‘Roger, Blue one,’ Monty drawled. ‘Wish they could all be as straightforward as that one.’
‘You’ll be wanting jam on your toast next, Blue three.’
Monty grinned. Salty was the sort of man you would want with you in a tight spot. He was a brilliant fighter pilot with a wicked sense of humour and a reassuring air of maturity about him, probably due to his shock of prematurely grey hair, which had earned him his nickname.
Where the second German plane materialized from, he was never sure. It came out of the blue like a predatory bird, and Salty’s aircraft was suddenly engulfed in smoke and orange flames.
At the same time as the controller’s voice came sharply to his ears, asking what was going on, Monty realized that the Junkers 88 had made a mistake. In its eagerness to attack Salty, it had dived too close and become a target itself.
Monty didn’t hesitate, keeping the firing button pressed until comparative silence, and the hiss of escaping air, told him that his ammunition was expended, but that was all right. The German plane had become a burning funeral pyre, and it went some way towards satisfying the anger and shock he felt at the suddenness of Salty’s end. He didn’t know why he felt such fury; he’d seen so many of his friends and colleagues die, after all, but somehow this was different. Maybe it had just been one too many, he didn’t know; but he had wanted the enemy pilot dead, wanted him to burn in hell, and the force of his feeling was still causing his hands to tremble. If he could have killed the man with his bare hands, he would have done so and taken joy over it.
Sick to his stomach, he forced himself to concentrate on flying the plane, but inside he was asking, ‘What am I turning into? Dear God, what’s happening to me?’
Some time later, physically tired and mentally drained, Monty arrived back at the fighter squadron at Horsham St Faith airport, near Norwich, where he had been posted from flying school. He taxied back to the dispersal pen, still shocked at the pleasure that had coursed through him when he had destroyed the enemy pilot, and knowing that something had changed in him that day. He had shot down and disabled other planes in his time, but none of those fights had been personal. Then he had been doing his duty for King and country against a faceless foe that, if it was not stopped, would take over England’s green and pleasant land and commit the same atrocities that were happening elsewhere. It had been simple and clear-cut. But today . . . today he felt like a murderer.
Once back in his hut, he sat on the bed and looked at Salty’s empty bunk. The others had gone for breakfast, but he hadn’t felt like eating.
He would give the world for Esther to be here right now. Just to be able to talk to her, to hold her, to confess what he was feeling inside. She wouldn’t judge him, he knew that. If he told her that he had enjoyed killing another human being, that he had felt such a surge of fierce, primitive joy when he had turned a plane into a fireball – knowing that death was coming in burning agony for those inside – she wouldn’t understand, but she wouldn’t condemn him, either. Not his Esther.
With his elbows on his knees, he put his head in his hands and pressed his little fingers against his eyeballs. Had he sold his soul to the Devil? Was that it? But then, whatever it took, Hitler and his Nazis had to be stopped, even if it meant legalized murder. Look at the slaughter of those poor blighters in the Warsaw ghetto just days ago. German SS troops had mounted a major operation to ‘clear’ its Jewish ghetto, the newspapers had reported, killing more than 50,000 men, women and children with grenades and flame-throwers; and the ones who’d survived had either been executed or penned like animals and sent to the concentration camps. It was unbelievable that such barbarity was happening in a civilized world; but it was, and it would continue to be so, unless Hitler and Himmler and the rest of the madmen were killed. And if, in so doing, he and others like him became brutalized to some extent, maybe that was the price that had to be paid?
He raised his head, staring at Salty’s bunk. He didn’t know what was right and what was wrong any more.
When the door to the hut opened, it wasn’t one of the friends he’d flown with that morning, but the station medical officer who stood there. Like most of his breed, the SMO kept a professional mask in place most of the time and rarely let his feelings show, but he had been a good friend of Salty’s since before the war. Quietly he said, ‘They told me you were in here. Come and get something to eat, man.’
‘Not hungry.’
‘Nevertheless, come and get something down you. That’s an order.’
