Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  As Quinn thought hard how best to answer this, all he could think was that Aces got scrubbed by this man. Even the bravest had their breaking point, so the word went. What had been called ‘Shell-Shock’ in the last war had recently been renamed. Now it was called ‘L.M.F.’ Lack of Moral Fibre. The stamp of official disgrace.

  ‘Well, sir,’ ventured Quinn, ‘I shot down a 109… And I made it back here.’

  ‘Yes, you did rather well, I’m informed. I’m also informed you’ve been causing a bit of a stir in certain quarters.’ Hailey winced, though indulgently. ‘First with those two armourers, and now with the anti-aircraft officer at Manston.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to comment on that? I mean, a bit extreme, wasn’t it? Threatening the poor chap like that?’

  ‘Extreme, sir?’ Quinn felt anger rising in his throat. He swallowed, quelled it. ‘Yes, I suppose it was. As was the fact I’d just seen my leader blown away by our own guns. After which I’d been in combat for the first time. During which I killed a man.’

  ‘Could you do it again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Quinn answered quietly.

  ‘Just like that?’

  Quinn’s focus was drawn to an open window of the office, its curtain wafting on a breeze from outside. ‘To be honest, sir, it didn’t feel so much like killing a man, as downing an aircraft. While not getting killed myself.’ At that moment, a fighter ripped past low overhead the building, Quinn turning back to Hailey once the rafters had settled. ‘…But yes, sir… just like that.’

  Hailey’s tone lightened. ‘Common response to it, you know – downing an aircraft, not a man… Personal Detachment, a highly desirable trait…’ Moreover, Hailey conceded to himself, highly useful. ‘Then, I suppose we could safely say, regarding your phonecall to the anti-aircraft battery, that you were reacting out of the additional shock that they might have killed you…’

  ‘They killed Maclean.’

  Hailey paused again. ‘Indeed… I hear the chap at Manston is distraught about that.’

  ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. …But these things will happen in war, awful shocks like that. And will continue to. The thing is not to think too much about them. That’s the trouble with you clever chaps,’ he smiled weakly, ‘better just to press on…’ The smile sank. ‘If, at any time, Daniel, you feel you’d like to, well, talk… my door is always open.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Good. Now then,’ Hailey slapped the arms of his chair, ‘I’ll be seeing you around the place… Is there anything you’d like to ask me? Any reservations perhaps?’

  Quinn tried to gauge the man’s face. On the surface, it was friendly, supportive. Still, Quinn judged behind it lay the kind of intelligence up against which honesty would be the safest policy.

  ‘Maybe one, sir.’

  ‘Share it with me. And do please address me as Richard, not “sir”.’

  ‘Alright…’ Quinn took a moment, reflecting that, where he’d entered the office intending to guard his words, in truth it made no sense. With his life on the line, what was the point? ‘…Do you hear anything on when the new Spitfires are arriving?’

  Hailey sat back slightly. ‘Not my line, sorry. You’re all crying out for them, aren’t you.’

  Suddenly it came to Quinn: the Squadron motto. ‘ We Fly to Conquer,’ he murmured.

  ‘Correct,’ smiled Hailey. ‘The very Latin scholar.’

  ‘Incorrect in the circumstances, sir… Until such time as the new Spits get here, we’re flying to be shot down. Aren’t we.’

  Hailey’s face was grave. ‘I’ll make all enquiries I can… Well then, as I said, I will see you again soon. And I do thank you for your candour today – make my job easier if there was a little more of it doing the rounds.’

  ‘Sir.’ Quinn stood, donned his cap, saluted, and made for the door.

  ‘Daniel…’ Hailey persisted. ‘Every moment you’re in the air, remember one thing…’

  Quinn angled back to him from the doorway. ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘You’re helping the Russians.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Every plane we put in the air over here keeps a German plane in France, so one less German plane on the Russian Front. And that means…’ Hailey faltered.

  ‘Hopefully one less German. …Sir.’

  After the door had closed, Hailey took off his glasses, and considered the boy he’d just met. He hadn’t been about to mention the girlfriend he knew Quinn had recently lost. They’d all lost someone. They’d all lose more.

