‘Sit down, Flight Lieutenant.’
Quinn sensed it was no invitation.
‘Sir.’
He eased into a neighbouring armchair, not certain what to expect.
Still barely looking up at him, Huxley spoke again, low voiced. ‘Like a drink?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Scotch alright?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Quinn saw Huxley lift an eye to the bartender. It was his right index finger that did the talking: Without a movement from the rest of the hand, it pointed right to his own glass, raised to make a ‘one’, then pointed left to Quinn. The bartender nodded sombrely and set about executing the order. Quinn had noticed Huxley’s Distinguished Flying Cross ribbon before, but not the small badge on the ribbon he now saw. Called a ‘Bar’, this meant he had two DFCs.
Huxley took a sip of his drink. He had not as yet made eye contact with Quinn, instead, seeming to address his scotch.
‘You do nice work, Flight Lieutenant.’
Quinn hesitated: Had the Squadron Leader just paid him a compliment? ‘…Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me; I expect nothing less.’
As an orderly delivered Quinn’s drink on a tray, the man asked with his eyes only whether the Squadron Leader might like another. Huxley nodded and continued.
‘Nice work on Maupertus-sur-Mer the other week. Caused a hell of a mess, according to PR. Green Section did well.’
‘I’m proud to be leading them, sir.’
‘You’re simply paying the rent on that second cuff band, Flight Lieutenant. That’s equivalent to an army Captain, you know.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m aware of that.’
‘Good.’ Huxley placed a gold cigarette case on the arm of his chair and opened it. ‘Cigarette?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Huxley leaned forward to offer the case to Quinn, let him pick one, and lit it for him. When they’d both lit up, Huxley sat back and exhaled.
‘Hear about the big show last night?’
‘Yes, sir, just now.’
‘Yes. Seems there were one or two Australians involved…’
‘That’s the word, sir.’
‘Instrumental, I hear,’ Huxley added. He took his time before continuing, very delicately touching the ash off his cigarette into a tray by his chair. ‘How’s young Maddox?’
‘He’s an excellent wingman.’
Huxley’s concentration remained focused on the cigarette, rolling it minutely between his finger and thumb, as he did so, sculpting the glowing red tip to a sharp point against the tray. At long last, he spoke again.
‘How are you?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Happy?’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Happy in my squadron… You would be within your rights, at this time, to apply for reassignment out to the Pacific. A transfer closer to home. Probably get it, too; I would approve such a request…’
‘You would?’
Huxley’s drink arrived. ‘You’re a Flight Lieutentant now. More say in where you go, if you want it… New Guinea, perhaps. Your chaps are doing wonders there against the Japanese. Maybe you’d like to join them… One of the Australian squadrons: 452 and 457 are based in Darwin now, thanks to your Mister Curtin.’ Huxley looked up at Quinn momentarily. ‘The Japs’ve bombed it again, you know…’ Once again he addressed his scotch. ‘In any case, now the Yanks’ve beaten them at Guadalcanal, there’ll be plenty of work going out there, let me tell you. A whole war of it, in fact. On the other hand, of course, with the Germans on the run from Stalingrad presently, the Russians’ll be chasing them all the way to us… So, Flight Lieutenant. The decision’s yours. All yours…’
Quinn drew back on his cigarette, held it deep in his lungs, and thought hard as he exhaled…
For the first time, he felt in a real position to hit back. He didn’t want to defer it – Transfering out to the Pacific could mean a delay of many months before he saw combat again. Nor did he want to do it to the Japanese. He wanted to hit the Germans. As an Australian. And he wanted to do it now.
‘A transfer, sir… in time maybe… But for the moment, what with the promotion, my first proper command…’ Quinn paused, and took a hefty sip at his scotch.
While he lived, he wanted to smack down a few of these Nazis, these sad little criminals intent on wiping out old men like Mister Reiser. And he wanted to smack down the country letting them do it. Resting his glass carefully on the arm of his chair, he looked up at Huxley. ‘…I think I’d like to stay where I am for the moment, sir.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
They sipped and smoked for a time longer, until, stubbing his cigarette out, Huxley slowly recommenced.