Monty stared at him. ‘Do you ever wonder if this war is a sick nightmare from which you’ll wake up?’
The SMO said nothing for a moment, then slowly walked to Salty’s bunk and sat down, reaching out and touching the photograph of Salty’s wife and child. Softly he said, ‘She’s a good woman, and a good wife. Salty thought the world of her. And Amelia, their kid, looks just like Maria. She’s half-Italian, Maria. Did you know that?’
Monty shook his head.
‘No, well, Salty didn’t broadcast the fact, what with the war and all. Maria was born in England, and she’s as English as you and I, but her parents’ little restaurant’s been daubed with paint and some of the local brats posted dog-dung through their letterbox. Maria’s father – he’s a Birmingham man – went mental when he caught one of ’em at it. He fought in the First World War, and to have dog-mess in his hall simply because he fell in love with an Italian woman umpteen years ago was beyond the pale. So he pushed the kid’s nose in it. That’s all; didn’t clip him round the ear or knock him about, just sent him away with a dirty face. And the kid’s father torched their place the next night, with them in it.’ The SMO looked at him. ‘So if you’re asking about nightmares, I think plenty of us have them. The world’s gone mad, that’s for sure, and it’s sending good people crazy with it. Neighbour turning against neighbour, and doing things they’d never have dreamed of before. But I know one thing, and so do you, and so did Salty. The only way to stamp out the madness is to win this war. Whatever it takes.’
‘I enjoyed – really enjoyed – destroying Salty’s killer.’
‘Your friend was killed in front of you, and you settled the score, okay? You’re not a perfect human being, Monty, and you never will be. Learn to live with it. Personally’ – the SMO stood to his feet – ‘I’d give you a medal.’
A weak smile touched Monty’s face. ‘That’s all right then.’
‘You can’t afford yourself the luxury of remorse or regret or pity – it’s distracting and worthless. If that enemy plane could have taken you, it would have. Any of us who survive this war will have to put the feelings connected with it in a box and keep the lid shut down, and the way you’re feeling now is a perfect example. It doesn’t matter what you felt when you shot the plane down – only that you did it.’
Monty was shocked. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘I’m a medical officer, and I was a GP before the war. I’m no psychiatrist, I admit, but for what it’s worth, this navel-gazing isn’t an option. You can do all the forgiving – and whatnot – you want after we’ve won the war, for now you take the so-an’-sos down at every opportunity you get, and to hell with your motives. All right?’
Strangely, it helped. Monty stood up, wiping his hand tiredly across his face before he said, ‘I could do with some of Lionel’s burnt sausages and overcooked eggs.’
‘Don’t forget his cindered toast. It’s an art form to get it that way.’ The SMO grinned and then his face sobered. ‘There’ll be those who come through this, Monty – believe you are one of them. You’re married, aren’t you? Any kids?’
‘No. We decided we’d wait until we knew what we were bringing them into.’
‘Well, for your future kids, believe you’re invincible, and that you are the good guy. And for what it’s worth, I think you are.’
Esther’s letter came in that morning’s post. He was lying with some companions on the grass at the edge of the airfield, listening to the near
by song of birds as the drugging effects of sleep took hold. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky, and on the perimeter of his consciousness he could hear the others talking about the morning’s raid, but he was deep in the pleasant land of inertia.
The screeching brake-drums of the tea wagon intruded on his drowsiness, and he was dimly aware of willing figures jumping up to help unload the heavy thermos flasks of tea and plates of elevenses, courtesy of the much-maligned Lionel and his kitchen staff. Rolling over onto his stomach, Monty shielded his eyes from the sun as someone called, ‘Letters here for Croft, Lee and Grant.’ He and Esther had agreed that ‘Wynford-Grant’ was for civilian life rather than the RAF.
Hoping the letter was from Esther rather than from his mother or friends, he raised his hand, shouting, ‘Grant.’
