Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  A far cry from his initial impressions of the English countryside, the Broads were overridingly flat and windswept, somehow lonely in character. Slow creaking windmills rising up from the land only added to this atmosphere, fertile ground, Quinn reflected, for the apparent local tendency towards superstition.

  Surely enough, the reeds and grasses did actually seem to whisper amongst the dunes as he scaled a sandy rise. Looking inland from its ridge, he saw down into a place where hardy seabirds huddled in shelter against the wind. Not a bad idea for a moment, he had to agree.

  Step-sliding as carefully as he could down into the natural haven, about a ten foot drop, he wondered at what point the birds would scatter at his arrival. Yet even as he was lighting a cigarette in the sudden quiet of the shelter, the birds hadn’t budged an inch. Too good a spot for them, clearly. And there were scores of them, their low, mournful chorus now in his ears. He thought he heard the sound of the ocean over the sand ridge behind him and turned on the spot back towards it, listening out carefully.

  Just as the flock lifted on masse.

  In the mayhem all around him, Quinn felt the press of air displaced by their wings for, as one, they were up, and away.

  Above him, Quinn saw the Spitfire’s very rivets. Mere feet off the ridge, a flash of coloured roundels, Quinn’s body was whipped by its roar, then by its slipstream.

  Scrambling up the inland dune, he craved another look as it sped away – maybe it would climb or waggle its wings at him, he’d done that himself…

  Atop the ridge, panting slightly from the sudden exertion, he saw it hadn’t. It was still hugging the earth too, and fast disappearing. The hair on the back of his neck rose – Mark V? Mark IX? Too quick to tell which but that Spit form – unmistakable! The graceful ‘v’ of its wings, proportions balanced, elegant. In this moment Quinn knew it: He loved it. Heading home, RAF Coltishall probably – just inland from here according to the map…

  Then came the second engine from behind him. Directly overhead and flat out, Quinn barely glimpsed it above him as, faster than reflex, it sped away. He’d ducked instinctively, yet only in its wake – the propeller must have missed him by inches. A different roar, he’d caught that much, plus another sound woven in somehow, a heavy thudding.

  Straining his eyes hard after the fighter, Quinn had a vague awareness of objects plopping onto the sand about him. It was no Spitfire – wrong silhouette, one he’d seen before though… in the classroom… But now he saw something else.

  Lines of tracers!

  Zipping directly away from it in parallel lines, narrowing to a point inland.

  And it was gone from sight. Now, only the sound of the wind and of the seabirds returning. At length Quinn looked to his feet. Objects had fallen. On the sand all about him were cylinders of polished brass. Each about 4 inches long, a hollow end on each one.

  The hollow ends were smoking.

  Cannon shell cartridge casings. Quinn knew these – an instructor had given him one to handle: 20mm Calibre MG 151s. The armament of the Focke-Wulf 190A.

  He peered up again and scanned the distance inland. Nothing.

  Then saw the pillar of smoke. About two miles off, black, and rising. He fished for the packet in his battle-dress pocket. Matches from his hip. Lit one to a cigarette. And stood transfixed.

  The pillar had grown to a giant mushroom, its stalk now as high as a steeple on the horizon, and being shifted gently south by the wind.

  No other thing stirred.

  Realising that the cigarette had blown out, also that his cap was gone, Quinn turned back down to the birds, where it must have fallen. Clambering carefully back down the dune, he found it, and gathered it up. Brushing the sand off it, the birds ruffled only slightly. The cap’s eagle was pale gold now – the light was fading fast. He put it back on. And worked his way back up the dune towards the beach.

  Atop the rise, there, the sea again. And its sound.

  But now came another noise…

  A radial drone, rising.

  Quinn spun to his left, flinch-ducked, yet it was passing about a hundred yards off up the beach, and heading out to sea.

  The Focke-Wulf.

  A black cross dimly visible on its fuselage, it was higher than on its way in. And quickly just a speck on the horizon.

  *

  Quinn and Eastwood sipped quietly in The Good Intent, long a favoured watering-hole of Hornchurch pilots.

