“I’ll think about it; if anything interesting happens. But you’ll have to promise me not to pass it on to the parents.”
“Of course I won’t, if you say so. ‘Careless talk costs lives’, and all that.”
They talked for a minute or two and when James put down the telephone he wondered if Christopher really thought that, if he were keeping something from him, it was in the interest of security. Certainly his reticence on the telephone was prompted by that. But he could safely mention in a letter that he had shot down his first enemy aircraft. He was inhibited because he did not want his parents to worry, as they would if they knew that he had been in action. They would reason that if the Germans had attacked once in the squadron’s sector, they would surely do so again; that it must mean that the long period of inaction was over. He knew that Christopher would be so proud of his having shot down a Jerry that he might find it impossible to keep his promise not to confide it to their parents. The temptation to write and tell his brother was strong. He and Christopher had always been close. He valued Christopher’s admiration. He would give the matter some more thought; but he did not think that he would change his mind.
* * *
For Roger, the early weeks of 1940 provided discomfort and anxiety but little danger from the enemy. The squadron went out to reconnoitre the German seaboard in search of naval vessels, but although these sorties were carried out in daylight, there was always abundant cloud in which to hide if need be. The weather was their ever-present foe. They flew through rainstorms and lightning, through sea fog and unpredicted low cloud. Strong winds blew them off course or robbed them, when head-on, of their speed. Roger slaved at his navigation and welcomed the air tests and air-to-air firing exercises which gave him an opportunity to take the pilot’s seat. Now and again he was able to fit in an hour of practising take-offs and landings, “circuits and bumps”.
After the air battle in the Schillig Roads on 4th September he had faced each operational flight with the expectation of disaster. The change from his ordered peacetime existence to the turmoil of war had come so abruptly that it had shaken his confidence. He had thought that his three years of weekend and holiday training had prepared him for what he had never doubted was in store. But he had been wrong, because it was the chaos of a fight and the suddenness with which everything happened which disoriented his emotions, confused his senses and bred doubts about himself. With the passage of five months during which he had not seen an enemy aircraft at close quarters, and had several times navigated the crew safely home across the North Sea in vile weather, storms and shifting winds, when he had successfully and intelligently solved the problems imposed by erratic compass behaviour, lack of bearings and position fixes from home, and instrument unserviceability, his phlegmatic nature had overcome his doubts and restored his self-confidence.
Daphne Palmer, the pretty tawny-haired girl who worked in the Operations Room, had helped to assuage the distemper which that first operational flight had caused. The boldness with which he had approached her at their first meeting would have been unthinkable a week before. There was, he realised in retrospect, a great deal of bravado about the way he had behaved. Being in uniform had a lot to do with it; so had the whole stimulating, euphoric effect of the mood which had taken hold of the entire nation with the imminence, and then the declaration, of war. There was something else as well: a sudden prompting to assert himself in the presence of Ginger Pike. Why? He accused himself of having acted immaturely. Perhaps he had, but when he thought it over he reasoned that it was because he had joined the squadron with a feeling of inferiority, of inadequacy even, and this was a way of demonstrating his self-assurance and equality.
Why had he felt insecure? he asked himself. Because he had so little experience of flying a Blenheim or any other twin-engined type and the other pilots all had so much. Because full-time training in the regular Service must be superior, in every way, to the spasmodic training in the V.R. Because he was such an inexperienced navigator. And, he had to admit, because, with his education and family background, he could not really get used to the idea of not automatically being an officer.
So what had he done? He had acted out of character — or what used to be his character — and done some showing off: to impress his aircraft captain as much as to impress Daphne. He had recognised from her expression immediately after he had spoken, that she had been startled by his apparent brashness rather than impressed by his dash and confidence. He wondered whether, when he went up to her and invited her out, a few hours later, she would have consented if the whole operation had not been so literally bloody. He had not relished the thought that she had been acquiescent from pity or sympathy, or even admiration, and not from having taken an immediate liking to him. Admiration? He would like to have hers, but not simply on account of having survived a battle in which so many had been killed or wounded.
