The second Blenheim, streaming flame from both engines, crashed on the deck of the cruiser Emden, killing the first German sailors of the war. The third, dragging a long banner of grey smoke, climbed almost vertically towards the clouds, stalled and crashed near the shore. The fourth, bracketed by a cluster of heavy shells, cartwheeled over the water and subsided in a tangled heap of wreckage. The fifth somehow got through the barrage unscathed, dropped its bombs in a beautiful straddle across the Scheer, and vanished in the overcast. Again, the solitary bomb that hit the battleship failed to detonate.
As the surviving Blenheims droned away in the distance, a heavy silence fell over the bay. A cloud of smoke hung over the Emden, where a river of fuel from the crashed Blenheim’s tanks still burned on the water.
Altogether, three bombs had hit the Scheer. Every one had been a dud. The attack had failed because of useless bombs; old bombs, stored too long in poor conditions. The price of failure had been 5 aircraft and 15 men.
On shore, a group of soldiers and civilians cautiously approached the wreckage of a Blenheim. Pilot and navigator were trapped in the blazing debris, but the gunner had been thrown clear. A florid-faced civilian went up to the lifeless body and kicked it contemptuously. The next instant he was on his back, clutching a nose that poured blood. A young officer, a lieutenant, stood over him, his face white with fury.
“You bastard,” he said, looking down at the grovelling man. “I should have you shot. These were gallant men.”
The civilian struggled to sit upright and spat a clot of blood on to the ground as the officer turned his back on him. His eyes glittered with humiliation and hatred as he stared after the lieutenant. Upstart, he thought. I wonder how long that kind of chivalry will last?
Chapter Six
The Officers’ Mess at RAF Fordingham, near Cambridge, was practically deserted. Armstrong had been on the station for a fortnight, his task to liaise with the crews of Bomber Command’s specialist photo-reconnaissance squadron which was based here. It wasn’t really an essential task, but Wing Commander Royston had decided that it was a good thing; in the absence of any aircraft to fly at Deanland, it would keep Armstrong occupied.
Armstrong now sported the two rings of a flight lieutenant on his sleeve; he had been back in uniform since the minute war broke out, and under the pilot’s wings on his left breast he wore the blue-and-white ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded for his exploit over Wilhelmshaven. The immediate award of the decoration had come as a surprise to him, especially as his last mission in the Heinkel had been flown before the declaration of war. He knew that the second DFC of the war had gone to the chap who had led the raid on the enemy warships, a far more deserving case, in his eyes.
Morale at Fordingham was low, and small wonder. The reconnaissance squadron had lost three Blenheims in ten days; not one had returned with up-to-the-minute photographs of the German naval installations. People tended to drift into the bar, drink half a pint of beer without speaking to one another, and go to bed. It was the same at mealtimes; the aircrews sat at separate tables, avoiding one another’s company as far as possible. The unspoken question hanging like a sword of Damocles over the Mess was: who is going to be next? The atmosphere was thick enough to be carved with a knife.
Armstrong was lounging in a leather easy chair in the mess anteroom, reading a tattered copy of Punch for want of anything better to do. He was the room’s only occupant. Outside, the sun was setting; it was a glorious mid-September evening, and swallows twittered as they clustered in a long rank on a telephone line, ready to embark on the long flight that would take them to Africa for the winter. Armstrong envied them; at least they had a purpose. He had never felt so useless in his life. Every day, he prayed for a telephone call from Royston, telling him that the first of the promised PR Spitfires had arrived and recalling him to Deanland; so far, there had been nothing. So his days were spent in combing through intelligence reports of known or suspected German fleet movements, writing reports and assessments for the Blenheim reconnaissance squadron, and generally being ignored by the crews. It was not a happy situation to be in.
There was a polite cough, and he looked up to see one of the mess stewards hovering at his elbow. Armstrong raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“Would you like me to turn on the lights and close the curtains, Sir?” the man asked. Armstrong nodded and took a last look out into the twilight.
