The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘The last time around we beat the German Army on the field’ – Bryan took another swig of ale – ‘but we let them march home beating their drums and waving their flags. That gave the civilian population the wrong message about how matters had come to an end. So, the whole bloody country sat on its resentment and paranoia for nearly twenty years and, hey presto, National Socialism and Great War Two, or whatever they end up calling it.

  ‘Winston above all others understands this. He knows it’s only the thick skin of the British public that stands between him and a Nazi noose. He’ll happily scythe his way through the ordinary German population if it gets him Hitler’s head in the long run.’

  ‘Crikey,’ Moss whispered. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Yes’ – Bryan nodded gently – ‘I think.’

  ‘Tosh.’ Carson’s voiced was greased with the edge of a slur: ‘Let’s find a different pub, this one has become too depressing.’

  They drained their beers and spilled out onto the pavement, the cold air gripping their bladders as they hurried north up Charing Cross Road. Moss, most in need of a toilet, scouted ahead at a crooked lope. He stopped to peer in at a pub window and the other two caught up with him.

  ‘This one looks nice and rough,’ he said. ‘The blackboard says they do pies.’

  They bundled into the warm smoke-filled pub. Moss scurried to the toilet and Carson went to the bar. Bryan noticed a public telephone in the snug and reached into his pocket in search of change.

  He dialled the number he now knew by heart.

  ‘Hello?’ Alice’s voice.

  ‘Hello, Alice. It’s Bryan here. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s at the hairdresser. Are you drunk?’

  ‘Not quite yet. I was calling to see if she’s alright.’

  ‘She’s quieter than normal, busy with work. Yes, she’s alright.’

  Bryan paused, thrown by the flat, calm brevity of the answer. ‘That’s good.’ His voice dropped a tone: ‘I worry about her… you know.’

  ‘You should listen to her, Bryan. Do yourself a favour. Look, I’m sorry, I have some milk on the hob. Bye.’

  The dropped line buzzed with indifference into his ear. He replaced the handset and walked to the bar.

  Chapter 14

  Tuesday, 3 December 1940

  ‘Contact!’

  Tommy’s shout was an instinctive reaction to the blip slewing across the pulsing green screen.

  ‘Damn! Lost it. Pull her into a starboard turn, Flight. See if we can pick him up again.’

  ‘Turning starboard.’ Bryan’s voice rolled as smoothly as the tilt of the fuselage.

  Tommy stared at the upper half of his display, willing the blip to swing back into view. The turn continued as Tommy agonized, then the fuzzy dot slid across the screen, departing from the other side.

  ‘Turn to port,’ he blurted. ‘Not so steep. Increase revs.’

  ‘Roger.’

  The fuselage wallowed in the opposite direction and the engine noise climbed a quarter of a tone. Tommy waited, his jaw muscle flickering with tension. The blip reappeared at the top of the trace, traversing more slowly this time.

  ‘Hold this course. He’s dead ahead at extreme range. A touch more throttle, please.’

  Once more the engine note rose, like a choir of baritones ascending a scale, and Tommy watched the blip begin its slow descent of the screen.

  ‘He’s flying straight and level, Flight. We’ve got him cold.’ Tommy studied the second screen: ‘He’s a few hundred feet below us by my reckoning.’

  Bryan leaned forward against his straps and squinted into the void ahead and below. High above, a cloud drifted aside and the wan light of the quarter-moon softened the darkness.

  ‘I can see him,’ Bryan said. ‘He’s reflecting the moonlight. Not sure what it is, though. I’m losing altitude to get below him. Take a look, Scott. Tell me what you think.’

  Tommy swivelled his seat and stared out over the cockpit. He caught the faint glimmer of reflection and pieced together the aircraft’s shape in his mind’s eye.

  ‘It’s definitely not a Heinkel, Flight.’ Tommy squinted harder as they dropped below their prey.

  Putting the target between them and the bisected moon unfolded a harder edge to its silhouette.

  ‘Could be a Junkers,’ Tommy mused. ‘But it seems too fat in the fuselage and its nose is too stubby.’

  ‘So, what are you calling?’

