‘No, sit down. God, what a pair of old cripples,’ Tamar grumbled as she carefully negotiated the three steps up to the porch.
Henry scrambled up behind her, wielding his own little ‘Granny’ stick that Owen had made for him. Unfortunately he spent far too much time using it to irritate the farm cats and poking it into places it wasn’t meant to be, but Tamar didn’t have the heart to take it off him.
‘You should have asked Owen to bring you over in the truck,’ Joseph admonished as she hitched up the knees of the trousers she customarily wore at home and sat down opposite him.
‘He’s busy, and any way I wanted to talk to you privately. You can tell him off after I’ve told you off, though. And James.’
‘Oh yes?’ Joseph laughed. ‘What for?’
Tamar frowned at her firstborn son, whom she proudly considered was still an extremely attractive man, despite the silver that was creeping from his temples back through the thick black hair he seldom cut. Very like his father he was, although considerably less arrogant.
‘For not talking to those boys about what they think they’re getting themselves into. And they are only boys, Joseph, they’ve no idea of what really happens on the battle field.’
‘No, probably not. But they’ll find out, like all lads who heed the call of empire and go charging off to war.’
Tamar gave an inelegant snort. ‘I don’t think they actually are heeding the call of empire, are they? Liam wants to go because Duncan’s already there, Drew’s bored and I strongly suspect Billy’s only keen on going because you did. And his mother. Henry, leave Uncle Joseph’s leg alone. It’s not a toy.’
‘You’re quite possibly right about Billy. But look at us, Mam, look at all of us. We’re a family raised on war. From as far back as John Adams, who might as well have been family, and me in two wars, and James and Owen and Ian and Keely, and even Thomas, who hates conflict of any sort. How could the young ones not be influenced by all that? And it’s not just us. I expect just about every lad in this country has a father or an uncle who served in the last one. It’s what makes us New Zealanders, isn’t it? And Billy’s got a double dose, really. My people have a great warrior tradition, and it’s a matter of mana, you know that. Ask Papa.’
‘I have asked him, and I got almost as little sense out of him as I’m getting from you. But that’s not all of it, is it? There’s more to it than that. Or is it less?’
Joseph knew exactly what his mother meant. Reaching for his tobacco pouch before Henry found it and emptied the contents all over the verandah, he set about rolling another smoke.
‘Mmm, sometimes it is less. Young men everywhere like … no, not like, they crave adventure. Sometimes that’s all there is to it. And of course blokes put their hands up to get away from bad marriages, or trouble at home. I met plenty dreading being nailed by nagging wives or the coppers when they finally did get back. But I’ve no doubt that others really feel they have a duty to go, plenty of them, in fact. And on top of all that there’s this need blokes have to prove their manhood, or whatever you want to call it, that they can take everything that’s thrown at them.’
‘What a lot of rubbish!’
‘Rubbish!’ echoed Henry.
Joseph licked the edge of his paper, tamped the cigarette into shape then lit it. Blue smoke drifted up around his head, confusing the moths beginning to congregate around the outside light.
‘Perhaps, but that’s the way it is.’
They were silent for a minute as they watched Henry crawling around, head down, humming tunelessly to himself and looking for insects to investigate.
‘So, you won’t try to talk them out of it?’
Joseph looked at his mother sadly. ‘Believe me, Mam, I have tried. We all have.’
‘Oh. Didn’t you tell them how awful it was?’
‘We did, but it doesn’t mean much to anyone who wasn’t there. And war stories from old soldiers — and military nurses, I might add, because Keely and Erin have said their piece too — don’t mean anything to young blokes champing at the bit to get away and prove themselves. I’m sorry, Mam, we did try.’
Tamar slumped back in her chair dejectedly. Joseph knew she was thinking about Ian, and about the state James had come home in twenty-two years ago, and about his own lost leg. He reached out and put his brown hand over her smaller, time-weathered one.
‘Please try not to worry.’
‘That’s an easy thing to say.’
‘I know it is. I’m worried too.’ Joseph bent down, scooped Henry up and sat him on his knee. ‘Erin and I both are.’
