Molly cradled the bottle. ‘Port?’ she gasped. ‘I can’t take this, it looks really expensive.’
Geoff shook his head: ‘You deserve it, love. He deserves it. Him and his friends, for what they do. I wish I had a decent bottle for every one of them.’
****
Gerry checked his airspeed and glanced across to his right. Ahead of him Andrew spearheaded the vic. To the leader’s right, Drew bobbled up and down in the margins of Andrew’s slipstream. ‘He should edge out.’ he thought. ‘Loosen up.’
‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Green Section.’ Andrew’s voice cut into his reverie. ‘You’re doing really well. Let’s try the head-on attack before we go home. Make sure you get far enough ahead to give yourselves time to straighten up and line up your target. Don’t forget that closing speed will be very fast.’
Green Section accelerated away and vanished into the blue, a faint glimmer of sun on Perspex the only clue to their position.
‘Green Leader to Yellow Section, turning onto attack run now.’
Vincent checked his instruments and fidgeted in his seat. The sun through the Perspex made him uncomfortable with sweat. He pulled back the canopy a bit to get some airflow around the cockpit.
Gerry squinted against the flat blue sky. He murmured: ‘There’ – three black dots barrelling through the heavens towards them.
Vincent looked across at the section leader’s plane. He had edged too close. ‘Ease out a bit,’ he intoned.
A black shape flashed by above him, a concussive blast of air punched into the cockpit with a roaring rasp of deafening noise. Vincent’s instinctive spasm rammed the stick to his left.
Gerry ducked his head as Green Section’s three Spitfires slashed past only feet above him. Then he hauled back hard on the stick as the huge, flat shape of Drew’s fighter lurched across his vision.
Vincent felt a shuddering impact on his starboard wing and a shape careened away in his peripheral vision. The world jolted into a vicious spin.
Gerry levelled out, banked left and looked down. Andrew’s Spitfire tumbled towards the ground, end over end, while its tail section spiralled away on a different trajectory.
Gerry pressed transmit: ‘Andrew! Bail out! You’ve lost your tail!’ He sucked in great gulps of air to quell the visceral panic rising in his throat: ‘Andrew!’
The somersaulting Spitfire hit the centre of a ploughed field with a pluming splash of burning fuel. The fuselage bounced once into the air, scattering debris, before it crumpled to rest, thick black smoke belching from the fire that engulfed it.
‘Andrew?’
Vincent wrestled with the stick and kicked at the rudder, fighting with all his might against the flat spin gripping his Spitfire. The whirling slowed and stopped; Vincent pushed the nose down to prevent a stall, then straightened up. Panting with terror and exertion he looked out at his wing. The leading edge crumpled into a huge dent and a dislocated machine-gun breech bulged the top surface.
Looking around in desperation for a safe place to set down, he pumped down the undercarriage, gasping with relief at the clunk as the legs locked into place. Throwing a nervous glance at the damaged wing, he hauled back his canopy, locking it in place. Circling, he picked a large meadow bounded by a low fence.
The horses in the meadow galloped in circles of blind terror as Vincent’s Spitfire set down amongst them. Rumbling and jolting to a halt, Vincent turned off the engine and shut the fuel cocks.
Behind his eyes the pressure mounted, then vented as the sudden white-hot explosions in his head blinded him to the world. Vincent jerked and spasmed against his harness.
****
Bryan stirred from his doze, the ringing of the dispersal telephone tearing away his peace. The murmuring voice inside the hut went on for longer than usual. He sat up and waited.
The rattle of receiver into cradle begat a silent pause. Bryan peered into the gloom of the hut. The orderly’s measured steps sounded on the wooden floor and the man emerged into the sunlight with a drawn look of concern weighing down his features.
‘There’s been an accident, a collision,’ he said. ‘Two of Yellow Section’s planes have gone in. The army have sent ambulances and fire-trucks to the scene.’
Silence fell like a shroud over the pilots. Bryan sagged back into his deckchair and closed his eyes under the weight of pain and exhaustion. He sat immobile, refusing to hope or believe, until the growl of Merlin engines broached the silence above his head. His eyes flicked open and he hauled himself onto his feet, walking away towards the landing strip.