  ‘Gosh… I think it’s a Beaufighter.’

  ‘So do I.’ Bryan switched from intercom to radio transmission: ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Night-warden Control. Can you confirm our contact as hostile?’

  ‘No!’ The controller’s relief scuttled his radio protocol. ‘We’ve been tracking both of you for five minutes. That’s Blackbird G-George. Disengage, repeat, disengage.’

  The black shape suspended above them flashed on its navigation lights and rocked violently from side to side.

  ‘Ah, my good friend Carson,’ Bryan chuckled to himself. ‘Thank you, Night-warden. Disengaging now.’ Bryan pushed the throttles forward and peeled away.

  Wednesday, 4 December 1940

  ‘Carson!’ Bryan called across the field at the stocky figure stomping head-down towards the mess. Carson detoured towards him.

  ‘Come with me.’ Bryan started across the field.

  Carson trotted to catch up. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Stores.’ Bryan lit a cigarette and leered a grin at his companion. ‘I got a visual on you last night.’

  ‘I know! You scared the bloody life out of me. What sort of game do you think you’re playing?’

  Bryan smiled at him: ‘You all look the same on Scott’s screen. You’re just lucky we like to confirm exactly what we’re shooting at before we blow it out of the sky.’

  Carson’s pallor whitened.

  ‘Anyway,’ Bryan continued, ‘the point is, we approached from slightly above and you reflected the moonlight like a bloody glitterball. Something needs to be done.’

  ‘So why are we going to the stores?’

  ‘To order some paint, obviously.’

  They arrived at the Quartermaster’s hut and went to the counter. Rows of shelves and racking filled the space behind the opening and someone moved amongst them, rearranging boxes.

  ‘Hello,’ Bryan called, ‘service?’

  A man in a brown warehouse coat emerged.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Matt black paint, please.’

  ‘How much?’

  Bryan turned to Carson: ‘What do you think? About three gallons per aircraft?’

  Carson stared blankly back at him.

  ‘Yes’ – Bryan readdressed the storeman – ‘I reckon thirty-six gallons should do it. Let’s make it forty to be safe.’

  A long moment of silence stretched into the space between them.

  ‘Would you like me to call the Military Police?’

  ‘You can call the King if you like, as long as I get my paint.’

  ***

  Squadron Leader Lawson regarded Bryan standing to attention before his desk and sighed.

  ‘Stand easy, Hale. In fact, sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Bryan seated himself and sat straight-backed.

  ‘What were you planning to do with forty gallons of black paint?’

  ‘Paint the aircraft, sir.’

  Lawson’s raised eyebrows asked his silent question.

  ‘I had occasion to be flying above another Beaufighter last night. It was reflecting enough moonlight to be visible, if you happened to be looking for it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Our standard attack position is below and behind our target, sir. And now they know we’re about, there’ll be a ventral gunner whose main concern will be searching for us. It would make things more difficult for him if our aircraft were painted black.’

  ‘I take your point, Hale, but there are ways of going about things, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’
>
  Lawson scribbled something on his desk pad.

  ‘Leave it with me. Dismissed.’

  Friday, 6 December 1940

  The windows in the operations hut rattled in the gusts and the stove in the corner belched an occasional halo of woodsmoke from the edges of its ill-fitting door. Bryan and Tommy sat near each other, sucking on cigarettes and listening to the soughing wind.

  ‘How’s the family?’

  ‘Really well, as far as I can tell.’ Tommy smiled: ‘Robert’s coming up for two months old already. Lizzy’s a good girl, she’s learning the ropes quite quickly.’

  Bryan frowned: ‘As far as you can tell?’

  ‘It takes a while for our letters to get where they’re going, and sometimes they cross in the post.’ Tommy crushed his cigarette butt under the heel of his flying boot. ‘If I get a letter that’s a bit mopey and send a reply to chivvy her along, by the time she gets it she’s cheered herself up and thinks I’m being maudlin.’ Tommy chuckled to himself. ‘It’s like having a conversation with echoes.’

  ‘When are you next going to visit her?’

  ‘I don’t know, Flight. But it ought to be soon, I need to take her the pay I’ve saved up.’

