The Hidden War

by David Fiddimore

  I had gone too far for my weak ankle, and took twice as long to get back up the slope. I tried a short cut across the grass, but it was hopeless because my stick dug in. It was dark before I was within a hundred yards of the welcoming light from the windows of our pro tem accommodation hut. The only problem was that I hadn’t left the light on when I went out. I hoped that Elaine’s old man hadn’t found out she was playing at outside left, and tossed her out.

  Fergal was sitting on one of the other beds, a big cheap suitcase alongside him. He looked weary.

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  I was actually as tired as he looked, and my ankle throbbed. I sat down heavily on my own bed.

  ‘Hello, Fergal; run away?’

  ‘You were always good at keeping the stove in, Charlie. You must have a knack with them. No. I haven’t run away. I feel like running away, but I haven’t. You, me and a Nissen hut. Quite like old times isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not as big as the Grease Pit, but it’s not as draughty either. Our aircrews use it if they’re only here for a night, and haven’t a floozy up in the village to sleep on.’ The Grease Pit was what we’d called the hut we slept in when we were on the squadron. Grease had been our pilot. I told you before, Sergeants all. ‘So what are you doing down here? Checking up on me?’

  ‘No. I’m a shepherd between flocks. They’ve given me a new orphanage. It’s four times the size of the Liverpool one, and I’m going to be in charge.’

  ‘Is that a promotion?’

  ‘I think so, Charlie, but don’t congratulate me until you’ve heard the rest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s in Berlin; and your mob is going to fly me out there apparently. My boss has spoken to your boss, and fixed it up.’

  My initial response was Fuck it! But I actually observed, ‘Fergal, your boss is the Pope.’

  ‘I know. Impressive, isn’t it? Even if he was a bit of an old Nazi. Is that what they mean when they say friends in high places?’

  ‘Has anyone hinted that the Big City may not be the most comfortable place in the world for the next few months?’

  ‘Everyone. All the time.’ He did what he always did when he didn’t want to talk about something: he switched on a brilliant smile which made him look momentarily about fourteen years old. ‘I’m starving, Charlie. Have you got any scoff in this place, or will I be reduced to eating the blankets?’ Good practice for Berlin, I thought, but I didn’t tell him that.

  ‘Spam and beans, or bully and peas?’

  ‘How about both? Then you can show me to your pub. God won’t mind just this once.’

  Later we sat in the bar, and drank gently towards oblivion. Fergal’s black garb drew some glances, but no one had the nerve to say anything. Elaine was sitting in the corner with a man who looked like Desperate Dan. Brunton was at another table with an improbably pretty redhead. When Elaine smiled to him he pretended he hadn’t seen, and turned away. Elaine’s husband picked that up, and frowned. I could smell the trouble on the air like brimstone.

  On Monday morning, after we’d shaved, I asked Fergal to drive us up to The Parachute for breakfast. My ankle still didn’t like the changes of direction my car’s pedals demanded of it. There was a small crowd of groundies outside the office. We stopped alongside them. I asked the maintenance Chiefy, ‘What’s up? Nowhere to go?’

  ‘The office ain’t unlocked yet; Mr Brunton didn’t get in yet. We can’t get in to our locker room.’

  I looked at my watch. Nine twenty. Brunton was an eight ack emma man. Damn.

  ‘What about Elaine? Mrs Curtis?’

  ‘Her neither.’ He sniffed, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Chiefies are made, not born. Double damn.

  ‘Have you got a spare key?’

  He glanced from one side to the other before he replied, ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Then use it, fer chrissake. OK? My authority . . .’

  Then something strange happened. He straightened a little from his habitual hunch, and touched his forehead in something that once was a salute, years ago.

  ‘OK, Mr Bassett. Thank you, Mr Bassett.’ Mr Bassett. Me. As Fergal eased the Singer away from them he murmured, ‘Less of the for Christ’s sake, Charlie. He might hear you, and then we’ll both get into trouble.’