It was her handwriting. He smiled, sitting up and slitting the envelope open as his heart raced. Just seeing the familiar, somewhat untidy scrawl was balm to his soul. As someone passed him a mug of tea he took it automatically, unfolding the contents of the envelope and smoothing the paper out:
Dear Monty,
I so wish I could tell you this in person, my darling, but needs must. Remember our first time on the moor, with the perfume of summer in the air and the birds and bees for company? Well, the birds and bees must have worked their magic, because I’m expecting our baby. I know it wasn’t what we had planned, and it will be a surprise – if not a shock – but I hope you will be pleased. Perhaps there is no right time to become parents, my beloved? Perhaps these things happen when they should, and are for a purpose. I love you and I already love our baby, so very much.
I’m staying on at the farm, but Mrs Holden is seeing to it that I have light work; in fact she is clucking around me like a mother hen, which is rather nice, truth be told! The girls are being wonderful too, although Farmer Holden tutted a bit and would have had me shipped home, if it wasn’t for his wife. I would have hated that, Monty: months of my father being around, although I know I’ll have to go home before the baby is born. My mother would expect it, and it will be nice to be with her at such a time.
I’ll write to my parents, and could you put yours in the picture? The baby’s due in April. It would be lovely if you could get leave arranged for then? I love you more than words can say, my darling. Us – parents!
Your Esther
He raised his head from the letter in his hand, staring into the distance where a heat haze shimmered over the airfield.
A baby! The flood of elation took him by surprise. There were a thousand reasons why this was the worst time to think of bringing new life into the world, but somehow it didn’t matter. He was going to be a father, and the next time he flew against the enemy, it wasn’t going to be merely for him and Esther and England, but for the future of his child. His son or daughter.
‘You all right, Monty?’
He came back to his surroundings to find his companions eyeing him anxiously. Bad news was a common occurrence these days. He nodded dazedly. ‘I’m going to be a father,’ he said weakly. ‘Esther’s in the family way.’
Cheering and ribald comments as to his prowess, and having his hand almost shaken off, ensued, and when one of the men produced a silver hip-flask full of brandy, everyone held out their mugs for a dollop. Suddenly the atmosphere had changed.
Monty stared round at the men who had become his friends, as his news provoked talk about their wives and children and sweethearts, and – for the unattached and fancy-free among them – girls in general. Victor, a long, lanky individual with a drooping moustache, was describing the attributes of a barmaid he’d successfully wooed the night before; and Doug, a cheerful northern lad whose wife had just presented him with twin boys, brought out his photographs of the babies and was trying to press them on the others for the umpteenth time.
‘Ugly little so-an’-sos, aren’t they, Doug?’ one of the airmen commented, with a wink at the others.
‘Take after their father, poor little blighters,’ another man chimed in. ‘Nearly bald, with faces like smacked backsides.’
Doug grinned, every inch the besotted father. He’d heard it all before.
Monty swallowed the rest of his tea, the brandy sending a warm glow into his stomach, and stretched out on the thick green grass, his hands behind his head and the sun hot on his face. He was back on track again.
Chapter Seven
It had snowed heavily all day and now it felt as though the whole of the world was asleep under its blanket of white. Esther sat at her bedroom window looking out into the moonlit night, her hands resting on her swollen belly.
She couldn’t sleep. She was so big now – as big as a house, she’d complained grumpily to her mother that morning – and getting comfortable in her soft bed at home had been an increasing problem, whereas in the farm cottage the hard beds had seemed to suit her condition. But at the end of January her mother and father had actually come to collect her, after she had made one excuse after another to delay her departure from Yorkshire. Now it was the middle of a bitterly cold April and, apart from the fact it had been snowing for weeks on and off, she supposed her time at home hadn’t been too bad. Esther wrinkled her nose as her thoughts meandered on. If it wasn’t for the constant worry at the back of her mind about Monty, she could have relaxed and enjoyed the time with her mother and Rose, both of whom had been thrilled to have her home.
