They were transferring him.
Drawing into Bournemouth, the possibilities raced through his mind: Closer to home – excellent, against the Japs – about time… But where? New Guinea? Darwin, maybe…
Stepping onto the platform, moving through the uniformed crowds, he exited the station, hailed down a cab, possessed of one certainty. One already set like concrete in his veins…
He’d be saying good-bye to Victoria Haimes this very day.
*
As Quinn entered the foyer of the Russell Court, a sly face by the reception counter turned to him and smiled. ‘ You’ve got the day off, son.’
Mick O’Regan threw a mock salute.
‘Mick…’ Quinn almost returned it. ‘Eh?’
‘You don’t wanna see Jessop,’ chuckled O’Regan. ‘And believe me, son, he doesn’t wanna see you. Anyway, early mark. Whole day off. Bournemouth is your oyster.’
Quinn spun to the reception clerk.
‘Alright if I use your phone?’
*
From her table by the front window of the tea room, Victoria peered eagerly up the East Cliff Promenade – in the direction she knew he’d be coming from; staying at the Russell again. Waving the waitress away absentmindedly, she realised she’d have to do something to conceal her glee… But what? And how, for God’s sake? In minutes he would be here! She would take him down the beach, she would tell him all about it, how he could be safe now.
At that moment she saw them. In the distance, both in dark blue – Yes, O’Regan was with him…
Victoria sat back, a guarded sigh of satisfaction and relief. She had to admit it… Involving Mick unknowingly in her plan had been just a little masterful: Her taking an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force off the line by an act of fraud – let alone two of them – would get her sent to prison if anyone ever found out. If anyone ever cottoned on, and did a modest amount of digging, they might indeed draw the connection between her and Daniel. But they’d hardly be likely to, would they – not with Mick as the perfect screen: The attention of any such investigation would focus first on O’Regan, as the higher-ranking officer of the two. Yet with no discernable connection between Mick and Victoria, and with Mick and Daniel belonging to disparate squadrons, enquiry would draw a blank at the outset, and more than likely be dropped. Yes, Victoria smiled to herself, she’d been clever.
As the pair drew nearer now, she could make them out quite clearly: one in a peaked cap, one in a forage, just as he’d said he would be…
It was him.
*
The morning was fine and clear as, in battle-dress and caps, they sauntered down the promenade towards the centre of the old holiday town. Quinn took in the brilliant day out over the coast, the English
Channel actually blue for once.
‘Lax administrative practice were his exact words,’ said O’Regan. ‘Then he told me to tell you not to bother. Then he told me to get out. Which I did.’
Quinn thought he could just make out the red sign chained to the shopfront where he and Victoria had arranged to meet, a little tea room overlooking the beach. ‘Administrative error?’
‘’S’what the man said,’ O’Regan chuckled. ‘Hey, how’s the time?’ He looked out over the bay as Quinn checked his watch.
‘Just a minute before 10; I’ll be on time.’
‘And young Victoria wants to see you alone, eh? You old dog, Daniel…’ Mick stopped suddenly, his smile gone. ‘ Jesus Mary an’ Joseph…’ His gaze was still fixed on the bay.
‘What?’ Quinn strained to follow it.
‘Look at that,’ urged Mick, pointing with an outstretched arm.
Now Quinn saw it.
A spread of dots.
Low to the water and growing.
Aircraft. About five of them. No – six. He heard a clock tower in the town ahead starting to chime, now rising under its toll, the noise of multiple engines, a radial hum like the Wirraway’s, but sharper. Quinn glanced to the town, then back to the aircraft as down the beach they zoomed almost side-on now, in a dead straight line for the Pier. Gun-fire. Rapid.
‘Jesus. They’re Germans!’
Now the noise of their engines softened as all six aircraft lifted smoothly over the shops. The boys never saw the bombs sailing flat in their wake.
Only the explosions and flying pieces they left narrowly behind.
Then, delayed by the distance, Quinn and Mick heard the thunder, the sickening crashes, and the shattering of glass.
‘FUCK.’
They were sprinting towards it.
