'Tedious,' they said; and 'Time you earned your pay, Simon'; and 'You need the practice; we don't.' Blakeney-Smith got no change out of them.
The squadron took its ease in canvas chairs on the grass in the murmuring summer afternoon, with insects buzzing and skimming over the grass, the thud of a cricket ball on a bat coming from somewhere near the workshop hut, Moonshine snoring and occasionally whimpering as he chased cats in his dreams.
Cunningham and Webb sat with their chairs close together. Their eyes were shut but sleep evaded them.
Knight leaned towards Bernie Harmon and asked quietly: 'How are the new boys doing?'
'Not bad, Pete. They bagged a Dornier between them and claimed a Heinkel.'
'They're learning fast. Sticking together?'
'Yeah. Just as well. Neither knows enough on his own: the two of 'em together just about make one fairly competent fighter pilot.'
Knight had to laugh. 'You cynical bastard, Bernie.'
'What's wrong? They're alive to prove it, aren't they?' There was no counter to that.
Maxwell, from under half-closed lids, was observant, as always: He had heard what they had said. He remembered Bernie Harmon before this frail boy had acquired his unshakeable attitude of self-reliant competence. He was quick-witted, dangerous, a maker of swift military decisions which were always the right ones; or had always been right so far. Webb and Cunningham would acquire some of the same abilities in the coming weeks. For the time being there was a blundering uncertainty about their actions in the air; but he himself, their flight commanders and their section leaders must remember that they were vulnerable and needed help, protection, teaching.
When Webb and Cunningham had acquired this instinct their hold on life would become a great deal less tenuous.
Meanwhile the day wore on and scramble orders came again and again. Boys who had dates with their sweethearts that evening died two or three hours before the trysting time. Young men who had promised their wives that they would be home early to supper ate their evening meal in hospital or a prison cell, or not at all.
'Well, that wasn't so bad, eh, Manfred?'
Oberleutnant Richter had always admired under-statement.
Traditionally it was a characteristic attributed to the British. He saw no harm in admitting good qualities in the enemy. A little reserve was certainly better than histrionics.
The boy Keiling looked pallid after his hard day. His face was smeared with oil and cordite: he had touched one of his gun ports inadvertently and then put his hand to his cheek. He was thinking to himself that he had had as near a glimpse of hell as he ever wished to have, and if this was what aerial warfare was always like he was already sorry he had joined. He could not hope to live long through such a holocaust. As long as he was being nursed, as the Staffel's newest fledgling, he might hope to survive. But how quickly could he learn to rely on himself? In a day or two he would no longer be the rawest of neophytes. Replacement pilots would be coming in. They would have to be nursed in their turn; at his expense.
He had learned one terrible lesson on that first day: it was the least experienced pilots who died first. In his innocence he had supposed that the longer you were in a Staffel the greater the odds on your turn coming next to be shot down. He had quickly realised that it was exactly the contrary. The old stagers lived on. The new comrades went down in flames.
And now here was this huge, broad-shouldered, athletic, fearless Staffel Commander saying 'It wasn't bad'. Yet, despite his heartiness, he was kindly and avuncular as well. One had to respond to him; as much from genuine fondness as from respect and discipline.
Keiling forced himself to smile. 'Not so bad, Herr Oberleutnant. But I know I was lucky. I was well looked after.'
'I am glad you recognise that, Manfred. But survival is not all a matter of luck and protection. Those are the least parts of it. Essentially, your fate is in your own hands. You did well today.'
The boy flushed happily. He pulled himself up and snapped his heels together. 'Thank you, sir.'
'Good. Well, let's not hang about. Time we went back to the mess and cleaned up. And we deserve a drink.' Richter, slapping his flying gloves into his open palm, added 'Come on, I'll give you a lift.' A thought came to him: obvious favouritism would be foolish. He called across to Brendel: 'Come along, Rolf, I'm waiting for you.'
His deputy commander hurried over and the three of them strode towards the staff car, the youngest man walking a step or two behind the others.