  I still couldn’t get over being called Mr Bassett by a man twice my age. Neither could I work out if that constituted a good start to the day, or a bad.

  When we got back Halton was behind Elaine’s desk, and both her telephones were ringing.

  ‘Where have you been? What do you think I pay you for?’ He was not a happy man.

  ‘Radios mostly, boss. Do you want me to take over?’

  Instead of snarling Yes at me he lost himself in a cough. Then he nodded his head fiercely. As he got it back under control I asked, ‘Where are the others?’

  I had to wait for the bell between another two rounds.

  ‘The squadron leader’s in hospital, and our secretary is in a cell at Dymchurch. So is her husband. Mrs Brunton’s on a train back to Auchtermuchty, or wherever she once came from. These are not unconnected events.’

  ‘Has the squadron leader been being a wicked old squadron leader, boss?’

  ‘No, Charlie . . . that’s your role in life’s little drama, isn’t it? Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on around here – Brunton got blamed for it, that’s all.’

  I looked away. I never like getting caught out.

  ‘Badly hurt?’

  ‘Broken jaw; two teeth. Then Elaine stabbed her husband with a fork. Terry Curtis has been charged with assault, and Elaine has been charged with stabbing him: we’ll be lucky to keep her out of prison.’ He seemed to notice Fergal for the first time. ‘Is this the priest?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  He smiled thinly at Fergal, and kept his hacking lungs in check.

  ‘Welcome to Lympne, Father. I understand that you were on Lancasters in the war?’

  ‘That would be correct, sur. Flight engineer.’ Fergal was pulling the tow-headed yokel trick.

  ‘Good. One of my pilots is ferrying a Lancastrian across to Wunstorf this afternoon for Airworks, you can cadge a lift, and work your passage.’

  ‘My pleasure, sur. It will be quite like old times.’

  The Old Man avoided the coughs, and shot back in an icy tone, ‘Old times are precisely what we’re hoping to avoid, Father.’

  ‘Aye aye, sur.’ Fergal was smiling. He knew the score all right.

  ‘Do you want me to go over as well?’ I asked Halton.

  ‘No, Charlie, you can stay here, and run the damned office until we get some of our staff back. It was probably all your fault anyway.’

  Old Man Halton was rumoured to be Plymouth Brethren, so the word damned revealed the depth of his anger and frustration. He’d probably have to confess to having used it to whatever god his lot bowed down to. Perhaps I’d ask Fergal to intervene for him; these bloody religions all seemed much of a muchness to me.

  Elaine stooged in after lunch. I asked her, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes. Terry won’t bring any charges. He told them it was an accident.’

  ‘Was it my fault? Halton seems to think so.’

  ‘Of course not, darling. Terry bashed Mr Brunton for looking at me the wrong way in the pub. Then Mrs Brunton kicked him when he was down: she must have agreed. I got angry and slapped Terry. Unfortunately I still had my fork in my hand. I’ll pop up and tell the Old Man, and apologize for getting in so late.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ That was Halton’s voice from the door way. ‘The Old Man heard you.’ Elaine blushed. I’d never seen that before. She looked younger. ‘Open the day’s mail as quick as you like, and bring it in . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘When can I have my manager back?’

  Elaine replied, ‘Friday week at the earliest, I’m afraid, sir. He can’t speak yet.’

  There was a short lull in the interchange, an
d then Halton stepped fully into the room: a light, neat step for a light, neat man. No coughs. He looked at me.

  ‘You know that I don’t approve of bad language, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, boss . . .’ What had I said now? ‘I . . .’

  He waved me to silence. ‘The problem is that there’s no direct way of saying what I want to say to you without it.’

  In for a penny. I asked, ‘What’s that, boss?’

  His little dark eyes bored into me. I was sure that this was the sack. Then he sighed, ‘You finally fucked your way to the top, Charlie. Take over until Brunton is back; all right? But no more hanky panky. Understood?’

