The young conscript Service policeman (corporal, acting and unpaid; and automatically unpopular with the troops) checked his identity card, gave him a sycophantic salute.
It would be a happy station under Group Captain Jones’s firm but genial command, Howard reflected. He had known Jones when they were respectively pilot officer and wing commander.
He drove slowly towards Station Headquarters, taking in the changes since his first squadron had left here, eighteen months ago, for a quieter sector in Lincolnshire. There were Nissen and wooden huts in unfamiliar places, and a third huge hangar loomed beside the others. More airmen and W.A.A.F. moved about from building to building or along the camp roads. With three squadrons based here instead of two, the population had noticeably grown. But it was still Monkston, where he had been happy.
He would feel better now if he were not coming to fill a dead man’s shoes. It was never easy to replace a good flight commander; all the more difficult when he had been as well liked as this predecessor. Being posted in to take over after a man who had been killed in action a week ago brought a heightened reminder of the special dangers of leadership. The posting was a compliment. The squadron had asked for an immediate replacement, but Fighter Command kept the vacancy open until he could reasonably be released by Flying Training Command. The augury was excellent: command of a squadron before long.
He parked outside No 2 hangar and paused for a moment to watch two Spitfires take off together, then entered the echoing steel vastness and went upstairs to the squadron Adjutant’s office. In the old days, the job had been done as an ancillary duty by one of the pilots. Now, it was a full-time one. The flying officer seated behind the desk was thirtyish and bespectacled, wingless, with the air of a conscientious prefect in a shoddy public school. He did not stand up. “Ah! Howard?”
“Flight Lieutenant Howard.” Regulars’ etiquette demanded formality on a first official meeting.
Fishy eyes took in the two faded rings of braid and the D.F.C. ribbon. The Adjutant rose and leaned over his desk to shake hands; his was as cold as a fish, too. “We’ve been looking forward to... welcome to the squadron...”
“Is the C.O. in or flying?”
“He’s in. If you’d just sign the... er...” The Arrivals book lay open. The formalities of booking in were brief. The Adjutant opened the door to the adjoining room, mumbled and stood aside to motion the new flight commander into his squadron commander’s office.
The squadron leader’s battle dress blouse bore a D.S.O. and D.F.C. He had straw coloured hair and a livid burn scar disfigured his right cheek. The glazed and shrunken flesh tugged the corner of his mouth up in what looked misleadingly like an incipient smile. He walked round the desk with his hand outstretched. “Glad to have you on the squadron, Boost old boy.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m lucky to get the posting.” It was his way of acknowledging that Squadron Leader Kennard had maintained the squadron’s high reputation, which dated back to the Great War.
Kennard pushed a chair forward with his foot and perched on the edge of his desk while Howard removed his Service Dress cap. “Have a pew.” He regarded Howard with attention. “How long did they keep you at O.T.U.?”
“Six months almost to the day.”
“You were lucky. I got done for nearly nine.”
They had been on different squadrons at a station in Kent for a couple of months after the British Expeditionary Force’s retreat from France in June 1940. Howard said “You probably did a longer first tour than I did.” He knew that Kennard had spent a long time in hospital, too, after being scorched, but that was not an episode to which to allude. “I was glad to get away: some of the pupils they’re sending to O.T.U. these days should still be at F.T.S.”
“The flying training schools are sausage machines these days. Can’t expect the wartime system to produce polished flying. The end product doesn’t really learn how to avoid killing himself or other people until he gets to a squadron.”
They were happily in accord: the squadron commander a product of the R.A.F. College, Cranwell, and Howard of the long training given to pre-war short service commission pilots.
Kennard returned to his chair. “You know Bisto Lambert, my A Flight commander.”
Howard looked amused. “I didn’t know he was on the squadron, Bobby.” He had paid his dues with a “sir” on reporting and would scrupulously so address his C.O. on duty and in others’ presence in mess or anywhere else; but it was not expected in private between former equals, friends. “Is he the same?”
“Bisto’ll never change.” It was said with a laugh.
Flight Lieutenant Lambert had earned his nickname as a newly commissioned pilot officer. He was tall and lissom, astonishingly handsome and very much of a dandy. His early life in the Service could have been made miserable but for the fact that he was an R.A.F. cricket and squash “blue”; an elegant batsman and devastating fast bowler. Lambert was ardently pursued by young women: one of whom, a peer’s daughter, had ensnared him into an engagement; and given him a present of a large bottle of after-shaving lotion. Few Britons used such a product in those days, and in the fighting Services that kind of indulgence was highly suspect. Poor Jimmy Lambert was reluctant to apply his fiancée’s expensive Mayfair-concocted gift to his skin. She insisted crossly. His nickname was instantly born. The engagement was brief, the bottle was still half-full; and Lambert had acquired a liking for its contents. When it was empty, he had bought another. Nobody held it against him: he was popular, not only because of his prowess at ball games but also because he was amusing and a good pilot.
Bisto Lambert was someone else with whom Howard had served in the Battle of Britain: different squadron, same station, but not the one at which he had first known Kennard. Lambert had also been on the course ahead of Howard’s at flying training school.
“Where is he?”
“Airborne: doing P.Is with one of the new boys.”
Practice interceptions under the close guidance of a ground-control-of-interception radar station were a valuable part of any fighter pilot’s constant training, even the most experienced.
“Which G.C.Is do we work with? Wartling and Sandwich?”
“Mostly Wartling. They’re both good.”
“I’d better get myself airborne with them this afternoon.”
“Let’s go along to dispersals and I’ll introduce you to the chaps. I’ll let you form your own opinions of your flight: we can talk about them in a week or so. You’ve got a very sound deputy flight commander: Megson, a Canadian; and a Frenchman and one Pole.” Amusement showed on Kennard’s face again. “I won’t say any more.”
Howard knew what that portended. “Both a bit round the bend, are they?”
“Harpic, old boy.” This was a famous brand of lavatory cleaner whose advertising slogan was “It cleans round the bend”. The R.A.F. had typically adopted the brand name to refer to anyone regarded as notably wild or mad: clean round the bend.
“Oh, God!”
“You’re not an orphan, as the Aussies say: A Flight have got the same enfants terribles, another Frog and Pole. I keep them apart. By the way, you’ve got the Squadron Aussie, as well.” Kennard fell abruptly silent.
Howard looked at him. “And?”
“And nothing. As I said, I’ll leave you to form your own conclusions.” Kennard braked his Austin Ten staff car outside the crew room. He spoke casually, but his look lost all trace of amusement. Even the updrawn side of his mouth no longer suggested it. “Have you heard we’re getting a new station commander this afternoon?”
“No. Who?”
“Gus Northam.” Kennard looked straight ahead as he spoke. His tone was flat. Howard wondered whether he disliked Northam as much as he himself did or whether Kennard had heard something that had prompted him to spare a friend’s feelings.
Whatever the reason, Howard experienced several unwelcome sensations and the recollections that had been bothering him a short while earlier came
crowding back.
“Why? What happened to Groupie Jones?”
“Heart attack early yesterday morning. He’ll be in hospital a long time.”
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