Clydesiders at War

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘I know. Thanks, Teresa. I think I’d better get off to work now.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Teresa protested. ‘I don’t think you should, Wincey. You’ve had a terrible shock. Why don’t you take at least the rest of today and tomorrow off?’

  ‘I’m always better if I keep busy. I must keep busy.’ She rose, automatically collected her bottle green coat and matching hat, and called back from the front door, in a parody of her normal cheerful sing-song, ‘Bye, see you later.’

  Just before she left the door to go through the close, she heard Granny’s outraged bawl, ‘See bloody war!’

  Wincey escaped out to the street and began walking smartly down the Balgrayhill. She was concentrating on what she had to do in the factory that afternoon. She had to keep her mind safely on ordinary, routine problems. Such a lot of paperwork nowadays, it was getting worse all the time. Inside the office there was one kind, and outside there was another. Everywhere paper was stuck up on walls. Everybody was being bombarded with it. Even cigarette packets contained cards which gave instructions for everything, including air raid precautions, how to deal with incendiary bombs, how to use a stirrup pump, how to protect your house from the danger of flying glass.

  There were instructions on how to black out your home. They were contained in Public Information Leaflet Number 2. There were other instructions on how to make your home safe against gas and anti-bomb blast measures. ‘Women of Britain,’ yet another urged, ‘give us your aluminium. We want it and we want it now. We will turn your pots and pans into Spitfires …’

  ‘Women of Britain,’ was the rallying cry on some posters, ‘come into the factories.’ So many posters, leaflets, pamphlets, forms to fill in. She had so much to do in the office. Her feet quickened towards it. She wanted to run but instinctively knew running would let loose the panic that she was desperately trying to control.

  Another poster caught her eye. ‘Be like Dad—keep mum. Careless talk costs lives.’ And yet another: ‘Your courage, your cheerfulness, your resolution WILL BRING US VICTORY’.

  Victory? What did victory mean to her? What did anything mean any more? So many so-called helpful instructions but who could instruct her? Who could help her now?

  Suddenly she was at the factory door. She went inside to her office. Her secretary, Mrs Allan, who should have retired long ago but refused to give up, appeared in the doorway. ‘Are you all right, Miss Gourlay? Would you like me to fetch you a cup of tea?’

  A cup of tea—the panacea for all ills. What a bloody joke!

  ‘Yes thank you, Mrs Allan,’ she said, picking up the nearest pen and beginning to write.

  17

  In July Adolf Hitler ordered preparations to be made for the invasion of Britain. Previously however, in a speech to the Reichstag, he had made it clear that he hoped for peace with Britain. It was, he said in his speech, his ‘Final Appeal to Reason.’

  ‘A great empire will be destroyed, an empire which it was never my intention to destroy or even to harm … I consider myself in a position to make this appeal since I am not the vanquished begging favours but the victor speaking in the name of reason.’

  A Daily Express journalist was quick to respond on BBC Radio. The tone was suitably uncompromising and full of defiance,

  ‘Let me tell you what we here in Britain think of this appeal of yours to what you are pleased to call our reason and common sense. Herr Fuhrer, and Reichskanzler, we hurl it right back at you, right in your evil smelling teeth …’

  The German High Command made no secret of how they felt after hearing their Fuhrer’s words being ridiculed on the BBC. They thought the British were crazy, and after the rejection of the Fuhrer’s terms, the Luftwaffe began to attack in force. They planned to wipe out RAF Fighter Command and so clear the way for the invasion. But their first targets were the slow-moving convoys. The RAF tried to defend the convoys, and for the first time, radar equipment was used. But often things didn’t work out. Sometimes radar contacts proved to be friendly aircraft, sometimes delicate equipment malfunctioned in wet weather.

  But the main problem was timing. Often by the time the Spitfires and Hurricanes were scrambled, the convoys had already been attacked and the German planes were returning home. Coastal convoy losses became alarming, and as a result squadrons had to be sent further south to smaller stations much nearer the coast. There, in small tents, pilots slept, or wrote letters, or played cards—ready to scramble at a moments notice.