“I suppose so, if you must. I was making the most of what was left of the day. The dark nights will be with us soon enough, and darker than usual, with the blackout.”
“Very good, Sir.” The man turned on the lamp beside Armstrong’s chair and then methodically moved around the room, switching on the others and closing the heavy curtains. He departed softly, his footsteps making no sound on the carpet.
Wondering what to do with himself for the rest of the evening, Armstrong put aside his Punch and picked up a newspaper, turning to the radio programmes. An instalment of The Four Feathers followed by an orchestral concert was not a menu particularly to his taste. He sighed and stood up, stretching. Might as well head for the bar, he thought.
He went out into the corridor, turned left through the foyer, paused briefly in the cloakroom to retrieve his pipe and tobacco pouch from his raincoat pocket — the pipe was a habit he had acquired very recently, and he was only just learning to enjoy it — and continued through another short corridor to the bar’s side entrance. The Officers’ Mess was only three or four years old, having been built when the station was modernized as part of the RAF expansion schemes of the mid-1930s, and consequently the bar was well-appointed, with an L-shaped counter facing glass-topped tables surrounded by comfortable chairs.
Behind the bar, a mess waiter was polishing glasses. He wore a spotless white tunic with a high collar, and gold chevrons on his sleeve. His face brightened perceptibly as Armstrong came in.
“Evenin’, Sir. What would you like to drink?”
“Oh, I think I could manage a pint, Corporal,” the pilot said.
“Bit thin on the ground this evening, just for a change, eh?”
The corporal grinned ruefully as he pulled Armstrong’s beer into a tankard, inspecting the result critically before he placed it on the bar top. “Been like this for a while now, Sir, as you’ve probably noticed. You’re only the second person in so far.”
Armstrong raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Who was the other one?”
“Officer over there, Sir,” the waiter told him, inclining his head. Armstrong turned, and for the first time noticed a man sitting in a shadowy corner. Armstrong was about to invite the stranger to join him, but the other beat him to it. He rose and strolled to the bar, carrying a half-finished tankard of beer. As he came into the light Armstrong saw that he was a naval officer, a lieutenant. He was stocky, with square features and ginger hair. He came up to Armstrong and stuck out a hand.
“Thank the good Lord for a friendly face,” he said, in an accent which — although refined by the King’s English — failed to disguise an undertone that betrayed an origin somewhere among the Western Isles of Scotland. “My name’s Jim Baird, although everyone calls me Dickie.”
“Glad to meet you, Dickie. Ken Armstrong. Can I top up that pot of yours?”
“There’s no rush,” the naval officer said mildly. “I can wait ’til yours is down a bit.”
“That’s easily arranged,” Armstrong grinned, and downed his beer in one long swallow. He ordered two more pints, fished out his pipe and started to tamp tobacco into it, and then his curiosity overcame him. “What’s a Navy type doing in a place like this?” he wanted to know.
“Somebody thought it might be a good idea for a Navy type, as you put it, to do a little tour of Bomber Command and teach the Air Force types the difference between Mr Hitler’s ships and ours. There have been one or two — how shall I put it — unfortunate incidents. I drew the short straw. In the normal course of events I fly a thing called a Blackburn Skua, a sort o
f cross between a fighter and dive-bomber. I must admit that I’d rather be doing that than twiddling my thumbs in a dead-or-alive hole like this. Needs a damn good shake up, if you ask me.”
Armstrong had already decided, even on a couple of minutes’ acquaintance, that Lieutenant Baird was not afraid to speak his mind. He felt a little uncomfortable, having been brought up in an RAF school where “talking shop” in the mess was strictly taboo. He noticed that the barman, his back to them, was studiously pretending not to be listening. “What about you?” Baird asked. “Are you bomber, or recce?” As well as the reconnaissance squadron, Fordingham was home to two squadrons of Blenheim Mk IV bombers. At present they were absent, deployed elsewhere in the United Kingdom on some sort of exercise.