There was a noise behind them and Erin stepped out onto the verandah. In the dim light she looked overly pale and tired. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she said, ‘Hello, Aunty Tam. Is someone taking my name in vain?’
Henry immediately reached his arms up towards her. ‘Aunty En! Need a bickie!’
Erin took him, balanced him on her hip with practised ease and planted a quick kiss in his ivory white curls.
‘You’re up late, little one. Are you keeping Granny company?’
‘Mmm, an’ I need a bickie.’
‘Oh, all right then, let’s go and see what’s in the tins, shall we?’
Tamar waited until Erin had gone inside before she said, ‘She looks very tired, Joseph. In fact she looks exhausted.’
‘She is. She’s cried herself to sleep for the last four nights. She won’t let on to Billy because she’s said her bit and won’t say any more, but I think she’d give almost anything if he didn’t sign up. But he will, you know. They all will.’
1940
One by one, the boys went away.
Billy went into camp with the Maori Battalion at the Palmerston North showgrounds late in January for three months’ Training, the technicalities of which he took very seriously, especially the weapons training. He didn’t take much else seriously. In his first letter home he described in colourful detail the sight of hundreds of volunteers, accompanied by friends and relatives, arriving at the showgrounds dressed in their Sunday best and carrying banjos, ukuleles and accordions. According to Billy, it gave Major Dittmer, the commander of the battalion, a ‘bloody good fright’, which, also in Billy’s opinion, served the army right for appointing only Pakeha as senior officers. Joseph shook his head in disbelief as he read the letter — it sounded exactly the sort of shambles he’d experienced himself when he’d trained at Avondale in 1914.
Liam also went to Palmerston North, but to Ohakea Air Force Base some distance from the town. There, he was to train as an observer, then probably go on to Britain where he would serve with the RAF, most likely with Bomber Command. The RNZAF had agreed to implement an intensive training programme for Dominion pilots and air crew for the RAF in the event of war, and many New Zealanders were now destined for the UK. Canada was doing the same thing. Liam intended to apply to one of the New Zealand squadrons in Britain — already making a name for themselves — and in which Duncan was currently flying.
Drew, however, much to his disgust and frustration, was compelled to sit around out at Kenmore for several months kicking his heels while the admiralty sorted out its recruitment procedures. He’d initially gone into town to sign up for the navy, but was told by the local naval authorities that only reservists and yachtsmen/mariners were being accepted. He was neither, and had come home in a foul mood grumbling about ineptitude and ingratitude. In the end, and after several semi-clandestine meetings with like-minded acquaintances over beers in town, he decided to join a group who were planning to make their own way to Britain to join the Royal Navy and left in May.
England, August 1940
Flight Lieutenant Duncan Murdoch awoke to the feel of someone shaking the hell out of his shoulder.
‘Sir? Sir! Time to wake up, sir!’
Duncan groaned and opened one eye, then snapped it shut again — the light of the hurricane lamp was too bright, his mouth was dry from sleeping with it open and his head pounded painfully, which
was bloody irritating, as he hadn’t had a drop to drink last night.
The airman orderly had another go. ‘Wakey, wakey, sir. Time to get up and polish the Spitfire.’
Cheeky bugger, Duncan thought. ‘Yes, all right, I’m awake,’ he muttered and heaved himself upright with a monumental effort. It seemed that these days the only thing that had the power to wake him immediately from a deep sleep was the word ‘Scramble!’
He pulled his jacket on over his shirt — he’d not bothered getting undressed at night for nearly three weeks now — shoved his feet into his flying boots and lit a cigarette.
‘How’s the weather looking?’
‘Probably fine, bit of high cloud,’ The orderly replied morosely.
‘Bugger.’
Today would therefore no doubt be a repeat of yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Duncan was averaging three sorties a day, and he was utterly exhausted. The Luftwaffe had been bombing the hell out of shipping convoys and coastal towns, airfields and radar stations relentlessly for almost six weeks now, and Fighter Command was starting to seriously feel the strain.
