A Future Arrived

by Phillip Rock

  “Care to ‘pop,’ Allison?” the squadron leader whispered.

  “Why not, old chum? He looks the type of man who would serve an exceptional sherry.”

  Colin was billeted in a rambling old hotel with splendid views across hill and firth. He put in a call early in the evening to Norwich and it took three hours before the operator in Inverness could put it through. He reached the caretaker who went up to Kate’s flat and brought her down. She sounded breathless over the line.

  “Oh, Collie, I’m just crushed that you’re gone. Are you in Inverness?”

  “Near there … Charlestown.”

  “But how long will you be away?”

  “I can’t say. No one knows anything. Quite a while I would think. I’m sorry, Kate. Not much chance of any leave at the moment.”

  “I’ll come up there.”

  He gripped the receiver very tightly. “You can’t do that, Kate. Impossible.”

  “No it isn’t. I could come up just for the summer. My grandfather owned a hunting lodge in Glen Garry … Mama owns it now. I could stay there … bring all my books, study … see you from time to time. It’s only forty-five miles or so from Inverness.”

  “Getting there would be difficult. Trains … all this Dunkirk business.”

  “Don’t you want to see me, Collie?”

  “Of course I do, you know that. It would be wonderful. I just don’t want you to turn into some kind of … camp follower.”

  There was a long pause and then she lowered her voice and said: “It’s not being a camp follower to want to be near someone you love. There. I said it. And it’s not a schoolgirl crush this time. I love you, Colin.”

  He looked toward the windows, a mauve light lingering over the still waters of the firth. “I guess I love you, too, Kate.”

  ORDERS CAME IN constantly to be almost immediately canceled. A fog of confusion permeated the squadrons. Rumors swept the base and were squelched with difficulty.

  “I’ll trust the Daily Post,” one of the pilots said after breakfast on the last day of May. “This A. E. Thaxton chap has gone back and forth with the little ships. They’re bloody well saving the BEF.”

  “The ruddy civvies are doing more than we are,” someone remarked bitterly.

  Morale in both squadrons had sunk to worrying lows in just a few days. Allison gave a talk to all the crews in the mess later that morning.

  “Now look here, chums. There’s no point in everyone slouching about with their chins down to their knees. We don’t fly the type of aircraft that would be of much bloody use at the moment. We’re here because someone at the War Office got terribly windy about our troops in Norway … envisioned an arctic Dunkirk with the poor old brown jobs being hurled into the freezing sea. The fact is, and I have this straight from an uncle in Whitehall and quite close to the situation, that our lads in Narvik are squatting in the town and the Jerry ski troops are hunkered down in the hills with nary a shot nor a cross word being exchanged between them. It is self-evident that our chums in Narvik will be withdrawn as soon as transport and naval escort can be released from the Dunkirk show. The powers that be are resigned to an embarrassing fiasco. What they did not want was another disaster. Our job will be to provide reconnaissance and assistance for the operation. In my own humble opinion, that task will not begin for another week or so. In the meantime, this nasty joke of a station may come to some sort of order and we may as well make the best of it until it does. The weather’s good … the beer plentiful … the links at Munlochy available and the girls in Inverness far more acquiescent than I would have thought possible. Go, my chums. Enjoy your off hours with our blessings … but stay in touch.”

  Cheers rattled the windows and The Comedian scurried out of his office in the wild delusion that the war was over.

  “Ross!” Allison called out. “Don’t be in such a hurry to leave. Where are you off to anyway?”

  “I don’t know, Skip. Golf sounded pretty good to me.”

  “I would imagine that Miss Kate Wood-Lacy would sound better.”

  He stared at him blankly. “Kate?”

  “A phone message of sorts on my desk this morning. None of the station sods know where anyone is. It was sent to my attention. Just her name and an address … Kinloch Lodge, Glen Garry.”

  “Jesus, she did it.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I never thought she would actually come up here.”

  “Rather nice of her, I must say. Good to have a … chum nearby.”

