by Ray Ollis
‘Thanks, as you say, entirely to me,’ agreed Jackal.
‘You should’ve seen him,’ Krink said to Vincent. ‘This night-fighter had told me she was pregnant and wanted forty quid to get it fixed. But Jackal figured he could scare her off.’
‘I first diagnosed the case,’ explained Jackal, eager to present Vincent with the facts. ‘She said she was pregnant, but she was drinking and smoking. But most girls go off smoking and drinking at such a time. Makes ’em sick. So I assumed she was lying.’
‘Yeah,’ said Krink, unwilling to have his story told for him. ‘So Jackal says to her, ‘You needn’t give this horrible abortionist forty pounds—I shall attend to you with greater skill and without charge.’ So we sling her in the car and shoot up to Lighthouse Hill.’
‘And there we spread my greasy blanket on the ground and Jackal says, ‘Now, my dear, if you will just lie down there I think we can manage this by moonlight and without anaesthetic’, and he pulls out a shiny cut-throat razor.’
‘You don’t mention my acting, dear boy. The quiet intensity of tone, the flashing of the blade in the steely starlight …’
‘And when she sees him this dame just yells, ‘No! Don’t touch me! I’m not pregnant! Honestly, I’m not pregnant at all. Truly!’ And she flees down the hill like a runaway ghost.’
‘Leaving us with nothing to do but climb back into the car and return here to buy you a drink, dear Vincent. What will you have?’
‘Terrific, it was,’ Krink continued. ‘Imagine. Got rid of two dames as easy as that. Would you believe it could be that easy to get rid of two dames?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Vincent. ‘Sometimes it’s dead easy.’
‘Squadron Leader Chiltern sends his compliments, sir, and asks will you please come over to his flight office straight away.’
The messenger was a young sprog pilot newly posted to B Flight and the urgency of his message surprised Vincent. He hurried over to see Chiltern.
‘Come in, Farlow,’ Chiltern said as soon as he arrived. ‘And close the door carefully behind you.’
Chiltern sat at his desk for quite a few seconds, looking Vincent in the eye.
Then he leant forward and said, ‘So you believe that I murdered Smiff, do you, Farlow?’
The question was meant to surprise Vincent, and it did. But it did not surprise him as much as Chiltern hoped it would. Instantly Vincent realised what must have happened. Squadron Leader Gaffer always seemed a friendly, easy-going chap, but senior rank is quite a bond. Gaffer had obviously told Chiltern what Vincent had said; ‘He caused the whole thing.’
Vincent glared back at Chiltern and thought, ‘How like you to put it like that! To accuse crudely and hope to shock the other fellow onto the defensive. Well, I refuse to be put off by you; you ask me a brutal question and I’ll give you a brutal answer.’
‘Yes, sir. I think you did.’
Chiltern leapt to his feet. ‘What?’
‘It is not how I would have put it myself, sir,’ said Vincent. ‘It was not quite murder. But I have every respect for your regard for the truth. You asked me what I believed. I answered you truthfully. Yes, I do believe that you murdered Smiff.’
‘Do you realise what you are saying, Farlow?’
‘Only too well, sir. You didn’t watch Smiff die. I did.’
For just one moment Chiltern was shaken. ‘But I couldn’t have caused it,’ he said, and there was almost pleading in his voice.
Very quickly, however, he controlled himself. One could almost watch his mind at work; ‘It was a mistake to have said that. I must assert myself before any possible thought of guilt gains sway.’
Chiltern looked sternly at Vincent. ‘I couldn’t have caused it,’ he repeated, firmly. ‘There was no opportunity to evade.’
‘Graham ordered evasive action, sir.’
‘It was an unorthodox order.’
‘There wasn’t time for polite preamble. As we now see, a man’s life was at stake.’
Chiltern did not like this conversation at all. He had never supposed that he would be obliged to defend himself against this accusation. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind, now that he thought about it clearly. His action had been correct. A sudden shout in his ear to ‘Dive port’ is not correct evasive procedure. A captain must know what is happening, who is speaking, why advice is given; he is not just a servant to leap without thought or question to any order from any person. Chiltern did his best to square his receding jaw. His flabby cheeks still shook with indignation and his round, weak face shone with nervous perspiration, but his small eyes glinted pale and hard.
