Ghosts of the Empire

by Justin Sheedy

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Commonwealth Aircrew Reception and Dispatch Centre, Bournemouth

  Mick stood at lone attention before the desk of an RAF Squadron Leader.

  Close the door behind one on entering. Otherwise do not. Mick had followed the printed instruction on the door, marched forward, saluted, removed his cap, identified himself. The silence of the room stretched for many minutes as the officer read from a file, Mick observing that Sqn Ldr Crispin P. Jessop, as per the gold lettering on his wooden desk plaque, was thirtyish and losing his hair.

  ‘Rated Exceptional,’ said the Squadron Leader, still focused on the file. ‘One would expect you’d have stayed at home with that… Still, here you are. And now you are, you’re requesting a transfer back home.’

  ‘Fight the Japs, sir,’ said Mick.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Jessop peered up momentarily. Eyes down again, ‘Of course, in order to submit this noble request of yours, you must first be attached to a squadron proper in order that you have a commanding officer to whom you can submit it. But you’re not. So you don’t. Not yet. So you can’t.’

  Mick saw this joker had several medal ribbons on his tunic. Though no wings patch. ‘With respect, sir… Is there anybody else I can… I mean, do I have any other…’

  Jessop let the pause extend. ‘Recourse?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No. None. I don’t mind telling you Australians that, systemically speaking, you – belong – us now.’ He looked squarely up at Mick. ‘And for you, Pilot Officer, it’s next stop Scotland.’

  Mick flinched slightly. ‘But I thought…’

  ‘…Wales, if you’re unlucky; Hell on Earth. Still, an acceptable one as you will be flying a Spitfire. A fact which you, y’lucky sod, may now share with every girl y’meet in bloody Bournemouth. Could be weeks before we get you into an OTU so enjoy it while it lasts. Dismissed.’

  ‘Sir.’ Mick donned his cap, saluted, about-turned, marched to the door.

  ‘Oh!’ hailed Jessop. ‘Almost forgot…’

  Mick halted, peered back.

  ‘Letter for you, old boy.’ Jessop held it out, managing a faint smile. ‘We’re not all bad, y’know…’

  Mick reapproached the desk, ‘Thanks,’ accepted the envelope, closed the door on his way out, checking for the sender on his way down the hall.

  It said Miss Bridie O’Regan.

  *

  In his room at his new billet, a modest seaside hotel called The Russell Court, Mick opened the letter.

  Dear Michael

  Geraldine is helping me write this. But not what I say only with the writing because shes 11 and Im only 5. I got real mad with her making sure she writes what I say not what she says I should say so Im sorry Mike and I said sorry to Geraldine too and now we are friends again.

  We wish you a Merry Christmas. See I can be nice shes laughing now.

  For your present Joseph made you a model of a Spitfighter out of wood in case they dont give you a real one. Its a beaut Mike we all helped Joseph gave each of us a job to do on it I painted the coloured circles on the wings and the sides Gezza did the letters. Seanie said its nicer even than a real one safer than a real one Dad said Mary kept little Pete from making a mess we are keeping it safe in the big room for you Mike. It wont be the same at Christmas tomorrow without you when I get sad I go in and look at it on the mantle piece.

  We were very sad when we couldnt say goodbye to you Mike. I know Im not supposed to get mad all the time like I do but it was so unfair I dont care what anyone says it was wrong.

  We are all very proud of you Mike but we love you more than we are proud of you and need you to come home and be our big brother again. Anyway Im not mad anymore Im happy because the Japs are in the war now that means you will be coming home. Dad says the Prime Minister said so so thats final.

  Love you to pieces Mike now Gezza knows our special saying she can shove it shes laughing again

  Bridie

  Mick’s smile already fading, he folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope.

  Little Bridie would just have to be patient.

  He chuckled, shaking his head; yeah, and Hell would just have to freeze over.