  Hailey considered his job: It was nothing else than to keep these young chaps on ops as long as they could mentally stand it. Right up to the point at which they cracked, if they weren’t killed first. Some tried to hide their symptoms and hung on too long, ending up a danger to wingmen, some went willingly. Some asked to be excused from flying duties. LMF.

  It didn’t spare the brave. It didn’t discriminate.

  The boy certainly did have a point: In Hailey’s medical opinion, Quinn’s actions, outbursts, all were understandable given the extremes of his situation. Peering to the window, Hailey considered the lot of Daniel Quinn, and of his generation. Hailey found himself pondering the words of the old motto… Ad Majora Natus…

  Had they been born for the Greater Good?

  Or for Greater Things?

  For something better than this…

  *

  Tuesday morning, Hornchurch was shut tight. Except for low altitude circuits of the airfield, no one in, no one out. No phonecalls, no mail. The armed guard had been doubled. Men expecting to depart on Leave awoke to find it cancelled.

  A ‘flap’ was on, or so the word went.

  Quinn discretely asked around and gathered the situation was an exceptional one on a fighter station and meant one thing only.

  Major Operation.

  To their astonishment, Bob Eastwood had given 122 Squadron the day off. It reminded Quinn of a teacher he’d had back at school, one Brother Shannon and his Dictum: Have your work already done - Night before an exam, go to the pictures, boy.

  A single official announcement had been made: There’d be a mass-briefing Wednesday morning at 0300 Hours.

  Day off or no day off, Quinn set about putting Carroll through his paces again, though once airborne, he remembered Brother Shannon’s other dictum, oft repeated: Before a Big Match, Light Training. He tried to relax his hands on the controls. As he did, he saw the tremor in them again, though it lessened. He took it easy on Carroll, and found his new wingman stuck like glue just behind him all the way through their circuits of the aerodrome. It was beyond any doubt now that the young Englishman knew what he was doing, and it gave Quinn something nearing calm.

  Coming in to land in the early afternoon, Quinn remembered the dream he’d forgotten since just after waking…

  In his last moments of sleep, Maclean’s face had come to him.

  The young face was stern. As usual, it stayed with him a little while.

  Before slipping away.

  *

  Quinn took Carroll for an early drink in the Officers’ Mess.

  The nineteen-year-old deserved it.

  Not so much for the fact he’d followed flight orders with such quiet discipline – He was showing all the signs of being an excellent pilot, yes, but it wasn’t that, Quinn decided: Quite simply, he was a good bloke, in an understated, English sort of way, and had seemed so from the first. Though appreciative of Quinn’s invitation, Carroll owned up to not caring overly for the taste of beer – He much preferred cider. With no cider available in the Mess, Quinn ordered him a brandy, lime and soda. Carroll said it would do nicely.

  Most of the squadron already celebrating the close of their relished day off, Quinn found himself pleasantly amused by Carroll’s telling of his second hobby – ‘train-spotting’.

  ‘…The 9:10 from Lime Street to Salisbury via Bristol Temple Meads? Marvelous run. Great Western Line’s my fa
vourite… D’y’know they intended a line to run right under London into a tunnel under the Channel?’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, Nick.’

  ‘Perish the thought, old chap… Would’ve linked American ocean passengers via Liverpool with the rest of Europe. Bit of sad joke in the current climate…’

  On his second beer, Quinn caught the approaching voice of someone evidently on his fourth.

  ‘Ahh… The Latin Scholar.’

  It was the M.O.

  After Quinn had introduced Carroll, Hailey bought them a round of drinks.

  ‘I like Australians,’ mused Hailey. ‘Delightful informality about them. As if anything else is impractical.’

  ‘Well,’ pivoted Carroll, ‘I expect they see it saves time, sir.’

  ‘Quite. Sort of get the job done, that’s that.’ Hailey took a sip at his scotch. ‘So, Daniel. Feeling on top of it all then?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, sir. They’ve given me a good wingman.’

  Carroll guarded a smile.

  ‘No less than you deserve, Flying Officer,’ flowed Hailey. ‘Anyhow, must away soon. Expect it won’t be too long before I’ve had one too many. I bid you a good night, gentlemen…’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Watching him disappear into the crowd of the Mess, Quinn began to suspect that Hailey hadn’t been pissed at all, merely on his professional rounds.