‘Graham’s decision was incorrect. If we were hit as a result of anyone’s mistake that person was Graham. He should have given the correct order and he did not. The man was hysterical. That is evidenced by his very next action: deserting the aircraft—an act of cowardice for which I have recommended he be demoted to Ac/1 while he is held prisoner and dishonourably discharged when he is released.’
Chiltern looked at Vincent as if defying him to comment on this latest news. Seeing that Vincent was about to speak, however, Chiltern held up a hand for silence him and continued speaking himself.
‘I once said to you, Farlow, and the whole crew, that I would make my crew the finest on this squadron. I also said that any man who tried to stop me I would remove. I was not speaking idly. I am glad Graham has gone, he did not please me. Another crew member who does not please me, Farlow, is you. I am therefore insisting that you be removed from my crew.’
He paused for just a moment but this time Vincent looked grimly at the wall behind Chiltern’s head; he did not attempt to speak.
A trace of a smile touched Chiltern’s lips. He thought he saw, in Vincent’s silence, mute acceptance of his own authority and compliance of his own strength of will. ‘In order to save you the embarrassment of this demotion from the flight commander’s crew, however,’ continued Chiltern, ‘I shall request the Squadron Commander post you from this squadron. It is fortunate that I have been able to postpone you the acting rank that accompanies the post of navigation leader. In view of your conduct, of course, you will be posted as an ordinary member of aircrew and that will save you the added embarrassment of relinquishing rank that you would have only held for a week or so. Considering the seriousness of your offence, Farlow, I hope you will agree that I am being extremely lenient. A less just man may have let his personal feelings influence him. I was tempted to do so, believe me, but I can more readily forgive a hurt against myself, such as yours, than I can a hurt against my king, such as Graham’s. This demotion is not yet official, of course; I am simply being as fair as I can and warning you what to expect. This way you can vacate your post more gracefully.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Not at all, Farlow. I am sorry this has happened.’
‘We are all sorry this happened, sir.’
Chiltern raised an eyebrow. Was this man still trying to fight him?
‘Let me remind you, Farlow, it could have been far more serious.’
Yessir,’ said Vincent. ‘You might have killed us all.’
— 4 —
‘… in a letter I wrote when I first came here I said it would be strange having a new crew. But I never expected anything as strange as this. The last burst of six ops we did in nine days. In that time we stopped a fixed gun over Saarbrücken wounding the bomb aimer. Then our Special baled out on Dortmund—virtually driven to it by this maniac skipper. That hectic Duisburg-Duisburg-Wilhelmshaven bash came in only forty hours (we did Wilhelmshaven without Gee, and my ex-skipper was killed by FIDO). And then he capped the lot by getting us shot down on Groninberg—bomb aimer captured and rear gunner killed. Imagine, all that lot in nine days! Plus a four day walk home. And now this caper. I’ll leave Ludford almost happily just to be rid of the man …’
‘How formal are they on formal mess night?’ asked Johnnie. ‘I don’t want to put up a black, especially when I’m with Wendy.’
‘Judging by how it used to sound from inside the sergeants’ mess, the officers are quite informal by about ten o’clock,’ said Magnetic.
‘Well, I’ve only been to one formal night myself,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s not formal at all by comparison with peacetime. No ceremonial swords or passing the port.1 Just best blues and rather a better dinner than usual, and dancing afterwards. The Air Vice-Marshal always comes. Oh, and you must be careful of his daughter—don’t pick her if you feel like getting fresh with a popsie. If you really want to crawl to the brass hats, dance with their wives. They’re so bloody happy to get them off their hands and drink with the boys. You must be dainty at supper, too, or Gaffer has a dig at you. He eats enough to choke a horse himself, but lowly pilot officers must nibble like mice. Personally, I think I’ll leave after dinner.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Magnetic. ‘Stay for a drink, anyway. I’ll buy you one. Meet me in the bar straight after dinner.’
