“Go on,” Christopher said, “you heard the man. What’s more important, you heard me. If you won’t jump it’ll be mutiny. Now start moving, because I want to get down there and have a pint.”
He watched their parachutes open one by one, the wind roaring through the fuselage from the open hatch. He brought the Beaufort down cautiously, skimmed the boundary fence and hurtled across the grass beside the runway with the metal under his feet screaming and rending. He was thrown against the panel and did not quite fend himself off fully when the aircraft pivoted through forty-five degrees, tipped momentarily onto its nose and slammed to an abrupt stop.
He was unconscious and blood was running from a cut on his forehead when the ambulance crew pulled him clear.
*
“Concussion, a sprained ankle and a twisted knee,” the squadron doctor said. “I’ll keep you in Sick Quarters for three or four days, but you won’t be able to walk without a crutch or a stick for a week, and no flying for ten days. I’ve put some stitches in your cut, but there shouldn’t be much of a scar to spoil your beauty.”
“It’ll make me even more irresistible to women! Didn’t you know they go crazy for slightly battle-scarred types?”
“I think I should keep you here for a week or two to protect them, Christopher.”
“It wouldn’t do any good: I’ve got my eye on a couple of your W.A.A.F. medical orderlies, Doc.”
The M.O. grinned. “I’d be a fool not to believe you.”
“You needn’t worry about the tall red-headed job: I know she’s your perq.”
“You know too much for your own good. I think I’ll slip a tranquilliser into your tea.”
His crew were not allowed into the darkened room until the following day. They came, full of beans.
“We did blow the stern off her,” Brinsden said. “There’s been a P.R. She had to be towed into port at The Hook.”
“So I suppose my bang on the head and the rest of it was worthwhile.”
“Bad luck you didn’t get into the club, Skipper.” Doyle said, laughing at him.
The company which manufactured the parachutes sent a small golden caterpillar lapel brooch to anyone who had been forced to save his life by baling out and there was also a blue tie with the caterpillar insignia on it. Membership was much prized.
“I’ll bet the others had to drag you out, Tom.”
“I’m not denying it: I wasn’t in any hurry to jump.”
“He damn nearly landed on top of me,” Curran said. “A thousand feet of empty space: you’d think the bugger could have landed at least fifty feet clear, wouldn’t you?”
“I kept close so as I could grab you if my chute didn’t open!”
“I’m glad you all got so much fun out of it.” Christopher did his best to sound reproving. “If it’s of any interest, I’ve still got a splitting headache and my leg hurts like sin.”
“All in a good cause,” said Brinsden.
*
Christopher, hobbling around the mess with a stick, unable to drive his car, was morose. His crew were no happier: while they were at a loose end they were given odd jobs to do which irritated them. Brinsden had to do Orderly Officer one day, a chore which normally did not fall to aircrew. Each of them had to fly at least once to make up a crew in which one member was temporarily grounded through sickness or sudden compassionate leave. They disliked flying with a strange pilot even more than they detested tedious ground duties.
Brinsden came into the mess one lunchtime looking crestfallen. Christopher was restless and watching out for him.
“What’s up Ronnie?”
“There’s a flap on. Maximum effort. A couple of Jerry battle-cruisers and three destroyers are supposed to be coming out of Kiel.”
“Damn. We’ll miss the show.” Christopher flexed his ankle and knee. “You know, I think I could manage all right. I’ll grab the doc as soon as he comes in and ask him to come up to my room and look at my leg. Or perhaps I can ring and catch him before he leaves Sick Quarters and you can drive me over.”
“Too late, Christopher. And I’m damn sure your leg is not fit to fly yet.”
“What d’you mean, too late?”
“The C.O. came back from leave last night, a day early: he’d heard about the flap from some chum of his in Air Ministry while he was in London. His crew won’t be back until tonight, so he’s taking us.”
“You jammy so-and-soes. You’ll be on the show while I’m keeping an armchair warm.”
“We don’t think we’re lucky.”
“You’ll be all right with the C.O.”
“We’ve got used to you; for better or worse!”
It was as close to a compliment as any of his crew would go and Christopher was touched. Wing Commander Sims was a steady thirty-year-old, Cranwell trained, former Farnborough test pilot with a D.S.O. and an A.F.C. If he had to trust his crew in strange hands, they could hardly be better ones. But as well as a twinge of jealousy he felt anxious.
He clambered aboard the vehicle, one of the new aircrew buses, which came to take the crews to briefing and sat fidgeting throughout it. He rode out to the aircraft marshalling area with them and stayed until the last aircraft had taken off.
How to kill the next four and a half hours? He walked, leaning on his stick, to Sick Quarters and argued with the squadron M.O.; who agreed that if he rested he should be able to try out his leg in a few days in the Miles Magister trainer which the station had for communication flights, or even the more powerful Miles Master which was kept for the same duties. He wanted to go to Ops, so the doctor had him driven there. The controller was pleased to let him stay: visiting air crew were always welcome.
