Seize and Ravage

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  I've had my ups and downs, he reflected. From the 100 m.p.h. Avro 504N at Cranwell to the delightful Hawker Hart day bomber, which had a top speed of over 180 m.p.h. and was faster than many fighters when it first went into squadron service. Then down to Avro Tutors with their 120-plus m.p.h. After that the Fairey Swordfish, which could be coaxed up to nearly 140 m.p.h.; and the Vickers Vildebeest, credited with 156 m.p.h. There was nothing to compare with the Hart: not only because his early manhood had been centred on it, but also because it was a perfectly mannered aeroplane and a joy in which to do aerobatics.

  He had no hankering after fighters: not the Gladiators that had been the envy of so many bomber pilots, nor even the Hurricanes which had come into service only twenty months ago. As for the Spitfire, which had first reached a squadron seven months later: that, he had heard, could attain 355 m.p.h.; a speed which must impose all manner of handling problems. Interesting, but he would not go out of his way to fly one, with the shadow of those fraught landings in India always at the back of his mind.

  What he would enjoy would be the big twin engined jobs: the Hampden, Blenheim, Whitley and Wellington. The first two were called light bombers nowadays, but the other two were undeniably genuine heavies. Aircraft like all four of those would exercise him mentally as well as physically. With their range, navigation would be of absorbing interest.

  Bombing had its attractions, but his introduction to torpedo dropping had admitted him to a new assemblage of pleasures. Launching a torpedo against a moving target demanded even greater precision and concentration than bombing, or firing a fighter's guns. It gave more excitement and gratification than bombing, because one saw its effects from much closer. The one sensation he knew that carne anywhere near providing the same rapture could be found only with an ardent woman: and his experience of torpedoes, although he had had only eight weeks' acquaintance with them, was - unfortunately, he thought - the greater. The more tender interludes in his life had not only been few, but also far between: from his initiation at twenty - by a prowling blonde some seven years older who carne to all the mess parties and was known as the squadron tart; although the only payment she solicited was a weekend in London or Brighton - to a tepid affair a year ago with the bored young wife of an elderly K.C.

  He had left home early and arrived at East Crondal in mid-morning. There was no hurry to book in at the Mess Secretary's office. He would like to meet any of the other pilots who were not flying. He walked out of the hangar and an airman carne bustling up, saluted and asked 'Flying Officer Alden, sir?'

  'Yes.'

  'Adjutant's compliments, sir, and will you please report to Squadron Leader Hanbury, in B Flight office, sir.'

  R.A.F. stations were built on few patterns, according to their age, and there were many similarities between these. Finding one's way about was not difficult. Alden walked along the line of doors. They were painted grey and on each was lettered, in white, the name and appointment of the occupant of the room behind it. He stopped at 'S/L J.J.J. Hanbury, A.F.C., O.C.B Flight'. He wondered whether the signwriter stuttered: J.J.J. looked improbable. Perhaps Jack Hanbury's parents had a warped sense of humour. He had heard the name while up at Oxford. Hanbury had been a test pilot, an instructor, had performed at the Hendon Air Display and had been awarded an Air Force Cross for his work at Farnborough and for making a record breaking flight to somewhere in the Middle East.

  At the instant of meeting his flight commander Alden recognised that he was in the presence of someone with as great ambition as himself. Hanbury was rather less than the current average height of British males. His stocky body gave the impression of power and Alden recalled hearing that he was a gymnast of nearly Olympic standard. He almost expected Hanbury to perform a somersault over his desk, or perhaps a standing backflip out of, and back into, his chair. Neither occurred. Instead, Hanbury stood up and walked round his desk with hand outstretched and a smile under his thick moustache. It was, Alden decided, a synthetic smile. Perhaps the moustache was as well? His fingers had an impulse to reach out and give it a tug to see whether it came off.

  The A.F.C. was not Hanbury's only medal. He sported the ribbons of the General Service and King George VI Coronation Medals and another of somewhat garish appearance which Alden concluded must be foreign. There were black hairs on the backs of his hands and fingers, which made them look cruel. Cruel they might be, but they were certainly deft and highly competent at the controls of any aircraft.

  'Take a pew, old boy. The C.O.'s put you on my flight. Did he tell you?'

