War Wounds

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  His flight had lost two aircraft that morning, and the second one which had been forced down by engine failure; whose crew had been brought in less than an hour ago.

  “All right.”

  “You don’t sound keen.”

  “I’m not, particularly.”

  “You think the squadron should play at being one big happy family?”

  Liversedge drank his whisky straight down and told the orderly to bring two more.

  “I think it would be helpful to the other chaps if we mucked in.”

  “The other chaps aren’t my responsibility.”

  Liversedge hesitated. He’s liable to bite my head off: on the other hand, he might just as easily laugh: unpredictable beggar. He spoke quietly: “The Major might appreciate it.”

  He saw Templer’s hand tighten on the tumbler. His bony fingers were exceptionally long and the whole limb gave the impression of unusual strength. Manic strength, Liversedge told himself. He was prepared to see the glass cave in and blood flow from Templer’s skin. The knuckles grew white. The hand relaxed.

  Templer laughed. He had an unnerving, neighing laugh, on occasions. It burst from him this time. Everyone was familiar with Templer’s high-pitched, dangerous-sounding, grating laugh; as they were all familiar with his normal, pleasant, if usually abrupt, one. But heads jerked round in his direction. Everybody in the room was feeling the stress that was the aftermath of the morning’s work; whether he had been on the sortie or not. Those who had not, knew that their turn would come tomorrow.

  His potty laugh is like being jerked to the edge of a volcano, Liversedge was thinking; and made to look down into the crater: explosive beneath the calm surface…and manic. It puts my teeth on edge, his potty one. The usual calm one is more like him; I hope. He’s just bone weary, like the rest of us.

  “Very well,” Templer agreed, when he had finished laughing. “I shall contribute my share to the welfare of the squadron.” He spoke with a grin in which there was no humour, but a twist of sardonic resignation.

  It’s not Colin Bentinck’s fault that he hasn’t crossed the Boche line for six months. He got a good D.S.O. as a flight commander before he came to us. I’ve got to remember I’m due for my majority any day now: then I’ll have to stay this side of the line. I’ll try not to talk as though I were taking the same risks as the rest, when I get a squadron, though.

  “Well, if we’re going out, the sooner the better.”

  “The Major’s just come in, with the Colonel.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “I don’t think the Colonel will join us. Too much going on tonight.”

  The squadrons formed a wing, commanded by a lieutenant colonel. Lieutenant Colonel Crichton was a Guardee who had transferred from the Grenadiers before the outbreak of war: because aeroplanes promised to be fascinating new toys and he liked playthings; from yachts and motor cars to polo ponies and chorus girls. He was only 32 years old, and wore a D.S.O. won in 1916 and an M.C. won in 1915 with a bar soon added. He had very fair hair and a very pink face, a moustache, and was as tall as Templer, but with heavy shoulders; and his spindly calves, that looked so elegant in riding boots, made him look like a stilt-walker.

  The Colonel walked over to Templer.

  “I’m sorry I can’t join you at dinner, Templer, but I’ll be in mess when you come back.”

  It was the Colonel’s way of saying that he knew exactly what it had been like on the Mannheim raid and that there would be a release of suppressed fears and of hidden sorrows for dead comrades, that evening. The Colonel was a robust participant in rowdy and vigorous mess games. Duty would call him out to the flarepath to see his night bombers take off and land, but he would find time to carouse with the day crews.

  “We’re sorry too, Colonel.”

  “I’m looking forward to a good binge.” There was an animal quality about Crichton’s smile that made the morning’s events seem distant and inconsequential: whereas the reason for the binge was the raid. It was to be the usual tribute to those who had died and to the quality of the squadron’s bombing.

