Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  ‘Yes they did.’

  ‘You know you have to let each one go, don’t you.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Or else you won’t be able to continue in this job, will you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Besides…’ O’Regan forced a grin, ‘…they’ll give you the dreaded LMF.’

  Quinn took out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes, blew his nose. ‘Can’t have that…’

  ‘No.’ O’Regan looked over Quinn’s shoulder. ‘I see you’re no longer the spring chicken yourself…’

  Quinn glanced back – The kill cross beneath his own cockpit was clearly visible. ‘Oh the…’ He pocketed the handkerchief. ‘Yeah, I… got a 109.’

  ‘A Messerschmitt? Congratulations, son. That’s what you’re here for… Are you a wingman right now or you lead one?’

  ‘I lead one.’

  ‘Well you’ll have to keep holding it together for him now too, won’t you.’

  ‘Yes I will. I’m lucky. He’s a good one.’

  ‘Remember, Daniel,’ O’Regan’s eyes narrowed, ‘Let him see you lose it, and he just might lose it too. And that can never happen as he’s the single thing that’ll keep you alive right now, isn’t he. And you him.’ He paused a moment. And saw Quinn was gathering himself. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Quinn was now taking in the Mark IX. ‘Christ , Mick, she’s a beauty,’ he managed.

  ‘That she is, old son,’ he said turning to the brand-new Spit. He patted its wingtip. ‘Whip a Focke-Wulf in this: Better engine gives you comparable speed, acceleration, climb, sometimes better, all heights… New supercharger’s the thing. 2-Stage, 2-Speed… A lot of little things better actually…’

  Quinn looked at the kill crosses. ‘No wonder, Mick. Six victories.’

  ‘Got one o’them in a Mark V…’

  ‘In a Mark V?!’

  ‘Yep. A Focke-Wulf. It can be done… Teamwork. Speed. And the Thatch-Weave. That’s why your wingman’s so bloody important. As a matter of fact, I think here comes your man now… This the poor bastard?’

  Quinn laughed and turned to see Carroll approaching, leather helmet on.

  Drawing up to them, Carroll noted O’Regan’s rank bands, straightened his parachute straps and saluted the Flight Lieutenant. ‘Sir.’ Carroll saw the six kill crosses. Five made you an ‘Ace’.

  O’Regan only put out his hand. ‘Mick.’

  *

  0710 Hours

  ‘TALLY-HO! BANDITS! TWELVE O’CLOCK LOW, HALF A MILE, FOUR DORNIERS. DEFINITE. HEADING UP THE BEACH, NOW TURNING IN-LAND.’

  Eastwood’s voice was a metered fury. A man powerfully relieved.

  ‘BLUE SECTION WILL ATTACK ON MY SIGNAL, RED AND GREEN SECTIONS, STAY UP WITH ME, WE COVER BLUE. BLUE SECTION, WE HAVE A SQUADRON ABOVE US AS TOP COVER, SO YOU HAVE LITTLE TO NO CHANCE OF GETTING BOUNCED. RIGHTO. HOOK. NAIL - THE - FUCKERS.’

  Without transmitting a word, Hook dropped from squadron formation like a bomb released. Quinn had been ready for it and stayed right on his Section Leader, vision reddening – blood to his head under the negative g-forces of the dive. He just hoped to God Blue 2 and 4 hadn’t missed it. Quick check left, good, Brooke formating to the far side of Hook, check right, Carroll, excellent. Coast sweeping underneath, speed building, needle winding, ready to throttle off, stand by for instructions from Hook.

  And there they are. They’ve seen us. They’re on the run. 500 yards away and skimming the rooftops.

  Very clever…

  We can’t come up and under them – they’re too low. Can’t fire from above – hit French people beneath. Have to attack from straight behind and level – a nice steady target for their rear gunners. Bastards, Quinn seethed… If one goes down, it’s straight onto a Frenchman’s home.

  In the shallowing descent, Quinn saw the white-outlined crosses on their wings, four twin-engined Dorniers in the morning light, upsides camouflaged black on olive. 100 yards ahead – now level with them, sitting behind them line abreast. 70 yards – alleys and roof-tiles skimming beneath, flashing either side, a treetop, a steeple. Hook transmitted.

  ‘Blue Section, Blue Leader. Four of them, four of us. Pick your own target accordingly. If he breaks, break with him and shoot to kill. On my command, open fire.’