The baby in her stomach kicked hard, as it was apt to do most of the night – another reason she found it hard to settle – and she smiled as she rested her fingers against the vigorous life inside her. ‘It’s all very well for Churchill to say your daddy and the rest of the RAF carry doom to tyrants,’ she murmured, ‘but I want him here, with us.’
Monty had managed to wangle a three-day leave at Christmas and had turned up at the farm unannounced, but Mrs Holden had made him very welcome. He’d had to sleep in the hay loft – Esther and the rest of the girls were packed into the tiny, two-bedroomed labourer’s cottage like sardines – but every evening she had crept out and joined him in his fragrant bed, climbing the ladder that led to the platform above the barn, where they had held each other close and made delicious love for half the night.
And then, all too soon, Christmas was over and she had waved him goodbye, trying to be brave, but terrified she would never see him again. The farm didn’t possess the luxury of a wireless or any modern conveniences, but every so often one of them would bring back a newspaper from the village and she would read with dread the reports of the RAF’s bombing raids. In January the RAF’s Mosquito fighters had launched two daring daylight raids on Berlin, just as the Reich Marshal, Hermann Goering, was to deliver a broadcast celebrating ten years of the Nazi regime; and later in the afternoon, at the time the enemy’s propaganda minister, Joseph Goebbels, was broadcasting. In March she read about the RAF’s bombing raids on Germany’s industrial heartland, which aimed to destroy more than 2,000 factories and a million tons of steel, along with engineering shops and coal production, whilst still keeping up the destruction of Berlin.
She sighed. Her father had been triumphant about reports that the fires in Germany could be seen 200 miles away and had rejoiced at the devastation, but all she’d thought about were the men who would never return home to their loved ones. She ached to hear from Monty, but as soon as one letter arrived, she began worrying as to whether there would be another.
Esther turned as one of the logs in her bedroom fireplace spat and crackled briefly before dying in a shower of sparks. She ought to put more logs on the fire, but she felt too tired to move – not that she had done much for weeks. It was just that with the difficulty in sleeping, especially now she was so huge, and the mental strain of worrying about Monty day and night, she felt constantly exhausted, but in a different way from when she’d been working all hours at the farm. She missed Priscilla and the others so much, and although they wrote to her religiously each week without fail, it wasn’t the same. She missed the camaraderie, the conviviali
ty of having friends her own age, the sheer fun they’d had, and the laughs. Oh, the laughs. There had been times when her sides had ached with laughing.
A smile touched her lips and then, as the wind blew a swirl of fat snowflakes against the window, she shivered. She must try to sleep; the baby was due any day, and after that she might not get much rest. She had made it clear to her parents, and Rose, that she intended to look after the baby herself and breastfeed too; she wanted to immerse herself in motherhood for the first few months. And after that? She bit her lip. A home of her own with Monty and their child was her dream, but life in the RAF was so precarious. There was talk that, with the threat of invasion lifted and the country’s church bells ringing regularly once again, victory was in sight, but who really knew? So much propaganda went on. One minute the Russians were liberating cities held by the Nazis in the Soviet Union, and the Americans were driving the Germans back in Tunisia; the next minute the former Cabinet minister Lord Hankey was calling the anti-U-boat campaign a terrible failure. Who knew what to believe?
Slowly she manoeuvred her cumbersome body out of the chair and climbed into bed. She had left the curtains open, and the white world outside the window and the flickering fire provided enough light for her to see that her small bedside clock showed two o’clock.
At three o’clock Esther awoke as a pain – similar to that she’d felt when she’d eaten too many of Farmer Holden’s barely ripe Victoria plums in the summer – gripped her. But this was no over-indulgence on green fruit, she thought, as gradually the pain lessened until it disappeared altogether. It was another ten minutes before the pain came again, and so it continued at regular intervals until seven o’clock, when she decided to get up and sit in the chair again. She had no sooner slid out of bed and stood up than a trickle of water down her legs told her that her waters had broken and the baby really was on its way.
The Colours of Love Page 7