‘Well, you could have a successful and rewarding career down here on earth, and I hear that even the Mighty Eighth is short of good fellows to keep everything running smoothly. Why don’t you give it some more thought?’ Of course, Archie realised it was hopeless. A flyer didn’t want to do anything else, and wings burned in the boy’s heart.
‘I hear what you’re saying, Maestro, but the thing is, I owe it to my crew to get back on the horse, and I never finished my tour.’ Intensity flared in Mac’s eyes.
‘The problem is, Mac, that no matter what you do, your hands will never be as dexterous as before. You might think you can manage one of those heavy bombers you boys fly, but once you’re up, there’s no going back. All you can do is get on with it and when the going gets tough, well, I can’t vouch for what comes next.’
Richard Hillary slipped into his mind, drawing with him an icy chill. Archie wasn’t confident that Mac was up to flying those heavy bombers, in truth, and all he could do was hope that the MO made the right decision.
‘I understand. I won’t take any risks, doc. I’ll make sure I can handle the ship before they pack me off on a mission. Besides, I’ll have a co-pilot, and eight crew.’
Archie studied him for a moment. He often pondered over the act of fixing these boys up, only to send them back to war. Richard Hillary had been unfortunate and had persevered to the point of despair. It didn’t help that the Allied Forces kept the pressure up, demanding the return of their men as soon as possible, if they were fit enough. Yes, good men were in short supply these days. A hollowness crept into Archie’s stomach. ‘Mac, just make me one promise. Don’t struggle or suffer in silence. Any problems, no matter how small, telephone me right away. Is it a deal?’
‘Sure, doc. It’s a deal.’
Archie slapped him on the back. ‘Right, well I’ll write to your commanding officer. You’ll need to see the MO, of course, and pass a medical, and then it’s in their hands, but I wish you the best of luck. Let’s see now, if you stay on until tomorrow, you’ll be able to catch the morning train to London and then change for Cambridge. I’ll telephone the base so they know to expect you.’ Archie reached out to shake Mac’s hand.
‘Thanks, Archie. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and Stella.’
‘Yes, well, just take care of yourself, and that young lady of yours. And if you have any further problems at all while you’re still in England, remember, my door’s always open. You only need to ask.’
Archie stood up to leave and paused. ‘Keep in touch, Mac. Drop me a line here and there and let me know how you’re getting on, and remember, keep the gloves on, always.’ He pointed skyward, flashing a smile.
Leaving another patient, sending him back to a normal life, would ordinarily offer him such satisfaction. But now, in the midst of war, such farewells provided a mere taste of that and quickly soured. It felt hopeless in a sense, especially knowing they were never fully healed, least of all mentally. He had no doubt the American military would welcome Mac with open arms.
Archie strode into the meeting room in the town hall in East Grinstead and marched past occupied seats, glancing left and right at the people who filled them. The hubbub of voices gradually faded. It was a full house, and he smiled to himself. Mr Donaldson, the local councillor, stood beaming.
‘Good evening, Mr McIndoe.’
‘Hello. Excellent turnout. Well, I’d best get started.’ Archie spun around to face the crowd of locals, flicking his gaze briefly at the clock that hung on the wall above the open fireplace. Six thirty. The drift of cigarette smoke filled the stale, humid air. He coughed to clear his throat.
‘Hello. I recognise some faces among you here tonight, but for those who don’t know me, I’m Archie McIndoe. I run the plastic surgery unit here at the local hospital, and I care for many servicemen who have been severely burned and disfigured.’
A couple of people who had been chatting in the back row suddenly ceased and looked up. Good, he had their attention too. Beads of sweat formed at the nape of his neck and above his top lip, and he flicked his tongue over it and savoured the tang of salt. He glanced at the half-open window as a slight breeze whispered a breath of fresh air, and he inhaled it greedily.
‘A man disfigured in battle fights that battle for the rest of his life. Now, the treatment these boys require is often complex and takes place over many months and years. The majority of them are not sick, which means they’re often frustrated and left with nothing to do between surgical procedures. This is where I hope you will come in.’
