A young man was standing by her. He wore a black school honour blazer and boater. An awkward, intelligent boy strangely calm. Hands in suit pockets, he was talking and smiling down at the girl, though not too closely; they’d just met. He could see she was feigning reluctance, as required of her. Yet something the boy said now made her smile up at him. She really smiled.
Her gloved hand took off her hat.
Blonde hair fell to her shoulders.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
May 1944
Maddox was gone.
All Quinn, all anyone knew was that he’d gone out alone, and not come back. Quinn had passed down the orders from above – Solo Rhubarb to Calais – and Maddox’s name had been top of the roster. There’d been no Mayday, no wreckage found, no word from the Resistance.
His period of ‘Missing – Presumed Dead’ having elapsed, Quinn had written the letter to Mr and Mrs Edgar Maddox of Dulwich Hill about their fine son.
He’d been almost twenty-two.
Quinn wrenched his concentration back to the controls of the Typhoon now, target fast approaching. Now he saw the black crosses against the camouflage of the Tiger tanks, a formation of them moving line astern across his path. A nudge on the rudder pedal, the middle of the formation in his gun-sight, he flipped the Rocket Selector Switch to ‘Salvo’, and fired.
Eight smoke trails flew out ahead, converged, and impacted. Quinn’s vision caught a tank dead centre of the formation, a projectile of flame jetting upwards from its turret. Open hatch, he squinted, relieved that his aim seemed to be approaching a little nearer Stoney’s…
Skimming narrowly over the wreck of the tank, a flaming object fell back downwards, close enough by Quinn’s cockpit for him to see it clearly.
It was a man.
*
Quinn took the elevator down from the Boomerang Club. The morning was bright – It stung his eyes as he walked down the steps of Australia House to the street.
His vision adjusting, the sunlight glared off the old white church, ellusive landmark of his first morning in London. Hung-over, Quinn crossed the street.
Standing on the square before the church, he wondered how the bombs had managed to damage it only internally – The exterior seemed hardly touched. Seeing it doors stood open, he stepped over a bomb-site ribbon across the entrance, and wandered inside.
As his pupils widened in the darkness, he saw the interior of St Clement Dane’s was indeed in ruins, though the centre aisle seemed to have been cleared. Stepping his way very carefully some distance up it, he touched the wood of a still-standing pew, knelt down.
And tried to pray.
He tried for a full hour. After which he got up, walked back down the aisle, and squinted his eyes once more against the light.
*
At 5pm, Cogers Inn was half empty. Quinn looked back to Stone, and to the knock-out blonde on the Flight Lieutenant’s arm.
‘Wanna come for some tea with us, Skip? I know a good place for steak – No bull, Skip, it’s classy n’everything…’
Quinn smiled at his irrepressible Right-Hand. ‘I’m sure it is, Stoney… Just a quiet one for me though, I think.’
‘Y’sure? We’re goin’ dancing after. Who knows when next time’ll be, eh? Paint the town… Really, Skip, I’d like you to come…’
Seldom had Quinn seen Stone look so earnest. ‘Thanks, Col, but I don’t think I could keep up with you.’
‘Fair enough, Skip,’ Stone relented, though he winked: ‘Not with St. Kilda’s answer to Fred Astair anyhows…’
Quinn chuckled. ‘No, I’d better get an early night, Col.’ And nodded to the girl. ‘…Miss.’
‘No worries, Skip. ’Ave a good one.’
*
Quinn headed back to the Strand Palace, where he checked for messages with the concierge.
‘I trust the Squadron Leader has had a fruitful day?’
‘Only so-so, Randal.’
The man looked at him with genuine concern. ‘I trust everything is alright, sir?’
‘Just tired, Randal, that’s all.’
‘Yes. I imagine you must be very. Shall I send up your tea at 6 in the morning, sir?’
‘Better make it 5, Randal… Night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Closing the door of his room, Quinn lay back on the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a while, falling soundly asleep in his clothes.
He dreamt of the Tiger tank commander’s face once again. His hair on fire. Eyes bulging. Skin melting.
Just as he had dreamt the previous night.
And the night before that.