  Bryan surveyed the flying rota. ‘We’re on first patrol tomorrow night. What do you say we go up early Sunday morning in the Humber?’

  ‘I’m game if you are. Shall I meet you at The George again?’

  ‘No, bugger that. I’ll pick you up outside the sergeants’ mess.’

  The adjutant opened the door and entered, holding his cap on against the swirling breeze.

  ‘Good evening gents.’ He smiled around the gathered crews. ‘Met Office has forecast strengthening winds for the rest of the night. Hang about here, please, in case they’re wrong.’

  Chairs scraped as card schools coalesced.

  ‘By the way Hale, sector command has authorised your black paint. It seems our recent kills have made them take us seriously.’

  Sunday, 8 December 1940

  Tommy clambered into the Humber’s passenger seat. It was still dark, but he pulled down his cap and hunched his neck lower into his greatcoat to be unrecognizable to any casual observers.

  Bryan glanced across as he pulled away.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘It looks a bit strange’ – Tommy eyed the guard’s hut warily as they drove past on the way out of the station – ‘what with you being an officer.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bryan snorted. ‘If nothing else, this war ought to change some of that.’

  ‘I don’t know if it will.’ Tommy sighed in relief as the station receded behind them. ‘No-one else in the sergeants’ mess remotely likes their pilot.’

  ‘Well, the RAF isn’t a social club.’ Bryan took out his cigarettes and offered one to Tommy. ‘Somebody’s got to do what somebody else tells them, or else nothing would get done.’

  Tommy chuckled: ‘Let’s not forget that on patrol it’s the operator telling the pilot what to do.’

  Bryan smiled. ‘I started this war in Blenheims. I’m quite certain my crew absolutely loathed me.’

  Tommy sucked on his cigarette and gazed out at the dawn’s glimmering disc nibbling away at the black bar of the horizon.

  ‘I sometimes think about my old crew. I wonder how it ended for them. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty I wasn’t there to help them out.’

  He wound down the window and flicked his cigarette through the gap. The slipstream tore a cascade of sparks from its burning end as it spun away into the void like a stricken aircraft.

  ***

  The sun rolled up its shallow trajectory, dribbling its callow illumination across London’s grey visage. The Humber reached the city’s outskirts and entered the bustle of Sunday drivers and half-empty buses. Military trucks growled along on thick tires, delivering ordnance to anti-aircraft batteries, the attendant soldiers sat astride the crates of shells in the back like implacable milkmen delivering provisions from hell.

  Along the pavements and walkways, couples moved together. Some walked arm-in-arm, others with hands thrust in their pockets against the cold. All wore their Sunday best on this weekly pilgrimage to church. They went to beg for forgiveness, pray for redemption and hope for deliverance, while somewhere, not too far away across the water, engines were oiled and bomb loads assembled.

  ‘It’s always nice to get back to London’ – Tommy breezed – ‘always good to come home to Peckham. Where do you call home, Flight?’

  ‘I was born in Hampstead, if that’s what you mean. I’m not sure I’d call any particular place home.’ The word left his lips like a bad taste.

  ‘What? Not even at Christmas?’

  ‘Probably especially at Christmas.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ***

  Bryan pulled up outside Tommy’s house.

  ‘You’ll come in for a cuppa?’

  Bryan climbed out and hung back while Tommy opened the door and surprised his wife. Judging they’d finished their greetings, Bryan followed him in and closed the door.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hale.’ Lizzy’s eyes shone with the pleasure of the moment. ‘Come through, it’s lovely to see you again.’

  Bryan went into the kitchen, ducked under a washing line of drying nappies and sat at the table.

  ‘You’ll stay for lunch?’ Lizzy’s open, smiling face made it impossible to refuse.

  ‘Only if it’s no trouble.’ Bryan felt a pang of admiration for this woman. She lived in difficult circumstances during uncertain times, yet she clearly loved both her life and her husband to the fullest capacity of her heart. He sat in silence and listened to them speak, catching the tone and inflection rather than the meaning of the words, the undercurrent of simple trust and contentment they shared.

