A.A.F.?
“He’s been in the Middle East since before Dunkirk.”
She gave him a rueful little smile but her eyes looked inviting, or it might have been supplicating, rather than sad. For a moment he had the feeling that they were quite alone instead of in a room that was loud with talk and laughter. He wondered how old she was: no more than his own age, he concluded; how old her husband was and how long they had been married. He thought all these things while they looked at each other, then she turned away and said something which he didn’t hear, because his mind was racing ahead with all sorts of wild speculations, but which made everyone else laugh.
*
Wing Commander Garland, D.S.O., D.F.C., the Chief Flying Instructor, looked as though he would be more in place at Trooping The Colour on Horseguards Parade than at an R.A.F. station. He had ginger hair, a fierce moustache, freckles on the backs of his hands and accusing greenish eyes. He stood ramrod straight, gave the impression that he planted his - apparently flat - feet with perfect precision at each pace he took, and appeared to spend a lot of time frowning.
When Roger woke on his first morning at the O.T.U. he was at once aware of discomfort in his right shinbone and calf. There was also a feeling as though his knee were swollen; but inspection showed that it was not. The ache subsided as he moved about having a shower, dressing and going down to breakfast. It began to reappear when he reported to the C.F.I. and by the time they had climbed through the hatch into a Wellington he was dragging a stiff leg.
Wing Commander Garland looked across to the second pilot’s seat.
“What’s up, Hallowes?”
“It’ll be all right in a minute, sir.”
“Leg bothering you?”
“Just a little. It’ll pass as soon as I’ve got something to do, sir.”
“Can you move the rudder bar?”
Roger tried the pedals. His right leg hurt.
“Yes, sir.”
Garland took the Wellington up and when they were at 1000 ft he handed over control to Roger; who found that his right leg had seized up, the knee locked solid. He was in considerable pain, which he did not tell Garland, he was unable to exert pressure with his right foot, and when, after a quarter of an hour, Garland landed, Roger found difficulty in extricating himself from his seat and negotiating the ladder under the hatch.
By the time he reached Sick Quarters in Garland’s car his knee had loosened and he was without pain even though he limped slightly.
The senior Medical officer was perplexed and arranged for Roger to be taken to hospital at York for an X-ray. The X-ray revealed no recurrence of disability.
The bad dreams that Roger used to have at Baxton latterly returned that night. When, next morning, he was again faced with the prospect of flying and his thoughts associated it with the recent past, the flak and fighters, the death and injury all around him, his leg stiffened once more and throbbed as though it were on fire.
He began to suffer from a fresh fear that the ferocious Wing Commander Garland would contemptuously decide that he lacked moral fibre and commit him to disgrace. Anxiety brought on more pain and almost a paralysis of the whole limb.
The S.M.O. sent him to hospital every day for infrared heat treatment, massage and physiotherapy. The disability began to respond. He had an interview with Wing Commander Garland.
“I can’t carry passengers here, Hallowes. We’ve got a hell of a lot of work to get through and I need every flying instructor for which this place is established. While you’re off sick, the job you should be doing has to be shared among three other of my instructors. Either you’ll have to go, or I’ll get you temporarily transferred to ground instructing: one of my ground instructors is going back to ops this week.”
“It’s getting better, sir. The treatment’s working.”
“It had better; and fast.”
Roger avoided Devonshire’s company. They did not have to meet in the course of the day but whereas he would normally have tried to go out for a drink with him now and then, he did not leave the mess when off duty. Devonshire telephoned one evening and sounded perturbed, but Roger made an excuse when he suggested that they should go to the local for a pint or two.
Roger admitted to himself that it was not the treatment which was producing an improvement in the condition of his leg, but the distance that he had managed to put between himself and flying. He had not been near an aeroplane for a week and he had put the thought of flying out of his mind: hence the improvement. Now, with the Wing Commander’s ultimatum, his nervous system was involved in a further dilemma. The shame of the recovery which he knew he would make if he were temporarily grounded and the fear he had that Garland would lose patience and disgrace him conflicted with the fear of a return to ops and of Garland’s contempt. Neither the doctors nor Garland could prove anything derogatory, but there was ample they could suspect.
Every lunchtime and every evening he looked forward to seeing Kate. She was popular and there were always several men who wanted to sit with her at meal times and invite her into the bar. But he and she had formed a habit of encountering each other in the corridor when they had hung up their coats and caps and going into the bar and dining-room together; even though they were always joined by others, he contrived to sit next to her and when they stood among a group at the bar she would give him a private little look and a smile for himself.
On the evening of his interview with Wing Commander Garland she saw him in the mess at tea time and approached him with a faint frown creasing her forehead.
“Why so glum, Roger?”
“Does it show so obviously?”
“You were looking suicidal.”
He smiled faintly. “No danger of that. I’m too much of a coward.”