  *

  Dear Daniel

  So England it is. (Must be if you went via the Panama Canal.) We were SO glad and relieved when your letter arrived, Mum particularly. It took till June, as you can see. Panama City, eh? It really lifted her spirits, so thanks, mate.

  Well. I suppose you heard. Yep. Jap Midget Subs in the Harbour. The night of May 31st - June 1. It was an amazing night, I can tell you - Nobody knew what was happening, all the lights went out all over the Metropolitan Area, we thought we were being Invaded. The newspapers said they were just going for the USS Chicago, but they only hit a moored ferry where some sailors were billeted. 11 sailors were killed, but it could have been worse, couldn’t it. The Navy got them of course, but think of it. Midget Submarines. The blokes at school say it’s typical of the Japs, that they’re all midgets anyway. Though Father O’Donnellan said don’t count on that - they took Singapore, didn’t they.

  If my calculations are correct, Dan, by the time you get this, you should definitely be on Spits. Unless you’ve gone to Bomber Command. It seems the thing is not to go to Bomber Command. Remember Pete Murphy from school? Well his older brother Mike was killed. He was in the year below you. When I asked Pete about it, he said he didn’t want to talk about it. What I do know is Mike was a Rear Gunner in a Lancaster and he’d been awarded the DFM for something. He just went missing over Germany one night, and that’s all anyone here knows. There have been a few others from school killed as well. We have a special prayer for Aircrew at every school Mass. So Bomber Command’s out, alright? Right.

  Anyway. Halfway through my last year, Dan. Then it’s Fighter Command for me. Can’t wait to get over there with you, brother.

  Mum and Dad, Kath and Angie send their love.

  Yours truly

  Matt.

  *

  ‘At-ten - SHUN.’

  The pilots, staff officers and ground crew Sergeants of the three squadrons currently at Hornchurch stood bolt upright – over a hundred present in the dim hall, most still half awake.

  A cadre of top brass were marching down the briefing room’s centre aisle, their precision step echoing back off the walls as if they’d been up for hours. An RAF Air Commodore Quinn knew only by sight was escorted by several other officers up onto the dais at the head of the hall.

  Though one amongst their number he knew very well. A silent Bob Eastwood.

  The senior officer moved behind a rostrum to open the address. At least sixty, he had white hair and a vocal delivery Quinn had heard referred to as ‘Old Cranwell’, after the RAF College alma mater of his ilk.

  ‘Be seated, gentlemen.’

  Amidst the clatter and shifting as the order was followed, Quinn watched the Air Commodore motion to a Group Captain close by him. As the room settled, a curtain was drawn back from its vast blackboard. Quinn now took in the white chalk lettering that spanned it.

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19th, 1942 – OPERATION JUBILEE

  He did his best to scan the rest of it as commotion swelled from the seats all around him.

  NO 3 COMMANDO: YELLOW BEACH 1 & 2 BERNEVAL, ‘GOEBBELS’ BATTERY, BELLEVILLE-SUR-MER ROYAL REGIMENT OF CANADA: BLUE BEACH – PUYS, ‘ROMMEL’ BATTERY ESSEX SCOTTISH REGIMENT: RED BEACH – DIEPPE ROYAL HAMILTON LIGHT INFANTRY: WHITE BEACH – DIEPPE SOUTH SASKATCHEWAN REGIMENT, QUEEN’S OWN CAMERON HIGHLANDERS: GREEN BEACH – POURVILLE NO 4 COMMANDO: ORANGE BEACH 1 & 2 – VASTERIVAL, QUIBERVILLE, ‘HESS’ BATTERY…

  Dominating the dais, though, was a giant-scale map of the English Channel, lines of red wool linking the English Coast to the French Coast – aircraft tracks. At the foot of the map, the Air Commodore waited until the room had grown silent once more. Checking his watch, he continued.

  ‘The time is now precisely Zero Three Hundred. As I speak to you, Operation Jubilee begins. …The Invasion of Dieppe, gentlemen…’

  He paused again through the mass murmur that ensued.

  ‘At this very moment, five complete Canadian regiments are installed in their landing craft and heading for the target beaches listed behind me. Clearing the way for them are one thousand of our Commandos plus a contingent of Rangers, courtesy of our American cousins. These chaps are even now attacking Jerry artillery batteries.

