Out of the Blue

by Alan Judd

  ‘I’m so very sorry, if I’d known—’

  ‘You didn’t and you shouldn’t be.’ She looked at him again, this time with the switched-on smile. ‘Anyway, if you hadn’t come we wouldn’t have met, would we?’

  ‘Last time, when you were dancing with Patrick, were they the same records?’

  ‘Some of them. One has to go on. Better pick up your burden and shoulder it than let it drag behind and hold you back. I thought it would be good to dance with you both. I hadn’t danced with anyone since Johnny.’

  He knew what he wanted to say but not how to say it. It came out anyway. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to dance. I thought maybe you and Patrick—’

  She shook her head, no longer smiling. ‘No, Frank, not another pilot. Patrick’s very charming, but no. I know what happens to pilots.’

  The colonel came downstairs, looking better, his tread firmer. ‘Frank, good to see you. Staying for dinner, I hope?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. Got to get back. There’ll be a briefing for tomorrow.’

  ‘Come when you can. You’re welcome any time, you know that.’ He went into the kitchen, leaving them facing each other.

  Frank wanted to keep talking. ‘I saw lots of French books in your study.’

  ‘All mine. I was brought up partly in France.’

  ‘You speak French, then?’

  ‘We don’t have to stand here making conversation. Stay and have some more tea.’

  ‘I love you.’

  She said nothing at first, as changing expressions chased each other like fleeting shadows across her face. Then she put her hand on his arm again, shaking her head. ‘No, Frank, you can’t, you don’t know me. You mustn’t. I can’t return it.’

  ‘I don’t mind that. Well, no, I do, but I wanted to say it, wanted you to know.’ He put his hand on hers.

  ‘But it means a lot,’ she said. ‘Thank you for saying it.’ She stepped close, brushed his lips with hers and then was gone, walking with hard clear steps across the hall to the kitchen.

  Chapter Ten

  Again the sky emptied abruptly, again Frank was left sweating and trembling but this time with throbbing pains in his temples, wrists and ankles despite his emergency oxygen. It had been sixty seconds – no more – of yanking and heaving on the controls at 25,000 feet and 400 mph. He was panting, his face hot and swollen inside his mask. Worse was the sickening certainty that what he’d just witnessed was no dream brought on by oxygen starvation.

  Moments before, the sky had been filled with planes diving, twisting, climbing and turning amidst a firework display of tracer, exploding aircraft and burning bits plunging earthwards. Now it was himself alone apart from, 10,000 feet below, a surviving clutch of ME109s racing for home, blurred shapes against the trees and fields of Normandy.

  The scrap took both sides by surprise. The squadron was returning from a high sweep over the battlefield, in broken cloud and with some mist at ground level. D-Day had come and gone, the Allied armies were ashore but progress had slowed. Day after day they flew sorties aimed at maintaining aerial superiority, but a long period of low cloud had made ground support impossible. Now it had lifted and, through great white chasms in the higher clouds, they glimpsed the battle around Caen where Typhoons, let loose at last, were saving General Patton’s bacon by rocketing the advancing German tanks. From that height the Typhoons resembled erratic insects emitting streams of red and white as they incinerated crew after crew of the feared Tiger tanks. The purpose of the sweep was to see off any Luftwaffe fighters who might intervene. Until almost the end, when they were about to turn for home, it was fruitless, conditions making it hard for either side to find their quarry.

  But when they emerged from a great bank of cumulus they found themselves flying alongside a flight of nine or ten ME109s. For the briefest of moments it must have looked as if they were all flying home together. Frank was above and behind Patrick and as they came out of the cloud he glanced down to see if there was action on the ground. He should have looked up and about but only half his mind was on what they were doing, the other half in a reverie, lulled by the beat of his Merlin engine. They would probably make it back to the mess in time for lunch and he was thinking yet again of the kaleidoscope of expressions that had flowed across Vanessa’s features when he said he loved her. Too fleeting to be individually readable, the impression they left was of surprise, pleasure, sadness and vulnerability, above all vulnerability. He had not seen that in her before.

