Until he saw Quinn’s tracers spitting…
Quinn saw the 110 disintegrate, its burning wreckage spewing along the runway close ahead as he put his wheels back up, throttle full forward, and flew over the fire.
As he sped low towards the coast at Wissant, it occurred to Quinn how very beautiful was the snowy land that ripped beneath. Under the moonlight, it was blue silver.
*
Dear Daniel
Or should I say, Congratulations, Flight Lieutenant Daniel Quinn, DFC (!) From Lowly Aircraftman Class 2, Quinn Minor.
To think you actually spoke with the King. It defies belief, doesn’t it. And particularly as you wrote you’d expected him to act like the King of England, obviously, yet he was just a nice man.
And yes, it’s true. I’m AC2 Quinn, M., 759031. Of course the hard part was Dad but he signed my application finally, me being under 21 and all that. You should have seen the look on his face, it was awful. In that moment I realised I’d never seen him look really sad about anything before. But he said he guessed I’d never forgive him if he didn’t. Anyway I can’t believe how quickly it’s all happened since: They whipped me in straight after the interview back in July, Bradfield Park’s about to finish, and, hold onto your hat, my Categorisation Board has just delivered ‘Pilot’. So it’s next stop Number 4 Elementary Flying Training School, Mascot. Just like you, brother. Tiger Moths!
Amazing how three months can just go like that - You remember how busy you were, so please forgive me for not writing more. I think I expected it to be harder than it was, or more worrying or something. But you’re concentrating so hard and dealing with so much all at once that you blink and it’s all over. (I actually topped Navigation, can you believe it?) It’s like you don’t have time to think, so you don’t worry. Just as well that way, I suppose.
And you’ll be staying in England? That knocked me for a six, Dan, but I guess that’s you all over: Finish what you started and all that. The gen this end is we’ll all be flying in the Pacific, dead cert – against the Japs. As you’re well aware I’d been looking forward to being over there with you (maybe even flying with you). So I was deeply disappointed about your decision. Still, I know you: There must be some good reason behind it.
Mum’s not the best, I’m afraid. At least, on days when I can get home, let’s just say she has her good ones and her bad ones. It’s great arriving back at the old place, and she seems in good spirits, but though she tries not to, she cries when I leave. I mean, she was hoping to have you home for last Christmas and now here’s me on the same road as you. But it’s just something you have to do, isn’t it.
Still I know she’s very proud of you, Dan, as we all are. Imagine. The Distinguished Flying Cross. Just have to see if I can’t get one of my own now. All my best to you, Dan, and love from the whole family.
Yours truly
Matt.
PS. With your initial interview, did they do you blokes three at once like us? Hadn’t thought about it until now, it just seemed a bit odd.
Christmas Eve 1943
It had been Jillian Brown’s idea. Her promotion to Section Lieutenant had finally come through and, besides, Stone said he’d never been to the Bar of the Savoy…
On their arrival, it struck Quinn that any celebration of the previous Christmas had clean escaped him. Then he remembered he’d been alone on a night train from the hospital back to Hornchurch and 122 Squadron. A first in his entire life, the realisation had jarred him, yet the Savoy was warm and glittering, and it felt good to be one of this party, the three young officers with him each smiling, Stoney, Maddox and Brown – Jillian looking nicer than ever, he thought. Then he realised why: He’d never seen her smiling this much – She was even drinking cold beer with them. Though Stephen Maddox’s brow went into its usual furrows.
‘It’s f-funny, you know. Here I am at the t-tender age of twenty-one, with people saluting me.’
‘A mark of respect, young Stephen,’ flowed Quinn’s reply.
Stone had just downed a hefty gulp at his pint in time to interject. ‘Oh, is that what it means, does it?!’
Quinn could sense Stone was building to something wicked, yet maintained his composure for now, continuing to Maddox: ‘I suppose the way to approach it is to behave towards those below you in rank in such a way that they don’t mind saluting you.’
Maddox mulled on this with a serious sip, yet Stone was off and running…
‘Yeah, back at Initial Training School in Melbourne… We ’ad this instructor, see, jumped-up maths teacher with a mail-order commission, you know the type…’
Quinn could only surrender to fate and, with a wide smile, relented, ‘Yeah, we had a few of those…’ He could always see it coming with Stone – It was those eyes of his, as usual behind their deadpan, just a hint of earnest insanity.