  From all regiments, over six thousand men in all. Your mission: Protect these men. Our expected casualties have been projected as high. Your task is to keep them as low as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And please may I have another,’ came the under-breath comment from a Sergeant-Pilot in the seat next to Quinn’s.

  ‘The key objective of today’s invasion,’ continued the Air Commodore, ‘and of the men under your care, is a reconnaissance in force. I say today’s invasion advisedly, as it is in truth a raid, its plan being that our forces land, hold Dieppe, then withdraw, being off the beaches and returning across the Channel by lunchtime. Or 1200 Hours, to be precise. The reconnaissance gathered will determine what resistance will have to be met by any future invasion force in an endeavour to seize a heavily fortified port – the future Invasion of Continental Europe that will come, gentlemen, as surely as the sun will rise later this morning. Today, gentlemen, you will help author the prologue to that history in the making. For today, as our ground forces test Jerry’s mettle, you will keep the Luftwaffe off their backs. Thereby ensuring that as many as possible make it home to be with us for the real thing.’

  As the busy blackboard behind the man glared straight back at Quinn, the penny of Eastwood’s roping him in here fully dropped: It had been no accident. That much was crystal clear.

  ‘You will be up today with forty-six Spitfire squadrons, as well as three Typhoon and four of the new Mustang outfits. You’ll be supporting seven squadrons of our light bombers – Blenheims and Bostons, as well as eight Hurricane fighter-bomber squadrons doing close ground attack work for the troops. Your task may be to cover one of these, one of the Canadian regiments, perhaps some of our Commandos. You may be protecting the landing craft bringing them back out, or even the Royal Navy destroyers supporting these chaps. This will depend on your squadron number. Your squadron commanders will take you through your individual assignments at your dispersal huts at the close of this briefing – as will be happening at RAF stations all up and down the country. Though whatever role you play today, gentlemen, you will be taking part in the greatest Royal Air Force operation in a single morning since the Battle of Britain. This is the beginning of a new phase in the War, gentlemen. We are going on the attack, gauging how that attack must be made, and saying loud and clear to Jerry, “Look here, Jerry. We mean busines
s. We’re coming for you. And you’d better damn well start pulling your forces out of Russia to meet us when we do.”’

  So the M.O. was no slouch on Strategy, Quinn reflected. Still, the strategy of demanding your enemy build up his defences to meet you seemed highly dubious. It seemed, in fact, insane…

  ‘But the key thing in this whole business for us, gentlemen…’

  ‘You mean for us, sir…’ reprised the low voice to Quinn’s right.

  ‘…is that today we force Jerry up to meet us on our own terms.’

  ‘Oh capital, sir,’ continued the voice. ‘Splendid.’

  ‘…Many of you will be all too aware that Jerry hasn’t been playing cricket lately… Well on this day, he has to, or be damned. In addition to the two-hundred-or-so bombers he can bring into play, Dorniers mainly, your fighter opposition will comprise two Jerry Groups… Jagdgeschwader 2 and 26. About one-hundred-fifteen aircraft in each. JG 2’s the Richthofen lot, by the way. In any event,’ he concluded with a smile, ‘you’ll outnumber their fighters by three to one.’

  ‘We’ll need to, Commodore – Jerry’s got Focke-Wulfs…’

  ‘So there you have it, gentlemen. I will now pass you over to Squadron Leader…’ the Air Commodore whispered something to his aide, who whispered back, ‘…to Squadron Leader Eastwood. The time is now Zero Three Hundred and Ten. The first of you will take off at Zero Three Hundred and Thirty to be over their beaches at first light. God Speed and Good Hunting.’

  With that the Air Commodore stepped aside from his rostrum and filed back down the stairs of the dais with all but a few of his inner circle.

  ‘At-ten - SHUN.’

  The assembly stood to attention as the group of officers marched back up the centre aisle. Once they’d exited, Eastwood addressed the hall.

  ‘Alright, men. Stand Easy.’

  The assembly complied. Eastwood placed his cap on the rostrum, and began.

  ‘All you have to do today is what you’re told. And do exactly what we’ve been doing these last weeks. 64 Squadron here have the new Spit IX. The rest of you, it’s coming soon.’