“Clearly,” replied Todd. He got off the bed and went over to his locker. He tugged his best blue off its hangar.
They rode one of the trucks into town. All the way, Murphy had stewed in silence, arms crossed. It was ridiculous, he was an adult and he was being made to feel like the boy who got caught scrumping apples.
“Are you going to say anything?” he asked Todd as he got down from the truck.
“Nope, mate. I’m not. It’s your bed.”
“We’re not married you know,” Murphy said again as they stumped up the hill to the hall where the dance was.
“I know.” Todd fished out his cigarette case and extracted a Churchman’s medium. He snapped the case shut and looked at it, turning it in his hands before putting it back in his pocket.
He had picked it up in an antique shop in London when he first came to England. It was a silver art deco case with a deep blue sunburst guilloche enamel design on the lid. It had cost him a tidy sum, but it was worth it. He hated crushing his fags in their cardboard packets and it was a nice thing to have. Murphy held up his lighter and Todd lit it, nodding gratefully as he drew down a lungful of smoke.
Todd had not really felt like coming but he thought he needed to keep an eye on Murphy and see what was going on. He shook his head. It was supposed to be the Aussies that had the reputation of being a bit too fancy free with their favours. Clearly that was not a hard rule.
“Rough about, White,” said Murphy, trying to change the subject. Todd grunted agreement. He had gone through this before when his first crew had copped a packet. It was a shame, White had been a decent lad and the rest of his crew had been all right as well.
He used his cigarette hard while he thought about the fickle hand of fate, pondering just what exactly decided who bought it and who didn’t. Take Archer for example. He had built his reputation as the press on type and he did, despite everything he kept going and kept coming back. But not all of his crew did. His wireless op had yet to return after getting his hands turned into burnt stumps and he’d lost god knows how many gunners. A memory of Winsor flashed into Todd’s head for a moment. Blonde hair and blue eyes, as he had been, before a 110 had mangled his pretty face. Once regarded as lucky, things had changed lately and suddenly not everyone was so keen to be a part of Archer’s crew.
Murphy paid them both in and they strode into the hall. The band was already playing a warm up number and quite a few couples were on the dance floor, slowly circling round. The evening was just starting to warm up.
“I’ll get the drinks, Spud. What’s your poison?”
“Just a bitter,” said Murphy, his eyes searching the crowd. He saw who he was looking for and waved. Todd shot a look across the hall and saw a thin brunette threading her way past the dancers towards them. Murphy kissed her quickly and put an arm around her waist.
“Joan, this is, George.” Todd shook her hand with little enthusiasm.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, her voice giggly. Up close she was short and perky, her dark eyes dancing in good humour. Her hair framed a heart shaped face and pointed chin. She was thin as a rake and straight up and down. She hung off Murphy’s side like a limpet.
“He’s not staying,” Murphy said pointedly. He nodded towards the door. Todd’s eyebrows shot up at the casual dismissal. He moved to the other side of the hall but didn’t leave right away. He parked at the end of the bar and nursed a pint. When he finished it, he left and went back to Amber Hill. Murphy was a big boy, he would just have to deal with this himself.
The following morning, a missive was issued from Air Ministry, which in turn landed at Bomber Command before being moved on to 5 Group and thence on to Amber Hill. The signal was short and to the point. Squadron to be made ready, inspection of personnel and aircraft by persons from the Air Ministry on the Sunday. All courtesies to be extended etc, etc.
It was quite surprising what could happen in two days. Parties of defaulters swarmed the station, whitewashing kerbs, trimming grass, pruning weeds and tidying the place up. The erks did the same around dispersal. The concrete handstandings were swept and sand was put down to cover the oil leaks.
Some of the more rickety crew sheds were either tarted up or taken apart. The aircraft were left alone. Etheridge was all in favour of a bit of spit and polish, but the Manchester’s were off limits. They were marked by war and he was going to have them display their wounds proudly.
