And, metaphorically, a dusting of the hands and a wry: They’re all yours; and the best of British luck. No one actually said, but strongly implied: You’ve got a bunch of unruly toughs and they might turn out to be some good if you’re tough enough. The squadron has had an excellent reputation until now: even if few of its present members were on it when it was earning a good name.
The station commander was an old acquaintance. James had known him as a squadron leader when he himself was a pilot officer. A plethoric man with a large dark moustache and a general air of Saturnine shrewdness.
“Glad to have you here, James. You’ve got quite a job. Your squadron’s on our satellite at Scarshall.” James glanced at a large-scale map on the wall: Scarshall was about three miles away. “Your officers live and mess in Scarshall Manor. It overlooks the aerodrome. I’m afraid they’ve developed a rather unhealthy assumption of independence in the short time they’ve been here. I’m looking to you to put some stiffening into them. You’ve got a few pre-war types. Henderson, the A Flight commander, is one, a Canadian. The other flight commander, Moore, is an ex-regular sergeant pilot. Your Engineering and Equipment officers are both ex-regular N.C.Os. Two of the N.C.O. pilots and a couple of others are pre-war sergeants. The makings of a first-class squadron are there. They used to be one. They need to get back their fighting spirit and recognise the virtues of discipline.”
“All the Commonwealth types I’ve served with have had plenty of fighting spirit, sir. They haven’t always been very amenable to the pre-war style of doing things.”
“We have to make allowances. But there are limits, James, and I’m afraid your chaps tend to exceed them. Bertie Challis had just begun to win their confidence. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble in doing that. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. You’ll have my full support.”
It was after five-o’clock when James drove up to the black and white counterweighted bar which blocked the entrance to R.A.F. Scarshall. A Service policeman in a blanched belt came out of the wooden hutted Guard Room, saluted and asked for his identity card. Gave the card back, saluted. “Station Headquarters straight ahead, sir, turn right at the T-junction there,” pointing, “and it’s on your left.”
“Thank you, Corporal. What’s your name?”
“Jones, sir.”
“Who’s in charge of the station police?”
“Flight Sergeant Smith, sir.”
James nodded and drove on, knowing that he had left the police acting corporal wondering. In the Service it was always disconcerting to be asked your name by an officer on first meeting. It was his own technique to do so. Asking the senior police N.C.O’s name had, he knew, been an added discomfiture. It was a good ploy to start by giving the impression that you had your eye on everyone.
S.H.Q. was an arrangement of Nissen huts laid out end-to-end in a T shape. He knocked on the squadron adjutant’s door. A balding man wearing an old style observer’s badge above the ribbon of the M.C. and 1914-1918 war service medals stood up. His eyes went first to the two broad and one narrow rings of braid on James’s cuffs, then to his medal ribbons: D.S.O., D.F.C. and bar. The new C.O’s face was familiar to him from press photographs; so was his record of 22 confirmed kills; and he had heard somewhere that this boy had reached his twenty-third birthday only last week. They were getting younger every day, and some of them, like this one, looked it.
The adjutant came round his desk. “Good evening, sir. We’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
Each in his different way, no doubt, thought James. Most of them probably with defiance. But this old boy looks genuine enough.
“Thank you, Patterson.” He had seen his name on the door.
Patterson opened an adjoining door. “Your office, sir.”
James glanced in. “I’ll settle in later. I’ll make my number with the camp commandant before I do anything else. Then perhaps we can go up to the mess. I notice there doesn’t appear to be any flying going on.”
“The squadron was released for the funeral this afternoon, sir.”
“What time was that?”
“Two-o’clock.”
“Then they should be flying now. What time is tea in the mess?”
“From half-past four till half-past five, sir.”
“Had yours?”
“No, sir. The camp comedian and I have been waiting for you.”
“Call the mess, will you, and tell them we may be a few minutes late.”
The satellite aerodrome occupied by the squadron had the necessary extra ground staff to provide general services. James was in command, but there was a flight lieutenant camp commandant to run the administration and discipline which was outside the squadron adjutant’s province, under James. There was mutual recognition. Flight Lieutenant Kinnock had been Station Warrant Officer at James’s pre-war base. A short man, with a round, prematurely bald head; a garden gnome in uniform. A keen disciplinarian and a robust hockey player.
“Glad you’ve come, sir. This lot could do with a bit of chasing.”
As S.W.O. he had looked approvingly on young Pilot Officer Fenton, whose turnout was always conspicuously smart, in uniform and civvies, who usually looked as though he had just emerged from a shower and who seldom had a hair out of place.
“You do whatever is needed. I’ll back you up all the way. How did the funeral go off?”
“I’ve seen smarter drill, sir.”
“Judging by the squadron’s accident record, they should be in good practice.”
Kinnock’s expression did not change, but he felt a jolt. Young Fenton had become pretty callous, by the sound of it.
“Come on, Kinnock, let’s go and have a spot of tea.”
