‘Red Section, Red Four. Where are you blokes?’
*
In the hangar, Turnbull, Brooke and Quinn mustered very closely around their ‘target’.
An oversized grey wind-sock.
Just delivered off a truck from the aircraft that had been towing it for them, it was called a ‘drogue’: A Blenheim bomber tugged it along on the end of a 100 foot cable.
As was standard practice, Turnbull’s bullets had been coated in red paint, Brooke’s in yellow, Quinn’s in blue. Thus accurate strikes ‘on target’, as well as individual scores, showed up very clearly.
The drogue was still pristinely Grey.
Griffon let them have a good look indeed, and finally spoke.
‘Pa-thetic. …Let’s try that again, shall we?’
Quinn had been doing well enough in his flying. Clearly, flying and fighting at the same time was going to be another matter. For, quite simply, ‘deflection shooting’, as it was called, seemed the nearest thing to utter impossibility he’d ever known…
When flying straight and level, the tracer stream of your bullets flew out ahead of you in a gentle, downward curve – gravity, loss of ballistic energy after firing. When your aircraft was turning while firing, your tracer stream curved dramatically. And you were almost always flying in a turn against a flying target – unless you planned to fly straight and level behind an enemy bomber, taking lots of time to line up the perfect shot and be blown to pieces by his rear gunner in the process. Consequently, to survive your own attack on an enemy aircraft, you had to scream in at a crazy angle, calculating where your bullets would be by the time they reached him.
Brooke seemed a good bloke, a nineteen-year-old from South London. He likened ‘ de-flekshon’ shooting, as he pronounced it in Griffon’s Welsh accent, to splashing a speeding car with a garden hose from another speeding car while swerving all over the road blind drunk. After more drogue practice, the weather closing in, Quinn got them mugs of tea, and suggested they might take a bit of a walk. Just to breathe out.
Ambling about halfway up the airfield in line with the runway, Quinn stopped, just relishing the feeling of grass under his flying boots. Balado Bridge seemed dead quiet for once, certainly no one was flying. The light was failing under a layer of low stratus cloud, a nasty front threatening from the east.
They sat down on the grass, looked back toward the hangars, now at some distance, and sipped.
‘So, chum,’ said Brooke. ‘Reckon you’re gettin’ the hang of it then?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Quinn offered. ‘Certainly not as well as Turnbull and yourself…’ He smiled remembering Brooke’s technical definition. ‘What’d you do before this, Brooke?’
‘Drove a cab. Trouble was I never had no garden hose installed, did I. That’s where I went wrong, see.’
Quinn chuckled and fished in his battle-dress pocket for a cigarette, at which moment they heard the sound of an aircraft starting up way over at the hangars – a bomber by the sound of it.
‘Cigarette?’ Quinn offered.
‘No thanks, chum. Bad for the health.’
Quinn lit up and exhaled a satisfying cloud; his nerves felt better for it. ‘…They’re not that bad for you, are they?’
‘My old man might’ve disagreed…’
They watched the aircraft growing towards them up the strip as its power came fully on, and deepened to a bellow. Twin-engined, it was a bomber alright. Quinn squinted to focus. ‘…It’s the Blenheim…’
It was indeed the target tug. Brooke nodded and spoke up over the rising noise. ‘A right darling t’fly anywhere. …Everywhere except into battle.’
It had drawn large and level with them now, passing elegant and tough-looking only fifty feet off. They got to their feet and watched as it roared down the runway, tail-wheel rising, wings in shallow lift, and it was airborne.
Quinn was just about to follow Brooke’s comment, his eyes still fixed on the bomber, when something in the sound of its engines became strange. Then faltered.
It wasn’t a hundred feet up, too low to turn, yet the left wing was dipping.
Wheels half retracted, the engines howled horribly.
‘Christ, I think he’s losing an engine,’ winced Quinn, just as the wing dipped further.
Then came the fireball.
And the appalling boom.
Quinn’s cigarette fell from his mouth. They stood dumb-struck until the fire-wagon bells pierced the noise, the dull afternoon now aglow.
