‘And what will your brother think of a man spending the night alone with you in your flat?’
Nicole’s voice changed again, in a different way; it held an unfamiliar hardness. ‘He will have to accept it. I am not a child. And, James, I have been through more in the past seven months than Henri has seen of the war in the last two and a half years. That is enough to justify me in choosing to do what I want: if I had any need to justify it to anyone; but I do not have to, except to myself.’
‘All right, darling, all right. Don’t get het up about it.’
‘What is that in French? It is so long since I spoke English… don’t be too idiomatic.’
‘Alors, done, nous causerons en francais. How long have you been back?’
‘This is the first moment that I have been permitted to make a telephone call, James Cheri. I came back two days ago.’
‘I can’t wait to see you.’
‘James… do you still love me?’
‘I love you very much.’ Gail and one or two other pastime bedmates notwithstanding, it was entirely true; and so was what he added: ‘And only you.’
She spoke very quietly. ‘It has been very important to me to believe that all these months.’
‘Darling. You’ve been in my thoughts every minute.’ Which was also true, even if at times she had receded to the subconscious part of his mind. ‘Did you see your parents?’
‘Yes.’ Now she sounded troubled. ‘They are well.’
‘We can tell each other all the news in a few hours’ time.’
*
On his way by Tube to Regents Park James was thinking about Nicole in the context of the old days when everyone was happy and life so well ordered that it seemed impossible for it ever to change. He recalled the visits their families had exchanged, one or the other crossing the Channel in their boat - the Fentons’ twenty-five-foot sloop, Jester, the Girards’ thirty-fotter, a ketch, Corsaire - and the way it always was. There was always laughter, sunshine and iced drinks, happiness. Some of James’s pleasantest memories began with the sight of Corsaire sailing up the Solent, or of the coastline of Normandy approaching. Those holidays were difficult to distinguish from one another, except by remembering Nicole and how old she had been, how she had looked, when a certain episode had occurred.
Looking back on it, it struck him that it had all really been very homely and humdrum, although going to sea and to a foreign country was an adventure for growing children: and not many families in those days owned a yacht, even one of modest size. Quiet and serene as those spring and summer days had been, they still held an aura of romance and excitement for him as they had when he was a boy. It was only when he had seen Nicole again, during the Battle of Britain, after more than a year, that he realised that it was she who had made those quiet holidays romantic and exciting for him. That was when love began to draw them so closely together and he occasionally wondered if he would ever see any aspect of life again in the same perspective. The war had already, in its first few months, changed his way of viewing life; and then Nicole had come back into his private life and given his way of seeing everything yet another dimension.
He was almost running as he hurried from the Underground station to her door. In that era of polished parquet rather than fitted carpets (reserved contemptuously for beauty salons and the world of haute couture) he heard the quick tap of her heels as she came to answer his ring. They clung to each other wordlessly and when he looked up from kissing her he saw that she had closed the drawing-room door so that they could have their private moment without embarrassment to themselves or to her brother.
Henri was standing already when they entered the room: smiling, hand outstretched. The legacy from years of North African sunshine had not quite faded, the wind off the sea had turned his tan into a weatherbeaten ruddiness.
But Nicole: James’s heart seemed to contract when he looked at her. She was pale in a way which cosmetics could not mask, she had lost weight - and had had little to spare - there was a sadness in her eyes, her fingers, which had always been slim, were thin and clutched his hand with nervous possessive force. She had always had a clear, fresh complexion. The poor diet in France had robbed it of its healthy glow. (For a decade after the war, Frenchwomen were to be instantly identifiable by their bad skins).
James and Nicole sat side-by-side on the sofa, holding hands. Henri regarded them benignly. He had - the Royal Navy, with which he was serving, had marvellous resources - arrived with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. It lubricated their eager talk.
‘Your parents?’