  'No, sir.'

  Hanbury's genial laugh boomed about the small room. 'Knee-deep in humph... like' the rest of us… slipped his mind, no doubt. I gather you're a Cranwellian: bit after my time, but my deputy flight commander knows you; he was your year: Bruce Courtney.'

  'Bruce! It'll be good to see him again.'

  'I gather you had a bad prang in India and chucked the Service when you were grounded.'

  Evidently Hanbury had been interested enough to ask the Adjutant for Alden's documents a day or two ago. Alden did not know whether to be pleased or worried.

  'That's right, sir.'

  'You went up to Oxford?'

  'Yes. And a couple of years later I asked for a medical and got back my aircrew category. So I joined the University Air Squadron and then did a couple of longish stints of Reserve training last year and this summer.'

  'How many hours on the Vildebeest?'

  'Forty-seven... and fifty-two on Swordfish.'

  'So you know how to drop a torp?'

  Alden relaxed his features in what he hoped would be seen as a self-depreciating smile. 'In theory, yes. I have had some practice, but I need a lot more.'

  'Don't we all!' The modesty of this disclaimer was not convincing. 'But I'm afraid we aren't going to get much of a chance to show what we can do when the balloon does go up: we're rather marking time until our new Beauforts turn up. If we do happen to be sent on a target, it'll be to bomb.'

  'Better than nothing.'

  Hanbury's very bright blue eyes looked even more startling in contrast with his dark hair. They now took on a sort of glaze which had on Alden an effect akin to what he imagined must have been that of one of those death rays about which he used to read in boys' two penny comics. The hardness he saw in those shiny blue irises was a clue to the driving force that had impelled this man to test new and unproven aircraft dangerously to their very limits and to subject his mind and body to the stress and danger of pioneering flights.

  'Yes, better than nothing. It'll be damn good to have a crack at the Nazis at last. Hitler's been asking for it. Now, he's going to get it... right in the neck.' Hanbury paused and said, with a casualness that seemed to demand an effort, 'I met the little tick a couple of years ago in Berlin… at an air show. Nasty bit of work. Handshake like a wet jellyfish.' He paused again. 'None the less, I'd rather wait until we have the Beauforts. The Beest is too damn slow… at least, I think it is... can't really say, never having flown one under fire. Don't much want to!'

  They both dwelt in their thoughts on the unknown quantities of anti-aircraft shells, and bullets from a fighter's machineguns. It was not a matter to which Alden had given any speculation as yet. It came to him with a jolt that it was high time to do so.

  'You'll find Bruce in the crew room,' Hanbury said, ending the interview. 'You can do some familiarisation flying this afternoon.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'See you after lunch. I'm in quarters here, but I'll drop into the mess for a drink this evening.'

  Married quarters… Alden wondered what the redoubtable and dedicated - to the Service and his progress to its highest rank - Hanbury's wife was like… and whether he had reproduced himself yet... the notion of a child in that formidable image was somehow unnerving.

  But there was nothing unnerving about his old Cranwell contemporary and friend, Bruce Courtney. Courtney epitomised the popular notion of a fighter pilot and it seemed odd to find hi
m here, flying anything as sedate as a Vildebeest. Not that there was yet any widespread public image of a dashing fighter boy. The R.A.F. was not much in the public's mind in peacetime. The Navy had its Navy Weeks at Portsmouth and elsewhere, and from time to time it lost a submarine or did something bold with a gunboat in some corner of the empire. The Army was on display when trooping the colour on the sovereign's official birthday, at the Tidworth Tattoo and the Royal Tournament, and fought skirmishes in the Khyber Pass. All these performances and events drew attention to the two senior Services.

  The R.A.F. kept the peace in the Middle East, on the North-West Frontier, in many out of the way spots around the world. It earned little publicity and less public gratitude.

  But even the uninterested British had a fixed idea of the average aviator as a high-spirited, wild young man, forever crashing sports cars, getting a little drunk and breaking girls' hearts with callous promiscuity.

  Bruce Courtney had never crashed a car in his life, although he hared about in a red M.G. He got a trifle tight on guest nights but carried his drink like the gentleman he was. He loved girls' company, kissing, and bedding them when they permitted. But he took care not to mislead their expectations or hurt their feelings. He was an above average pilot and not averse to doing some hair-raising stunts whenever the opportunity occurred and he knew he could escape detection and retribution.