Two hours and a few minutes after take-off, the first sighting report came in. Then came more signals: enemy fighters were attacking... the Beauforts had begun their attacks on the enemy warships... an S.O.S.... another S.O.S.... a ditching... hits on one of the battle-cruisers... on two of the destroyers... more S.O.S and ditching signals... and silence from several of the aircraft.
The controller arranged for a pickup van to take Christopher to Flying Control to watch the Beauforts land. Both squadrons had gone out, twenty aircraft in all. Twelve returned, nearly all of them damaged. The C.O’s was not among them. Christopher stayed in the control tower until the last one had landed, then had himself taken back to Ops to pick up as much as he could from the de-briefings. It was there that he heard how the squadron commander’s aircraft had been hit by a large-calibre shell from one of the battle-cruisers and been blown up before it could launch its torpedo.
Christopher made himself reeling drunk for the first time in his life that night. He spent most of the next day in his room and shed many tears.
Three days later the M.O. passed him fit and he obtained permission to fly the Magister. The Senior M.O. was himself a pilot, one of those in the Medical branch who had been put through a flying course in the inter-war years in the interests of aviation medicine. He accompanied Christopher and was so satisfied with his recovery that he did not demur when Christopher asked the station commander to let him fly the Master.
Before leaving the circuit, Christopher carried out such a blistering series of aerobatics that people all over the station dropped what they were doing to go outside and watch him; and those standing on the tarmac outside the hangars, around the airfield or along the station roads Hung themselves down on hands and knees to avoid decapitation.
He then set off to do some low flying and hedge-hop across the countryside.
*
The wing was over northern France, one squadron at 15000 ft, another at 20000 ft and James’s at 25000 ft. They had swept past St. Omer before the Germans took up their challenge and Me 109Fs came swarming towards them.
This, thought James, was more like it. The enemy’s response to Circuses had been disappointing. No doubt a force of over a hundred Spitfires escorting a dozen bombers was too daunting: the Germans preferred to let the small bomber formation
do what it wished than to attack the fighters. Thirty-six Spitfires were a more acceptable adversary.
As for Rhubarbs: James relished seeing enemy aeroplanes burning on the ground, locomotives toppling off the rails in clouds of smoke and steam, and gasometers or ammunition dumps exploding; but he preferred a dogfight with a Me 109, which enabled him to practise a fighter pilot’s unique skills. Ground attack could just as well be carried out by bombers.
Among the vapour trails and streaks of tracer, he picked out his target while he led his squadron down in a steep dive to meet the nearest enemy formations which were trying to surround the two lower squadrons. The one he wanted was leading a Schwarm of four fighters with two more Schwarme in company directly astern. That one was the Staffel commander, the squadron C.O. and very much his meat. The enemy pilot turned tightly towards him and James fired a snap burst: a tactic he had read about in the reminiscences of Great War pilots, calculated to disconcert the enemy rather than to hit him. The 109F had been about to level out but held its turn: long enough to allow James to half-roll and pull through. He fired again while he was still inverted and saw his cannon shells explode on the Messerschmitt’s nose.
Smoke darted from its engine and it began to spin.
A stream of tracer passed a few inches above James’s canopy as he pulled up from his attack. In his mirror he saw two 109s astern and to port. He side-slipped and their fire went twenty yards wide. But they were still there and correcting. He throttled back and made a skidding turn to starboard. The 109s overshot. He thrust the throttle forward, banked into a port turn and pressed the triggers for both cannon and machine-guns. Flames rippled along 109’s belly, its starboard wing snapped in half and it began to cartwheel. When James had completed a steep orbit he found the sky clear for a mile in every direction, with only his No 2 to hand a hundred yards away. It was time to head for base and perhaps pick up a straggler or two on the way on which to use the rest of their ammunition.
He was enjoying a half-pint of beer in the mess bar before lunch when he was called to the telephone. Christopher’s voice came as a surprise: they habitually called one another at about six in the evening. He had not spoken to Christopher since the day he was released from Sick Quarters. The timing of the call and Christopher’s despondent tone made him immediately disquiet: had something happened at home?
“What’s wrong, Christopher?”
“Every bloody thing. Listen, don’t tell the parents, all right?”
“What is it?”
“It’s taken me days to get around to telling you. Worst thing that ever happened...”
“Christ! What the hell is it?”
“The C.O. had to go out the other day without his crew: they were on leave. So he took mine. They all bought it.”
James could not find words for a moment. This was the last thing he had braced himself to hear.
“Poor old boy. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not all. I was so bloody depressed and fed up I aerobatted one of the Masters all over the station and then went off to get it out of my system with some low flying. The Group Captain took a dim view of the way I beat up the station and complaints have been pouring in about my low flying.”
“That’s always happening. Beating up the camp doesn’t sound so good, though.”
“It was a mistake! Anyway, I don’t think I could have got away with the low flying this time. I flew under a bridge. And beat up some pongoes who were marching along a road: a whole battalion of ‘em. They scattered!” He cackled. “Christ, it was funny, James.”
“Oh, God!”
“There’s been a summary of evidence and I’m going to be court martialled. In the meanwhile, I’m grounded.”
