‘It’s Kiwi… he was knocked backwards, almost out of the nose turret.’
When Roger could see well enough to read the instruments and ensure that he was flying in the correct attitude he tried the intercom. There was an answer only from Devonshire. While Unwin tried to revive Clooney, Roger told Devonshire to go round the aircraft. Presently Clooney was sitting up, looking dazed, with burns on the backs of his hands. Then Devonshire’s voice came through Roger’s headphones.
‘Everyone O.K., Skip, but the rest of the intercom’s U/S.’
The port outer began to fire irregularly. Roger tried to synchronise it with the others. It faltered, raced ahead. A long flame shot out from one of the exhaust ports, then several more, at all the ports, followed by smoke and the engine stopped.
Roger felt as though his skull was about to implode, that an exterior force was crushing it under irresistible pressure so that at any second the bone would collapse and compress his brain into oblivion.
For a few seconds he welcomed the idea of oblivion.
He felt his right leg seize solid again. He thought of all the trips that yet awaited him: one of them was bound before long to be his last. He was going to die in the cockpit of a Halifax. He thought of Dolly and the problems and trouble that awaited him at her hands.
He beckoned to Unwin. ‘Get everyone together and bale out.’
Unwin’s jaw sagged. ‘Bale out, Roger?’
‘Yes,’ Roger shouted. ‘Bale out you f ing undertaker. Get’em out… now… unless you want to end up as a corpse yourself.’
He found that Devonshire was standing beside him. ‘Make sure Kiwi’s all right, Creamy… that bloody coffin-maker’s useless.’
‘Sure, Rodge. Don’t worry.’ Devonshire’s face showed astonishment, pity and shock.
MacTavish loomed up beside the pilot’s seat with a blast of foetid breath. ‘All the best, Skipper-r-r.’
Then the others came one by one to say goodbye and Roger impatiently told them to get on with it.
Devonshire came back to stand at his side.
‘Get on with it, damn you, Creamy. I want to switch on George and get out of here.’
‘There’s no need for the auto pilot, Roger. You can get her home. I’m staying with you.’
They stared at each other.
‘Go on, Roger, stick it out. We can make it back to base.’
‘Christ, man, we can’t. We’ll lose another engine in a minute. Can’t you hear it? Look at the oil pressure… and the rev counter… the port inner’s going to pack in any second.’
Devonshire could see nothing wrong with any of the instruments for the two inner engines.
‘They’re O.K. Rodge.’
Roger began to stand up. ‘Right… if you’re going to argue, I’ll bloody well chuck you out.’
Devonshire looked stunned and sick. ‘O.K., Rodge. Let’s go, if that’s what you want.’
‘It’s not what I want, it’s what we’ve got to do, before we crash. Have you signalled base?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s all right then. There’ll be no ‘Missing believed killed’ telegram to worry our folks. Come on.’
They clipped on their parachute packs and dropped through the hatch. Roger could see Devonshire’s parachute after it had opened. He was glad that they were falling together. He was glad that they were many miles from the others.
They landed in a field on a hillside surrounded by woods. There was neither pain nor stiffness in Roger’s leg. His head was clear. His spirits were soaring.
Devonshire, standing at his side, said quietly ‘Good thing you can speak the lingo, Roger. We’ll get home all right.’
It was the last thing Roger had wanted when he had ordered everyone to bale out. He had had enough and he believed that God sympathised and had given him an excellent reason for taking a legitimate way out. Reason? It was an excuse. He could have coaxed the Halifax home.
In the far distance they heard a muffled explosion and saw a sheet of flame where their Halifax had hit the ground and blown up.
Devonshire tugged at his sleeve.
‘Come on Roger, let’s get cracking. We’ve got to hide. No bastard Jerry’s going to take us prisoner.’ Roger was regretting that Devonshire had so faithfully stayed with him.