Nicole glanced quickly at her brother before her eyes met James’s. ‘They are very brave. And of course absolutely undaunted. They are both doing everything they can to help. They defy the Boches in every possible way. Too much. They scared me. Papa, at the shipyard, provokes all the delays and sabotage that he possibly can. Maman takes great risks for escaping British airmen.’
‘Are they in good health?’
‘Only the collaborators have full stomachs; but they are well. Now tell me about Roger.’
‘From the bearing they took on his last transmission, he came down somewhere south-west of Clermont Ferrand.’
‘Then he has an excellent chance of being helped by the Maquis. That should be a comfort to his parents: but please be discreet, James. Don’t quote me.’
‘Of course I won’t. And I suppose I daren’t ask you any questions?’
She shook her head and gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.
‘I’m going home for forty-eight hours in two days’ time. Why don’t you both come?’
‘I have to go back to my ship tomorrow.’ A look of pride crossed Henri’s face. ‘As First Lieutenant to the Flotilla Commander, I try to make myself indispensable. And we are busy.’
James nodded. ‘I know something about that. I envy you. My job is a very good one, as ground jobs go; but I’m slowly going gaga with frustration.’
‘How much longer will it be before you go back to flying?’
‘Only another month, with luck, I’m pushing my boss to cut the six months short, but I don’t think there’s any chance of that. Meanwhile I’m trying to sort out the best job that will be going in a month’s time. I want a squadron that has the Spitfire Nine. It’s worth waiting a few extra weeks if it means I’ll get one.’
‘And Tiny?’ Nicole asked.
‘He’s after the same thing. I’m trying hard to convince him that he’d have more fun on Typhoons; to reduce the competition a bit. But he keeps asking why, if I’m so keen on the Typhoon, I want to go back to Spits. I’m afraid I’m not succeeding in convincing him.’
There had been a lot of constraint for them all, for a while, but James’s wryly humorous manner now had lightened the burden of anxiety they were all carrying: Nicole and Henri for their parents, himself for Nicole and Roger. For the past half-hour the whole evening had been in the balance and could have fallen into a desolate mood from which it would have been impossible to extricate it completely. But now, after James had concealed the heartache he felt for Nicole, the woe he shared with her and Henri about their parents, and his perturbation about Roger, the evening had been rescued. The whisky was no hindrance in this salvage operation.
They dined well, at the Savoy, in celebration of Nicole’s return and her reunion with her brother. When Henri said goodnight, shaking James’s hand like a well-brought-up Frenchman, he gave James a friendly, understanding smile and there was amusement underlying his parting words, ‘Sleep well.’
James had to be up early to return to Uxbridge.
‘But I’ll see you again tomorrow night,’ he told Nicole as he helped her to undress. ‘And you’ll come with me when I go on my two days’ leave, won’t you?’ She was shy, which he put down to their seven months apart. It was only when, in the dim light of her bedside lamp, he saw the small burn scars on her back that he understood the real reason why she had been so hesitant with him.
Tears filled his eyes as he be
nt to kiss her gently where she had been burned. He felt her body racked with sobs, now that she could cast aside all pretence.
‘What did they do to you, darling?’ He could hardly speak coherently through his own distress.
‘The Gestapo have an unpleasant way of extinguishing their cigarettes… but… I didn’t tell them anything… ‘
‘And you escaped?’
‘My friends of the Maquis rescued me. I was being taken from the Gestapo Headquarters to prison, and they ambushed the van.’ She drew a deep breath, and with a bitterness he had never expected to hear from her, said ‘They killed every one of the Boches swine… four of them… and none too gently or quickly, I can tell you.’
‘Oh, my God. You poor darling.’
‘I enjoyed seeing it. I can’t pretend I didn’t. My only regret, then and now, is that I didn’t have a gun or a knife with which to have a hand in it myself.’
Hours later, happy and quiet together in the aftermath of love, James asked gently ‘What now?’ ‘You will go back to commanding a squadron… and I… I shall go back soon to France.’
‘No, Nicole. There is no need for that: the work you do here is just as important… essential.’
