‘Who knows’ – Molly sighed – ‘but we must make of it what we can.’ She brightened: ‘I think people feel a bit safer now the army has gone out to France. At least the Germans will see we mean business.’
‘The trouble is they have to wait for Hitler to make another move and the longer we leave him to his own devices, the stronger he gets.’ Andrew traced the line of Molly’s chin with his fingers.
‘There’s a good chance he’ll not settle until he has France at least.’ Andrew sipped his drink. ‘I’m beginning to think we should’ve hit him hard and fast in September.’ he looked into Molly’s eyes: ‘We might have lost this war already, Molly. What’s to become of us?’
Molly reached out, smoothing his frown with her thumb: ‘Well, we can’t change yesterday, because that’s gone forever. We don’t have tomorrow, because that doesn’t yet exist. So that leaves us with today.’
‘So, what do we do with today?’ Andrew smiled.
‘Well, I’ve got you, you’ve got me, and we’ve both got roast pheasant.’ Molly drained her glass. ‘What do you want first?’
14th January, 1940
Andrew and Bryan stamped their feet against the cold. Above them the Hurricane squadrons circling Martlesham in the early morning haze broke up into sections of three and swooped in to land. It took ten minutes to bring the 36 fighters safely to the ground. As the last section of three touched down, the two men walked out to dispersal for a closer look.
They approached the nearest Hurricane just as its pilot climbed down from the wing.
‘What’s the flap, chum?’ Bryan called out.
The pilot pulled a cigarette packet from his flying overalls. ‘Administration cock-up.’ He grimaced. ‘Our forward station isn’t ready yet, but we were airborne before they bothered to tell us. They thought we might be safer sitting here for a few hours rather than stooging around an undefended field in France.’
‘You’re off to France?’ Andrew asked.
‘You lucky buggers.’ Bryan flicked his lighter and held the flame to the pilot’s cigarette. ‘Mind if we have a look over your kite?’
‘Be my guest.’ The man blew out a plume of smoke: ‘I’m off to find a brew.’
Andrew and Bryan walked around the squat, solid fighter.
‘This knocks spots off the carts they’ve given us to fly.’ Bryan whistled. ‘Eight machine guns, Andrew. Imagine the mess those will make.’
Climbing onto the wing they pulled back the canopy and peered in.
‘That all looks very cosy,’ Andrew murmured, running his fingers along the armour plating on the back of the seat.
‘No bloody navigator farting in the cockpit, no gunner moaning about the cold.’ Bryan waggled the stick and watched the ailerons move up and down. ‘That would suit me fine.’
Andrew laughed and jumped down from the wing.
‘Seriously, Andrew’ – Bryan clunked the canopy shut and followed him – ‘if I’d wanted to fly a boat complete with its own jolly little crew, I would’ve joined the Navy.’ He waved his arm back at the Hurricane. ‘I want of one those. Even if I have to demand a transfer to get one.’
‘You wouldn’t leave the squadron, would you?’
‘They treat me like a bus driver, Andrew. I’m a fighter pilot, why won’t they let me fight anyone.’
The two men trailed across the grass towards the mess.
11th February, 1940
Molly crunched her way across the stony beach, arm in arm with her mother. The impassive white facades of Eastbourne’s guest houses faced out across the grey channel waters. Along the top of the beach soldiers unloaded scaffold poles from trucks while their comrades bolted them together in an ever-lengthening barrier along the front.
Florence Lloyd paused to watch the white-topped waves rear and fall into noisy collapse amongst the shingle.
‘I love this beach,’ she said. ‘It’s such a shame to think of what it might become. But I suppose we must abandon these things for the time being, in order to get on with war.’
Molly squeezed her mother’s arm: ‘We should keep moving. It’s too cold for dawdling.’
‘Do you think they would’ve come already, if it weren’t for the weather?’
‘They’ve got the British and French armies to deal with first, Mother. So you needn’t worry yourself about them just yet.’
The older woman nodded at the tank-traps: ‘Somebody, somewhere is worried about them.’
They headed back up the beach and climbed the steps to the road. Drab green lorries laden with scaffold poles growled past them as they walked the short distance to a cafe.