The men were a different story. They needed to be presentable and there was a frenzy as shirts were ironed and trousers were pressed. What passed as good enough for day to day operations and nights in town was not the same as a full inspection. They sat in their billets bulling their Oxfords.
Todd wiped his rag across the tin of polish and rubbed it over the toecap. He made sure he covered everywhere and did the same for the other shoe, giving it a good going over. He put them on the bed in front of him and put the rag to one side. His forefinger had gone black where polish had soaked through the rag. He sniffed his fingers and wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was a distinct aroma of sweaty feet and the thick petroleum stink of polish. Wiping his fingers down his trousers he used a toothpick under his nails, digging out black. He wiggled his toes, watching his socks move.
“Bloody waste of time,” he muttered. “All this guff and for what? So we can stand in pretty little lines while some bigwig gets to act all god like.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of spit and polish,” said Murphy deadpan. He was rather enjoying this. He’d not done any square bashing since basic training. Todd looked at him like he was crazy. He needed to march up and down and stand on parade like a tailors dummy like he needed a hole in the head.
“You’re remarkably cheery.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Murphy was still fizzing after his night with Joan. She was dynamite in bed and there had not been much sleep, she kept him too busy for that. Todd scowled but refrained from commenting further. Things like this could tear a crew apart and he was not about to Mess things up over a bit of skirt. He knew what he should do, but said nothing.
Murphy finished buffing his buttons and put his tunic on. He brushed it down, pulling the material taut across his shoulders.
“Very smart,” said Todd. “You’ll fit right in with all the other little soldiers.”
Murphy stuck his tongue out and picked up his forage cap.
“Ten minutes,” he said as he went outside.
The crews assembled outside one of the hangars. Some of them with aircraft nearest to the main part of the airfield were sent to stand by their kites. The rest would parade in front of three Manchester’s which had been drawn up by the hangars. Each crew were to stand in a line, their pilot to the right and the rest formated off him. There would be ten paces between each crew.
Carter checked his men out before the dignitaries arrived. He gave them a quick once over but he wasn’t particularly bothered if their shoes weren’t glossy mirrors. As long as there were no missing buttons and the trousers had something approaching a crease he was happy.
They huddled like penguins by the hangar until it was time to move. Cigarettes came out and they were wreathed in smoke while they waited.
“Anyone know when they’re turning up?” asked Walsh. He shivered inside his greatcoat with the collar turned up. He stamped his feet to keep the blood pumping.
“Doesn’t matter, they’ll be late anyway, they always are,” said Everett with his usual bored tone. Conversation drifted from topic to topic, girls, flying, war news, tonights dinner. After ten minutes they ran out of things to talk about. After twenty minutes they were bored. After half an hour they were starting to feel the cold.
Everett glanced at his watch and scowled. He’d asked if they could wait inside the hangar but Dickinson had said no, he wanted everyone outside ready for parade. He lit one cigarette from the end of another and blew a cloud of smoke towards the sky. He looked up as a Corporal waved from the control tower. He glanced across the field a
nd saw a parade of cars heading in their direction. “Looks like we’re on, chaps,” he announced. He stubbed the new cigarette in his glove and pocketed it to finish off later.
They lined up and waited. The motorcade pulled up in front of them and a crowd of dignitaries piled out and shook themselves into order. Group Captain Etheridge was the guide with Asher alongside him. A Squadron Leader from Group brought up the rear. Two suits from the Air Ministry fussed around the VIP, an Under Secretary of State for War. He wore a dark grey trenchcoat and fedora. He set off at a brisk pace and went to the end of the line.
He worked his way down, taking his time to talk to one or two people in each crew. Hands were shaken, the pose occasionally being held while an official photographer took a few shots. War Correspondents hovered in the background, taking notes.
The VIP got to Carter’s crew and noticed the darker blue of Todd’s uniform. He walked over to Todd and used his best smile, the kind you saw on the campaign trail during an election.