  *

  After two weeks in Bournemouth, Mick was getting used to finding his way across town in near pitch darkness; at night the military blackout reigned supreme. Your eyes adjusted after a few minutes though, after longer, quite markedly. But he’d known all about ‘night vision’ since Evans Head. And surely enough, over here the bomber and night-fighter crews lived or died by it, so the word went. Amongst the night-fighter pilots, one ‘Cats Eyes Cunningham’ was front-page news, the papers maintaining he owed his extraordinary visual powers to a diet of carrots. Wilder rumour attributed his success to a new electronic device enabling him to see in the dark, the joke being that this magical contraption was so secret that the night-fighter pilots using it weren’t security-cleared to know about it yet. Mick gathered they’d been flying a ‘heavy fighter’ called a Beaufighter for some time now, twin-engined and a well-regarded thing, though the talk he had caught since arriving in Bournemouth was of a brand-new night-fighter. With a silly-sounding name like an insect, a ‘Mossie’ or something, it was supposed to be faster than the Spitfire and very highly regarded by its crews. Mick was sceptical: His own experience of night flying and more recently ‘under the hood’ at Watton gave him a shudder still. How blokes could be so keen to fly at night, let alone have to chase enemy targets in pitch blackness, he couldn’t fathom. Anyway, the only nocturnal thing Mick had to chase at the moment was the young ladies of Bournemouth. Except a bloke didn’t have to ‘chase’ them exactly…

  Since a boy, Mick had never had any trouble with girls – something he’d long been grateful for. Of course, you had to chase them first. Back at home…

  Not here you didn’t…

  Mick’s height, slim, with brunette hair pulled back tightly and a penentrating stare, Bess Underwood was 22. She’d joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force straight from the girls’ boarding school she’d attended – where she’d been Captain of Athletics, the 80-metre hurdles her main event, for which she now represented the WAAF. With her rank of Section Officer, one above Mick, she was his superior officer, also a bloody good dancer, Mick thought, though at times it seemed she was leading. Currently managing an office section at the Commonwealth Aircrew Centre, she was desperate to join something called the Air Transport Auxiliary. This, she beamed, was an arm of the RAF comprised of men and women – mainly with pre-war flying experience – who acted as ‘ferry-pilots’ of RAF aircraft. They flew all types, she assured – fighters, bombers, everything – from the factory to operational squadrons, to and from maintenance units and the like. She’d no flying experience as such but the ATA had inducted a small number of women of outstanding athletic background for elementary flying training: She had applied and been turned down four times already.

  ‘But they’ll take me,’ she pressed as they danced, ‘or I’m not a champion bloody hurdler. I’d be flying a Spitfire right now if I’d been born a fella…’

  ‘I’m glad you weren’t,’ Mick smiled as they spun.

  ‘All that exquisite power,’ she sighed. ‘And you’ll likely get one… Where was AFU?’

  ‘Security, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, you’re good with secrets, are you?’

  Mick only grinned.

  ‘I’ve got a secret for you,’ she breathed close to his ear.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Uh-huh. I’d love to share it with you. Need a closed door though…’

  ‘Is that an order, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m all yours.’

  ‘Lovely.’ She spoke again after a few more turns. ‘Do you have any, uh… protection?’

  It was the first time Mick had heard anything approaching hesitation in her voice – and now felt it in her movement as they danced. ‘You mean prophylatics?’ he whispered.

&
nbsp; ‘Yes, I do…’

  ‘Many.’ His forearm round her waist, he felt her relax once more.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, pulling herself even closer to him. ‘ Very good.’

  *

  Waking the next morning warm and comfortable, his body pressed very snugly against hers in the single stretcher-bed, Mick’s first act of the day was to smile. He then realised what must have woken him – There was a knocking at the door of his room. Christ – they mustn’t come in… Luckily the right words came to him.

  ‘State your business through the door.’

  ‘Message for Section Officer Underwood,’ came the muffled reply.

  ‘What the fu-?’ Mick whispered.

  ‘It’s alright, darling,’ she whispered back, already slipping from beneath the covers, ‘I gave your name to a friend of mine on the way out of the ballroom – as you were retrieving this…’ She threw Mick’s great-coat around her nakedness. ‘The Centre knows where you are, so where I am; they have to.’ Ensuring the coat’s front was drawn securely, she opened the door an inch. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Message for you, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, taking an envelope passed through the gap, and closing the door. ‘Signal from the Centre,’ she said, slitting it open with a fingernail.

