That Summer

by Andrew Greig

  Came back down the hill, sun up and already steaming off the dew, through the village, past the row of sleeping houses up Saracen Lane. Grabbed a cold shower, kitted up, picked up the roll-neck sweater because it would be cold at 20,000 feet. Bolted down some breakfast, signed the chit then jumped into the truck – old Goosey driving, ‘Been out wenching, son?’ – as we rattled down the lane and took the short cut through the orchard where the apples and pears were starting to plump.

  Blokes were talking and laughing but I wasn’t listening. Thinking of how I’d be seeing her next Thursday, God willing. For once there were no worries, no fear. We’re alive till we die, that much is certain. And it’s going to be a scorcher, you can tell.

  The green blips sank and squiggled. My head ached and my eyes wouldn’t focus. My uniform was itchy, the blouse clung to my skin, and I could already smell the warm reek off my armpit.

  Sergeant Farringdon leant closer and insisted. We were informal on good days but this wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Reading, Corporal,’ she repeated in her posh drawl. I knew she’d been at some smart boarding school because she was always saying how the Forces were just the same but softer. ‘Distance, bearing, height,’ she demanded. ‘Estimated number.’

  I leaned closer to the screen and tried to make sense of a bunch of squiggles. I repented of that last gin the night before. I repented too of that kiss and that date. Right now I wanted to be left alone for a long time. Maybe I should have done nursing like Maddy, something simple. Trouble is, often I don’t like people much and I can’t stand complaining. In fact, I’m not really a very nice person. Which Maddy, for all her sexual carry-ons, is.

  ‘Fifty miles,’ I said. ‘Bearing–’

  ‘Hostiles, fifty miles,’ Farringdon said too loud and close. ‘You’ve got to identify them as hostiles.’

  ‘But they’re not,’ I said.

  ‘For the purposes of this exercise, they are, Corporal Gardam. Don’t pretend you hadn’t forgotten. Believe me,’ she added as I grappled with the dial, ‘they’ll be hostiles soon enough. We’re on our own now and Mr Churchill isn’t asking for peace, as far as I recall.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind some peace,’ I muttered, hating her and all her class, then read off the bearing. She nodded, corrected a little on the calibrated dial.

  ‘Now height,’ she said.

  I fed in the range and bearing and waited till height came up on the calculator.

  ‘Twenty-three thousand,’ I said. ‘Angels twenty-three.’

  ‘Estimated number,’ she demanded.

  I squinted at the tiny screen, the falling and rising blips. Only experience could help me here, and like my pilot I didn’t have enough.

  ‘Sixty?’ I ventured. ‘Maybe more.’

  Farringdon shook her head. ‘No. See the way it falls?’ She pointed with her pencil. ‘The width and rate? More like thirty, unless they’re stacked, in which case the line is thicker. Say thirty-five.’

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I’m not at my best today.’

  She glanced at me then. A quick, hard, undeceived glance.

  ‘Try getting to bed earlier,’ she said briskly. ‘I’d suggest you restrict your contact with pilots to R/T rather than the pub.’

  I glanced at Jean Finlay and Mo sitting along from me, but they were suddenly very busy looking at their screens.

  ‘An alternative suggestion, Corporal,’ Farringdon said more gently. She put her hand on my shoulder a moment. Her nails were long and perfect, like her teeth. ‘If you’re going out on the bash, drink plenty of water before going to bed, and try to make sure you’ve a morning off next day. When we do this for real you’ll need to be at your best. It’ll come soon enough.’

  Then she smiled and passed on to Jean, leaving me to go through another couple of exercises, and for the next hour I was much too busy to think of pilots and dates and sweet clumsy kissing.

  The Battle of Britain, it was decided later, began on 10 July, a Wednesday. It dawned with cloud and rain, which cleared to brilliant heat. Had Stella Gardam been entrusted with a live screen on the Chain High radar network, she’d have seen enough activity to bring on another headache.

  The first major attack was on a Channel convoy. Len Westbourne’s squadron was not one of those sent to intercept the attack. Instead they waited in their huts as it rained, then put out the deck chairs when the sun came through. They read the papers, flicked through the Picture Post and Lilliput, played cards and argued about tactics and pubs and what had gone wrong in France.