He went outside, stopped off at the latrine for a quick pee, then trudged across the wet grass to where his squadron’s aircraft were lined up along the edge of the concrete runway. He flicked his fag end away before he got too close — petrol fumes were everywhere. His Spitfire was second from the end, the rising orange sun reflected in the glass of the cockpit’s small windscreen. The fitter was just climbing out.
‘Morning, Tosh,’ Duncan said. ‘All ready?’
‘Aye. Chute’s sitting on the tail and the tank’s full.’
‘Good-oh.’
Duncan climbed into the tiny cockpit, easing his long legs into the cramped space under the instrument panel, and began to check that everything was functioning correctly and set for a quick getaway. A last look to ensure that the oxygen and R/T leads were fully connected to the mask hanging with his helmet, goggles and flying gloves, then he hauled himself out and headed back towards the hut for some breakfast.
Biggin Hill Airfield, just outside London, served fairly un-spectacular food, but there was plenty of it. Duncan ate as quickly as possible, had two cups of tea and another cigarette, then returned to the latrine, hoping that the call to scramble wouldn’t come while he was there. More than once he’d seen pilots dashing out of the little wooden building, hurriedly doing up their flies and swearing all the way to their aircraft.
The sun was almost completely up now, which meant the call could come at any time. He returned to his cot and carried out his ablutions. After a quick shave in tepid water and a thorough brush of his teeth, he slicked his hair down with water, buttoned his jacket, buckled on his Mae West and checked that his service revolver was in his jacket pocket. It always was these days — he never went anywhere without it.
Outside the hut chaps were congregating in the deckchairs arranged around several low tables set on the grass. On wet or windy days they sat inside, but when it was fine they made the most of the sun. Besides, being outside gave them a head start when the call came. This morning, the cards were already being dealt for a round of poker. Some days lately, they hadn’t managed to finish even a single game.
Duncan flopped down in a chair next to Terry Finch, a pilot and good mate from Canterbury who had also trained with the RAF in England before the war. There weren’t many of them left now — every day ‘old’ hands disappeared to be replaced by new, fresh-faced and virtually untried pilots from the RAF training schools or the Empire Air Training Schemes in New Zealand and Canada. Duncan had lost so many acquaintances and friends that he’d given up bothering to make any new ones. It was a form of self-protection.
Terry, a short, solid man of twenty-six with a shock of blue-black hair that refused to be tamed, even after a day flattened in a sweaty flying helmet, said, ‘Did you hear about Gus Reidy? Bought it late yesterday afternoon.’
Duncan nodded and picked up his poker hand. Gus, a member of 79 Squadron, also stationed at Biggin Hill, had been a decent bloke, a New Zealander with plenty of guts and a very skilled pilot. He’d gone down with his aircraft over Coulsdon and his death had been confirmed early this morning. Nothing more would be said about him now.
Duncan was losing badly — and struggling to stay awake — when the call came over the Tannoy to scramble. He could hear the orderly shouting, ‘Estimated fifty bandits coming in from southeast!’, and before the words really registered he was automatically on his feet.
At his Spitfire he tugged his parachute on over his Mae West and accepted a leg up into the cockpit from one of the ground crew. The engine was already running. Once seated he swiftly strapped himself in, pulled on his gloves, helmet and goggles, and fixed the oxygen mask over his face. His stomach was churning and he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline flood through him as he taxied out onto the runway, then manoeuvred the Spitfire into the correct position in preparation for takeoff. By the time he’d switched on the R/T he was already in the air, watching the ground drop away and at the same time glancing around to make sure everyone was in formation.
Below him, the ground crew turned into ants scurrying in all directions and the barracks, huts and hangars became toy buildings. The end of the runway was cratered from an attack on the airfield four days ago, and littered with the husks of three Spitfires that had been destroyed and already scavenged for any retrievable parts.
Terry was positioned on his left and to his right was Jacko Ebbett, a pilot who’d only been with the squadron for a few weeks. Duncan waved to them both, a habit they’d developed only recently. None of them had been shot down since they’d started doing it and, being as superstitious as most service personnel, they didn’t dare stop the ritual in case it was the only thing keeping them safe. They banked sharply, climbed and the squadron headed south-east for the coast.