‘No. And in your heart you know it. I owe it to brave men like you and Christopher, Roger… and even Henri who has seen so little action in so long a time… I owe it to you and all the thousands like you… I must go back. That is the work I can do best, and which I can do better than most people… because 1 know now what it is like… with experience, the second time will not be so difficult… so bad. Besides, my darling, you may have to bale out over France one day - God forbid - and wouldn’t it be a comfort to know that I am there to help you back to England?’
‘How much longer has all this to go on, do you suppose?’ James’s listlessly contemplated the dreary future.
‘With Japan and America still only dabbling at war while they build up their strength, Rommel giving us such a bad time in the desert, nearly the whole of Europe to liberate and half the Orient… this war will go on for years, and don’t ever make the mistake of thinking there are any short cuts if we want total victory.’
The Sure Recompense
Richard Townshend Bickers
ONE
The Air Officer Commanding could have posed convincingly for one of those advertisements in the glossy magazines: the sort in which a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman, benign and sincere, exuding integrity, is trying to foist something ruinously expensive on you. Sometimes he has a cutglass tumbler in his manicured hand and is recommending a rare whisky or brandy; at others, one highly polished brogue rests familiarly on the bumper of a luxurious car approximately the length of a squash court. Or he may be sitting behind a vast mahogany desk and warning you of the consequences of neglecting your life assurance, your teeth, your tailor: or your wife; with a diamond brooch or a mink coat somewhere in the picture.
There were many differences between the air vice marshal and a male model. His two rows of medal ribbons dating from the Great War was an obvious one, but more striking was the hardness behind the humour in his eyes and his authoritative aura of being a man who had never had to try to sell anything to anybody. He had spent his adult life giving orders.
“I know you’ve been chafing to get away from your desk, Fenton. But your six months here are only just up, so I think you’ll allow we’re keeping our promise to send you back to flying after the shortest possible rest, what?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
James’s admiration and affection for his A.O.C. were considerable. Even eighteen months ago he would have taken the A.O.C.’s manner at its face value; but two and three-quarters years of war had dispelled many of his youthful illusions. Six months on the A.O.C.’s staff had taught him to read the Old Man’s portents. He was getting the posting to which he had been looking forward since he left his last squadron; and promptly, too. He could not quite believe that it was coming absolutely free of cost.
“Air Ministry are giving you...Squadron.”
Significant, twinkling-eyed, avuncular pause to let this benison sink in.
“I’m delighted, sir. But I was hoping for something further south.” Which was as good as saying that he wasn’t delighted at all; scarcely pleased.
The squadron had been moved recently from a Kentish airfield where they had suffered casualties in sweeps and Rhubarbs over France, on which two of their Commanding Officers had been killed in two months. Their morale, already much affected, had reeled at this. They were now in East Anglia, near the Norfolk Broads, in a quiet sector.
James was surprised to hear that his old acquaintance Bertie Challis, who had been given the command three weeks ago, after the second fatality, was already being replaced.
“Challis was killed yesterday.” There was plain and genuine sorrow in the air vice marshal’s eyes and in his voice. He was handsome, with greying dark hair and immense distinction but there was nothing bogus about him. He was a good man and took losses personally.
“I couldn’t be more sorry to hear that, sir. I trained with him. What happened?”
“The way it happened makes it worse. He’d just taken a section off, they were climbing away from the aerodrome, when his Number Two lost him in the sun and flew into him. They were both killed. The other pilot was a boy who joined the squadron only three weeks ago.”
“That won’t have done their morale any good, sir.”
The squadron’s faltering spirit had been the subject of much anxious discussion at Group Headquarters for a month before it was withdrawn from a base whence it operated over France to one from which it flew North Sea convoy patrols and sweeps over Holland, which was comparatively lightly defended.
“It’s a compliment to you that you’re being given the job of licking them into shape again. You’re to take over tomorrow. Report to Saso Twelve Group at mid-day on your way. Good luck, and I hope you’ll be back in Eleven Group soon.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m glad I’ve had this six months here.”
