The Pathfinder

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘In what way, exactly, sir?’

  ‘Anything they can think up. One of their latest wheezes is to lob dud shells over here. Then they send a party round to apologize, pretending it was all a big mistake, and have a good snoop to see what we’re up to. A couple of weeks ago some of their soldiers set up a roadblock at a crossroads in our sector, if you please. Started stopping our vehicles and holding our drivers. We sent one of our chaps round to sort it out. He closed three of the roads so the only way they could go was back home. And we get their air force fighters buzzing around like bloody wasps.’

  ‘I gather they want us out of Berlin.’

  The wing commander said drily, ‘So it would seem. And I think they’ll get up to every devilment they can think of to achieve it. The worry of it is we’re depending more and more on our supplies coming in by air and if the situation gets any worse we’re in real trouble. They can make it impossible for us to stay, if they want, simply by blocking our overland supply lines. That way they’d starve us out. We’re at their mercy. Nearly all the food has to be brought in and we have to feed ourselves, not to mention the German civilians in our sector. At the moment there are stocks of food for only forty-five days.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Russian zone provide something? I saw crops growing as we came through.’

  ‘They’ve flatly refused to supply any food to the western sectors right from the very start. Made all kinds of excuses about the land being devastated by the fighting and being short themselves. They barely keep the civilians in their own sector alive: just subsistence rations. And it’s not only food they won’t help with. They won’t let us have any of their coal so we have to bring all ours in from the Ruhr. Overland, of course. Rail or barge right across their zone.’

  ‘If we had to increase our air traffic considerably, could the system cope?’

  ‘Not a hope at the moment. Our new runway’s making progress, as you can see, but it’s a long way from being finished. Gatow was just a grass airfield when the Luftwaffe was here. We put down pierced steel planking on top but, of course, that won’t take much weight or wear. The only plus is our radar and radio set-up. We’ve got the best there is and some first-class men and women to work it.’ The wing co paused to relight his pipe and smiled at him. ‘Now, thank God, we’ve got some more.’

  Harrison settled into the station routine quickly, familiarizing himself with the layout, the personnel, the names. There were over two thousand men serving at Gatow, occupying former Luftwaffe quarters which were luxurious compared with many he had endured in wartime England. There were also fifty WAAFs serving as radar operators, telephonists, clerks, nursing orderlies and cooks, as well as two flight WAAF mechanics – something he had never come across before. The Waafery had the ill luck to be sited not far from the Russian army camp and there were constant complaints that the Russian soldiers kept them awake with drunken singing at night. Apart from the British, a number of German civilians worked on the station, both men and women. The women were employed in the kitchens and as waitresses in the messes, and as cleaners; the men on the airfield worked as labourers. Quite a number of them, he noticed, were obviously well educated and must once have been accustomed to a very different kind of employment. All of them worked extremely hard, as though their lives depended on it. Which, he thought grimly, they pretty much did.

  In the Officers’ Mess bar he came across a squadron leader whom he’d known from his wartime service in England. Tubby Hill was an older man and had flown a desk in admin throughout the war. In the four years since Harrison had last seen him he had grown greyer and a little tubbier, but was otherwise unchanged. Tubby gave him a beaming smile.

  ‘Well, well, Michael, what a small world the RAF is. What brings you here?’

  ‘Orders.’

  ‘Nobody in their right mind would come of their own volition. The food’s terrible and the whisky’s getting scarcer all the time. Next thing we know they’ll be rationing it.’

  ‘Will you have one, if there is such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  The German waitress was a stolid girl with hair coiled in thick flaxen ropes round her head – just the sort of Gretchen he’d seen in Nazi photographs gazing adoringly at her Führer. She brought the whisky for Tubby and a German beer for himself and he thanked her politely. She neither looked at him nor smiled.

  ‘They resent us,’ Tubby observed placidly, accepting a Player’s. ‘When we arrived here they were very upset at being treated as the enemy and horrified at being regarded as Nazis. Our energetic de-Nazification programme has ruffled a lot of feathers.’

