No, that was one thing they would never have to worry about: Simon Blakeney-Smith would make the most willing prisoner of war of all time.
Seven
If no orders came within the next hour it would be the end of the hard, sunlit working day. During the night the bombers would go out unescorted and the fighter Geschwader would be set free.
Oberleutnant Richter was at ease in a canvas chair, his feet propped on an ammunition box, turning the pages of a physical culture magazine. Erich Hafner and Otto Ihlefeld were seated nearby with girlie magazines open on their knees. Their comrades pressed around them and there was a continuous exchange of lewd comment, banter and laughter. The provocatively posed girls on the glossy pages excited the younger men's lust. But Richter had no one with whom to share his enjoyment of the oiled, muscular, superbly developed male physiques. He felt jealous of the others with their common interest so openly shared. If he gave way here to his own urge he would meet disaster, if he resisted it he would become neurotic. He had better go on leave for twenty-four hours: Paris or Lille would provide complaisant youths and the safety valve he so badly needed.
He put down the magazine abruptly, consulted his watch and stood up.
Instantly the group around Hafner and Ihlefeld stiffened and the seated officers began to rise.
Richter beckoned to a youngster who had been sitting by himself, too shy to join the group. 'Come on, Keiling, let's see what you're made of.'
The boy, who had already leaped to his feet, blushed and stammered. 'S-s-sir?'
'Get in your aircraft, man. I'm going to take you up for a lesson in air combat.'
'Ja-wahl! Herr Oberleutnant. Sofort!’ He ran down the line of Messerschmitts. Since reporting to the Staffel the previous evening he had been waiting for someone to notice him; and now, at last, it was the godlike C.O. himself who had condescended to put him through his paces. He would have something worthwhile to write in his letter home tonight.
The rest of the pilots watched the two 109s take off, critically. When they were out of sight, Hafner asked 'Who's coming into Boulogne for dinner?'
There was some groaning and slapping of empty pockets. Two or three agreed to go into town; others said they would join the party after dining in mess. Somebody suggested taking girls along with them, someone else thought it would be fun to tour the best brothels. 'They forgot the war as they cheerfully made their plans.
They were invaders, hated and resented. They had to make their own substitute for ordinary communal life; the towns people would not accept them. They were cut off from normal genial intercourse with their fellow men. The billets they had requisitioned were German enclaves in an area from which most of the civilian inhabitants had been driven out. They were virtually living in a wasteland. A few French people were allowed to remain on the farms and in the villages but their movements were restricted. Those Germans who could visit the nearby towns were a fortunate minority and even they had to accept ostracism. They could eat in the restaurants, drink in the bars and cafes, buy presents to send home, frequent the brothels; but none of the French spoke willingly to them.
The officers took girls back to their quarters but sent them hurriedly away the next morning. Those women who sought the Germans' company did so because they accepted them as the new and permanent overlords of France; of Europe, indeed. They did so because, like young women the world over, they wanted to enjoy some gaiety; and the Germans offered abundant food and drink, boisterous parties, male adulation. The war was lost and the French would have to live in a new environment, so the sooner they learned to make the best of it the better. It was a specious but human philosophy. And besides, many of their new rulers were fine looking men; it was no hardship to accept their embraces. Conquerors have a special aura; the appeal of power and the glamour of valour and the force of arms. Not many women are proof against it, ultimately.
Nonetheless the evenings had an essential loneliness for young Erich Hafner and his friends, despite the easy availability of food, drink and pretty women.
Hafner punched his friend Ihlefeld on the shoulder. 'You can have my blonde tonight, Otto. I fancy that redhead you've been keeping to yourself.'
'All right. That'll suit everyone: I’m getting bored with the redhead, and the blonde has been making eyes at me behind your back for days...’
'You lying dog!'
Simon Blakeney-Smith knew all about fear; just as he knew all about bullying, for he had been to a Jesuit boarding school.
