by Joe Lane
Apart from my imagination working overtime, there wasn’t much else to see. The tank had now been emptied yet the smell of cow shit still lingered. I suddenly felt sick. It was time for me to leave. I made my way back to the farmhouse and found Debbie to tell her I was leaving. I collected Winston and his doggie belonging, and went to see Billy Slade. On the way I called into a toy shop.
*
I found Three Trees nursing home and drove the obligatory ten miles an hour along the driveway and parked near the main entrance of a 1920 red brick building. I took a carry bag from the rear seat and told Winston to guard the car, which he seemed to understand. I got out and approached the large oak door and rang the doorbell. A nubile girl with her hair in plaits, dressed in a white tunic, answered the door. I asked to see the matron of the establishment. She smiled pleasantly and ushered me inside, through another set of coloured glass doors and told me to wait at reception. I immediately smelled hospital bleach. It reminded me of my childhood memories and my first encounter with a syringe the size of a javelin.
“Can I help you?” A woman’s stern voice came from behind me.
I turned and was greeted by a woman with peroxide blond hair, wearing a dark blue uniform and with a face like thunder.
I smiled politely. “Is it possible I could talk to Billy Slade?”
She looked at me quizzically. “Are you a relative of Billy’s?”
“No, Matron. I won’t keep him long.”
“What is it you wish to speak to Billy about, Mister Ah?”
“Shackleton Speed, Matron. I’m here on behalf of an old friend of Billy’s; the friend I refer to has died recently and I have something to pass on to Billy from him.”
At first she didn’t appear to take kindly to my intrusion into her highly efficiently run nursing home and greeted my request to spend some time with Billy Slade with open hostility. “The normal procedure is to arrange an appointment, Mister Speed; not just turn up when it’s convenient for you.”
“I know I’ve been a little rash not arranging a proper time, and I can only apologize for the inconvenience. I only arrived from London this morning and unfortunately, I have to return to London tonight.”
“It’s not just your timing, Mister Speed; more that it’s very unusual for Billy to receive visitors. In fact, it’s never.”
I was determined that she let me see him. “I’ve just come from the funeral.”
“Oh I see.”
“The deceased had left me instructions that I was to pass on this gift to Billy-,” I showed her what I had in the carry bag, “-and to convey a message to him, an important and confidential message.”
Talk of death softened her up. “Very well Mister Speed. I will allow it to pass on this occasion, but for future reference, you must make an appointment in advance.”
I assured her I would; well I grovelled really.
“Now I feel I must warn you that it’s important you’re patient with Billy, as he sometimes struggles to understand what’s going on around him.” She pointed the way. “Go through the lounge and out of the French windows. You’ll find Billy at the bottom of the garden on his favourite bench; it overlooks the wheat fields. Please avoid walking on the grass; keep to the gravel pathways at all times.”
I sensed Matron watching me closely as I exited through the French doors and set off down the pathway searching for somebody I’d never seen before. Eventually I came across an old chap, sitting alone on a wooden bench donated by some benefactor. The chap was gazing skyward in a world of his own, oblivious to my presence as I approached. I wondered if he even heard me and he was perhaps deaf. I presumed I was looking down at Billy Slade.
Billy Slade had tight cropped white hair and a sunken mouth where his teeth should have been. He was dressed in a thick, blue woolly jumper that was tucked into the waist of a pair of grey baggy trousers which were secured by a leather belt and a pair of red braces. This I could see was a man who lacked confidence and I wondered if I was doing the right thing being here.
“Hello, Billy!” I said pleasantly, trying not to scare him with my sudden introduction.
His head turned to face me. He obviously wasn’t deaf after all.
“My name is Shacks,” I told him, a slight smile to assure that I was no threat to him.
He smiled back, displaying a set of gums. His, “hello”, came out slow and in an instance he was up onto his feet wobbling slowly up and down the pathway with his arms outstretched and between rasping the sound of engine noises, shouting out at the top of his voice, “I…like…planes.”
Embarrassed by his strange antics and the attention he might attract, I said. “Why don’t you come in to land, Billy, I want to talk to you.”
I did feel a bit of an idiot saying that and hoped no one heard my off-the-cuff remark to him.
He sat down eventually, exhausted after completing ten paces out and ten paces back. In between catching his breath he spoke wearily. “I was a pilot…you know… during the war…against the Germans.”
I played along. “Yes I know you were, Billy. That’s what I want to talk to you about; during the war. You remember the war?”
“Oh…heard then…I was a pilot?”
“Yes, Billy, I heard you were a good pilot.”
“I…like…planes!”
“Yes, Billy, I know you do.”
I reached into the plastic bag I’d brought with me and retrieved a metal replica of a Spitfire plane I’d purchased at the toy shop on the way over and showed it to him. Billy was delighted. He made a grab for the plane but I selfishly drew it away from his grasp. I said, “It’s yours, Billy, only if you listen and concentrate on what I’m going to ask you. Okay?”