  Some wore shirt and tie and polished shoes, as if respectability was needed to kill or be killed. Others wore roll-neck sweaters under their Mae West flotation jackets, and sheepskin flying boots – they were mostly veterans of France, entitled to this casual dress, like senior pupils in a school. Entitled to sit and sweat and feel the tickle under their arms as the sun grew higher.

  France, it was agreed, had been a shambles. They’d been shot up on the ground, messed around, retreating from aerodrome to flying school field to finally sleeping in tents. Orders were conflicting, sometimes impossible. Without a warning system, they had to fly wasteful standing patrols, which amounted to – as St John put it – flying all over the shop while the buggers blow up the airfield behind your back. It was agreed they were much better off like this, fighting in their own back yard.

  But the tight formations they’d worked so hard at were proving a liability. Some grew heated on this point, especially those like Billy (Shortarse) Madden, who’d been blown out of the sky, so busy keeping an eye on my No. 1 I never saw the bastard. The looser German Rotte grouping, worked out in Spain then honed through Poland then Belgium, Holland and France, was much better for fighters.

  Then the CO strolled by and reminded them that tight formation was still official policy and would be adhered to as long as he was in command, though he might condone the use of a tail-end Charlie, weaving at the back to protect the rear.

  Len sat and listened, knowing he would, as the least experienced pilot, be that tail-end Charlie, and wondered who was going to protect him.

  ‘This is very silly,’ Tad muttered. ‘What need of formations? We fly, we get close, we kill them. That is all, you know.’

  The pilots in earshot stirred uneasily. Better to complain or make a joke of it. Not talk of killing and being killed. Better to say We down a few kites, and the odd chap will buy it. Drink to him and carry on, that’s the form.

  They were stood down, and went to get some lunch, though it didn’t sit well on some jumpy stomachs. Rumours came in from the Channel that there’d been a do involving Hurricanes and Me109s stacked above Me110s and Dornier bombers. Most of the convoy had got through, the losses were said to be ten to four, and two of those had bailed out. Billy Higson was said to have gone down in flames.

  A moment’s silence, a blip in the gossip and speculation. Len exchanged glances with Tad, who nodded like he’d expected that then went back to dealing his patience hand. Neither of them had ever really known Billy, but he had just become one of those whose name would only be mentioned in a certain sort of way, with a short pause before and, like as not, a joke after. Good old Billy! Remember that time in Deauville when he flagged down that taxi and told it to drive to Paris – and it did!

  Good old Billy, Len thought, dead somewhere in the Channel. Had he had a hot date too, before the machine-gun bullets smashed into his cockpit and then the flames? Tad just seems to accept that, but I can’t.

  He blinked, shook his head to flick away the thought. Then he turned another page of Mr Standfast, the glare bouncing off the paper making it hard to focus or pay attention for long.

  *

  They don’t know what has just begun. They don’t know about the Battle of Britain; it’s not called that yet. On the other side this phase would be known as the Kanalkampf or Struggle for the Channel. While the RAF pilots have the tension of uncertainty and waiting, the Luftwaffe pilots know from their orders of the even
ing before exactly when they’ll be flying and where – which generates its own sort of tension, sitting for hours watching the clock inch on. Unlike the RAF fliers, they can play chess or tennis or read a book, knowing the length of time that has to be filled.

  None of these people know the outcome of anything – the War, the next week, who will survive and who won’t, if the troopship barges amassing across the Channel will shortly be launched. They are the most up-to-date people on the planet and still they don’t know.

  That’s what keeps them on their toes. It makes breathing shallow and stomachs jumpy. It makes Len long for Thursday, to see Stella again. Only then will he know where his life might go.

  Remember: far as they’re concerned they are as up to date as anyone alive, the last word in modern, with all the outcomes still unknown.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mid-July

  There’s a scratchy pause between the Tannoy switching on and the announcement that follows, and it jerks in the gut like someone has pulled a string. What comes next could be music, or one of the CO’s jokes, or it could be time to get off our behinds and do what we’re paid for. Scramble!