  He saw Alden enter the pilots' room and hesitate. He simultaneously hailed him and stood up. They met in the centre of the room and shook hands: Courtney beaming, Alden smiling as broadly as he ever permitted himself to.

  'Glad to see you again, Derek.'

  'I'm delighted you're here, Bruce.' It hurt a little to see someone of exactly the same seniority one rank his superior, however. Those bloody kitehawks! as the had said.

  Courtney introduced him to the dozen or so pilots, officers and sergeants, reading newspapers or chatting, who were seated around the room; dock-watching for the lunch stand-down. There was some desultory exchange of courtesies, then Courtney said 'As deputy flight commander of B Flight I'm going to introduce you to the Mess Sec.'

  'Still ten minutes to go.' The flight sergeant pilot who made the remark wore a grin and two campaign ribbons; the General Service, and the green, white and red of the India G.S. 1936--7. More significant still, these were preceded by the Empire Gallantry Medal.

  'The clock's slow, Flight. And we all know your watch has its own ideas about time. Come on, Derek.' Outside the room, Courtney said 'Flight Jenkins is a good type. He got his gong on the Frontier for bombing and strafing a mob of tribesmen who were about to massacre a platoon of infantry. His Wapiti was riddled and a bullet cut his watch strap. The watch bounced about on the cockpit floor and it's been erratic ever since. He still wears it for luck; and carries a reliable fob watch in his pocket.'

  'What happened to the soldiers?'

  'Thanks to Jenkins, they hung on until a couple of Valentias with full two-thousand-pound bomb loads were able to turn up and really bomb the Wogs.'

  'That's my car. Shall I follow you? My kit's in it.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  Driving off, Alden asked, 'What's the station commander like?'

  'Groupie Jameson? A bit dour: spells his name "lain" and wears the kilt on every possible occasion. Good type, though. Ex-Royal Naval Air Service. Transferred when the R.A.F. was formed.' On 1st April 1918, amalgamating the R.N .A.S. and Royal Flying Corps. 'He was a roaring success in the last war, I gather: got a D.S.C. in the Navy and a D.F.C. in the Mob, and picked up a D.S.O. betweenwhiles. A bit keen on bullshit: he's never forgotten all that deck-scrubbing he was brought up to at Dartmouth and in ships, before he saw the light and became an intrepid aviator.'

  'I thought the C.O. looked rather harassed.'

  'He chases both the squadron commanders in no ordinary fashion. But he's damned effective, there's no denying that. To change the subject: Jack Hanbury gave me a summary of what you did after you chucked the Service. What does it feel like to be back, after being what Groucho Marx calls a legal eagle?'

  'Chastening!'

  Courtney was not slow in the uptake. 'Oh, you'll get your second ring almost straight away, I should think; when the balloon goes up.' He turned a grave look on Alden. 'It is going to be war, isn't it? I mean, we Service types never really know what the bloody politicians will be up to; especially a fuddy-duddy prick like Chamberlain. What are people saying in London?'

  'I don't know any more than you do. But my father was lunching with our Member at the House of Commons on Monday, and he says we can't possibly avoid it: Hitler will go into Poland, for sure.'

  'Good. Ever since that Munich farce I haven't felt as though any amount of soap and water has really scrubbed the muck off me. Appeasement! God, what a disgrace!' That was enough of a serious mood. Courtney looked mischievous and asked, 'You haven't found yourself a wife?'

  'Can't afford one, Bruce.'

  'Me neither. Don't want to, anyway, at the moment. Got rather a presentable pusher at the moment, though.'

  Alden raised his eyebrows. 'Pusher?'

  'Welsh term. Flight Sergeant Jenkins's fault: he always uses it and he's got the whole squadron doing it. He lives for rugger, beer and pushers. Frightful little lecher. Unless he shoots a terrible line, he's almost unfailingly successful, what's more.'

  'I don't know whether you're censorious or envious, Bruce.'

  'Plain jealous, old boy.'

  'Not of his rugger, surely?' Courtney was a county centre three-quarter and an England trialist. There was a mocking inflection in Alden's voice.