*
James was as much concerned for their parents as for his brother. The R.A.F. could not afford to waste good pilots in wartime; and the Service was not Christopher’s career. He would be reprimanded and probably given some boring job for a few months, such as flying Ansons on a communications flight. He would be posted to the most remote and uncomfortable station in Coastal Command: probably in the Outer Hebrides. But he would eventually return to operational flying. He would come to no harm. It would even do him good to have a rest from ops and to reflect on his wild misdemeanour. It was their parents who must be protected. It would add to their existing anxieties to know that Christopher had so narrowly missed an operation on which all his crew had been killed; they would worry about the effect of this loss on him; and there was always some odium attached to being court martialled, even when the offence had nothing to do with an officer’s honour, which would distress them.
Christopher’s news took much of the pleasure out of his own success that morning. His good spirits revived when he had a telephone call from Nicole in the evening.
“James darling! I have heard about what happened this morning. I’m so proud of you.”
“It seems to me you hear a great deal too much in that job of yours.”
“I’m coming to see you.”
“That’s super. When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve got three days’ leave. Can you get permission to sleep off camp?”
“As long as I can be reached by telephone.”
“Then book a double room.”
James’s spirits were soaring. He remembered Christopher’s troubles and felt guilty, but nothing could diminish the joy of this moment, of this unexpected gift.
“The White Hart’s the best place. Squadron Leader and Mrs?”
“What else, if you don’t want to scandalise everyone?”
“Let me know the time of your train and I’ll try to meet you. If I can’t, I’ll see you at the pub as soon as I come off duty.”
“Oh, I can tell you the train time now: it gets in at six.”
“I should be able to make that all right. Or perhaps you know that already, you omniscient sous-lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant, mon Commandant: I have just been promoted.”
“Then perhaps I had better really make it Mrs. Fenton. I’m not one to pretend I wouldn’t marry a girl for her money.”
A change came over Nicole. There was no answer for a few seconds. Her voice came down the wire as though it were champagne that had suddenly gone flat. “Don’t make a joke about that, James. Don’t ever...” Again there was a pause and he thought he heard a stifled sob. “James darling, I’ll see you tomorrow. Je t’aime.”
Before he could tell her that he loved her she had hung up.
*
Nicole was as she had been during those two days and nights at Christopher’s parental home: a disturbing blend of excitement and melancholy. She fluctuated between gaiety and sudden, brief introspective silence when her eyes dwelt on him with both love and sadness.
He attributed it to a delight as great as his own that they were together, that they could spend a whole night - three nights - in each other’s arms without the necessity to part in the small hours. To her guilt about the deception they were perpetrating: on the hotel management, on his parents, on Christopher and Roger. To the thoughts she must inevitably have about her own family each time she saw him, whom, before she came to England this time, she had never seen except with both their families around them.
Still he was not satisfied with his reasoning. There was something more, an elusive preoccupation and sombreness, for which his rationalising could not account. It was present from the moment he met her. When he greeted her at the railway station she hastened into his embrace, yet he could feel that it was not only happiness that made her tremble as she clung to him. On the short drive to the hotel she lapsed once into silence while she stared at him: he could see her in the driving mirror. While they were unpacking in their room she was full of chatter: but then he put some of her edgy manner down to shyness. He decided he would challenge her with it again as he had done a few weeks ago at home; but not until they were in bed together.
She asked after Christopher.
“He’s been through a b
ad time. We’re keeping it from our parents, but I want you to know about it. While he was grounded after that wheels-up landing, his crew had to fly on an operation with another pilot; the squadron commander, as it happened: his crew were on leave. They were shot down.”
She laid down her knife and fork and looked up at him. “They were killed?”
“All of them.”
Tears came into her eyes. “Poor Christopher. What a tragedy. He was so proud of them, and so fond, from the way he talked of them.”
“It was a great blow and a tremendous shock. It upset him profoundly. To let off steam, he took a light aircraft up and apparently did some absolutely crazy things.”
“Christopher?” She looked startled. “I know how wild he is, but... he has never been irresponsible.”
“If he was irresponsible this time, it was only to himself. Anyway, he beat up the station so terrifyingly that people, I hear, were throwing themselves on the ground to get out of the way. Then he went low flying, beat up a battalion of soldiers and frightened the wits out of half the civilian population of Northumberland. I’m afraid he’s in trouble and he’s bound to be grounded for a few months and posted to some dreadful place at the back of beyond.”
“Poor dear Christopher. He doesn’t deserve it. Won’t they take into account what happened to his crew?”
“Yes, but it won’t excuse what he did.”
“I’m so sorry. That is not the way to treat someone like Christopher. What are they trying to do, crush the high spirits out of him? That is something nobody will ever do.”
“Oh, it doesn’t amount to much, just a slap on the wrist. It might even be just what he needs. He’ll get over it. Of course I’m just as sorry as you are, and just as sympathetic, but you can’t bend the rules beyond a certain point. He went too far.”
“No doubt there are many others who have done the same and got away with it.”
“Of course there are. But the first lesson to learn about life is that it is unfair.”
They went early to bed and were so much occupied with each other that it was midnight before he taxed her gently with the puzzle that had been at the back of his mind all evening.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 36