‘Well … if you insist. But I’ll be dull company.’
The bar after dinner was everyone’s rendezvous. Small as it was, Vincent had been there some time before Magnetic found him. They bought two beers and took them outside into the lounge.
Magnetic had never seen Vincent so depressed. Yet it was not a hang-dog depression: it was militant, aggressive. Vincent had not told anybody of his clash with Chiltern and its impending sequel. The only explanation Magnetic could think of was that, since this was the officers’ mess and Paps was only a corporal, Vincent could not bring her along and felt annoyed about it.
When, after a few drinks, Vincent had still not attempted to unburden his unhappy heart, Magnetic decided to follow this tack and see how far it got him.
‘Not dancing tonight?’, he asked.
‘Dancing?’, mocked Vincent. ‘You dance with women and women are the devil.’
‘Is that true bitterness I perceive in your voice, or are you just being true to Paps?’
Vincent banged his glass down. ‘If women are the devil, then Paps is hell itself.’
‘But I thought you two had fused together at last.’
‘Fused? Yes, that’s the word. We fused! But it caused a spark that blew us straight apart again. Too much voltage for me.’
‘Then, if women are the devil and Paps is hell itself, what is Wendy?’
‘Huh! I wonder.’
Vincent stopped staring at his empty glass, caught a steward’s eye and ordered another drink. ‘I wonder if it’s Wendy. Or Chiltern.’
‘Ah!’ said Magnetic. ‘That’s it, eh? Chiltern!’
The steward brought the drinks. As he put them down Vincent said to him, ‘Bring the same again.’
‘We can’t sir, I’m sorry. We’re short of glasses.’
Vincent took his glass and drained it at a gulp. ‘Then fill that one up again,’ he said.
There was an intensity in the way Vincent drank and ordered another that Magnetic had never seen in him before. He was not drinking for the pleasure it could give. He was not even drinking to forget; he was drinking, it seemed, to help him remember, to intensify the misery he felt. Magnetic decided to try to change Vincent’s mood.
‘You mentioned your stupid illusion of success just now. Why illusions?’
‘Because I’m a triple flop. A flop at being an aviator. A flop at being virtuous. A flop at being wicked.’
‘I wouldn’t call winning the BEM being a flop.’
‘Oh, that! It signifieth nothing.’2
‘Let me decide that, will you? Tell me how you won it.’
‘Shoot my line?’
‘Yes. ‘There I was …’ Tell me how a flop wins a gong or else I can’t agree that you’re a flop.’
‘It was a fiddle.’
‘Nonsense! As a flop you’re a failure and unless you tell me the story I insist you’re a success.’
‘All right!’
Vincent looked Magnetic in the eye with something of an alcoholic twinkle. ‘But first, where’s that bloody steward? I want a drink.’
‘It was in Crete,’ Vincent started. ‘I had just baled out for the third time in a month. I landed in the town we had been bombing and found it empty. I had been shot down raiding a deserted town. To top it all, inside ten minutes the Germans started raiding it too. Isn’t war intelligent? Twenty-four Dorniers gave it hell—and me the only Allied target for miles. It’s damned funny. And they didn’t even scratch me.’3
‘When the raid was over I started looking around, for food et cetera to sustain me while I tried to catch up with the Allies. The most interesting establishment which had been hit was a bank; I hid in its vault during the German raid. Almost next door was a shop with suitcases. So, on a hunch, I took the largest suitcase, put in it a few scraps of food I found, then crammed the rest of the space with money, the largest denomination notes I could see. Then I hurried after the retreating Australians.4
I caught them at the coast and managed to join the evacuation, then made my way to Alexandria. The first thing I did there (where’s that bloody steward? I want a drink!), was go to a bank. I dumped my money on the counter not very hopefully and said, ‘I suppose this stuff is valueless?’
The teller looked at it, counted it, and said, ‘On the contrary, it’s worth almost three thousand pounds.’
And then I spoke a very good line. I said, ‘Well, I’d like to open an account.’