  HE BORROWED A Baby Austin from one of the navigators in the Sunderland squadron, managed to squeeze his legs into it, and rattled off along the road to Loch Ness. A postman on a bicycle in the village of Invergarry gave him explicit directions and he found the lodge with no trouble. It was far larger than he had imagined: a two-story stone house with a slate roof and many chimneys. It stood alone on a rise of heather-cloaked ground overlooking the deep, still waters of Loch Garry.

  She came out of the house at the sound of the car and stood stiffly in front of the open door. “I know you think I was wrong,” she said as he walked up to her from the car.

  “That’s not for me to say, Kate. It’s good to see you. I know that. Must have been tough getting here.”

  “A trial!” She smiled, her trepidation melting away. “They say that over two hundred thousand men have been evacuated so far from Dunkirk and most of them were going north by rail. Our little train was constantly being shunted into sidings. It seemed an age before we reached Glasgow. I took a bus from there to Fort Williams and the gillie met me with his van.”

  “Gillie?”

  “Grandpapa’s old gamekeeper. He has a cottage down the hill and caretakes the place. His name’s Archy Selenius. An unusual name for a Highland Scot, but that’s what it is.”

  “Okay by me,” he said, returning her smile. “Beats Macbeth any day.”

  Clouds, like an endless procession of woolly sheep, drifted in from the west. Their shadows moved across the loch and up and down the surrounding hills.

  “We have fishing rights for two miles along the north shore,” Kate told him. “Would you like to get out the tackle?”

  “I’m not much for fishing. I like trout and salmon, but on a plate.” He bent down, picked up a flat stone, and sent it skipping across the water. “Are you really going to stay here all summer?”

  “If you’d like me to.”

  “I’d feel happier if you were back in Norwich. Going to school, making friends … filling your days.” He gazed out across the slate-smooth loch, the empty hills. “This is a lonely spot, Kate. I hate to think of you being out here by yourself.”

  She pressed against his side and held his hand. “But you’d be here whenever you could. I wouldn’t be lonely.”

  “It would be different if we were married, Kate. I don’t feel right about it.”

  “I understand, Collie. Really I do. And that’s quite a wonderful thought. I’d make a marvelous wife.”

  “Yeah, you can make an omelet … and toast.”

  “That’s a beginning, isn’t it? I can also brew tea, don’t forget that. And speaking of tea, I could go for a cup. The wind is always cold here.”

  “Another reason to be in Norwich.” He gave her Junoesque figure a pat and a squeeze. “Your delicate health.”

  They strolled up the hill toward the house, arms about each other’s waist. “Have you heard anything from Derek?” she asked.

  “Just a short note a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t say much. I know his squadron’s in the Dunkirk battle. A guy at the base has a kid brother flying Spits out of Kentish Hill. They’re teamed with Derek’s bunch. I worry about him.”

  “Yes, so do I. I worry about everybody.”

  “Not about me, honey. I’m a bus driver.”

  She made tea while Colin wandered about the one large ground-floor room. The stone walls were covered with antlers and the stuffed heads of Highland stags.

  “Som
ebody liked to kill things,” he said as she brought the tea in on a tray.

  “Grandpapa. He was in the army when he was very young—Prince Albert’s Own, the lancers. Fought in the Zulu War … or liked to say he fought. Daddy told me that was all humbug. He came down with fever in Durban and never even saw a Zulu. I suppose he took out his martial frustrations on the deer.”

  She sat on the edge of a sofa and poured the tea. She had made sandwiches of potted shrimp and ham and had sliced a Dundee cake.

  “Quite a feast.”

  “I hope you’re hungry,” she said.

  “I’m always hungry.”

  She leaned against the cushions and watched him eat, one hand toying idly with the locket at her throat. “Collie, would it be such a daft idea if we did get married?”

  “Crazy.”

  “Is it because you’re not sure if you love me? Please be honest. I won’t be hurt.”

