‘You heard it too?’ whispered Sutton. ‘Cripes, I damn near ordered you.’
On the bow of the ship, the only noise besides the aft rumble of the engines was the occasional thud of wreckage on the keel. A flash from up ahead illuminated another body floating past. There could be no stopping for survivors – impossible in convoy, in the rear a tiny corvette of the Royal Australian Navy made vain attempts. In previous weeks further south, the warmer water had left passing cries for help. Now they were either unconscious or dead from the cold.
Quarantined back at Bradfield Park after Christmas, one bloke had kept insisting it was a dead cert they’d be staying in Australia now. It stood to reason. Privately, Quinn had to agree: The Prime Minister’s statement had been front page news just the day after they’d all reported back… They’d all read it. Mister Curtin’s point had been plain. With the Japs tearing south towards us, now it was Australia’s war. Our war. To fight it, we must now look to the Yanks, no longer to Britain, and with the utmost urgency: Quinn thought he’d misheard it in the commotion of the barracks – Hong Kong had fallen to the Japs on Christmas Day.
So, dead cert, now it’d be North Queensland, possibly Darwin. If not, then no further than New Guinea surely, Singapore at the outside.
Only out of the Heads had the convoy’s intended course been leaked, and only then its first stage: They’d be taking on fuel, provisions, more aircrew and joined by extra ships in Auckland, New Zealand. There’d be a day to stretch their legs on the docks, no Leave. Security.
To Quinn and to every other soul on board, one simple fact was clear.
New Zealand was not the way to North Queensland.
Weeks east towards the coast of South America, the convoy turned north up it, crossing the Equator, then entering the Panama Canal. From the American newspapers in supply all the way through it, Quinn saw that Churchill and Roosevelt had made it official: Now the Allies, including Australia, were to be called the ‘United Nations’. And not a moment too soon either, Quinn noted, as the Germans, Italians and Japanese had just done the same thing their end. The news was all about the Japanese, and it was all bad. They seemed unstoppable, since January taking Manila, North Borneo, Rabaul, moving all through the Solomons, the Philippines and the Dutch East Indies. Until what they’d said couldn’t happen, happened: Singapore had fallen. The British guns protecting Australia’s North were no longer, thousands of Brits and Australians taken prisoner.
And all this happening, Quinn reflected, in the opposite direction to where he was currently headed. Surely now he’d finish his training in England and the Scheme would channel him back to Australia…
From an English newspaper in Colón, at the Canal’s eastern end, Quinn gathered that the Germans had just launched a U-boat offensive off the east coast of the United States.
Precisely where he was headed.
‘All quiet ahead anyway,’ offered Sutton.
‘It certainly is,’ breathed Quinn. ‘Weather too, for a change…’
Sutton buried his mittens in his great-coat pockets. ‘Still filthy cold… Drew the short straw here, didn’t we…’
‘How’s that?’ Quinn rubbed his eyes and squinted them firmly ahead.
‘Well, not only have we got German submariners trying to kill us but the weather’s trying like fuck as well. I mean, at least they’re warm…’
The fireball shot their attention out to starboard. Directly level with them, a ship on the convoy’s outer column was ablaze. Only now came the gut-wrenching boom, then a shock-wave like a punch in the face, a mushroom of fire unfurling high into the night. Alarm claxons rang for Action Stations, corvette searchlights ignited to seek the U-boat, the Carpathian steering away to port with the convoy.
The ship on fire kept straight, only the momentum of its tonnage pressing it on. Another huge explosion confirmed its demise, fragments of it landing even as far as the Carpathian – white splashes on the water lit up by the torch that till moments ago had been a ship.
The burning wreck dropped slowly behind, Quinn watching it until it had slipped away. He wasn’t altogether certain if he’d seen its bow diving finally under, or imagined it: It was already far distant amongst burning oil fires on the surface.
*
The morning was overcast.
But there were seagulls.
Quinn hadn’t felt like breakfast. Just a very strong coffee on the ship’s rail. And his second ever cigarette.
He’d returned to his cabin to pack and was just clipping up the unnecessarily large tin trunk issued to all officers when he heard the commotion in the passageway. Poking his head out the door, he was informed by a bolting Sergeant…
‘Y’gotta see this, mate – up on deck!’