Keiling was in deep thought. A mental roll-call. Sthmidt...Bekker...Pelz. Three youngsters like himself; all newcomers to the Staffel during the past two weeks: and all killed or wounded today. The two who had survived were badly hurt. Being shot down and wounded, or injured in a crash landing, was not like getting a rifle bullet through you if you were an infantryman. It meant, usually, lumps tom from your body; the bones of your legs, arms or back shattered; bums on your face and hands. He had seen dead men dragged out of crashed aircraft when he was at flying school; there was never one who had not been smashed, mashed, pulped, incinerated. And this was worse: if that could happen to you through your own ineptitude, how much more terrible were the things that a Spitfire or a Hurricane could do to you with its guns.
And then he remembered that he had weapons too, just as potent as the enemy's; and he could batter and pulp them just as horribly as they could hurt him.
He was still wondering whether this knowledge was any real satisfaction when they drew up at the farmhouse.
'Out you get’ said Richter cheerfully. 'We'll see you later in the mess.'
Keiling stood rigidly at the salute, watching the car disappear.
A light van stopped nearby. A huge dog bounded out and gambolled around him. He relaxed, smiled and fondled Wolf's head.
The dog's master, jumping down from the van, remarked 'He likes you, Manfred. He is very discriminating; not everyone receives such a compliment.'
'I like all dogs, Erich.' Keiling recalled Hafner's sarcasm about his name and the pet rabbit. It seemed to have been a remark made in another life, long ago. Since then he had lived through many deaths and suffered the most appalling fear he had ever experienced.
Everyone was tired, but everyone had a bottle of cognac in his room. Hafner flung himself into a chair and Greiner put a glass in his hand, then bent to put slippers on his feet. He hovered attentively, waiting for his officer to break the silence.
Presently Hafner said dreamily: 'Greiner, have you ever had a hate fixation?'
The batman started. 'A hate fixation, Herr Leutnant? What is that?'
'Have you ever fixed your general hatred for any group of people on one person, so that he becomes symbolic of the whole group? That is what I am asking.'
'Oh, yes, Herr Leutnant. When I was a young man I used to play football for the dub in my town. I hated the team from Riedlingen, our greatest rivals. And I focused my hatred on their centre forward. He scored most of their goals. I was the goal-keeper you see. Year after year the Riedlingen dub beat us. And year after year I came to hate that centre-forward with all my heart. Is that what you mean?'
'A very good example, Greiner. That is exactly what I mean. So you will understand my hate-fixation: it is for a certain Englishman...' Greiner raised his eyebrows in astonishment. 'He is a Hurricane pilot and I see him often. I know the letters on his aeroplane: YZ-E. And he has a silly, puerile decoration on the nose: a stupid caricature of a mongrel dog chewing a bone; and the bone is shaped like a swastika.' Hafner thrust out his glass and the batman refilled it. 'He is arrogant and insulting; and childish. His attitude is typical of the feeble, distorted British sense of humour. One day soon I am going to shoot him down. I will kill him. I will make sure of that. For me, this has become a personal matter.'
Mildly, Greiner said 'I did not know that you hated them so much, Herr Leutnant.'
'Hate? I don't hate them. I despise them; they are naive and foolish to defy us. I have been to their country. Th
ey were friendly; but that is the well-known British duplicity. Still, I do not hate them. I did not hate the Poles. I hate the French... ' He broke off and his eyes twinkled. 'Not the girls; only degenerate Frenchmen. Germany and France have always hated each other. But the English, that is different. We fight them, but only because they interfere: they fight us because we justifiably made war on Poland and France. We do not need to hate them to fight them hard. But I do hate this one particular English pilot.'
Hafner nourished his hatred on more brandy and the wine he drank at dinner. Later in the evening his personal vendetta against the anonymous Englishman became mellower; but no less virulent. Now he was able to regard it as an act of special distinction to single out an opponent for personal combat. That was the way they did things in 1914-18. That was the Richtofen-Udet-Göring tradition. He would perpetuate it; and the man whom he had chosen for his victim was destined only to play a part: there was nothing personal in his enmity. It was just the other fellow's bad luck for having the poor taste to decorate his Hurricane in that derisive manner. And the Englishman was too successful in combat too; all those crosses to flaunt his victories.