  Quinn lined up bomber number 3 in his sights. As he did, he saw the flashing pin-pricks of fire from its rear gunner. Christ, he could see the man’s face…

  ‘Open Fire.’

  As Blue Section’s eight cannon and sixteen machine-guns burst to life, Quinn watched their tracer streams spew out parallel.

  On target, on target, fragments of the bomber falling away? All Quinn knew for sure was the pin-pricks had stopped. Bomber 1 and 2 breaking left, 3 and 4 breaking right. A ball of fire – Bomber 2 had exploded. Hook’s target. Tumbling pieces.

  ‘Gen Man’…

  Quinn curved after number 3 and 4, throttling back now, at a mere 50 yards the twin tails of each Dornier clearly visible. He fired another long burst at bomber 3, cursing as his tracers fell short of its right engine.

  Deflection, you idiot, Deflection!

  Disgusted at himself, re-aiming and about to thumb the gun-button for another burst, the complete tail section of the Dornier broke away. Quinn watched the bomber rear up insanely – No longer flying, it entered a flat somersault as its right wing sheared clean off. He saw spasms of movement within the glass-house of the cockpit, going down, the whole thing exploding into streets beneath a second later. Dear God – houses enveloped in rolling fire and wreckage – let the townspeople be in their shelters… Way behind already. Another target in front.

  Out of the corner of his eye Quinn saw more tracers: Carroll was firing on bomber 4 as it banked back left to escape. Quinn curved fast after Carroll, throttle full forward to catch up. Closing the distance, he saw Carroll’s tracers still spitting at the Dornier, and the flashes of light as the bomber’s rear gunner fired straight back. Suddenly, Carroll’s Spitfire reared up and banked wide away. Had he been hit? Quinn shuddered as the answer smacked into his own windscreen panel like a brick: a machine-gun bullet from a young German with good aim. Quinn knew it could have blown his head off, and fumed as he lined up the perspex cage of the gunner in his sights…

  ‘Mine’s bullet-proof, mate… Yours isn’t.’

  At 30 yards, Quinn’s dual cannon thundered.

  He watched their tracers fly at the bomber’s rear turret. Slam into it. And shatter it, perspex and interior splattering red.

  Only then did Quinn see the framework of the electrical tower looming left. Heaving back on the stick, he pushed Emergency Boost on the throttle, high-tension cables whipping feet beneath.

  The left engine of the Dornier scythed directly into them in a hail of sparks and fire. The rest of the aircraft impacted on the town.

  Gaining a little altitude over its outskirts, Quinn heard Eastwood’s voice over the radio.

  ‘Well done, Blue 3…’

  Clearly had the school master been monitoring from above.

  Quinn froze: CARROLL! Flicking the radio to Transmit, he yelled it: ‘ NICK. ARE - YOU - ALRIGHT?!’

  Quinn didn’t register the composure of the reply. Only the words.

  ‘Still with you, Daniel… Just a few non-standard holes here, that’s all.’

  Quinn glanced hard right – his blood starting to flow once again – to see Carroll curving with him in the climbing bank back round to the coast.

  Eastwood continued, this time to Carroll: ‘Well done, Blue 4. That’s half a kill. Confirmed. Blue 3, you’ll be low on ammunition if not out. Your wingman may have serious damage. Check he isn’t leaking fuel. Then cover his tail back to nearest home airfield. Buster. Out.’

  Once he’d set them on course out over the Channel, Quinn dropped closely below and behind his wingman. Looking straight up through his canopy, he checked Carroll for damage, hovering to one side, then the other – the
Spit had bullet holes in it alright, but no visible leaks. Reformating beside Carroll once again, Quinn peered ahead through the narrow windscreen of the Spitfire.

  Past the machine-gun bullet impaction.

  Hawkinge somewhere ahead.

  *

  It took a few days for the word to filter down to squadron level.

  Operation Jubilee. Canadian casualties. 60 per cent.

  All equipment lost.

  Disaster.

  Lying back on his bed, Quinn saw the newspapers were being considerably brighter about it, mostly running a Bloodied Jerry’s Nose type of headline. The first front page news in which Quinn had ever played a part, readers would never guess ‘Poor Old Jerry’ had driven the noble invaders back into the sea. Just how many thousands had been mown down on the beach, or by the grace of God just taken prisoner, was at this time anybody’s guess.