‘Good. Because I want your mind on the job right here – delivering what I need. Which is that you kill the enemy efficiently, accurately, showing the rest of Green Section how to do it as you do. Keep them alive to continue doing it, all the way up until our invasion of Continental Europe, all the way through and after it. Right up to the very day the Germans are pretending they never liked Herr Hitler in the first place.’
Huxley ordered him another drink without a sound as before. He waited for the tray to arrive. And spoke again.
‘What did you do before the war, Daniel?’
‘I was at university, sir.’
‘Thought as much. What were you reading?’
‘The Law, sir.’ Quinn felt the warmth of the second scotch spreading through him. He was starting to feel relaxed. ‘Alright if I ask what you were doing, sir?’
Only now did the man’s eyes rise to meet Quinn’s.
‘I was a Doctor of Medicine.’
*
Carroll hadn’t been exaggerating: Not only did Stephen Maddox’s stutter dissipate shortly after take-off, in the air, Maddox had the eyes.
Quinn had heard of his rare ilk: Blokes, not with excellent vision, but freakishly good, 40:20, seeing enemy aircraft out on the horizon five minutes before the next best pair of eyes in the squadron – Five minutes extra to line up for a kill, or in which to get the hell out of there.
Though it took a few goes for Quinn to get used to Maddox’s gift.
‘Green Leader, Green 2. I have bogies in sight. Four or five of them. 1 o’clock low. Out against that second bank of cloud. See them?’
‘Green 2, Green Leader. I see the cloud bank. …Christ, Stephen, that must be almost forty miles. Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘Heading which way?’
‘Right to left across us now.’
‘Friendly or Bandit?’
Maddox took a moment. ‘No. …No, I can’t quite tell. But fighters, I’d say. Heading north.’
Quinn focused ahead as hard as he could.
Nothing. Only clouds. Beneath them, the Channel, the French coast in the extreme distance.
‘I dunno, Steve… From this far, if we try to cut them off we’ll be a good hundred miles away from our target area before we catch ’em…’
Quinn’s head felt near seizure as he weighed what to do: The ‘orders’ were loose – Engage targets of opportunity, Calais Area. That’s where the bogies might have been when Maddox had seen them but by the time Green Section ever caught them they’d be in Belgium. If they ever caught them. Only Maddox had seen them – He wasn’t even sure they were bandits – and Green 3 and 4 were new blokes: two English Sergeant-Pilots who looked like they should still be in school.
‘Green Leader, Green 2. Your orders, sir…’
Quinn transmitted. ‘Green Section, Green Leader. Report in.’
‘Green 2.’
‘Green 3.’
‘Green 4.’
‘Green Section, gun buttons from Safety to Fire and follow me in.’
Quinn pressed the throttle forward, banking subtly to the left in a shallow dive.
*
By the time the channel of the Westersch
elde loomed in front, Quinn very dearly wished he could vacate his bowels.
In half an hour, they’d left France behind, the coast of Belgium was fast running out, and their engine temperature gauges had entered the Red. Maddox had held their quarry in sight the whole way, and had confirmed them as bandits, Focke-Wulfs, four of them. Except the sky became grey cumulus after Ostend and he’d lost them suddenly. With the water of the Westerschelde in sight, they must be over Holland. Quinn re-checked his knee map: They were on a direct course for a Luftwaffe base whose name he knew –
He’d looked out towards it the day he’d seen the Spitfire shot down from the dunes. Now it was straight ahead on the map, and fast approaching.
Woensdrecht.
‘GREEN LEADER, GREEN 4. BANDITS COMING DOWN
AT 7 O’CLOCK!’
Quinn whipped his head hard back left: Four 190s diving at them – They’d snuck round behind! Defensive split left and right? No. That’d put the Focke-Wulfs spot on the tail of the right-turners – Green 3 and 4 would be dead.
‘GREEN SECTION, GREEN LEADER. HARD LEFT TURN WITH ME. NOW.’
Vision greying in the violent bank, controls shuddering, Quinn knew he’d done the best thing possible in the situation: They’re diving, they’re faster, turning left, so do we – Use their speed against them. Same speed, we turn tighter, slower, tighter still – Might just get round behind them. Green 4 had clearly left his radio switched to Transmit.
