by Andrew Greig
Right now I’m sulking and nervous because for the rest of today I’m to act tail-end Charlie while we’re flying a wing of four. Me, Prior, St John, Bo Bateson. And everyone knows that position is for new boys and those about to die soon. The only way out of it is to be promoted through other people being knocked out, or by shooting down a few yourself.
The next thing I’m inside the book, like I’ve gone through a door in the page. I’m in there with Hannay and Dominic Medina, and the airfield has gone faint and the voices are whispers off-stage. Even the sunlight isn’t the light of this world but of that. And when the Tannoy goes and my heart leaps, it’s like a mighty rope has tugged me from one world into another and I’m still sprawled on the back of my mind as I take in that it’s only one of the COs’ blasted morale-boosting announcements. It’s his birthday so there’ll be a bit of a do in The Cock tonight. The famous Spitfire squadron down the road might join us. Oh, jolly, jolly good. Bunch of publicity-grabbing line-shooting pretty boys.
I’m worried, too, because during the night the underside of my Hurri has been painted pale sky-blue. This isn’t a joke but a good idea we’ve finally taken from the opposition – that much harder to spot from below. But I don’t like it because I feel superstitious about my plane. It seems bad luck to change it.
My feet are cramped and moist inside these shoes. Would it be good or bad luck to start wearing the leather gloves my mum sent? Just get through another three days and I’ll be seeing Stella. What do I want of her? What does she expect of me?
The Tannoy clicks, pauses, then blares. It’s us up, along with Blue section. I mark my page with a leaf of grass, grab my parachute and start running.
*
In the last sector of our climb, Prior orders us to fly away from the hostiles and gain more height before turning back into them. We’re fed up with always meeting the enemy higher than us, so we’re going to add a couple of thousand whenever there’s time. The controllers on the ground can like it or lump it.
I’m weaving at the rear like a drunk going home. Head turning and turning, checking the mirror, staring into that blue acreage of sky. Above all checking my tail so I won’t get knocked off. There’s a lot to do. Keeping the right distance behind the three aircraft ahead, checking above, below, behind, just flying the ruddy thing. I can picture my book exactly as I left it, face up on the grass. I hope the breeze won’t lose my place, or anyone else pick it up.
‘Bandits! Bandits below, eleven o’clock!’
Prior’s voice, a bit higher than usual, almost squeaky. I sideslip and look down, don’t see them at first. Then one, then more, then a lot, silhouetted against the Channel and the fields below.
‘Attack line astern! Stay back and cover us, Lennie.’
Just great. I push the stick forward and follow them down at a distance. We’re carving down through their upper layer of fighters. The bombers have already seen us and vanish in every direction, like minnows when you poke your finger in a pool. Down below, a bunch of Me110 fighter-bombers circling each other in tight defence. Then there’s a clattering rattle, feel a couple of thuds in somewhere below like someone’s punched my seat. I throw the stick over left, glimpse the Me109 hurtle past. Shit!
Group of Stukas going down in bombing formation. After them! Flip the kite over so she won’t cut out, dive. Close in, pick the rear left one. Closer, closer. Set the bloody sights! Closer. Get to 300 yards. He hasn’t seen me yet. Blast, he has! Bombs falling, he’s straightening, coming right across my sights …
Give him a two-second burst as I slide past. Turn back out of the dive towards him, feel my eyes bulge, vision going black and white then grey, feel the easing, feel sick but he’s still ahead of me. Throttle back, stay below, out of the rear-gunner’s sights. OK, now rise and get him.
He fills the sights. So big, so close. Bouncing in his slipstream. Thumb wet on the red button, press, feel the plane judder and slow. Go down, damn you! Bits start coming off. Fire more. Smoke from engine. Flips on his side, starts going down. Tracer bullets from rear turret. Follow him down, he’s too slow, I can dance all round him. Don’t overshoot. Check tail. Not supposed to do this. Don’t follow down! they say.