  Templer did not care what kind of smile the Colonel produced. Alaric Crichton, D.S.O., M.C., could have trampled all over Templer in hobnailed boots, and Templer would have supposed there was a good reason for it. The Colonel had come to France as a captain, shot down 37 enemy aircraft and 11 balloons, made several low-level bombing attacks single-handed, to drop his 20 lb Cooper bombs by hand, and had commanded a squadron of RE8s (“Harry Tates”) before forming his present wing. The RE8 was a lethal beast because of its appalling handling characteristics. If the observer stood up during a landing approach, to look over his pilot’s head, the extra wind resistance could stall the aeroplane; this would crash and kill them both. Templer had seen it happen. He respected Harry Tate pilots mightily. He respected Crichton’s dash and bravery. In so far as a cavalryman gave any recognition to other arms, he respected the Guards Brigade.

  Bentinck arrived, highly polished as usual, and breezy; which was not always his manner.

  “Time to take off, Lionel. Target, Nancy.”

  Templer rose. He often thought of his squadron commander in a symbolic and ironical phrase: “Frightfully smart”. It entered his mind now. It embraced Bentinck’s glibness and familiarity with the latest forms of speech, as current in Mayfair and the R.F.C., as well as his turnout.

  A Crossley tender swept the bulk of the officers to the town. Templer and the one other surviving flight commander rode with Bentinck, accompanied by Liversedge, in the white Delahaye tourer that Bentinck had bought on arrival in France. The sergeant pilots and observers were included in the party and among those who jolted to dinner in the lorry.

  It seemed to Templer that the meal must resemble an Irish wake. He had never attended one and hoped he never would. The food at the restaurant at Nancy was unexceptionable; the conduct frenetic. Templer was glad when they left. He would prefer the horseplay in the mess, particularly the polo, played with spoons and a sorbo ball.

  He was walking from Bentinck’s car to the mess, when, now that the Delahaye’s engine was silent, the sound of an aircraft came clearly though the moonlit night.

  “That’s not a De Havilland,” Bentinck said.

  We don’t need anyone to point that out, Templer thought.

  The four of them searched for the origin of that immediately threatening twin-engine beat.

  A silhouette took shape.

  “By Jove! It’s an A.E.G.G. Four…” Templer spoke fractionally before the station’s searchlights came on and lit up the German bomber. He and the others could see the two machine-gunners, one in the nose, the other behind the pilot.

  Tracer bullets spanged around, ricocheting from the tarmac on which the four officers stood.

  The G4 carried a 440 lb bombload, Templer remembered. He was well up in technicalities and instantly made a mental recitation of such details when he spotted any aeroplane.

  The first bomb lifted him off his feet and carried him 20 yards, at the same instant that he felt a sharp blow on his right leg and knew that one of the men behind a Parabellum machine-gun had hit him.

  2.

  At 11.13 a.m. on Sunday, 3rd September 1939, the officers of R.A.F. Scantlebury rose as their station commander entered the mess ante-room. In two minutes’ time, the Prime Minister would address the nation, on the wireless.

  A mess was an officers’ home and one was not expected to stand up when the station commander came in: but this gathering felt like a parade, there was a grave portent about the occasion, and unanimously everyone stood up.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Group Captain Lionel Templer, D.S.O, M.C., looked pleased. “Please sit down.” He loped to his usual chair, at one side of the empty grate, and glanced at his watch as he sat. The station Adjutant stood behind him. The two wing commanders commanding the squadrons at Scantlebury seated themselves on the opposite side of the fireplace.

  The room was filled with a silence which vibrated wit
h the thought in every man’s mind: We are about to hear war declared.

  When Neville Chamberlain’s lugubrious tones gave way to another silence, the group captain stood and faced the crowded room. Everyone rose with him.

  “I shall speak to the whole station at noon. I don’t propose to add anything now to what I shall be saying then.”

  He went out to his Austin staff car, its pennant limp in the hot airless morning sunshine, to drive himself to Station Headquarters. The Adjutant boarded his dark blue 1935 Austin 12/4 and followed, via the parade ground, where the Station Warrant Officer would be awaiting him.

  Templer’s thoughts ranged swiftly across the spectrum of the past 21 years.