‘Jeeee – suhhhhhs…’
Quinn’s vision creeping to black, he hoped to God the others were still with him. Eyes pressed back within his skull, he managed a glance in the cockpit mirror: Amazingly, there they were – Green 2, 3, and 4, prop spinners bobbing line astern. Yet tracers spat close behind 4.
But they were receding. And drawing gradually, ever so gradually behind.
Quinn knew his move was working. Close the circle. Close the circl – He’d sucked the 190s into a turning fight they couldn’t win. Pray their leader was inexperienced and didn’t realise it. Just a few seconds more. A few seconds more…
THERE.
There he was. Uppermost in Quinn’s windscreen. Their Number 4.
Throttle slightly forward now, gain on him, keep the turn tighter than the target and close the gap. 120 yards. 110 yards. 100 – creeping down Quinn’s windscreen to his gun-sight. If their leader’s smart, he’ll run now , order them split all directions… Number 4 still nearing. On the gun-sight now. Get it above him. Get it above him… ‘De-flection, Daniel… De-flection.’
Quinn pressed the gun button.
Nothing.
‘GREEN TWO, GREEN LEADER. MY GUNS HAVE JAMMED. CAN YOU GET HIM, STEVE?’
‘Roger.’
Quinn saw Maddox’s Spitfire loom narrowly above his own cockpit, rivets visible, and press forward towards the German. Then his cartridge casings streamed – one hit Quinn’s windscreen – tracers speckling out ahead.
Land and sea scrolling down in front, he saw Maddox’s fire cut the Focke-Wulf’s right wing like a hatchet. In weird slow motion, its fuselage began to tumble in the turn. Its canopy fell away, then a rag doll. Quinn saw no parachute open – He saw West on the compass. Escape now! Remaining 190s still turning, trying to stay alive. High-tail it out to sea and safety, Daniel – DON’T push your luck.
‘Green Section, Green Leader. Straighten and home.’ Quinn reefed out of the turn, flattened, heading west. ‘ Acknowledge.’
‘Green 2, Roger.’
‘Green 3.’
‘Green 4, here. Green Leader, I’ve got damage. ’Fraid they clipped me in the turn. Holes in my ailerons, elevator too, I think. Losing hydraulic pressure. Over.’
‘Green 4, Green Leader. Stay calm and keep level. Will check out your damage. Tripp, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, Tripp. Now don’t worry. Just do what we tell you and you’ll be alright. Over.’
‘Roger, Green Leader. Over.’
‘Good man. Green 2 and 3, formate around 4. Stick close to him. 4, you just follow me. My course will be 2-7-0. Nearest home aerodrome, Manston. Well done, you blokes. You’ve done bloody well. Out.’
Quinn radioed for immediate assistance.
Air Sea Rescue was scrambled. A section of Mark IXs met them mid-Channel and escorted them in to Manston.
Green 4 broke his landing gear on touch-down.
*
Quinn received the summons to Huxley’s office the next day. The C.O. spoke softly, steadily, his attention on a form before him on the desk.
‘Green 4’s Spit is a write-off.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Quinn had witnessed Tripp’s ‘landing’, every wincing bit of it: Coming in a fraction too heavily, Tripp’s undercarriage buckled, the aircraft skidding flat on its belly in a tumult of ripped turf and dirt, grounding, finally, to a dusty stop. His propeller blades bent back at right-angles, Tripp got out in once piece, shaken but smiling. Quinn had patted him on the back, told him any landing you can walk away from was a good one.
Huxley made some mark on the form. ‘Do you know how much a Spitfire costs, Flight Lieutenant?’
Quinn thought it best to remain silent.
‘Ten thousand Pounds, Flight Lieutenant. You were supposed to be over Calais. You shot down a Focke-Wulf. Over Vlissingen. In Holland. I’ve submitted the paperwork to Group to have you court-martialled. Nothing personal – Group’d court-martial me if I hadn’t.’
Still holding rock rigid attention, Quinn dropped his gaze to the man behind the desk. Then raised it dead level once again. The fuckers could suit themselves… ‘I imagine you’ll be taking me off flying now then, sir.’