Men, women, and children in the audience gazed at him with wide eyes, some open-mouthed, and some with raised eyebrows, clearly puzzled.
An elderly woman raised her hand and rose from her seat. ‘But what is it that you want us to do?’
‘I’m glad you asked. Well, firstly, we always need willing volunteers to come into the ward and read or write letters for the boys. Many of them don’t receive visitors so it’s good for them to see people from the outside world.’
Faces in the audience nodded and smiled. He had their full attention, and they were clearly considering his request.
‘What I aim to do is to show these boys how to live again. That may sound odd, but you must realise that the scars from their injuries are more than skin deep. They need to know that they can come out among you without being met with rejection, jibes, and stares. I believe people should be judged on their character and their actions, not on appearances or their social status. All I ask is that you look them in the eye and say hello. That’s it. And if you feel like striking up a conversation, by all means, only don’t ignore them. Even a smile speaks volumes. And while at first glance you may feel they look peculiar and different, remember, they’re still the same person inside, and they need your support.’
‘Are they all British?’ a man asked.
‘No, they’re a mix from the Allied Forces. Some are British, some are French, Belgium, Australian, American, and so on.’ Archie pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose.
‘My uncle lives in America,’ a young boy with curly red hair called out, only to be admonished by the woman he was with, presumably his mother. ‘Well, he does,’ he protested. A muffled wave of laughter erupted around the room.
Archie suppressed a chuckle. ‘You’ve all heard about the “friendly invasion” and now that our American friends have joined us, households around the country have been asked to take GIs into their homes for tea and suchlike. This is just the same, the only difference is that these lads are burned and disfigured. They’ve sacrificed so much, and they really are lucky to be alive. But they’ll be even luckier if you make them welcome and put them at their ease. It’s such a small step for you, but if you’re willing to take it, you’ll be moving mountains for them, and they’ll appreciate your support. Think of it as doing your bit for the war effort.’ Archie looked around the room at each of them, nodding his head as he did so, planting seeds, and he noted the reaction on their faces and in their eyes as he connected with them.
‘One last note. If anyone would like to volunteer to be a visitor, then you can either sign up here tonight or contact the ward directly and leave your details with Sister. With your help, we can embrace a plan of holistic care and help these boys to live full lives once again.’
As Archie made his way to the local pub, a radiant glow flowed through him. He was forever breaching barriers, tonight being no exception. Educating the locals was working a treat, and this evening’s talk had been a useful mission. Aside from being a plastic surgeon, running around after a large number of airmen, and giving talks in the community, there was a fair amount of wining and dining to take care of; after all, he needed people on side should the need arise. Whatever was required for the ward and the boys, he liked to ensure he had the means to procure it. Nothing was too much trouble. Why shouldn’t people be useful? If certain things were within their power, then it ought to be put to good use. The number of favours he’d request
ed were stacking up and he smiled to himself, well aware of his sheer audacity.
The pub was crowded and Archie strode into a smog of tobacco.
‘Over here, Maestro.’ Dickie waved. He was sitting at the piano, as usual. ‘Tom, get a pint for the Maestro.’
‘Ah, Archie. Just the chap.’ John Hunter slapped him on the back.
‘You made it, John. Well, let’s see if we can’t drink this rabble of youth under the table. What do you say?’
‘You’re on. They don’t stand a chance, poor buggers.’ He chuckled, his laugh deep and jovial, eyes twinkling.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Country Club
Bassingbourn bustled beneath a bright August sun in a cloudless sky. Mac arrived at Station 121 in the afternoon just as a group of Flying Fortresses were droning their way home. The sound of the Wright Cyclone engines was soothing somehow, and he turned his face skyward as one thundered overhead, the thrum of the engines coursing through his soul. The ground crew waited out on the grass by the watchtower, their faces lifted to the sky, lips pursed. Yeah, he remembered that feeling. His stomach tightened as he turned away and headed over to the officers’ mess. Once he found his room, he dumped his kit on the bed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small card Bea had pressed into his hand when he was discharged. He glanced at it and grinned.
To whom it may concern. If there are any further problems, please send on the bits c/o The Queen Victoria Hospital, East Grinstead.