  I think that what he meant was, Don’t get caught. I gulped and nodded.

  ‘Understood, boss . . . and thank you.’

  ‘Briefing in the boardroom in an hour. Elaine will have put the papers together by then. OK?’

  We both probably nodded in reply. I couldn’t have said anything if I’d wanted to.

  I went into Brunton’s small office, tried his desk for size, and let his big old leather chair swallow me. He had a small mirror above a shelf – he was that kind of squadron leader, if you know what I mean – and I caught a glimpse of my grinning face in it. I was thinking about what my mum would have thought if she could have seen me now . . . her little Charlie, running an airline. A small one maybe, and only for a week, but everyone has to start somewhere.

  In the outer office Elaine turned on the radio, and sang along with Aaron Aaronson. The song was ‘Let’s Misbehave’.

  One of the first calls I took was from the Customs. In reality Elaine answered all the calls, and had a gadget on her telephones which enabled her to switch a call through to telephones that lodged with Halton, the engineers or Brunton. It seemed like bloody magic to me.

  Holland said, ‘Hello, Charlie. Have you gone up in the world?’

  ‘It’s only temporary. Our manager got into a fight last Friday, and I’m sitting in his chair until he gets back.’

  ‘I hope you’ve got a fat cushion, so you can see over the desk.’ What is it with these tall guys?

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your bill: in print that is. I have to get the chitties in by the end of the month. Your Mr Brunton was going to invoice me by today.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Storing the King’s aeroplanes. I hope you still have my five Spits parked on your lawn. I seized them last week.’

  ‘Yes, they’re still there. How do you seize an aircraft?’

  ‘You lay your hand on it, and solemnly declare it seized in the names of the Commissioners of Customs and Excise . . . it’s almost like muttering a spell. Then you explain to its previous owner, if you have him to hand, that it now belongs to the King . . . or in the case of one of those Spits, that it now belongs to the King again.’

  ‘I thought it was tactless of you to bring them here.’

  ‘I have to use the nearest operational civvy airport, old boy; the opposition would have smelled a rat if I’d taken them anywhere else. Thank you, by the way – we are in your debt.’

  I almost said, I’d prefer not to talk about it here, before something occurred to me.

  ‘Did you catch up with the . . . the . . . new owners?’

  ‘No. A pity about that. We got the pilot who was taking them out, poor sod. He’d already got one away.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘Prison probably, unless he legs it. He was out of work. There must be thousands like him.’

  ‘Yeah; poor sod,’ I echoed. ‘What happens to the aircraft?’

  ‘After we’ve been to court we’ll sell them again.’

  ‘. . . And what happens to you; a gold star in your exercise book?’

  The pause told me I’d offended him.

  ‘No, old boy; better than that. Money. We get paid seizure rewards, just for doing our jobs . . . and aeroplanes come pretty high up the list. Thanks to you, I’ve five of them. I must remember to buy you a lollipop some time.’

  ‘What will you do with the money?’

  The pause this time was reflective. He was genuinely striving for a reply I’d understand.

  ‘I’ve always had a hankering to take Mrs Holland on a really long motoring holiday: caravanning. I’ll probably buy a brand-new caravan to tow behind the Jaguar.’

  I hadn’t forgotten that I’d won him that either.

  ‘You must enjoy your work . . .’

  ‘Funnily enough old boy, I do. Laugh a minute . . .’

  I told him that I’d get someone to send him his bloody invoice, and put the phone down before he did.

  Then Fergal called me from Wunstorf. He was stuck there, but thought he could get a lift into Berlin on an RAF Hastings in a couple of days. They’d put him into that huge accommodation block.

  ‘This is a horrible fucking country, Charlie. I hate it already. Me mam asked me to bring her back a Dresden china shepherdess.’

  ‘Dresden doesn’t exist any more in a meaningful sense. Didn’t we knock it down and burn the bits in 1945? You’ll probably have to get half a dozen shepherdesses, and stick one together from all the bits: it will give you something to do while you wait. Anyway, Fergal, you’re not supposed to swear. Priests aren’t supposed to swear; Mr Halton doesn’t like it either.’