He had suffered especial cruelty at the hands of the Society of Jesus because he was ignorant of Catholic dogma when his parents first sent him to their expensive college. The Jesuits appeared to know only one way of teaching a boy anything: to thrash it into him with the ferrula, the brutal whalebone and rubber instrument with which they beat their pupil's hand. After two years he ran away, but his father forced him to return.
Blakeney-Smith had a morbid fear of eternal damnation, and it was this terror of hell which made him so reluctant a warrior.
While he was being driven back to East Malford in an ambulance he relived every detail of those horrifying moments of combat. He had felt his aircraft shudder as bullets hit; he didn't know where; or how much damage they had done. He had been quick-thinking enough to switch off his engine, roll his fighter on to its back and jump clear at once. He reasoned that it was most likely that he would have had to bale out anyway. He hadn't waited to find out whether his Hurricane was badly damaged; he had merely acted prudently.
He dragged himself away from his thoughts and gave his full attention to the pretty F.A.N.Y. who was driving the ambulance. She had been trying to encourage him to talk ever since they set off. He offered her a cigarette ('I hope you like Turks, what?'), lit a cheroot for himself ('Sure you don't mind the smell?'); and presently produced a leather-covered silver flask ('Useful in the hunting field, y'know') of whisky. 'I always carry this in case I have to swim around a long time and get cold. I didn't touch it today: the A.S.R. boys were unusually quick.'
She looked at him admiringly. 'You've been through this before, then?'
'Well, one can't expect not to get a ducking now and then,' he replied evasively. 'Look, why don't you pull off the road and we'll have a drink.'
That was the first of many stops.
Later, the pubs opened their back doors to them out of hours; in deference to the red cross, his pilot's wings and the story of rescue from the sea.
By the time they had emptied the flask and drunk more brandies at a 'Red Lion', a 'Marquis of Granby' and a 'King's Head', the F.A.N.Y.'s inhibitions were banished.
As they drove away from the last pub. Simon put his hand on her knee, under her skirt and kissed her.
The ambulance swerved. In mock reproof, she said 'Sir, I can't drive and smooch at the same time.'
'Then park over there, behind those trees.'
'Is that an order?'
'Yes. In the interests of road safety!'
'I'm not sure that an order like that doesn't constitute rape ... '
'In that case…'
A stretcher was comfortable enough for what they urgently wanted to do.
The girl's lips were orange-pink and shiny. Her well tailored uniform stripped off with a provocative rustle of silken underwear. She turned her back to Blakeney-Smith: 'Undo my bra, darling.' There was a moment of impatient fumbling; she turned to face him again and encircled his neck with her arms, shivering and sighing.
Along time later she murmured' Are you sure no one can see us from the road?'
'Much too far.'
'But just suppose someone does stop?'
'You're the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, giving first aid.'
'Oh, Sweetie, you think of everything!'
When eventually the ambulance dropped Flying Officer Blakeney-Smith at the Officers' Mess as the pilots of all three squadrons were coming off duty, several stopped with interest to see a dainty girl in trim uniform step nimbly out of the driving seat and
give him a smart salute and a saucy smile. 'Goodbye, sir. I hope I'll have the pleasure of driving you again sometime. Soon.'
For once, sophisticated Simon was lost for words.
It had not been such a hard day after all. Six-nine-nine were scrambled on their first operation early in the afternoon and promptly lost two pilots: one shot to death and the other entangled in his own parachute, which fouled the tail fin of his crippled Hurricane and dragged him down with it to make a hole in the ground from which it would take several hours' digging to entricate what was left of his body.
Eighty-two had been called on only twice. One-seven-two were scrambled at half past four, but too late to make contact: once more they saw the enemy bombers well to the east of them, and by the time they were in position the German raiders had already attacked their targets and were on their way back. They were irritable but the disappointment did not lessen their elation over that morning's successes.
The arrival of the three replacement Hurricanes had caused a welcome diversion. The dark blue uniformed pilots of the Air Transport Auxiliary were an unfamiliar sight, for the organisation was still few in numbers. None of the East Malford pilots had ever seen a woman flying a fighter. They watched with critical interest as she came over the hedge and made a perfect landing: her head seemed to leave a lot of clearance below the canopy; she looked too small to handle a Hurricane.