Richter saw Keiling coming towards him to say good-night formally before leaving the mess.
He rose as the boy came up. 'I know you like good music, Manfred. Come up to my room for a nightcap; I keep a very special old brandy; and I have some records: Wagner and Beethoven.'
They mounted the stairs together. The Staffel Commander's room was big and luxurious, with a private bathroom and an excess of florid furniture. They sat sipping cognac and listening to German music until the younger man fell asleep. Richter roused him gently and sent him to his own quarters.
Richter stayed awake for nearly another hour, tortured by doubt. Had he fallen in love or was it just that he lusted after this beautiful young male?
Was it mere deprivation, frustration of his desire, that drove him towards Manfred Keiling? If he could take a short leave and find himself a boy in Paris or Lille; some sailors' queen in Calais; best of all, get himself to Berlin for forty-eight hours and have his choice of the most vicious youths in Europe: then would he come back purged of his longing to possess Manfred? Or would his desire persist? If so, it must surely be love. Perhaps he ought to put it to the test. But how could he leave the Staffel now, even for forty-eight hours? He knew he could not. He must stay. Stay near Manfred, forcibly. What happened in consequence was beyond him to prevent.
During the afternoon three more scrambles had been ordered. Each time, 172 Sqdn made contact with the enemy. Each time, Pilot Officers Cunningham and Webb won a little more of the experience that would help to keep them alive; if only for the next sortie.
Every time the telephone orderly yelled his message they exchanged a look of brief agony before they took to their heels, pelting for their aircraft in a fine frenzy which may have given the illusion of an aggressive spirit but was more a desperate urge to get the terrifying business over and done with.
Since their first operation they had grown progressively, and rapidly, less confused. Events happened still with bewildering speed, but both knew what to expect and were better prepared to retain some coherence of thought.
Although they flew in separate sections they usually .came together after the formation had broken up. Being alone was horrifying. Webb reefed his Hurricane into tight spirals whenever he had lost his leader or been lost by the others, searching for another Hurricane with which he could join. That was his conscious intention. Subconsciously he was looking for the letter 'K' which would identify his friend. Cunningham, when isolated, climbed in tight circles looking for Webb's 'N'.
Four times out of six they had flown home together. On the other two, both had climbed far above the battle height and bared for base with plenty of ammunition left; then wasted time orbiting somewhere out of sight until they could decently land not too long before the rest. Each of them felt ashamed when he had given way to his fear.
Connie Gates was in the Officers' Mess lobby when 172 trooped in that evening. She saw how wilted the two youngest and newest of their pilots were and was filled with protective compassion; and more: for they were handsome boys, both of them. They both had fair hair and apple cheeks which the sunshine out at dispersals had tanned; when they left the mess this morning they looked healthy and fit. Now look at the poor little devils, she thought. 'Little' was entirely an endearment, for both stood several inches taller than she.
A pint will soon make them feel better; and the other boys are good to them: all that joking and horseplay, the high spirits. They'll buck up soon enough, she told herself.
But she kept her eye on them.
She knew the losses that all three of the squadrons had suffered during the day. News travelled fast from dispersals.
Later, Connie saw Peter Knight leave the mess in his best blue, freshly showered. You'd think he'd just come from a game of football or cricket, she thought: he looked pleased and s though he had exerted himself, but no more. This was how her husband and his friends used to look when they carne in to tea after a Saturday afternoon match; bruised, perhaps, and shining clean from soap and hot water, content with their strenuous efforts and with a long, pleasant evening to look forward to. She knew he was off to see that nice girl of his. She approved of Peter; and his American friend.
Knight was embarrassed by his reception. Anne was waiting for him on the porch and Mr and Mrs Holt made a fuss of him.