Sitting at a table in the window, two cups of steaming tea between them, Molly reached out to grasp her mother’s hand.
‘I have some good news, Mum.’ She smiled. ‘I’m going to have a baby.’
‘That’s wonderful. What does Andrew think?’
‘I haven’t told him yet.’ Molly squeezed her mother’s hand: ‘I wanted to tell you first.’ A grin flashed across her face: ‘I’m saving it up to tell him on Valentine’s Day.’
Florence’s smile dropped and she looked down into her tea: ‘It’s not the best time to have a baby though, is it dear?’
Molly leaned back into her chair: ‘I’ve never told you before, but I was seeing Andrew for well over three years before we got married.’
‘I guessed, dear.’ Her mother smiled. ‘Your happiness was so’ – she cast around for the right word – ‘loud. So I knew there was a special reason for it. What better reason than a handsome lover?’
Molly blushed at her mother’s candour. ‘So, what I mean to say is, the pregnancy is very much planned. Andrew always talks about having children, so, what with everything else, we thought we’d better get on with it.’
Florence took a sip of her tea and gazed through the window. The grey smudge of the late-winter sky hid the coast of France from her view.
13th April, 1940
Andrew walked into the briefing hut, spotted Bryan in the front row and took the seat next to him. The room filled behind them.
‘What’s the gen, Bryan?’
Bryan pursed his lips: ‘Who knows? Maybe we’re off to bomb Wales by way of some practice.’
‘It can’t be an operational briefing’ – Andrew swivelled his head to scan the crowd – ‘there’s only pilots in the room.’
‘Must be a committee meeting to organise my leaving party.’
‘What?’
‘I told you, Andrew. I’m fed up with driving a bus. I put my transfer request in this morning.’
Andrew opened his mouth to protest but Squadron Leader Fenton entered the room and chairs scraped the floor as the assembled pilots stood to attention. Fenton walked to the dais and regarded them for a few moments across the silence.
‘As you were, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I won’t keep you long. I have what many of you will regard as good news.’ He smiled around at the expectant faces. ‘Over the next couple of days, we will be taking delivery of 18 factory-fresh Spitfires.’
‘Bugger!’ Bryan breathed to himself.
‘A couple of bods from operational training will be staying with us for a week or so to get you all converted. Then, as soon as everyone’s settled into flying the new kites, we’ll be moving down to Kenley to become part of No. 11 group’s defensive fighter screen for London.’
A ragged cheer broke out amongst the pilots. Bryan sank his head into his hands.
‘For the duration of home defence operations, 64’s code-name will be ‘Bluebird’. Harry will give you details of the training timetable and hand out copies of pilot’s notes for you to read at your leisure. Any general questions?’
The room remained quiet.
‘Right then, I’ll hand over to the adjutant.’ His voice dropped as he leaned forward. ‘Pilot Officer Hale?’
Bryan looked up: ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Don’t look so miserable, old chap, I’ve already torn it up.’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, sir!’ Relief flooded Bryan’s face. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The adjutant handed out the technical notes and gave a brief lecture about the capabilities of the new fighters. He fielded a few questions and dismissed the group. As he strode out, the whole room burst into excited conversation.
‘Bloody Spitfires, Andrew!’ Bryan’s elation reddened his face. ‘What could be better than bloody Spitfires?’
‘Kenley!’ Andrew exclaimed. ‘Kenley is only ten miles from Molly!’ He grabbed Bryan’s cheeks between his thumbs and forefingers: ‘We’ve hit the bloody jackpot.’
10th May, 1940
‘Break camp! Come on lads, get it packed up, we’re on the move,’ the platoon sergeant yelled his way down the line of tents.
Peter crawled out into the early morning daylight.
‘Jump to it.’ The sergeant moved closer: ‘Pull your fingers out.’
Peter stepped forward, saluting: ‘Good morning, sarge,’ he said as his man strode past. ‘Where are we off to?’
The sergeant spun on his heel, ‘Ah’ – his eyes narrowed and he leaned into his words – ‘good morning, Private, I trust you slept well?’
