The Seventh Link

by Margaret Mayhew

  Hallo Darky, Hallo Darky. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. A soft-voiced WAAF would have answered calmly out of the night. Hello, aircraft calling Darky. Transmit for fix.

  To an exhausted pilot returning with a badly shot up aircraft and probably with wounded or dead on board, it must have seemed like the voice of an angel.

  Pre-dinner drinks were being served when they arrived and the gathering included city dignitaries with their wives, a local reporter, a press photographer and ordinary civilians, some of them about the age that the crews would have been during the war.

  ‘We had to limit the numbers or we’d have been swamped.’ Geoffrey said. ‘There’s been a lot of interest from all over the county. Now, more than ever, apparently. Strange, isn’t it?’

  The Colonel didn’t think it was strange at all. The men of Bomber Command might have been cold-shouldered by post-war governments but, by now, ordinary people were well aware of the guts and grit that they had demonstrated. The steadfast bravery that they had shown unflinchingly for nights on end. They had been a big part of England’s finest hour. An hour to be proud of – unlike some others since.

  Before the dinner started there was a photocall for the veterans who lined up dutifully, blinking in the flashlights, unused to being treated like film stars. Spontaneous applause broke out, everyone clapping them loudly. Being the only surviving complete crew, Bill, Jack, Bob, Roger, Ben, Jim and Don came in for special attention and a photograph on their own, the Australian having been persuaded to put down his beer. There was more applause.

  The seating was at round tables and the Colonel had been placed next to Heather Cheetham. The older woman on his other side was very small and thin but far from frail. Sprightly was the adjective he would have used. Even tough. She had served in the Air Transport Auxiliary in the Second World War, she told him. Her job had been to collect and deliver planes all over the country. There had been more than a hundred women serving. They had flown in daylight within sight of the ground, with no radio, following a map balanced on their knee and a book of pilot’s notes for the aircraft type. She had flown many different kinds: Hurricanes, Spitfires, Sea Otters, Walruses, Oxfords, Blenheims, Lysanders, Mustangs, Corsairs … and even the four-engined Lancasters.

  ‘Weren’t they rather heavy for you to handle?’

  She smiled drily. ‘I managed. They gave me some phone directories to sit on and I was allowed to take an ATC cadet to twiddle the knobs I couldn’t reach. A lad between twelve and fourteen. You should have seen the faces of some of the RAF when we delivered a Lanc and I stepped out, followed by a mere boy. Just the two of us. Their jaws dropped.’

  She amused him with more stories of the perils of flying for the ATA. The weather, of course, had been one of the biggest hazards, and also the thick hawsers tethering the barrage balloons which were unmarked on maps. Another danger was from being shot at by their own side which had happened to her a number of times.

  ‘I didn’t blame them too much. Aircraft recognition is tricky, especially in poor visibility.’

  It was generous of her, he thought, wondering what a returning Lancaster crew might have made of the same experience after a gruelling operation over enemy territory. Roger Wilks, the wireless operator, had not seemed to share her understanding attitude. He had referred to the ack-ack crews as trigger-happy which would probably be one of the milder terms used.

  To his left, Heather Cheetham said, ‘Our Australian seems to be knocking it back again. I do hope he doesn’t cause any trouble.’

  Don Wilson was at an all-male table, somehow separated from the rest of his crew and holding court. The men sitting with him were hanging on to his every word and the Colonel guessed that they were local enthusiasts. The kind who would spend all their spare time exploring old wartime airfields, hunting for relics, devouring books and magazines on the subject.

  The table was too far away for the Colonel to hear what the Australian was saying but he was certainly saying plenty. Somebody refilled his glass, and, a few moments later, it was being refilled again. And again. Some of the contents had spilled down the front of his shirt.

  Towards the end of the dinner, the Air Vice-Marshal who had sat next to the Colonel at the barn lunch rose to his feet to speak about the veterans present and what they had done for their country. It was a powerful speech and the toast, when he had finished, was to absent friends. All those thousands, the Colonel thought.