“An Australian. And what brought you all the way across the ocean?” Todd’s answer was prompt.
“Me mum was English, sir. It seemed like the thing to do, help the old country like.”
“And it’s appreciated. Where was your mother from?”
“Cheltenham. She liked horses, sir.” The VIP smiled sympathetically.
“Well, she’d have seen lots of them there. A nice part of the country.”
He looked at the crew as a whole. Three officers, three enlisted men. Short, tall, all types. He saw the shoulder flashes on their greatcoats. Men who had come from all places to fight for freedom.
“I say, this is a very multi-national crew.”
“Flight Lieutenant, Carter is on his second tour, sir.” Etheridge said.
“Is he by jove.” He shook Carter’s hand warmly. “Well done, well done.”
They moved on. At the end, they went back to their cars and were off for a drive around the perimeter to see the kites. As the cars pulled away the men gathered together. All that work for ten minutes of being shown off like prize bulls at a fair.
“I thought he’d be taller,” commented Walsh. Carter laughed. The men started to disperse. Murphy clapped Todd on the shoulder.
“I didn’t know your mum was English.”
“She’s not.”
“You fibber.”
“First rule on parade mate, tell ‘em something they want to hear,” Todd told him as he pulled out his cigarette case. He extracted a cigarette and tapped the end against the lid. “It avoids those awkward silences you get; like on first dates,” he said, with a pointed look at Murphy. He lit the cigarette.
Saunderson came over before they left.
“I say, chaps. No one going anywhere tonight? I’ve managed to secure a few ENSA acts to beef up the concert party.”
Jensen breathed a sigh of relief. He had been dreading getting up to perform.
“So you won’t need me then, sir?” he asked hopefully.
“No fear, Jensen.” Saunderson beamed as he used to when he was selling insurance. Selling was all about making the client relax and trust you. You had to butter them up to get them on side. “I need you for the first act after the interval.” Jensen grimaced.
“Oh, God.”
“Any girls?” asked Murphy smoothly. He was rather enamoured of the idea of a few professional acts. There was bound to be some dancers or something.
“A few,” Saunderson told him. “And too good for the likes of you.” He wagged an admonishing finger at Todd and Murphy.
“Aw, you’re no fun…sir.”
“No. No, I’ve got a duty to them. I can’t let any of you types get near to them.” He turned his attention back to Jensen. “Have you decided what you’re going to do for me?”
“Boy stood on the burning deck?” suggested Woods with a grin plastered on his face.
“No,” said Jensen. “I’m sticking to me roots, sir.”
Carter had been to a few concert parties in his time in the RAF. He had even performed in one at training school when he was still wet behind the ears. The shows were usually rather stale affairs with everyone on reasonably good behaviour. The CO and Station Commander would sit at the front and people would clap appropriately. If an act was particularly bad, there would be a lot of cat calling to put them off some more. Time would drag. You would look at your watch every five minutes, praying for it all to end while some spotty erk in the instrument section blew his trumpet.
The large briefing room had been turned over for the use of the performance. Blankets had been strung across the back of the room to provide an area for the performers backstage. The huge map board had been covered with a red backdrop Saunderson had loaned from one of the local theaters. Two Corporals were working the lights. Some staff who accompanied the ENSA performers had brought microphones and speakers and other equipment.
The show went down as one of the better ones Carter had attended. The ENSA acts helped enormously. Normally, the first one to go on stage got a frosty reception from the crowd but no one was going to cat call Ella Redfearn.
She appeared in a floor length red satin dress that hugged her figure in all the right places and the men caught a glimpse of ankle as she moved up and down the stage. She charmed them with some music hall numbers, belting out old favourites and leading them in a stirring rendition of Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye.
