A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  The weather had become very cold. The local people said they could never remember it being so cold in November. This capriciousness of the weather seemed to upset them more than the disasters of the war. In the morning the airfield was silver with frost and the sky was a thin sheet of steel stretched above it; the earth and the sky formed an enormous tunnel for the wind which swept across the airfield with nothing to break its force except the hunched human figures who toiled there. The Wrens came back in the evenings to damp, cold cabins and could not get the stoves to light because there was no wood. If one of the air mechanics had smuggled some petrol from the hangars they were lucky, otherwise they went to bed in temperatures near zero. Girls coming back from dances or late duty glanced immediately at the stove as they opened the cabin door; tears of despair were shed when no red glow came from the long pipe. They collected twigs from the wood and heaped on packets of sanitary towels.

  `However do we get so many?’ Hazel asked. It was the only thing she had shown any interest in for quite a while.

  `They’re a present from Lord Nuffield or someone,’ Naomi told her.

  `Perhaps if he’d known how they’d be used he’d have sent wood instead.’

  `My dear, there’s a war on!’ Robin reminded her. `It’s all right to light the bloody fire with petrol, but you mustn’t have wood.’

  There was not much grumbling about work. The air mechanics were out on the airfield in the bitter wind until the light failed; if they did not grumble no one else had a right to. The met. Wrens were fortunate. The control tower was centrally heated and it was a pleasure to be on duty. The pilots came in on every pretext to escape the cold. They stood around in the met. office drinking tea and exchanging grisly stories.

  One bleak afternoon a pilot who had flown over from Lee indulged this particular talent for the benefit of Adam and Robin.

  `Nasty prang today,’ he said as he warmed his hands round a cup of tea that Robin had given him. `One of our chaps had a scrap with a Stuka and came in with one wing practically ripped off. Damn near made it, too. Then the kite turned right over and scraped along the runway upside down. Decapitated the poor devil!’

  `What a happy little ghoul you are!’ Robin murmured.

  `Used to be an instructor here, so they tell me. Fellow by the name of Shaw. It was bad luck . . .’

  Adam said, `Get out!’

  `What the hell . . .!’

  `Get out! You bloody fool, if you knew he used to be here hadn’t you the sense to keep the details to yourself?’

  The pilot backed out of the room and Adam went after him. Robin put her pens down by the chart and stood up: she pressed the palm of her hand against one cheek and said, `Oh dear, what shall we do!’ Adam was talking in the corridor, his voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar; there were other voices, too. She watched the door. As soon as it opened, she said:

  `It’s not true, is it? Peter’s on the “Victorious”.’

  Adam said, `The C.F.I. is getting through to Lee now.’

  `But . . .’

  `I don’t know any more than that,’ he snapped.

  He turned away from her and stood over the teleprinter. Robin went back to the chart; she put in three dots for heavy rain at St. Merryn and then put her pens down again. She looked at Adam hopefully, but he was still staring at the teleprinter. She went to the window to put up the black-out. Day was declining with a cold, still acceptance that had a deathlike serenity. There was nothing to hold the eye now, the hills in the distance merged into the haze, the few trees, stripped of leaf, were charcoal lines scarcely distinguishable against the grey background of field and sky. It was a grey land, unrelieved save for a sheen of pearl where the light caught the frosty grass and one smoky pink plume drifting in the western sky. A cold sky; the draught knifing in down one side of the window was icy proof of that. Robin went across to the other window. While she was putting up the black-out the C.F.I. came in. Jake was hovering behind him and the expression on his face told them all they needed to know.

  `It’s true, I’m afraid,’ the C.F.I. said. `They hadn’t realized his wife was stationed here.’

  `But Peter’s still at sea,’ Robin protested.

  `The “Victorious” is on her way to Pompey.’

  `But why would he land at Lee?’

  `If I had a damaged kite and a choice between an airfield and a heaving flight deck, I know which I’d choose.’