‘Well, yes—’
‘I’m pleased to hear it!’ The sergeant’s voice dropped to a low, menacing tone. ‘There are hundreds of German paratroopers dropping out of the sky all over Belgium’ – he waved his arm towards the east – ‘so me and the King thought you and the rest of the girls might like to go and have a chat with them.’
The sergeant stalked off, shouting as he went.
‘What’s happening, Pete?’
Peter turned to see his friend Angus hopping up and down, pulling on a boot.
‘The war just stopped being phoney.’ Peter’s voice sounded brittle in his own ears. ‘The Germans have invaded Belgium.’
****
The battalion’s marching boots threw up a desultory haze of dust from the road. The column marched four abreast on the side of the road to allow the vehicles streaming north to overhaul them. A group of soldiers riding in the back of a truck jeered at their comrades trudging along on foot.
‘What’s up with those jokers?’ Angus snorted. ‘Anybody would think we were still fucking about on Salisbury Plain. This is one party I’m happy to walk to.’
‘I can’t believe it’s happening.’ Peter shook his head against the rhythm of the march: ‘After all this time waiting for it, I still can’t believe it’s happening.’
‘Oh, I can believe it’s happening,’ Angus said. ‘I just can’t believe they sent us across the channel to get caught up in a German invasion of bloody Belgium.’
‘Better here than England.’
‘Really?’ Angus glanced around the surrounding fields and hedges. ‘Where are they? Where are the bloody Germans?’
Peter nodded in the direction of the march: ‘Up there somewhere.’
‘Aye,’ Angus retorted. ‘Setting up machine-gun nests and digging gun emplacements, no doubt.’
Peter swallowed hard but said nothing.
‘I’d much rather be shooting them while they’re trying to climb out of their boats on Brighton beach,’ Angus continued, ‘with a stack of ammunition by my side and all day to use it.’
‘Column halt!’ The order echoed down the road. ‘Fall out. Ten minutes’ rest.’
The soldiers sunk onto the grass verge, shedding their packs and rubbing their shoulders. The signpost across the road pointed the way to Ypres. Peter lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the sickly silence.
12th May, 1940
Andrew picked up his suitcase and kit-bag and made one last sweep of his room. Satisfied he’d forgotten nothing he strode out of the mess. An airman took his bags, hoisting them onto a truck already laden with dozens of cases.
‘Thank you,’ Andrew said. ‘See you in Kenley.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The airman smiled. ‘I expect you’ll get there first though, sir.’
Andrew clumped his way across the field in his flying boots and overalls, heading towards the Spitfires lined up next to the grass runway. He spotted Bryan climbing into his own machine. Andrew whistled through his teeth and Bryan turned, flashing a ferocious grin from under his flying helmet.
Andrew reached his Spitfire and climbed onto the port wing. He took his parachute from the ground crew and placed it on the seat. Climbing into the cockpit he sat on top of the parachute and fastened the harness straps. He pulled on his leather flying helmet and plugged in the wireless lead. Adjusting the cockpit harness a notch tighter, he fastened it, testing his weight against the straps. He reached out to turn the petrol cocks on and checked the throttle lever had sufficient friction to keep it set where placed. He centred the elevator, rudder and aileron trims.
Andrew flicked the wireless to transmit: ‘Bluebird Yellow Three to Homebrew Control, wireless check, over.’
The answer crackled back: ‘Homebrew Control to Bluebird Yellow Three, receiving you loud and clear. Are you receiving me, Bluebird Yellow Three? Listening out.’
‘This is Bluebird Yellow Three to Homebrew Control, receiving you crystal clear. Thanks for everything, Homebrew. Good luck.’
As he spoke Andrew checked the petrol gauge showed full and the oxygen container was full and working.
The mechanic hunched down by the starter battery next to the fighter, thumb hovering over the button. Andrew switched on the petrol tap, flipped the two magneto switches up and pumped the primer three times. Sticking a thumb up to the mechanic he jabbed both starter buttons. The propeller whined its way through three turns before it coughed into life and blue exhaust streamed past the open cockpit. The mechanic leaned in under the fuselage, disconnected the battery lead and pulled away the chocks.