  Not altogether sure he’d bother reading the newspapers much anymore, Quinn heard a knock at his door. ‘Yes?’ he called distractedly.

  The door opened a short way, a face peering in. It was Brooke. ‘’Ello, chum,’ said the South Londoner, low voiced.

  ‘Oh, hello, Terry,’ returned Quinn, sitting up.

  ‘Alright if I come in for a bit?’

  ‘Sure, mate, sit down,’ Quinn smiled. ‘How’s the ol’ garden hose?’

  Brooke entered, returning the smile momentarily, closing the door behind himself. He sat on a chair, smile gone, his stare coming to rest on the carpet. He said nothing further.

  After a few seconds, Quinn broke the silence of the tiny room. ‘You alright, mate?’

  Brooke’s expression lifted slightly. ‘Sure, chum…’ His eyes tried to meet Quinn’s. ‘…Never better.’ His stare settled on the carpet once more. And remained there. ‘Tell y’the truth, Daniel, I’m not alright. …Tell y’the truth.’

  Quinn paused. Then spoke very softly. ‘What’s wrong, mate?’

  ‘Well,’ managed Brooke, ‘this last op…’

  ‘What about it?’ fielded Quinn. ‘I heard you got one, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. It blew up.’ Brooke’s focus lifted to meet Quinn’s properly now. ‘On a village… I had t’really chase ’im… He was some pilot, I’ll give ’im that. Flew us under some power cables – Thought I was a gonner. …But ’e went down in the end. On this village.’

  Quinn paused again, his voice determined as he recommenced. ‘It wasn’t your fault, mate. Mine hit the town and bugger all I could do about it.’

  ‘No…’ followed Brooke. ‘Bugger all… It was like ’e meant to. Hit the village, I mean.’

  Quinn couldn’t help but visualise the moment. ‘Look, mate… Even if he did, which I’d doubt, what were you supposed to do? Let him go? You did what you had to do and you got back alright.’

  ‘Yeah… I kept on Hook’s tail an’ everyfing.’

  ‘Well then,’ Quinn nodded. ‘You did your job. You did it well.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can do it again, Daniel.’

  Quinn’s eyes hardened at Brooke, as did his tone. ‘Listen, Terry. We’re under orders now…’ Quinn stopped, proceeding very quietly indeed. ‘And our orders are to kill Germans. They’d just got our blokes, hadn’t they. We couldn’t let the bastards get away. And we didn’t, did we. Y’can’t think about it. Y’ve just gotta do it and press on.’

  Brooke sat motionless for long moments. ‘It’s just I’m so bloody scared, see. Didn’t fink I would be but I am. An’ I… I just wouldn’t want to let you blokes down in a fight – I couldn’t handle that. Couldn’t live wiv m’self if I did. So I was… I was considerin’ asking the M.O. to excuse me from flying duties, see. So it can never ’appen…’

  Quinn lowered his voice even further, now just above a whisper. ‘That’d mean LMF, mate. You know what that means, don’t you.’

  ‘Yeah, I do…’ Brooke looked squarely at Quinn now. ‘Better than the alternative though, innit.’

  ‘Maybe,’ offered Quinn. He dug deep for something positive to say, anything. Nothing came. ‘I’m scared too, mate – We all are.’ Quinn had heard the stories: If Brooke went to the M.O., Hailey would have no choice but to turn him in. He’d be disgraced, stripped of rank, given the most menial job. ‘All you can do is…’

  ‘…Just don’t fink about it,’ trailed Brooke, on his face, the faintest of smiles. ‘’Spose you’re right, Daniel…’ He stood. ‘Well… thanks, chum.’

  Quinn tried to smile also. ‘No worries, mate. I’ll see y’round then.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Brooke opened the door, paused in the doorway. ‘See y’round then.’

  Once the door had closed again, Quinn lay back on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.

  Wondering if the day would ever come when he could take his own advice.

  *

  On the following Sunday, with all squadron aircraft and equipment guaranteed repaired and back in perfect order post Jubilee, Eastwood gave every alternate pilot and ground crew member in 122 the day off, the rest to take Monday.

  Carroll was heading back to Wimbledon for Sunday lunch, and had invited Quinn to come home and meet his parents. Quinn had thanked him but declined; he didn’t feel up to it.

  London perhaps?

  No, probably just out in the country somewhere, Quinn had said.