  ‘Break right now!’

  Patrick’s voice jolted him but for a second he couldn’t get his limbs to move. He had known it in dreams, a paralysing helplessness when trying to flee something, his legs leaden and unresponsive. He would awake in panting panic, feeling he was pressed into the mattress by a great weight. It was like that now; he was willing himself to respond but unable at first even to turn his head. The delay, fractional, unnoticeable to any but him, proved crucial: he lived, Patrick died.

  The spell was broken by the shock of yellow tracer feet ahead of his windscreen and the sudden juddering of his plane, shaking him in his seat. He flung the plane up and right. An ME109 that must have been heading straight for him, taking him broadside on, slipped beneath him, tongues of flame leaping through the black smoke pouring from it. Patrick was pursuing it, his cannon lighting up with spurts of flame as he pumped shells into it. Momentarily, way off to his left, Frank glimpsed the Dodger’s Spitfire diving away from the fight, straight and true as an arrow. Then the ME109 exploded in a blinding flash and an enveloping black cloud. Debris flew around Frank, some seemingly suspended in the air. As he banked he saw another plane caught in the explosion, its engine dropping in a ball of fire and one wing – a Spitfire wing, Patrick’s wing – seesawing earthwards.

  He could never reconstruct the ensuing seconds. He knew only that he survived them, fighting like an angel. A great black cross on a silvered flank was in front of him. He squeezed his firing button and there were flashes along its fuselage. Then it was gone and he was wheeling left to avoid another Spitfire, then yanking right into a flick roll as an ME109 came at him from below. He tried to catch it before it turned away but as he came out of his roll another came straight at him, head on and firing. He squeezed his firing button again but the plane kept coming, its guns blazing. They were like maddened creatures locked in a duel of self-destruction, each knowing that the first to break off would present the other with a wide and vulnerable target. For an instant the Messerschmitt filled his windscreen and collision seemed inevitable, then it appeared to judder and bits flew off it, then it wasn’t there and Frank was hurtling into free sky, his feet and legs tingling and his grip on the controls loosened. He was dizzy and thought he heard someone groan and say something, realising afterwards it could only have been himself. He gripped the controls again and turned back to the fray, but this time the combatants were gone and the sky was empty.

  He set course for home knowing that Patrick had died saving him from that ME109. He would have had no chance of getting out of a falling, disintegrating plane, even if he was still alive as the engine and wing dropped away. Frank could have saved himself if he had turned when he should have. He knew why he hadn’t.

  The mood back at base was at once sombre and febrile, with Patrick’s death hanging heavily over them. As with other deaths, no one spoke about it. There was nothing to say. Instead, they talked about the Dodger’s mysterious disappearance. Two others as well as Frank had seen him accelerate away from the fight on a trajectory that would have taken him out over the coast. He had not returned, nor had he rung in from any other airfield where he might have crash-landed. He would have been out of fuel by now. It was after their individual debriefs, when they were in the mess for lunch, that they heard he had broken radio silence by calling up Control with the simple message, ‘Am going for a dip. Cancel one late lunch. Out.’ That would have been about five minutes, on best estimates, before his fuel ran out. A week or so later a report
reached them that a naval minesweeper had reported a distant Spitfire, with no sign of damage, flying evenly and at an acute angle into the sea. The ship investigated but found no wreckage.

  Apart from these two losses, there was serious damage to two planes, one of which was written off on landing. Several others, including Frank’s, had suffered minor damage. Frank was credited with a kill for the plane he had duelled with head-on and with half a share in a probable, the first Messerschmitt he had fired at. Someone else had also hit it and claimed it went down in flames, but no one else had seen that. The consensus was that each squadron had been as surprised as the other and that neither could claim victory.

  No one mentioned Frank’s initial delay. They had all been too busy with their own instant reactions, except for Patrick, presumably. Frank said nothing about it himself, though he would not have denied it if anyone had accused him. He almost hoped they would and the more it became clear he had got away with it, the worse he felt. The following day he was summoned by the wing commander.