By his enthusiastic nod I assumed he understood. I talked slowly and clearly so he could fully absorb exactly what I was saying. “Think back, Billy, when you were a young boy during the war. Remember the war Billy? A plane, just like this one in my hand, crashed in the local fields. Remember that, when you were a little boy?”
The vacant stare he portrayed didn’t quite instil the confidence from him that I was hoping for. To be honest I was probably wasting my time on him. Debbie did give me ample warning that I would fail on all accounts. But prevail I must because illiterate Billy was all I had to go on. I pressed him again. “Remember telling people that you saw the crash. No one believed you, did they, Billy?”
“I was…a pilot! No one believed…I was…a pilot.”
I was losing patience quicker than I could think and the frustration was clear in my voice. I said sharply, “I believe you, Billy. You were an excellent pilot, but do you remember the frigging plane?”
He stared at me like a frightened child. I’d lost before I’d even started. I sighed heavily, disappointed by my failure to communicate with Billy. I suppose my tactical approach was doomed because I’d no experience in dealing with people like Billy. It had been a long shot anyway and though I hate the word defeat, it was pointless pursuing something that was going to lead nowhere.
I shoved the replica plane in Billy’s hands and his eyes suddenly brightened. At least I would leave him happy but it left me at a dead end. Where I went from here I’d no idea other than I’d be dragging my feet for the rest of the day wondering what I could have achieved. I was about to rise from the bench when Billy, twisting the plane through the air playing, said something quite unbelievable.
“It’s like the one…that got shot down,” he said, and without any prompting.
I tried not to show too much excitement but inside I was bursting at the seams.
“What do you mean, Billy?”
Billy tapped his new toy with his finger. “There… there were…two of these planes. Have you…got another one for me?”
“No Billy, I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll bring you another one the next time I come to see you. Would you like that?”
Billy’s head was nodding so hard that I thought it was attached to a piece of thick rubber.
�
�You saw two planes in the sky?” I prompted him before he forgot.
“Two planes…yes two planes-two planes and they all fell down!”
“In what way did they fall down?”
Billy stopped playing with the replica. His face went blank. I assumed it must be his usual expression when thinking hard. Finally he said, “One was…chasing…the other one.”
Billy’s account of events was really beginning to interest me.
He put his hand to his mouth sniggering. “I play…chasing. I chase…all the girls, kissed them…when I catch them.”
“Yes, Billy I bet that’s good fun. Now forget about girls. We can talk about them later. Remember the planes. What did you mean by the planes chasing each other, were they playing chasing games? Perhaps they were having fun too? Maybe they were fooling about, to show their flying skills.” I demonstrated with my hands.
“Oh no…I saw it…I was in my…plane, flying… through the field. I was only…a small plane. I was hiding. No one saw me. I was…scared…I hid…in the long grass.”
“What did you see, Billy?”
The plane…behind the other one…its guns… shooting…rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. The plane…it made the other one…crash. I watched it…it came down from the sky…smoke coming…from here.” He demonstrated the entire scene with the replica Spitfire very convincingly.
“You’re sure of what you saw, Billy? It was a long time ago.”
“It was…on fire…it crashed in the field. I never…saw it again.” He smiled impishly, “I set fire…to my paper airplanes. Matron doesn’t like me doing that.” His face saddened. “She shouts at me…for being a bad boy…send me to bed early…with no supper. I’ve stopped doing it…now. I like my supper!”
I looked at him incredulously and wondered if this nursing home was the right place for him. I guess it was ideal.
Billy glanced at me with speculative eyes. “You believe me…don’t you?”
“You must understand, Billy. What you’ve told me would sound ludicrous to someone who never saw those two planes. Two friendly Spitfires battling against each other over the skies of England when effectively, they should be fighting Germans? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Poor Billy, he never understood a word I’d said. He was happy twisting the replica plane through the air in his imaginary battle, rasping the sound of an attacking Spitfire.
As for Billy’s account of that day it was so far fetched it wasn’t surprising no one believed an illiterate boy during the war. If just one person had taken the time to verify his story, well, I wouldn’t have found the wreck when I did, nor find myself in the precarious position of looking over my shoulder every five minutes waiting for the inevitable hit-man. I left Billy in peace flying his new toy and headed back to the Mansion.
Before leaving Three Trees I had a quiet word with Matron about the possibility that Billy might have other visitors, nasty reporters trying to make a fast pound or two. I told her of the plane that had been recently discovered, and how Billy and the deceased had seen it crash during the war. I suggested that if uninvited callers insisted on speaking to Billy she should have them removed from the premises immediately. Her waspish glare convinced me she would oblige.
“Don’t you worry, Mister Speed, Billy won’t be pestered by anyone. Will you be coming again to visit him?”
In all honesty, I’d no reason to ever see Billy again. “Yes, of course I will.” I’d never found lying a hard task ever since childhood. I wasn’t about to change my ways.