‘Jesus…’
July
The Spitfire’s engine wound down to a stop. As Quinn unclipped and unplugged under a clear morning sky, he saw a smiling face approaching across the grass. ‘How are ya, Griff?’ he called out.
‘Al-right, boy!’ Griffon climbed up on the wing-root by the open cockpit. ‘I see you can fly her nicely enough. Learn to shoot straight, Daniel, and I think we may yet place the word Fighter in front of Pilot…’
‘You’re away on ops soon, aren’t you, mate?’
‘That I am. As you will be. Yet we’ll have a few beers together before then.’ The Welshman’s smile broke…
Fighters zoomed in low over the aerodrome line astern. Just off the ground and frighteningly fast, they pulled up steeply now, baring their undersides to the whole station and snarling one, two and three as they curved away. A brand-new type for Quinn, they were certainly no Spitfires – he’d never heard a noise like this – a sound harsh in the climb, and all the way through their wide arc back down to the south.
Though Griffon knew them…
‘Ty – phoons, boyo. State of the art in Fighters…’ He peered down to Quinn’s face – transfixed – then back to the three craft already disappearing on the horizon. ‘…Just learn how to shoot, boy…’
*
Quinn saluted. Removed his cap.
‘Sir. Pilot Officer Quinn reporting.’
Moore creaked back in his chair as always. Whether the reluctance of his physical movement was his natural state, or whether he was simply tired, Quinn remained unable to gauge.
‘Stand easy, Daniel.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well, then.’ At length the Squadron Leader closed a file. And continued as usual, words, meticulous, voice, lifeless. ‘You’ve done rather well… as it happens. And will be happy to know the Powers That Be are indeed posting you to Spitfires. 11 Group. Number 122 Squadron, RAF Hornchurch. County of Essex. Congratulations.’
Moore’s chair creaked anew as he laboured forward across the desk, extending his hand.
Quinn shook it. ‘Um, 122, sir?’
‘And what, may I ask, is wrong with that?’ queried Moore.
‘Well, sir…’ Quinn hesitated. ‘Since you ask… I was expecting to be sent to a Royal Australian Air Force squadron over here. Number 453 Squadron, for example – Word has it they’re being sent back to the Pacific. …Against the Japs, sir.’
Moore leant back in the chair again. Now, for the first time since Quinn had ever heard the man speak, something approaching colour invaded his tone.
‘Oh dear…’ Moore lowered his head and chuckled. ‘Oh dear, oh dear… We do have a lot to learn, don’t we.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Joining Quinn’s train compartment on the journey south, Flight Lieutenant Don Charlton was the first Australian Quinn had spoken to in months.
Having been in England almost a year longer than Quinn, in response to Quinn’s question, the ex-solicitor, now navigator in an RAF Bomber Command squadron, explained to Quinn what his last commanding officer had found so funny…
Five days after the outbreak of war the British Government had shot off a cablegram to the Australian Government requesting urgent military assistance. In Canada a month later, the British Air Ministry signed, along with the nations of its Commonwealth, the so-called Ottawa Agreement of 1939, and the Empire Air Training Scheme came into being. So what was so funny?
Article XV of the agreement – a special condi
tion agreed to by the British – had stated specifically and unambiguously that aircrew from each Commonwealth nation, including Australia, would fly in squadrons of their own nationality once in England, thereby granting them some degree of command autonomy – something the Brits had been promising, Charlton sided to Quinn, at every opportunity since the Boer War.
Article XV…
What was so funny was that the British Air Ministry were now flatly ignoring it.
What Article XV? as Charlton put it.
Thus, the ‘450 Series’ of RAAF squadrons within Fighter Command and the 460s within Bomber Command were Australian in name only, the vast majority of RAAF boys being scattered far and wide throughout British squadrons, RAF. At this point in his explanation, Charlton mentioned he’d played a little rugby while at school: With ten graded teams in every year, they’d done so well for so long against opposing sides as the school spread its best players as widely as possible across the ten teams.