When he reached the Colonel’s office, he hesitated while he straightened his tie and took a deep breath before knocking.
‘Enter.’
Mac marched into the room and saluted.
‘At ease, Mac. It’s good to see you. Take a seat.’ Colonel Edwards greeted him with a firm handshake. No hesitation.
‘Thank you, it’s good to be back, sir.’ Mac glanced at the silver-framed picture on the mahogany desk that depicted a woman and a small child, smiling.
The Colonel opened his cigarette case and offered it to him. The ashtray was already piled high with cigarette stubs, the air thick with a mist of smoke.
‘Thanks.’ Mac took out his own silver lighter and lit up.
‘You’re looking well. Those Brits sure looked after you down there. How was it?’
‘It was okay, sir. They took good care of me, and as you can see, I’m in one piece and ready for action.’
The Colonel cocked his head to one side, his dark brown eyes searching. He drew on his cigarette, exhaling smoke rings. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. We always need good men. Experienced men. We’ve had a lot of rookies lately, so darn cocky like you wouldn’t believe.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve got a medical scheduled for tomorrow at ten o’clock. If you pass that, then I’ll get the ball rolling here.’
He took a long drag on his cigarette, his brow furrowed, and a heavier, serious expression crept into his face. ‘Mac, I wanted to be the first to tell you. All of your original crew, except for Wilson, are listed as missing in action. We had a tough mission three weeks back – lost a few ships that day as a matter of fact.’ He rose from his chair and strode across to the window, gazing out over the airfield. ‘It was a bad run all right.’
Mac shook his head, numb with shock. God, the boys, gone, just like that. Another knock, more like a kick in the gut. Jeez, he was too late. He swallowed hard, and a lump lodged in his throat. ‘But Wilson’s still around?’
‘Yeah. He was having time out at the Flak House when it happened.’ Colonel Edwards sighed as he picked up a couple of glasses from a table by the window and set them down on his desk with a clink. He slid open a drawer and lifted out a bottle of Scotch. ‘For times like these.’ He tipped a generous measure into two glasses. ‘I’m sorry you came back to bad news. There’s still hope – several guys counted eight chutes.’ He studied Mac for a moment. ‘I know you weren’t expecting it, but hell, you know what this is.’
Mac drained the Scotch in one gulp. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘It really is good to see you.’ The Colonel smiled warmly. ‘They fixed you up pretty good, Mac. Could have been a whole lot worse. Well, that’s about all for now. I’ll leave you to settle in, and I’ll see you tomorrow after your medical. If the MO passes you, I’ll be glad to have you back.’
Once outside, Mac puffed out a breath. Life here just rolled on and on, regardless of who didn’t return. Numbness filtered into his bones, and he pictured Stella’s face as she’d pleaded with him not to fly. The truth was, he didn’t want to fly bombing missions or dodge the Luftwaffe’s cannon shells any more than the next man, but it was his duty, and it hung around his neck like a dead weight. The only way to shake it off was to fly. The only place to be was here, with his brothers who he could depend on.
The next morning, Mac sat waiting outside the medical officer’s room at a quarter to ten. At five minutes to, Colonel Majors opened the door and beckoned him inside. Majors had been there from the beginning. He was older than most – Mac guessed he’d be around fifty – and his hair was black, except for a strip of grey running through the middle like a centre parting. The guys called him ‘Badger.’
‘Take a seat, Lieutenant. It’s good to see you looking so well, and keen, by the look of you.’ Majors cast his narrow brown eyes over him, scrutinising the handiwork of Archie McIndoe. ‘You remember I saw to you when you first had the accident?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Did he have to bring it up? All Mac wanted to do now was put it in a box and lock it away.
‘Excellent job, I see.’ Majors scrutinised Mac’s face. Hold out your hands.’
Mac shuffled forward in his chair and placed his hands out in front of him. Majors took hold of them, turned them over, and back again. ‘Okay, now grip mine.’
Mac took a deep breath. This was his one chance, and he didn’t want to fail.