  People began to leave while others, including Don Wilson, gravitated to a bar set up in the same room. The numbers surrounding him had grown and they had now been joined by the local reporter who was taking notes and by the press photographer who was aiming his camera. Someone pressed yet another drink into the Australian’s hand. He was swaying on his feet, his drink sloshing to and fro in its glass.

  Geoffrey Cheetham said, ‘Do you think we should take him home, Hugh? Before he gets any worse.’

  ‘I think his skipper’s about to do that.’

  Bill Steed had approached the group, and the other five members of the crew were not far behind him. They did the difficult job very well, the Colonel thought. Quietly, tactfully and without any fuss, the Australian was extricated and shepherded out of the room.

  The reporter closed his notebook. He caught the Colonel’s eye and shrugged.

  ‘Pity about that. I’ll have to catch him tomorrow when he’s sobered up.’

  ‘It would be better.’

  ‘Amazing guy! Full of great stories.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m doing a piece for my paper about the old vets: “Forgotten Heroes.”’

  ‘I wouldn’t say they were forgotten.’

  ‘No, not by this lot. But ask kids today what RAF Bomber Command did in World War Two and most of them haven’t a clue. They’ve seen the film of the Dam Busters and they know the march, but that’s about it.’ The reporter put away the notebook. ‘The Aussie’s going to the memorial service tomorrow, so I’ll fill in the blanks then. By the way, what’s creepback, do you know?’

  ‘Creepback? No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Well, he was talking about it … something to do with bombing. He wasn’t making much sense, to be honest. I’ll ask him tomorrow. Use it in the article if I can.’

  The Colonel finished his drink and went in search of Geoffrey and Heather. The farewells took some time but eventually they left the hotel and drove back to The Grange. Another bomber’s moon lit their way, riding high in the sky.

  ‘Well, it all went pretty well, don’t you think, Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, I do. A wonderful success.’

  ‘Pity about Wilson. Drunk as a skunk again.’

  ‘I don’t think it mattered too much. His crew dealt with it very well.’

  ‘Still, it rather let their side down.’

  He turned the Riley in through The Grange gateway. The three visiting cars were parked neatly by the front door, together with the runabout used by Miss Warner, who was evidently prepared to compromise over Tudor modes of transport, if nothing else. The hall and landing lights were on, but the rest of the house was in darkness. Everyone had gone to bed and Monty was asleep in his basket beside the Aga. Heather Cheetham went straight upstairs while the Colonel and Geoffrey lingered over a whisky.

  ‘I think you’ll approve of the memorial window when it’s unveiled tomorrow, Hugh. It’s rather fine. Captures the essence of things, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing it.’

  ‘The service kicks off at eleven a.m. but we’ll need to leave here by ten thirty, if you don’t mind. I need to get there in good time. We can walk – it’s not far.’

  ‘That’s fine by me.’

  ‘I’ll be rather sorry when this weekend is over, you know. It’s been a hell of a lot of work, but it’s been worth it. I feel we’ve paid our dues.’

  ‘And I think it’s been much appreciated.’

  ‘Yes, I get that impression. They’re a fine bunch, aren
’t they – our veteran visitors? Decent. Modest. Unassuming. Except maybe for our Australian friend. He seemed to be shooting his mouth off this evening, didn’t he?’

  ‘I’m not sure that he was making much sense to anybody.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he doesn’t repeat the performance tomorrow.’

  The Colonel considered his glass thoughtfully. ‘What’s creepback, Geoffrey?’

  ‘Creepback?’

  ‘An RAF bombing expression, apparently. According to the local newspaper reporter, Don Wilson was talking about it.’

  ‘Never heard of it. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering.’

  ‘Ask the others in the morning. They ought to know.’

  EIGHT

  The Colonel was first down to breakfast, beating Miss Warner by a short head. He had hardly sat down when she appeared in the doorway in full Tudor rig.

  ‘Another fine morning, is it not? Are we not fortunate in being so blessed?’

  He rose to pull out her chair for her. ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Warner. We most certainly are.’