There was a comic who was okay. Nothing flashy but he got a few good ones in. Three fitters did a charming bit of Elgar, then Flight Sergeant Martin took to the stage and delivered an impassioned delivery of the St Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V. The room had been hushed, rapt with attention as he spoke of the happy few, they liked that. He left to thunderous applause.
The next ENSA act was a dance troupe which drove the temperature of the room up. They came on to a roar of voices and nearly took the roof off when they danced to a variety of Andrews Sisters numbers. One was dressed as a WAAF, one a WRNS, and the other an ATS girl. They finished in a line, facing the crowd and throwing a salute.
It was the interval after that. The lights went on and there was tea and donuts. Those with foresight had sneaked in a few bottles in their pockets. Etheridge bowed out at this point. He’d made the required appearance and Asher and Saunderson saw him to the door.
“Good show, Saunderson. Very commendable effort.”
“Thank you, sir.” Saunderson beamed, pleased to be commended. He went backstage to get things ready for the second half. He found Jensen retching over a bucket. One of the ENSA dancers was rubbing his back and holding a hanky for him.
“Good god, are you all right?” Saunderson exclaimed.
“I’m okay,” Jensen muttered, before retching again.
“There, there luvvy,” the dancer said in a thick London accent.
Jensen sat back on the floor, the bucket between his legs. He was green around the gills and his skin had taken on a waxy sheen.
“Are you going to be able to perform like this?” Saunderson asked. “You’re on first you know.”
“Gimme five minutes, sir. I told you I get nervous at this sort of thing.”
“Righto.” Saunderson gave him an encouraging thump on the shoulder and then hustled around checking everyone else was ready. One of the armourers played a few experimental notes on his French Horn.
“I can’t wait to go on, sir,” he said. “Me mum’ll be dead proud when I tell her.”
“That’s the spirit, Jones,” Saunderson told him.
The dancer eyed Saunderson in some suspicion.
“He’s a brute making you go up like this.”
Jensen looked at her like she was an angel.
“You know, it’s canny of you to look after me like this,” he said with a lisp, his tongue thick in his mouth. She was a lovely girl. She had gorgeous green eyes that mesmerised him. He didn’t even notice her skimpy costume that showed off acres of leg and shoulders.
“Nonsense.” She handed him a
nother hanky and he wiped the sweat off his face. “I hate seeing someone in distress.” This was true. She had a flat back in London that she shared with three cats and two dogs. All of them had been rescued from one situation or another during her travels. The girl in the flat across from hers fed them while she was on tour doing shows. “Do you need the bucket again?” she asked with genuine concern.
“I don’t think so. I could do with a cup of tea though,” he replied, his voice distracted as his head flopped around like a puppet on a string.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she told him. He was just far enough gone to totally miss the hint of interest in her voice.
Saunderson reappeared from behind the curtain like some apparition, all business, all bustle.
“You ready, old chap? You’re up.”
Jensen turned green again and fought back the queasy feeling in his stomach. He got to his feet and tugged down his short battledress.
“I’m ready, if you are,” he said, voice quavering. He swayed forwards, the floor moving around, his head swimming.
“That’s the spirit, break a leg,” Saunderson encouraged him.
The following night they went to Hannover. It was one of those raids you would rather forget. Things got off to a bad start when one of the new boys strayed off the peri track and got stuck in the soft ground. There was a delay while it was pulled clear. Carter and Walsh took off an hour late battling headwinds and bad visibility.
The weather was atrocious and everyone got spread from hell to breakfast out and back. A tailwind shoved them along and Carter dreaded the return journey, flying into the teeth of a strong headwind. The bombers were so scattered, the Germans thought it was a general raid with no specific target in mind.
Woods bombed somewhere. His dead reckoning was way off. He hadn’t had a fix since crossing the coast and he had no idea where they were. They steered for the glow of fires and the bursts of flak on the horizon. When they got there, cloud covered the ground and blotted out any chance of figuring out their exact location, but the flak gunners were going bananas so there must have been something down there.
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