*
Compared to the Typhoon, the Hawker Tempest was a bird.
With one of the neighbouring squadrons now converting to them, its C.O. let Quinn take one up for a test flight.
Though it could be mistaken for a Typhoon visually, with its improved and more reliable engine, thinner, elliptical wing-shape and a host of other little vices ironed out, flying the Tempest after the Typhoon was easy.
From the moment he ripped it down the runway, Quinn knew this was a pilot’s aeroplane. It did anything he willed it to – climbing, rolling, turning, diving – with all the raw power of the Typhoon and more and none of the problems.
On landing half an hour later, Quinn knew that with this, the RAF’s latest fighter, the Hawker Company had achieved perfection. He unclipped, climbed out of the cockpit, down off the wing onto the grass, took a few steps back, and just looked at it. As with every pilot in 609 Squadron, he could not wait to get his own.
June 4, 1944
Quinn and Stone had the billiards room of the Officers’ Mess to themselves, a few minutes to kill before drinks scheduled for 7 in the bar.
Quinn lined up for a red in the corner pocket, aiming down the length of his cue to the white. Pushing the cue softly forward, the white ball ran true to the red, and ever so gently kissed it. His eyes followed the red as it rolled in a perfect line for the corner, slowing as it drew closer, ever closer to the pocket.
Where it remained – perched on its very precipice – a hair’s breadth short of going in.
Stone pronounced his verdict.
‘If your mother hadda pushed just a bit harder at birth you’d’a sunk that…’
Quinn laughed as the shark in Number 1 Service Dress lined up his own. By his own admission, he’d played ‘a bit of stick’ back in St. Kilda. In fact, he’d hustled a great deal of money doing it, and no wonder: He never missed.
‘Bad news about Christie, eh, Skip.’
‘Very. Red Cross report says the Germans found his body… most of it.’
‘’Ow’d they identify ’im?’
‘Found his dog-tags. Buried him with full honours, evidently.’
Stone shot, the ball flew the entire length of the table. And sweetly sank. ‘ That was nice of ’em…’ He surveyed the green cloth. ‘His wingman reckons he was hit by that new typa flak tank.’
‘Yes. A Wirbelwind.’
‘Yeah… One’ve them… Tracers like a fire-hose, he said… Just hav’ta keep a careful eye out for ’em now, won’t we. Still…’ Stone lit a cigarette, ‘the minute I see one I’m pissing off home.’
As Stone stalked around the table to line up his next shot, Quinn considered this rogue he’d be happy to call his brother… Back in peacetime, their paths would probably never have crossed. And if they had, it would quite possibly have been across a Court Room… This brylcreemed misfit with the King’s Commission, more of the King’s medals than his commanding officer, in fact, more medals and kills than any soul on the squadron.
Stone stayed his shot as one of the Mess’s white-coated orderlies entered and brought over two more glasses of beer on a tray.
‘Seriously, mate,’ said Quinn as he signed the chit, ‘what are you going to do after this?’
‘Take a leak, I reckon…’
‘No,’ Quinn chuckled, ‘after the war…’ He handed one of the beers to Stone, the orderly
exiting without a sound.
Stone took a sip. ‘Dunno. …Who’d ’ ave me?’
Quinn lit a cigarette and appraised Stone’s face, altogether uncertain whether he lacked self-esteem, or possessed profound humility.
‘Come on, Stoney… You’re the most highly decorated man in the squadron, in the whole Wing, I think, and for good reason: You’ve got buckets of what it takes. Even if you didn’t, when you get home, the government’ll grant you free entry to technical college… Hell, go to university and become an Engineer… They’ll pay for that too. You’d be a natural.’
Stone looked at him with an incredulous grin. ‘ Me?’ He shook his head in disbelief, put down his beer and guided his cue back onto the table. Lining up the shot, he took a longer time aiming than before, and spoke as he did.
‘D’y’ever wonder about the next life, Skip?’
Quinn waited, pausing until Stone took the shot – It ran and surely sank.
‘That’s not like you, Stoney,’ Quinn smiled. Yet he could see in Stone’s eyes he wasn’t joking.