  ‘What’s it say?’ put Mick, sitting up, drawing the bedclothes around him.

  She read intently for a moment. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she then released.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t BELIEVE it!’

  Before Mick a young woman, dwarfed by his great-coat, was jumping up and down in bare feet on the floor, her undone, shoulder-length brown hair tossing high in the air as she did.

  ‘The A – T – A! They’ve accepted me!’ she fairly squealed, letting the great-coat slip off her body to the floor.

  For a moment Mick thought the vision splendid before him would climb back under the covers with him, only to witness a human being get dressed faster than he’d ever imagined possible: knickers, slip, garter belt, stockings, shirt and tie, WAAF skirt and tunic, shoes, hair pulled back once more, cap, a check in the mirror, a fingernail to the corner of her mouth.

  Stooping back down to Mick, she kissed him on the lips. ‘I’m off, love.’ Springing upright again, she crossed the room, scooping up her gas mask case and handbag as she did, smiling back from the door: ‘See you in the clouds…’

  ‘See ya,’ grinned Mick to the door already shut.

  A moment later there came a knock at it. Mick smiled. ‘En- ter.’ It opened.

  ‘Streuth, she was a bit of alright,’ spoke the head that leaned in.

  ‘Dave bloody Matthews!’ beamed Mick. ‘Come in but close the door; it’s fucken freezing.’

  Matthews did so, took off his great-coat, setting down on a seat a little painfully.

  ‘Y’look like shit,’ Mick smiled. ‘Where’ve you been, old son?’

  Matthews stared back incredulously. ‘Where’ve I been? I’m still here, mate! Mick, I’m goin’ spare. Swear to God, I’ve never had so much… so much you-know-what me entire life. Course, bein’ a proper gent I cannot speak the filthy word but I swear, Mick,’ – his face was deadly earnest – ‘if I don’t get sent to an AFU soon my knob’s gunna fall off.’

  *

  In the dining room of the Russell Court Hotel, Dave Matthews stirred his tea.

  ‘Yeah. They call it the Bournemouth Long-Service Medal; three months I’ve been ’ere! Still, one bloke I met’s done eight… Don’t get me wrong, the place has its…’ he shifted slightly in his chair, ‘compensations… An’ the night-life’s pretty bloody interesting…’

  ‘I’d say bloody amazing,’ returned Mick.

  Matthews chuckled. ‘Anyhows I’m headin’ down the Centre: me morning ritual; check in for this elusive bloody posting o’mine. Wanna come?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If I ever make it out of here alive, Michael, I’m joining the priesthood.’

  *

  ‘Thank - the Good - Lord…’

  Dave Matthews’ eyes were wild, his freckles an even deeper orange than usual.

  ‘…I’m saved.’ He thrust the telegram at Mick.

  Mick read it, smiled. ‘That’s an AFU… Congratulations.’ He handed it back. ‘…Never known so many fly-by-nighters m’whole life.’

  Matthews squinted. His smile had dropped. ‘Maybe things are on the move…’

  As had Mick’s. ‘Maybe they are, Dave.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, old son.’

  Matthews shook it. ‘And to you, mate.’

  *

  In the late afternoon, Mick found he no longer had the small hotel room to himself: On the second stretcher bed was an RAAF duffle bag, on the floor beside it, the standard-issue officer’s tin trunk.

  Daniel Quinn was a Pilot Officer, a new pilot just off the boat from Sydney. Well-spoken, straight away his voice reminded Mick of some young men from Evans Head, straight away: another rich boy, successful sportsman – just like Finney, Mick observed, though a bit more guarded in manner. He’d been at university, seemed intelligent, a keen listener certainly, a quiet sort of focus like Tony Curran. If he fell down anywhere, it was the faith he seemed to hold onto that the powers-that-be had his best interests at heart. At the first opportunity Mick set him straight that, no, the English would not be sending him back to Australia in any great rush simply because the Japanese were now attacking it: The English, apparently, would do what suited the English.