  'Of all the grumble the little blighter gets. He's about the wiliest serum half I ever saw and I'm sure he uses the same tactics with the women.'

  'Grumble is a new word to me.'

  'Cockney rhyming slang, Derek: grumble and grunt...'

  Alden laughed. He had not felt so amused and generally unbuttoned for five years. The atmosphere of the University Air Squadron had been cheerful; and on his two periods at training schools as a Reservist 'he had found the spirit and attitudes jolly and friendly. But there was nothing like being back on an operational squadron. He was with his own kind once again and suddenly those five years seemed to have been twice as long; and yet, paradoxically, they seemed also to have vanished in a flash now that he was back in the environment he had first chosen to spend his working life in.

  'Let's have a drink while one of the batmen unloads your gear and totes it to your room,' said Courtney. 'Glad to be back?'

  'So much that I'm sorry ever to have had to be away.'

  'Good. And this time it's going to be for more than four years, I should think.'

  Courtney was counting the two years at Cranwell, which had certainly been happy ones. But R.A.F. life only really began when one joined a squadron, and Alden went up the mess steps relishing the fact that that was just what he had done; and revelling in it.

  Two

  There were three other recalled Reserve pilots on the station, one of whom was on Tregear's squadron. All were more out of practice than Alden. This did not lessen his anxiety when he took off for the first time from East Crondal. He knew that if they were not flying, their eyes would be on him as well as those of other pilots and ground crew.

  The wireless operator/air gunner detailed to accompany him was a red-faced, button-nosed West Countryman who looked cheerful and adolescent but was, Courtney informed him, a mature twenty. Leading Aircraftman Fussell had entered the Service as a 16-year-old apprentice and passed out of the training school at Cranwell three years later, a wireless operator mechanic, a Worn. He had volunteered to be an air gunner and was duly paid an extra shilling a day flying pay and, when he qualified, another sixpence a day for his aircrew trade. He also wore a winged brass bullet on his left sleeve. When not flying he did not sit around in the pilots' room. He worked in the Signals section or on the wireless equipment in the squadron's aeroplanes.

  He was standing by their aircraft waiting
for his pilot. He gave Alden a smart salute and said, 'Good afternoon, sir. L.A.C. Fussell.'

  'Good afternoon Fussell. This is going to be a bit of a bind, I'm afraid: just a sector recce.'

  'Suits me, sir. Give me a chance to make sure the set's on the top line. It was off tune when I D.I.'d it this morning.' A D.I. was a daily inspection.

  An hour's flying to familiarise himself with landmarks and generally enjoy himself suited Alden very well too. Fussell obtained some bearings and fixes for him which he did not need but were good practice for them both. They had a set procedure to go through and time passed quickly. Flying had never bored Alden and he was sorry when Fussell's voice on the-intercom announced, 'Base has sent P.U.F.O., sir.'

  Alden recalled with amusement the first time he had heard the message, years ago. The four Morse letters that signalled the end of an exercise and return to base stood for 'Pack up and fuck off': a terminology and abbreviation originated by some wireless operator, somewhere, at some early date in the Service's history. Alden duly did so and was relieved when he made a smooth landing. The last thing he wanted was to give his Wop/A.G. such a jolt that he would report the new pilot to be ham fisted, to his mates.

  Three more days spent with various Wop/A.G.s on navigation exercises, bombing practice and, for the Wop/A.G.s, air-to-air firing at a drogue towed by a Fairey Gordon superannuated bomber, had a sense of urgency and stern purpose. Germany had invaded Poland on the day after Alden's arrival at East Crondal. The R.A.F. was ordered to the alert and from that evening civilian clothes were not permitted when off duty. Alden found it difficult to register the full gravity of the situation until he went down from his bedroom to the ante-room for a pint of beer before dinner and found the place thronged with his comrades all in their best blue. Nobody was allowed off camp.

  Neville Chamberlain's uninspiring drone announcing the outbreak of war, broadcast by the B.B.C. at 11.15 a.m. on 3rd September, seemed an anticlimax. The whole station had been psychologically prepared to fight. But now that the moment had come, its two squadrons were impotent. They were resigned to the disappointment that they would not be called upon until their obsolescent Vildebeests had been replaced by Beauforts.