She looked startled at the bitterness in his voice.
She said gently “You don’t wear the insignia of cowardice, Roger.” Her eyes went for a moment to his ribbons.
“I’ve got to get this leg cured, or the Wingco says he’ll ground me.”
“He can’t do that. It’s the S.M.O.’s responsibility.”
“He can have me re-posted as a ground instructor, though. I’m useless at the moment and my work is having to be done by other people.”
The concern in her eyes deepened. “You’re as taut as a bowstring, Roger. You need to relax. Is this place getting you down?”
“A bit. Except when I can talk to you.” He smiled more successfully this time.
“You need to get out for a while. You’re always stuck in the mess.”
“Can’t drive with this leg.”
“I can drive.” It sounded impulsive and her words were at once followed by a slightly dismayed look and a faint pinkening.
“You wouldn’t drive me into York, would you? We could have dinner and go to a flick.”
“I’d like that. I haven’t been out for ages.”
Half an hour later, both changed into best blue, Roger was helping Kate into the driving seat of his car when the chaplain parked his black Austin Ten alongside. He gave them a curt
greeting and watched them with a baleful glower as they drove off.
When Roger woke the next morning he lay awake drinking the tea his batwoman had brought and savouring a feeling of wellbeing and renewal of purpose. His leg had given him no trouble from the moment that he walked out of the mess with Kate. Their evening together had been, it seemed to him, miraculously productive of good things. They had entered a warm companionship at once. When he bade her goodnight she had kissed him sweetly and he understood that, although there had been no overt statement, the kiss had sealed an implicit pact between them. It was only a matter of time now before he slept with her in some quiet inn among the dales where no thought of R.A.F. Blythewold - or the Army in the Middle East - would intrude. Time no longer mattered. He would wait for her to tell him when.
That afternoon he flew a Wellington to the entire satisfaction of both himself and Wing Commander Garland.
So that test was passed. But he knew that there would be another when he was faced with a return to operations.
*
Christopher’s confusion of thought and feeling had been helped to set itself aright by the success of the operation on which he had flown on the morning when he began his leave. The loss of only one aircraft on a mission fraught with so many hazards was unusual and encouraging. The sheer devastating success of the surprise they had sprung on the enemy was enough to restore confidence and cause such great elation that it obliterated all the misgivings and disentangled the derangement of his senses which had preceded it. Seven days’ leave had completed the curative process. And it had not been just any routine seven days at home. It had been like putting time back to his carefree boyhood, with James there, his lifelong confidant; seeing the happiness in their parents at having both of them home; to have Roger around, easy-going and, as ever, sharing his and his brother’s interests; to see his aunt and uncle so proud and so relieved by Roger’s recovery; to welcome Nicole among them once more.
It was not until he was on his way back to camp that he gave any thought to his crew. They had hardly entered his mind at all while he was away. Now he found himself looking forward to being with them again and realising how close the ties that united them had grown. The reality of home life receded as rapidly as the miles as he drove north. The present reality was the war, which was going well in North Africa with Wavell’s brilliant defeats of greatly superior numbers of Italians. It was enough to make him wish that he were there to have a hand in those victories. Here, the war at sea which Coastal Command waged was still the same discouraging grind. However many U-boats the anti-submarine squadrons destroyed, however many surface ships the strike squadrons sank, the enemy’s shipyards seemed to build more than twice the number with which to replace them. And all the time the attacks on British convoys went on and vessels and men were lost and no end was in sight; as it was in sight, evidently, in North Africa.
Christopher was looking forward to getting back to work with his crew and torpedoing more ships, hastening victory. Amid all the havoc there was an epicentre of calm competence of which he was the nucleus, he was in control and the other three men around him were each an essential part of the whole and its tight-armoured skill and confidence. His partnership with them, their sense of mutual dependence surpassed any identification with a team he had ever known at any sport. The explanation was simple: their lives were in one another’s hands.
He drove hard all the way and was in mess by the time the bar opened at six. So was Ronnie Brinsden. He telephoned the sergeants’ mess to leave instructions for Tom Doyle and Fred Curran to call him as soon as they returned. At nine-o’clock all four of them were drinking in The Nag’s Head and telling each other about how they had spent their leave.
Ronnie Brinsden, looking shy, produced a photograph of a beautiful dark-haired girl.
“Yours, Ronnie?” Christopher enacted disbelief. “We’ve just got engaged.”
“Congratulations and an extra round on you, then.” And not-yet-twenty (like himself) was no age at which to engage yourself to marry, Christopher was thinking.
Tom Doyle had a photograph to show them too. “It was his second birthday, d’you see, so we had this taken.”
Inevitably they told Doyle it was as well his son did not resemble him; the little boy was handsome and obviously took after his mother, they insisted.