*
Quinn heard nothing, nothing of the people scurrying, clambering all around him, in every direction plain clothes, aircrew uniforms, tin helmets and brass buttons of the firemen running in. Nothing of the final falling bricks, masonry, ceiling beams and tiles.
The red wooden sign of the tea rooms lay at his feet. Oddly, he noticed, the paint of its lettering had been all but stripped off. For an instant, Quinn failed to comprehend how the whole sign had not been blown away – the chains must have held it through the blast.
The next thing he was aware of was his own fingernails bleeding from the bricks he tore to each side, a woman’s shoe, a torn stocking. He couldn’t see Victoria’s face. Only her blonde hair. Then there was a dark blue arm across his chest, cement and plaster dust in his mouth and in his eyes – most likely Mick pulling him back out of there.
Back out through the firemen. Twin brass buttons on their backs.
CHAPTER NINE
The train trip up to Norfolk had been a blur to Quinn, as had the past few days. He’d had to leave the compartment he shared with a group of the Waafs from Personnel, and spent the rest of the journey in the aisle. The girls had been talking about Lucy Green – the Centre couldn’t release her for the funeral – evidently she was a mess. From the aisle window, Quinn barely noticed the countryside that flashed past him. The skin across his whole body burnt hot, in his ears, a rush like headphone static left on full blast. Once he’d never known true fear. He now knew he’d never known loss.
Not until now.
Nor rage.
This kind that flashed through him like molten metal.
Or was it only loss?
No way to tell. Quinn’s first experience of hell was that it burnt away knowing. Where his skin felt red raw, his brain felt numb. Dead in his skull. But only until it remembered the sight of her – her limbs dust-covered… splayed at weird angles, and spattered with blood. As her slaughter played back through his mind, the stinging, stinging void in Quinn’s chest welled with hate. A hate that pulsed hot to his temples.
He would find the German who’d slaughtered her. Find him and slaughter him.
*
The rifle shots rang out and recurred in echoes from way across the pond, its ducks taking flight into the late afternoon, off to some quieter corner of the estate. After the third volley of shots, the twelve airmen lowered their 303s in perfect unison, as one with the short, sharp screams from the Corporal of the RAF Honour Guard. The coffin was lowered into the earth of the family churchyard, the Union Jack folded and presented to the Earl.
Quinn hadn’t spoken to the man in khaki green, yet had guessed who he was at the graveside, brown leather belt and strap across his chest, officer’s cap under arm. There were family – some younger men also in army uniform, the WAAF girls, plus about fifty others at a glance, family friends, village locals.
Tea was later served from a long white-clothed table on the lawns before the manor house, its staff attending in black. Either from the bandages on Quinn’s hands or from conversation with the WAAF Sergeant, the Colonel clearly knew who Quinn was and, after a polite pause, approached.
Quinn placed his cup and saucer down as promptly as the bandages had allowed, and saluted as best he could. This was returned by the Colonel, and, though the face was brittle, the eyes and eyebrows now facing Quinn were Victoria’s. Her father’s voice was subdued but determined.
>
‘Might we take a walk, Pilot Officer?’
In the fading light, they ranged quite a distance across the estate. Though the man’s stare seemed fixed ahead as they went, he managed to enquire as to Quinn’s flying, his family and background, his views on such things as cropped up. With each question, Quinn felt a sense of a man with a quiet interest in people generally, in his voice, the unaffected precision of a career soldier. As they walked, he took the time to point out many things their path brought them to, sites of family history, types of trees, willow, beech and oak.
Despite his hair being entirely grey, the Colonel’s physique, as necessitated by his work, was still an athlete’s. As it became dusk, however, his arm held the inside of Quinn’s as if a man far older.
‘I am aware, Daniel, that you were not acquainted with Victoria for a very long time… Though she made it clear to me that she thought a great deal of you.’
‘I thought a great deal of her, sir.’
‘You are happy flying now, aren’t you.’ The Colonel stopped, and turned to Quinn. ‘Flying on operations, I mean. You’ll be starting when you get back, won’t you.’