‘They may send you to the Pacific yet,’ he conceded. ‘There’s nothing you can do but wait for the System to send you. Of course, keep in mind it’s a British system…’
‘Anyway,’ Quinn nodded, ‘nice to talk to another Australian after so long. So many of us coming in, where on earth are we all disappearing to?’
‘Bomber Command,’ Charlton said quietly into his newspaper.
Quinn realised his own unfortunate choice of words. And that it hadn’t been lost on Charlton. ‘Sorry, Donald… I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘I know,’ replied Charlton.
As the train clattered south, they discussed the progress of the war, all bad in Russia, all bad in North Africa, Rommel retaking Tobruk last month. Off British forces, Charlton qualified, despite the Australians having held it for so many months. In the headlines was a place called El Alamein, the battle there very hotly underway – Best send in a few Australian divisions, Quinn and Charlton had all but voiced as one.
In the Pacific, however, there was good news at long last: The Japanese had suffered their first defeat of the war so far. It had been called the Battle of Coral Sea, just off New Guinea, followed in June by the Americans’ decisive victory against them at Midway, all down to the carrier-based flyers of the U.S. Navy, evidently.
‘Do you think you’ll head back to the Pacific, Don?’ Quinn put to Charlton.
‘In time,’ he replied. ‘I’ve got one or two commitments here just now… They’ve made me Squadron Navigation Officer, you see. As you might gather, navigation, well it’s the key to the whole night-bombing business… You know,’ – an almost wistful tone entered his voice – ‘just once I’d like to try it in daylight… Twenty trips over Europe and I’ve never seen it; only fires…’ He focused back on Quinn. ‘Anyhow, that’s a good posting they’ve given you.’
‘It is?’ returned Quinn.
‘Well, Spitfires, for a start… And plenty of use for them where you’re going: 11 Group’s the shortest possible distance to the enemy – Called it “Hell’s Corner” during the Battle of Britain… Plus, Hornchurch, so you’re based close to London… Should have no trouble with the young ladies at all,’ Charlton smiled.
‘How’s that, then?’
Charlton eyed Quinn incredulously for a moment. ‘You couldn’t be serious, surely. …An Aussie Spitfire pilot in London?’
Quinn had three days’ Leave, commencing immediately.
*
For a city so heavily bombed and still so close to its enemy, London’s bright red double-decker buses came as a shock to Quinn: Even back in Sydney, the buses were painted in dull camouflage schemes.
He’d changed at King’s Cross Station, then again at Charing Cross, and came up into the light of day at Trafalgar Square, after which, checking his London Underground map in a flurry of pigeons and office girls, he realised he shouldn’t have changed at Charing Cross at all. He shouldn’t have gone as far as Charing Cross. He should have got off at Temple.
Now, although Nelson’s Column towering high above him meant at least he was in Trafalgar Square, it also meant that, along with his duffle bag and gas-mask case, he’d have to haul the tin trunk almost the entire length of the main avenue he was currently on, something called The Strand. Squinting at the map once again, it appeared – insult to injury – he’d even managed to change lines incorrectly at Charing Cross. Quinn cursed, turned about, and peered down The Strand for his aiming point: the steeple of ‘St Clement Dane’s Church’.
It must have been moved. Either that, or the map was wrong. Perhaps to ‘confound German Parachutists’…
If he ever found it, there, according to the map anyway, he’d also find Australia House, two floors of which constituted the ‘Boomerang Club’, focal point for all Australian servicemen in London – more importantly, somewhere he could dump the trunk, the kit and camping contents of which might be proving useful right now if he were in the Congo.
Quinn looked up at the stone figure of Lord Nelson. Better get moving, he resolved: He hadn’t been crapped on by any one of a million pigeons as yet and planned to keep it that way.
*
It was a solidly impressive looking building, six storeys in a giant wedge shape forming the end of a city block on The Strand. Quinn grounded his luggage and looked up at the grand statue guardians flanking his destination’s main entrance, above him now towering everything the little buildings of Wagga had been so earnestly aspiring to.