“Sure, he wants a sister; and maybe, after this leave, he’s going to get one.”
“We’re not waiting nine months for a drink on it. Tom. We’ll have it now.”
“I haven’t got any photographs, Fred,” said Christopher. “Have you?”
“Oh, ah.” Curran dug into a pocket and produced one. “Won a first at the Yeovil agricultural show last year. I took this picture, look, while I was home. Reckon she’ll win again this year, and all.”
“Pity you didn’t have it tinted.” Christopher said it with every appearance of seriousness. “She’s as lovely a pig as I ever saw.”
“Yur-r-r. That’s a sow to be proud of all right.”
“Well, we’ll have a drink on you too, to the prize sow’s continued success. What’s her name?”
“Cicely.”
Ronnie Brinsden turned scarlet, beetroot, magenta. He did the nose trick with his beer and it came out of his nostrils and down the tunic of his best blue.
Christopher began to laugh. “Oh, no! I don’t believe it. It can’t be...”
But there was no doubt about it from Ronnie Brinsden’s paroxysm and furious blushes. His newly affianced shared her Christian name with Sergeant Curran’s champion pig. The four of them had to lean against the wall to stay upright while they made heads turn with their gale of laughter.
*
In the morning they were on the day’s operational roster and in the late afternoon they were airborne, take-off timed so that they would intercept a convoy off the Dutch coast a few minutes before last light, which would give them the protection of darkness against fighters. The weather was fair and there was no cloud lower than 5000 ft. The four aircraft crossed the North Sea at low level to escape observation by eye, by enemy radiolocation or by reconnaissance aircraft.
The crew’s optimism rode high. They all recalled their last trip and the destruction of the big oil tanker and a destroyer. This, they all agreed, was a piece of cake in comparison. If they did happen to meet fighters, they would have the speed to nip up and shelter in cloud once they had dropped their torpedo.
Then nightfall would come to their aid.
Christopher saw the silhouettes of the convoy without the tremor that he had been experiencing in the weeks before his leave. His only sensation was excitement. There was no fear. Neither he nor Brinsden saw the E boats, in that grey light and at so low a height, until they picked up the white of the two bow waves heading towards them. The tracer began to lash out at the Beauforts. The leader turned away, the rest following, and the wake of the small enemy craft described a frothing curve as they raced after them. But the E boats were soon far behind and out of range. The two flak ships opened up and guns on the merchantmen began to fire. The leader’s torpedo fell onto the sea and Christopher could see the arrow-straight course of its trailing foam making straight for the biggest ship.
A pillar of fire rose into the air from the ship’s stern. Two more torpedoes were racing towards the convoy : one aimed also at the same ship and the other at one astern which had been forced to reduce speed and alter course. There was another hit on the already stricken ship. Christopher did not see the result of the third attack. All his attention was on his own target. Bullets were thudding into the Beaufort and spray was spattering on his windscreen. His eyes were on a 3000-tonner with black smoke belching from its single funnel as the engine room strove for more speed. It began to zig-zag but the Beaufort was coming up on its port quarter and it would have to make a hard turn to spoil Christopher’s aim.
There was a loud clatter of metal against the aircraft’s side. The windscreen cracked into a mass of lines radiating f
rom a gash almost directly in front of Christopher. His view was half-obscured. He could see the general bulk of the turning ship and sent the torpedo on its way. A series of bright flashes shone into the corner of his left eye. The Beaufort pitched to that side. He hauled it level as he heard the crackling of flames and saw the port engine emit a puff of smoke.
Curran reported “We hit her, Skip.”
The flames flickered and died. Brinsden was peering at the other engine.
“Any damage that side, Ronnie?”
“Can’t see any.”
“Instruments are O.K. Sounds all right.”
The noise of battle continued: the ships’ guns, Curran in action in the turret as they flew away from the convoy, the engines of two Me 109s diving and shooting, but not able to venture too close for fear they dived into the sea in the rapidly gathering darkness; the guns of the three other Beauforts also shooting at the enemy fighters.
Presently night had fallen and Christopher climbed slowly to 5000 ft on one engine to give himself altitude for a glide if his other engine failed. They crossed the English coast. They came to their base. Flying Control gave them permission for a straight-in approach.
The wheels would not come down. One flap was reluctant to do its job.
Christopher overshot and began to climb again.
“This is where you all join the Caterpillar Club, chaps. I’ll take her up to a thousand feet and you can bale out.”
It was not a popular notion.
Brinsden crouching next to Christopher, shook his head.
Curran protested “I don’t trust those blasted things.”
Doyle said flatly “Someone’ll have to chuck me out. I don’t want to break both legs.”
“You’ll possibly break more than that when this thing hits the ground.”
“We’ll stay with you,” Brinsden said.
Christopher spoke to the control tower and they all heard the air traffic controller agree that the crew ought to jump.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 35