The question jolted Quinn: It now occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of flying for a few whole days. How many had it been? Two? Three? He’d lost count. But it felt a first in two solid years. And here it was, directly ahead of him, the prospect of flying into action. He looked back into the Colonel’s eyes as he said it.
‘Nothing could stop me now, sir.’ For an instant Quinn felt his hands, his arms and legs on the controls of the Spitfire, its cockpit close all around him. ‘…Nothing.’
‘Yes.’ The man paused. Something solemn had entered his voice, almost regret. ‘I thought you might feel that way…’
As they walked on further, Quinn’s mind cleared of all but a single thought: Up his thumb, into his hand, up his right arm, he remembered how it felt…
Pressing the firing button on the joystick of the Spit.
‘I look forward to it, sir.’
The manor house was drawing up ahead before the Colonel spoke again.
‘There’s just one thing I’d like to know, Daniel…’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘I’d like to think that the time my daughter did spend with you… was a happy time.’
Quinn turned to him in the half-light.
‘Yes, sir, it was. A very happy time.’
*
Bob Eastwood set down two teas on the desk of his office.
‘I’m sorry, Daniel.’
‘Thanks. …And thanks for the time off.’
‘No worries, mate. You were injured. No use to me here… So. Hands any better?’
‘Much.’ Quinn sipped and stared into the shifting distance out the window, sheets of rain cloaking the structures of Hornchurch. They lit cigarettes, smoked and drank in silence. Quinn finally spoke up.
‘How many people?’
‘Twelve. A couple more pretty badly injured.’
Quinn’s vision settled on a single trickle down the window pane, following it as it slowly snaked all the way down to the sill. ‘What were they?’
‘Focke-Wulfs.’
‘Not Messerschmitts?’
‘No. Fw-190’s.’
‘Local Spits catch them?’
‘Nope. They flew one pass, climbed, split left and right, pissed off back the way they came in. BMW engine on the 190… Fast bastard. And powerful enough to carry two 550-pounders each. High-explosive.’
Quinn watched one of the giant hangars as it wholly disappeared in a squall. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘An airfield called Maupertus-sur-Mer. So Intelligence reckons… On the Cherbourg Peninsula.’
After a while, Quinn repeated the name. He said it slowly, firmly.
‘Maupertus-sur-Mer…’
And stubbed out his cigarette.
*
During Mass at the base chapel, Quinn said his usual prayers for the family, Mum, Dad, Matt and the girls, then for Mr Reiser. As he tried to summon each of their faces, however, only one face would come. Such a beautiful face, smiling, blonde hair framing. As he became aware that the voices around him were on the closing prayers, the smile was fading. As it died, Quinn picked up the chant he knew so well…
Holy Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle: Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. Cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
*
Quinn spent the next week in emergency Squadron Take-Off practice – called ‘scrambles’, quick formation procedure, battle climbs to altitude, dog-fighting practice, Thatch-Weave drill with Maclean, shooting at a drogue – which he’d hit soundly – even a test-firing of the cannon: The heaviest forward thudding he felt sure for a moment would push the Spit clean backwards in the air.
Eastwood had them all working to a sweat. At the end of each day, Quinn found himself exhausted. Early dinner, back to his quarters and out like a light before 8.
Until he realised it was Sunday again and at last he had a morning off, albeit splayed in flying boots on a deckchair outside the Dispersal Hut – on ‘Section Readiness’ with Maclean, Terry Brooke from 58 OTU, and another Brit by the name of Smythe. As the morning was warm, Quinn wore no leather jacket, no sweater, only battle-dress with the Mae West over it, plus a neck-scarf Mac had handed him without so much as a word. Quinn had examined it briefly – white polka-dots on dark blue silk – he’d always hated polka-dots. Still, good against neck chafing, he’d put it on. Though each man had his helmet and gloves beside him on the grass – ready for an instant scramble if the alarm came through, ‘Section Readiness’ duty was considered reading time: The gen said actual scrambles had been rare since 1940, back in the Battle.
