The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  William nearly fell off his chair. Could he let them in on the details of his next appointment? Well, perhaps he could.

  “I know Jacky well,” he burst out. “We used to see a lot of each other in London years ago when I was at the Slade and he was at RADA. I haven’t seen him for some time though.”

  “What? You know him? Oh, how I’d love to meet him. He’s so attractive, and brave too; they say he does all his flying himself. Most actors they have stunt men to do that for them.”

  Angela was quite carried away, then suddenly she remembered Hans and his flying, and she looked at William’s uniform.

  “Oh God, what a tragedy it all is,” she whimpered.

  The remark froze the conversation. Not another word passed from her lips until it was time for them to go. She sat broodingly silent, thinking how things might have been if it wasn’t for this bloody war. William sensed her unhappiness; at one moment she had been so lively and full of joy, but now so downcast. She was the most exciting, the most vibrant girl he had ever met, and so beautiful in her immaculate uniform, but there was something gnawing at her that he did not understand and he felt a longing to get closer. Leaving the Corner House, he seized a moment to confront her.

  “Look, Angela, are you doing anything after the film? No? Then meet me in the theatre bar at the Odeon Leicester Square at ten. I may be able to arrange something. Come on, it’ll be fun, but you’ll have to come by yourself; it’ll be impossible if you bring your friends.”

  Arriving at the Royal Dragoon William bought himself a pint and waited. The wait was not long. A bar waiter came over to him and whispered. “Mr Portman, sir? I have a message for you from a friend.” He handed him a scrap of paper. “The Ritz, quick as you can, room 257.” Taxis were still running and William sped to the Ritz.

  “Room 257?” The desk clerk looked doubtfully at him. “Do you have an appointment?” For once William was rude and short-tempered.

  “Yes, and what has that got to do with you?” he snapped.

  “Mr Simple is not to be disturbed this evening.”

  “I’ll disturb Mr Simple, all right, take me there right away.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  A phone call later and William was ushered into the hallowed room. Jacky had put on weight since William had last seen him, but he was the same decent, direct fellow and still as amazingly handsome as ever, with slow, easy, graceful movements and a languid, but somehow watchful manner.

  “William, wonderful to see you. Whisky? Good. So sorry about the change of venue but my bloody minders refused to let me out by myself in London. Said it would break my contract. You see, I have to put in an official appearance on the day after tomorrow at some “do” or other and I am supposed to have just stepped off the plane from the US. Take my tip, old boy, never get into films. Anyway, I desperately needed to see you, I heard you were in the RAF, but first tell me what you have been up to.”

  William filled him in as far as he could.

  “Well, the thing is,” went on Jacky, “I’m probably a fool, but I feel I have got to do something for my country, England, so I’m giving up this film business for a bit, and I’ve written to the RAF to see if they’ll have me. They say ‘Yes please’. The studio is furious, of course, but my attorney tells me that there is a clause in my contract which lets me pull out in the circumstances. I’ve got four hundred flying hours in my log book, mostly in the States and I’m sure I could be useful somehow. Also, with due modesty, I think my joining the fight may have some impact on public opinion in the States. Back there they all think you’re beaten already, you know. What I really need now is someone who can fill me in about life in the RAF. Can you help?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Oh thanks, William, now how about some dinner? We have a special arrangement here so in spite of the rationing we can get quite a decent steak, how about it?”

  The steak duly consumed, William began to wonder what he could do about the meeting with Angela, so hastily arranged. He was desperate to see her again and, what with the war and postings coming up, this might be the only chance. He shared the problem with his old friend.

  “Hell, but we haven’t finished talking yet,” exclaimed Jacky, “and there you are after this girl you’ve only just met. Tell you what. Elmer here, my sort of sidekick, he’ll run up to Leicester Square and find her. He’s good at that sort of thing, then she can join us here.”

  William was a bit anxious about the arrangement. Would she come? Would Jacky bowl her over to such an extent that he himself would be forgotten? Anyway, off Elmer set and Jacky started quizzing him in detail about life in the RAF. When did he have to salute? How should he address various ranks? How much free time would he get? Had William flown a Spitfire (he hadn’t)? What training would he need before getting into combat? The two were still deep in conversation when a flustered Angela was ushered into the room. She was at first dumbstruck to be in the presence of the great film star himself, but he put her at her ease, and she was soon showing her usual gaiety and charm, quizzing him about Hollywood, his life, the various girls he had worked with and the films he had been in. William began to feel a bit out of the conversation but, to his delight, she flashed him the occasional smile and actually winked once or twice when Jacky said something outrageous. As the chatter went on and the drinks kept coming, a curious thought struck him. This was Jacky performing an act he had done many times before and he had perfected it. He wasn’t really interested in Angela at all. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in any girls ever. He was just an actor doing his stuff.

