‘Yellow Leader to Yellow Two’ – he raised his flaps and throttled forward – ‘form up. We’re going home.’
***
Bryan and his wingman curved in to land at Kenley. As they descended, the three Spitfires of Green Section approached from the south-east, one trailing white vapour from a damaged engine. The station fire tender and ambulance rolled across the grass to the far end of the landing strip in anticipation. Bryan touched down and taxied away to his dispersal pen, checking in his mirror that the damaged fighter landed safely behind him.
Ground crew met him at the blast pen and manhandled the Spitfire around on the concrete pad to face outwards, ready to scramble once ammunition and fuel was replenished. Brian pulled back the hood and the rigger vaulted onto the wing to help unfetter him from his straps and webbing.
‘Any joy, sir?’
Bryan nodded. ‘There’ll be two extra sausages on the tea table back at Abbeville this evening.’
The rigger laughed and jumped down onto the grass, taking the parachute from Bryan as he climbed from the cockpit.
‘Someone did throw something at me, though.’ Bryan walked out to his port wingtip. Two small holes and a pronounced crease marred the surface of the wing a few inches outside the roundel painted on its top surface.
The rigger squinted at the damage. ‘Machine gun bullets.’ He ran his hand along the surface. ‘Nothing too serious, I’ll get them tidied up and patched.’
‘I’ve a horrible feeling that Agutter might have collected rather more holes than I did.’ Bryan lit a cigarette. ‘Fix her up as quick as you can, Mortice, we’ll be flying again soon.’
The rigger hurried away to get his toolbox. Bryan paused and gazed towards the damaged Spitfire at the end of the landing strip. Vapour curved up from its now silent engine and men stood on the wings each side of the cockpit. Bryan flicked away his cigarette and strode towards the machine.
Getting closer, he saw the cockpit hood was still shut. Close behind it on the starboard side something had torn a ragged hole in the upper fuselage.
A medical officer stood waiting next to an empty stretcher.
‘What’s happened?’ Bryan asked without preamble.
The medic glanced at him. ‘Looks like a cannon shell hit just behind his head. The canopy runners are bent out of shape. They can’t shift it.’
‘And the pilot?’
‘The right side of his face is shredded, shrapnel from the explosion. Almost certainly concussed and very probably drifting into severe shock.’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody amazing that he got the thing down.’
An airman arrived at a steady run and handed crowbars up to the men on the wings. Bryan lit another cigarette as he watched the groundcrew jabbing and levering with the tools. ‘He didn’t really have any other choice, did he?’
The cockpit hood gave way with a crunching rend of metal and the men bent it back on its jammed runners, leaning against it to give the man inside room to move. Supported by helping hands, the pilot raised himself with the infinite care of the violently injured. He pulled his tattered leather helmet off his head and his right ear came with it. Someone pressed a field dressing onto his lacerated cheek before he slumped into the arms of his rescuers who lifted him carefully down to the grass.
Bryan walked towards the readiness hut. Behind him the ambulance sped across the airfield to the gates, bound for a hospital in Croydon, the fire engine bumped back to its station on the perimeter and the heavy tow truck emerged from the maintenance hangar, belching black smoke from its exhausts as it lumbered towards the broken Spitfire. A group of armourers busied themselves hauling belts of ammunition out of the machine’s wings like the intestines of a slaughtered animal and Kenley settled back to the sedate rhythm of its warped normality.
Bryan stepped into the hut and strode to Fagan’s desk. Fagan leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head, like a maths professor puzzling with a knotty problem.
‘Sit down, Hale.’ He unclasped his hands and picked up his pen. Tapping the end rhythmically on his notepad, he continued: ‘It appears you were right about the German fighter-bombers, and Beehive Control is’ – he chewed the inside of his mouth as he sought for the right word – ‘relieved that Bluebird happened to have two sections in the air on training flights.’
‘Yes’ – Bryan leaned forward and crushed his cigarette out in Fagan’s ashtray – ‘bloody lucky, that.’