  ‘Sit down.’ The wingco left off signing letters and lit a cigarette, offering Frank one. For all the tiredness etched into his lined face, his manner was never less than brisk. ‘Bad business about Patrick. You were friends.’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘He always spoke well of you. Well done yesterday, by the way. One and a half is better than anyone else.’

  Quite suddenly everything seemed a pretence, everything an effort. He felt he no longer had the energy to pretend. ‘Patrick died getting me out of trouble. I was too slow at the start. I didn’t react. I—’

  The wingco shook his head, exhaling twin jets of smoke through his nostrils. ‘That’s the way it goes. You’d have done the same for him. Bad business about the Dodger, too. He should’ve been rested. Time you had a change. That’s why I’ve got you here.’

  Frank’s heart leapt at the prospect of rest, of not having to go on, of being ordered to stop. ‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t need a rest. I’m fine, I’m happy to go on.’

  ‘I said a change, not a rest. By which I mean Tempests. There are more Tempests being produced than people who can fly them at the moment. In theory you have to have done a full operational tour before you’re let loose on the things. I know you haven’t but you’re pretty close and they’re pretty desperate for experienced pilots. They’re a beast to fly but a wonderful weapon when you’ve mastered it. We’re getting two squadrons here under Bee Beaumont, a good man, so I’m sending you off for Tempest training. You’ll enjoy it.’ He smiled and picked up his pen. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘So the better man died, that’s what you’re telling me? And it was your fault? Just as with me and your father.’

  Frank nodded. They were sitting at the kitchen table. The colonel held his empty pipe, leaning back in his chair, his eyes half-hooded as if he were about to sleep. He had listened to Patrick’s account without moving. Now, having spoken, he leaned forward and took his tobacco pouch from his pocket. ‘That’s the way it goes sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘In your case it couldn’t, it was just chance that he was mortared where you left him. But in my case it could. It’s because I didn’t react and the reason I didn’t react was that – was that—’

  ‘You funked it.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a relief to say it.

  The old man nodded as he filled his pipe. Then he rested it in the ashtray and stood. ‘Wait here.’

  Frank waited. Vanessa was out for her afternoon walk but if he lingered long enough he would see her. He was to leave for Tempest training in Wiltshire the next day. The colonel reappeared with a long brown leather case, held closed by straps at each end and with initials inscribed. He stood the other side of the table and held it out to Frank. ‘These are yours now.’

  Frank stood. ‘Well, sir, I don’t— what is it?’

  ‘Open it and see.’ He lowered it carefully onto the table.

  Frank undid the leather straps. Inside, each section neatly slotted into holders, were two split-cane fly rods, beautifully finished and barely used. A label inside the lid announced them as made by Bainbridge of Eton-on-Thames. ‘Sir, this is very kind, extremely generous of you but I don’t see why – what I’ve done to deserve them. You must want them for yourself, surely?’

  ‘I want you to have them. Your guilt is a burden you’ll have to bear now but pack those rods in your kitbag with it and whenever it gets too heavy take them out and use them. Associate them with it and the guilt will lighten gradually. It will never leave you but it will be bearable.’

  ‘Frank, what a lovely surprise.’ The door opened. Vanessa stopped when she saw the rods.

  ‘I’ve given them to Frank,’ said the colonel. ‘He’ll get more use out of them than I shall now.’

  She and the colonel stood looking at each other. ‘What a good idea.’

  ‘He’s going away for a while. Tempest training.’

  ‘Tempests?’ She smiled her social smile at Frank. ‘Quite a compliment. But do be careful. They’re inclined to run away with you, I believe. More tea.’ It was not a question. She emptied the stewed tea from the pot and put the kettle on the stove.

  The two men sat. ‘Frank was just telling me about Patrick,’ the colonel said. ‘You remember – his squadron leader who came to dinner.’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ She turned to Frank, her hand still on the kettle. ‘Hasn’t bought it, has he?’

  Frank nodded. Again, her use of jargon jarred with him.

  ‘Frank was with him. He was killed by the blast of the plane which was attacking Frank, and which Patrick shot down.’

