Out of the Blue

by Alan Judd

  The flashes and crumps died away, leaving only the sounds of their boots and wheels on the lane. Patrick was leading, a moving solid patch of dark. Frank was longing to ask him about Vanessa. ‘Have you got any puncture repair kit?’ he asked instead.

  ‘No, but someone will. If we can glue planes back together there’ll be something to glue a bike tyre.’

  ‘Have a good dance?’

  ‘Very good, yes, ages since I had a dance. Bit odd capering about in boots, but still. Don’t think I damaged her too badly. You should’ve joined in. She thought perhaps you didn’t like dancing.’

  ‘Colonel kept me talking.’

  Chapter Nine

  No one in the squadron knew the date or precise location of the D-Day landings but everyone knew they were imminent. Operational tempo increased, with sweeps and sorties over northern France and attacks on trains and marshalling yards. They escorted Typhoons on tree-top attacks against heavily-defended airfields, grateful that their role involved dog-fights with the Luftwaffe rather than flying head-on into flak. The Typhoons continued to pay a heavy price and even when every Spitfire in the squadron returned unscathed the mood was subdued.

  They were subdued in advance, however, when ordered to escort 130 Flying Fortresses on an attack on the marshalling yards of Rouen. Not only because of their recent experience of American trigger-happiness and poor recognition skills but because being close escort meant flying too slowly to respond quickly to an attack. Their fellow squadron was luckier, escorting from above and behind.

  ‘Trust us to get the bloody close escort,’ said the Dodger as they left the briefing.

  ‘Look upon it as an honour,’ said Patrick. ‘And shut up.’

  He was unusually tetchy that day, perhaps a symptom of the tiredness that afflicted them all. Repeated sorties, sometimes several a day, with their inevitable losses – not great but regular enough – exacted a toll on energy and optimism. When the MO, their gruffly cheerful Scottish doctor, handed out extra Benzedrine, Frank was one of the first to take some. Despite eating everything that came his way, he was losing weight and the intermittent nervous tic in his left eyelid had returned. He had not had it since his first operational week on the squadron. It felt as if it must be obvious to everyone but, as the colonel had said, it usually wasn’t. Curiously, the occasional trembling in his arms and legs, which reminded him of what the colonel had said about his own involuntary flinching and crouching, became less frequent as he became more tired. His reflexes were still sharp, he was doing everything he should, but he was doing it mechanically, without that extra edge of awareness he knew made the difference. He managed each take-off in a state of suspended reality, a combination of his old familiar, his stomach-tightening fear, and careless, light-headed fatigue. Complacency, disguised as fatalism, was seeping into him. He knew it and did nothing about it, assuming it was the same for everyone.

  ‘D’you feel honoured?’ asked the Dodger when they were in the Dispersal hut and Patrick was out of earshot. ‘Buggered if I do. Bloody stupid idea if ever I heard one. What does he think we are – boy scouts?’ He had just loaded and holstered his revolver and was now cramming his pockets with ammunition.

  ‘What do you want with all that?’ Frank asked. ‘Taking pot-shots at ME110s as they pass us?’

  The new German jets were making their presence felt and the Allies, having neglected to develop the British invention, had no answer to them.

  ‘In case I’m shot down. Same with any of us. You never know, do you? Not much use with just six in the chamber. Hell of a lot of Germans over there. I take an extra pistol, too.’

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘Jam it down by my seat.’

  It was a bad sign. Pilots who took ever more elaborate precautions against being shot down often were, not long afterwards. Patrick’s theory was that their minds were no longer wholly on their jobs. ‘Better off keeping sharp on your cannon,’ he often said. ‘More likely you’ll come back.’

  The Dodger ignored him but the exchange helped Frank take his mind off himself. As they lined up three abreast on the runway, waiting for the signal, engines roaring and props a blur, he decided he wouldn’t take the Dodger to meet the colonel and Vanessa.