  Adam looked at Robin. `Where will Kerren be now?’

  `She was going to the Mill Farm with Jessie to celebrate their first day of freedom. She said she would come straight back here.’ Robin looked at her watch. `She’ll be on her way now.’ She could imagine Kerren cycling along the hard, rutted lanes. She would be looking forward to the warmth of the control tower. She had asked Robin to collect her night duty rations for her; perhaps she was wondering whether Robin had remembered. The C.F.I. was saying:

  `You could get her stopped at the guard room.’

  `And have the Jaunty break the news to her!’ Adam said.

  He sat down heavily on the stool; his face was partly turned from Robin, but she could see how the dark furrows bit into the flesh. The C.F.I. and Jake said it would be better if they were not around when Kerren arrived; they edged into the corridor and Jake, who was going off duty, promised to let First Officer know. When they had gone the teleprinter got busy with the 1100 Irish. Adam tore off the paper and threw it in the waste basket. Robin said:

  `I can’t sit here like this! I can’t . . .’

  `You’d better make some more tea.’

  She picked up the kettle and went along to the lavatory. When she had filled the kettle, she opened the outer door of the control tower and stood looking across the airfield towards the main gates. It was very nearly dark, the hangars were deserted now; there was a smell of frost in the air. In the distance she could just make out something moving along the perimeter track. Kerren. It would be nearly five minutes before she got here. Robin wondered what she was thinking about – nothing very significant probably, just that it was a long ride; she wasn’t to know that this was the last five minutes that Peter would live for her.

  `She’s coming,’ Robin said to Adam when she got back to the office. `Shall I put the kettle on now?’

  He said gently, `No. I should leave it for the moment if I were you.’

  `I shan’t know what to say,’ she burst out. `I’m not at all good at this kind of thing.’

  `Don’t worry about that. Just try to give her help in whatever way she seems to need it. You can’t do any more.’

  She said, `Yes, I’ll try’ and sat down, pushing her fist against her teeth, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. They were very quick when eventually they came. Kerren hustled in apologizing for being late; she took off her overcoat and turned to the door to hang it up.

  `Who’s been treading on Jake?’ she asked. `He cycled past me near the main gates looking like a sick leprechaun.’

  Adam said, `Kerren . . .’

  Her shoulders stiffened. It was the first time he had ever used her Christian name in the office. She turned slowly; her face was streaked with red from the wind, but it was not the wind that made her eyes so sharp.

  `What is it?’ she said quickly. `It’s not Peter, is it?’

  `There’s bad news, I’m afraid.’

  Robin took her hand. `Kerren dear, sit down . . .’

  She snatched her hand away and stepped back; she looked warily from one to the other, like a small animal at bay.

  `Tell me, tell me! I shall think he’s dead if you don’t tell me.’

  Adam put a hand on her arm; she stared down at his hand incredulously as he said:

  `He crashed at Lee this afternoon. He was killed instantly; he wouldn’t have known anything about it.’

  `But he can’t have crashed at Lee!’ She was speaking very fast, as though she did not want to give him a chance to intervene. `He can’t have done, the “Victorious” isn’t back yet.’<
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  `She was on her way to Pompey. It seems probable that . . .’

  `Probable! But have they heard from the “Victorious”? Have they heard . . .?’

  `The C.F.I. has been through to Lee.’

  `What’s the use of that? Peter’s on the “Victorious”.

  Robin bent down and picked up the tea-pot. She went out of the room quickly. If she emptied the pot and made the tea she would be doing something. One of the flying control ratings was hanging about in the corridor. He came up to her holding out a cup. `What about a spot of rum? Good for shock.’ She thanked him and went into the lavatory to empty the pot. When she got back to the met. office Kerren wasn’t arguing any more. The room was silent, even the teleprinter had ceased activity; the silence had a negative quality as though one had suddenly gone deaf. Kerren was sitting on the stool, her hands clasped on her lap; she was looking down at her hands as though their inactivity puzzled her. Robin plugged in the kettle. Adam said to her:

  `I must try to get hold of Hunter. I won’t be a moment.’