Andrew opened the throttle to taxi towards take-off.
Alan was assigned as Yellow Two and Bryan was section leader. Andrew rolled over to the starboard side of Bryan’s plane and waited for Alan to tuck in on the other side. Bryan looked back over each shoulder and waved a signal from his open cockpit. Andrew eased his throttle forward and the section moved across the grass.
Andrew concentrated on the leading aircraft as it gathered speed. Bryan’s wheels left the ground and he felt his do the same. He moved his left hand from the throttle to the stick to free his right hand to pump the wheel retraction lever backwards and forwards. He heard the wheels lock into place with a click and a red light glowed in confirmation on the panel.
‘Bluebird Yellow Leader calling Yellow Section’ – Bryan’s voice crackled onto the wireless – ‘climb to angels ten, vector two-two-five. Tighten up, Yellow Section. Let’s make it look good.’
****
Molly leaned her bicycle against the wire fence and pulled her thermos flask from the carrier basket. Sipping her tea, she gazed across Kenley airfield. She knew Andrew would disapprove if he found out, but she could hardly see her bump and certainly didn’t feel pregnant since the morning sickness had eased. She closed her eyes and let the spring sunshine warm her eyelids as she waited.
The distant rumble of aero-engines trembled in the air and Molly searched for the source. Three black specks appeared against the white backdrop of clouds, growing bigger as they barrelled towards the airfield.
The three Spitfires roared over, breaking into a climbing turn to starboard as three more approached, buzzing the hangars and following their climb. She squinted her eyes against the sky and six more planes came into view.
****
Andrew saw the three sections ahead of them buzz the field and climb away as Bryan led his section across the airfield and straight over the control tower, barely clearing the wireless mast on its roof before hauling into a climb to join the rest of the circling squadron.
The wireless clicked into life: ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader. When you’ve quite finished playing silly buggers, you’re clear to land in sections.’
‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron’ – a hint of affection tinged Fenton’s voice – ‘let
’s do what the nice man says.’
Chapter 10
Silva
14th May, 1940
Peter lay prone behind the chalky ridge, pine needles prickling under his elbows. The trees rose straight above him, stark and skeletal against the blue sky. The boom of distant guns drifted in on the breeze, not yet loud enough to disturb the chattering birds. Occasionally small groups of planes he couldn’t identify traversed the clouds, intent on a different target.
He looked out over the flat fields scored with dykes, perfect ground for killing infantry with machine-gun crossfire and a barrage of rifles.
‘Where are they, Angus?’ Peter breathed. ‘We’ve marched for three days without a single sniff.’
‘I don’t know where they are, lad.’ Angus sighed. ‘It could be a hundred yards, it could be a hundred miles.’
‘Shouldn’t we be digging trenches?’
‘I suspect we’ll be moving forward soon. If the Belgians are still holding their line, they’ll need our help.’
Peter gazed out over the flat fields to the tree-line in the middle distance. ‘It could be a hundred yards.’
A commotion erupted around the wireless operator and a soldier called out for the platoon sergeant. Peter couldn’t make out the short, tense exchange that followed as the sergeant dropped to a squat by the wireless pack and spoke into the transmitter. His head sagged and he covered his eyes with his hand. Recovering his composure, he handed the transmitter back to the operator and stood up.
‘Right, lads,’ he shouted, ‘the Dutch have surrendered! Which means our left flank is exposed.’ A low murmuring undulated amongst the soldiers on the ridge. ‘And the Germans have broken through the Ardennes forest into France, on our right flank, with many Panzer divisions.’ He paused to let the news sink in. ‘At the best, we can hope the German armour will push south, away from us, straight towards Paris. If that happens, we have a fighting chance here. For a while. At worst, the Panzers will head north and attack from our rear.’
Shouted questions burst from a few of the soldiers.
The sergeant waved them silent. ‘Dig in here until I find out what we’re to do.’ A wry grimace crinkled his face: ‘But don’t dig too deep, lads. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Pass it down the line.’
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