ELEVEN
On a dusk patrol in late Feburary, near the Brest peninsula, Christopher was growing bored. The clouds were too high to provide good cover for any marauding enemy fighters. He was flying at the most economical cruising speed, keeping fuel consumption to a minimum. For four weeks his routine patrolling had provided no excitement or opportunity to add to his kills. Now and then a single Me 110 or Ju 88 fighter variant armed with cannons as well as machine-guns and capable of 300 m.p.h. had appeared, and from time to time he had glimpsed a pair. But none had shown any inclination to venture far enough off-shore for him to start an attack.
He had no definite intention in his mind when he took off. He did not acknowledge to himself that he had been harbouring petrol for any special reason. But when the sun was touching the horizon and he knew that if he descended from his height of 5000 ft it would be dark at low level, he could not prevaricate or procrastinate any longer.
‘I can see something over on the starboard, Harry.’ ‘Where?’
‘Two-o’clock, at extreme range, same height. The sun’s just glinting on something… and I think I can see it turning this way. See anything?’
‘Yeah… yeah, sport… I think you’re right.’
‘Let’s take a dekko.’
‘Let’s do that small thing.’
When they had passed the point at which Roger had claimed to see an aircraft, he said ‘Must have turned away… we’ll go a bit further… I’ll let down, so we can see it against the sky.’
‘I’ll keep a sharp look out.’
Roger took the Beaufighter down to 500 ft and by then the sun had disappeared. He had made a careful study of the map showing the flak sites on the Brest peninsula. He approached the shore cautiously, threading his way between two gun batteries which were widely separated, knowing he could slip through without attracting attention.
He felt lively and pleased, exhilarated, alert, looking for excitement. Looking for an enemy aircraft to shoot down.
He and Malahide knew where the nearest fighter airfield was. He steered towards it. The flarepath was on. An aeroplane was standing at one end of the runway. Roger circled carefully outside the circuit, looking for anyone coming in to land. Watching the one preparing to take off.
He saw navigation lights approaching. Either a night fighter coming back from a short night flying test, or a day fighter homing from patrol at sea. Would it land before the one waiting to take off was given permission to roll?
The approaching fighter banked and turned downwind. It was an Me 110. Christopher was convinced that the one on the runway was a Ju 88. He badly wanted to shoot down a Ju 88 fighter variant. The 110 began its up-wind leg. Christopher stalked it. It was very low. He followed it and dived, firing his cannons. The 110 instantly caught fire and stalled, to fall to the ground at the edge of the airfield.
From all around the airfield, light flak and heavy machine-guns opened fire. The aeroplane waiting at the down-wind end of the runway began its take-off run, its pilot frantic to avoid being caught on the ground.
Christopher flew along the runway, chasing the accelerating aircraft. It was a Ju 88. The runway lights had been switched off, but he had identified it a moment before. They were on again, to help the pilot. With his cannons and machine-guns firing, he hurtled up-wind, skimming the surface of the runway. All the flak on the aerodrome seemed to be converging on the Beau. The Ju 88 burst into flames and exploded. He broke hard up and to starboard, passing directly above it, feeling the bump as he flew through the rising hot air, hearing fragments of destroyed aircraft strike his wings and fuselage.
‘Pity it was on the ground… I wanted to bag one in the air.’
A bright flash and the stench of explosive filled the cockpit. Christopher felt a burning pain across his chest. The front of his mae west was in tatters. There was a smell of scorched clothing and rubber.
‘O.K., Harry?’
Christopher heard a groan before Malahide replied. ‘Hit… bloody arm.’
‘Bad?’
‘No,’ grudgingly, ‘I can move it.’
‘Which side?’
‘Right.’
‘Lucky you’re left-handed. I got a shell splinter or a twenty-mil shell across the chest.’
‘Jesus! Are you all right? Can you fly her?’
‘I’m O.K.’
*
Their wounds were not serious, but the damage to the aircraft took some explaining away.