‘Nah, I mean, seriously, you’re a smart guy, Skip. You think about things like that, doncha? …Reckon there’s a Heaven?’
As Stone considered his next shot, in all honesty Quinn could only put it back to him: ‘I’m not really sure, Colin… I used to. … What’s your idea of it?’
Stone hit his next ball, potted it. ‘I dunno. …Somewhere the killing’s stopped.’ He then followed more quietly. ‘Maybe somewhere my mother is…’
He lined up yet another.
‘…Y’know, Skip, I think our friend Stephen may have had a point about our medals…’
The ball sank with a clatter.
‘…Sometimes I think I’d like to leave all this behind.’
For the first time ever, Quinn looked at his trusted Lieutenant with doubt in his heart. ‘Not going bonkers on me are you, Stoney?’
‘’Bout as bonkers as you the day you volunteered, Skip. …For the good old Empire Air Training Scheme.’
‘We all volunteered,’ breathed Quinn.
‘Yeah… We did… But I don’t see things getting any better for me…’ He paused, squinting. ‘Better than this…’
‘Sure they will, Stoney…’
‘I’m telling ya this ’cause I trust ya, Daniel.’
At that moment, Jillian Brown appeared in the doorway.
‘Party’s on, gents.’
*
The guest of honour was Air Vice-Marshal Kennett, evidently on a lightning visit pre-Invasion.
‘How would you like to be a Wing Commander, Quinn?’
‘I think I’d like it very much, sir. As long as I can get my hands on one of the new Tempests…’
‘You’d be in command of three squadrons of them. A whole Wing.’
‘They’re a dream weapon, sir.’
‘Yes. A world-beater in the right hands. I’m attached to Bomber Command, of course, but I have a few… well, let’s call them connections.’
‘I’d very much appreciate anything you could do, sir.’
‘I’d appreciate it if, over the next few months, you could lead a wing of Tempests to blast the hell out of as many Germans in the air and on the ground as you possibly can – Both you and I know this plane’s the thing for it. You do this, Quinn, and you’ll be keeping God knows how many of my boys alive.’
‘I’d like the job, sir.’
‘Good. Well I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch. Until then, I must bid you good night.’
‘Sir.’
As Kennett departed, Stone appeared by Quinn’s side.
‘…Yeah. There ’e is, Skip.’ Stone motioned towards a knot of senior officers in conversation. ‘Air Commodore… Missed his name but he says he was on the selection panel at your initial interview…’
Quinn looked over to the group and met the older man’s eyes as Stone continued.
‘Back in Sydney. Says ’e’s in Personnel now and he’d like a bit of a chat with you. Anyhows. Rhubarb tomorrow an’ I never get pissed the night before. See you at O-Four-Hundred, Skip.’
‘See you at 4, Stoney. And thanks.’
As he slipped away into the crowd, Quinn reflected that a spy working in the Mess bar could reliably inform the Germans of any 609 Squadron operation on the morrow purely from the level of Stone’s beer intake.
Quinn lit a cigarette and had just placed the case back in his tunic pocket when he saw the officer approaching unaccompanied.
‘Ah, Mr Quinn! One of my most distinguished Old Boys.’
‘Air Commodore Rosewall, sir. A pleasure to see you again.’
They shook hands.
‘The pleasure’s all mine, Daniel, I assure you. Here, let me get you another drink. Scotch?’
‘Thank you, sir, my last though. Congratulations on your promotion, sir.’
Rosewall signalled to the Mess orderly. ‘And on yours, Squadron Leader. DFC – You’ve done very well. Three tours on Ops and, rumour has it, in line for promotion to Wing Commander and a Bar to your DFC.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, sir.’
‘Probably give you the Distinguished Service Order on the strength of it.’
‘Well, it’s been a long time since the interview, sir,’ Quinn smiled. ‘And the Squadron Leader, sir? …The one-armed officer.’
Rosewall’s expression sank. ‘Ah yes, Martin. …Shot himself, poor chap. Terrible business.’