  Harrison lit their cigarettes. ‘What else are they?’

  ‘Berliners tend to think of themselves as staunch opponents of Hitler.’

  ‘Christ, they voted him into power didn’t they, like the rest of the country?’

  ‘They’ll tell you that plenty of them didn’t. That they tried hard to get rid of him and suffered for it. Apparently, Hitler hated Berlin and never trusted the Berliners. Had them all labelled as either Jews or Commies. Lots of them refused to do heil Hitlers and wouldn’t turn out to cheer Nazi troops. Hitler was furious. Another line is that they weren’t fighting the British, only the Russians.’

  ‘Come on, Tubby. We’ve all seen the newsreels. The cheering crowds in Berlin . . . all those hands reaching out to the beloved Führer driving in state through the Brandenburg Gate. They were all for him and I can’t feel very sorry for any of them, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, I can see you can’t. Nor do I particularly, all things considered – and there’s a lot to consider – but the civilians here have had a pretty rough time of it, especially the women. When I came here in late ’45, Berlin was like a city of the dead. The people were living in the cellars like rats, scratching around for a few potatoes and some sticks to light a fire. The Russians took everything they could carry off and smashed almost everything else. It’s a bit better now. The women have cleared mountains of rubble and there’s electricity and water and gas back on in most places, and the food situation’s improved somewhat. There’s a thriving black market, of course. They’ll trade what few possessions they have left for food, and cigarettes will get you anything. Twenty Player’s is the going rate for a fräulein, I’m told, but that’s only hearsay. I’m too old now to find out for myself.’

  Harrison’s first sight of Berlin had shocked him. The widespread destruction had looked bad enough from the air, but as the convoy had wound its way through the devastated city, he had seen that it was actually far, far worse than anything he had imagined. But while he had stared, appalled, he had reminded himself again of the unspeakable misery that the Germans had inflicted upon millions.

  ‘They asked for it, Tubby.’

  ‘Of course they did, dear boy. And the Russians would be the very first to agree with you. They gave them no mercy at all. Vengeance was theirs. The Red Army had a field day when their tanks rolled in to settle the score. It’s a wonder they’d left a brick standing or anyone alive by the time we and the Americans finally arrived. Actually, there’s a bit of a flap on with the Ruskies, as you must have gathered.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Well, it’s brewing up into something jolly unpleasant. There’s been talk of getting the service dependants out – all the wives and kids – but they’re afraid of sending the wrong message to the Berliners: that we’re going to abandon them. That would be playing straight into the Russians’ hands, you see. Likewise, they don’t want the Ruskies to think we’re going to cave in. First-rate fighters those chaps, of course – I very much doubt if we’d ever have won the war without the glorious Red Army – but they’ve been giving us a lot of gyp.’

  ‘They’ve got one hell of a cheek, Tubby. We’ve got a perfect right to be here.’

  ‘Most certainly we have. We’re all agreed on that – the Yanks and us – and the French, for what they’re worth in the equation, which isn’t much; too many
home-grown Commies of their own to cope with.’ Tubby flourished a hand. ‘We stand firm together. Only we stand in a tricky spot, slap in the middle of the Russian zone with our supply lines being slowly strangled at their pleasure.’

  ‘There are still the air corridors.’

  Tubby chortled. ‘A handful of Dakotas trundling around and an American Skymaster or two. I can’t quite see them keeping us in the necessities of life for long – let alone our Germans as well – can you?’

  ‘I imagine we could bring in a lot more by air, if necessary.’