‘…Navigation, I think it was. A Flight Lieutenant. Anyway this bloke was a complete dick and I wouldn’t salute ’im. Right, so he hauls me up in front of the C.O., an’ he says he reckons I should have t’salute ’im a thousand times. But the C.O.’s known as a good bloke, see, an’ he says,’ – Stone now slipped into a very good upper-class drawl – ‘“Why yes, Flight Lieutenant, I must concur. My considered judgement is that’s a capital idea.” An’ he orders me to do it.’
Brown and Maddox were starting to crack.
‘But the thing is, the C.O. knows all the time that, according to King’s Regulations and articles regarding Rank and Protocol, if I do, this moron has to salute me back a thousand times. So there we were: Midday. Out on the parade ground. In full view of the entire training school, for hours on end, busily saluting each other. An’, ’cause I was the one of inferior rank – so the one initiating each salute – I could take all the time I bloody wanted. We had to stop a few times… Toilet breaks. Of course, the sweetest bit was that the C.O. had stipulated a condition to the saluting order. … This silly maths teacher prick hadda count ’ em!’
Maddox was a wreck, even Quinn was away, and, though Jillian Brown had fought hard, she simply couldn’t contain the mouthful of beer she now sprayed.
Stone held resolute.
‘Silly prick.’
*
As the evening progressed, the bar became standing room only, and Quinn caught a familiar face.
‘Merry Christmas, Daniel.’
‘Merry Christmas, sir.’
Air Vice-Marshal Kennett had apparently sunk a few himself, and their conversation flowed easily.
‘609 Squadron has done well, Daniel – and since last time we spoke.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve tried to employ the advice you gave me.’
‘Clearly. Just remember what our Minister for External Affairs recently said to a group of Australian pilots over here…’
‘Doc Evatt?’
‘The same. “Australians in Britain are defending Australia. Brits in Australia are defending Britain.” ’
Stone had overheard the exchange from nearby. ‘Sounds like the Empire’s up its own arse, really, doesn’t it…’
Kennett looked over Quinn’s shoulder, smiled and raised his cognac. ‘Ah yes. Flight Lieutenant Colin Stone, DFC, DSO. Merry Christmas.’
Stone raised his pint. ‘And good-will to all men, sir.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
January 1944
From his armchair in the Dispersal Hut, Quinn observed Stone in the neighbouring chair cleaning and polishing several small pieces of black metal.
‘Whatcha got there, Stoney?’
Stone’s eyes lifted to him for a moment, then reverted to their work. Now his fingers slotted the metal pieces together with such dexterity that Quinn had some trouble following it merely with his eyes.
His task completed, Stone leant forward and handed Quinn the smallest of automatic pistols.
Examining it, Quinn marvelled to find the gun less than a single hand span in length, its dark angularity dominated by the curve of the trigger guard. Quinn had to admit, it was
a thing of compact elegance. ‘…It’s a beauty.’
‘That’s a Beretta 35, Skip.’
‘It’s not loaded, is it?’
‘Yes.’
Quinn handed it very carefully back to Stone.
The Flight Lieutenant took it and continued polishing. ‘Yep. Those Italians sure can design shit…’
‘Italians?’ Quinn shifted in his chair. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘It was sent to me, actually. When I was in North Africa.’
‘How come?’
‘I was flying Hurricanes. Tank-busters, or ‘tin-openers’, they called us. D’you ever fly the Hurricane Mark 2D, Skip?’
‘No, never got to fly the Hurri – They cut my training short. What was she like?’
‘Aw, bonzer kite, the 2D. We had a 40 millimetre cannon under each wing. Blasted the bejesus out of Rommel’s blokes… Anyway, I shot down this Italian fighter – a few of ’em actually – but this one’s called a Sieta – means ‘Lightning’, I think. Now there’s a lovely aircraft too. Would’ve given me eye teeth for a go in one, ’cept they were no match in combat even for Hurricanes. So I get this one, or rather, damage it, an’ forced ’im down: He had t’crash land it on the desert. Anyway I fly over the thing, right down low on the deck, an’ I see the pilot, clear as day. He’s scrambling out of the thing, see, an’ he gets down on his stomach next to it, flat as a tack, with his arms stretched out like that…’ Stone put his arms out straight from his shoulders, the pistol pointing out sideways in one hand.