  Although Quinn’s eye-witness account had been filed by a visiting Intelligence Panel from RAF Coltishall – a Squadron Leader, a Flight Lieutenant and a young WAAF Section Officer – it was only from Quinn’s batman that he’d gained a full version of events…

  The pilot had been from 154 Squadron. An English lad, though a Pilot Officer he’d been the ‘new-boy’ in a section of four Mark Vs on an armed reconnaissance sweep of the Dutch Coast. As monitored from their radio traffic, they’d made a possible sighting of German aircraft, then lost them. In the excitement, the first-timer had lost visual contact with his section, and couldn’t find them again in failing light. He’d been ordered to return to base, ‘Buster’, and at that point the German had made his move. An RAF radio operator had followed the whole thing from start to finish.

  A Focke-Wulf on his tail, the Pilot Officer had transmitted for urgent assistance, ‘Mayday’, reporting his position at regular intervals across the North Sea until about as far as the village of Ormesby St Michael, just a few miles inland from the English coast. Where his transmissions had cut. And where locals saw the crash, in a field just outside the village.

  Quinn and Eastwood tacitly knew what they were drinking to. Their silence stretched out for some while.

  Quinn lit a cigarette. Smoked it a little. And watched it as it burned all the way down to the filter.

  ‘Poor kid got chased for a hundred miles.’

  ‘He was the same age as you, Daniel.’

  *

  ‘SECTION SCRAM- BALLL.’

  From his deckchair, Pilot Officer Terry Brooke saw the other three pilots up and sprinting away across the grass – Hook, Quinn, Carroll – the bell already ringing. He saw their Spitfires start up, heard them. Then he heard the voice close by him, felt the airman’s hand shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Sir, sir! Your aircraft, sir. Have to get in your aircraft. Scramble, sir…’

  As the Spitfires drew away, Brooke turned to the airman, and calmly explained. ‘No, airman. I’m not goin’ wiv them. Y’see, I can’t go up no more.’

  Then Brooke heard another voice. It came as no shock to him. No surprise. It was the voice of the RAF Military Police Sergeant behind him. Though the voice was curt, it contained no malice. Only order.

  ‘Escort this gentleman to the guardroom immediately. Remove and impound his side-arm, please. He is not to be saluted.’

  As they led him away, Brooke continued. ‘I killed some Germans, see. Maybe some French people too. I can’t do that no more…’ Brooke turned to the military policeman with the grip up under his armpit. ‘…Don’t mind what ’appens now.’ He smiled ahead. ‘Don’t ’ave to be afraid no more…’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  September 1942

  Flight Sergeant Albert Kemp had been in the Service twenty-two years this Autumn. And knew the ‘change’ when it kicked in.

  Each young gentleman passed through it differently. If he made it through his first few weeks alive. Then came the recognised signs…

  In some, the brooding fear of combat melted to actual excitement. An eagerness to ‘get at ’em’. Some thrived on it. Right up to the point at which they cracked. Others could be speaking quite normally to you, minds somewhere entirely else. Some drank more quietly. More heavily. Some stopped making friends with other pilots – for what was the point? Yes, the signs varied. Except for one.

  The young eyes became old. And looked clean through you.

  Kemp had first seen it back in the Battle. After two years’ training, the novice fighter pilot might be kill
ed on his first op for the simplest possible reason: his first time in combat. The one with the skill, but more importantly, with the good luck to survive his first op might last a few days. If he lasted a whole week of ops, he gained experience. With every passing week of gaining it, he lowered the odds of dying through his own error. Yet with every passing day exposed to combat, he raised the odds of his own simple good luck running out. In any case, while he lasted, he changed from the hunted to the hunter.

  No mistaking the change – Young Mister Quinn was passing through it. Back on the morning of Jubilee, he’d had the shakes. Just as he’d done with so many others, Kemp had pretended he hadn’t noticed, then, as best he could, had tried to settle the young gentleman on his way. Lad’d been plain scared, that’s all. No shame in that, mind – Kemp would have been dead concerned if he hadn’t been: The alternative was plain daft or plain barmy.

  This one had survived. And was holding. That he was gaining in confidence was clear: You could read it in his landings – getting smoother. And he was knocking them down… Kemp looked on as the airman carefully painted another ‘kill’ cross below his cockpit. Five of them now.