Fenton realised that he had shocked his camp commandant, but had no regrets. He would not as easily shock Patterson, who had been a flying man and forced to come to terms with the daily loss of his comrades. It did not mean that one lost all warmth of feeling or could not admit others to the intimacy of friendship, but one had to acquire a certain self-sufficiency; a measure of Patrician aloofness from events, as distinct from people.
The airfield had once been a part of the home farm. The drive up to Scarshall Manor ran, a long avenue, from a lane at the side of the aerodrome up a slight incline to the huge house: Palladian with Georgian additions. Some of the owner’s less valuable furniture remained, the rest was standard Service issue; but there was still an air of some luxury.
When James entered the hall with Patterson and Kinnock, a couple of officers were crossing it but did not turn their heads to look at them. The huge drawing-room, now ante-room, was occupied by only three people. They stood up when they saw James come in.
“Good evening. My name’s Fenton.” He shook hands with them: the Equipment officer, the Intelligence officer and a New Zealand pilot. “Where is everyone?”
The three eyed each other and looked uncomfortable. James, pouring himself a cup of tea, waited for an answer. There was none. He turned round.
“Well?”
The Equipper, who was the oldest and wore the ribbon of the Long Service and Good Conduct medal awarded to other ranks after 18 years, stood up a bit straighter.
“They may be in the bar, sir.”
“At five-forty? Why is it open before six?”
“It isn’t usually, sir.”
The Equipment officer was hedging and James understood why.
“Good God! Are they having a wake, or something?” Carrying on drinking despite a death was normal and healthy. To start drinking before the prescribed time on that account was both a breach of regulations and noxious. “Where is the bar?”
Patterson moved towards the door. “I’ll show you, sir.” He led the way across the hall. Sounds of laughter and a wireless set reached James. He recognised the Mills Brothers singing “Paper Doll”, a new hit. They went a few paces down a wide corridor and into a large room divided by an improvised counter.
Two or three pilots who saw the uns
miling and highly decorated young squadron leader appear stiffened and the others, becoming aware of a sudden change in the atmosphere, stopped talking and turned towards the door.
James scanned them, unsmiling. “Good evening. My name’s Fenton.” He looked at the barman. “Fall out. Report back at six-thirty. And switch off the wireless.” The L.A.C. behind the bar disappeared quickly.
A beefy flight lieutenant with a “Canada” badge on each shoulder held out his hand. “My name’s Henderson.”
“I don’t think you quite finished your sentence.”
“Henderson...sir.”
James was disinclined to press for formality in mess, but he made exceptions. They shook hands eye to eye, neither offering any concessions.
Another flight lieutenant, lean, sharp-featured, stepped forward. “Moore, sir. B Flight commander.” He had a north country accent, Yorkshire or Lancashire; James was not expert at discriminating between them.
“Who authorised the bar to open?”
“I did.” Henderson had a sullen look. “I’m acting P.M.C.”
“You were. This bar will not in future open before six-o’clock on anyone’s authority except mine: and I can see no prospect of my ever giving it. Patterson, telephone the sergeants’ mess and find out if the bar’s open. If it is, close it until half past six and tell the C.M.C. to report to my office in half an hour’s time.”
“Yes, sir.”
James looked around the room, giving each man a hard, direct stare. He could guess what they were thinking: Here comes a gong-happy press-on type who’ll kill us all in his pursuit of glory. Death or glory: glory for the C.O., death for the rest of us. He had expected suspicion and even hostility, and was indifferent to both. He cared very little about anyone’s opinion when he thought of Nicole, voluntarily working with the Maquis under the enemy’s nose; tortured by the Gestapo; her narrow escape; her apparent indifference to the risks she took and her determination to return to France.
“I don’t care how drunk any of you gets, if that’s what you want to do, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your flying or break any rules. I understand why you want to get drunk this evening. I’d just like to suggest that it’s an unseemly reaction from people who have done comparatively very little operational flying. In fact I’d call it a hell of a line-shoot. If any of you had been on a squadron two years ago, you’d know that what you’ve experienced so far is like a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park compared with what went before...and is going to happen again before long.”
Henderson, whose normal complexion was the shade of raw beef, had been growing a darker red. “I was on a squadron two years ago.”
“Then you ought to understand what I mean. And you, Moore.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I shall expect to see you all in here at seven-o’clock.” James walked out.
Patterson, who had waited by the door, said “The C.M.C. refused to open the sergeants’ mess bar early, sir.
“Who is he?”
“Brown, sir, the Disciplinary W.O.”
“Not a man to be intimidated by six probably self-important sergeant pilots. How do they fit in with the other senior N.C.Os?”
“In the two weeks they’ve been here, sir, I gather they’ve rather isolated themselves; of their own choice.”
James pondered for a moment. He wanted to avoid saying anything that could be misconstrued as derogatory about his predecessor.
“What was Bertie Challis’s priority? I knew him rather well.”
“To get the squadron’s flying on the top line. Then crack down on the other bits of slackness.”
“I’m sure I’d have done the same.” He knew he would not have. “I’m lucky to be able to profit from the way he tried to do things.” He did not intend to say any more. The adj would find out soon enough what he meant.
