‘Let’s try and lure a couple of steady blokes tonight,’ Joan suggested. ‘If we got ourselves taken to the pictures every week instead of paying for ourselves, we might be able to rise to buying a summer frock each from the market.’
Adele lay back on her new bed and laughed.
‘Wot’s so funny?’ Joan asked.
‘You, Joan,’ Adele said through her laughter. She knew perfectly well that Joan was intent on fixing her up with a boyfriend, she had tried to get Adele interested in many direct and indirect ways in the past few months. But this one beat them all. ‘Do you really think I’m cold-blooded enough to get a man to take me to the pictures every week just to save a couple of bob?’
‘No, you bleedin’ well wouldn’t,’ Joan said huffily. ‘You’d probably pay for ’im and buy ’im fish and chips after, ’cos you’d think any bloke who wanted to go out with you couldn’t be the full shilling.’
‘Is that what you think I’m like?’ Adele asked incredulously.
‘I don’t just think it, I know it,’ Joan said. ‘I watch yer, don’t I? A bloke starts to chat to you and you don’t flirt or nothin’, you ask him questions, let ’im tell you ’is troubles. I dare say if ’e said ’e ’ad a boil on ’is backside you’d be wanting to lance it for ’im. That ain’t the way to get a fella, Adele. You’re too bleedin’ nice.’
Adele didn’t know what to say in reply. It was true she didn’t flirt, for one thing she didn’t know how to, and it seemed a pointless exercise anyway unless you really fancied someone. She had liked lots of the men she’d met with Joan, but not in that way. Why should she pretend otherwise?
‘Does it cramp your style if I don’t get fixed up with someone when we’re out?’ she asked.
‘Course not,’ Joan said vehemently. ‘I’m proud you’re my pal, you’ve got class, and I ain’t got much of that meself. I just worries about you, that’s all. You could ’ave the pick of the fellas if you wanted, but I guess you’ve still got a thing about that airman?’
‘Maybe,’ Adele said, not able to commit herself to either a yes or a no. ‘Or maybe I’m the sort who is just waiting for Mr Right to come along.’
Joan pulled a silly face. ‘Well, can’t we just play with a few Mr Wrongs for the time being?’ she said.
Adele got up off the bed, and went over the pile of clothes they’d dumped on the chair. ‘The striped dress will do for Mr Wrong,’ she said with a grin. ‘And you look so lovely in your emerald-green one that no other girl will get a look in.’
As if from a great distance, Michael heard Stan Brenner’s voice telling him it was time to get up and that he’d brought him a cup of tea. He forced his eyes open to see his batman standing patiently beside his bed. Michael couldn’t believe it was four already, he felt he’d only just closed his eyes.
‘Okay,’ he said. He felt unable to say more, his tongue felt thickly furred, and he could still taste the whisky he’d drunk the night before.
He pushed back the blankets and got out of bed rubbing his eyes, then drank the hot, sweet tea gratefully. Brenner left, satisfied he was fully awake.
Within ten minutes Michael was washed, shaved and on his way to the mess for breakfast. He didn’t want any, as usual his stomach was churning, but he knew from experience that the fear would subside once he was in the cockpit and it might be hours before he got a chance to eat anything again.
The other chaps from the squadron were already in the mess, the air thick with cigarette smoke, but the only greetings were mere nods. No one talked at this early hour. Michael knew that like him, each man was bracing himself for the day ahead, trying not to think which of their number might be missing by tonight.
It was 28 May, and today would probably be a repeat of the previous one, flying over to France to try to intercept German bombers intent on massacring the British and French troops retreating towards Dunkirk.
Michael had shot down an ME 109 yesterday, but it had been the most terrifying, God awful day. It was bad enough seeing the straggling lines of soldiers trying to make it to the Dunkirk beaches, and transport home, but inland he had seen the vast hordes of refugees fleeing the Germans: women carrying babies in their arms, toddlers trying to keep hold of their skirts, men pushing carts piled with their belongings. They had to pick their way through mangled bodies, burnt-out vehicles, carts and dead animals, and Michael had felt murderous towards the German pilots who would open fire on innocent civilians.