Quinn clambered out and up a ladder just in time to hear another mid-drawl, ‘Will ya have a geeze at that. Ain’t that a bloody sight for sore eyes…’
The four-craft formation of Spitfires curved in a low pass just a short way off the ship.
‘That it is, Sarge,’ smiled Quinn.
At only a hundred feet up, their quick-pulsing hum came through loud and confident. Quinn saw their olive and grey camouflage, RAF roundels, even identification letters, and the proud elliptical shape of their wings.
‘Jesus, that’s good.’
Whereas the Wirraway powered through the air, the Spitfires seemed to slice it. Was that a slight wing waggle from their Leader? Yes – Quinn heard cheers from the other side of the ship as the boom of the fighter engines stretched out to a heavy whistle, off over the rest of the convoy.
Quinn knew the Spitfires probably wouldn’t catch a still-shadowing periscope. Yet no U-boat Captain would take that risk. If he’d still been there, he’d have already seen the aircraft, and would be departing.
*
Liverpool was grey.
It didn’t matter.
On the dock, Quinn was served a mug of tea by one of a bevy of nurses attending a long line of trestle tables – powdered milk and two sugars whether you liked it or not, evidently. While aircrew alighted from other ships in the convoy, about 300 in total Quinn estimated at a glance, he took in his first moments on English soil, the morning, cold and still, as well as what he could see of the surrounding port: With bomb damage visible – even more on the bus ride to the train station – it was clear Liverpool had been hit hard by the Germans, on every block a ruined building, a rubbled lot.
Lime Street Station’s long iron-work vaulted ceiling allowed the dim light of day onto the mass of uniforms amongst which Quinn jostled – wings badges and stripes for the Sergeant-Pilots, single wings with an ‘O’ for Observer denoting the Navigators, ‘AG’ the Wireless Operator/Air Gunners, in the clear majority. In their midst, and thumped by many a shouldered kit-bag, Quinn struggled additionally with his officer’s trunk. With a compartment on the train finally wrangled, his luggage stowed, there were hollers of ‘all-aboard’ from the guards, a whistle blow from one of them setting a final mad scramble for compartments as, with a blast of steam up to the ceiling and a slamming of many doors, the black engine up front shrieked, and shoved ahead.
Their destination: Commonwealth Aircrew Reception and Dispatch Centre, Bournemouth, South Coast of England. From there they would be farmed out to their Advanced Flying Units, parts unknown.
*
The carriage guard had forecast the day would clear on the journey south. He’d also mentioned the view from the train would be quite pleasant – down the Great Western Line…
As the morning murk lifted off the countryside through which they began to pass, it became clear to Quinn that the guard was given to understatement. For, along with a few hundred other Australian boys, he had never before laid eyes on such velvet green: As each vied for a window, Quinn saw that the romantic illustrations of the Home Isles from the biscuit tins and postcards of his youth had been true-to-life, as had been the depictions of quaint villages, stone walls, cathedral spires, and lush, rolling hills. They passed through m
any stations, no station signs mind – all had been removed ‘to confound German Parachutists’, so said the carriage guard. They saw grand manor houses, more bomb damage, as well as aerodromes.
‘Jesus, look at that…’
The casual comment from a Sergeant by the window had drawn Quinn’s attention away from conversation with another.
‘Hooley – Dooley,’ continued the Sergeant.
Now Quinn saw the jet black and growing form, engines one, two, three, and four – two each side out to the gulled sweep of its wingspan. Now the perspex chin bubble, twin machine-gun turret atop it, there, a man behind the guns, upper-most, the pilots. Now even a face in the bubble, a mere 50 feet up and all heading directly toward them. It seemed too big for an aircraft.
‘It’s a fucken Lancaster!’
An unearthly roar overhead, the lads tumbled out into the passageway – as they did all down the carriage – to see the giant bomber groan away, still insanely low, on the other side of the train. Quinn saw the green and brown camouflage of its upsides and could have sworn he saw the rear gunner giving them the finger as he dummy-strafed his quad machine-gun barrels across them.
‘Streuth…’ let out the bloke next to Quinn.