  ‘A drop in the ocean, Michael. A mere drop. Apart from the Allied garrisons, there’s three and a half million German civilians in western Berlin. That’s a lot of mouths to feed.’ Tubby drained his glass and signalled to the waitress. ‘My round. You see, the fundamental difference between us and the Russians is that they don’t want Germany to get up off her knees – they want her to stay there, ground down under their Communist boot. The French rather agree with them, reasonably enough. They’d like Germany to be reduced to a collection of agricultural states with not an industry in sight, so there’s absolutely no chance of her invading them yet again and France can make a grand recovery. Whereas we and the Yanks are trying to haul her up – give her a chance to live, as our own dear Foreign Secretary so touchingly put it. Recreate her democratically. And get her industry going again. Two drastically opposing attitudes. That’s really why we’re in this appalling mess.’

  ‘And isn’t it a fact that we need Germany to act as a buffer against Communism?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Our interest is vested, as well as noble. Naturally it is. We’re not complete fools, however much we may look it.’ The sullen Gretchen brought more drinks and Tubby raised his whisky. ‘Enough of that. Your good health, dear boy. Tell me, what have you been doing with yourself since we last met? You were a mere flight lieutenant then. How many missions did you chalk up in the end?’

  ‘Over a hundred.’

  ‘Quite a score.’

  ‘I did a couple of tours and the rest was with No. 8 Group.’

  ‘The Pathfinder chappies. I thought that was their exclusive little badge that you’re wearing. No wonder you’re covered in glory. DFC and bar, and DSO, I note. Did you come this way often?’

  ‘Twenty times, actually.’

  ‘The dreaded target. I remember the groan that used to go up at briefings when the crews learned it was Berlin. Nine hours’ slog and guaranteed a very nasty reception from Jerry. How does it feel to be down at ground level this time?’

  ‘Safer.’

  ‘Interesting to be able to view your handiwork at close quarters, I imagine.’

  He shook his head. ‘The word is shocking, Tubby. The city looks like a moonscape. It’s horrific. Unbelievable. But I still think they asked for it. Modern war is total. The whole bloody German population was fighting us whether they were civilians in munitions factories or troops in the front line.’

  ‘Quite so. And I gather the ones in the factories worked their socks off so they wouldn’t be put in uniform and sent to the front. One can’t really blame them, especially if the front was Russian. Well, what happened to you after the war, when it was all over?’

  ‘I was transferred to Transport Command. Spent some time ferrying troops home, mostly from the Far East.’

  ‘Bit of a comedown from the old glory days.’

  ‘It was rather a pleasant change, actually. I was slightly surprised to find myself still alive and kicking and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future – that took some getting used to. After the ferrying I did a spot of flying training and was eventually shunted into a staff job.’

  ‘You’re going to stay in the jolly old RAF, I take it? Make a career of it?’

  Harrison shrugged. ‘Possibly. I’ve nothing else in view. It’s a fairly decent life.’

  ‘It certainly has its advantages. A lot of the chaps who went back to Civvy Street are having a tough time of it, from all accounts. Damn hard to settle down tamely to a nine to five office job after what they went through. You’ll go far, Michael, I’d lay even money on it. You’re just the sort the RAF needs. Not married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I always knew you had sound sense.’

  Harrison smiled. ‘Well, not yet, anyway. But I’ve someone in mind.’

  Tubby rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t do it, I beg of you. You’ll rue the day.’

  He wondered if he would. He was twenty-eight years old and there’d never been a shortage of girls around. He’d progressed from one to the next without feeling the least desire to marry any of them. There’d been some agreeable affairs with WAAFs that had ended equally amicably when he or the girl was posted away. He was not completely sure that he wanted to marry Celia but he certainly liked her a lot and there didn’t seem any good reason not to. He’d known her for years; she was practically the girl-next-door, her home close to his parents’ house in a village outside Reigate. She’d served in the WRNS in the war and occasionally he’d come across her when he was home on leave. After her demob she’d started working as a secretary in the War Office. He’d taken her out several times when he was in London and enjoyed her company. She was attractive, intelligent, uncomplicated and he’d been on the point of asking her to marry him on his last leave. His mother had made no secret of the fact that she’d love her as a daughter-in-law, nor that she thought it was high time he settled down. Though she had never said so, he guessed that she desperately wanted more grandchildren to help assuage the loss of Harry and Benjy, and that Celia could go a long way towards replacing Elizabeth.