Quinn exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘ Shit…’ – though checked himself – ‘Sorry, sir. …But what a waste: Seemed such a smart one…’
‘Yes. A good man, was Martin. One of the best. Though, I’d say, too intelligent for his own good. Affected by the arm business, o’course… He was never the same after that. Used to be quite the cheerful chap. Life of the party…’
The drinks came.
‘Your health, sir.’
‘And yours, Squadron Leader.’
‘What do you think sent him over the edge, sir? The loss of the arm? Being grounded, maybe?’
‘Well, possibly, Daniel, but, you know, I just don’t think he liked where he saw the world going… For what it’s worth, I’ll tell you this: Martin was quite impressed by you…’
‘I was impressed by him, sir. I imagine a lot of people were.’
‘Remember him, Daniel.’
‘I certainly will, sir. He got me in.’
‘Yes. Yes he did. I signed off on the paperwork.’
The Air Commodore seemed awkward suddenly.
‘Is everything alright, sir?’ asked Quinn.
Rosewall leaned in slightly. For an instant, Quinn assumed the man’s last drink may have just hit him. Yet his voice lowered a notch.
‘Look, Daniel. I’d like to say something to you, but off the record. And I mean that very seriously. As what I’m about to say might be… misconstrued, by certain parties, if it got out… Can you give me your word to keep something between us only?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Yes? Grave trouble for me. And quite possibly for you too.’
‘I give you my word, sir.’
‘There’s a good chap,’ the man concluded with an uneasy smile. He now lowered his voice to a heavy whisper. ‘I know about your op tomorrow.’
‘Then you’re obviously cleared to know, sir. Top Secret clearance.’
‘Yes, but, I’m about to give you some, er… advice concerning it.’
‘Please do, sir.’
‘Daniel, I also know that it’s your last mission tomorrow, if you want it to be. Before rotation, that is. To a desk at HQ or even just flight instruction.’
‘That’s no great secret, sir. If I were to choose that…’
‘No. But this is.’ The officer’s eyes now seared into Quinn’s. ‘I happen to know where you’re flying tomorrow. Naturally, I don’t expect you to confirm or deny your target area but, according to my sources, over the last few days, Normandy has been turned into an anti-aircraft killing zone. So…’ He
took a large sip of his scotch, and discretely checked on either side to ensure he would not be overheard. ‘…Fly the route tomorrow and come home without your rockets. You’ve done enough. Three tours on Ops. Do Martin’s memory the simple honour of staying alive. Don’t go putting a gun to your own head like he did. Fly over there, record what you see, and if you do get any ground targets, bloody well avoid them, loose your rockets and come home.’
Quinn knew full well that what he was now hearing could get even an Air Commodore taken out, court-martialled and hanged. ‘But what about Flight Lieutenant Stone, sir? He’d notice the hell out of it…’
‘Yes. Stone. Precisely. I know what a good man he is, and I know it could be his last one too. The thing is, Daniel, I’m signing the paperwork. Once again. I know what a pair you are. And I want you both off. Out of it. Finished with Ops. …Can you imagine what a superb instructor Stone would make? Can you? The men worship the ground he walks on, for God’s sake…’ He glanced either side of him again. ‘Look, Daniel, the Invasion’s any day now. You know that. And let me tell you, you do not want to be part of it. Then, even if you get through that bloodbath, there’s only Germany up ahead. It could be one, maybe two years before it’s all wound up, and there’s a lot of good men about to get their young lives chewed up in the process. And I don’t want you to be one of those lives lost. …Not when you don’t have to be. Not while I can help it.’
The Air Commodore finished his drink in a single swallow, reverting to a beaming smile once again as the Mess orderly appeared with another round. He took one and handed another to Quinn.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Your health, Daniel.’
*
Dropping his tunic jacket and tie onto the bed, Quinn drifted to the wash basin. He splashed water on his face, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the hand-towel on the rack next to the mirror.
In the dim glow of the room, he saw the face before him.
A trick of the low light, but the eyes that his mother had called baby-blue seemed colourless. He pulled the switch of the lamp above the basin and, in the sudden brightness, noticed his hair: The short fringe swept to one side was flecked with grey, the scar down the left cheek marble white.
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