  He munched slowly and swallowed some tea. “It’s got nothing to do with love. It’s … oh, I don’t know, responsibilities. When people marry it’s to build a life together. A home … kids … sharing everything. I have no control over my life right now, Kate. A leaf in the goddamn wind. There’s even a rumor that now that we’ve occupied Iceland we might be sent there, to patrol the convoy lanes from Canada. It could be just talk, but what if it isn’t? What sort of marriage would that be? You couldn’t hop a train to Iceland.” He placed his cup on the table and turned to face her, his hands on her arms. “I do love you. I want you to know that and believe it. I knew I loved you when I woke up that night in your flat. Three, maybe four in the morning. Me in my shirt and pants … you in your robe. Your back was to me and you were sleeping like a baby. I stroked your hair for a minute and then rolled over and went back to sleep. You know what some dope asked me in the mess that next day? He wanted to know if I’d found a nice bit of fluff in Norwich to sleep with! Some … nice bit of fluff you are.”

  Her eyes never left his face. “Please kiss me, Collie.”

  How soft her lips were. And her body soft beneath the cashmere sweater, her breasts pressed tightly against his chest. To love her, he thought. To have her naked beneath him. To be inside of her. Buried deep in the warmth of her. He sat back and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Kate rested her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed.

  “Allison expects me back by four,” he lied.

  “So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so. A … training flight.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get down to Norfolk. Go back, Kate. Don’t miss any more classes. If you love me you’ll do what I ask.”

  He stopped on the way back, by the banks of Loch Ness, and got out of the car. The water looked immeasurably deep and cold. He wondered idly if there really was a monster down among the sunless reeds and idly tossed pebbles into the depths.

  THE NEW SQUADRON leader of 624 had lasted exactly four and one half minutes into his first fracas. A cannon-firing Messerschmitt had blown his tail to bits and he had bailed out, floating down into Belgium and captivity with an abashed wave of the hand. Flying Officer Derek Ramsay was made permanent/temporary leader.

  “It’s that type of gobbledegook that just makes me boil,” Jolly Rodgers said after hanging up the telephone that evening. “What in God’s name is a permanent/temporary when he’s at home? Now answer me that. The wing commander should have given you the squadron and raised you a notch. It isn’t fair.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Derek said. “There are only ten of us now. Hardly a squadron if you come to think of it.”

  Jolly tilted back his desk chair and looked at the hollow-eyed young man standing before him. The 624 had gone over twice today and had shot down two bombers and a Messerschmitt 109 and damaged a couple more with only the loss of the squadron leader to mar the trips. Incredible, considering the losses in the past few days. “I’m restricting all men to base tonight, Ramsay.”

  “Because of what happened at the Red Bull last night? We didn’t start anything, Jolly. Just a loud-mouthed, half-drunk infantry lieutenant. No one hit him, you know. Just a push or two.”

  “That’s hardly the point. If any of your chaps want to know why I’m doing it they can gather in the mess in half an hour. First round on me.”

  It was a sullen bunch that greeted Jolly when he strolled in. He signed a blank tab for the first round of drinks and then leaned back against the bar and looked at the silent pilots. Twenty-two of them from both squadrons—and not many of them older than that.

  “No point in your looking at me as you would at some wicked uncle. What happened last night has been happening all over southern England. And I think you know why. The brown jobs don’t like us. The ‘Brylcreem Boys’ they call us. That’s the army for you. They can’t grasp what they can’t see. They didn’t see us over the beaches at Dunkirk. Ergo, we couldn’t have been up there helping them out. Those that have come back can’t wait to vent their spleen on anyone in RAF blue. That’s a pity, but true. At the moment, only you know how bloody hard you’ve been fighting … and against what incredible odds. In time, when the true story comes out, the army will probably feel like shits. Until things cool down, avoid them before someone gets his head knocked in and really bad blood builds between us. And that’s all I have to say. Drink up.”

  They were scrambled at seven in the morning, taking off two at a time and thundering up into the pale, clear sky of this first day of June. Sector Control vectored them to ten thousand feet and joined them with a Polish squadron that rose to meet them over the South Foreland. They were a wing now, three squadrons, thirty-five fighters in three waves heading across the Channel for the Belgian coast. Dunkirk, as always, lay to the south of them, the never ceasing black pall above it drawn across the sky like a smudge of soot across soft blue paper.