  Richard’s squadron was not among those that had been moved and he was disappointed. However, he made the most of his time by getting to know Davina better. They met at every opportunity now and more than once, they’d spent some memorable hours in a room at a local hotel. He’d asked her to marry him and she’d said yes. She’d phoned her parents and they lost no time in motoring down to meet him, knowing that he couldn’t get any leave at present, or travel any distance from the airfield.

  They had turned out to be a charming upper-class couple. Lord Clayton-Smythe was tall and lean, with slightly protruding eyes. His wife was almost as tall as him, with grey hair and an aura of dignity and elegance. They knew the estate his grandparents had once had in the Highlands. They had been guests on a neighbouring estate before the war. Lady Clayton-Smythe knew of his father’s reputation as a talented writer. Both Lord and Lady Clayton-Smythe were impressed when Richard told them of his father’s distinguished record in the last war. They were extremely patriotic, and great admirers of the RAF. They also understood that nothing was normal during wartime, and that long courtships were out of the question. They believed, although Richard certainly did not, that he could be killed at any moment while defending his country. He basked in their warmth and admiration.

  Recklessly he suggested a wedding while they were there so that Lord Clayton-Smythe could give his daughter away. It was a registry office affair with only Lord and Lady Clayton-Smythe present. But they had a good meal afterwards and it had all been very jolly. He had phoned his parents but neither his father nor his mother could get away at such short notice. But they spoke to Davina and her parents on the phone and sent their best wishes. His grandmother was too old to make the long journey from Scotland but when he phoned her with the news, she said she was immensely proud of him and it was so typical of him to make such a good match. They all looked forward to meeting his new wife, and her family, as soon as possible.

  He was in seventh heaven. Davina was a super girl—well bred, courageous, generous hearted, beautiful and she loved him. How lucky he was. On their honeymoon night, he watched as she sat at the dressing table in her white satin nightdress brushing her short brown hair, and he experienced a wave of deep tenderness. She had full breasts, a flat stomach and rounded hips. Her face had a glow of health about it. So had her shining grey-green eyes. He imagined the beautiful, sturdy children they would have. His love and happiness encompassed everyone, including his parents and his sister, Wincey. His parents weren’t so bad. Very decent, actually. He didn’t quite know what to make of Wincey choosing to live for years in a slum in Springburn, instead of with her family. Still, she was his sister and he couldn’t think badly of her.

  After the war was over and done with, and the Germans sent packing, he must make a point of seeing more of his parents and his sister. He felt a pang of guilt when he thought of how much more of his time and attention he had devoted to his grandmother.

  Davina smiled at him in the mirror and he went over and gathered her gratefully into his arms. Later in bed, he made love to her with a hungry passion that was almost a desperation. It was as if he was suddenly afraid it might be his last chance of loving her—the very last time.

  The next day he saw her back to her billet and stayed with her until she changed out of her moss green wedding dress with its fashionable padded shoulders and into her Land Army Uniform. It consisted of a wide brimmed, khaki coloured felt hat, a green pullover over a shirt and tie, belted breeches with thick wool socks that reached to below her kne
es and sensible laced up shoes. Around her upper arm was a band showing the letters WLA. Even in this somewhat masculine and unflattering uniform, Davina looked lovely. He was so proud of her.

  They kissed goodbye and he made his way back to his airfield. He had only been back for a few minutes when he heard the controller’s voice: ‘Large enemy bombing formation approaching … Take cover immediately.’

  At first Richard didn’t see anything. Then he saw them—about a dozen Heinkel bombers, their wings glinting in the sun. He heard the rising scream of the first bomb. Then his feet shot from under him and his mouth filled with dirt. He scrambled up and sped like a rocket for the shelter. He shot through the entrance before falling on his face again in its gloomy interior. One of his ground crew spoke to him. He could discern the man’s mouth moving but the scream and crump of falling bombs made it impossible to hear him. The shelter filled with dust and shuddered with every explosion. Bedlam reigned outside for about four minutes, and then ceased.