Through many more towns and villages, and endless rolling green, a change of train, then another, in the late afternoon they pulled out of Southampton Central, returning waves and even “V for Victory” signs from smiling locals. From then on they caught their first glimpses of the English Channel. Next stop, Bournemouth, by the sea.
*
The British holiday mecca had been virtually requisitioned by the Royal Air Force, along with Brighton, Quinn gathered, as ‘waiting rooms’ for the boys of the Empire Air Training Scheme.
In the early evening, he saw the warning signs all along the beach. DANGER! MINES! The barbed wire. Rusted iron tank traps. Hitler, deprived of his invasion of Britain in 1940, had since turned back to his old ambition, Russia: The Battle of Britain had left the RAF alive, and while Hitler didn’t rule the air, he couldn’t cross the Channel. Just in case he had, the Bournemouth Pier had been cut half way along to stop him stepping ashore there. It remained that way.
As the shadows grew, Quinn looked up and saw vapour trails – aircraft so high only their exhausts were visible: white ribbons of condensation in the upper atmosphere. Yes, the RAF were still flying, Quinn reflected. Or were those German vapour trails?
As night fell, the searchlights came on, silver-blue beams penciling up into the darkness.
*
By day, Bournemouth was a cheerful place, full of pubs, cinemas and dancehalls, and swarming with Commonwealth aircrew. The locals seemed blasé about the air-raid threat, and all but ignored the one siren Quinn heard: The first air-raid siren he’d ever experienced, he ducked for cover himself, feeling shocked and embarrassed when he realised no one else had. While checking out of the Commonwealth Aircrew Centre, he discretely asked an RAF clerk about the local situation…
‘Oh, yeah, there’s bombing alright,’ said the Brit. ‘On and off over the last few years, but only light – “hit ’n’ run” attacks. Can’t do nuffin about it… An’ it’s only every now and then…’
‘Can’t the RAF do anything?’ put Quinn.
‘Do what?’ The man shook his head faintly, the trace of a smile on his face. ‘Not when Jerry comes in at wave-top height, they can’t…’ He leant forward, his elbows resting on the counter. ‘That means below radar detection… They come in, drop a few bombs, scoot back out before our local squadrons know what’s ’appened.’
‘But people get killed…’
‘Oh, yeah… But your lot are widely dispersed round the town, see. And we’re well used to it… Command calls ’em “nuisance” raids.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
On his way out of the Centre, Quinn passed a table with papers and magazines on it. A familiar mast-head caught his eye – He couldn’t believe it: The Sydney Morning Herald… Picking it up, his smile dropped.
Darwin had been bombed by the Japanese.
How fucking dare they, he seethed, only then realising he’d said it aloud.
‘February 19th,’ offered an Australian accent over his shoulder.
Quinn scanned the long-copy: No Jap landing, no invasion from the sea or anything but, Jesus, no doubt about it now, he’d be going home… Major bomb damage sustained, some Australian casualties though light, the Herald claimed. As Quinn plowed through the words on the page confronting him, so his own words issued…
Slant-Eyed. Fucking. Bastards…
Quinn stopped. Shocked at himself.
Had he just said that?!
‘’Bout the size of it…’ echoed the same voice a little further off.
Shaking his head, Quinn abandoned the newspaper, exasperated at events and at himself. Right now he had to make it to his billet – some distant spot in the town, duffle bag, tin trunk and all.
Plus now a brand-new issue gask-mask case.
*
Dragging the gear along something called the East Cliff Promenade by the beach, Quinn cursed that he hadn’t organised a cab. Stopping for a breather, he looked out over the beach, a beach of stones, not sand. Although considered a ‘clear day’ by the locals, the best the English Channel could manage was a pale green to the horizon. He focused hard at the curve of the ocean now before him. He might be heading back home soon, yet here he was: According to a map at the Centre, a mere seventy miles beyond this horizon lay occupied France, there, the German Luftwaffe bases of the Cherbourg Peninsula.
Finally. Fifteen minutes’ flying time away, Quinn had calculated, lay The Enemy.