A Spitfire only held enough fuel for an hour and a half at most. Twenty minutes to France, twenty minutes back, in theory leaving fifty minutes to attack German planes. But the only way to beat the bastards was to fly in at top speed of over 300 mph, get in close, fire everything you had, and then shoot off like a bat out of hell. But at top speed the Merlin engine guzzled fuel and Michael had to keep in mind he had to save enough for the trip back.
The fourth sortie of the day yesterday had been the worst. One minute the sky was clear, then suddenly the enemy was everywhere, like flying into a swarm of wasps. Michael went for one plane which was away from the main bunch, flying flat out and in for the kill. But suddenly he was surrounded, above, below and on both sides. He’d forgotten to put on his silk scarf and his neck was rubbed raw from his collar as he twisted and turned his head to keep lookout. He fired at the 109 beside him on his right, and at the one below, then went into a swift dive to evade them. He felt a bone-jerking judder as he was hit, and for a few moments thought that was it for him. But they’d only hit his left wing, and he managed to pull himself together to roll away and flee back to England. He only just made it, gliding the last few miles to conserve fuel, and the cockpit so hot with the sun on it that he could barely see for sweat running into his eyes. It had been a close shave.
After tea and a slice of toast, Michael joined the others to get on the transport to take them to the airfield, each carrying their parachute.
Cold, grey dawn on the airfield. Silent, but not deserted as the ground crews were there in readiness. Many of them would have worked through the night on repairs and adjustments to the planes.
Michael had seen the same scene many times, but it never ceased to move him. The row of sturdy little Spits with early-morning mist rising around them had the look of a pack of terriers braced for the hunt. Deathly quiet for now, but in minutes when the mighty engines roared into life, and the smell of petrol and engine oil filled the air, the airfield became a very different place.
Michael’s plane was repaired, and he jumped up on the wing, put his parachute down, slid into the cockpit and started the engine. Once he was in his seat, his fear usually subsided, and today was no exception. He checked his instruments, radio, fuel and coolant gauges, and gave the thumbs up to the ground crew when he found everything fine. Then, switching off, he climbed out again and trudged back to the dispersal tent to wait with the other boys for the order to scramble.
This was the part Michael disliked most. He was keyed up to go, and didn’t want to wait around with time to think. Some men read, some played chess, some lay down on the camp beds and slept, while others silently chain-smoked.
But Michael invariably found himself thinking about Adele. He had been on a roller-coaster of emotions since she turned him down. Disbelief, anger, pity, hate, and deep, deep sorrow. He had racked his mind for what he did wrong, and now and then told himself he was well rid of her. He’d tried to convince himself she’d been cheating on him, even tried to tell himself she was mad. But however he looked at it, he always came back to the same point. She must have been spooked that weekend in London by her experiences in that children’s home. Nothing else made sense.
Yet if that was the case, Michael felt she needed love more than ever. And his feelings of abandonment were probably nothing compared with what was going on in her head.
He never went down to Winchelsea now, he couldn’t bear to. If his mother wanted to see him she came up to London and he met her there. He had refused to see his father at first, holding
him at least partially responsible because he hadn’t approved of Adele. But when he turned up at Biggin Hill one day soon after war was declared, Michael couldn’t refuse to see him without making it obvious to his fellow pilots that they were estranged.
To his surprise, his father was apologetic that he’d been so harsh about Adele. While he said all the things Michael had expected, that perhaps the break-up was for the best in the long run, he did concede that Adele had some very admirable qualities. He also showed unusual sensitivity. He actually hugged Michael and said that first love was invariably painful, and that he felt for him.
‘Fancy a game of cards, Mike?’
Michael was startled out of his reverie by John Chapman’s question. John was now his closest friend in the squadron, and though their backgrounds couldn’t be more different, they’d quickly become soulmates when he arrived at Biggin Hill some seven months ago.
