“One-four, vector two-five-zero. Bandit will be half-past eleven, range six.”
“Understood.”
“Continue turn onto two-seven-zero. Bandit will cross you port to starboard, range three.”
“Turning onto two-seven-zero.”
“Bandit still at twenty-two thousand.”
“Roger.”
“Coming up to twelve-o’clock now.”
“No joy yet, Cutlass.”
“Correction on bandit’s height. Now at twenty-five thousand.”
“Roger, Cutlass. Climbing.”
“Vector three-five-zero. Bandit dead ahead, range four. Speed two-twenty.”
Roger glanced at the girl beside him. She smiled again. Almost lost the Jerry, he was thinking. The Beau had dropped farther behind than it should. All because the target changed height. He saw the fighter’s blip accelerate.
“Bandit twelve-o’clock, range three, One-four.” There was a moment’s pause, then, from the pilot, with no sign of emotion, “Judy, Judy.”
That meant that the A.I. had found the bandit and was holding it. Pilot and radar navigator were in conversation, with the R/T switched off. James sat waiting. He saw the blips separate and one move north-east while the other continued north.
The airman at the chart with his navigation instruments said “Bandit now on zero-three-zero.”
James could see that the blip on that course was bigger than the other, the fighter.
“More help please, Cutlass.”
“Starboard onto zero-four-five. Bandit will be twelve-o’clock, range five. Still at twenty-five thousand. Now on zero-three-zero.”
“Zero-four-five.”
A tail chase. Not very good. James began to worry. “Judy, Judy.”
The small blip began to catch up with the bigger one. The seconds passed...a minute...ninety seconds...they merged...
“Murder, murder, Cutlass.”
Only a small blip remained now.
James turned to smile broadly at the pretty girl who was reading the tube over his shoulder. She returned his triumphant look. He grabbed her hand.
“That deserves a spot of celebration. What are you doing tonight?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
They would come off watch for breakfast and have 24 hours off duty.
“I’ll give you a call at your billet.”
“All right.”
James felt a hand as heavy as a sack of coals on his shoulder.
“That wasn’t bad for a first kill, boyo. Not as easy as it looks, is it? And don’t forget, you had the best pilot and navigator in the business to work with. A new crew might have lost him.”
*
James was leaving the mess at four-o’clock that afternoon when a steward recalled him to the telephone. It was his mother. Every time he had a call from home, his heart skipped because he thought it might be news of Nicole.
His mother spoke with the carefully unemotional tone she always adopted when she had to break something unpleasant.
“We’ve had a call from Henri’s captain, darling.”
“What’s happened, Mummy?”
“Henri was killed in action last night.”
“Oh, my God! What a hell of a thing for Nicole to have to face when she gets back.”
And she would need his love and care more than ever.
Meanwhile, there was the pretty Waaf to beguile his evening; and perhaps many more evenings too.
SEVEN
An officer on Air Vice Marshal Coningham’s staff had come to brief the pilots of the Desert Air Force squadrons. Christopher sat on the sand with the rest of those who operated from the same airstrip, and paid attention. His life might depend on listening carefully. And, as deputy flight commander, he was bound to be asked questions by people who had missed some points and weren’t too keen on approaching Squadron Leader Tasker; from upwind or down. He was no more fragrant in late October than he had been in the height of summer.
The staff officer, who was bandy-legged and had a nervous tic which caused him to jerk his head to the left, so that his ear touched his shoulder every few seconds, stood on a dais of crates.
“General Montgomery is going to do the unexpected. Rommel will anticipate, when the battle starts, that we’re going to knock out his tanks as the first step, before we go for his infantry. Not so. The plan is to open the attack by going for the infantry in the first line of defence. This will force the enemy armour to come forward to support them, and onto unfamiliar ground. That’s when we’ll obliterate them.”
The staff officer was careless with his use of singular and plural, but his audience grasped his meaning.