'Now's your chance, Six-gun,' prompted Knight.
The American grunted without enthusiasm. The three Hurricanes taxied over to 172's dispersal and there was a general movement as people stood up, stretched, pretended not to be curious, but somehow began drifting towards them.
The woman pilot took off her helmet and released an abundance of chestnut hair. Six-gun Massey whistled to himself and began to hurry. By the time she was ready to climb down from the port wing he was there with a hand outstretched to help her. This, he thought, was the time to take the utmost advantage of his foreignness, which he knew was a powerful attraction to British girls.
He came from Texas and could ham the part with devastating effect. 'Howdy, Ma'am. Welcome to East Malford, on behalf of 172 Squadron. I'm Burt Massey, known to one and all as Six-gun.' Might as well plunge right in; the competition was apt to get a little fierce around here: 'I hope you'll join me and my buddies for a drink this evening. And maybe a bite to eat.'
The girl, who was not more than five feet and one inch tall, had an attractive, freckled face. She paused in the act of climbing down and looked at him with twinkling eyes while he supported her with one large hand under her elbow. 'Hi, Six-gun. I'm Elaine Dundry Todd, from Birmingham, Alabama. What part of li'l old Texas are you-all from?'
Massey let out a wild, cowboy whoop of delight. His evening was made.
There was one possible snag; the two surnames. The first would be her maiden name: who and where was husband Todd? What the hell! She looked like a lot of fun, anyways.
Squadron Leader Maxwell came forward and claimed her. His calm expression belied a mischievous glint in his eyes. 'If you don't feel like eating in the mess, Mrs Todd, my wife and I would be delighted...we live very near.' He took note, from the comer of his eye, of Six-gun's look of betrayal.
She gave him a dazzling smile and turned a mischievous one on Massey. 'Thank you very much, Squadron Leader Maxwell, but I guess I already have a date.'
The C.O.'s eyebrows shot up and he fixed a brief glare on Six-gun; muttered just audibly 'Faster reaction than you ever shew in the air,' which was unfair, and aloud: 'I see. Well, that's fine. I'm sure you'll be well looked after. We'll meet during the evening, no doubt.'
'I'll look forward to that. Thank you.' He walked away with the other two ferry pilots, to put them in the car which would take them to the aircraft they were to fly back. She accepted a cigarette from one of her admirers and a cup of tea from another. Maxwell came back and offered to send her to the W.A.A.F. officers' quarters in his own staff car, but she declined charmingly. 'If I'm not in the way, I'd love to stay right here for a while. I just adore the atmosphere of a squadron. I delivered a new Wellington to Scampton last week... 'But that was as far as she was allowed to get before the heresy of mentioning bombers and a bomber station to a fighter squadron was interrupted by theatrical groans. 'Oh, I get it. Pardon me. But of course ''Hurricane" is a dirty word at Scampton.'
'That,' Massey told her, 'is subversive propaganda.'
She was still around when stand-down came. Spike Poynter drove her off in his Aston Martin to drop her at her billet before he set off to rejoin his wife in their fiat in East Malford. He drove as though he were taking part in a race, although he had only three miles to go. He had been married for six months; a great deal sooner, as a regular officer, than he would have if there had not been a war. He still could not get used to his good fortune and had rapidly become the most uxorious husband on the station.
There was some argument about who should drive BlakeneySmith's Bentley back to the mess. No one much wanted to, but they felt it would be mean to leave it at dispersals.
'Not me. I'm walking back with Moonshine.' Knight left the group.
'Hell, I'll take it. Come on, you guys, climb aboard.'
Massey took the wheel and several others piled in. 'If Simon doesn't make it back this evening, darned if I won't borrow this jallopy to take that li'l old Alabama gal out tonight. May as well get some practice now.'
But he knew he wouldn't be driving Elaine Dundry Todd home, when they saw the ambulance draw up to the mess ahead of them.