Huxley looked up, his face neutral. ‘No, I won’t be. They sent the paperwork straight back.’
Precisely where it was that he now hung, Quinn knew not. But the Squadron Leader was letting him hang there.
‘Seems they can’t court-martial you and award you the DFC at the same time.’
Quinn now looked squarely at Huxley. ‘ Sir…?’
‘The staff car you shot up back in December. Intelligence report came in yesterday. Seems you should be grateful to Section Officer Brown. She found the detail in the file, cross-referenced, made the link. You killed a German General. Congratulations.’
Quinn had heard the words. Comprehension only crept in their wake. ‘…Thank you, sir.’ As did relief.
Huxley looked out the window at the rain.
‘It was foolish, Daniel. I’ve read your report. They were too far away. You shouldn’t have chased them.’
‘My Number 2 has the eyes, sir.’
‘Yes. Maddox. I know. Ensure you use him wisely in future. Clear?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good.’ Huxley extracted a half-empty bottle of scotch from a desk drawer. ‘Now…’ He set it on the desk. ‘Let’s get drunk.’
*
‘C-con-gratulations, sir.’
‘It’s Daniel to you, Stephen. And thanks.’
Quinn had had a few drinks with Huxley and let him alone. Hornchurch was veiled in showers once again, all flying off, so he’d headed for the Mess bar. There he’d found Maddox chatting Applied Mathematics with Jillian Brown.
‘And I believe I’m heavily in debt to you, Miss Brown.’
‘The file came my way, that’s all, Daniel: a General Erich Von Dannenberg. Something of an aristocrat, it seems, and no Nazi, apparently – very old school: a young Leutnant in a cavalry regiment before the last war, then a Hauptmann, or Captain, in the trenches, wounded twice, awarded the Iron Cross. Then their biggie.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Pour Le Mérite. Or ‘Blue Max’. Means he was an excellent soldier… Between the wars he was a solid staff officer under Von Secht, more recently commanding a Werhmacht tank division in France. With only one arm.’
Quinn lit a cigarette. ‘Sounds like a brave man.’
‘B-bit of a shame, really.’
Brown angled to Maddox. ‘He was one of t
heir best, Stephen.’
‘Mm. That’s what I m-meant. Bit of a waste.’
She looked at him squarely. ‘We can’t help the fact it’s their really good commanders we need dispatched the most urgently. And the more the better, before the Invasion.’
‘Yes, I s-suppose so.’
Brown raised her sherry. ‘In any case, here’s to Flight Lieutenant Daniel Quinn, Distinguished Flying Cross.’
The three clinked glasses, Maddox still pensive, as was Quinn, taking a gulp of his beer.
‘Thanks to you both. I s’pose…’ He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘Y’think there’ll be some sort of ceremony or something?’
Brown stared at him in gaunt disbelief.
‘…What?’ Quinn put to the face before him.
‘You haven’t heard…’
‘Heard what?’ persisted Quinn.
‘It’s at the P-Palace,’ offered Maddox.
‘What? The Strand Palace?’
‘No. The B-Buckingham.’
Quinn searched Maddox’s eyes. Then Brown’s.
‘You’re pulling my leg…’ His expression dropped. ‘…You’re not pulling my leg.’
They shook their heads in silence before him.
*
Out in the pouring rain there was still a murky light, though after the drinks, Quinn went back to his quarters, and lay down. In the early dark, he fell heavily asleep.
*
Straining every muscle to stay conscious in the screaming pull-out, Quinn’s vision faded to grey. Then irised down to black.
Yet the blood that drained down and away from his head must have drained the sound from his ears too as he heard no more engine noise. No sound at all.
He tried.
And tried…
But no… He couldn’t understand it.
By the end of the turn, he felt no crushing g-forces, no pressure on his body at all. Maybe he’d gone too far, pulled the stick back too tightly, first and last time. For there was no longer physical sensation. All was still.
Quinn’s single awareness was a thought.
A feeling he’d never known before.
A sense appalling in its clarity…
That he’d been left behind.
He didn’t know by whom. Only that they’d been Everything, they were gone, and now there was nothing.
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