  Robin wondered whether she should say something to Kerren or whether it was better to leave her alone now that she seemed to be taking things quietly. The teleprinter came to life again; it was a relief to have it ticking over in the corner. Robin made the tea and laced it generously with rum. When she turned round Kerren was standing up. She did not take the cup as Robin held it out to her, instead she said in a low, conspiratorial voice:

  `Robin, Peter’s on the “Victorious”. He can’t have crashed at Lee, can he?’

  She stared at Robin, her eyes pleading for her friend’s allegiance. Robin stood holding the cup, feeling the damp warmth of the steam curving up her arm, smelling the sickly sweetness of the rum. Her throat ached.

  `Oh Kerren! I wish it could have been me.’

  The words did not mean much, but the emotion was genuine. Kerren’s eyes darkened as hope dived down. She said, `Peter’s dead, then.’ She looked round the room, at the door, the walls, the blacked-out windows. Then she put her hands to her head; her body rigid, as though something was fighting to break out of the frame of bone which imprisoned it. Robin said loudly:

  `Kerren, you must drink this while it’s hot.’

  To her relief Kerren did not protest when she put the cup into her hands. She sipped from it slowly. She looked very small and incredibly brittle, Robin felt that if one reached out and touched her something terrible would happen. Where was Adam? He was older and more experienced than she was, he had no right to go away and leave her to cope. She edged to the door, keeping an eye on Kerren who was still sipping the tea; she went into the corridor, leaving the door open. She ran up the stairs to the first floor. Adam was in the C.F.C.O.’s room, he was speaking on the telephone. Hazel was the only other person in the room; she was sitting at her desk, her eyes puckered, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. Robin could tell by the closed, inward look on her face that she was thinking of Michael. Adam was saying:

  `He must be off the camp. I’ll be at the wardroom in half-an-hour and I’ll have a word with him then if he’s back.’

  He put the receiver down and said to Robin:

  `How is she?’

  `I don’t know. Do come back.’

  As they went down the stairs, he said, `She can’t stay here. Would you do her night duty for her?’

  `Of course.’

  Kerren must have heard them. As soon as they came in she said:

  `I’m not going back to the cabin. I want to stay here.’

  `That’s quite impossible.’ Adam was very firm. `You must go back to the cabin.’

  `Oh no, please!’ She began to talk very fast. Robin thought this was frightening and that Adam was silly to excite her in this way. `Please! I shall have something to do here. I must stay here, really I must!’ The cup shook in her hands and tea slopped on to the floor.

  Adam went to her, took the cup and made her sit down.

  `You can go to sick bay if you like,’ he told her gently.

  `Oh please, please don’t send me there! I want to work. Look! There are the obs. to do and no one is plotting the chart. I can do it perfectly well, really I can.’ She rushed across to the teleprinter and tore off the paper. She picked up Robin’s pens and sat down. Robin said:

  `I’ll do the obs.’

  If Adam wanted to argue he could get on with it. Personally, Robin thought he was being silly. Here on duty Kerren could move about, go up to flying control, work, make tea, tidy the office. People always made such a point of the importance of carrying on; it was the small things that were supposed to see you through. And even if that was just another platitude, the fact remained that here Kerren would have some peace; she would be able to think, to adjust herself. That was important, surely? It was surprising that Adam should have so little understanding. When she got back he seemed to have given up for the time being. Kerren was finishing the chart and he was standing looking down at the map table. When Corder came on duty, he took him outside and said:

  `Stay with her. Don’t leave her alone. This place is enough to make anyone morbidly introspective at night, without something like this to eat into them. I’ll have a word with Hunter as soon as I get back to the wardroom. Only don’t leave her alone!’

  Robin offered to stay on duty with Kerren, but Kerren said that she would be better on her own.