The pilots watched him go in silence.
****
Molly pulled on her patterned dress, wriggling and squirming to reach the zip and clasps on its back. She walked to the mirror and looked herself up and down. The pleats of the dress stretched themselves almost flat across her pregnant belly, but she had nothing prettier that she could still squeeze into.
She nodded in satisfaction and went to the dressing table. Opening a small drawer, she smiled with affection at the contents: foundation, powder, lipstick, eye-liner and eyeshadow, all bought for her wedding day before war-time scarcities bore down on such simple pleasures. She picked them out one by one, arranging them in a semi-circle on the dresser. Looking in the mirror she pulled and stretched her skin experimentally, searching for lines or wrinkles. She leaned forward and crinkled her brow into a frown, then burst into laughter at the stern face she’d made. Still smiling to herself, she reached for the foundation.
****
Bryan stood with arms folded as the four returning Spitfires circled the field. He squinted at the descending planes until he could make out the white identification letters on the leader’s fuselage. It was Gerry bringing them home. His head sagged and his stomach writhed with conflicting emotions.
Gerry taxied to a standstill and cut his engine. Climbing out, he spotted Bryan and walked slowly towards him.
‘What happened, Yankee?’ Bryan asked.
Gerry reached him and they walked together towards the dispersal hut.
‘Yellow Section were flying as bombers and Andrew was talking Green Section through all the quarters of attack. He started them with an attack from astern and took them right around the clock’ – he paused – ‘the last one was a head-on attack. They cut it very fine, close enough to spook me…’
‘And?’
Gerry blew out a deep breath: ‘Sergeant Drew over-reacted, pulled a sharp left bank. He and Andrew collided.’
‘Parachutes?’
‘Andrew’s tail was chopped off. The plane somersaulted in. He didn’t have a chance to get out.’
‘What about Sergeant Drew?’
Gerry shook his head: ‘I didn’t see what happened to him. I couldn’t raise him on the wireless. I think we’ve lost him too.’
Bryan stopped, covering his eyes with one hand: ‘Practising bomber attacks. What a waste.’
‘He took Fagan’s lecture to heart,’ Gerry said. ‘You can understand why, after all his wife does live next to an airfield and…’ he faltered into silence.
Bryan dropped his hand from eyes that glistened with tears: ‘It’s their bloody wedding anniversary, Yankee. She’s organised a party.’
They walked the few dozen yards to the dispersal hut under the silence of their grief.
The orderly stood waiting: ‘Sir?’
Bryan nodded for him to speak.
‘They’ve recovered Pilot Officer Francis from the wreckage, sir. He’s been taken to Croydon morgue.’
‘Thank you,’ Bryan breathed.
‘And they’ve found Sergeant Drew, sitting in his Spitfire in a field of horses. Force-landed. They’ve taken him to hospital for a check-up.’
Bryan fixed the orderly with a gaze that nailed several seconds of silence to the man’s forehead: ‘Tell Beehive Control that Bluebird Squadron are standing down.’
****
Molly took the carrot-cake from the tin and wiped a bread-knife with a
napkin. She pondered cutting the cake, but no, the squadron might be held up, it would be a shame for it to go dry. She uncorked the port and sniffed its deep-fruited aroma. Pouring a small measure for herself she walked through to the bar.
Geoff paused in his glass polishing: ‘Just waiting for the other half?’
Molly patted her belly. ‘The other third.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Cheers.’
****
Bryan fastened cufflinks into his sky-blue shirt, turned up the collar and reached for his dark blue tie. He avoided his own gaze in the mirror, focusing instead on tying his knot and centring his tie-pin.
He stepped away from the mirror and shrugged on his jacket, fastening the buttons and securing the belt. Reaching for his cap, he returned to the mirror. At last he looked into the reflection of his own eyes. He settled the cap onto his head, checking the peak sat dead straight across his forehead. On impulse he reached up and undid his top jacket button.
****
Molly sat at the bar, nursing her port and chatting with Geoff. A group of pilots from Biggin Hill sat around a table in the window murmuring in wearied conversation, and an elderly gentleman perched at the other end of the bar like a sack of discarded clothes at a jumble sale.
