Stracandra Island

by Graham R Swift

  “Thanks mum.”

  “Now away with you and get yourself down to that boat if you’re going, before I find you something here to do.”

  “How’s it going?” she asked, climbing down the steel ladder onto the fishing boat’s rear deck.

  “Just about finished lass,” her father answered, with the makings of a smile on his weather-beaten face.

  “Did you see the rescue boat go out, Issy?” her brother asked, wiping his oily hands on a piece of dirty rag.

  “Yes! I watched it from the cliff path. You’re putting more on than taking off with that! And don’t call me Issy, you know I don’t like it,” she told him, sternly.

  “Get some clean stuff from the wheelhouse David,” her father suggested, winking at his daughter.

  “So have you heard what the emergency is?” she enquired, sitting down on an upturned fishing box.

  “No, nary a word lass, but you know how tight-lipped the RAF can be about what they are up to, especially when they have a rescue on; your laddie Trevor Roach would only tell you what he wanted you to know,” her father answered, taking the waste rag from his son.

  “He sounds a nice chap Isobel, I would have liked to have met him; has he written to you to let you know how he’s getting on at his new camp?” her brother asked, sitting down next to her.

  She went quiet for a few moments. “Well you might as well both know, because if I don’t tell you, mother will. He wrote and told me he has met someone else and he has ended the relationship between us, so that’s the end of that,” she sighed.

  “Oh! I’m sorry to hear that lass, you both seemed to be getting on quite well together.”

  “I thought so too dad.”

  “He sent you a ‘Dear John’ did he, the bastard?”

  “Now David, I don’t like to hear language like that in front of your sister.”

  “Anyway what is a ‘Dear John’?” she asked, turning to look at her brother.

  “It’s RAF terminology for the type of letter that you have had from Roach; it means he or she is ending the relationship.”

  “Oh! I see, so girls are quite often sent these when you airmen are sent elsewhere, have you sent one?” she asked sharply, giving her brother a withering look of disapproval.

  “No. Not as yet,” he laughed, giving her a nudge with his shoulder.

  “You’ll tell me anything to keep me quiet David Hamilton! But I will tell you one thing, I’ll not be having anything to do with airmen anymore, that’s for sure,” she snapped, getting up and making for the ladder.

  Duncan Hamilton looked at his son and lifted his eyes. “That’s enough said on that subject,” he said quietly, as he watched his daughter skilfully climb the steel rungs up to the quayside.

  “She can be a fiery one that sister of mine at times!”

  “Aye! She gets that from her mother, but I wouldn’t change either of them. Fancy a pint son on the way back? The Argyll should just about be opening by the time we get there.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he answered, falling into step behind his father.

  “I suppose those two have stopped off at Robbies for a pint?” her mother asked, as she finished serving Helen McAlister.

  “They were heading in that direction the last I saw of them,” Isobel replied as she came in, closing the shop door behind her.

  “So how is that lovely young man of yours Isobel, I hope he’s well?”

  Isobel looked at the elderly spinster and smiled. “As a matter of fact Miss McAlister we’ve ended our relationship, if you must know,” she told her, knowing full well it would be all around Melruish by the following morning.

  “Well! It’s probably for the best with him being so far away now,” her face lighting up as she made for the door with her new found gossip.

  Isobel saw her mother looking at her from behind the counter. “It will come out sooner or later, so why not now? It will give them something to talk about over the next day or two until they light on their next victim,” she laughed, going through to the rear of the premises.

  “So how much longer have you got, Dave?” Robbie asked, while pulling the two pints and setting them up on the bar.

  “I go back on Tuesday.”

  “But you’re not flying are you?”

  “No! I’m on my rest period,” he told him, making eye contact with his father who was beckoning towards an empty table.

  “That’s the trouble with living in a small community like Melruish – everybody wants to know your business,” his father said quietly, as they sat down. “So this new camp you are going to, you say it’s in Dumfries and Galloway and it’s a gunnery school?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It’s the No 3 Air-Gunnery School at Castle Kennedy, it sounds as though I will be teaching sprog gunners.”

  “Well, there is one thing lad, you’ll be well out of harm’s way over there.”

  Dave took a long drink of beer and stared at the fire, his mind going back to their last sortie.

  “What is it David?” his father asked, quietly.

  “Don’t say anything to my mother or Isobel dad, but we had a dicey do on this last one.”

  Duncan could see the strain on his son’s face but also sensed he wanted to talk about it. “What was it, anti-aircraft fire?”

  “No, a night fighter. Twice he came round, the second time he hit our starboard wing and outer engine, fortunately Will put a long burst into him and shot him down, but even so we only just made it back on three engines.”

  “You liked Will didn’t you son?”

  “Aye, he was a good friend, even though he was a Sassenach,” he laughed.

  “Have you got his address?”

  “Yes! We said we would keep in touch with one another.”

  “What you will have to do is next time you get some leave, drop this Will a line, or if you can, phone him and arrange to have your leave together, he’s not far away being stationed on Tiree, he can use the spare bedroom while he’s here, we’ll have a word with your mother about it when we get back.”