  ‘I trust you all supped well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She glanced up at him playfully.

  ‘Methinks, some of you rather too well, perhaps, Colonel? I was aroused from my slumbers.’

  She must have heard the crew hauling their drunken mid-upper gunner up the stairs to bed.

  ‘I’m sorry if you were disturbed.’

  ‘It does not signify. ’Twas but for a moment.’

  ‘Can I bring you some cereal?’

  ‘What kindness! Perhaps some flakes of corn.’

  He fetched the little individual box of Kelloggs and set the milk jug in front of her.

  ‘You will not partake yourself, sir?’

  ‘No. No cereal for me this morning.’

  ‘Then I must perforce eat alone.’

  Again, mercifully, Geoffrey appeared to take the cooked orders – the full English for Miss Warner, a boiled egg and toast for himself. One tea, one coffee.

  ‘What does the day hold for you, sir? Good things, I trust.’

  ‘There’s a service at the village church this morning. To unveil a memorial window.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I have heard talk of this. The sacrifice of brave warriors is to be honoured in this way. ’Tis most fitting. Would that I could attend myself but duty calls me to the Hall. Bread must be baked. Work done.’

  ‘Couldn’t you take some time off?’

  ‘Mercy, no! I am but a humble servant to the gentry. I am at their bidding.’

  The gentry, presumably, just sat around all day giving orders.

  ‘Perhaps it would be nicer to be one of them next time?’

  She looked shocked. ‘We have all been given our station in life, Colonel. ’Tis the will of our Lord and we must needs be content.’

  He said gravely, ‘Yes, of course.’

  They were halfway through the full English and the boiled egg before the others came down – or at least six of them. Apparently, the mid-upper gunner was still out for the count. The skipper had banged loudly on his door but without getting an answer and it had been decided to let him sleep it off. The Colonel thought it was a sound idea. Always let sleeping drunks lie.

  ‘We had a real struggle getting him up to bed last night,’ Bill Steed said. ‘I hope you didn’t hear us, Miss Warner?’

  ‘I did, indeed, sir.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. We tried to keep as quiet as we could.’

  ‘Pray do not trouble yourselves. ’Twas of little account. I was soon sleeping peacefully once more.’

  She went off to do her baking and at half past ten the rest of them assembled in the hall. Church parade, the Colonel thought. Six old airmen and one old soldier, spruced up in their best with highly polished shoes. Just like old times.

  The village church was filling up fast when they arrived and the congregation included several senior RAF officers in uniform. The veterans were shown to seats in the front rows, as honoured guests, many of them wearing medals pinned to their civilian clothes. No campaign medal, though, since none existed. A disgraceful omission, the Colonel thought.

  The hymns were well chosen: Thy Hand, O God, Has Guided, For All the Saints, and, almost inevitably, Jerusalem. The vicar rose to the occasion with an excellent sermon and appropriate prayers.

  Let us remember before God, and commend to his sure keeping, all those who served our country in the Second World War. We especially remember today those from RAF Buckby who willingly laid down their lives in the cause of our freedom. And we pray for all whom we knew, all whose memory we treasure and all whose courage we revere.

  Towards the end, the new memorial window was unveiled by the widow of an RAF sergeant pilot killed over Germany in l944. She then opened the first page of the remembrance book.

  When the service was over and the congregation were filing out, the Colonel went to take a closer look at the stained glass window which depicted a bareheaded young man in RAF flying clothes and wearing a Mae West and parachute harness. He was standing looking up at the golden and glorious figure of a robed angel whose kindly hands were outstretched down towards him. It was simple and symbolic. After all, there was a strong angelic connection. Angels also had wings to soar aloft. They shall bear thee up lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. And not for nothing was altitude in slang RAF flying terms measured in angels. An angel was a thousand feet, angels one five was fifteen thousand. The famous fighter pilot’s poem about dancing the skies and putting out his hand to touch the face of God was powerful stuff but the slower, lower bomber crews had had the angels rooting for them too.