The familiar growl of the Humber’s engine and the crunch of wheels on the gravel turned Molly’s head.
Sliding off the barstool, she clasped her hands over her breast to contain her excitement.
Bryan walked in and stopped. He looked into Molly’s eyes.
‘Oh,’ Molly said, ‘are they not allowed to come?’
The pilots by the window fell silent, first to sense the portent. Bryan took off his cap and held Molly’s gaze.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. ‘Andrew’s been hurt!’
Bryan shook his head.
Realisation flowed over Molly. Her head drooped and her shoulders sagged as she crumpled into herself. She swayed like a wraith in the breeze and Bryan stepped forward to catch her in his arms.
‘It was very quick, Molly,’ Bryan whispered into her hair, ‘he didn’t suffer.’
The pilots finished their drinks and filed out quietly, each nodding respect to Bryan as they passed. The elderly man retired to the toilet. Geoff stood staring down into the middle distance.
Molly heaved a rasping, ragged breath that shuddered through her body. ‘It hurts.’ Her voice keened with the serrated edge of raw grief. ‘It hurts so badly.’
Bryan tightened his embrace, trying to stem the haemorrhage of her distress. Molly wracked with visceral sobs against his chest, each convulsion subsiding into the next until she trembled to stillness. She pushed gently against Bryan and he released her. She walked to the window and sat down.
‘I’ve often imagined this moment.’ Her voice was quiet but steady through her tears. ‘Not when I said goodbye to him’ – she shook her head – ‘not while I waited for him to come back.’ Fresh tears welled into her lashes. ‘But when he came back’ – a grim smile creased her wet cheeks – ‘I knew he only came back because somewhere a woman like me had lost a man like him.
‘Thank you, Bryan, I’m glad I heard it from you.’ She stood and straightened her dress. ‘I think I’ll be off home.’
‘I can stay with you a while if you want,’ Bryan said. ‘I don’t want you to be alone.’
‘No.’ She smiled again. ‘I won’t be alone’ – she rested a hand on her belly – ‘I have a piece of Andrew right here.’
Chapter 25
Luctus
1st October, 1940
The army truck growled to a halt outside Kenley’s gate. Vincent jumped from the rear and waved his thanks to the driver as the engine gunned and the truck rolled away.
The guard nodded as Vincent walked past towards the airfield, carrying his parachute over his shoulder. Passing between the officers’ mess and the control room, he walked out to the dispersal hut. The squadron sat reading papers and smoking in the limpid sunlight.
Vincent walked up to Bryan: ‘Sergeant Pilot Vincent Drew reporting for d-duty, sir.’
Bryan rocked slightly in his chair at the sound but didn’t look up. ‘You’re not on the rota today, Drew. Report for readiness at first light.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He paused. ‘They told me Pilot Officer Francis c-crashed, sir. I’m s-sorry.’
Bryan sprang from his chair: ‘Yes’ – he leaned into Vincent’s face – ‘it’s bloody difficult to stay in the air when you’ve got no tail.’
Gerry placed a restraining hand on Bryan’s shoulder: ‘It was an accident, Bryan.’
‘An accident?’ Bryan whirled on Gerry. ‘Was it?’ He spun back to confront Vincent: ‘Or have we got a jinx on the squadron?’
Gerry stepped between the two men: ‘Come on, Bryan. The kid feels bad enough as it is.’
Bryan fired a glare at Vincent and stormed away across the field.
Gerry took Vincent by the arm: ‘Come on, sergeant. Let’s get you away from here.’
They walked towards the line of tents at the edge of the field.
‘You were there, sir,’ Vincent said. ‘What happened?’
‘Green Section cut it too close, is all,’ Gerry said. ‘I’m pleased you made it down in one piece.’
‘Maybe I am a jinx,’ Vincent said. ‘I should’ve stayed on the ground. Should’ve stuck with being a powder monkey.’
‘Why did you volunteer for flying?’
‘I was told the Germans were coming, sir. I mean, really coming, on the doorstep so to speak.’ Vincent blushed. ‘I just wanted to do the best I could to protect my mother.’
Gerry smiled: ‘That’s the exact same reason I’m here.’