On the day that James had shot down his first enemy aircraft, Roger had arranged to take Daphne out. They had become a steady couple without any declaration or permanence about their relationship. Neither went out with anyone else. Once a week there was an all ranks dance at the N.A.A.F.I. They went if either was off duty. Their commitment to each other was not so intense or possessive that he or she resented the other dancing with someone else. Inevitably, Daphne received many invitations. She never mentioned them to him but she never accepted any of them either. Roger found several other attractive girls among the growing number of W.A.A.F. at Baxton, and not a few of them made their availability and even their complaisance very obvious. He occasionally walked one back to her billet — or as near to the W.A.A.F. quarters as males were permitted — for the sake of a few kisses; willing but passionless. But he had not encountered anyone whose company promised to be pleasanter than Daphne’s, and he was, anyway, comfortably settled into his friendship with her: Daphne’s kisses were as enjoyable as anyone else’s in his experience.
Once or twice a week he took her into Lincoln: most often to the cinema and always to dinner in a hotel or supper in some café. About once a week he went into the town with Ginger Pike and other squadron aircrew. He had found congenial companions in the sergeants’ mess and passed pleasant evenings there. The bank made up the salaries of those who had volunteered for, or been conscripted into, any of the armed forces: but his pay as a sergeant pilot was more than it had been as a clerk. He was not short of money. The only vexation and embarrassment from which he had suffered at first was that the wireless operator-air gunners were so badly off that they could not mix much with the pilots and observers. They received their normal trade pay as wireless operators plus sixpence a day for being air gunners; and in peacetime they had been paid the latter only for each day on which they flew! All but two or three were below the rank of corporal, so were very lowly paid. From time to time he took Devonshire to one of the local pubs and let him buy a pint or two in reciprocation for the drinks he bought, and sometimes Pike accompanied them.
On the 12th December 1939, however, an Air Ministry Order had wrought two improvements in the standing of the air gunners. In future they were to have the rank of at least sergeant and to wear a new badge; on the chest instead of the arm: a laurel wreath enclosing the letters “A.G.”, with a single wing sprouting from it. By January 1940, therefore, Sergeant Creamy Devonshire, with nine shillings a day now, was able to take his place among the men with whom he shared the same risk of death or maiming, in the sergeants’ mess or any saloon bar. He was not paid as much as a pilot or observer, but he was no longer a pauper.
The W.A.A.F. were housed in wooden barrack huts which were surrounded by a barbed wire fence: coils of dannert wire, at that, to ensure that some amorous or rapacious officer or airman could not snip his way into the forbidden territory with a pair of wirecutters. The girls had to book in and out at their own guard room, which occupied one end of the hut nearest to the gate in the fence.
Roger drew up at the gate at five o’clock in his dark blue Morris Eigh
t, with the canvas hood up and the mica sidescreens in place to keep out the raw East Anglian winter. A minute later, Daphne, respirator slung over one shoulder, came hurrying down the path: small, trim and brisk, almost running to escape the chilly wind that swept across the camp. He got out quickly to open the door for her and tuck a tartan rug around her legs. When he resumed his seat he leaned across to kiss her lightly.
The combination of their established companionship, the snug interior of the little car, which would presently benefit from the heat of the engine, the dusk which enveloped them and isolated them from the bleak, flat countryside and the queue of men and girls forming at the camp bus stop, the anticipation of a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers film, a good dinner, a drink afterwards with whomever of the squadron and their girls happened to be in the Saracen’s Head, the embraces which would occupy the last twenty minutes of their evening together, all created an atmosphere of relaxation and reassurance.
“Did you have a kip this afternoon?”
“I did not. I washed my hair, specially for your benefit.” She pretended to be indignant. “Not that you’d notice.”
“Your hair always looks marvellous. I notice everything about you. You know that.”
“Yes, that was unfair. You’re very complimentary. What time were you released?”