  The book of remembrance lay open on a table beneath the window, the names written in copperplate handwriting. John Gilman, Peter Morris, Arthur Knight, Stephen Watson, Michael Harrison, Richard Slater … It was one of the saddest things, the Colonel thought, to see hard, cold evidence of lives lost that had barely begun, whether it was names written in a book, or carved in stone, or the sight of row upon row of white graves reaching into the far distance.

  He joined the congregation who were streaming out into the sunshine. Right on cue, a Dakota came into view, flew low over the church and circled twice before it went away. Not a Lancaster, but, as Geoffrey had rightly pointed out, the DC-7 had certainly played its part in the show. A tireless workhorse: troop carrier, cargo transporter, glider tower, present at all the major conflicts of the war: Arnhem, North Africa, Sicily, D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge, crossing the Rhine, out in the Far East … and later, at the end, bringing the POWs home.

  The retired Air Vice-Marshal he’d encountered at the lunch and dinner was standing beside him, watching the Dakota.

  ‘Damned fine aeroplane.’

  ‘One of the best,’ the Colonel agreed.

  ‘Eisenhower said it was one of the four most vital machines in the war, you know.’

  ‘What were the other three?’

  ‘In his opinion, the bulldozer, the jeep and the two-and-a-half ton truck.’

  ‘It’s hard to argue with that.’

  ‘All plodding workhorses, of course, but we couldn’t have coped without them. Modern warfare’s a totally different kettle of fish, isn’t it? We can programme weapons to land on a sixpence now, whereas in the old days it was hit and miss, and, from what I gather, rather a lot of miss. Those Bomber Command crews did a wonderful job but it can’t have been easy to hit anything accurately at night and with so few aids, and under heavy fire.’

  The Colonel said, ‘I’ve been wondering what the term creepback meant in bombing terms. I’ve never heard it used before.’

  ‘During a long raid, crews sometimes tended to drop their bombs progressively shorter and shorter of the primary target. It was called creepback.’

  ‘Did it happen often?’

  ‘Not as far I know. And it wasn’t deliberate, of course. I imagine there was the odd crew who would get rid of their bombs early so that they could tur
n back but that’s quite a different matter. There are always the few who’ll find ways to save their own skins, aren’t there?’

  He’d known men like that in the army, but only a very few. None of the Bomber Command men whom he’d met had struck him as that sort. Quite the contrary.

  The reporter who had spoken to him after the dinner, came up.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for that Aussie. He doesn’t seem to have shown up.’

  ‘He was sleeping-in this morning.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Those diggers can certainly put it away. Do you know where I can get hold of him?’

  ‘He’s staying at the same place as myself. I could give him a message, if you like.’

  ‘That’d be good. Here’s my card so he can give me a buzz when he’s surfaced. I’d like to use him in my article. He’d got lots to say and isn’t shy about saying it, unlike some of the other old boys.’

  The Colonel put the reporter’s card away in his pocket. ‘Well, the rest of his crew are standing just over there, if you want a word with them.’

  ‘That’s a stroke of luck.’

  The reporter hurried over, notebook at the ready, and the Colonel watched him asking eager questions and Bill Steed and his crew giving wary answers.

  Since Geoffrey and Heather were busy chatting with people, the Colonel decided to walk on back to the house. Monty was lying by the front door and got up to greet him. There was no sign of the Australian.

  He wandered over towards the lake, Monty following. At the bank some fish turned up, circling hopefully, mouthing at the surface. One of them, in particular, caught his eye – a silver-white fish much larger than the others. A ghost carp, he thought, and well named. It appeared and disappeared gliding silently through the blanket weed. Sinister. He much preferred his own bright little pond fish darting about.

  Monty had gone off round the bend in the lake and started to bark and, eventually, the Colonel went to investigate. The dog was barking at something half submerged in the water twenty feet or so away from the bank. A dark mass partly obscured by the weed that, at first, he mistook for some rags – until he made out the protruding arms and the pale flesh of hands. And then he saw the empty dinghy caught up in the reeds by the bank and the oars floating free on the surface.