3rd October, 1940
The orderly leaned out the window: ‘Control needs a section to patrol off the coast at Hastings, they think there may be a weather reconnaissance stooging around.’
Bryan hauled himself out of his chair. ‘Yankee,’ he shouted, ‘find me another pilot – we’ve got a weatherman to hunt.’
Bryan strode to his Spitfire and jumped onto the wing. As he climbed into the cockpit Gerry jogged past with Vincent behind him.
‘Sergeant Drew’s flying Number Three,’ Gerry called as he passed.
****
Molly stared at the hospital ceiling. A tear crept from the corner of her eye and trickled into her ear. A throb grew in her lower back and climbed up her abdomen leaving her muscles rigid in its wake. She tensed her jaw against the sensation, a visceral grunt escaped from her throat. The pain peaked and passed.
The nurse checked the watch pinned on her apron: ‘It won’t be long now, Mrs Francis.’
‘Call me Molly.’
****
‘Bluebird Yellow Leader to Yellow Section, we’ll take one more run along the coast and call it a day. It’s getting too cloudy for this game.’
Stacked cumulus clouds drifted across the coast west of Folkestone. Yellow Section plunged into their ethereal embrace and the mist smothered their canopies like white muslin.
Gerry peered across the space at the other two planes. Bryan’s Yellow One was indistinct but still visible as a murky shape in the swirling mire. Vincent’s Yellow Three, out on Bryan’s starboard side, flickered in and out of vision like a spectre in a dream.
‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Section,’ Bryan called, ‘keep a careful eye on your instruments. Maintain current heading and keep feet off rudders. Stay smooth and straight until we get out of the murk.’
Gerry eased out further to port, putting an extra 20 yards between himself and the other planes. He glanced from the artificial horizon on his instrument panel to the ghostly form of Bryan’s Spitfire and back again.
Vincent stared at the crowded control panel. The familiar instruments took on an alien remoteness. The wobbling wheel of the compass looked primitive. The vibrating needles wavered with uncertainty. He stared for a moment through the windscreen. A translucent cotton wool cloak pressed against it.
Swallowing his panic, Vincent searched
for the section leader. Ahead and to his left, he could make out the silhouette of Bryan’s Spitfire flitting in and out of sight. Fixing his eyes on this oasis of security, he edged closer.
Bryan held his control column in his right hand and locked his right elbow against the cockpit wall. He scanned out over his left shoulder and saw the dim profile of Gerry’s aircraft drifting further out to port. He turned back to check his heading and looked out over his right shoulder. He could see nothing. Bryan checked his heading again and craned his head hard back over his right shoulder. Something moved in the mist at the edge of his vision. Bryan snapped his eyes up to the rear-view mirror. Yellow Three loomed tight on his starboard side.
‘You’re not having me too, you bastard,’ Bryan murmured and hauled his stick to the right.
Vincent yelped in surprise as Bryan’s aircraft flipped onto its starboard wingtip, lurching across his path. He yanked the stick back into his belly, hurling his Spitfire into a sudden, steep climb to avoid the collision, clenching his teeth against an impact that didn’t come. Panting with rising panic, Vincent pushed the stick forward and centred it. He looked around wildly into the dense, blinding whiteness then back at the spinning compass. The engine choked and sputtered into a stall. Vincent’s stomach lurched as his Spitfire slid away into a flat spin.
Gerry glanced back to his instruments, checking his heading and artificial horizon. He looked out to his right and stared at the white blankness for long moments. Bryan had vanished.
Bryan held his steep right bank for a few seconds and then slewed into a diving turn to port. He watched his altimeter tick down and his compass settle. He came around to the correct heading and levelled out 1000ft lower.
Gerry, unnerved at losing contact with the formation, allowed his plane to drift more to the left and eased the throttle back a notch.
****
Molly’s scream tore the air. She sucked a breath in through clenched teeth and roared again into the anguish of her pain.
‘Almost there, Molly,’ the nurse murmured. ‘I can see the head.’
Molly’s muscles quivered and clenched into iron spasm. A wave of blinding pain crashed up through her abdomen and burst in her temples, grinding her teeth in her clenched jaws.
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 25