  He changed the subject. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to, Tubby.’

  ‘Nothing much, dear boy. Shuffling papers around on a desk, as usual. Actually, if it weren’t for the Russians making life so tedious for us, this wouldn’t be such a bad place really. Post-war England isn’t exactly the lap of luxury, is it?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘It doesn’t pay to win a war – you end up picking up the tab. Our poor old country is practically bankrupt but we still have to shell out for everything and we’ll have rationing for years to come – long after everybody else. Mark my words.’

  ‘The alternative wouldn’t have been much fun either.’

  ‘Losing? Very true. And I rather doubt that the Nazis would have been giving us the same sort of helping hand that we’re giving the Germans. Or trying to. Not the easiest task when we don’t see eye to eye with the Soviets on how the country should be run.’ Tubby wagged a finger. ‘We’ve got to hang on to Berlin. If the Russians turf us out they’ll run the show their way. And after Berlin they’ll probably try to take over our western zones too. With the whole Eastern bloc already in their pockets, we’d be in a bit of a jam if that happened. The Iron Curtain would have shifted almost up to our doorstep. They know that and we know that, though everybody pretends they don’t. It’s all a game.’

  ‘A damned dangerous one.’

  ‘Ah, there you have it, dear boy. Damned dangerous. So we’ve donned our kid gloves. Mustn’t provoke Stalin, at all costs. It would never do to start a Third World War.’

  Over the next days Harrison had several opportunities to see the Russians up to their games. Their Yak fighters appeared without warning in the skies over Gatow, performing aerobatics and buzzing the RAF Dakotas as they came and went. More dud shells were fired from the army camp beyond the perimeter, followed by the arrival of a small Red Army deputation full of apologies and bearing bottles of vodka. Rumours circulated of continuing harassment to British and American transport to and from Berlin. The Russians had issued yet more regulations, insisting that all passengers – civilian or military – travelling across their zone produce additional documentation and that all freight must carry Russian authorized permits. Trains were stopped and shunted into sidings where they were left for hours on end and then sent back, vehicles refused entry at borders because of some arbitrary new ruling. Parcels sent
out of the city by post had to be presented to Russian sector post offices for permits and wagonloads of them were confiscated. Flying mail out instead was no solution – neither the British nor the Americans had the aircraft for the job. It was easy for the Soviets to inflict all kinds of petty but effective humiliations. The question was how far would they go? Nobody knew that answer.

  It was a while before Harrison found time to make a trip one evening into the city centre. A fleet of black Volkswagen Beetles served as free taxis for all the Occupation Forces and he took one of these from outside the Gatow gates. The driver, an elderly German, spoke little English and his own German was minimal; the half-hour drive in through the outlying, pine-wooded suburbs passed in silence. That suited him fine. The non-fraternization rule had been relaxed somewhat but he had no desire to converse amicably with any German. He studied the back of the driver’s head: the bullet-like Teutonic shape to it, the beefy neck, and the hunched shoulders. They resent us, Tubby had said. They were very upset at being treated as the enemy. Personally, he didn’t give a damn how the Berliners felt or what excuses they made. So far as he was concerned they were all tarred with the Nazi brush. Even so, as they approached the centre, he was shaken again by the total devastation. The city was a corpse: bled of life and colour, rotting and horrible to behold; street upon street of ruins, wooden crosses marking where the dead still lay entombed, empty shells of what must once have been busy and thriving shops and cafés and restaurants. Occasionally, vestiges of the name above had survived: Bettina Damen Moden, Brunen Parfumerie Kosmetik, Café November, Bar Oskar. Gangs of women, from old to young, were labouring away like navvies with pickaxes and heavy shovels, clearing and carting rubble.