He well remembered Bob Eastwood’s final warning to him. But, until now, Bob’s words had never prickled the skin on the back of Quinn’s neck: He’d actually made it as far as the young man hell-bent on trying to kill him. Eastwood had warned Quinn to make sure he was better than that young man before he got within a thousand miles of him. Better how? A better flyer? A better fighter?
Quinn sat down on the trunk. Okay: You could only gain combat experience by being in combat. So Bob could only have meant one thing: Be a better flyer before you went anywhere near combat – Give yourself an even chance first time up. He’d just have to break his own balls to ensure he did while training lasted. And there was enough of that coming up, his Advanced Flying Unit then his Operational Training Unit. Only then came an actual combat squadron, thank Christ.
Quinn stood, shouldered his duffle bag, clasped the handle of the trunk, and took a final look at this horizon he found oddly hard to turn his back on: Seventy miles, The Enemy. Bob had said something about a thousand. Anyway, Quinn resigned, he’d never come up against that young German now: With Darwin bombed, he’d be heading back to Australia for sure. It stood to reason. With Australia under direct threat, under attack, how could the British keep him here past training?
The Australian Government would never allow it.
*
Quinn followed the typed directions to the Russell Court Hotel to find his room there half occupied.
‘I wouldn’t put money on it, mate… The Royal Air Force’ll send you where they want. The Japs have just landed in New Guinea, what does Churchill care? In time, maybe… Besides, y’haven’t finished your training yet. AFU then OTU? Take it from me, son, right now you’ve got more than enough to worry about.’
Mick O’Regan was of the black-haired Irish. Quinn saw it in his face immediately: He had the same hooded eyelids as the Caseys, distant cousins of Quinn’s. He was, like Quinn, from Sydney, also a Pilot Officer, though he’d just finished his Advanced Flying Unit course.
He’d been flying a Miles Master, he informed in response to Quinn’s second question, a two-seat trainer like the Wirraway, and also with a 9-cylinder radial engine. Quinn should make the transition to it pretty easily, he reckoned – yes, even though it had 270 more horse-power. And a machine-gun.
Entering the hotel bar behind him, Q
uinn noticed at least one pair of female eyes widening as O’Regan moved through the crowd. In the workman-like appearance of ‘battle-dress’ jacket and trousers below peaked officer’s cap, perhaps it was the Australian darker blue that stood them out amongst the Canadians, New Zealanders and South Africans, all in the same grey-blue as the Royal Air Force. Though there were few RAF men in these parts, assured O’Regan: Bournemouth was for ‘Colonials’.
‘How long have you been here, Mick?’ asked Quinn as their beers were drawn.
‘Coming on a month…’
‘A whole month?’
‘That’s nothing, son. Some blokes’ve been here for eight. Going for the Bournemouth Long-Service Medal. Here’s your beer.’
‘You kidding me? Cheers.’
‘No, it’s luck of the draw, that’s all…’ O’Regan tasted his brew. ‘It can take ages before they find you a place at an AFU. So many of us arriving.’
‘What do they call these?’ Quinn enquired examining the hefty glass-handled mug, and took his first sip.
‘Pints.’
‘It’s… it’s not cold.’
‘That’s your first British Brown Ale, Daniel. Room temperature. Don’t worry; they’ve got some Lager on ice for us Antipodeans out the back. I made good and sure of that.’
The bar of the Russell Court Hotel was Quinn’s first English pub. Another world from the Australian tiled interior, the atmosphere, like the beer, was warm, full of wooden bookshelves and bric-a-brac. A cosy little place on a slope down to the sea, The Russell was just one of a hundred billets for the Empire boys.
From their conversation, Quinn learnt Mick was the oldest of seven brothers and sisters, part of the reason, Mick grinned, that his father hadn’t been able to afford the fees for even Christian Brothers Lewisham. He’d gone to the local state school instead, and he’d had to leave that at fourteen anyway to go to work at the Everleigh Rail Yards, as had his father. Mick loved his Rugby League, yet hadn’t played; weekends were spent earning extra money for the family. Given his work in the yards, his initial interview panel had spoken a fair bit about Ground Crew work for him. The same age as Quinn, O’Regan joked that, as a Pilot Officer, he now held the highest public office of his entire family line.
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