John was barely twenty, and looked even younger with his chubby face, fair hair and innocent wide eyes. He was brought up on a farm in Shropshire, went to the local grammar school, and was working in a garage when he got his first taste of planes. He’d told Michael he was asked to drive out to an airfield ten miles from his work, to deliver some spare parts, and while he was there, he was offered a ride in a bi-plane. The pilot had taken him on a hair-raising ride, but scared as John had been, he knew flying was the only career for him, so he applied to join the RAF, quite prepared to be one of the ground crew if he couldn’t make it as a pilot. But it seems the examining board liked what they saw, for he was selected for a short-term commission.
Michael agreed to play cards, it would take his mind off Adele and waiting for the order to scramble. John dealt the cards, but before picking his up he looked hard at Michael.
‘If I don’t make it today, will you get in touch with my folks?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Michael replied. ‘And you with mine?’
John nodded, and they began to play as if they had spoken of nothing more serious than where they would have a pint later in the day.
The order to scramble came at seven-thirty. ‘Blast it.’ John grinned as he hastily put on his Mae West lifejacket. ‘I was hoping we’d get the second breakfast at eight o’clock.’
Michael fixed his silk scarf as he ran to his plane, jumped up on the wing, fixed his parachute in place on his seat, and started up the engine. His fear and trepidation left him then, for he knew that a relaxed pilot who flew by instinct stood a better chance of survival than one who thought too deeply about what he was about to face. He had only one thought in his mind as his plane waddled forward like an old goose towards the runway. To shoot at least one plane down and get back here safely.
As the squadron approached the Channel in tight formation, Michael made a thumbs up to John flying on his right. It was perfect flying weather, with little wind and only a few puffy white clouds, and the visibility so good he could see a group of children on a road below, their little faces upturned, hands shielding the sun from their eyes as they watched the planes flying above them.
Within seconds he had passed over the cliffs, and there was only sea beneath him now. It looked so clear, blue and inviting in the sunshine, evoking happy memories of swimming with Adele. But the Channel was as much of an enemy to the pilots as the Germans. If you had to bail out over it your chances of survival were slim. He wondered if the pilot of the Hurricane he’d seen parachuting down yesterday had been picked up in time.
A warning came over his radio that at least a dozen ME 109s were heading for Dunkirk, and almost as soon as Michael got the message, he spotted them in the distance. He could see columns of black smoke rising on the French coast too, and braced himself for seeing more bomb damage as he got closer.
All at once the sky was full of enemy planes coming towards him, their silver crosses winking malevolently in the sunshine. He climbed to evade them and saw John do likewise to his right. But as he rose up through a bank of cloud he came upon two more fighters which had been hidden from view. He flew straight between them, firing his guns, and he thought he hit the one on the left, so went into a roll to catch it again and finish it off.
He couldn’t see John now, and assumed he’d dived again. But as he came back to attack once more, he saw a flash of flame out of the corner of his eye. There was no time to check what it was, he was gaining on the fighter he’d hit and he had to concentrate to get himself in a good position for firing again. His quarry was trying to make a run for it, but the earlier hit had slowed it down. Michael came in so close he could see the German pilot clearly, and when he fired he caught the nose of the plane and saw a burst of coolant spray up over the cockpit glass. As he sped away he had the satisfaction of seeing it dropping like a stone, a trail of black smoke coming from it.
The sky was suddenly deserted, and looking at his fuel gauge Michael realized he’d flown further than he intended, away from the rest of the squadron. He wheeled round to head for home, and it was then that he saw John’s Spitfire, upside down. The tail was ablaze – obviously the flash of flame he’d seen earlier – and though John was in the correct position for bailing out, it looked as if he couldn’t get the cockpit open.
Sweat trickled down Michael’s face and suddenly he was trembling. He had already lost four good friends in the squadron and heard that at least another dozen men he’d known had bought it. But although he’d felt badly about each and every one of them, and sympathized with their families, this was the first time he’d actually witnessed a fatality.