Blakeney-Smith waited on the steps, his Mae West slung over one shoulder and his flying helmet dangling from his hand.
'Where've you been?' Massey asked. 'Don't you know there's a war on?'
'Half the rear gunners in that little lot opened up on me together.'
'That so?' Massey was totally uninterested.
'Every bloody one of them seemed to hit me, too.'
'Too bad. We brought your car back.'
'So I see. Thanks.' Blakeney-Smith turned towards the door.
'How many d'you get?'
'One and two damaged.' He threw the line away, over his shoulder. All in the day's work to the deadly Simon.
He was about to go indoors when Herrick, who had arrived after the others on his bicycle, called 'Can I have a word with you, Simon?'
'Debriefing can wait till I've changed.'
'Of course. Shall I come up to your room in half an hour?'
'My dear, I didn't know you cared! Come along now, if you like: you can drink my Scotch while I'm changing.'
Sqdn Leader Maxwell drove home with his car windows open to the summer breeze.
He had taken command of 172 early in the year, after three months in France with another squadron at the beginning of the war. Once he and his wife had lived in large, comfortable married quarters, but now they were in a cottage near the aerodrome; and lucky to have found it. They still had the fulltime services of a batman, and a daily woman from the village came for a couple of hours to do what he left undone; and to look after the child if they went out in the evenings. They kept open house for the squadron; for anyone on the station, in fact. A barrel of beer and several tankards and mugs were kept permanently on the front porch: Maxwell doctored it secretly with a bottle of rum. Everyone praised his beer and no one could understand why it was so much better than any in the pubs or the mess. It was the custom of the house for visitors to draw a pint before going in.
Betty was waiting for him on the lawn in front of the old cottage. Their eighteen-month-old-son tottered towards him and he picked him up. His wife got up from her deck chair and came to kiss him. He walked towards the house with one arm around her and the other holding his small boy.
'Busy day, darling.' It was a comment, not a question, for she had heard and seen fighters taking off and returning since early morning.
'A good one, though. The boys did well.'
She hugged him with the arm she had put about his waist. 'Well done.' I
nwardly a great thankfulness and relief glowed in her: she knew that nobody had been killed or wounded that day; she always knew, from his look and his voice, however successfully he thought he was concealing his feelings. And she felt inadequate to all these occasions, whether good or bad: 'well done' sounded as banal as congratulating a cricketer or a tennis player after a successful match; but what else could she say? He knew she was proud of the squadron, held them all in real affection, tried to get to know the new arrivals as quickly as she could and make them welcome in their home; was hurt when evil befell them and rejoiced when they went through a day's fighting unscathed. There was no need to voice any of that, and it would embarrass them both if she did. It was all right to say that she was proud of them, as she had done more than once: but it had to be said lightly, a throw away. She couldn't say it at this moment, because she knew she would choke over the words. She had lived in tension throughout the day, had kept looking at the telephone, daring it to ring. And when it did, she had schooled herself not to rush to snatch it up.
He told her some of the trivial occurrences of the day: Sixgun's trick on Peter Knight with the bone, how Peter had retaliated later; family stories, at which she laughed with him.
The next half-hour was taken up by his son; helping to bath him and put him to bed, making sure that the private bulwark of normality with which they tacitly surrounded themselves remained secure.
They sat in the garden, afterwards, with their drinks. He took his wife's hand and smiled at her. 'This is my kind of war.'
She squeezed his hand, her heart full of too much emotion.
Lightly, she said 'Every home comfort.'
'That's it. It hardly seems real. In France, we knew we were at war: it wasn't the living in tents, or requisitioned houses; it was the fact of being away from home. On foreign soil, as my grandfather used to say. And so utterly different from peace-time life. Even though we were among allies, it was all completely strange. But now we're home again and everything is so familiar, it's hard to believe we're actually as much on active service as we were in France. I don't feel any different from the City gents who take the train from East Malford every morning and come back with the London papers every evening.'
Summer of No Surrender Page 7