  The 130 Flying Fortresses were prompt at their rendezvous, filling half the sky with their immaculate defensive boxes. That was all very well but the big bombers were no wave-topping Typhoons and would cross the Channel smack in the middle of German radar coverage. Patrick led the squadron carefully alongside them, approaching from far out and keeping rigorously parallel so that there was no excuse for the Fortress gunners to mistake them for a threat. Even so, one let off a brief stream of tracer towards the Dodger’s Spitfire, fortunately at the limit of his range and well behind the Dodger. Frank, juggling with engine revs and speed as he tried to keep one high enough to react and the other low enough to stay with their charges, did not at first see the lifting of the Dodger’s starboard wing as he began a turn towards the offending Fortress, lining up his cannon.

  Patrick broke radio silence sharply. ‘Cut it, Dodger! Stow it! Get back in formation.’

  The Dodger’s port wing dipped and he re-aligned himself.

  They were very soon on the run-in to Rouen. Surprisingly, there were no fighters but the flak was as expected over a railway town, tracer curving in graceful overlapping arcs like ribbons of welcome. The escorting Spitfires moved up and back, leaving the bombers to the flak and their task. There was little cloud, so they had a perfect view of what happened. The marshalling yards were on the far bank of the winding Seine, spreading wide and clear to the north in the morning sun. Before them, on the near side of the river and well to the south, the reddish roofs of the town clustered around the cathedral spire. The Fortresses were in the final minute of their run-in, lined up in perfect bombing formation. As they closed, the flak intensified, though no worse than usual. No planes went down, no engines plumed black smoke, no wings lit up. Then the lead bombardier lost his nerve; at least, that was the only explanation they could all agree on afterwards.

  At his command, 130 Fortresses unloaded over the town, still well south of the marshalling yards and on the wrong side of the river. Within seconds the crowded little red roofs were peppered by flashes and flame. Within a few more they were obscured by smoke billowing upwards, great tumbling black clouds punctured by ever more flashes and spurts of flame from below. For one moment, as Frank wheeled in disbelief, he glimpsed the cathedral spire standing alone amidst the conflagration. The empty bombers turned over the untouched marshalling yards, reforming.

  At first, all the close escort Spitfires wheeled, like Frank, in shocked disbelief, eyes on the carnage below rather than scanning the skies for the Luftwaffe. Radio silence was broken by the Dodger.

  ‘The bastards! The murdering bastards!’ he shouted. ‘Murdering bloody Yanks!’

  Others joined in, a cacophony of invective. Frank said nothing. He could only wheel and watch, stunned into silence. The Dodger and another had already turned their planes towards the re-forming Fortresses when Patrick called them to order, the only calm voice amidst the outrage. ‘Button it everybody. Save your ammo for the Luftwaffe. Re-form close escort.’

  They returned without incident. There was much talk afterwards about how it could have happened and how, if a Fortress had let off a single mistaken round at the escort, they would have brought it down. The outrage quickly spread across the entire base, transmuting itself into a rowdy mess night during which someone put planks up to the windows and rode a motorbike in and along the horseshoe of tables. The wing commander’s dinner ended up in his lap, along with bits of broken plate, and the motorcyclist broke his leg when a table toppled and he came off. This was followed by British Bulldog. They all knew that the cost of replacing mess furniture would appear on their mess bills.

  ‘Only if we live long enough to get them,’ said the Dodger.

  He was uncharacteristically quiet that night, avoiding the ru
mpus and not even doing a turn on the piano. He sat drinking with Frank and a few other refugees in armchairs in the bar, trying to ignore the shouting, laughter and occasional sounds of breaking glass.

  ‘Bet they deduct it from the pay they owe you before it goes to next of kin,’ the Dodger continued. He took a swig of his beer and turned to Frank. ‘You’ve left everything to your folks back home, I suppose?’

  ‘What there is.’ They’d all had to make wills.

  ‘Quite. You don’t make much out of this man’s war, that’s for sure. Unless you’re a Yank.’

  There was no point in going to bed early because the revellers would wake everyone when they returned to the huts. There was some desultory talk of life after the war, a recurring subject when there was nothing else that anyone wanted to talk about and which, being safely remote, didn’t involve any commitment. Anything seemed possible, nothing likely.