Quinn flinched. ‘Careful with that thing, Stoney, it’s loaded…’
‘Sorry, Skip.’ Stone placed the weapon on his knee and continued. ‘So I come round an’ fly back towards him again. We’re behind our lines an’ I can see our blokes closing in on ’im, so he’s gunna be a Prisoner of War, dead cert. An’ when I fly right over ’im again, this I-Tie pilot is still like I left ’im: arms out, flat on his stomach.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, a few weeks later, a brown paper parcel arrives in m’tent at the airfield. Says it’s from one Capitano Marcello Maranzano of the Italian Reggia Aeronautica – That’s their Italian Air Force… I open it. There’s the Beretta. An’ a note which says he’d like to present me with his personal side-arm out of respect and gratitude for me not strafing him. One brother officer to another. …Peculiar blokes, the Italians.’
‘A nice gesture though,’ offered Quinn.
‘Nah, I mean with their flying.’
‘What was peculiar about it?’
‘Well… You’d come up against German pilots an’, when faced with even odds of winning, they’d piss off. Which I think’s fair enough in certain situations. But with the Italian pilots, nah: They’d stick it out, almost even when they didn’t ’ave to. You could always tell ’em from a distance, the Italians – Did these wonderful aerobatics. Really a sight to see, an’ them with inferior aircraft an’ all… Anyway, I get me Beretta. …But then someone tells me it’s a real big deal – Seems the Italian pilots take this serious pride in their side-arms. So it turns out old Marcello’s given me somethin’ real important…’
‘It’s a beauty, alright,’ Quinn added.
‘Yeah.’ Stone paused a moment. ‘That’s what I thought. …You wanna have a go with it, Skip?’
‘No-thanks,’ fielded Quinn, a slight urgency in his smile. ‘…Not quite used to the automatics.’ He patted the hip holster of his own weapon. ‘The old Webley and Scott’ll do me fine…’
Maddox lit a cigarette in a chair nearby. ‘F-funny how some things are beautiful, isn’t it.’
Quinn smiled at him. ‘How do you mean, Stephen?’
‘T-Take the Spitfire, for example.’ Maddox exhaled a cloud of smoke and stared out the taped window of the hut. ‘They’re so beautiful… Though nothing but a tool for k-killing. Just a gun-platform or so my instructor used to d-drum into me. Yet they remain so very beautiful…’
Quinn lit a cigarette of his own, blew out the match. ‘…Y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask you blokes this… After a fair bit of flying, I thought, well, what’s the actual use of taking a side-arm with you in the aircraft?’ He turned to Stone. ‘I mean, even if you survive bailing out over enemy territory, shooting a few German soldiers dead’ll mean, what…? You’ll just get your throat cut by their comrades when they finally overwhelm you, right? Instead of taking you alive as a prisoner… So what’s the good of having a pistol?’
Stone extracted the ammunition clip from the grip of the Beretta, checked and reinserted it with a metallic click. ‘Y’can always use it to blast your way out of a jammed canopy… Some blokes carry an axe… Better prospect than going down with fire in the cockpit. Or, if y’still can’t get out, y’can always…’ Stone didn’t finish the sentence, instead, placing the Beretta back in the shoulder holster he was wearing.
At that moment the Dispersal Corporal’s telephone pealed. He snatched it up swiftly, answered, and screamed.
‘SQUADRON SCRAM- BALLL!’
*
The cablegram direct from the Chief of Fighter Command had been simple enough.
‘Well done, 609 Squadron. ’
Quinn had been astonished at their performance. For, down to the newest Sergeant-Pilot, to a man, they had flown as near as he could imagine to flawlessly.
Even as they were taking off, the bombs had started falling on Manston: Twelve Focke-Wulfs had zoomed in at zero altitude – below radar – each dropping two fragmentation bombs, hitting the aerodrome’s Dispersal areas mainly, their mission, clearly an anti-personnel one.