“Eighth Australian Div. have moved forward, to make Rommel think the main assault will come along the coast. Wrong. It will be made further south, by the Fifty-first (Highland) Div., the New Zealanders and the South Africans, while the Aussies keep Jerry busy to their north.
“As you know, we’re paying close attention to Jerry’s landing grounds, every day. As soon as the land forces begin to move forward, his air support will be forced back. Then we’ll move in and take over the landing grounds he’s so conveniently going to leave nicely prepared for us.
“Just one word of warning. Look out for booby-traps. If you see any gold fountain pens...”
(pause for mirth) “Spandaus, Schmeissers, binoculars, cameras...anything at all, lying about...don’t touch ‘em. Don’t even move any dead bodies that get in the way. Leave all clearance to the people whose job it is: the Sappers. And remember...Jerry will have left mines behind.”
The monologue, punctuated with galvanic jerks of the head, went on exhaustively.
At twenty minutes to ten that night of 23rd October, Christopher and Malahide stood in a crowd outside the mess tent, waiting for the preliminary bombardment to begin. Punctually at a quarter to ten, more than a thousand guns opened fire. At ten precisely the British and Commonwealth infantry moved forward.
Rommel, in fact, had fallen ill shortly before and been sent to Germany for treatment. By the time he returned to the desert on the third day of Montgomery’s attack, he found his temporary replacement, General Stumme, dead from a heart attack; brought on by coming under heavy fire on his first visit to the battle area! He also found that half his tank force was already out of action and there were deep salients in his defences.
Once again, Christopher found himself stumbling through a succession of hectic days in a state of growing weariness. The squadron’s prime targets were enemy forward landing grounds. If the flak was thick, Hurricane fighter-bombers could not go in; so the Beaufighters did, to knock out the flak crews. With the Hurri-bombers, Baltimores, Bostons and Mitchells went for the desert airfields and for the enemy’s infantry and armour.
This time, there was a significant new factor in the tenor of those arduous days: every day brought a gain of a further slice of terrain from the enemy. Desert Air Force was striking forward instead of pulling back. However fatigued he felt, Christopher began each day fresh and full of energy. It made a marvellous difference to be winning, even if the impressions imprinted on his mind were as confused and as alarming as the last time. The same headlong swoop at 300 miles an hour through acres of sky that were a latticework of tracer shells and bullets; the same thunderous rattle that rose above the noise of his engines and penetrated his earphones when he fired his four cannon; the same clouds of (lust and smoke intermingling low over the battle-field and seeping through every crevice in the aircraft to fill it with sand and stench. The same violent manoeuvres to (lodge the flak and enemy fighters, the same buffeting from the explosions of the heavy flak that sometimes filled the air around him. The same exhilarating spectacle of flames erupting from his target.
He hardly heeded it. On the thirteenth day after the Battle of Alamein started, Christopher found himself coming in to land 70 miles to the west, at El Daba. Two days later another hop to the west, and Sidi Haneish. Followed by four more moves. Until, on Novem
ber 17th, he brought his Beaufighter down on the airfield at Gazala, 400 hard-won miles from Alamein itself.
Meanwhile, on November 8th, an invasion army of British and American troops, with R.A.F. and U.S.A.A.F. air support, had landed in Morocco and Algeria. By the time that Christopher and Malahide were drinking tepid beer in celebration of their return to Gazala, the Allied forces advancing from the opposite direction had covered more than 100 miles to the east of Algiers, on the road to Tunis.
There was one good thing to be said for being wounded and merely on detachment to do some makeshift job, James said. At least one could be sure of being dispensable, which meant that one could go home for Christmas leave.
He and Roger were in their local pub. It was usually difficult for them to find privacy there, because the landlord and other customers habitually made much of them. But it was just after opening time on the day before Christmas Eve and they were the only occupants of the saloon bar.
Roger agreed. “I feel out of things, not being on a squadron.”
“At least you’re on an operational station. I’ve had too much of non-operational stations this year. First of all Eleven Group, and now a G.C.I.”