Eastwood stood silently a short distance behind them. He’d never known Quinn to sit without a newspaper, a book, a crossword. But there he was, just looking straight ahead. He’d been doing that quite a bit of late, staring off at nothing. Poor kid, he’d said hardly a word to anyone on the station since the girl died. Oh, except to two airmen arming his Spit: Hadn’t been satisfied with their work, evidently. Quinn’s tirade at them had been heard clean across Hornchurch. In any case, Eastwood stifled a grin, that was good for standards around the place. And he wasn’t about to caution Quinn: Rumour had it the girl had been blown to pieces. If she had been, Quinn must have seen the human carnage close up. He was doing fine in the air, quite the well-oiled machine according to Mac’s reports. Still, Eastwood would keep a close eye on him, and he’d be in front of the M.O. soon anyway.
Quinn unfolded the RAF-issue map of France that Eastwood slapped on his chest. He was just becoming immersed in this when the phone inside the Dispersal Hut pealed.
Quinn turned from his deckchair back to the hut window – Just as the Dispersals Corporal practically fell out of it.
‘SECTION SCRAM- BALLL.’
The other three pilots were already up and bolting as the alarm bell began to clang, Quinn close behind. The Spits were parked just yards away and Quinn’s ground crew had his engine started before he’d even climbed in, parachute on.
The take-off went smoothly, they did it as one, Eastwood’s training regime already paying off. The refined tones of the ground controller crackled in their headphones just after wheels-up…
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. Are you receiving me? O-ver.’
Maclean took the call.
‘Cathedral Control, Blue Leader. Loud and clear, over.’
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. 10-plus unidentified aircraft mid-Channel, south-east of you, heading west for Dover. Your vector, 1-2-0, climb Angels 15. Buster. O-ver.’
The first time Quinn had heard it, ‘Buster’ meant Full Throttle.
Maclean acknowledged: ‘Cathedral Control, Blue Leader. Roger and out. …Blues, stay with me.’
In just over ten minutes, Maclean had them levellin
g out at 15-thousand, Dover ahead, what must be Canterbury down on the left. It had taken all Quinn’s concentration to maintain close formation, identical power in the climb, engine temp below red-critical whilst on Full Emergency Boost plus his cool. Flattening with Mac, Boost off, revs back slightly, speed rising, he could at last afford a look around.
He saw a beautiful day, blue sky with cumulus puffs scattered everywhere. Like tufts of cotton wool, they flashed closely past now and then as the next message came.
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. Are you receiving me? O-ver.’
‘Cathedral Control, Blue Leader. Roger. Over.’
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. Your bandits have turned north, currently approaching Manston, now 15 miles north-east of you. O-ver.’
‘Cathedral Control, Blue Leader. Roger. Out. Shut. …Right, Blues. Stay with me.’
Maclean banked them left through the cumulus, throttle on, straightened them north-east towards Manston, and transmitted.
‘Blue Section, Blue Leader. Guns from Safety to Fire. Out.’
Quinn complied. And noticed his gloved fingers were trembling. Here it came… The Enemy. The bastards hell-bent on trying to kill him. Where so many hadn’t, he’d survived this far and here it was, not quite sure what he felt, except, where he’d imagined the moment might blur the senses, it only focused them incredibly.
The ground controller came over the headphones once again.
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. Your bandits are 109s, five miles in front of you. Do keep a sharp look-out…’
Thank Christ, Quinn thought. Messerschmitts, not Focke-Wulfs…
At least he’d have an even chance first time up. Yet no bombers… What were a bunch of their fighters doing over Manston?
Messerschmitts? They did Reconnaissance.
Must be taking photographs over Manston… Of the aerodrome…
‘Blue Leader, this is Cathedral Control. Bandits level with you. A friendly squadron over Manston will be five thousand above you, currently in contact with bandit top-cover. Good hunting, Blue. Out.’
Seemed strange to Quinn – bandit top-cover for their reconnaissance unit. Reconnaissance usually flew alone… Only half aware of Maclean calling the friendly squadron way above, Quinn fully registered the reply, Canadians by the sound of it…
Nor the Years Condemn Page 15