Got to get him, got to get this one, then they might promote me from tail-end. Closing again, sudden picture of my book page flipping over in the breeze, annoyance then press the button again. See the sparkle of the last tracer rounds dance around then BOOM he’s blown up. Debris clattering off me, duck as some hits the screen. Now out of here! Out!
Turn for home. Take the bearing. Keep weaving, don’t relax. Whatever you do, don’t relax. Keep jittering. Keep looking for the specks that grow, above, to stern, below …
Throttle down over the fence. See the tree tips stir. Headache coming on as I touch down. Bounce, run, bounce – not very stylish. But I got him, got my first one.
‘A probable, then?’ our Intelligence Officer Bill Raymond asks.
‘No bloody probable about it,’ I say, my voice high and squeaky. ‘Bastard blew up in my face. Take a look at the airframe.’
Prior’s arm round my shoulder. ‘Well done, Len.’ Then, quietly he adds, ‘I think Bunny’s bought it. Saw him go down.’
Fred Tate calls me back.
‘Look at this, sir.’
Under my seat are two unexploded cannon shells. He removes them gently, like peas from a pod.
‘Me109’s muzzle velocity too low. Got off lightly there.’
And all I can think later as I pick up my book again, remove the leaf of grass, is: Thank God I don’t have to be tail-end Charlie again.
I slid out of my chair and nearly fell over, my legs were so dead. Sergeant Farringdon smiled sympathetically and put down her recording pad.
‘Another day done,’ she said. ‘Now it’s into the night shift. Fancy going for a drink?’
I put my hand over my eyes. I was still seeing green wriggles and I was taken aback at her offer. The night-shift WAAF was taking my place already, though nothing was happening on the screen yet. I dragged my eyes away.
‘I fancy lying down with a cold cloth over my eyes,’ I said. ‘But yes.’
*
Before the War I’d never have walked into a pub without a man. That had changed. All those young women suddenly living away from home, working in fields or factories, getting ideas. I’d got my ideas before the War, thanks to university and Roger.
As we waited at the bar, I thought to myself a lot was changing. In the past I’d never have exchanged more than a few words with someone proper posh like Foxy Farringdon. She was from a completely different set than me – family with a big London house, cars, a place in Buckinghamshire, all that.
‘Is this encouraged in the Services, Sergeant Farringdon?’ I asked. ‘Fraternizing between the ranks?’
She snorted like the horse she undoubtedly had.
‘We’re off duty and I don’t give a jot. And please call me Foxy, absolutely everyone does. But it’s Sergeant in the hut, yah? We can’t have the men think we’re incapable of discipline.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
She looked at me suspiciously but ordered the gins and we found a place in the corner. She began to fill me in on the rumours I’d been too busy for, how one of the RDF stations had been bombed and put out of action for a couple of hours. It was said half the people in the huts had been killed. No one knew for sure if it was true.
We glanced at each other then as we picked up our drinks again. Our hut wasn’t strong at all. It should have been built underground but they were in too much a hurry.
‘Looks like we’re front line now, Stella,’ she said.
In an odd way, that made me feel better. I felt I could look Len in the eye more when I next saw him. I liked looking him in the eye, there was some kind of steady recognition there. Not a mad throwing away like Roger. Nor a pals-gone-wrong like with Evelyn. Just a recognition and a challenge.
‘Foxy, I think we’re all going to be front line soon,
’ I replied, polished off my G&T and went up for another, doubles of course.
Walking through the village to the Post Office with Tad when we were stood down one afternoon later that week, I saw secateurs glinting in a mottled hand. Saw the early faded heads flipped onto the grass and thought of the ones who had gone down already. I wondered who would be the next. Prior, Tad, St John? Myself? But I was immortal, had to believe that.
Tad was whistling as we strolled along the street. He raised his eyebrows, smiled and bowed to two young women we were passing. Got a giggle from one, a look back from the other that made me blush. Then they stopped, we stopped. We talked – well, Tad did – for a couple of minutes, long enough to discover they weren’t available for a drink later.