‘This, remember, was straight after being shot down for the third time in one month—an astonishing run of luck, both good and bad—and I was very fed up. I had money. Nobody knew who or where I was. I didn’t feel like flying any more.5 So I decided to stay in Alex. I rented an apartment, bought a car, found myself an exotic Greek mistress and went out that first night and painted the town red. Next night we went out and gave it another coat. There wasn’t much money couldn’t buy in Alex despite the war, and I started living like a king.’
Magnetic raised an eyebrow. This seemed strangely unlike Vincent. But he said nothing, and Vincent continued.
‘But it was costing money. Real money. After five months I only had a few hundred left. The end was coming. It only accelerated things, then, when my Greek lovely pinched what cash was left, stole my car and vanished.
‘I couldn’t afford to be investigated; I just had to let her go. But I had been thinking about this day for some time. I had planned what I should do. So I started growing a beard and set off to walk to Cairo.6 I took my time, I didn’t eat much, I let myself get generally run-down so that by the time I reported to the RAF in Cairo I looked pretty dreadful.
‘But I dragged myself into RAF HQ, saluted as smartly as I could, and said, ‘Sergeant Farlow reporting for duty, sir’—another rather good line.’
‘Naturally, they asked me where I had been and what I had been doing. I told them that I had been picked up by the Germans after baling out, but managed to escape. Then, I told them, I joined up with a gang of resistance bods and started the Voice of Crete anti-German broadcast.7
‘Now, it so happened that there had been such a radio on Crete, and it had operated until just about the time I left Alex. The leader had some code name and the Germans put a price on his head. They must have got him because he vanished and the radio stopped.
‘So I told RAF HQ that I was this chap! That I had worked with the resistance for five months but was advised to leave when the reward was offered because Crete was incredibly poor and for that much money I would probably be betrayed. Resistance found a small boat, I explained, and with one other chap, I set out to sail for Africa. The other bloke died of exposure, I committed his body to the deep, but I made it, so; ‘Sergeant Farlow reporting for duty, sir.’
‘They couldn’t really check my story. The beginning was true: I had been shot down. The end was true: this fellow had vanished from Crete. I had even brought a boat to show them … They believed my story and gave me the BEM. That makes me a flop, surely.’8
Magnetic’s puzzled frown softened. ‘It was a just reward fo
r effort,’ he said. ‘Look at all the hard work you did to get it.’
Then he added, ‘Watch my beer, will you?’, and walked away into the crowd, exchanging a word with Johnnie and Wendy on the edge of the dance-floor.
Wendy, thought Johnnie, was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in the mess, and she had danced with him more often than with anyone else. In her company, with his new officer’s uniform and the dignity he felt it gave him, he seemed almost suave.
Watching them, Vincent held his glass so tightly that his knuckles strained white. He hoped the glass would break, and cut his hand. He felt vicious.
‘Would you mind if I take that glass, sir?’ The steward was back again.
‘That’s Pilot Officer North’s beer. You can’t have it.’
‘But we’re very short of glasses, sir.’
‘Well, you can’t have that one.’
The steward went away and left Vincent with his thoughts; heavy, black, unpleasant thoughts. ‘Hey, come back!’, he called the steward. ‘Bring me another drink.’
‘Do you really think you want another drink, sir?’ The steward was old enough to be Vincent’s father.
‘Of course I want another drink,’ slurred Vincent vindictively. ‘Why d’ya think I ordered it?’
‘Very well, sir.’
Vincent was trying to think about Chiltern and the war and how much he hated them both. But time and again he found himself thinking about women: Wendy and Paps. He had been a fool on both counts, he told himself. He could have won Wendy if only he had done something about it instead of acting shy. And Paps! What a coy, inexperienced fool he had been with Paps. She was a magnificent creature and she had shown herself tender and sweet at times, too. He could have had his pick: a beautiful woman as his girlfriend or a beautiful woman as his mistress. And he had lost them both; one because he would not be too audacious and the other because he would not be audacious enough.
‘Really, sir,’ said the steward beside him, ‘we must have that glass. Mr North isn’t in the mess. And the beer’s flat anyway.’