‘Squadrons from Tangmere and Hornchurch are now running standing patrols’ – Fagan looked at Bryan over his spectacles – ‘so Bluebird can stand down for the moment.’ He cleared his throat and pulled a piece of paper across the desk towards him. ‘Simmonds has already given me his combat report.’ He scanned the paper. ‘I understand you downed a 109 yourself and’ – this time the pause was more deliberate – ‘shared in the destruction of another one?’
Bryan nodded. ‘Sounds fair.’
‘The observers at Woolwich Docks have confirmed seeing the first one crash into the river. The other one ended up bent around a tree on Dartford Heath, apparently while attempting a forced landing.’
Bryan nodded sagely while he lit a fresh cigarette.
‘We’ve had complaints, Bryan.’
‘Complaints?’ Bryan blew a stream of smoke across the desk.
‘It seems the German was attempting to surrender and you opened fire on him when he was defenceless.’
Bryan remained silent.
‘It’s been suggested that was unsportsmanlike behaviour.’
‘Unsportsmanlike?’ Bryan leaned back in his chair and looked up to the ceiling. ‘Exactly what kind of a game are we involved in here? Perhaps the civilians living in the street where he dropped his bomb could think of a name for the game.’ Bryan grimaced in mock concentration. ‘Perhaps the young pilot whose just left the station in an ambulance, wearing half his face as a necktie could think of a name for the game.’ Bryan straightened, drilling his gaze directly at Fagan. ‘Perhaps you can ask Agutter, if he ever comes back, to think up a name for the bloody game.’
Fagan squirmed under the weight of Bryan’s suppressed fury. ‘You can’t rewrite the Geneva Convention to suit yourself, Hale. We should be proud of the things we have to do to win this war.’
Bryan stood up and turned to leave. ‘I am.’
***
Bryan leaned back from his paperwork and gazed absently through the window for long moments. The steadily darkening sky muffled the movements of the silhouetted ground crews, reducing the men to an army of wraiths throwing tarpaulins over engine cowlings and winding hoses onto petrol bowsers. He stood, walked to the window and shut out the scene with the heavy blackout curtains. He sighed and returned to the documents on his blotter. Switching on his desk lamp, he pulled it closer over the forms and letters he had to check and sign. The knock at the door came as a welcome interruption.
‘Come in.’
The adjutant entered and closed the door softly behind him. ‘Good evening, Bryan.’
‘Is it, Madge?’ Bryan gestured at the papers. ‘All this bloody bumf simply to move a squadron four hundred miles north.’
‘I have news on Agutter.’ The adjutant sat down. ‘The head-on attack shattered his windscreen and damaged his engine. He lost power and couldn’t see where he was flying, so he decided the safest thing to do was bail out. The army should deliver him to us tomorrow.’
‘And that other poor sod?’ Bryan dithered, searching for a name, ‘The one that took the cannon shell.’
‘Browning,’ the adjutant said. ‘The boy’s name is Browning. He’ll survive, but he’s badly disfigured.’
Bryan lit a cigarette. ‘I’m sure his mother will still love him.’
The adjutant dropped his gaze and removed his cap. ‘He had a fiancé, Bryan. They planned to marry this coming weekend. You signed the leave form yourself.’
A silence dangled between the two men, finally broken by the older man.
‘Look, I know what yo
u’ve been through this summer, and I’ve seen stronger men crack under less pressure. Most of those that don’t crack are protecting themselves by pretending it’s not really happening, that the whole thing is nothing more than jolly japes in the mess and drinking too much, with a bit of flying thrown in every now and then. It was exactly the same in the RFC during the last war.
‘But you, Bryan. I’ve never seen anyone take it so’ – the adjutant searched for a different word and failed – ‘seriously.’
Bryan looked into the older man’s face and his focus relaxed. ‘Thanks for the news about Agutter. It will be good to have him back on Yellow Section.’ With that, Bryan returned to his work.