  Radios began to hum and crackle as they leveled off at thirty thousand feet, the Kentish Hill Spitfires five miles ahead, squirting thin vapor trails from the edges of their graceful wings. Words snapped through the ether … Cobra leader calling Fox … calling Zebra. Bandits below. Thousands of feet down, dots of shadow across the checkerboard of fields. Junker 87s … Stukas … wave after wave of them. Tally Ho! And down they went.

  THE 624 SQUADRON returned later in the morning, gunning their engines and sideslipping slightly over the trees. Jolly stood outside the ops building and counted seven. Three, he was thinking, were late. There had been nothing coherent coming over the radio for the past half hour. Some sort of minor malfunction in the receiver. Technicians were working on it. He shielded his eyes against the sun and counted more dots circling to the east. Spits forming their landing pattern. They were two shy. He turned his eyes back to the Hurricanes. All had fired their guns … the patches blown off, smoke trails along the wings. One was in difficulty, its hydraulics shot away. It landed belly down on the grass, spewing chewed turf and dust in a plume behind it before finally grinding to rest, one of the prop blades whirling on ahead like some monstrous boomerang.

  The Spitfires came in, touched down, taxied to their end of the field. Jolly stared at the sky for ten minutes. Nothing marred its purity.

  “Hello, Jolly.” Higby coming toward him, a lumbering, tow-headed farmer’s son from Lincolnshire. “Ramsay bought it. Went down flaming near La Panne.”

  “Ramsay,” he said thickly. He was getting used to it. He tried not to put a face to the name. “Bad luck.”

  “And Sergeant Logan. I didn’t see him, but Chester said he went into an awful spin. And Ginger ditched two miles from Dover on the way back. He climbed out on the wing and inflated his vest. The Dover lifeboat was on its way when I stopped circling, so he’s all right.”

  “That’s good. Go get a rest-up. Something to eat.”

  Jolly stood there and watched the sky. Larks darting and zooming. A hawk, motionless, very high, holding in the wind. It was certainly a glorious day.

  He was
dead because he was stupid. That was all Derek could think when the shock of the cannon shells jolted the stick from his hand. Flame licked from under the engine cowling and then the cowling tore away in a geyser of black smoke and great globs of steaming oil which splattered against the windshield to obscure his view. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He had been so intent on giving one final burst to an already smoking Stuka that he had failed to take a glance behind him. A 109 must have followed him down and been right on his tail.

  “I’m dead!” he screamed. “Shit!”

  The stick was useless, it wobbled in his right hand. Hand and arm useless too—a numb block of meat from fingertips to shoulder. No feeling at all. Smoke drifted into the cockpit through the firewall, choking him. He managed to slide the hood back with his left hand and gulped air as he peered over the side, clots of oil slapping against the side of his helmet, scorching through the leather. He pulled back in a hurry, in pain and terror. He was horribly low. Roofs beneath him … streets of a village flashing by … people looking up at him. Five hundred feet. No more than that. Too bloody low to bail out. Stick flopping back and forth. Rudder pedals mush under his frantic feet. Engine dead and burning. The plane was a glider now at the wind’s whim and fancy. He steeled himself for the final coup de grâce from his destroyer. The spurt of cannon shells did not come. The rearview mirror was empty of all images except placid sky. Good pilot, he thought crazily, burst them till they bleed then break away and look for another. His idiotic mistake for not doing the same. The plane glided on, losing speed, dipping and soaring. The flames had died out, only thick black smoke streaming past and white feathers of glycol from the cooling tank. A dead aircraft. A coffin on wings.

  “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth …” he muttered, remembering a long forgotten childhood prayer. The Hurricane quivered on the point of stall, then rose, sailed over the spire of a church … dipped again. A paper plane tossed across a schoolyard. Swooping … banking … heading in for a landing on the mud-churned football ground.