  ‘Of course, the problem’s going to be the population,’ said the Dodger.

  ‘Which population?’

  ‘Everyone’s, all of it, the world’s. Too many people, that’s going to be the problem.’

  ‘Guess we need the war to go on, then.’

  The Dodger laughed and raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  There was no flying the next day, with fog and low cloud grounding everything. Despite this, they weren’t released from standby until the afternoon. Frank decided to go fishing, although there were likely to be as few fish rising as planes flying. He didn’t tell anyone he was going.

  For a long time he stood in the wet grass, casting and re-casting between the willows. The river was sluggish and no fish were tempted by his wet fly. He didn’t much mind. It was soothing to fish without serious intent, hidden by the dripping fog of a darkening afternoon while the slow waters gently smothered memories of burning houses and ballooning black smoke. It was becoming easier not to think about the French families burned alive. Fish or no fish, he would call on the colonel and Vanessa.

  The only reminder of the world he had left on the base was the sonorous drone, ominously magnified in the foggy silence, of a V1 flying bomb. It was passing way over, aimed at London, although increasing numbers were falling short in the woods and fields of Kent and Sussex. Some were brought down by Spitfires, though rather more by the bigger and faster Tempests which could fly alongside and tip them off course. Only when the drone had long faded, and the thick white trance was restored, did he pack up his kit and return to his bike by the bridge.

  The fog thickened as he approached the village and in following the verge he missed the turning off the lane, realising when he came to an unfamiliar farm entrance. He cycled slowly back, followed by the echoing bark of farm dogs until he came to the gravel of the manor drive.

  The only answer to his pull on the bell was a bark, single and muffled. He rang again, surprised by unexpected disappointment. Although there was nothing he had planned to say and he had no fish to offer, he had come to rely on seeing them both. Even if Vanessa was to become Patrick’s, as he feared was inevitable, he would still want to see her. He pulled the bell again, in obstinate refusal to concede.

  This time there were footsteps on the drive behind him. Vanessa walking briskly out of the fog, her hands in the pockets of a long gaberdine raincoat. A floppy brown hat covered her ears and hair.

  ‘Hallo, stranger. They been keeping you busy?’

  He smiled with relief. ‘Could say that, I guess.’

  She stood close as she opened the door, which was not locked. ‘Time for tea, I hope?’

  ‘Thank-you, ma’am.’ She smiled a small smile, like a shared intimacy. He much preferred it to what he thought of as her wider social smile, the one she switched on and off. ‘The colonel out?’ he continued. He felt disloyal for hoping so.

  ‘Upstairs asleep. He often sleeps in the afternoons. He’s not really very well, I’m afraid.’ She crossed the hall, taking off her hat and unbuttoning her coat, leaving him to shut the door. ‘I grabbed the chance to go to the post office and stretch my legs.’

  He followed her into the kitchen. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove, took a large brown tea-pot from the shelf above and said, over her shoulder, ‘Could you get cups and saucers from the dresser? Get three, I’ll take one up to him.’

  They sat at the table while the kettle boiled. The classified ads pages of the local paper were open between them. ‘We’re thinking of a replacement for Tinker, I’m afraid. He’s not got long to go, poor old thing.’

  Tinker lay by the stove. He had not got up when they entered, content with lifting his tail and letting it fall.

  ‘Not before he goes, of course. A puppy would probably finish him off. But there are plenty of temptations advertised. Fatal to go and see any before we’re ready, though. You can’t say no once you see them.’

  ‘What would you get, another spaniel?’

  They talked dog breeds while he tortured himself again by imagining her with Patrick. She sat slightly hunched, her hands in her coat pockets folded on her lap, talking naturally and matter-of-factly, while he tried to decide whether this was good because she was relaxed with him or bad because she was indifferent.

  She got up to fill the tea-pot. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said, without looking round. ‘Has it been bad?’