The adjutant sat for a moment in silence, then stood and replaced his cap. ‘Speaking as a friend, I think once we get to Scotland you should look for a companion. Let somebody draw out your softer side, while it’s still there to be found.’
The adjutant left and Bryan continued to scribble signatures on stock lists and maintenance reports. Getting to the end of the pile, he placed his pen in its holder and the documents in the out tray. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes drifted over to the hazed black Bakelite telephone and its corroding chrome dial glinting in the lamplight.
***
The tube train rattled into Balham station and the packed legion of office workers shuffled and jostled to face the doors. Amongst them, Jenny and Alice stepped from the carriage and picked their way through the early shelterers to the stairs. At the top of the stairwell, most of the crowd veered off to the mainline platforms to continue journeys home on trains that wheezed through the vast suburban hinterland south of London. Jenny and Alice walked out into the cool evening air on Balham High Road and headed south as a train clattered over the bridge above their heads.
When the noise subsided Jenny spoke: ‘How do you fancy baked potatoes? I’ve got some leftover cheese.’
Alice groaned. ‘It takes too long. I’m hungry now. I have some fish that needs to be used up.’ She brightened. ‘We could use your cheese to make a sauce.’
‘Wait there.’
The greengrocer was clearing away the display in the front of his shop. Jenny ducked inside, coming out minutes later with a bunch of carrots and a green cabbage.
‘Feast!’ she announced.
The two women walked carefully through the thickening gloom and crossed the road. The huge bulk of the block of flats they called home loomed in the darkness above them, the serried rows of horizontal windows gleaming in the emerging moonlight reflected from the clouds.
They pushed through the doors and walked across the lobby, Alice fixing the porter with a sidelong glare, and stepped into an open lift. Jenny pressed the button for the sixth floor and both women surveyed themselves dispassionately in the mirrored back wall as the carriage whisked them upwards.
Out onto the carpeted corridor, a short walk to their door and the relief of being home swept over them. They kicked off their shoes and Jenny dropped the vegetables into the sink for washing while Alice pulled the blackouts closed. Jenny turned on the tap and searched the cutlery drawer for the peeler.
The telephone’s bell jangled through the flat and Jenny paused in her work until she heard Alice lift the handset.
‘Hello?
‘No, it’s not…
‘Yes, she is…
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
Jenny was already drying her hands as Alice stuck her head into the kitchen. ‘It’s a gentleman for you’ – she beamed a broad, conspiratorial smile – ‘he says his name is Bryan.’
Jenny padded through to the lounge in her stockinged feet and picked up the handset.
‘Hello, Bryan.’
‘Hello, Jenny. I hope I’m not disturbing your dinner.’
‘Not at all, you caught me peeling carrots.’
Alice sat on the couch, grinning like a witch doctor.
Jenny turned her back on her friend. ‘It’s nice to hear from you.’
‘You said it might be fun to meet up again,’ Bryan said. ‘How about Sunday? I could get there in the afternoon. You don’t work Sundays, do you?’
‘No, I don’t, and yes, that would be nice.’
‘Where shall we meet?’
‘I live in Du Cane Court, on Balham High Road. You can’t miss it. Go to the front desk and they’ll call me.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
The click in the earpiece cut to the buzz of a dropped line. Jenny replaced the handset and stood for a moment, arms folded, her hands clasping her sides in a self-contained hug of reassurance. When she padded back to the kitchen, Alice dashed after her.
‘Well? Tell me all about it.’ She pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table and plonked herself down.
Jenny resumed peeling carrots in silence.
‘So?’ Alice insisted.
‘He’s desperate.’ Jenny’s voice held a cold edge. ‘He thinks he’s going to die and he wants some fun before he does.’
Alice’s face dropped. ‘He said that?’
‘Of course he didn’t’ – Jenny tutted – ‘but it doesn’t make it any less true.’
‘Come on, Jen,’ Alice implored. ‘He’s a fighter pilot. I’m not being rude, but I don’t think they usually have much of a problem finding company.’