‘Okay, that’s enough!’ Majors said, almost shouting. He rubbed his hand, which was bright red from the force. ‘Well, I don’t think we have any problems there at all.’ He opened a medical file and began flicking through the notes and then looked up. ‘The doctor sent these on from the Queen Victoria. They sure are efficient, these Brits’. He put his spectacles on to read. ‘It says here that you had three successful surgical grafts. Seems to me you’ve been very lucky. It could have been a lot worse. Damn lucky to have saved all your fingers too.’ He picked up his stethoscope. ‘I’ll just have a listen to your chest.’ After a series of sighs and gestures, he sat down at his desk. ‘Everything seems to be in order.’
‘That’s it? You’re passing me fit?’
‘That’s right. If you can squeeze the hell out of me, then you’d better go give Hitler a piece of that instead. You’re back on duty as of now.’ Majors scrawled something down in the records and looked up with a warm smile. ‘Take care of yourself, son. I wish you the best of luck.’
‘Thank you, sir. I sure appreciate it.’ Mac grinned so wide his cheeks tightened as if they might burst. Now he had to give the CO the good news.
Colonel Edwards looked up from a stack of papers, his face grave, his eyes glossy. ‘Mac. Take a seat.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘So, what’s the verdict?’
‘Passed fit to fly, sir.’
‘Well, now that’s music to my ears.’ He put his pen down on top of the letter that lay on his desk. ‘Okay. I have a crew who recently lost their pilot. They’ve been out of action for over a week, and they’re going stir crazy here on the base. I want you to take over. They’re experienced, and I think you’ll make a darn good team.’ He drew on his cigarette before dropping it in the ashtray. ‘I’m pairing you up with Wilson. He’s due back today. And one more thing. Those boys need someone like you to keep them together. They could do with a guiding hand.’
Mac grinned. At least he wasn’t being assigned a bunch of rookies. As for Wilson, he knew what to expect there.
‘So, any questions?’
‘No, sir, only, when do I get to meet them?’
�
��I’ll ask Lieutenant Valentine to meet you at the Officers’ Club at twelve hundred. He’ll introduce you to the others and take you out to see the aircraft. You’ll need to do a few training flights as a crew before we can return you to duty. Now, any problems at all, let me know.’
‘Yes, sir, and thank you.’ Mac saluted before leaving.
There were several guys in the Officers’ Club. Tired, pained eyes peered out over glasses of bourbon or whisky or whatever the hell it was they were drinking. It was a battle-weary look, and one that harboured every mission flown and every tragedy witnessed. One of the guys turned around. His face was lightly bronzed, and his blue eyes twinkled.
‘I’m looking for Lieutenant Valentine,’ Mac asked.
‘That’s me. You must be our new pilot.’ Val smiled, holding out his hand.
Mac met it with a firm handshake. ‘John Mackenzie but everyone calls me Mac.’
‘It’s good to meet you. Dale Valentine. Call me Val.’
Val’s eyes lingered over Mac’s scars for a moment and unease swept into his veins; he lowered his gaze, but then Archie’s words echoed in his head. Brush over it, and remember, any embarrassment comes from you, so look them in the eye. People are never sure what to say at first so you have to make the first move. Mac stared into Val’s eyes as he stretched up tall.
‘Say, Mac, how about we take a ride out to see the ship? Then I’ll round up the guys.’ Val cracked a smile.
Mac gave a sharp nod. ‘Lead the way.’ He was glad of Val’s friendly, easy-going personality. He rubbed the back of his neck. Perhaps things would work out. Even so, he wished he didn’t feel like the new kid again.
Val drove out to the far side of the airfield to where their Fortress stood. Two ground crew busied around doing maintenance work. ‘There she is. Hell’s Fury. Been real reliable, all things considered.’
Mac walked around her, then he climbed up through the nose hatch. Being out here, close to the crash site, brought a rush of ragged memories flooding back, and he clenched his jaw and swallowed them down along with a waft of oil and aircraft. As he flicked a gaze over the pilot’s seat and the instrument panel, and his hand touched the sun-warmed metal, his stomach turned to ice and his palms grew damp.
THE BEAUTY SHOP Page 27