‘Don’t you ever stop? What about Maddy?’ I said as we walked on.
‘That was yesterday I saw her,’ he replied.
‘But aren’t you seeing her again?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But that will be tomorrow.’
I knew then I’d never really be a true fighter pilot. I hadn’t that careless capacity to live in the present, to be, as they said, regardless. I took it all too weightily. And that slowed me down, just a fraction.
Tad stopped outside the barber shop.
‘Don’t worry, Lennie. Maddy, she lives like this too. This is why I like her. I’ll just be a minute, you see,’ he said, and went inside.
I waited. The street was silent and hot. The blinds were down in most of the shops – the grocer, the butcher, the chemist. A bell tinkled, an old lady in a brown coat stepped out onto the street, exchanged a few last words with the people inside. Behind the hedge, a lawn mower rattled. Important to keep a neat lawn during a war.
Sleepy time, like life itself had paused in the heat. The old lady walked by on the other side of the street and stared at me. Then she smiled.
‘Fine afternoon, young man.’
I nodded, still lulled by the heat and the silence. Over the poplar trees in the far distance by the coast, the RDF towers shimmered in the haze. Dust rose from the street and tickled my nose. A petrol lawn mower joined in in the distance. It got louder.
I stepped out into the empty street and scanned the sky. Four tiny specks, quite low, coming closer. They didn’t sound like Merlin engines. They were twin-engine planes, heading this way. I looked and, yes, above them was a fighter escort and their wings were wrong.
Tad came out of the barber’s, hand in one pocket, looking pleased.
‘What good country,’ he said. ‘All mod cons! Should I have got you some, Lennie? I’m not knowing if you and Stella …’
‘Never mind that – they’re going for the airfield! Jesus!’
I was about to start running back but Tad gripped me by the arm.
‘Too late, my friend. Better to stay here.’
We stood in the middle of the street as the bombers went over, loud now, very loud. Where the hell were the Hurris? But Blue section was on patrol, Red was stood down, Yellow was somewhere over the Channel.
The bombs began to tumble from the planes, small sticks that went down very slowly at first. They dropped out of sight behind the trees. Then there was a long pause till the sounds came back, the distant thumps. One spectacular bang. Then the whine and blare of the siren. The Me109 escort dipped down and we heard the crackle of the guns. The siren cut out.
‘Jesu!’ Tad muttered. ‘Goering fuck. They must have got under RDF.’
The grocer stepped out of his shop, looked at the sky over the trees, looked at the two of us. Shook his head then went back inside.
It was all over in a few minutes. Then the fighter escort came low towards the village like they might be looking for trouble. We ran from the street, dived through the door of the butcher shop. A man with big moustaches stood looking at us with a knife in his hand.
‘Yes, gentlemen. Can I help you?’
Crackling and rattling in the street outside. The roar mounted, we threw ourselves face down among the sawdust.
A shattering of glass from next door. A sudden yelp, dog by the sound of it, cut off abruptly. Then it got slowly quiet. We got to our feet sheepishly, brushing down our uniforms. The butcher lowered his knife.
‘I hope you’ve got your ration cards,’ he said.
And I’m pleased to say for once even Tad was lost for words.
*
When we ran back to the airfield it was a shambles. Craters in the turf, two of the huts flattened, the dispersal hut and the control tower completely blown in. The shell of my sky-blue underside Hurri was still burning. Another two were lying on their side in their makeshift pens, wings tipped into the air. The fourth seemed completely untouched.
There were the smells of burnt rubber, high explosive, burning wood. People were emerging from slit trenches and concrete huts. Some looked dazed, others purposeful. A few were swearing loudly and steadily. There were no obvious casualties except the airfield itself.
The CO came out of the equipment hut with a rack of spades in his arms.
‘Right, you lot,’ he shouted. ‘Get those craters filled!’
Tad and me looked at each other.
‘Can he mean us?’