“Recce,” Armstrong answered, “but not on Blenheims, thank God. Like you, I’m only visiting, so to speak.” He did not elaborate. Baird glanced at his watch. “It’s still early. What say we take a run ashore? I’ve got a car here, and I haven’t had a chance to sample the local fleshpots yet.”
Armstrong grinned at his companion’s nautical turn of phrase. “Why not?” he concurred. “I should warn you, though, that there isn’t much about in the way of flesh. I’ve done a couple of recces already. We could go into Cambridge, if you like. There’s a decent pub called the The Blue Bells, with an equally decent blonde barmaid called Phyllis.”
“I prefer the indecent ones, personally,” Baird said. “Still, we’ll have a look at it. Come on, drink up.”
Baird’s mode of transport was an Austin Seven. It looked as though it had made the acquaintance of more than one ditch, and Armstrong inspected it dubiously before he climbed in. “Are you quite certain this will go as far as Cambridge?” he asked, not altogether in jest.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Baird said cheerfully. “It got me here all the way from Hatston, although admittedly part of the journey was on a ferry.”
“Where’s Hatston?” Armstrong wanted to know, as Baird wrestled with the starting handle. His companion informed him that it was in the Orkney Islands. The Austin’s engine coughed into life and Baird got into the driving seat, slamming the door behind him and moving off with a crunch of gears.
“Bloody awful place,” he said. “Wall-to-wall mud. It’s just been built. I was glad to escape for a bit. My squadron’s going to be shore-based for a while; we flew in from Courageous a couple of weeks ago.”
“What’s it like, flying from a carrier?” Armstrong asked, trying to ignore the fact that Baird was negotiating sharp bends on two wheels.
“It’s like everything else in life,” the naval officer told him. “You get used to it. It has its hair-raising moments. I remember trying to land a Swordfish — that’s our big torpedo-bomber biplane, as you may know — on the old Furious in the teeth of an 80-mile-an-hour gale; the bloody old Stringbag was actually flying backwards at one point.”
Armstrong removed his unlit pipe from between his teeth; he was afraid that he might bite through the stem in his agitation as Baird careered on through the dusk. Luckily, it was not far to their destination, which was on the southern outskirts of Cambridge. A 15-minute drive found them within sight of the target, an attractive inn with white walls and a thatched roof. Baird brought the car to a stop immediately outside the open door and cut the engine; both men got out, Armstrong’s legs feeling decidedly wobbly.
A single step at the threshold led straight into the public bar, a long room with oak timbers and a smoke-blackened ceiling. There was a broad hearth at one end of the room, with a fire laid in it but unlit; the weather was still pleasantly warm. It was Saturday evening, and little knots of men — farming folk for the most part, Armstrong knew — were seated at square, ancient tables, drinking and playing dominoes. A few of them looked up and nodded in friendly fashion as Armstrong and Baird entered; Baird attracted a few curious glances, for naval officers were something of a rarity in these parts.
Phyllis, as Armstrong had predicted, was behind the bar, furiously polishing glasses. She paused in her task and greeted the newcomers cheerily, addressing her opening words to Armstrong.
“Well, Sir, so here you are again. I see you’ve brought a chum along. That’s nice.” She thrust out an impressive chest in Baird’s direction. “Royal Navy, eh? Bit off course, aren’t you?” She giggled. Unlike most giggles, it was not an irritating sound.
“Two bitters, please, Phyllis,” Armstrong said, reaching into his pocket for some change. As he did so, he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned, and found himself gazing at the top of a bald head. Its owner was a small, plump man with a round face and watery blue eyes. He was in shirt sleeves, a waistcoat adorned with a massive silver watch chain stretched to bursting over his stomach. He wore pinstriped trousers and spats. He was sweating profusely, and dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. Armstrong thought that he caught a whiff of scent, and wrinkled his nose.
“Allow me to buy those drinks for you, gentlemen,” the little man said. “It would be a privilege.” He screwed a monocle into his right eye and peered at the medal ribbon on Armstrong’s tunic. “Ah, the Distinguished Flying Cross, if I am not mistaken.” His voice was high and piercing, and to Armstrong’s discomfort it carried right across the room.