‘Get the cockpit open!’ he roared instinctively. But even as the words came out he was aware of the futility of it, for the only person who could hear him was the radio operator.
Michael cried all the way home. John was so innocent – only a couple of days earlier he had admitted that he’d never slept with a girl. His mother sent him a homemade cake almost every week, his father sent him weekly reports on the local football team’s games. They had been so proud that their only son had been accepted as a pilot.
It wasn’t bloody fair. John was a first-class pilot, he didn’t have a mean bone in his body and everyone liked him. He’d got Michael out of the doldrums many a time with his jokes and sunny nature. He had so much to give. Why did it have to be him?
Honour stood in the garden shading her eyes as she looked up at the planes fighting in the sky. She was glad it was over Dungeness today, for at least if any of them crash-landed there were no houses out that way.
In the last six weeks, since the evacuation of Dunkirk, she had lost track of how many such dog-fights she’d seen. Winston Churchill had dubbed this battle in the air ‘The Battle of Britain’, and to Honour it seemed unbelievable that the average age of these young pilots who fought with such skill, courage and grim determination was only twenty.
Even when she couldn’t see planes above her, she knew they were fighting somewhere, as the drone of the Spitfires and Hurricanes flying out woke her almost every morning. She would look out of the window and watch them flying off bravely towards the French coast in tight formation, only to see them coming back later in just twos and threes. At first she tried to keep a tally, to check if they all came back. But it made her too dejected when some were unaccounted for.
She’d seen two crash-land: one of the pilots came down on his parachute unhurt, but the other burned to death. What she’d seen was almost nothing, however, for there had been countless fatalities all over the South of England. Bombers slunk in unseen to drop their deadly cargo on air fields, killing ground-force crews and civilians. As for the bombers that couldn’t make it to their intended target, they ruthlessly dropped their load anywhere, not caring if they hit hospitals, schools, villages and towns.
Six weeks earlier Honour had taken heart to see how ordinary people took to hundreds of little boats to rescue soldiers stranded in Dunkirk. She had believed that no one could conquer England when its subjects were so brave and determined. But now, seeing these fighter boys in action day af
ter day, reading the casualty lists which grew longer each week, she was very afraid England hadn’t got the manpower or weapons to win the war.
She went to sleep filled with anxiety, woke with it still there. At first her prayers were just to keep Adele and Michael safe, but now she felt it was wrong to think only of those she loved. Every single soldier, sailor or airman was someone’s grandson, son, husband, sweetheart or brother. She felt for all of them.
‘Watching the sky won’t get the weeds pulled out,’ Jim the postman called out jovially as he dropped his bike out in the lane to bring her some post.
‘It certainly won’t,’ Honour said with a rueful smile, glad of a diversion from gloomy thoughts. She liked Jim. He was sixty-seven, with a shock of white hair and the bandiest legs she’d ever seen. He had fought in the first war, but although he wasn’t in very good health, he’d taken over the post round from his son when he was called up. He said it made him feel useful and the exercise was good for him. ‘But the weeds can wait a little longer if you’d like a cup of tea.’
‘I hoped you’d offer one, I’m parched,’ he said. ‘And it’s a red-letter day for you. Looks like this one’s from your granddaughter. It’s got a London postmark.’
Jim sat himself down on the bench by the door while Honour went in to make the tea. As she waited for the kettle to boil she had a quick read of the letter. ‘Dear Granny,’ she read.
I haven’t got much to report, everything is fairly quiet right now, only emergency cases to deal with as everyone else is being sent out of London. All the wards on the upper floors are closed and they’ve made new ones in the basement for safety in an air raid. I’ve taken up knitting on night duty, because there’s so little to do, and nearly finished the back of a cardigan. It’s awful that Paris has been taken by the Germans, isn’t it? I sometimes wonder if our men can really stop them.
I wish I could come home for a holiday, London’s so horrible in the summer, and the food here is terrible. I suppose it will get even worse before the war is over, there’s shortages of almost everything now.
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