*
We put the spades aside as we heard the first drone. Merlin, unmistakable. Then two Hurris drifted in over the perimeter fence. A third came in higher and faster, did a roll over the airfield, then turned and made its approach. Had to be St John, only he and Tad did that low risky roll. He’d get a rocket from the CO.
We waited for a fourth but none turned up. It was Boy who was missing, perhaps he’d baled out. No one had seen him go down. We should know by evening. We wouldn’t think about it. At least, we wouldn’t talk about it. Boy had been shot down twice. Baled out each time, once into the Channel. A survivor, everyone agreed.
*
Late that afternoon. The runways mostly repaired, we were lying on the hot grass reading newspapers. Replacement Hurris were already on their way. Boy hadn’t returned and the France pilots, especially the University Air Squadron ones, the officers who’d joined up with him, were edgy and irritable.
‘Someday, in the future–’ Bo Bateson began.
‘The future,’ laughed the Hon. Harold Algernon St John. ‘What future?’ He examined the crossword in the Daily Mail. ‘Six letters, A following shade. Any ideas, chaps?’
‘Shadow?’ Geoff Prior murmured.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Late July
Maybe I’d wanted excitement, simple as that. Expand my horizons – and what better way than this, looking down on England from 20,000 feet? When it seemed likely there was a war coming and I’d have no choice but to be in it, I remembered Dad’s talk about the trenches, how they always envied the pilots up there above the mud and stink. He told me little about the Great War except how it was important to keep your feet clean and dry and keep changing your socks, but that bit about the pilots stuck. Stay out of the trenches, son.
He took us to an air display once. I was small and the planes were so loud. A Vic of three biplanes did acrobatics, rolls and dives, flying inverted and finally loop the loop. My mouth dropped open and my stomach flipped with the aircraft. It was the most exciting and perfect thing I’d ever seen – the rising, the flip onto the back and the engine going faint, then coming over the top and diving down and flattening out to roar level over our heads.
Tiger Moths, my dad said, looking at the programme. The two words buzzed in my head: tiger … moth. How could anything be both? And yet they were, these bright yellow biplanes, all delicate and light, all roar and threat.
Fact is, several years on I was bored stiff on my arse at Stafford and Meeks, drawing elevations of houses I’d never afford. Another three years and I’d have completed my apprenticeship. Another three years and I should be engaged to Christine, because that’s what happened if you went to the flicks often enough and held hands and got involved in sticky kisses. It was grown up. And it was boring.
So when Eric
Gilland from the office started talking about the Volunteer Reserve, how you got to fly for nothing, I went along. And though the kites were rubbish and our instructors not much better and there was far too much drill, it was exciting.
At first they had me down as a bomber navigator, what with my draughtsmanship background, then when the War got closer and it was clear they needed all the fighter pilots they could get, I stuck up my hand.
Tiger Moth, Anson, Harvard trainer. Austria absorbed into Germany. Then they took over Czechoslovakia. Finally the first Hurricane landed in the cow pasture we called our flying field. It looked like something from a new age. It looked like the future, though it still had a single blade prop and hadn’t yet been metal-skinned. But it had a retractable undercarriage and it flew like the wind itself. It was so smooth and yet solid, almost thuggish.
The pilot jumped down carefully and walked towards us. He was short and slightly bow-legged and his accent was Northern and he was not an officer. This was as different as the plane, and the two fused in my mind. Together, they were the future, a future I could have.
The War came closer and at last we soloed Hurricanes. Believe me when I say it was beautiful. So fast, so manoeuvrable, so on the edge of being uncontrollable. I’d never known an adrenalin surge like it. If sex was anything like as good as this, it was worth pursuing (not that I’d get that with Christine before marriage). That morning in 1939 when I first parted company with the Earth in a Mk1 Hurri was the morning I truly fell in love with flying. And when I landed it heavily, trundled up to the huts, switched off and jumped down onto firm ground, I felt like a god come to earth.
‘By God, sonny, you fly like a pig,’ Keith Symonds our trainer had said. ‘Better go up and do it again.’