  Later, when Hunter came down he found her much calmer; quiet, pale, but remarkably self-possessed. He was surprised, even a little repelled: he had expected more emotion from her.

  `I’m much better doing some work,’ she said to him composedly. `So please let me stay here.’

  `Well, I . . .’ He looked round at a loss. Corder had retreated leaving them alone. Hunter felt like a great ungainly fish floundering in unfamiliar waters; he was very distressed but aware that, in face of her calm acceptance, it would be unforgivable for him to give way to emotion. Emotion was all that he had to offer. He had rushed down to the control tower feeling as wretched as if she were his own child, prepared to treat her as his own child. But fatherliness was not what she needed. He told her to keep the work to a minimum and to tell Corder if she felt she could not carry on. He was aware that she was not taking in anything that he said. He was glad to get away from her.

  `I think she’s better here,’ he said to Corder who was hovering in the corridor. `She must have calmed down considerably since Grieve saw her. But keep an eye on her.’

  Corder accompanied him to the outer door as though reluctant to let him go. Hunter flinched from the blast of cold air and turned to Corder, his soft green eyes moist.

  `Why did it have to happen to her? When you think of some of the little bitches on this camp, why did it have to happen to her?’ He had never liked Peter Shaw, but he went on, `And Shaw! It’s always the best that go. This damned war . . . just a bloody waste . . .’

  He glared at Corder who smirked nervously and cleared his throat. Corder watched Hunter wobble off down the path to the perimeter track. Then he went down to the enclosure where the Davidson screen was situated and studied the grass thermometer. He had no idea how to cope with the situation. But there was no answer to be found out here, the silent expanse of the airfield made him feel more lost and helpless than ever. Kerren did not take any notice of him when he came into the room and after wandering round examining the barograph, peering at the teleprinter and studying the log book, he went to the duty met. officer’s room. He had always been told that one should not intrude on sorrow: Grieve had been wrong to say that she must not be left alone. Nevertheless, he compromised by leaving the door of his room open. He turned out the light, took the blackout down and stretched out on the bed. He listened. It was surprising how silent the building was at night, not a friendly silence. He was relieved when he heard Kerren go out to read the temperatures, then start up the stairs to flying control. She did not stay long; there was a new flying control officer on duty. He heard the met. office door close. Then silence again. He lay and w
atched the frost forming on the window. He had never realized before how slowly the night hours went by. When she did the one o’clock obs. he got up and looked out of the window. The frosted grass stretched away into the distance like a frozen sea; there was no landmark. He could see Kerren standing some distance from the Davidson screen. There was something rather frighteningly inhuman about the scene, and the strange thing was that this impression was heightened by the still presence of the one human figure. She must be very cold, he thought uneasily. He had just made up his mind to go out with the duffel-coat when she turned and came in. He crept out of the room and listened at the met. office door. The teleprinter had stopped, there was no sound. He opened the door and poked his head round it. She was sitting with her back to him, slightly hunched on the stool. She did not turn her head, but when he asked if she was all right she answered quite steadily, `yes, thank you.’ He went back to bed. The building seemed to be colder; perhaps the stoker had been negligent. The cold seeped through the walls, crept down the corridor, he seemed to draw it into his body with every breath.

  In the morning when Robin came on duty she was surprised at the change in Kerren. There was an ashy pallor about her face and the eyes, usually so alive, had glazed over; it was as though at some time during the night the frost had taken her in its iron grip.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Peter was buried at sea. The C.F.I. flew Kerren to the `Victorious’. During the service she stood very straight, her hands clenched at her sides. She did not cry. This was her last duty to Peter and she would not draw attention to herself. While the service lasted she had the feeling of a bond unbroken, as though this was something they were doing together, just as, six months ago, they had knelt together at the altar on their wedding day. It was not until the coffin was lowered over the side of the ship that she felt he had passed from life. She was quiet but very correct afterwards, remembering to thank all those to whom thanks were due.