  “Thanks dad, that’s a great idea.”

  “Right! That’s sorted then. Drink up lad, we’ll have one more before we go.”

  Chapter Six

  WILL DID HIS BEST to settle in to his new job in the armoury, but found it hard; he missed the buzz and camaraderie of an operational station, and he had also soon come to realise that there was never going to be any love lost between Nelson and himself; they were poles apart and that would never alter. His friendship with Keith Stanbury and the other members of his crew seemed to irritate Nelson, which Will exploited for his own amusement. Word had also spread among the other flight crews that he had survived two tours of duty on Bomber Command which didn’t help the situation and made him a bit of a celebrity which he didn’t like, being of a reserved nature. Mixing with the Met crews he did pick-up quite a lot of gen as to what was involved in flying these meteorological flights and also the atrocious weather conditions the crews had to endure to bring back their reports. The bomber crews had quite often taken the Met briefings with a pinch of salt as weather conditions that had been predicted were often wrong, but he had secretly admitted to himself the more he listened, that the cost had been high in some cases to get those reports to the bomber squadrons.

  He had been in the mess after being on duty over the weekend when he saw Squadron Leader Barfield (Johnny) Walker heading in his direction. Barfield Walker was O/C flying. Of a jovial disposition, sporting a huge handle-bar moustache, he was very seldom seen without a large glass of whisky in his hand when off-duty – hence he soon acquired the name ‘Johnny’ after a certain brand of well-known Scottish Whisky. Intrigued as to what was on, Will eyed him cautiously as he watched him pull back a chair and sit down opposite him, leaning forward so as to keep their conversation out of earshot of others who may be listening.

  “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you want to get back to flying and also that you’ve been on duty over the w
eekend?” Walker asked, holding Will’s gaze.

  “You’re correct on both counts sir,” he replied, drinking down the remainder of his tea.

  “So are you on stand down for a couple of days?”

  Will nodded before answering. “Yes, sir.”

  “If I square it with the A/O, would you undertake a Bismuth operation for me tomorrow morning with Flight Sergeant Lambert and his crew, they are short of a rear gunner?”

  “Yes! I would sir,” he proclaimed, enthusiastically.

  Take-off was rescheduled for 09.00hrs due to a problem with the aircraft. After partaking in a good breakfast, attending the briefing, he made his way to the safety equipment section and put on his Taylor suit, collected his parachute and survival rations then made his way out to the waiting transport to take them out to the dispersal where their aircraft, T-Tommy stood waiting. Settling himself into the familiar surroundings of the Halifax’s rear turret, he went through the general procedure laid down for all air gunners before take-off. Satisfied all was as it should be, he sat back against the turret doors and looked out at the lush green landscape behind him and wondered how many times he had thought if he would see again the all too familiar scenes – a hedgerow with its well-worn gate, a farmer working his land, a distant village with its church spire, all the things we take for granted but which could suddenly be ended by an accurate burst of flak or the guns of a German night fighter, but even so it felt good to be doing again what he loved best, flying. Reporting back, he told the skipper that everything was on top line as the aircraft slowly started to move from its dispersal point onto the perimeter track for its journey round to the active runway.

  There was the usual wait until they got permission to take-off and Will used the time to regulate the heat to his flying suit. With a loud hiss from the brakes being released, the Halifax started to gather speed; Will noticed that there wasn’t the usual gathering of well-wishers by the side of the runway like there normally was on a bomber station. The four 1,480hp engines made easy work of the climb out, being devoid of a heavy bomb load, and they were soon out over the sea turning onto their course, due west for a distance of 700 nautical miles. Once clear of the coast and checking there was nothing below them, Will asked permission to test fire the guns; with permission granted, he gave the four Brownings a short burst and reported back that they were all okay then settled down to the lonely vigil of quartering the sky for any signs of the enemy. The outward leg was uneventful and after they had turned on to their northeast heading he had done a change over with the wireless operator and was sat in the rest position tucking into his flight rations when he felt the start of the turbulence and by the time he had returned to his turret the weather had deteriorated beyond all recognition from the earlier blue skies. The descent down to fifty feet on their ‘sea level’ run to measure the sea level pressure, this occurring every fifty nautical miles throughout the flight, gave them some respite from the constant buffeting, but the climb back to their operating height of nineteen thousand feet was an uncomfortable affair.

  Rain streaked down the front of the turret making visibility difficult and it was much colder at this altitude, forcing him to turn up the heat on his flying suit, while all the time his experienced eyes constantly searched the grey/black clouds for any sign of aircraft movement. They landed back at base just after 19.00hrs; they had been airborne for ten hours with a large proportion of the flight being flown in atrocious weather. Emerging from the aircraft’s dark interior and carrying their respective equipment, they in turn climbed aboard the waiting transport and Will found himself next to the skipper.

  “So what did you think of your first Met flight?” Lambert asked, offering him a cigarette which Will declined.