  Always regretted missing the beat-up in mess that night. Promised to be a classic. Turned out to be, from all accounts. The old wound in his right leg gave a twinge, as it had always done. Bloody Boches. If it hadn’t been for having to spend the next six months in hospital and on convalescent leave, I’d have got my majority… my squadron leadership, before the show ended. Would have had a squadron. Could have won a decent D.S.O. instead of this thing for commanding a squadron against a bunch of Wogs in the Middle East and another against another bunch of unwashed heathens on the North-West Frontier. Operations against the enemy, indeed! Damned bandits and rebels, that’s all they were; Arabs and Afghans, both.

  Would have got my group captaincy by 1934 — when I’d been only a wing commander for two years — instead of being held back until last year. That would have put me well in line for air commodore within the next few months, now this show’s started.

  And all because of that damn sneaky Boche prowling in by moonlight; and, instead of selecting some honourable target, such as the hangars or parked aeroplanes, had a go at the first thing he spotted that looked defenceless. His damaged leg had kept him off flying for two years, what was more, and that had helped to retard his promotion. Then he’d had to serve as a flight commander all over again, before he was eventually given a Wapiti squadron. He’d been late, after that, in going to Staff College.

  That bloody Hun pilot and his front gunner had done him more harm in a couple of seconds than he had suffered in the whole nearly four years of war preceding the cruel event.

  He cleared his thoughts of rancour as he braked outside the S.H.Q. building. Never mind. He had a fine modern station to command, with two Wellington squadrons of which he was proud. Harry had turned out well: a first class young officer; and, flying Blenheims, captain of the fastest bomber in the Service. And Alice, God bless her, still as lovely as ever, and the most understanding, helpful wife a chap could have: a marvellous support and credit to him in his career.

  He was humming to himself, silently, as he quickly mounted the two steps. The words going through his brain were “Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag, and smile, smile, smile.”

  A sergeant bustling towards the door flung it open for him and whipped up a salute. An aircraftman clerk approaching along the corridor, with files under his left arm, stiffened his right arm and gave the station commander an eyes right. The other S.H.Q. officers, who had followed him, hurried to their offices. The N.C.Os and airmen who had assembled in the sergeants’ mess and the N.A.A.F.I. canteen to hear the significant broadcast had either returned to their desks or could be heard hurrying about the building.

  Templer felt a wave of excitement course through him.

  This was his world; his chosen world: and warfare was his element. What did his low seniority in his present rank matter? He would lead from the front, as he had always done: he’d fly on ops, not sit around in his office or the Ops Room or hang around the Control Tower and the squadron hangars, interfering and exhorting. He’d be flying against the Boche again. The tune thrumming in his brain became louder and even more cheerful.

  His twice-wounded leg was throbbing. The second time he was hit, on the night after the disastrous raid on Mannheim, three bullets had penetrated his calf. The 1916 bullet in the thigh had already left a disfigurement. The new wound left a worse one. He was self-conscious about wearing shorts or a swimming costume. Another grudge against the Boches.

  He thought about his son; his only son; and about his two daughters: one a fourth-year medical student at Guy’s Hospital, the other an 18-year-old who had just left school and had a place at Girton, to read law. Brainy offspring, I’ve got. Old Harry’s no fool, even though one doesn’t expect giant intellects in any of the Services. But he’s bright enough to ensure a fine career: if he lives through this show. The thought, and the doubts and fears it raised, pierced his feelings as painfully as enemy bullets had pierced his flesh.

  He had prepared an address to his officers and men some days before. He sat at his desk and read the notes he had made. The Women’s Royal Flying Corps, disbanded in 1920, had been revived in June and renamed The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. He had not forgotten to include it. So far, three women officers and six N.C.Os had been posted to Scantlebury, in uniform. Thirty airwomen had also arrived, but were still in civilian clothes; with the grotesque addition of Service caps, in order that they could salute, sturdy black shoes and grey lisle stockings. He deplored their hybrid turnout, but welcomed its significance: it meant that women had volunteered in such large numbers that there were not yet enough uniforms to clothe them all. He recalled the W.R.F.C. gals with affection; and some salty episodes in hotel rooms with various of their number. Their arrival on a station where 500 males took an immediate interest in their accessibility brought problems; but Templer was an unreserved admirer of British women; without whom, he believed, the empire could never have been established or maintained. He was ready for the problems; and their C.O., a squadron officer, was eminently sensible: a widow in her forties, who had once taught in a girls’ boarding school of some eminence.