  Even as we run for our kites with Tad on my right stuffing cards into his battledress pocket, I notice the relief of an end to waiting, like a child finally going into the dentist’s room. I smell the heat coming off the turf, feel my parachute bumping awkwardly off my legs, hear the shouting and behind it somewhere a wood pigeon cooing in the woods and for a moment wish myself among the cool trees, reliving my boyhood.

  But I’m running, in my prime, keyed-up and trigger-happy, eyes sharp and reactions spot on. As I jump onto the wing and clamber in and Fred Tate the engine mechanic starts up and the whole airframe begins to roar and shake, I feel myself come fully alive. He helps me strap in. I sign Form 700 whereby I accept this perfect machine in full flying order. The airframe mechanic Evans, a tall, silent, grim man with a stubby moustache, pulls away the trolley accumulator. Fred gives me the thumb then jumps down. I glance over at my section leader; he’s starting to roll already. They pull the chocks away and I begin to go.

  Tail up. Roar, rumble, thump as I go over a bump. Come on, come on! over the R/T. Controls starting to respond. Bump, thump, feel sick, which could be nerves or uneven ground, check airspeed then ease the stick back and we’re off. That’s better. Wheels up, whine, clunk. OK, look to my No. 1. Can’t see him. You’ve overshot me Leonard. Get in tight.

  I do. Bo Bateson – a hearty type, too many backslaps and bad jokes for my liking but then I’m an awkward so-and-so and he is a good pilot and of course he’s been to France, shot down three and a half – is already in tight on the other side. I look in my mirror, see Red section is right behind us, Tad out on the right. Mirror’s shaking, hard to see well, got to learn to cope with that.

  We’ve rehearsed this often enough, I’ve even been allowed two sessions of gunnery practice, but this is not a rehearsal. Controller’s voice spattering in headphones. Climb to 20,000 feet. Expect bandits. Repeat, bandits coming your way.

  I’m looking and looking, swivelling between watching Geoff Prior’s wing tip and looking up ahead and above. It’s so bloody bright, and the cockpit frame shakes. And so much sky, planes just disappear in it. Then in seconds they’re on you. The first times are when you’re most likely to get killed, everyone agrees on that. Fifteen thousand. Seventeen. I wonder if Stella’s following us on her screen. Can’t even picture what she looks like. Just those grey-hazel eyes, looking straight back at me for a moment.

  Shake head, keep looking. The air’s thin up here, the plane’s just sliding about in the sky. Bandits! Two-o’clock. Line astern – here we go! Can’t see anything. Shake my head, blink my eyes and look again and there they are. Not that many, a dozen maybe. Bombing Channel ports, most like. Soon put a stop to that.

  Red section has peeled off behind me. Slip in line astern, push throttle through the gate, feel the big surge. Remember to set gun sights for Heinkel wingspan, feel pleased about that then look above for fighters coming down.

  Suddenly, so suddenly I’m in among the bombers. Fire off at a Heinkel, swerve to miss the next one, fire at a third and see the formation break up. A Hurri, maybe Tad, right up the arse of a bomber. Bits flying off in all directions. Then a bright flash and it’s gone. Tad roaring triumph in my earphones.

  Rattle across my wings like someone running a rod along railings. The plane shakes, staggers. Damn! Stopped looking! Throw the stick to right corner, everything goes grey, just see a Me109 flash past me. Try to turn, get a wild shot in but he just dives and is gone. Don’t feel sharp enough to turn on my back and go down after him. Turn after the bombers. They’ve split, one is going down in flames. God, this happens so quick. Which one to follow? Look behind!

  Here’s one, below me, a fighter. I dive on it, press the red button and even as I feel my kite slow with the recoil I see the wing shape of my target and know it’s a Spitfire. Hell! But I miss him and he’s gone. I look around. Nothing anywhere. Check behind. Nothing. Where have they gone? Where is everyone?