  An hour later they tucked into vegetable stew with wheat crackers. After the meal, Lizzy found her wedding album and sat with Bryan, going through the photos while Tommy rolled up his sleeves and washed the pots and plates.

  Bryan flipped an album page to reveal a group of four photos. The bride and groom standing in front of a weathered church door, beaming with irrepressible happiness, were dead centre of each composition. The only change between exposures was the surrounding press of relatives; aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, photographed in tribal gatherings according to bloodline.

  ‘Everyone looks very happy,’ he ventured. ‘When was it?’

  ‘Sixteenth of February, 1939’ – Lizzy sighed – ‘before we knew what we had coming.’ She flipped forward a couple of pages to photos of the reception. She rested a finger on one of the pictures. ‘This is my friend, Daisy, and her boyfriend, Lionel.’

  Bryan tilted the book slightly to defeat the reflections on the glossy prints. In the photograph, Daisy’s big, bright eyes echoed the smile that danced on her lips. She held Lionel’s hand across the trestle table. Lionel gazed at Daisy rather than the camera, but his lips mirrored her smile. His forage cap lay neatly folded under the epaulette of his infantry blouson and his hair was neatly slicked back with hair oil.

  ‘Lionel went missing on the retreat to Dunkirk’ – Lizzy’s voice caught in her throat – ‘and Daisy got killed during one of the first raids on London in September. She was sitting pretty in a proper deep air raid shelter. But they say the bomb went down the ventilation shaft. One-in-a-million chance, they said…’

  Bryan looked up into her glistening eyes. ‘It’s very dangerous, living here so close to the docks. Is there nowhere else you can move to?’

  Lizzy shook her head, dabbing at her cheek with a handkerchief: ‘No, Mister Hale. All my family are hereabouts. I put my faith in God and carry on. He’ll protect me and little Robert. I believe He will.’

  Tommy turned from the kitchen sink, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He regarded his wife with a mixture of love and sadness.

  ‘Who wants tea?’ he asked.

  ***

  Jenny snuggled against his chest, breathing deeply with steady contentment
, her ivory skin reflecting the insipid moonlight that filtered through the open bedroom curtains. Bryan’s insides still buzzed from their love-making. He swallowed against the swelling emotions in his breast, like a channel swimmer standing irresolute in the face of the rise and fall of cold, grey waves crashing onto raucous shingle, searching for the will to wade through their violence to begin his journey. He grasped for his courage.

  ‘I’ve decided to apply for a transfer.’

  Jenny’s shoulders tensed a fraction under his arm, but her head remained still.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to.’

  ‘I do.’ She tilted her head up to regard him. ‘The question is; why have you decided to do it?’

  Bryan stroked her hair away from her cheek. ‘There can’t be a future where I don’t end up losing something.’ His eyes wandered her upturned face, skipping between the dark shadows of her irises and the fine line of her nose. ‘And maybe I can stand losing anything except you.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  Distant flashes glittered the horizon to the east and long fingers of light unfurled from amidst them to probe the clouds for the invisible assailants.

  Bryan sighed: ‘The docks again.’

  ‘Shush.’ Jenny shifted her weight and swung herself onto his body, sitting astride his hips. She leaned down to kiss him and her dark hair fell around his face, blotting out the distant glow of cascading violence and cocooning him in the warm fug of desire.

  ***

  Beneath the table, Lizzy tore two pieces of cotton wool from the roll and twisted them carefully into her baby’s ears. Robert cried fitfully in her arms and she hummed a low, rambling tune to quieten him and bolster her own nerve. She could see the outline of Tommy’s legs in the dark as he stood by the kitchen window, watching the raid plastering garish light across the Surrey Docks. The occasional detonation of high explosives punctuated the ever-increasing glow of developing fires.

  ‘I think it’s mostly incendiaries.’ He surveyed the sky with a professional eye. ‘There’s enough moonlight to keep their bomb aimers on target. I don’t suspect anything will drift this far.’

  Lizzy placed the snoozing baby into his cot and wriggled out from under the table. She stood next to her husband and put her arm around his waist, gazing out to the north-east where the distant flames coloured the cloud base orange.