by Michael Gill
To hear such strange and terrible news walking on the magical mountains of Mourne made it seem more disturbing. I wondered whether Kay believed the messages. No, she had not at first. The medium said they were to come next time with a personal object, which they must not let the medium see. If the voice recognised what it was, that would be a confirmation of his authenticity.
They took a large gold pocket watch, which had belonged to the boy’s father. You have to understand, said Kay, that the voice which gave the messages was nothing like the voice of her brother. It sounded, she said, as though it had been distorted and relayed through aeons of space. Her mother was told to hold the watch in her right hand and think about it. After several false starts the voice said it might be something to do with time, but it was covered up. (It was indeed a half-hunter, which meant that unless you pressed the button only the centre portion of the watch face was visible.)
Her mother had been back several times, but the medium continued to give chilling news. The brother was weaker; he wanted to see them, but could not. In the meantime, an official card had come from the Red Cross saying that the brother was a prisoner of war. ‘That, at least, was a fact,’ said Kay. ‘I’m not sure what I think about the rest.’ Neither did I, but I volunteered to go with her to the next session.
It must have been about two months later that I went with Kay to an implacably respectable address in Belfast. It was rather like a Conservative Party meeting; mostly middle-aged well-dressed women with a scattering of scrawny old men with beards and blood-shot eyes. The host was plump and self-confident. He arranged us around three tables. They were smaller than I had expected. We had to press our knees together to get a touch on the table top. We were not allowed to take notes; that would be upsetting. The atmosphere was all important. Repeating this several times, our host put those who were actually hoping for news at the tables. I squeezed in next to Kay. The majority formed an audience at the back of the room, sitting in upright chairs.
The lights dimmed. Our host spoke now rapidly in a language I could not understand, but it would be reasonable to think it was Gaelic. After a short time movement began – swaying from side to side, gently at first. I can’t say how the table started to move, but it did. Something was on it sliding across the shiny surface. Perhaps it was a censer. Certainly there was some smoke in the air. And other voices, mumbling. Some of the women at our table were panting or groaning: responded to from across the room. I did not know whether to giggle or feel I was intruding. Supplicating, that was what the tear-filled voices were doing. I felt discomforted and out of place.
As I felt that, the lights went on with a shocking brilliance. Our host was sweating in the middle of the room. What was he saying? That would be the end for tonight. The atmosphere was not congenial. Was he looking in my direction? Whether he was or not, I did not go back.
Kay kept me in touch with developments. The psychic messages changed direction. Her brother was happier now. He expressed his love for his family. It was no surprise for Kay when her mother received, just before the end of 1943, another formal communication from the Red Cross. Her son had died in the prison camp.
VI
There was a special privilege to being stationed in Northern Ireland. If you wanted, you could take part of your leave in Eire. This gave you forty-eight hours not only in a neutral country, but in one that had not suffered the deprivations and devastation that had affected most of the British Isles.
Jimmy Blair and I had decided that we had better get on with it, when new rumours of overseas postings came up in autumn 1943. Wearing a rag-bag of civvie clothes borrowed from other inmates of Hut 50, we set off with our newly stamped leave passes in our pockets. The weather was fine; the three-hour train journey cost 21s 5d return. The first surprise was on the platform when we arrived. Through the throngs of people were a surprising number of grabbing hands: beggars. Something I had never seen on an English station. Even more startling were the almost naked small children playing in the mud outside. I quickly learned that it was Irish wits who had invented the paradox.
We had a four-course meal at an underground café recommended by Barry; he had also fixed a decent clean hotel nearby and given us the telephone number of his elder brother. The brother insisted on taking us out to dinner that evening. In the meantime, we looked at the shops. As I wrote at the time: ‘It was like a visit to wonderland. To our eyes all the shops seemed absolutely packed with goods of every description – fruit, clothes, jewellery, chocolates, stockings, fountain pens and luxury goods of every description, boxes of eggs outside the grocers, whole hams hung up.’ That somewhat breathless list gives an idea of what were luxuries in Britain in 1943 – fresh fruit and fresh eggs as much as jewellery.
When Barry’s brother, Howard Shepherd, took us out to dinner, we had the impossibly difficult task of choosing between four cuts of steak: fillet, point, rump or porterhouse. It was to be nine years, yes, another nine years, before meat rationing came to an end in Britain. But food was not the principal memory this trip evoked. It was refreshing to hear a subtly different interpretation of the war news, and reassuring to sense how deeply the people of Ireland were on our side. More volunteers from neutral southern Ireland were serving in the British forces than from the north, which was officially at war (another Irish paradox).
Howard Shepherd rang up and cancelled his evening engagements. ‘We then went on to the Theatre Royal: this is a huge affair with a moving stage and three bars (each of which we explored after the show). The latter was a very lavish revue with a chorus of eighty and lots of spectacular scenes and pretty music.
‘I think the highlight of the whole outing was coming out afterwards into a world aglow with lights, and wandering along the Liffey admiring the reflections in the water.’