  It was after midnight when the party broke up. William and Jacky arranged a lunch meeting the following day to talk further about service matters and William was left to escort Angela back to the grotty Bayswater hotel where she and her colleagues were billeted. There were almost no taxis left on the streets, but it was a fine warm night and they decided to walk the mile or so. William never forgot that walk. Angela was elated, walking on air, thrilled by the meeting with her hero. But there seemed to be something else. She was willing to laugh at some of the things he had said; but she was not infatuated by his personality. She seemed to regard William as her ally in the whole affair, the miraculous person who had arranged for her to meet him and whom she actually preferred to be with. Hands were held tightly as they sauntered along the deserted streets and talk came easily, naturally. Reaching the door of the hotel, nothing seemed more natural than an embrace and a long, gentle kiss which lifted William onto a plane of happiness and desire which he had never before experienced. This girl – he had only known her for a few hours – but she was now the most important thing in his life. How could he possibly wait until tea time tomorrow when they would meet again?

  Jacky had had an early meeting with someone from the Air Ministry and had been told that he was to be posted to an advanced training unit in south Wales. It appeared that half a dozen other US recruits had turned up and they were to be trained together with some escapees from Poland, Czechoslovakia and France before being posted to operational squadrons. In spite of being over thirty years old, he would then be posted to a fighter squadron (most fighter pilots were in their teens or early twenties). It seemed that the RAF was going to try to make a propaganda success out of him. William was a little concerned that Jacky might have overstated his flying skills at his interview but he said nothing about it as the two friends talked over lunch. Then it was time to go to meet Angela again.

  “Boy, that chick sure does something to you,” said Jacky. He sure was right.

  Tea with Angela was taken in a quiet café in Shepherd’s Market. She was lovely as always and bursting with news. “We’ve had our postings! I have to leave for Southampton the day after tomorrow. No details but the rumour has it that I’ll be on a Med bound hospital ship. Isn’t it exciting!”

  It was altogether too exciting for William’s taste; he wanted this wonderful girl safe in England. Anything could happen to a hospital ship. But
Angela was eager to talk. She told him all about her PhD, and how she had abandoned it for nursing. She was so much happier, she said, doing something really useful. The more she talked the more he loved her. He felt sympathy with all her aspirations and her worries. They sat and chatted regardless of time until the café closed and it was time to saunter off to find some dinner. Angela herself could not explain why she felt so at home with this RAF officer. He was calm, kind and somehow sympathetic, but she also detected a trace of vulnerability. He was a little hesitant when giving orders to the waiter, for example, and his slightly unsteady gaze seemed to suggest a man not entirely confident in himself, one who needed understanding, yes – and love.

  Suddenly, over dinner, something went wrong. Maybe it was sparked by the far-off wail of an air raid siren. Perhaps it was the crisp note of a fighter zooming overhead. There was no air raid, but without warning, Angela started to sob quietly into her handkerchief. William bent anxiously towards her.

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s nothing,” she gulped.” It’s just that…”

  William seized her hand.

  “What, my darling, what is it? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “No no, I’m not afraid of anything, it’s just that… Oh well, I must tell you, you’re bound to find out anyway. I had a boyfriend just before the war. Hans was his name and he was a German airman. Oh, he was sweet and kind, rather like you, darling, but I just couldn’t go on with him. His job was to bomb this country. How could I possibly have got involved? But he seemed only a boy, so unsophisticated and innocent in a way. I’m supposed to be intelligent and yet I think I fell in love with him, for a time anyway. Him, a bomber pilot. Oh, how could I have been such a fool?”

  In the days and months that were to come, William could not get this German out of his mind. How dare he intrude on his Angela? Who did he think he was, parading about in England? How could a Luftwaffe officer possibly be sweet and charming? He loathed this man he had never seen and raged inwardly against him. With luck, he consoled himself, he was at that very moment being shot out of the sky by some avenging Hurricane.

  In spite of all this the meal finished pleasantly enough and there was another blissful walk home through the darkened streets. He could not see his love the next day, as he had arranged a visit to godfather Flopsy in the East End, but he would see her off on her train on the following day.

  The platform at Waterloo was crowded with nursing officers and their families. William pushed his way through the crowd to find Angela talking to an elderly couple whom he took to be her parents. A young man was with them; he was in the uniform of a Second Lieutenant in the Hampshire Regiment. Who was he? Another ex-boyfriend? The matter was soon settled when he was introduced as her brother, Rory. He had come up on the train from Winchester to see Angela off. It was a little awkward meeting the family in these circumstances. He wished he had been alone with his love, but she was ebullient and excited, occasionally giving his hand a secret squeeze. The whistle went and the train pulled out of the station, leaving the four standing forlornly on the platform. “How strange,” said Rory to William. “Here we are, trained to fight but standing safely in London while Angela, an academic and a nurse, is being whisked away into a war zone.” It was not a tactful remark. His father, Sir Felix Pointer, a high court judge, swallowed hard and hid his face and Lady Pointer gave way to a fit of quiet, persistent sobbing. Rory had an hour to wait for his train and he and William repaired to a dingy station bar to wait.

  “She told me that you had talked together about her German friend,” Rory said over his beer.

  “Yes, did you meet him?”