  Still, he seemed a good bloke… And having made it this far, unlike Finney and Curran, Quinn would now lose his virginity, if he even remotely cared to – tonight possibly without even leaving the hotel; a couple of Waafs in the bar said to have been billeted at the male-only Russell Court by mistake.

  As it turned out, Quinn got the looker – blonde, name of Victoria and oh-so upper class… Still, little Lucy Green was a cutie. And, as Mick discovered later that night, if they were awarded for certain sexual acts, little Lucy would be in contention for an Olympic gold medal.

  *

  And it seemed things were on the move; on the first day of April, Mick received his posting orders, Quinn receiving his same day. Indeed, things seemed to be moving in some mad sort of a rush, Quinn’s orders directing him skip AFU altogether and proceed directly to an Operational Training Unit. He was headed to Scotland, Mick to Wales: Number 53 OTU, some place called Llandow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With a mountain range called the Brecon Beacons 2500 feet below, Mick saw the cumulus clouds towards which he flew ranging from dark to grey to brightly lit. Beams of sunshine angling down from above, the Welsh horizon ahead lurked in deep shadow.

  Mick formated just off his leader’s wing, an RAF Squadron Leader a few years older than himself, it seemed to Mick – He was supposed to have been in the Battle of Britain. They hadn’t spoken before take-off; Mick had said good morning, the bloke had just yawned and continued kitting up.

  They flew the ‘squadron hacks’, two Hawker Hurricanes, in green and brown camouflage paint Battle of Britain veterans most likely, now used as a merciful introduction to the Spitfire: Unlike the Spit’s quite narrow undercarriage, the Hurricane’s was generously wide. The idea was not to let mere ground taxiing and landing kill the first-timer.

  With the same Rolls-Royce Merlin engine as the Spitfire Mark I, though not quite the performance, having seen them fly overhead in the days previous, to Mick the Hurri sounded similar to the Spit, though with a slightly plainer tone. With its signature humped back and bow-legged look of its undercarriage, it was stumpy next to the Spit, and unlike the all-metal Spit the Hurricane was still partly fabric-covered – Irish linen, evidently. As for its engine, Mick knew the V12 Merlin from the Fairey Battle. With none of the Battle’s stupid size and weight, however, the Merlin’s 1030 horsepower made the Hurricane tear along.

  In the early morning light before take-off, its silhouette had well stood out from the Spitfires at
53 OTU: At the end of a line of silent greyhounds, the Hurricane sat hunched like a boar waiting to charge. Walking out to it, Mick had been dead concerned about the take-off; the first time he’d ever sat in a single-seater aircraft, with no instructor on board you did your first ever take-off in the Hurricane solo. As Mick had pushed its throttle forward he’d had to push more right rudder than he’d ever known to counteract the mighty left-torque of its engine, but the Hurri had proven a forgiving thing on take-off, every bit its reputation – steady, sturdy, dependable – keeping straight down the airfield, lifting airborne, wheels up, and climbing powerfully.

  Mick saw they were leaving the Brecon Beacons behind now. The Squadron Leader waggled his wingtips, put on a little throttle, and drew ahead slightly. Only afterwards did Mick realise he’d followed him into their long curving dive to the left without even thinking.

  *

  After a decent enough touch-down beside his leader – Mick hoped – he taxied carefully in behind him, parked alongside him, the groundcrew chocking the wheels, engine off, switches off. Mick was unclipping his straps as the Squadron Leader’s face appeared by his open cockpit.

  ‘Fine’ was all he said.

  Fully relieved to hear it, before Mick could say thanks the bloke was gone.

  Hefting himself up within the cockpit, stepping out of it and down off the wing-root of the fighter onto the airfield grass, Mick unclipped his parachute pack and slung it over his shoulder. Seeing the Squadron Leader walking away across the grass towards the hangars, Mick made to catch up with him, and did so after a few moments.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mick puffed slightly.

  The bloke only kept on his way.

  Mick persisted – may as well; he’d be seeing a lot of this bloke, his instructor for the next few months: ‘There’s a watering hole in the village, I s’pose?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply.

  ‘Would y’like to come for a beer later on?’