I can still summon to my mind’s eye a brilliant image of a double-decker bus crossing the river on the next bridge to ours. Moving all aglow at such a stately pace, it might have been Titania’s chariot on her nightly rounds.
This trip to Dublin was in mid-September. The three-month postponement ordered by the doctor was over. Sure enough the Orderly Room delivered a terse notice the next week. It empowered me to travel third-class to London to attend a board for the post of filter officer in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Said board would be held at Penn Corner, off the Strand, on the next Thursday, and I should present myself at 10.45 a.m. And so it came to pass. I found myself elbow to elbow with four or five youngish men, all looking heavier and more responsible than me. I was only too aware of my wavy hair and horn-rimmed glasses and squeaky voice. My rivals (as I assumed I must think of these others) seemed to be going off to be interviewed at a much quicker rate than I would have expected. Actually there were two or three boards going on simultaneously. When I was called, my interview seemed to be over in a flash, though the other candidates assured me that I was ‘in’ for more than half-an-hour. After this there was an excruciating wait while your fate was decided. You were informed of the result by the playing of one of two recordings. One said: ‘Would the candidate just seen return to his unit forthwith.’ That was failure. The other message said: ‘Would the candidate just seen report to the medical section on the second floor.’ That was success, or at least left it to Fate, Providence or the Will of Allah.
I floated down to the medicos in a haze that seemed to remove me entirely from the common parlance of mankind. How had it happened? They had all laughed two or three times: what had I said? Now there were just these routine nooks and crannies to offer up; put your tongue out, bend over, read the bottom line . . . then there will be the suit to order, Simpson’s I think . . . ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this.’ What was he saying? They had all gathered round, looking serious. ‘I don’t understand,’ blinking as they switched on the main lights again. The senior one bent over confidentially. ‘It’s this job you are in for, you have to have an A1 vision, yours is A4.’ ‘But I do it already . . . have done for a year, nearly.’ ‘Ah,
but as an officer you’ll need to have especially perfect eyesight. You carry the responsibility . . .’ ‘It’s just the same, we’re just looking down at a lot of tiddlywinks on a great big table.’ ‘Ah, but it’s this electronic equipment isn’t it? It’s what they were developing before the war, television they call it. Well to look at that distorted flickering imagery all the time you’d have to have perfect eyesight. I’d say you’re as well not dabbling in that.’ The second doctor came back with a large book. ‘It’s quite clear, A1 vision required.’
One of the board members came bustling in: ‘Bad luck old chap. Go back to your unit and we’ll be in touch. You did a good board.’ Much good it had done me.
I had arranged by telephone to meet my parents after the board at the entrance to Penn House. They had come up from Canterbury for the day. I could not bear the thought of descending the stairs into the foyer where successful candidates would be embracing admiring loved ones. I needed to creep unseen into some dark corner and clear my mind of foolish dreams of glory. After all I had expected to fail. Yes, but not in such a tormenting way.
I got the surprised Sergeant-in-Charge to direct me to the back door. Beyond the Strand were the fast-flowing grey waters of the Thames. I walked down to them. There in the Embankment Gardens were statues to great men. I would never fall into that category; destined to be an also-ran; a disappointment to my devoted parents. I must not keep them waiting any longer. I must have been an awful responsibility, being so ill so often.
They were waiting at the entrance to Penn House. A neatly dressed couple passing into the dumpiness of middle age. We had a caring lunch together and said a lot of cheering things. And that I thought was that, as I settled into the sixteen-hour rail and sea journey back to Stormont. Next time I travelled I would be going overseas.
But, as with my matriculation results, I had underestimated life’s endless ability to surprise. When I reported back to the Orderly Room, the CO came out of his office. ‘I heard the result; damn silly. I’ll recommend you for an admin job if you like.’
The next day a twenty-page typed list of all the commissioned posts available to RAF ground personnel was sent down to me. They covered everything, from armaments storage in the Hebrides to building protective zariba hedges in East Africa. At first I thought that I should take up the CO’s kind offer and apply for a job as an administration officer. At least I would get a good send-off from him. Then I thought: did I really want to spend the rest of my time in the RAF signing movement orders, sentencing drunken airmen to a week’s confinement to camp, arranging proper toilets for visiting WAAFs at a station dance, and ending up adjutant in some moribund camp, which I would have the tricky and boring job of running down with the ending of the war? No, I did not.
So, I turned back to the list and looked at it entirely from the selfish point of view of what I would enjoy most. The answer came immediately. Intelligence: that covered a multiple of things; all in the spearhead of action. The principal drawback was my age: I was still only nineteen; secondly, I had no foreign language except French, and that only to schoolboy level; and thirdly, I had not been to university and was down to take a medical degree at Guy’s. But what the hell, that was in the far distance after the bleeding war was over. Might as well be hung for a sheep . . .
Surprisingly quickly, in the middle of November 1943 I was ordered to report to the Group Captain i/c Intelligence in the main Stormont building. He was middle-aged with a quiet, gentle manner. As I remembered from all the times in the last year that I had spent polishing the parquet floors, there were two interconnected offices. He gestured to the larger one. ‘Have a look in there, then come back here and tell me what you’ve found out.’ ‘Can I take notes?’ I could. After twenty minutes he called out to ask how I was getting on. I gave him an analysis of the various war fronts and the latest figures of German submarine losses, Royal Naval casualties and merchant shipping sunk in recent months and in what oceans.