When he went into the bar at seven-o’clock there were only the Intelligence, Engineering and Medical officers present. He was prepared to be Ishmael if he must, but would prefer to enlist them as allies. Although he felt he ought to mistrust first impressions he found himself invariably influenced by them; despite some notable errors. The I.O. was mid-thirtyish, spectacled, with intelligent eyes and an extroverted manner. Something familiar about him. A moment’s reflection put the name, the face and newspaper paragraphs together: a leading amateur golfer, master at a large public school. The doctor looked a little younger. Straight, competent look and none of your roistering, raffish medical student manner about him; although he looked like a man who could hold his own in a schooner race and on the rugger pitch; compact, scrum-half build and nose pushed a bit askew. No need to spend much time in weighing up the Equipper. They both belonged to the pre-war fraternity that had created a mystique which bound them firmly against all the vagaries of the imponderable wartime intake. Loyalty was its keynote, a respect for command and for the Service way of doing things. Blind eyes could be turned, but wool could not be pulled over nor mud thrown into.
James bought a round of drinks. Made no comment on the pilots’ absence. He wondered if they would carry rudeness far enough to shun the bar altogether. He was impervious. Defiance he would easily subjugate. A snub was simple to reverse. The most effective treatment was to ignore whatever their behaviour. Just carry on, be himself. They could only be the losers in the long run.
At half past seven they presented themselves in a body. “Henderson...Moore...what will you have?”
“Orange squash, please.”
“Ginger beer, please, sir.”
So it went on as each was introduced and he invited him to drink. No one asked for alcohol.
Oh, dear. He hadn’t expected quite such puerility. Talked pleasantly. They surrounded him in a silent circle, none initiating a conversation, responding politely when addressed.
For all but four of them it was their first squadron. Two of them, after training in Canada, had been kept on there for a year to instruct: those at least had a respectable number of flying hours; but on Tiger Moths and Harvards.
At eight they went in to dinner, all together around a long table. The adjutant was messing officer. They ate well. The district yielded delicacies rare in these times: lobster, game, poultry, clandestinely slaughtered pigs. The adjutant became enthusiastic as he expatiated.
Over coffee in the ante-room James talked to the Medical Officer.
“Anything fundamentally wrong, Doc? I don’t want to have to L.M.F. anyone. If there’s anyone suspect, I’d prefer, in fairness to him and the squadron, to have him posted to a non-operational job now. I can understand them all being a bit shaken. But I reckon I can restore their confidence pretty quickly.”
“I’ve never liked the term ‘lack of moral fibre’, sir.”
“We can do without ‘sirs’ in the mess, Doc. We have to be able to talk freely, as friends. You have as big a responsibility as I have. I can’t get the best out of the chaps without your close advice. You and I have to be able to talk informally in private.”
The M.O. was secretly amused at being put at his ease by a man ten years his junior; but impressed by the way in which he did it.
“It’s a euphemism, and that always fogs issues. I’ve seen some cowards in the past two and a half years and there was nothing wrong with their moral fibre. They were in a plain blue funk. Usually justifiably. I was going to have a word with you anyway about three of the boys. And I agree with you, it’s a question of restoring their self-confidence.”
“Who are they?”
The M.O. named them. “They all had a bad scare in the last four weeks before we came up here. I’ve deliberately not recommended leave for any of them, because I’m certain they’re all tough enough, sound enough, as long as they’re with the crowd. Going away for a week would change their perspective and make them feel apprehensive about coming back.”
One of the names he had mentioned was Henderson’s.
People began to drift out of the ante-room. There was the sound of cars s
tarting. Presently James was the only pilot left in the mess.
“There are some good pubs around here,” the M.O. explained. Ostracism would be like water off a duck’s back to this young fella. The others were only making a rod for their own. Life was going to be interesting for the next few weeks.
James assembled his ground officers around him and sent a steward to the bar to bring their drinks into the ante-room. He told them his flying programme for the morrow and the day after, and asked them to let their senior N.C.Os know in good time. One by one they went to the telephone. They had already understood the message that James’s polite urbanity conveyed commands rather than merely expressed desires. “I’d like it done sometime” meant “You’ll do it at once if you know what’s good for you.”
*
At 0800 hrs the squadron was on 30 minutes’ availability: which meant that the pilots had to be out at dispersals.
James spent a few minutes making the acquaintance of his sergeant pilots and senior ground N.C.Os.
He telephoned the Operations Room at Holtham.
At 0830 all sixteen aircraft on the squadron’s strength took off on a battle climb. This was followed by a day of dogfights in which James took on each pilot in turn. He allowed one hour for lunch, from the time that they left dispersals to the time they were back again. What remained of daylight was spent on aerobatics: singly, over the airfield, with James watching, and in formations of fours, each time led by James. The same programme of dogfighting, aerobatics and battle formation continued the following day.
The officers’ mess bar was well patronised each evening, but there were a lot of tired men and by half-past ten everyone had gone to bed.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 56