  *

  It was only on the train to Norfolk that Quinn truly decided. Yes: At Norwich Station, he would telephone the Earl. He didn’t quite know what he’d say, or why he was going really, only that he was, and feeling a rather pleasant sense of ease for just being underway.

  Don’t think about it, he’d implored Brooke.

  Besides, Quinn told himself, why shouldn’t he go? The day was his to do with as he wished, Norfolk was as good a destination as anywhere, he’d got on well with the Earl, hadn’t he? Man’d probably be pleased to see him. Peering at a discarded newspaper on the vacant seat across from him – Germans driving towards Stalingrad, Russians bravely resisting – Quinn realised he didn’t care overly. He simply hoped this feeling wouldn’t lift: this feeling good without knowing why.

  *

  On the platform at Norwich, Quinn picked up the receiver, asked the operator for the manor house, heard it ring.

  As it did, his mind raced: Would the Colonel be at home? What if he wasn’t? And he probably wasn’t – probably on manoeuvres somewhere. So what if he was? Surely the manor staff would let Quinn wander the grounds… Nice weather for it, so far. Maybe get some lunch in the village. Make a day of it.

  Before any answer came, he put the receiver down again, saw a sign advertising some place, Caister-on-Sea, the train out for it, its platform number.

  *

  Underway once again, Quinn tried to chase it from his mind in the empty compartment, settle himself. It had been a ridiculous whim, he told himself, stupid, nothing more. Forget it, f’fuck’s sake… When the carriage guard appeared in the doorway, Quinn asked about his destination.

  Caister-on-Sea, old Roman town, the man informed… Caister Castle was worth a visit, he said, only 15th Century but it had a legend attached to it, if Quinn was interested in the like: For the tourists, o’course, but a horse-drawn hearse and headless coachman were known to race in through its gates and circle the courtyard. The guard’s face had been perfectly serious as he’d reeled this off. Twice on Sundays, he added, matinees in holiday season, weather permitting, o’course… With that, he clipped Quinn’s ticket, touched the peak of his railways cap, and was gone.

  *

  From the station, Quinn rode the short distance to the town by bus. Stepping down from it, he looked up at the sky – another English day that had started out nicely now heading towards overcast. Walking along the high street of the town, he found its atmosphere very still, somehow close. Hardly a soul about to ask for directions, Quinn saw the sign.

  *

  ‘Yerr a long way from home, ain’tcha, loove.’

  In the courtyard of the castle, the old woman had obviously seen the A
USTRALIA on Quinn’s battle-dress shoulders.

  ‘Yes I am,’ he returned her smile.

  She didn’t follow with anything. She simply maintained the smile, looking up at the Royal Australian Air Force eagle on his forage cap.

  ‘Ornly of an evenin’, darlin’.’

  Quinn sided her a look of friendly puzzlement. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Coachman, darlin’.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he grinned and stared back across the courtyard. Though he kept his eyes forward, he sensed she was still looking at him.

  ‘Aye, and a fine lookin’ lad, y’are too… Gotta girl then?’

  He smiled softly ahead. ‘Yes.’

  The woman took her time before speaking again. ‘And ornly when he ’as to.’

  ‘Has to what?’

  ‘The Coachman… He rides to herald.’

  Quinn turned to her. ‘Herald what?’ He saw her face was still affable, though faintly incredulous – as if surprised he had to ask.

  ‘A death in the family, loove.’

  *

  Though the day had so far held rainless, it was darkening grey as Quinn took in the North Sea. The shapes of the rusted iron tank traps down along the beach only sealed the gloom of the whole vista.

  Looking at his map, then out to the horizon, he began to focus on where he truly was: According to the map, he was standing on Norfolk’s closest possible point to Enemy Territory. Beyond this horizon lay occupied Holland. Nearest Luftwaffe base, ‘Woensdrecht’. For many minutes, he stood looking out toward it. After a while, he surprised himself, imagining a young German looking out towards Caister-on-Sea from Holland.

  Another young German hell-bent on trying to kill him, Quinn reflected.

  Did this young man realise Quinn was going to kill him first?

  Did he?

  *

  Looking for a fish and chip shop in the town, Quinn found it was closed. Feeling a wind picking up off the sea, he decided to take a walk up the beach dunes north of the town before the weather closed in. The so-called ‘Norfolk Broads’.