“It’s over now, as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to a Lanc. O.T.U. straight after this leave.”
“Good show, Roger.”
Roger looked bashful. “Group Captain Carver wants me back at Gawston. There’s going to be a vacancy on — Squadron and the C.O’s already put in for me.”
“You must have made quite a hit there.”
Roger gulped some beer and gave his cousin a look which told him that Roger had more to say and was being hesitant.
“Go on, Roger. Out with it.”
“One of the flight commanders will be tour-expired by the time I finish O.T.U., actually.”
“Well done, old boy. Aunty and Uncle will be frightfully bucked to see you made up to squadron leader.”
“It’ll be as far as I can expect to get, I’m afraid.”
“You never know, old boy. It looks as though the war’s going to drag on for a long time yet.”
Roger again gave signs of wanting to say something but wondering whether he should. “Things aren’t too good in France, now Jerry’s occupied the whole country. Tough on Nicole.”
Infuriated by the Vichy Government’s collusion and connivance in the Allied landings in North Africa on 8th November, the Germans had taken over the Unoccupied Zone; where, before, only the Milice, the French police force sympathetic to the Nazis, had persecuted the population. In their own way they were worse than the S.S. or Gestapo, as Roger knew from his experience.
“Don’t I know it. I wish to God she could find a way of letting me know she’s all right.” James looked at Roger, who saw an agony of doubt and unhappiness in his eyes. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”
“Can’t you ask the types in London who run her show if they can let you know anything? After all, you’ll have to break the news to her about Henri.”
“They’re impenetrable, I’m afraid. Total security clamp.”
“Oh, God! Impasse totale.”
“‘Fraid so.”
They drank some beer and didn’t talk for a moment. Then Roger said “Anyway, what’s going to happen to you?”
“I’ve got a new posting too.”
“Good. Where?”
“I’m going back to Morfield.”
“Same squadron?”
“No, all three squadrons there have been moved around.”
“Which one are you getting?”
“Actually, I’m going as wing leader.”
“That’s super, James. But you might have told me a bit sooner, instead of letting me go on shooting a line about my promotion.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking more about Nicole than of going back to Morfield as a wing commander.”
“I can understand that.” Roger’s thoughts turned to Viviane, as they so often did. On impulse, he went on “I met a girl in France. Fought with the Maquis. Hell of a girl. Viviane. That was her nom de guerre. I never did find out who she really was. I intend to go back, after the war, and put flowers on her grave. I’ll find out then. Time enough.”
There was such misery in Roger’s voice and in his eyes that James, despite their mutual affection and lifelong closeness, was embarrassed.
“She meant a lot to you, obviously.”
“As much as Nicole does to you, James.”
“That’s saying a lot.”
“We meant a lot to each other.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Roger shrugged. “No more to say, really. Except that I was right beside her when she was killed. I shouldn’t tell you this, but what the hell. We were in a party that was waiting for an arms drop one night. A Halibag came over and dropped the canisters, but Jerry turned up while we were collecting them. We had a hell of a fight and several of the Maquis were killed. Viviane was one of them. I was literally elbow-to-elbow with her — she was firing a Sten and I had a Tommy gun — when she caught a burst of Schmeisser.”
“Christ!”
Roger took a deep sigh. “It was quick, at least. Instantaneous, in fact.”
“Small compensation. I don’t think I’d be able to console myself much with that thought if it happened to Nicole.”
“Nor can I. I went to her requiem Mass, so of course I heard the priest speak her name. ‘Our sister Catherine’. But I don’t know her surname; and she’ll always be `Viviane’ to me.”
There was another pensive silence; which James broke with an abrupt, almost defensive, statement. “I intend to marry Nicole. I’m going to insist on her agreeing to our announcing our engagement as soon as she comes back.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I would have married Viviane. And that wasn’t just a false emotion created by the circumstances. I’m sure of that. For both of us.”
“I’m sorry, Roger.”