‘Stop, stop. You can’t have taken all that in just now.’
‘No, I knew what to look for.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘I’ve often studied these walls before.’
‘How could that be? This placed is kept locked all the time we’re not in it.’
‘Not entirely locked, sir. It’s open to the hoovering and dusting and polishing squads that come round every night. When they are officially guarding the building, they are also keeping it ship-shape and tidy.’
‘And do you fall in that category?’
I explained that the various clerks on shift duty also did night guards around the camp. This office was much the most interesting to keep clean, because it gave a picture of how the war was going.
‘Hmm. So from your privileged position, Aircraftman Gill, how do you think the war is going?’
‘Not so badly as last year, sir.’
‘That’s a cautious answer considering we lost more ships in early 1942 than at any time in our history.’
He launched into a brilliant analysis of war strategy. Altogether it was going to be a close run thing. The Germans still had some nasty surprises for us, but we had our own secret weapons. But he believed it would not be possible to beat an enemy like Germany (or Japan) without invasions. ‘You’ll probably be in one of those assaults, Gill.’
He took me to the door, wished me well and shook my hand. The interview had taken more than two hours.
Two weeks later I was summoned back to Penn Corner. This time there were only three on the board – a much younger panel and much more rowdy. They constantly disagreed with each other. If the Stormont interview had been like a chat with a very clever uncle, this was a corner of an Oxford college. One of them summed up:
‘You see Gill, you’re not coming to us with a special talent; you don’t speak Cantonese for instance . . .’
‘God, wouldn’t that be great if he did . . .’
‘We could send him to the Nursery; basic Sino-Japanese languages in thirteen months.’
‘No, no, no. The war would be over by the time we’d got the task force ready. I keep telling you to think strategically Crispin . . .’
‘Well, whatever you say, if Jerry gives us the Christmas present we think he might . . .’
‘It’ll all be over, one way or another. Where are you off to now Gill?’
I explained I was returning to my unit. And somewhat frostily pointed out that I had come a thousand miles for a ten-minute interview.
‘A thousand miles,’ muttered one of them. ‘God, one doesn’t think of the Empire still being so big.’
‘Getting some time with the old folk while you’re over?’ asked the small one named Crispin.
Even more frostily I pointed out that the movement order that got me to Penn Corner made no reference to a forty-eight-hour leave pass.
‘Boobed again, have we?’ beamed the chairman with false bonhomie. ‘We’ll have to make it up later.’
I left, feeling more depressed and confused than at any time since the early days in RAFNI.
There were consolations. I had a new and delightful girlfriend called Bunny, a Filter Room WAAF, who was on the same watch as me. (This meant we could spend our days off together.) She was light as a feather and loved dancing. At a Hut 50 party held in a private room in a restaurant in town, she performed the dangerous-looking feat of dancing on the table top, covered in used glasses and small plates. This was for my birthday, 10 December 1943. But it had another more solemn reason. Just as a year before, a really large overseas draft had been posted up at the beginning of December. It included everyone in Hut 50 except Too Too (he must have had some inhibiting condition like diabetes) and me.
This time there was no last-minute cancellation. Everybody left on 11 December. What a curiously devastating effect their going had on this familiar scene. What had housed argument, laughter, occasional tears, the odd fight, sing-songs, and dirty jokes, relapsed into concrete and metal. Like a stage set, which you h
ardly notice when the actors are in the foreground; once they have left, its very inertia, its seediness, gives it a finality, which increases the mournful sorrow of the one surviving actor.
At that time I thought that the relationship of the ten of us was unique, that it would be something we would all look back on as a powerful experience. In part, I think that was true. What was unique was what was left when we had all gone. Hut 50 itself created the social relationship, the close living, the bareness of our situation. I have lived, later in the Air Force, and for years afterwards in a student hostel, with other males, but nothing was quite as socially basic as this stretch in Stormont Park. At this level it would be easy for one or two neurotic souls to pull us all down into grumbling and quarrelling. No one did. We had a tolerance, which I think it would not be so easy to find today. We did not expect too much of each other and we supported each other’s weaknesses. When we had a corporal who knelt by his bed and said his prayers every night, nobody made fun of him; they went on talking in quiet tones and they respected his space. Giving everyone his appropriate area is another very important social rule when space is at a premium. It was not true to say that we all came from a common background or even country. But we were all doing the same thing – we were all plotters in the same Filter Room. In the much larger unit I was going into – an airfield – ranks, jobs, rewards, ages, everything was different. We were living for some time under canvas, but there were still profound differences in our lifestyle.
So three cheers for Hut 50; for me it has stood the test of time. If 137 Wing – the airfield I was going to be with for the next year and more – was like a miniature city, so Hut 50 was a monastery where we all lived in real harmony. I think we were luckier than we knew.