  “I did, actually. Hans and I spent two weeks together and I have to say that I found him charming; although he was a Prussian, he was not at all the typical German officer. He was quite amusing and good company. Good sailor, too. The family lived in a castle somewhere near the Polish border, I think.”

  A strange thought came into William’s head. A Prussian? Living in a castle? Called Hans?

  “You don’t know his surname, do you?”

  “Yes, I remember it because it means something like mushroom, I believe. It was von Pilsen.”

  Von Pilsen! This must be his cousin, Albricht’s son. William turned quite white. He had to make an excuse and leave the bar to recover. After two minutes he staggered back to his new friend.

  “Are you feeling all right, old boy? Maybe this beer is a bit off. I thought it tasted funny.”

  “I’m OK, but I just remembered I have to be at a meeting in fifteen minutes, all the best, nice meeting you, take care.” With that, William was off to brood over the horrific thought that Angela had been, perhaps even still was, in love with his first cousin.

  Chapter 8

  Jacky’s career as an RAF officer started later that same week. His colleagues were a mixed bunch; some of the Czechs and Poles were already experienced pilots and only needed a brief introduction to British procedures and fighting technique. The Americans were mostly leisure flyers with only a few solo hours. He himself had handled all sorts of aircraft and performed mock battles and stunt flying in everything from World War One biplanes to modern Curtiss fighters, but almost all his experience had been in sunny California, mostly in cloudless skies, very different from the grey clouds and rainstorms of Wales. After a few circuits in a Harvard trainer, his instructor led him over to one of the Spitfires standing outside the hangar. He showed him the controls and talked for a few minutes about handling the machine. “You’ll have no trouble with her in the air,” he said, “but remember that you can’t see in front of you when taxiing. You just have to weave from side to side to see where you are going. The undercarriage is narrow and not too strong. We lose more machines on the ground than in the air, but I can see you’re a pretty fair pilot, just take it gently.”

  “He was certainly right about taxiing,” thought Jacky as he wove his way unsteadily to the end of the runway. He felt more than a little scared as he got a green from the control tower and opened the throttle. The noise and power of the Merlin engine were terrifying as the plane accelerated bumpily down the runway. Then she was off. The sensation was fantastic. This aircraft was something much, much more than a machine. It seemed to know where he meant it to go before he even moved the controls. It responded eagerly and willingly to his every command with precise, elegant movements. He came in to land and put her down perfectly, exactly where he wanted. The instructor climbed up onto the wing.

  “OK?” he asked.

  “Great.”

  “Well, then, take her up again, throw her about a bit, try some aerobatics, see how you get on.”

  The love affair between man and machine blossomed. Jacky spent a glorious hour throwing the Spit about the sky, playing with the clouds, looping, rolling and pulling the tightest turns he had ever done. If this was life in the RAF give me more of it, he thought.

  Before the terrible pilot losses of the Battle of Britain, the RAF thought it had enough fighter pilots and there was not much pressure on the advanced training units to rush men through their courses. Jacky and his colleagues spent ten weeks in Wales learning about the machines, their engines, their armament, practising air gunnery and combat tactics. During those ten weeks, German forces stormed through the Low Countries and Eastern France. The Dunkirk evacuation took place and Fighter Command found itself thrust into the position of the sole defender of Britain from the threatened onslaught of the Wehrmacht. Aircraft were now being produced in sufficient quantities but gradually losses over France and in the defensive battles over southern England drained away trained aircrew so quickly that the training establishments, including half-trained pilots, instructors, and administration staff, found themselves drafted into the front line. Sometimes poor fellows with only ten hours experience on single seaters found themselves trying to survive in front-line squadrons. Jacky’s intake of assorted foreigners therefore turned out to be in better shape than many of the new British recruits to Fighter
Command. He himself was posted to a squadron based near Salisbury, which was responsible for defence of Portland and Southampton. The mess of 609 Squadron was friendly and hospitable. Of course, Jacky’s reputation as a film star was known to all and sundry but he had become adept at keeping a low profile, taking jokes about himself and not flashing his wealth around. Though he was by far the oldest pilot officer in the squadron, he neither expected nor received any special treatment. His first three operational flights he flew as wing man to a twenty-year-old Flight Lieutenant, Arthur Wadkin. Wadkin had flown Hurricanes throughout the Battle of France and the Dunkirk evacuation. He was a steady, cautious pilot, that’s how he had survived those terrible months, but he also had four confirmed kills to his credit. Jacky was wise enough to follow his lead closely. “Your job,” said Arthur, “is to watch my tail and keep as close as possible. We’ll lose each other as the scrap develops of course but try to keep close. If Jerry is around, two things are vital. Keep looking in your mirror and never, never, fly straight. An Me109 is faster than you at altitude and they come out of the sun at a rate of knots. Fly straight just for ten seconds and they’ll have you on toast.” The first three operations were uneventful. Radar vectored them onto some attacking bombers but in all three cases the enemy had dropped their load and turned for home long before 609 got anywhere near them.