On the return journey back to London I found a nice eating place with a quiet corner where I could unravel the complexity of the entire situation so far and chew over a piece of skulduggery. Why would a R.A.F. Spitfire shoot another Spitfire from the sky? It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps what Billy saw was an incident of friendly fire, a regular occurrence during wartime night-fights, but not during daylight? Unless the pilot needed spectacles, it’s a mistake that couldn’t be made. Perhaps Billy had got the identification wrong and it had been a German plane that shot down the Spitfire. Overall it meant nothing conclusive to me. Then in reality, could I trust the mind of Billy Slade?
Chapter Five
The following morning I went to the London Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road determined to find out all I could about Craven, the pilot that had flown the crashed Spitfire I’d unearthed in Berkshire. One of the curators, a grey haired, grey winged moustached chap, who introduced himself by the title of Flying officer Captain Wright, retired, was keen to help me with my hesitant approach to where I could find the correct information.
“Can I be of assistance, sir?”
“Yes. Pilots missing in action during the second world,” I asked. “Is it possible to view records?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Are you perhaps a journalist, Mister-ah?”
I steered him away from wanting to know my name.
“What makes you think I’m a journalist?”
He tapped the side of his pock marked nose. “This tells me a lot, sir.”
I gestured with my finger how right he was.
“Follow me, sir.”
The curator walked along the corridor in military fashion and funny as it might sound I found myself walking in the same manner. He ushered me to a table, pottered around the reference bookshelves and moments later plonked a thick hardback book in front of me. “If he’s missing in action,”-he tapped the book cover-“his name will be listed in here, sir.”
I thanked him and he left me to dwindle through the pages at my leisure.
There were two Cravens unaccounted for during the war. I could forget about the rear gunner on a Lancaster Bomber and concentrate on Wing Commander Ralph Craven, and the impressive number of honours that followed his name. I took out a pad and pen and began to make notes of importance. After gaining enough material to write a short story I went back to have a chat with the same curator.
“Is there any relevant information on the particular missions the pilots were involved in at the time they went missing?’
He expressed his surprise. “Now there’s a first. Not a usual request at this museum.” He shook his head unfavourably. “I’m afraid such information falls within the classified format and can only be obtained directly from the Ministry of Defence. For that you’ll require an appointment, and more appropriately, security clearance to view the sensitive material I should imagine. It’ll be the usual red tape affair, I’m afraid, sir.”
There ended my day at the museum because it was one appointment with the MoD that I wouldn’t be making, and with my reputation, I’d be lucky to even stand outside the main entrance without getting clobbered by a police truncheon.
Back outside I checked the notes I’d jotted down. During the war Craven had been stationed at R.A.F. Duxford. It seemed a favourable place to visit and it was open to the public as a war museum too. I drove straight over to Cambridgeshire with Winston by my side. And just in case I was being tailed I took a route around London that even a professionally organized surveillance team from MI5 couldn’t follow, never mind the intelligible mind of a London cabbie. I also thought I was in for a relaxing day. I was wrong.
*
My arrival at the Imperial War Museum R.A.F. Duxford placed me in the middle of a spectacular air show buzzing over the airfield. I parked the Roadster, leaving Winston inside the car with the window slightly open for fresh air, as I didn’t want to be accused of animal cruelty.
Once inside the grounds I made my way along the pathways towards the exhibition buildings while an old Bi-plane groaned across the skies above the airfield. Wandering through the different building I concentrated on only what the war museum had to offer in respect of various mementos of the war; reading inscriptions and accounts of air battles. Basically I didn’t have a clue as to what I was looking for and was rather hoping that if there was anything significant it would immediately jump out and catch my attention.
I concentrated heavily on glass framed photograph
s scattered around the walls and came across a collection that showed the resident pilots stationed at Duxford in the autumn of 1943. There was one particular photograph that attracted me; a large group photograph listing all the pilot’s names and ranks which I studied carefully. Finally, figuratively speaking, I came face to face with Wing Commander Ralph Craven standing proudly in the centre of a group photograph of all pilots ready for action in their fatigues and customary flying jackets. I would never have thought that such a handsome face had once lined the skeleton I found.
From the way he portrayed himself Craven appeared to be a very confident person, which you would expect from a leader of men. He was noticeably young. In fact they were all noticeably young. No one, I guessed, above the age of twenty-one. I wrote down every name listed on the photograph. I wondered how many were still alive with whom I could talk with, and then it struck me, a sudden chill gliding down the curve of my spine as I contemplated that just maybe one of the men in the photograph with Craven might be his murderer and if I was to confront the alleged killer straight to his face he might decide to kill me on the spot.
I was overreacting. What possible harm could a man do to me when he was probably in his eighties or nineties, also taking into consideration he might be dead, wheel chair bound, or simply lapsed into dementia that he couldn’t recall the last time he had a shit, never mind shoot someone in the frigging back?
With the names of the pilots noted, I went back outside to speculate everything I’d collected on the matter while I watched the air-show with little enthusiasm until I caught sight of an elderly chap who marvelled and applauded every manoeuvre the planes made. He obviously knew a great deal about the relics flying in the sky so I decided I’d pinch some of his knowledge. I moved through the crowd and stood beside him.