  Empty sky. Right wing looks ripped a bit, controls sluggish. Lucky man. Get out while the going’s good. Last look around and head for home. Somehow I’ve fired all my ammo, all fifteen seconds’ worth. Must get closer next time but it’s so quick, so damn quick …

  Feel tired going home. Then glad, throttling down over perimeter wire, the trees, those deep green trees. Thinking of tea, some grub, a cigarette. All those appetites returning. Thump, rumble, feel sick again. Taxi up, cut engine. Sit a moment and listen to the silence. My first contact.

  *

  ‘Do some shooting, then?’

  Evans the airframe mechanic strokes the wing, the blown-away patches over the guns. I climb out awkwardly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Didn’t hit anything.’

  He looks disappointed, almost disgusted. His little moustache twitches.

  ‘Think two bombers went down,’ I say. ‘All our chaps OK?’

  He points across the field. ‘That’s the last of them back now,’ he says.

  I walk over the grass, exhausted yet fizzing inside, needing to talk about it. Prior waves and waits for me. I feel good, walking over the fresh-cut grass towards him, joining the club.

  Strange idea of a date. He was standing outside the Darnley Arms and instead of going in he asked if I minded going for a walk. I smiled to myself, imagining full well what this might entail, but said yes just the same.

  We took a path into the woods when the sun was low, and followed it towards the next village. He didn’t say much. Not, I think, because he had nothing to say but because he was too wrapped up in what he needed to say.

  As we walked, hands hanging loose but not touching each other, he asked how my training was going. I told him as he struggled to listen. He sharpened up when I told him I’d be on the receiver for real in another week.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  I nodded modestly. ‘It’s a big responsibility,’ I said. ‘You feel it. My heart beats faster just thinking of it. Those blips are real. Real planes, real bombs.’

  He nodded, listening hard, I felt, to something inside himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I have to admit we rely on you to point us in the right direction. In fact we’re blind without you. We’d have to be up on standing patrol all the time, and we haven’t got the resources.’

  We walked on through the heavy leaves. He kicked them over, frowning. He told me he was a country boy, a peasant, as his friend Tad called it. He waited to see if I’d laugh, but I just nodded and he went on. His father had been a gamekeeper till the estate let him go, then a joiner, then worked a lathe. Now working in one of the new aircraft construction factories in the town, but still living in the country and going in on his motorbike every day.

  One sister, he didn’t say much about her. She wasn’t living at home any more. His father was away working all hours. They were all scat
tered by the War. Everything had changed.

  ‘But this,’ he said, and wrapped his big hand round a head-high branch, ‘this doesn’t change. It’s still summer, then it will be autumn, then leaves will fall and it’ll be winter. In fact,’ he said and laughed apologetically, ‘I often think I prefer trees to people. They’ve got more dignity and they don’t suddenly up sticks and move.’

  He looked at me anxiously, but because he was showing me a bit of himself, I didn’t laugh.

  ‘Still, their conversation must be limited,’ I said. ‘The trees, I mean. Though their leaves do turn gorgeously.’

  He looked to see if I was taking a rise, and I was but just a little bit. I told him I was born in a new street right on the edge of town so I knew what he was talking about and how he felt. As a child I’d spent a lot of time by myself in the fields. But since the War had started I was trying to be closer to people. In fact, I found the part of town I’d been billeted in rather too quiet. I wanted to go to London with my friend Maddy. I felt protected in a crowd.

  He sat down abruptly, leaning against a big oak at the top of the rise. The sun was just going down, splintering through the leaves, and cattle bugled hoarsely to each other from the next field. There was no one in sight as he patted the ground beside him.

  Here we go, I thought, but sat down anyway. He began by picking up a big wizened chestnut leaf and began to shred it, very delicately, with his nails. He picked at it, frowning to himself, till it was a skeleton. Held it up to the last of the sun then threw it away and raked for another. He certainly knew how to keep a girl waiting. I edged closer then, seeing he was fully occupied, began on a leaf myself.

  He began to talk. Quietly, as the dew came down. Talked about his first attack earlier in the week. About how big and empty the sky was before and after, and what a shambles it was in between. How everything happened too fast, how he wasted ammunition, how he’d nearly shot down a Spitfire with a reflex shot. (‘Luckily I missed,’ he said. ‘As usual.’) How he’d had his best chance with a dive bomber but overshot.