“Four. Briefing tomorrow morning at half past eight.”
“I’ll be on watch when you come back, then.”
“That’ll be something to look forward to. Camp dance in the evening. Who’d be a civvy!”
“Have you put in for a commission yet?”
“Didn’t have to. The C.O. put me up off his own bat, this very morning. Thanks to Ginger Pike and. Squadron Leader Eastman.”
“Oh, Roger, congratulations.” She squeezed his arm.
He felt a strong wave of affection for her. Her pleasure was genuine, he knew. It had nothing to do with the added prestige she would have as an officer’s girl friend. The W.A.A.F. played a silly game among themselves, competing to acquire the escorts who reflected most credit on them. By their computation an N.C.O. pilot scored more points than a ground officer. To be taken out by commissioned aircrew was the acme of achievement, with pilots scoring the highest. Similarly a flight lieutenant pilot’s girl friend was reckoned to have done much better than a pilot officer’s or flying officer’s.
Roger sometimes wondered how he stood in comparison with a squadron leader of the Equipment or Signals branch! At some point, no doubt, the margin between air and ground must narrow as the latter’s rank became grander.
He knew that Daphne thought such aspirations were crass. She had spoken with contempt of various of her comrades who went out with officers or sergeant pilots whom they did not like, merely for the sake of this dubious distinction.
He had learned a lot about Daphne. He had known, the first time he ever heard her speak, that he would be at ease with her. They belonged to the same kind of families. She was nineteen, lived in Reigate, her father a dentist. She had a sister of thirteen and a brother of fifteen, both at boarding school. She rode and played tennis, liked farce, comedy and musicals, dancing and dance music. She read A. J. Cronin, P.G. Wodehouse, H.E. Bates, Edgar Wallace and Somerset Maugham. During the two years since she left school she had helped her father in his surgery, as receptionist. She had joined the W.A.A.F. as soon as it was formed; when, like the Auxiliary Air Force and V.R., it was a part-time organisation, a kind of hobby.
Those were the superficial facts. The more significant ones had emerged gradually. He found that she was kind and even-tempered, competent at her work and well fitted for much more responsibility than she yet had. She was prudent without being timidly cautious. She was very affectionate but slow to give her affection; loyal, but as shrewd as it was healthy for a girl of her age to be; and pragmatical, with a practicality which sometimes revealed a streak of humorous cynicism. He wondered if perhaps a dental receptionist obtained a clearer insight into human nature than he had supposed.
He felt that he had probably been unenterprising during the five months that he had known her. Sometimes when he held her in his arms and she was particularly ardent in her response, he had a nearly ineluctable urge to touch her body. But he had never even tried to slip his hand inside her tunic. This was not only because he was not sure how she would react but also because it seemed to him a squalid and uncomfortable way to behave in a small car and in the cold autumn and winter of eastern England.
When James and Christopher had joked with him about being “organised” and sleeping-out passes, it had not been in earnest but in allusion to the fact that they thought him rather staid. They pulled his leg because he worked in a bank, aspired to be a manager, and bank managers were the accepted symbol of sedate conduct. Besides, his time was too occupied with the V.R. and his bankers’ studies to leave much over for amorous pursuits. In fact, his only sexual adventures had been with the bold redheaded girl last summer who had made such a surprising set at him; and a brief and astonishing seduction a year before that. A jaunty married woman in her early thirties had appeared at the flying club on the airfield where he did his V.R. training, pounced on him, made a meal of him from the Friday to Monday of her visit, and flown out of his life as swiftly as she had arrived: leaving him amazed, a trifle scared and rather resentful at some loss of flying hours which he had spent in her hotel room instead of in a Hawker Hart.
It did occur to him that it was time he eased around to suggesting to Daphne that they might try a forty-eight-hour pass together in London: ostensibly to see a couple of shows and go to a night club. If she agreed, he would not press her to allow him into her bed: but once they were alone in the same hotel, it could follow without awkwardness; if she were willing. He had decided to wait until he had his commission and make that the ostensible reason for taking her away; to celebrate.