“I’ll be lucky if I ever find anyone like her again.”
Roger took their tankards to the bar to be refilled.
When he came back, James deliberately changed the subject.
“Are you going back to the bank after the war, Roger?”
“No bloody fear.”
“What, then? Stay in the Service?”
“Not that, either. I’ve given it a lot of thought, but I can’t make up my mind. I’d like to fly for an airline. Or...” He paused and looked away, his cheeks reddening. Then, with the same challenging, defiant note as James’s earlier, said “Or go into the Church.”
James’s hand jerked with astonishment and beer slopped over the edge of his tankard.
“The Church?”
“The only trouble is that I don’t know if I’ve got a vocation, you see. One thing I do know is that I’m going to marry as soon as this show’s over. No point in getting hitched while it’s still on. But I can’t go on...er...fooling around. You remember what St. Paul said...”
“‘Marry or burn’?”
“That’s a fair paraphrase.”
“And you want to marry because you don’t want to burn. Is that it?”
“In rather stark terms, yes.”
“Meanwhile, you’re quite prepared to poke any popsie who takes your fancy, because you don’t believe anyone who might get himself killed ought to marry in wartime? I’d have said that’s calculating, cold-blooded cynicism, you old rogue. I think you’re pulling my leg. You’ve no intention of joining the clergy.”
Roger grinned. “Don’t sound so shocked. I met a most interesting priest in France. He gave me an entirely new perspective on religion. As he said, ‘we are in the world’. We have to be practical about moral issues.”
“Sounds to me as if, when he said ‘practical’, he meant ‘hypocritical’.”
“We’ve all got our weaknesses...”
“You mean we’ve got the same ‘weakness’...you, I...Christopher...any normal bloke. We like to bang girls. Personally, I don�
�t call it a weakness. As for you, if you really do aspire to being a God-botherer, you ought to be honest about it and call it a sin. Not that I happen to believe it is. But don’t make excuses or hide things behind euphemisms.”
“All right, then. But it is a weakness in me that I can’t resist doing it, even though I do believe it’s a sin and I ought not to do it. So, whether or not I go into the Church, I’ve got to find a wife.”
“But not until after the war.” James was scathing, if with levity. “Sheer hypocrisy. Anyway, if you do become an airline pilot, you’ll never stay faithful to any wife: not with all those luscious air hostesses on board...and all the exotic popsies you’ll meet around the world.”
Roger looked dejected. “You know, James, I’m afraid you’ve summed me up rather well.”
“Much healthier to be like Christopher and me. No mental agonising. No wrestling with the soul. I’m an unrepentant ram, and so’s my kid brother. So are you, at heart.”
Roger shook his head. “I repent. And there’s the rub.”
“There’s only one kind of rubbing I’m interested in, old boy. And I do it with a clear conscience.”
“Or none at all, maybe.”
It wasn’t much of a New Year dinner, but as a change from bully beef or meat and vegetable stew, the messing officer had managed to coax a small supply of tinned ham from the ration store at the new Eighth Army Headquarters in Benghazi. The front line was now 1000 miles west of Alamein, along the line the advance had taken following the coastline. As the Beaufighter flew, it was some 250 miles less, and that was how the messing officer had been transported from a landing ground near Sirte, across Sidra Bay to Benghazi to do his bullying and begging, and back to the squadron’s landing ground with his precious tins stacked around him. It was 120 miles each way, but justified by the change of diet.
The squadron did not have to force the diced ham down their throats unlubricated. A grateful quantity of Italian wine had been captured on the way across Libya into Tripolitania. Chianti flowed copiously.
There was singing. The squadron Equipment officer, travelling by three-ton lorry, had acquired a piano from an abandoned house whence the Italian occupants had fled. It was not entirely in tune by the time it had been on-and off-loaded a few times as the squadron made its jumps forward, hut it pleased the ears on which it fell. The Equipper was a good hand all round and not least of his virtues was his musical ability.
The Daedalus Quartet Box Set Page 70