Wheels up, 609 had moved like clockwork.
As their attackers bolted back towards the coast and escape, Stone nailed their leader, Quinn destroyed one, three junior officers and even two Sergeant-Pilots downing or at least sharing one each. In all, despite the deaths of three ground crew and as many injured, ten out of the twelve intruders were brought down, and with no loss to 609 Squadron. There had been an unconfirmed report of a further Focke-Wulf crashing into the sea, the fate of the twelfth, unknown.
Maddox had slammed down no less than four of them.
*
A week later, he was summoned to Buckingham Palace to be awarded his DFC. On the night of his return to Manston, Jillian Brown had organised a celebration for him in the Officers’ Mess.
Handing his cap to the orderly, Quinn saw it was quite a party she’d thrown, no less than a United States Army Air Force Colonel in attendance. Not much older than Quinn – still, young for a Colonel – Quinn recognised him from the newsreels, a Mustang pilot lauded as personally responsible for organising the long-range fighter groups now escorting the B-17s to Berlin – all the way there and back, evidently. Taking on the German fighters over their capital, the Mustangs were currently affording the bomber boys an even chance, at long last, of making it back alive.
His name was Todd Lakerslee. Little wonder the Yank newsreel directors had latched onto him, reflected Quinn: He was tall, chisel-featured, in the smart dark brown uniform of the Americans a veritable recruitment poster. Yet the eyes on the pin-up boy face were ice cold.
‘Y’do much hunting down there in Australia, do ya, Quinn?’
‘Hunting? Not personally, sir.’
The face lightened. ‘Yeu’re kidding me.’
‘I went once…’
‘Once? Well we do some where I come from, but I just figured you guys must do a lot of it…’
The American shook his head, as if to clear it.
‘Lemme tell ya, Quinn, when this war’s done, there’s gonna be a whole new shooting match: Reds may be our good buddies right now, but that sure as hell ain’t gonna last. An’ when it don’t, your guys and our guys’re gonna work together real close… Real close… Yes-sir, it’s gonna be one warlike Peace… Buy you a drink, bud?’
‘Yes thanks, sir.’
Lakerslee signalled the orderly.
‘Brit’s are on the way out, y’know… This war’s gonna
bankrupt ’em.’
*
At the end of the evening, Quinn and Stone stood with its guest of honour for a few beers: Maddox spoke as thoughtfully as ever.
‘You know, I s-suppose you gentlemen will think I’m being a b-bit obvious here, though I suppose life so often is…’
‘Go on, Stephen…’ burped Stone.
‘I was thinking how we’ve been b-brought up to believe in “thou shalt not kill”. To believe that t-taking the life of another man is the worst p-possible thing. In time of peace, if you k-kill someone, they hang you for it. In time of war, if you r-refuse to kill someone, they hang you for that. Then if you kill a l-lot of people, they give you a medal…’
Maddox took a sip of his beer.
‘We’ve been b-brought up to believe that war is evil. Our f-fathers knew this, our uncles, our g-grandfathers from the last war. They learnt it was nothing but a wasteful thing, the war to end all wars… Yet do we abhor it? …N-no, we celebrate it.’
‘Celebrate it?’ flinched Quinn.
‘I suppose the majority would c-cling to the reassurance that we celebrate not war, but the men c-cursed to fight it. That we adorn them with medals in order to d-decorate their bravery. Yet I s-sometimes suspect we only adorn the war. That we ennoble it with medals. … And that this is why it continues, and will continue, long after we’re g-gone. …I feel I’ve just been awarded the Distinguished F-Flying Cross for killing people.’
Even Stone hesitated before breaking the silence that ensued.
‘Aw, come on, Steve, drink up… Don’t be a cunt.’
Maddox stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. His thin frame then heaved forward from the waist, his face now hidden from them.
Only to rear back up once again.
His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his body wholly gripped with mute fits of laughter.
February 1944
The green telephone rang on Jillian Brown’s desk.
‘Yes? …Good morning, Admiral. …Yes, sir, I received the package just an hour ago. Interesting photographs.’
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