  “I enjoyed it, beats being stuck in the bloody armoury all day.”

  Lambert gave him the makings of a smile. “I suppose it does.”

  “What happens to the data we have collected?” Will asked.

  “It will have been sent around the airfields and used for weather forecasting for the next twelve hours.”

  “I never realised there was so much involved in these Met flights, it’s quite a complicated procedure, isn’t it?”

  “It can be. We have a sortie called the Bismuth O over the North Sea, tracks are flown at low levels with a number of sounding ascents; it’s to check the easterly airflows threatening the east coast fighter bases with harr, fret or clag. Flights are timed so that the climbs and descents are close to the international radio-sond time of 1200GMT, this is usually achieved with an 08.00 take-off so that takes some accurate flying and time keeping during the flight,” Lambert told him, taking a long draw on his cigarette.

  Will was suitably impressed as the crew bus came to a halt outside the de-briefing section; clutching his parachute as he waited his turn to alight, he thought he had better curtail in future the rude comments he had made about the Met forecasting and how often they had been wrong.

  After a meal in the mess he made his way back to his room, thoughts of a shower and an early night foremost in his mind, only to find Colin his room-mate hastily packing.

  “Where you off to all in a hurry?” he asked, rolling onto his bed.

  “I’m posted Will, to Pembroke Dock in South Wales – a Sunderland squadron, I’m off in the morning.”

  Will could see the excitement in the young navigator’s eyes. He had been through the same youthful enthusiasm at the start of his first tour.

  “Have you ever flown in a Sunderland, Will? They say they are a lovely kite to fly in, dead reliable and bags of room in them and a galley by all accounts, I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “No! I’ve never had anything to do with flying boats,” he said, with his eyes closed. “Is that what you put in for – Coastal Command?”

  “Actually, I put in for either Bomber or Coastal Command! I wasn’t bothered which I got as long as I got on ops.”

  “Well, I think you’ve got the best bet out of the two with Coastal, you have a better chance of marrying that Nottingham girl you keep on about; the odds on you completing a tour on Bomber Command aren’t all that great,” he laughed.

  “You have survived two tours Will?”

  “Yes, I know. But I’m a bloody good air gunner, think of all the poor sods who aren’t!” His pretentious remark started them both off laughing.

  “Anyway, are you going to have a drink with me after you get cleaned up?”

  “Of course I will, give me half an hour and I’ll see you in the bar, okay?”

  The party was well underway when he arrived and a pint was immediately thrust into his hand. He had just got into conversation with Daphne, a pretty WAAF officer who had caught his eye, when he was confronted by Flight Lieutenant Nelson.

  “Ha! Madden, back from our little soiree are we?” he said sarcastically with a smirk on his face.

  “Well, we have to know when the odd shower is coming, so you don’t get wet between the officer’s mess and your office, don’t we sir?” he fired back, his remark having the desired effect as he watched the smirk suddenly disappear from Nelson’s face.

  “I’ll expect you in the armaments section, on time tomorrow morning Madden, is that understood?”

  Will let the remnants of a smile spread across his face. “I’ll be there,” he answered quietly, as he watched Nelson turn on his heels and head off in the direction of his two drinking companions.

  Daphne took a long draw on her cigarette from the corner of her mouth “Aren’t you two getting on?” she enquired, holding her cigarette upwards and stroking the underside of her chin with her thumb.

  Will grinned at her observation. “You could say that. Let’s put it this way, I don’t think we will ever be bosom buddies,” he answered, trying to catch the barmaid’s eye for another round of drinks.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked, quietly.

  “It seems as though he doesn’t care much for flyers who have come up through the ranks.”
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br />   She started to laugh as she poured the remainder of her tonic into the glass. “Especially one who has done as many operations as you have, two tours, isn’t it?”

  “Word gets around fast!” he answered, fixing her with a steely gaze at how well-informed she was.

  “Not really, I work in the section that deals with the movement of personnel so I get to see a lot of records,” she said, quietly.

  “Oh! I see,” he smiled, becoming aware how close she was to him.

  They had kissed quite passionately outside her quarters before parting with a promise he would ring her the following day.

  He had been in the armaments section inspecting the firing mechanism of a stripped-down Browning which the gunner said kept jamming when fired, when Nelson came in; stopping before entering his office, he called him over.

  “Madden! I would like you to do the air test in P-Peter this afternoon; since that run-in she had with that JU 88 she has had a fair amount of work done on her, which included a new rear turret, so they want an air gunner to check it out when she’s airborne – take-off time is scheduled for 14.30hrs, so you had better take early lunch, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. But as far as I know Sergeant Milroyd had put his name down to do that air test?” Will answered, with caution in his tone.

  Nelson looked at him for a few moments.

  Will thought there was going to be another confrontation between them but was surprised at the soft-spoken reply he received.

  “Yes, I know he was, but he was feeling unwell early this morning so was taken to the sick quarters and they have kept him in for observation until tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s nothing serious, is it sir?” he questioned.