Over the R/T, Duncan stated calmly, ‘Red Panda airborne.’
Through the crackle the female ground controller replied, ‘Okay, Panda leader, fifty plus bandits southeast of Ashford heading north-west. Vector 130, go get ’em, glamour boys!’
They flew for several minutes more, then suddenly they had a visual fix on a phalanx of bombers, escorted by fighters, moving towards them on their left.
Duncan said, ‘Here we go. Go for the Dorniers but watch the 109s, they’ll be coming out of the sun. Jacko, pull in a bit, you’re too far out.’
He was referring to the Messerschmitt Bf 109s, the scourge of the RAF. Checking that the setting on the gunsight mounted above his instrument panel was calibrated for the wingspan of the 109s, he then gave the order to climb higher to compensate for possible fire from above. In the tight confines of the cockpit he smelled his own sweat, and the involuntary tightening of his sphincter was an all too familiar sensation.
‘Panda Squadron, I repeat, aim for the bombers.’ His voice had risen a notch in the excitement of the impending battle. ‘Here they come! Break, break!’
He banked sharply and broke formation. Suddenly the sky around him shattered in a confusion of banking and swooping aircraft, some so close he could see the faces of the German pilots inside. He sensed someone on his tail and jinked, then dived and banked again, climbing at the same time so he came out above the mêlée. The R/T buzzed with snatches of commands, swearing, bellowed warnings, victory yells and cries of sheer terror.
He caught sight of Jacko Ebbett’s Spitfire beneath him, a 109 directly on his tail, and winced as a trail of bullets tore through a wing. Jacko jinked, rolled and recovered. Duncan squeezed his trigger and sent a prolonged squirt at the 109, spraying the German aircraft with bullets the length of its fuselage. A thick stream of smoke began to pour from the Messerschmitt, and Duncan let out a loud, triumphant whoop.
‘Got ya, ya bastard!’ he bellowed and banked again, turning for a split second into the sun.
A voice shrieked from his R/T, ‘Duncan! Snapper at eleven!’
He barely had time to register the
109 coming at him directly out of the sun before the German fired. The Spitfire’s cockpit glass crazed, but did not shatter, and Duncan was flying semi-blind. He rolled quickly, but not quickly enough to dodge the bullets; a line of them tore into his fuel tank, positioned directly in front of the cockpit. The tank was armoured, but not invincible. The needle on his fuel gauge began to drop immediately, meaning one of two things — he could lose all of his fuel and plummet out of the sky, or another bullet could cause a spark that would blow him to kingdom come. He decided to turn back.
‘This is Panda leader; tank’s hit, I’m heading home.’
He acknowledged the squadron’s responses as he banked and headed back for the airfield, feeling frustrated and cheated. This had happened to him once before and it had pissed him off then, too. He would miss the rest of the fight, and not be there to guide his men.
The needle on the gauge was still falling, but he calculated he would make it back. Barely. He could see the airfield and was almost home any way.
Then, from nowhere, a 109 swooped in from his right and fired another barrage that raked his right wing heavily. There was a count of several seconds when Duncan thought he might have got away with it, then a great sheet of flame erupted in front of the cockpit and blew the glass in. Heat surrounded him instantly, the flames blasting directly over his face, hands and chest. He was on fire and screaming. The ground controller heard it over the R/T and dispatched an ambulance immediately.
But Duncan didn’t know this — he was still inside the Spitfire spinning faster and faster as it sped towards the ground, a great trail of acrid, dirty smoke pouring from the fuselage. Following a drill that had been drummed into him time after time during training, he pulled the split-pin out of his sub-harness and ripped the oxygen and R/T leads out of his helmet. Then, shoving upwards with both blazing hands, he opened the hood of the cockpit and felt an almighty bang as an explosion hurled him up and out. He had just enough wits about him to tug frantically on his ripcord before he passed out.
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