  How long would this one last? Kemp had seen many young gentlemen become ‘Aces’. Become competent, confident… ‘Gen Men’.

  Then disappear.

  Flying Officer Quinn would be along any minute now. With any luck, he wouldn’t make them go over the whole aircraft again – He’d done that more than once… Kemp had had to call them all back out: Armourers, Rigger, Electrician, Wireless Operator, Instrument Repairer… One poor lad had his Leave cancelled. Still, efficiency levels had been up of late. Not the type to suffer fools, Mister Quinn, and the whole Station knew it. Couldn’t rightly afford to be now, could he. Kemp knew from experience, however, that no matter how exacting they might be, the smart ones always treated them they outranked with respect, especially where it’d been earnt… And Mister Quinn was a smart one alright – probably did respect ’em. All things in balance though, he just needed to start showing it a bit.

  ‘Mister Kemp…’

  Kemp peered hard at Quinn’s face as he approached across the grass. To Kemp’s relief, the Flying Officer didn’t appear quite his usual coiled trap…

  ‘And a good afternoon to you, sir. Got young Potter painting up your kill from yesterday. Just finishing up now.’

  The airman saluted down from the wing root, brushes under arm. ‘Congratulations, sir. Your fifth, sir. Makes you an Ace now, dunnit.’

  Quinn returned the salute, and turned back to the Flight Sergeant. ‘All fine for tomorrow, Mister Kemp?’

  ‘Well sorted, sir.’ Kemp consulted his clipboard. ‘30-hour check completed. Ran up the engine just ’alf an hour ago… Test firing of guns as well… Oil pressure problem you asked me to look at, you were on the money with that one, sir. Now fixed.’

  ‘Well done, Mister Kemp. Now. The squadron’s on Stand Down. If you two have nothing further to look at, so can you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. If I may say so, sir, I imagine you’ll be having some sort of celebration tonight. I mean, for your fifth…’

  ‘Well, maybe a quiet one, Flight. Nothing stopping you, though.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘There’s a few beers waiting for you at the Sergeants’ Mess. A couple of cases actually, the Orderly knows about it. Would you please distribute some to the Airman Rigger here and whoever else you see fit?’

  Kemp nearly dropped his clipboard.

  ‘That’s right kind of you, sir.’

  ‘For our fifth, Flight. Oh, I didn’t put ’em on ice, they’re that warm type of yours…’ Quinn saluted and headed away back across the grass.

  Kemp called after him. ‘Be painting all them crosses again on your new Mark IX, sir… Any day now.’

  ‘Believe it when I see it, Flight. Believe it when I see it.’

  The airman spoke up when Quinn was out of earshot. ‘Well bugger me, Flight…’

  Kemp spoke no further. Twenty-two years in, this Autumn. He knew Quinn was twenty-three.

  Command liked his sort: Shot down the enemy. Made the chaps around them think they had something more than a chance in hell. Even odds they’d make him Squadron Leader.

  If he lived long enough.

  *

  Entering the Lounge of the Officers’ Mess, Quinn saw the party was in full swing. Eastwood was letting them go.

  Habitually a seat of reserve for the well-entrenched, a leather armchair by the fire their nightly concern, tonight the room permitted the excesses of youth. Had to permit them, reflected Quinn. Indeed, tonight the Lounge’s collection of trophies and squadron relics shook on their mantles – The Ancillary Staff would straighten up the whole disaster in the morning.

  Someone had turned the radio-phonograph up to full volume, 78s from the previous year’s Hit Parade now powering from its cabinet – Woody Herman, Joe Loss, plenty of Artie Shaw… Quinn puzzled, firstly, how the machine hadn’t already short-circuited from the amount of beer spilt directly into it, secondly, that it hadn’t blown a valve from the game of ‘Mess Rugby’ currently in session. As Jimmy Dorsey’s Six Lessons from Madame La Zonga skipped a beat, Quinn wondered who owned this stash of such marvelous records. Then he remembered. They’d been Brooke’s.