When, at half past ten that night, he parked in a lane near camp and began to kiss her, desire for her aroused him more strongly than ever: the consummation was at last attainable; it would take only a few weeks before his commission came through and he would have the excuse he thought he needed. The longer they knew each other, the closer they would grow and the more likely she was to accede.
Daphne eased away from him and took a long breath. Her voice was perceptibly less steady than usual.
“Aren’t you awfully fed up with this flat, dreary place? Wouldn’t it be lovely to get away, even for a forty-eight?” And then, before he could hug her close to him again, “Isn’t it beastly cold tonight! Let’s go in: you ought to have your eight hours’ sleep. You’re looking awfully tired, Roger dear.”
He went to bed with his mind in some confusion. It seemed to him that the more women he knew, the less he knew about them.
The weather forecast was favourable to their task but antagonistic to them. There would be cloud all the way and in the area where they were going to reconnoitre for enemy shipping its base would be lower than on their own side of the North Sea, with snow squalls and gusty winds. These were not the conditions in which the Germans would expect the British to expend flying hours and fuel. Visibility was poor. and an attack would be difficult.
Pike expressed approval. “Just the day to catch Jerry with his pants down.” It conjured an unappealing image of enormous bare Teutonic bottoms. Roger had a habit of literal imagery.
Jorkins was not allowed into the Operations Room. He lay beside the sentry, his eyes on the door, looking melancholy. He was on his feet and ready as soon as Pike appeared, trotting at his heels, glancing up from time to time. Jorkins knew the routine. He knew that a visit to the Ops. Room meant several hours’ absence of his master. He sat and watched the crew don their flying clothes and draw their parachutes from the parachute store. He accompanied them to their aircraft and stood wagging his tail as they prepared to board.
A ritual had developed and now none of the three would vary it. None of them was habitually superstitious, yet all would have felt uneasy at any br
eak from what had become established custom. Pike squatted beside his dog and talked to him for a moment.
“Now you behave yourself, you wicked old sinner. No chasing after the lady dogs behind by back: I don’t want any paternity suits. Understand?”
Pike stood up. Roger bent and patted the bulldog’s flanks. “Good type, Jorkins. Enjoy your walk.” Somebody would take Jorkins out along the perimeter track while his master was away. Jorkins did not much enjoy walking but he took huge pleasure in the myriad scents which led him to trot hopefully after rabbits, foxes, other dogs and the odd farm cat.
Devonshire smoothed Jorkins’s head. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Jorkins.”
Finally, Pike gave him a handful of biscuits which he chewed glumly while he watched them disappear inside the Blenheim. When it had taken off, the ground crew coaxed him away with them to await its return.
Pike climbed the Blenheim through cloud into clear sky. It was cold up there but there was no turbulence and no rain or snow to form ice on the wings, thrust its way through small apertures and obscure the windscreen and windows.
Roger took frequent bearings on radio beacons to check his position and course, until distance and atmospherics reduced the signals to inaudibility.
Two other Blenheims had taken off at half-minute intervals after them, keeping well separated while they all bored their way aloft through the wrinkled walls and tortuous gullies of cloud. In the clear, they had drawn closer, one on either hand and astern. Roger knew that their navigators, although following him, would be plotting their own tracks, taking their own bearings, using their sextants as he was. There would be ribald criticism afterwards if they thought he had been badly adrift.
Cold draughts swept through the fuselage, eddied about in the gun turret, the nose and cockpit. Faces stung with the cold. Fingers became numb. Two pairs of socks and fleece-lined flying boots barely kept feet warm.
Roger calculated that a strong westerly wind was blowing them off course. He put their position at about two-thirds of their way to the target area. He gave Pike a change of course to compensate for the wind; and hoped that he had not made some silly mistake. However many times he took the crew out and home safely, he could never quite convince himself that some error had not crept into his sums. It was always in his mind that he was really a pilot and not a specialist navigator.
Trial By Fire Page 8