From the brass buttons, black tunic and peaked cap, Quinn saw the bloke standing next to him was a naval officer, his single gold band and disc on each cuff meaning they were of equivalent rank. Hence they exchanged the simultaneous salute required, the gold lettering at his shoulders confirming him as Australian, a tin trunk of his own that he’d also just arrived.
‘They’re a pain, aren’t they,’ Quinn ventured.
‘Losing it first chance I get,’ said the Sub-Lieutenant.
‘Australia House?’
‘That’s what the sign says.’
The words gleamed in polished brass on the statue pedestals left and right. Each man grabbed a tin handle and banged determinedly up the stairs between them.
On their arrival in the foyer, an old English gentleman in white gloves quietly announced himself to them as the Porter, and bade the young officers follow him, via the elevator, to a place where they might stow the trunks.
Without instruction from the porter, an elderly elevator driver pulled the iron cage door shut, and moved the lever to the Down position. Quinn watched as the floor indictor needle came to rest on ‘Basement’.
The driver then drew back the cage. And they saw them…
Hundreds. Identical in shape and size. Neatly stacked row upon row. And all round the walls.
Tin trunks.
The porter gave them each a receipt. And took them back up in the elevator.
*
Beneath the high ceilings and doric wall columns of the Boomerang Club’s interior sprawled lounges, reading and billiard tables, cushioned armchairs, even a grand piano. Also young Australians of all three services, but mostly RAAF. The porter had informed Quinn and the naval officer that this was where they could come to collect mail, send a telegram, draw pay, check the noticeboards for postings and promotions, or for accommodation and activities around London. Pinned to the boards were cards for shows in the West End, concerts, and personal notices. You could get a free haircut, grab a light meal from the Snack Bar, catch up with old pals or on the progress of others, have a cup of tea, play a game of billiards or just relax.
Quinn and the naval officer, name of Finlay, were served a cup of tea and a biscuit by an English matron in the Snack Bar, where they were invited to inspect the ‘Panel of Fame’: This was a door scribbled with many signatures, something started, the tea-lady informed them, by three RAAF lads, a Squadron Leader, a Flying Officer, and a Sergeant, all from Hurstville, New South Wales. They were also brothers, the reason the BBC crew had been there to record them for the ‘A
nzacs Calling Home’ program. The signing had been the interviewer chap’s idea, she said, and since that day the signatures had just grown and grown. From the door to the wall surrounding it, Quinn observed.
‘Go ahead, loove,’ the lady invited him. ‘Sign it.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Quinn smiled as she handed him his cup and saucer. Looking at the morass of names, he knew at once that he couldn’t, not yet: not until he’d seen some action…
Taking their teas out through the recreation room, Quinn and Finlay passed the Reading Table. This was strewn with magazines and newspapers and surrounded by aircrew choosing and reading.
‘Christ,’ Quinn heard one comment. ‘The Australian Women’s Weekly…’ Quinn hadn’t seen the speaker, but caught a strange relief in the voice. Then another…
‘Here, Bert… Best ever sponges. That’ll be useful…’
Though the atmosphere of the large room verged on lively, Quinn and Finlay negotiated carefully past a young Flight Sergeant flayed out in an armchair, cap on, soundly asleep. Quinn noted the Wings and Distiguished Flying Medal ribbon on his chest. Also the cigarette on the tin ashtray stand by his right hand, still a waft of smoke from it, a perfect line of ash its entire length. They found a table by a vast window looking down onto St Clement Dane’s Church and up The Strand.
David Finlay had the demeanour Quinn had observed in passing of a few junior naval officers – lean, resolute of face and movement. His jet-black hair matched his uniform.
‘So, David. What’s the Royal Australian Navy up to?’
‘Not too sure at the moment actually, Daniel. I’m one of your mob.’
‘You’re a pilot, what, Navy Fleet Air Arm?’
‘No, I’m on secondment to the RAF… Air Sea Rescue Service.’ Finlay grinned mildly. ‘Me? Go up in an aeroplane? I’m from a family of sailors. If you come down in the Channel, I pick you up.’
Suddenly Quinn remembered – from a ‘survival’ lecture. ‘You skipper one of those boats, the fast ones.’
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