Anne's father had served at the front in the previous war. With Knight he was sometimes almost apologetic, as though the money he made by turning out parts for aircraft and armoured vehicles were dishonourably gained. Even if he were young enough, he would not have been allowed to join in this war: but he commanded a Home Guard company and talked to Knight about firearms and the defence of his factory. Knight knew little about weapons except those with which aircraft were armed, and didn't care much either, but like any other young suitor was a willing victim of his girl's parents' obsessions.
Mrs Holt, who was smart, pretty and sometimes a little silly, especially about good looking young officers, gave him a few bad moments. But Knight wasn't one of the best objects for her bright chatter. He wasn't a pretty boy, and he manifestly didn't need petting or mothering.
They dined well. The Holts were able to keep a good table although the nation was on short commons. They reared pigs and poultry, had a kitchen garden and an orchard. The promised champagne, before dinner, and a decent burgundy with it, caused Knight to reflect on the advantages of being a successful industrialist compared with the lot of a busy general practitioner like his own father, whose meals were usually hurried and often interrupted. He made the comparison in no mood of criticism. The Holts were always good to him.
He was enjoying himself, but at heart felt uneasy away from the squadron. Here, he missed that elliptical, instant, often telepathic communication he had with the men who shared his most esoteric experience; among whom a phrase was enough to express more than he could, to the uninitiated, with long explanations.
The past few weeks had isolated him even more among his immediate comrades. His life was in their hands and theirs in his. He realised it, but did not dwell on it. As soon as he politely could, he took Anne away.
The 'Mucky Duck' was, as usual, crowded. Someone was trying to push past him and he looked around. A busty little woman with gipsy hair and long earrings gave him a tipsy smile. 'Can you let us squeeze up to the bar? We're shela-celabrating: my husband captured a German parachutist lash...last night.'
The conversation in their comer of the room died suddenly. Heads turned, and Maxwell, catching Knight's eye, raised his eyebrows.
'A p-parachutist?' Knight repeated.
'Well, actually a German pilot.' Marion Foster amended.
'What an exciting life you lead. Do tell us more.'
Foster chipped in: 'He was the pilot of the Heinkel that crashed near our house last night. Damned nearly took our roof off...'
'Only another mile nearer and he would have,' BlakeneySmith said loudly and unkindly.
'...I can't really claim that I captured him...'
'Yes, you did, Ernie.' Marion was having no modest disclaimers from her husband.
'...I don't think he could have gone another step. He sort of surrendered, really...'
Later on, Blakeney-Smith nudged Knight and pointed towards Webb and Cunningham who were swaying slightly, flushed with heat and beer.
'The Theban pair, slightly pissed.'
'What?' Knight was impatient with the interruption.
'The Theban pair. Don't you know your Greek history, Pete?'
'Obviously not well enough.'
'Let me enlighten you. The Theban Army was lousy with homosexuals, who fought in pairs. Plato - you have heard of him presumably? - and a handful of them could defeat a regiment, because they shewed such devotion to protecting each other...'
'Belt up, Simon,' Knight said disgustedly.
'…The first time the Thebans were beaten, three hundred pairs were found dead, all with frontal wounds; they may have been ready enough to turn their backs on each other, but not on the enemy! I reckon our two over there are a typical Theban pair.'
'Don't be a bastard, Simon. Do you always have to give us the full nausea?'
Thirteen
August came and six of the twenty pilots on 172 Squadron were replacements for those who had gone during the past three weeks.
Every day started with at least one squadron on dawn readiness and ended at dusk for all but the night operational pilots at readiness. The day's end found them tired to the marrow of their bones.
But weariness did not send them all early to bed. Many seemed to need frenetic amusement night after night, to distract them from the catastrophes of each day. Every evening saw two or three crowded cars roar away from the mess to London, packed with officers and sergeants from all the East Malford squadrons. There was never a night when the mess bar closed before midnight, and every night boisterous games of rugger, high cockalorum, 'Are You There, Moriarty?' and polo (played with chairs, wooden spoons and that increasing rarity, an orange) raged until even later. Making the circuit of the ante room without touching the floor was another popular and not undangerous diversion.
Summer of No Surrender Page 14