  The sudden silence was as much of a shock as the noise at first. For a long minute, neither Richard nor his companions moved. Then they all rushed outside to view the damage. The Germans were clearly attempting to destroy the RAF on the ground. The runways had been left in a real mess. Deep, smoking, craters were everywhere. A bomb had landed near Richard’s own Spitfire and covered it with earth and rubble.

  The first thing he did was have it cleaned up and checked over. All the other machines, he knew, would be landing at the reserve landing field. The station commander immediately ordered every man and woman onto the job of repairing the runways and in a few hours, they were back in service. Casualties had been relatively light—there had been four men killed in a lorry, another got a bullet through his foot and three pilots had suffered a few scratches. It had been a lucky escape because, apart from the bombing, the entire station had been repeatedly strafed.

  Before long the pilots were back in the mess, relaxing, or playing poker, until the voice of the controller ordered them to scramble. They raced for their Spits. Soon they were getting instructions to intercept about twenty enemy fighters. They climbed until they reached twenty-eight thousand feet. Then with a yell of ‘Tally ho’, Richard led his section in a shallow dive to intercept the approaching German planes.

  They were about two thousand feet below him. The Germans had spotted them, however, and began to take evasive action. One after the other, the Spitfires peeled off in a power dive. Richard picked out one of the enemy aircraft and switched his gun button to ‘Fire’. Immediately he got the leading enemy plane in his sights, he opened up in sharp, four-second bursts. Then he pulled up so hard, it felt as if his eyes were dropping down through his neck. The sky had become a mass of individual dogfights. Then, in an instant it seemed, the sky changed from a bedlam of machines to a silent emptiness with not a plane to be seen.

  Back at the airfield, Richard discovered that a couple of his fellow pilots had not returned. All he could hope was that things wouldn’t get any worse. As things stood, he reckoned they’d just about have enough pilots and aircraft to stop the German onslaught.

  Morale was high, despite the loss of friends, and all the pilots shared a burning desire to live life to the full. For Richard, there was the unique excitement of combat flying, and the joy of seeing Davina at every possible moment. Even though he was often shattered by the lack of sleep, in the air he could still maintain the intense concentration every fighter pilot needed simply to stay alive. He still felt a wild, leaping of his heart when he saw the enemy. Switch on sights, range and wingspan indicators checked, gun button on ‘Fire’, then into action—his body stiff against the straps, his teeth clenched, thumb ready on the gun button, his eyes narrowed intent on getting the enemy in his sights, and holding him there. Then the kill, the moment of victory, and the savage, primitive exaltation.

  He hadn’t told Davina about how he felt when flying. Only another fighter pilot would understand. Nevertheless, he and Davina talked a lot together. They planned what they would do after the war, where they would live, how many children they would have, whether they would have sons or daughters. Two of each sex, they eventually decided, would be perfect. They even thought of suitable names. She told him of her happy childhood roaming around her father’s estate.

  She had been a difficult child, she said, but he refused to believe it. ‘Darling, of course I was,’ she laughed. ‘I nearly drove my nanny to despair. Then after I was packed off to boarding school, I hated being cooped up and having so many rules and regulations to conform to, so I rebelled and failed everything. Eventually I was expelled and sent home in disgrace. At least that’s what the school thought. I was overjoyed at living at home again. Oh, the glorious freedom of it.’

  He could understand what she meant. Often now he felt that glorious surge of freedom. But boarding school had never bothered him. There were all sorts of sports on the curriculum and he’d been good at that sort of thing. He’d also enjoyed the company of his fellow pupils and indeed, practically everything else at the school. He’d never felt he’d been denied any freedom.

  ‘Maybe it’s different with boys,’ Davina said. ‘With so many rough games like rugby. Hill climbing and rock climbing sounded super as well. We were mainly taught to be sedate and ladylike.’ She made a face. ‘What a bore it was.’

  He had to laugh at her. They laughed a lot together. He thought of her a lot too. But never while flying. Especially when things began to hot up.