  It was time to go on parade. He walked to the square, the Adjutant handed over, and Templer ordered the parade to stand easy. He believed in making use of all modern resources as aids to efficiency. During the past week, on Air Ministry orders, a Tannoy system had been installed: microphones in the Operations Room, the Control Tower and other places, with loud-speakers all over the camp. Templer had told the Signals officer to set up a stand microphone and four speakers around the square for the present occasion.

  “No point in speaking to them if they can’t all hear me. No point in straining my vocal chords, either.”

  An aircrafthand brought the microphone to him from the edge of the parade ground. An electrician reported “Tested and serviceable, sir”, and Templer switched it on.

  “You all know that our country is at war with Germany. You must be wondering in what ways this will affect our lives in the Service and on this station in particular.

  “We shall be operating what is known as The War Plan. That means a three-week cycle in our operational state. One week of Maximum Effort, which means just what it says: we shall fly the greatest possible number of sorties, and that will mean a consequently maximum load on us all. One week of Sustained Effort, during which we shall be supporting, as needed, the other stations in Bomber Command that are on Maximum Effort. One week of Release, when we shall carry on with normal training and all the servicing that is necessary in order to resume Maximum Effort again the following week.

  “No one must think that only the air crews will contribute to the success of our operations. Every one of us, whatever his or her job, is equally involved and will be able to take some credit for the successes we shall achieve. This means that anyone who is inefficient in any way will detract from the quality of the performance of those who are at the sharp end of R.A.F. Scantlebury’s raids on the enemy.”

  Everyone heard the note that came into his voice when he spoke the last word.

  He paused, and repeated “The enemy. The Boche, the Hun. The nation which has, for the second time in twenty-five years, threatened the peace of the whole world.”

  He paused again. The Adjutant, the squadron commanders, and others who knew h
im well, heard the bitterness and anger, saw the hard look that accompanied it and wondered at the surprising transformation in a man whom they respected, but had always regarded as aloof, taciturn and entirely in control of his emotions. It felt as though they had been clubbed by the heaviness of a hatred they had never suspected.

  “Anyone who slacks over his or her duty, whether it is in the Ops Room, Flying Control, workshop, hangar or cookhouse, office, stores or a technical section, could equally be putting the safety of men and aircraft at risk. Think about it. It may not be easy for you to see, at first, how you, as an individual, could have a disastrous effect by carrying out some part of your work in a slovenly way; but I assure you that it is so.

  “Other officers will be informing you, and reminding you, of various matters which now assume vital importance. The only one I shall mention is security. You must not talk about, or mention in your letters, anything that goes on here; or elsewhere that may be within your knowledge. If you hitchhike into Norwich or when going on a forty-eight-hour pass” (for which railway warrants were not issued) “you might be tempted to gossip to the kind motorist or lorry driver who gives you a lift. Don’t let him, or her, pump you by sympathetic questions. Don’t talk about our work or the details of your job.

  “That’s all I have to say, except to tell you that I am entirely confident of your loyalty to our country and our Service, your sense of duty and your common sense.”

  *

  At R.A.F. Massingham, where Flying Officer Henry Templer was stationed, 60 miles away, in Lincolnshire, from Scantlebury, the station commander addressed his personnel in a hangar: where his echoing voice, unaided by a microphone, left a blurred impression on his hearers.

  Walking away, with his observer, Pilot Officer Watson, Harry said “We should have run a sweep on who’ll be the first over Germany.”

  He was as tall and thin as his father, with the same light colouring and acute grey eyes; but the planes of his face were less harsh and his nose less predatory: it had the straight Grecian line of his mother’s and it was her inherited features which softened those he had acquired from his father.