  ‘He saved me,’ said Frank.

  ‘How awful for you.’ She let go of the kettle and picked up the kitchen towel, drying her hands as she came over and stood by him.

  ‘It was my fault, I—’

  ‘Frank was a bit slow off the mark, blames himself. I’ve been telling him he shouldn’t.’

  She put her hand on Frank’s shoulder. ‘Of course you shouldn’t, you mustn’t. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s the Germans’. They started it all.’ She squeezed his shoulder. ‘I made a fruit cake yesterday. It’s in that tin on the dresser. Bit soggy, I’m afraid, but it would be a sin not to eat it. You get it while I do the tea. Plates on the shelf, knife in the drawer.’

  They talked about the Tempest. Both seemed to know more about it than he did. ‘You’re pretty well-informed,’ he said. ‘I guess your – your – I guess you heard a lot about them.’

  ‘Johnny converted to Tempests just before he was killed,’ she said quickly. ‘He had one of the early ones. I think each one was more or less a prototype then, they all flew differently. He said it was an acquired taste, you had to work at it, but he grew fond of it, didn’t he?’

  The colonel, his mouth filled with cake, nodded.

  ‘He went to Wiltshire to convert, too. It’ll be good for you to have a break, won’t it? Concentrate on flying, not just fighting.’

  They talked for another half an hour or so. He felt they were making conversation for his benefit, keeping the ball in the air like a volleyball team at home, with no one saying what needed saying. It was another example of this English disease. Yet he wasn’t sure what it was that needed saying. He wanted to continue confessing but there was nothing else to confess. It was plain, anyway, that they wouldn’t let him, that they’d brush it aside. He now felt he should never have mentioned Patrick, let alone Johnny. By doing so he had imposed an obligation on them, the obligation of sympathy, that they – she, anyway – had very deliberately not imposed upon him.

  ‘I guess I’d better be getting back.’ He stood.

  The colonel put down his pipe. ‘Come and see us when you’re back from Wiltshire.’

  ‘The cake was delicious, really good, thank you.’

  She walked into the hall with him. ‘Mind what you do with your new toy. Be careful.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’
t mean to make you talk about Johnny.’

  ‘Don’t be. And don’t punish yourself over Patrick. We’re all human, we just have to manage as best we can.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’m back.’

  ‘Do.’

  He couldn’t deal with it, this English politeness. You were never sure quite what was meant, nor how much they meant it. He wanted to kiss her but she was keeping her distance. Yet her gaze was warm, almost affectionate. ‘Please do,’ she added, as if perceiving his difficulty.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. There was a brief answering pressure before she turned away, again leaving him to let himself out. She said something – it might have been, ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ or, ‘Be sure you do,’ or both. He never discovered which.

  Chapter Eleven

  In some ways they were easy meat: they flew straight and level, did not turn to avoid attack, did not fire back. In other ways they were difficult, even dangerous: their pulse-jet engines sped them through the skies at 340–370 mph, which meant that – apart from a few up-rated Spitfires and American Mustangs – most fighters could catch them only by diving, which entailed tricky adjustments. Only the Tempests, capable of 460 mph in level flight, could overhaul the V1 Doodlebugs with ease, choosing their range and moment to fire.

  Even now, however, in the new squadron’s second week of action against Doodlebugs and Frank’s twenty-fifth sortie as a Tempest pilot, it could still be a difficult and sometimes dangerous task. The difficulty was that the prey was not only fast-moving but small, with a wingspan of only sixteen feet and a fuselage only three feet wide. The danger – initially, at least – was that the Tempest’s cannon were adjusted for spread-harmonisation, like the pellets of a shotgun, in order to catch a turning fighter or moving train. This meant that to be sure of downing one of these rapid cigar-tubes you had to be close; and sometimes the blast from a ton of high explosive resulted in burned and blackened planes and pilots. When the Tempest wing commander, Bee Beaumont, sought permission to point-harmonise the Tempest cannon so that they focused at three hundred yards, he was refused. He did it anyway.