Group Captain Todd, Wing Commander Selleck and Squadron Leader Gorman listened to them with sceptical sympathy. The sympathy was prompted by an understanding of wild young pilots like Christopher and by reluctant admiration for what he had achieved: two enemy aircraft destroyed in return for repairs to the Beaufighter. Their sympathy did not condone his having followed a suspected enemy aircraft so determinedly or conscientiously or whatever the motive was, when he knew he ought not to. They did not press him or Malahide on the subject of whether they had really seen one.
‘We were just coming off patrol, sir. I didn’t feel I ought to turn back when the hostile - it must have been an Eighty-eight, because I didn’t manage to catch up with it - crossed the coast, sir.’
‘Quite, Fenton.’ Group Captain Todd spoke drily and looked ironical.
They spent a few days in Sick Quarters and were then sent on leave. Christopher took Malahide home with him for two days, to show him to his parents, before Malahide took off for the bright lights of London.
A week later, when Christopher, who had driven, went into the mess he found Malahide, who had returned by train, waiting for him.
‘We’ve got to see Arthur Gorman as soon as you arrive.’
‘I’ve arrived. Let’s go.’
Gorman greeted them with his usual friendliness.
‘They’re crying out for experienced Beaufighter crews in North Africa. Air Ministry are pinching three crews from the squadron, I’m sorry to say. You’re one of them. You seem to have a taste for ground attack! And as that’s what you’ll be doing in the desert, we thought you’d like the posting.’
And we’ll avoid a court of enquiry, a possible summary of evidence and another - for me - court martial for breaking the rules, Christopher thought. He did not need to be told that their posting had been requested by their Commanding Officer.
How much embarkation leave are we getting?’ he asked.
Gorman looked amused, shook his head in mock amazement. ‘You’ve got the cheek of the devil.’
*
James had spent a day and night at home while Christopher and Malahide were there. When they told him about their misadventure, Christopher had grinned at him in one of the many ways in which they communicated with one another which left no room for ambiguity even though it did not precisely complement what he said.
‘We both thought we saw something which looked like an Eighty-eight. What would you have done, James?’
‘I don’t know,’ he had replied drily. ‘I don’t know what a long-range Coastal Beau crew are supposed to do, never having been on a Coastal squadron.’
‘You patronising curmudgeon. Well, if that isn’t a prime example of Fighter Command snobbery… ‘ Christopher put on a very good act of exasperation.
James, at his office desk, recalled how amused Malahide had looked, and the tone in which he had said ‘You can’t come the raw prawn with your brother, sport. Even Blind Freddy wouldn’t swallow that one.’ He had then looked at James. ‘He’s a real bottler, James.’
‘Bottler?’
Christopher had explained. ‘I’ll have you know that’s high praise in the Aussie vernacular.’
Thinking about it now, a couple of weeks later, James was proud of Christopher but still worried about where his recklessness might lead him. He would feel more tranquil if Christopher were on a night fighter Beau squadron in Fighter Command. Hunting enemy bombers in the dark with radar-equipped Beaufighters had become a highly technical and esoteric pursuit, which would absorb all his young brother’s considerable intellectual abilities. It was also work which precluded the kind of headlong dash that had already caused Christopher enough trouble. He asked himself if it was his duty to engineer Christopher’s posting to Fighter Command and a night fighter squadron.
The telephone on his desk rang, interrupted his reflections.
‘It’s me, James.’
‘Hello, Christopher. I was just thinking about you.’
‘I’m touched, brother! Stop Press: I’m posted.’
‘There’s something in telepathy after all.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. You must have put up a ginormous black to be posted already: you’ve hardly been on the squadron three months.’
‘My talents are required elsewhere. I’m coming home tomorrow on ten days’ embarkation leave.’
Surprise kept James silent for some seconds. ‘I’ll take a forty-eight as soon as I can: in two or three days’ time, probably.’