  Highgate and Walsall’s ‘Dark Mild’ tasted alright, Quinn decided. With each pint, even better. Nick Carroll was excellent company, his friendly intelligence almost making Quinn forget where they were for a moment: But for his RAF uniform, Carroll could have been a Fine Arts student in Manning Bar back at uni, happily chatting over the noise, cider and cigarette in hand. Except, Quinn decided, with the raucous indoor game in progress, this was more like a St John’s College piss-up…

  The Sergeant-Pilots were openly admitted to the Officers’ Mess tonight: As with the non-existent ‘rules’ for the mess rugby, no holds were barred. The presence of women, even if Officers, normally being frowned upon within the Lounge itself, this evening several had been ‘invited’ – if only, Quinn presumed, to lend the very slightest hint of decorum to the chaos. After one had been splashed with beer by mistake, the girls kept a sensible distance, and mostly by the door so as to keep an emergency exit available.

  From her discreet armchair, Section Officer Jillian Brown sipped a sherry with a chuckle and occasional grimace at the mayhem before her: Just as Kiss the Boys Goodbye launched the velvet tones of Anne Shelton, one of the Sergeants attempted to fly – off the piano, his fall broken, luckily, by a mass of tangled uniforms with just the right amount of beer inside them to absorb the impact. The twenty-three-year-old Waaf was mid-decision whether or not to evacuate when she noticed a clutch of young pilots smiling on at the melée to one side: pints in hand, more sensible types clearly, a darker uniform on one of them. She’d seen him before. An Australian. Yes, she’d scribed the minutes at his Panel – after the 154 Squadron pilot had been shot down. So many such panels in recent months, she struggled to remember this one’s name… Quinn, yes, that was it. His account of the shoot-down had been very clear.

  Just as the saxophone sounds of Glenn Miller began to fill the room, Jillian Brown sensed something awry. The horns seemed discordant…

  She then realised some alien sound was invading all the noise. Looking across the room, she saw the Australian officer seemed to notice it also…

  Quinn cocked his head, straining to hear. It was coming from outside, and getting louder. He put down his beer, and made for the door, Carroll on his heels.

  The phonograph needle zipped. The party broke.

  Stepping outside into the night, most pretty happily pissed, they heard the droning of many, many aircraft.

  Quinn lit a smoke, and stared up into the moonless pitch. Nothing visible. Only a bass roar, steadily rising. Almost above them now was a continuum of engines, numberless in the dark, a blanket of sound drawing across the sky. Here and there through the awesome throb, Quinn caught the path of an individual aircraft maybe lower yet still u
nseen.

  ‘What are they? Lancasters?’ he asked no one in particular.

  ‘Yep, probably Halifaxes and Stirlings too,’ a voice replied. ‘And I think Wellingtons, by the sound… Heading out.’

  ‘Sounds like one of these “thousand-plane” things…’

  ‘Sounds like it… Man, that’s a raid…’

  As the blanket drew to the East, its leading aircraft out over the North Sea by now, other voices joined in.

  ‘Thank your lucky stars, chums…’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That we fly Spits.’

  ‘A Lancaster’d be alright, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Alright for a flying coffin…’

  *

  ‘Blue 4, Blue 3. Commencing Thatch Weave.’

  ‘Blue 3, Blue 4. He’s on your tail, Daniel.’

  ‘4, 3. I see him. Make it good, Nick.’

  Quinn pulled the Spitfire through the shallow inward bank to the right, throttle to the gate, Emergency Boost. And prayed to Sweet Jesus Carroll was doing the same inward left, and just marginally tighter.

  In the cockpit mirror close above him, Quinn saw the Focke-Wulf’s red propeller spinner, its nose guns beginning to flash – tracers! – Death spitting straight at him – he could actually hear their rapid pounding…

  But then he saw other tracers, only sideways in the mirror. Within it, the Focke-Wulf became a ball of fire, Carroll’s Spitfire then whipping past.

  In a cold sweat so familiar he scarcely noticed it anymore, Quinn switched the radio to Transmit. His words issued heavily.

  ‘Blue 4. Blue 3… Nicholas… That’s another confirmed kill.’

  Carroll took a moment. Reformating behind Quinn now, he sounded completely winded. ‘Blue 3… Blue 4. … Rather.’

  *

  ‘Bob, you’re kidding me.’

  ‘Nope. Mark IXs. Arriving tomorrow. Twelve plus two spares.’

  Quinn let out a hoot to the ceiling.