“Look,” he said, “thanks for the offer, but we really couldn’t. We’re just having the odd one, and then we’re on our way.”
The little man was not to be put off. “Oh, but I insist,” he squeaked. He pulled a crisp white five-pound note from his waistcoat pocket and laid it on the bar with a flourish. Some of the domino players at one of the nearer tables stared openly; to them, the fiver meant more than a week’s wages.
Phyllis looked suspiciously at the plump man as she drew the beer. Looks like a sparrow with its tail pulled out, she thought.
The stranger ordered a large pink gin for himself and raised his glass to the two somewhat embarrassed officers before taking a sip. He volunteered the information that his name was Horace Wilmslow, and that he was a commercial traveller. He didn’t say what his line was. Probably ladies’ underwear, Armstrong thought uncharitably, or rubber goods, gentlemen for the use of.
“I travel all over the country,” Wilmslow said with an air of self-importance. “Petrol rationing won’t trouble me at all. Special allowance, you see, because of my line of business. Lot of government work, you know.” He tapped the side of his nose, and peered at Armstrong’s medal ribbon again.
“Being a man who keeps a close watch on the war news, it’s my guess that you were awarded your decoration for the attack on Wilhelmshaven a couple of weeks ago,” he said. “I can tell that it’s new. Am I correct?”
Armstrong studied his beer. “Now,” he said quietly, “you should realize that I can’t talk about anything like that.” He leaned forward suddenly and stared down at Wilmslow. “However, since you are obviously interested, I can tell you this much,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I got it for hunting gremlins.”
In RAF slang, a gremlin was a mischievous, mythical creature held to be responsible for anything that went wrong. There were different sorts, explained Armstrong, all skilled in different kinds of evil. Orderly Room gremlins caused all the paperclips and drawing pins to vanish at the most awkward times; Watch Office gremlins tended to shoot off flares at the most inconvenient moments; Ablutions gremlins made sure that there was never any lavatory paper handy when it was most direly needed; and the flying gremlins were the worst of all. He looked at Baird, as though seeking confirmation.
“Ah, yes,” the naval officer said with a completely straight face. “They’re such a confounded nuisance that we must constantly remind ourselves about them by frequently reciting a simple ditty. It goes like this”: Baird cleared his throat and adopted what could only be described as a theatrical stance.
“When you’re seven miles up in the heavens
That’s a hell of a lonely spot
And it’s fifty degrees below zero
Which isn�
��t exactly hot
It’s then you will see the gremlins —
Green and gamboge and gold,
Male and female and neuter,
Gremlins both young and old.
White ones will waggle your wingtips
Male ones will muddle your maps
Green ones will guzzle your glycol
Females will flutter your flaps.
Pink ones will perch on your perspex
And dance pirouettes on your prop;
There’s a spherical middle-aged gremlin
Who’ll spin on your stick like a top!”
Armstrong, momentarily taken aback by Baird’s unexpected poetic talent, quickly recovered himself. “There you are, then,” he told the commercial traveller, whose mouth was hanging open. “Anyway, while up on this gremlin hunt, I got into trouble. There I was, upside down at 40,000 feet, with nothing on the clock but the maker’s name —”
He was interrupted by a high-pitched, neighing laugh from Wilmslow. “I say, you fellows, you’re having me on, aren’t you? Never mind, I can take a joke. That’s worth another round of drinks. Barmaid! Same again.” He waved an imperious hand towards Phyllis, who ignored him completely.
“No thanks, really,” Armstrong said. “We’ve got to take it easy.”
“Ah, I see,” Wilmslow said, tapping the side of his nose again. “Flying tomorrow, I expect.” He turned to Baird. “But what about you, er — Lieutenant, isn’t it? What brings you to these parts? Is your home here?”
“Just visiting,” Baird said curtly.
Wilmslow shook his head sadly. “This terrible war. It separates so many people. I do hope it will be over by Christmas, as many believe. It is all so unnecessary.”
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