Christopher could not reveal his destination over the telephone. James replaced the receiver. The news had made him glum. Their parents would be dejected. Whether Christopher was being sent to the Far East or North Africa, it meant much waiting for letters; and a long separation. Overseas tours for single men were for four years; married men, three. But the war, surely, would be over well before another four years elapsed? It was not only his mother and father who would be downcast and wait anxiously for every mail. He himself would feel the separation and the extra fears no less than they. And with Christopher thousands of miles away, he would not be able exert any influence over him.
James had felt tempted several times in the past few months to volunteer for a posting to North Africa: because he reasoned that victory there was vital to winning the war as quickly as possible; and because a posting there would ensure his immediate return to flying. More even than family ties, it had been his reluctance to leave Britain until Nicole returned safely from France that had restrained him.
The telephone rang again and he was not surprised to hear his mother’s voice.
‘Hello, Mummy. Christopher’s just been on the line.’
‘It’s not very welcome news, is it? But that’s not why I wanted to speak to you. It’s Roger. He and his crew are missing from a raid last night. Denis has spoken to his C.O. on the telephone and it seems they baled out. He didn’t say where, of course, but he did say they were almost certainly safe.’
‘Poor old Roger. How is Auntie Beryl taking it?’ ‘Putting on a brave face, naturally.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out. You can tell her that what Roger’s C.O. probably meant was that they baled out over France: which means a good chance of getting home eventually. I’ll find out what I can. Tell her and Uncle Denis to cheer up and I’ll give them the real gen when I see them. I’m taking a forty-eight in a few days, to see Christopher.’
James was not superstitious, but he wondered if there would be another call that day to confirm the superstition that fateful events occurred in threes.
He was not in the mood for paper work. He sat staring out of the window, wondering where Roger was and if he were unhurt and had managed so far to avoid being taken prisoner. It was not only the occupying German troops of whom one had to be careful, but also of treacherous French civilians and the hated Milice, the police who had been suborned by the Nazis.
Tiny Ross, with whom he shared an office, was away for two days on visits to sector stations. He would have liked to talk to some close friend like Ross about Christopher and Roger. It was almost time for lunch. He would go to the mess a little early; he had no
mind for work; a pint of bitter would be agreeable. He had reached the door when he heard the telephone bell and turned back to snatch up the receiver with uncharacteristic nervous haste.
‘James?’
He gripped the telephone so tightly that his hand and forearm trembled. When he tried to speak, his mouth was too dry.
‘Are you there, James?’
The familiar voice, very dear to him, held a tension, a note almost of desperation that he had not heard in it before.
‘Nicole… darling… are you all right?’
‘Oh, James, my darling… yes, I’m all right… you? And Christopher… Roger?’
‘Christopher’s fine. So am I. Are you in London?’ ‘What about Roger?’
‘He’s O.K. Are you in London darling?’
‘James, don’t try to fool me. What is it you won’t tell me about Roger?’
‘We know he’s O.K… he had to bale out last night.’ ‘Oh, no! Your poor aunt… and Mr. Hallowes.’ ‘Let’s not talk about that now. Are you in London? For the third time.’
‘Yes. And I have already talked with Henri… isn’t it wonderful news about him? He’s coming to London this afternoon. When can I see you?’
‘This evening. I’ll be off duty at six. I’ll be with you by half past seven. Where are you?’
‘At the flat. Lucienne is away… that is, she has discreetly moved in with one of the other girls for a couple of nights so that you can have her room.’
‘Bless her. What about Henri?’
‘I’ve arranged for him to stay in one of the men’s flats.’
Nicole lived in a block near Regent’s Park which had been requisitioned by the Free French Armee de 1’Air as an officers’ mess.
‘He will wonder why you aren’t inviting him to have Lucienne’s room.’
‘That’s easy. Logical.’ She chuckled because he often teased her about the French passion for logic. ‘It is more fitting for a French officer to be accommodated officially in a French mess than for a British officer. ‘Lucienne knows you will not use her room. She has moved out so that we can be completely alone.’
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 54