Jenny turned on her friend. ‘And because I happen to be convenient, I’m supposed to roll over?’
‘He must like you. I mean, he has called to ask you out.’
‘In the pub, he didn’t even know who I was. I had to tell him.’ Jenny turned back to the sink, the renewed scraping of a carrot scratched at the silence.
‘You did give him the telephone number,’ Alice murmured.
Jenny dropped a clean carrot onto the draining board and started scraping the next.
Chapter 4
The wide Norfolk sky above Horsham St Faith flared with the orange glow of the descending sun as Sergeant Tommy Scott stood, with his duffel bag dangling from his shoulder, waiting for the transport. The bomber crews of 139 Squadron trudged past him on their way to the briefing room to get the final updates on weather, flight paths, flak concentration and searchlights that might be encountered on their way in and out of enemy territory. Twelve Blenheims stood dispersed around the field, heavy with ordnance and fuel for the night’s bombing raid.
‘Good luck, Tommy.’ His pilot slapped him on the shoulder as he passed. ‘I hope everything’s alright at home. Give our love to Lizzy.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Tommy called after the pilot’s retreating back. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday.’
Strange forces tugged at Tommy as the aircrews flowed past him. He’d put in for this leave the moment his wife received the due date from her GP. He was bursting to see her, but standing down as his crew started a mission with a replacement gunner rubbed sorely against the grain.
‘Transport to Norwich station.’
The call broke the spell. Tommy trotted towards the dark blue truck, hefted his duffel bag into the back and clambered in after it. Three other aircrew climbed aboard and sat on the benches ranged along the sides of the truck, each face graced with the beatific calm of a man leaving the firing line to visit his loved ones.
The truck growled into life and waddled over the ruts and potholes to the main gate. Once past the sentry post, the engine rattled to a pneumonic crescendo as the driver accelerated south towards the city. The truck jolted along the road in the deepening dusk, slowing down as it snarled up in the increasing traffic. Industrial buildings hunkered along the roadside, giving way to terraced houses as they penetrated the suburbs.
It was fully dark when the truck ground to a halt on the train station forecourt and the men spilled out of the tailgate. Half-a-dozen returning aircrew clambered in to take their place and the truck wheezed its way back into the gloom.
Tommy paused at the station doors and cocked his head. Rippling beneath the noise and bustle of the railway terminus he could feel the gentle throb of motors
blown south on the prevailing breeze. The rumbling waxed and waned as the bombers circled, forming up and climbing. Then it subsided as the formation struck east for its long flight over the angry North Sea to targets on the north-west German coast. Tommy pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against an involuntary shiver and strode into the station. He found the next train to London on the departures board and made his way to the platform. Thoughts of navigation, bombs and the cold, uncaring sea receded. He was going to see his pregnant wife.
***
The train clanked its careful way over the points and into Liverpool Street station, gushing a cascade of steam back around its carriages as it rolled to a halt. Tommy roused from a semi-doze, shuffled to the door and stepped out onto the hard, cold platform. Eager now to finish his journey, he hurried through the station exit to the bus stop.
The London sky stood clear, rimed with silver moonlight. Anti-aircraft guns barked angry flashes into the shimmering vault and the flat thud of bomb strikes in the middle distance taunted the gunners’ blind impotence.
Tommy stamped his feet against the chill for several minutes before a number 78 bus pulled up, moving with sedate care through the blackout. Tommy jumped on board and sat down. The conductor dinged the bell and walked to Tommy’s seat on well-practiced sea legs.
‘Where to?’
‘Single to Peckham High Street,’ Tommy said, wriggling in his pocket to hunt down some loose change.
The conductor wound out a ticket, tore it off and swapped it for the coins.
‘Might be a bit of a detour,’ he drawled. ‘There’s been a few sticks of bombs through there tonight. Fair amount of damage across a couple of streets.’ He pushed his cap backwards and scratched his hairline. ‘We, might be lucky. They might’ve cleared the rubble off the road by now.’
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