  ‘Living in the remains of Germany would make anyone swear.’

  ‘You’ll feel much better once you’ve got your orphanage to look after.’

  There is something I like about ex-servicemen: they don’t duck the issue, do they? There was a gap, into which he quietly asked, ‘Am I going to be able to feed these children when things get tough, Charlie . . . or will I just have to sit there and watch them starve?’

  It was my turn to fill a gap: Fergal always put the screws on you without you realizing it. I replied, ‘You’ll always be able to feed them, Fergal. You have my word. I promise. Go and get drunk now, with some nice accommodating American girl: they really go for clergymen. Everything will look better in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Charlie.’

  ‘Sooner than you think. Bye, Fergal.’

  Chapter Twelve

  They announced the shutdown of Berlin and the official start of the Airlift a few days later, but no one invited Halton Airways to the party. The newspapers said that our bold RAF and USAF boys could handle it alone: only the Daily Mirror had the wit to ask if they actually had enough aircraft any more – but even the Mirror buried the query at the bottom of page three. Most tabloid newspapers have better things to do with page three these days. The name they gave the British end of the show was Operation Plainfare. I’ve also seen that spelled Planefare, which was a nice pun if you’re into that sort of thing. Old Man Halton didn’t seem all that worried. He just went out, and bought another rustbucket of a Dakota to chum up with Whisky. He was spending most of his time in his London club, entertaining pals from the RAF and the Air Ministry.

  Unfortunately for him the commercial paint shops had run out of red paint. I know that the idea of running out of paint is a bit of a novelty to you, but if you’d been around in the Forties you’d have had the experience of running out of all sorts of ordinary things. The Kirbigrip crisis of 1949 is a good example; it led to women fastening their hair in place with pipe cleaners. Within a fortnight we’d exhausted the pipe-cleaner supply, and men were cleaning their pipes with stalks of grass, and so it goes. Luckily we’ve never been all that short of grass. Anyway they had to paint the new C-47 with the nearest bloody colour they could get, which turned out to be a very deep reddish pink. It looked absolutely bloody disgusting – like a flying boudoir. Before the Old Man could dig into his Wizard of Oz bag again someone called it The Pink Pig, and that stuck. She even ended up with a PP registration, and a fat black porker painted on her snout.

  The blockade of West Berlin by the Soviets had been finally provoked by the Allied imposition of a new currency that the Reds couldn’t control, forge or manipulate. W
hatever the Russian phrase for throwing the rattle out of the pram is . . . they did it. Although it’s worth asking why, however often we manage to blame the enemy, the ultimate provocation to war – or its declaration – is usually down to the British. Truly we are not the peace-loving nation we would like to be taken for. The Russians had been planning it for months of course, but then so had we – which is why we had enough planes and materials in place before long. Not many people knew that. As far as they were concerned it was Berlin Airlift sudden shock horror.

  When the Reds shut down the roads, the canals and the railways we still had two functioning airfields, Gatow and the Tempelhof – although we opened up another in the French Zone later – and the air corridors between them and the West had already been guaranteed inviolable by treaty. All that was left was to find out if the Russkis would allow us to fly the corridors in peace, and whether we had the materials and will to supply half a city under siege. Brunton hadn’t come back to us, and Mrs Brunton hadn’t come back to him. Chiefy said the rumour was that she’d got off the northbound train at Liverpool, went into a pub with a Lascar seaman, and hadn’t been seen since. Maybe Brunton would find himself on the market again, once he stopped eating his meals through a straw. I didn’t care as much as I should have done, because his office and records were in a shocking mess, and most evenings I found myself back behind the desk, sorting them out. The truth is that the bastard, like most ex-officers, couldn’t run a kiddy’s train set, let alone a small airline.

  James called me up a few days into the crisis. He asked, ‘Is this it, then?’