  18

  ‘Talk about lucky?’ one of the sailors told them. Malcy and the others had been rescued a second time, hauled once more onto the heaving deck of a destroyer. But this time they were wounded. Malcy had copped it down one side—his face, his shoulder and his arm. Joe and Pete had taken some shrapnel in the legs. Now they were in Dover, all bandaged up and grateful to be alive. Women were handing out sandwiches and big mugs of steaming hot tea. They’d never tasted tea or sandwiches like it.

  Afterwards, they were led onto a train, with no idea where they were going. All was confusion, around them a teeming mass of unshaven, oil-streaked, filthy, humanity. The news that greeted them was worse than they had expected. Hitler was winning the war. Most of western Europe had fallen to his storm-troopers. Churchill’s marvellous rhetoric didn’t change the fact that they were getting beaten.

  Now Churchill was saying that the RAF was going to blow the Luftwaffe out of the sky and save Britain. Knights of the air, he’d called the pilots. Well, Malcy and his pals agreed, they hadn’t seen much of them so far. Certainly not at Dunkirk.

  Malcy, Joe and Pete found themselves delivered to a hospital. There they had various pieces of metal cut out of shoulders, face and legs. Malcy had trouble sleeping—he suspected it was much the same for Joe and Pete and the rest of the survivors, although none of them admitted it. When he did eventually fall asleep, Malcy had nightmares. He was always back in the life raft with Joe and Pete, with the fighters diving down on them and the bullets tearing across the water towards them. He remembered becoming sleepy then as he bled into the sea. In his mind, everything became mixed up. Planes shooting at ships, ships shooting at planes, the endless queues of men on the beaches, dead bodies floating, machine gun bullets spluttering and boiling the water. He couldn’t clear his head of it all. He suspected that he’d never again enjoy a peaceful, dream-free sleep. Not like he used to—it seemed so long ago now. In another life. And what a fool he’d been in that life, how he’d wasted it.

  Malcy, Pete and Joe were eventually transferred to the nearest barracks, en route to a short survival leave. It wasn’t even long enough for them to make the journey home to Scotland and back. Nor did they feel fit enough. They wrote home, however, and told their families that they were all right. Malcy wrote to Erchie and Teresa Gourlay. In the local pub where they spent most of their few days of freedom, they found LDVs masterminding the defence of the country. They seemed to have a wonderful faith in the Navy. The Navy and Winston Churchill.

&
nbsp; The three survivors weren’t all that sure of either, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. During the day, they often lay on the grass outside the pub and watched the vapour trails criss-crossing the sky, as RAF fighters struggled to defend their airfields.

  ‘Right enough,’ Malcy said, ‘if the Germans knock out the RAF, what’s left to stop them landing here and taking over the whole place. I mean, I’m more than willing to make a stand. I’m sure we all are. But look at us. What good would we be against thousands of Hitler’s bloody storm-troopers?’

  ‘Aye, ye’re right,’ Joe agreed. ‘The battle’s up there, and no mistake.’

  It made them feel even more depressed. They had fought the best they could and been defeated. What did these LDVs know about it? Damn all. They didn’t enjoy their leave. They felt distanced from the local population. Oh, they were kind enough—plying them with drinks and talking as if Dunkirk had been some sort of wonderful victory. It was well seen they hadn’t been there.

  ‘Victory my arse,’ Joe said, but only once they were out of the pub and walking together through the solid blackness of the night outside. There was no point in getting into arguments or fights with the locals. Some of them were often drunk enough to be blind to the state the soldiers were in, and start a fight. Joe for one was still unsteady on his feet and unable to venture far without the help of his crutches, but he had great spunk and determination.

  ‘Fuck them.’ He was meaning the crutches. ‘I’m going to get rid of them any day now if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Joe,’ Malcy laughed. ‘You’ve got to be a hundred per cent by the time the Jerries arrive. Britain’s depending on you.’

  ‘You can laugh if you like,’ Pete said, ‘but soon enough we’ll all have to be fit and ready to have another go at them.’