“Now that it’s over!” Irony with understanding. “I know you really wanted Spitfire Nines, but we won’t be equipping with them until July. And I don’t suppose your enthusiasm for staff work extends to hanging on here another two months on the chance of getting a Mark Nine squadron, what?”
James returned the A.O.C.’s look of amusement. “I think not, thank you, sir.”
On his way back to his office he made a quick calculation. From here, H.Q. 11 Group at Uxbridge, to H.Q. 12 Group at Watnall, near Nottingham, was about 130 miles. Say three hours in his seven-year-old M.G. To be on the safe side, he had better leave at eight. From there to Holtham, his new station, was about the same distance. Allowing two hours at Group to be briefed, meet his new A.O.C. and have a quick lunch, he wouldn’t reach his destination until five at best. He should count himself lucky that he was still able to obtain petrol coupons for duty journeys, although he would much prefer to fly in.
Tiny Ross looked up from the other desk. They had both been hoping that the new Spitfire Mk IX would enter service by the time they were due to return to flying. As second best, each would have liked to go onto the new Typhoon, which had a top speed of well over 400 m.p.h. and would certainly be sent into action over France and not wasted on less exacting work. But the first Typhoon squadron had begun operations only that month and there was no other yet. The previous day, Ross had received his posting notice to command a Spitfire V squadron which was stationed in Hampshire: a little too far from the coast to promise the maximum in the way of sweeps and Rhubarbs. He was also leaving the Group tomorrow and would have to wait for a return to it and an airfield closer to the Channel.
“Well?”
“Bertie Challis went for a Burton yesterday. I’m taking over.”
“Congratulations. But you’ll be a bit out of things as well. What happened to Bertie?”
“His Number Two collided with him on take-off. They both bought it.�
��
“Cheerful way to start. I hope everything’s over by the time you turn up.”
“God, I’d forgotten about that.”
A double funeral. James hoped indeed that it would be held tomorrow while he was on his way.
Before he began to empty his desk and hand over to a successor, he had a letter to write. Nicole had said goodbye to him a few days ago, after a bare two months in England. By now she would have been landed in France again. He hoped this separation would not be of seven months’ duration, like the first one. She might be back at any time. Her brother Henri was still on an M.T.B. flotilla on the Channel coast. He would let Henri know where he was going. If Nicole arrived back and couldn’t reach him, she would make contact with her brother. Whatever pressing matters demanded James’s time and attention, Nicole was never far from his thoughts.
“It’s going to be hell driving off early tomorrow after a thrash tonight,” Ross said. “I hate driving with a hangover.”
“I’d start out after duty this evening, if I could. I can’t wait to get there.”
“You’re staying. It’s going to be a good party.”
James had made good time. He arrived an hour early for his appointment with the Senior Air Staff Officer, who had been pleased to see him straight away. The A.O.C. had admitted him to his office as soon as the S.A.S.O. and one or two other senior officers had talked to him. He had left Watnall at 1.30 p.m. and sped eastward across flat country and along roads where little traffic moved. The carefully maintained little P model gulped the miles with a throaty snarl. He enjoyed driving. He had not much enjoyed what he had heard at Group.
Information, deprecating comments, warnings, suggestions; a general damning with faint praise. Phrases recurred while he took the bends and raced along the straights. “Good material...did very well down south for a long time...some of their most experienced pilots were posted and the new boys couldn’t cope with the F.W. One-ninety...heavy casualties...seemed to bother the older stagers too...bad accident record...poor flying discipline...crime (Which did not have such a terrible meaning in Service terms. For an airman to overstay his leave by one day or to be caught in the town with his tunic undone and bare-headed were military crimes.)...serviceability needs improving...Squadron Leader Challis didn’t have time to change things much before he...they’re a mixed bag: British, Canadian, Australian, Rhodesian, New Zealand...but basically excellent types.”
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