  Pleased with her attention, he told her about Rouen. He wasn’t sure he should – in fact, he was pretty sure he shouldn’t – but went on anyway.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the Americans for you,’ she said. ‘Some of them, anyway. Nice enough individually, very generous, but no night navigation, poor recognition, poor fire discipline, inaccurate bombing. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last.’

  It was strange to hear a woman speak with such authority. ‘You know about them, then?’

  ‘I’ve heard. And met one or two.’ She took off her coat and sat again while the tea brewed. She wore a dark jersey and skirt. ‘Is it cold in here or is it just me?’

  ‘Seems warm enough to me. You must’ve got cold while you were out.’ There was a pause. ‘You’ve known other pilots, then, not just me and Patrick?’

  She nodded, gazing past him at the kitchen sink with its high old-fashioned brass taps and crockery drying on the draining-board. ‘There’s a lot of air force round here. Lot of Army now, too.’

  The thought that she might have had – still have – numbers of pilot boyfriends was fresh torture. There was a call from upstairs. She stood and poured the third cup. ‘He’s awake. I’ll take him his tea. He needs help sometimes.’

  Frank stood. ‘My I use your bathroom?’

  ‘Follow me.’ At the kitchen door she paused. ‘It’s his heart, you see. There’s nothing to be done. He’s fine most of the time so long as he takes it easy and has regular rest. But it’s aged him and he’s often a bit confused when he gets up, so don’t mind anything he says.’

  He followed her up the stairs, keeping three steps behind for decency’s sake. There was a wide landing with four doors opening off and a corridor. She pointed along the corridor. ‘Down there.’ She knocked on one of the doors and went in, closing it behind her.

  It was still closed when he returned to the landing, pausing and listening to her voice. Her tone was soft and encouraging, unlike her usual confident clarity, as if she were talking to a child. One of the other doors was half open, showing what looked like a study with bookshelves and a desk and chair. With a glance at the colonel’s door, he stepped in. Beside the desk was a side table with the gramophone on it and, on the lower shelf, a stack of records. Immediately above the desk were four photographs on the wall. One was of a helmeted pilot standing by his Spitfire, another a studio photo of a uniformed flight lieutenant with curly dark hair, broad shoulders and a medal ribbon. The third was the same man in an Aran sweater, sitting on a gate and smiling; the fourth was him in uniform again, posing in a church porch with his bride, Vanessa, on his arm.

  ‘You’ve penetra
ted my sanctum.’ She was standing in the doorway, her arms folded. The colonel’s door was open across the landing behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I just saw the photo of the Spit—’

  ‘It was Johnny’s, my husband’s. My late husband’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’

  ‘No reason you should.’ She came into the room, smiling, and put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right, Frank, don’t worry. Not your fault.’

  The colonel was on the landing. He was wearing corduroys and his tweed jacket, his hair was tousled and his jacket collar turned up. He pointed down the corridor and said to Frank, ‘Just going – won’t be a minute.’

  Vanessa stepped smartly across to him and straightened his collar. ‘We’ll be in the kitchen. Come and join us.’

  Frank came out onto the landing but the colonel stood staring at him, blinking. ‘Got some leave, then?’

  ‘Well, a few hours. No fish, though. Better get back soon.’

  The colonel continued to stare, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good boy, good boy, stick at it. One day at a time, don’t think ahead, don’t worry how far there is to go, just keep going. That’s how you get through.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The colonel headed uncertainly down the corridor. Vanessa touched Frank’s arm and he followed her down the stairs. ‘See what I mean?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think he was quite sure who you were. He’ll be fine when he comes down and he’s a bit more awake.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your husband.’

  She turned her head towards the hall table. ‘He was killed just over a year ago. Over Rouen, funnily enough. His squadron was at Detling. That night you came to dinner, the first time, with those two fish, that was the anniversary of his death. I think the colonel thought it would do us both good to have some company, some distraction, but I just wasn’t up to it, I’m afraid. That’s why I hid myself away and played those records. They were the numbers Johnny and I used to dance to.’