“Yes, sir. I don’t smoke, thank you.”
He lit his cigarette with a gold lighter and leaned back comfortably. “How do you rate your crew, Bill?”
“I think they’re pretty good, sir: but we won’t really know until we’ve done some ops.
He nodded approvingly. “They get on well with each other, do they?”
“Very well, although they’re such a mixture.”
“That’s probably why: it’s often easier for a really disparate bunch to work in harmony than for chaps who are all pretty much the same type. Do they mix well off duty?”
“Surprisingly, yes: we regularly go out together. “
“Good. You’ve got a good man in your flight engineer, Sergeant Emery: I remember him on my first regular squadron when he was an LAC. I’m glad he’s shown willing and opted for air crew.”
“No one could know his job better, sir.”
“He needs watching, though, Bill.” I must have shown surprise, because the wing commander said quite emphatically “Oh, yes; I remember he got into one or two scrapes which held back his promotion: likes his beer, doesn’t he?”
In Ron Emery’s defence I said, “He does go over the top occasionally; but so do most of the types.”
“He tends to get into trouble, though; too ready with his fists.”
I grinned. “And pretty good with them, too.”
Wg. Cdr. Leatham ignored this and said dismissively, “I’m putting you on A Flight. Your Flight Commander is Squadron Leader Moakes; you’ll find him in his office, he’s expecting you. Well, good luck, Bill; I’m very glad to have you and your crew on the squadron.”
I found my two officers sitting in the Squadron Adj’s office and my four sergeants in the corridor; where Eddie Hill had accosted a passing Waaf clerk and was holding her in mesmerised giggles.
Why, I was wondering, had Ron Emery said nothing about his previous service with the wing commander? I would let it be for the time being, but as soon as I could have a word with him alone I would ask him why he had concealed it. I value openness among colleagues and friends and there was a nasty smell about this secrecy.
The squadron offices were along one side of the squadron hangar, and on the door of one of these was a board with S/L J. F. Moakes, DFC, DFM on it. My pulse quickened and I looked forward to meeting my Flight Commander: I had a huge admiration for decorations, and if he had a DFM he was obviously a real veteran, an ex-sergeant pilot.
My knock on the door was immediately greeted by a deep, “Come on in,” and I entered alone, leaving my brood to wait until I found out whether the squadron leader wanted to see us all together.
He was a tall, heavy man with a moustache and dark brown hair with a few streaks of grey. His eyes, light blue, were unusually piercing and I thought at once: here’s a real martinet.
He stood up and reached across the desk, smiling so that his whole character seemed to change and my thought with it: now, I told myself, he could be a kind of Father Christmas or jolly uncle. His hand was very big and calloused.
“You must be Bracken. Are your chaps outside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s have ‘em in, then.”
The boys filed in, saluted most creditably and even Nick Compton looked a little uncertain in the presence of this large, ferocious-looking man. But Moakes smiled and said, “Grab whatever seats you can,” and the atmosphere relaxed.
There were two chairs and two forms, the latter against the wall. I took one chair, and while Bruce was helping the NCOs to pull the benches forward Nick occupied the other.
After his DFC and DFM ribbons, Sqdn. Ldr. Moakes wore the ribbon of the 1936 India General Service Medal. I put his age at about three years older than Wg. Cdr. Leatham.
Moakes rested his forearms on the desk, hands clasped, and leaned towards us, his penetrating gaze moving steadily from face to face while he said, in his pleasant Somerset burr, “Welcome to A Flight; I’m very glad to have you.” His eyes returned to Sgt. Emery. “How have you been getting on?”
“All right, thank you, sir.”
Moakes explained to the rest of us: “We were on the same squadron at the beginning of the war.” I wondered whether Ron had been keeping that to himself too, or whether he was surprised to find who his new Flight Commander was.
I said, “Sergeant Emery shoots a horrible line about the Service being so small before the war that everyone knew each other, sir.”
The squadron leader laughed. “He’s just about right. Now then, let’s have a look at your log books.”
We handed them over and he scanned them rapidly, mine last. While reading it he looked up at me twice and I guessed what was going through his mind: just how well did I deserve to be assessed above average? I knew he was the sort who would take steps to find out without delay.
When he had finished, he said, “All right, tell me about yourselves: where you come from, what you were doing before you joined, what you feel about being on Lancs.” So we chatted for a while and all the time he was weighing us up and I thought he had a suspicious streak in his character; or perhaps he had been let down too often and was sensitive, although he looked about as sensitive as a brick outhouse. Then he said, “The NAAFI van will be round in a minute. After you’ve had a cup of coffee we’ll get airborne for a while and you can familiarise yourselves with the local landmarks.” While you check me out, I added in my mind.
Outside the Flight Commander’s office, Ron Emery exclaimed, “Fancy running into old Donk as a squadron leader, an’ all.”
“Donk?” Asked Bruce.
“A moke is a donkey, isn’t it? So...Moakes...Donk.”
“Och, all you regulars are daft about nicknames.”
“Everyone in the Service knows Donk Moakes: he was one of the best heavyweights we ever had; long before my time, but I heard all about him.”
Keith Gray rumbled, in his Geordie dialect, “He must be a canny pilot, man: they don’t give away DFMs and DFCs for nothing. What’s that other medal he’s got?”
Emery told him about the campaign medal, and went on, “Donk got one of the first DFMs of the war; then he was commissioned, in early 1940. We had Whitleys on the squadron, and bombers used to have a second pilot in those days — until March 1942, in fact — and Donk was second pilot to Tim Leatham when he got his DFM and Leatham got his DFC; ‘way back, that was.”
Everyone had something to say about Ron having kept quiet about his previous acquaintanceship with our Squadron and Flight Commanders, accusing him of being crafty, secretive and probably apprehensive: all in good part.
Ron protested that he had been unaware of the Flight Commander’s identity until a few minutes ago, and had not thought it worthwhile to mention that he knew Leatham.
“What rank was Leatham when he had Moakes as second dickey?” asked Compton, who had obviously taken a shine to the smooth wing commander.
“FO.” Ron told him. “He was flying Blenheims on an Auxiliary squadron before the war. Most AAF squadrons were on single-engine types and became part of Fighter Command, Tim Leatham and a few others came to Bomber.”
Flying officer to wing commander in four years was good going for a weekend flyer, I thought; especially in contrast with Moakes’s progress from sergeant to squadron leader: most pre-war sergeant pilots went rapidly from pilot officer to flying officer and then flight lieutenant, when they were commissioned. I would have expected Moakes, especially in view of his two gongs, to be a wing commander by now; and Leatham only a squadron leader. Particularly as Moakes was obviously the older. But I didn’t ask Ron any questions then.
After NAAFI break Moakes came up alone with me in a Lancaster, sitting on my right in the flight engineer’s seat, and made me sweat by putting me through a testing half-hour of asymmetrical take-offs, flying and landings; stalls, diving corkscrew turns, and various emergency drills.
When we landed at last he grinned and said, “Good show, Bill. Now you can fly your crew around for
a couple of hours and get to know the area; try a couple of homings and bad weather landings, and make your navigator sweat a bit too.”
When I had my crew aboard and we had gone through the whole take-off drill and were airborne, I felt a great thrill at the knowledge that we were handling an aircraft that had flown many operations, had probably been holed by flak and fighters in its time, and would have stirring tales to tell if only it were animate. It only remained now to face the real thing, and I wondered how long we would have to wait before we flew our first operation.
It had been a great day of new and significant experiences; but these were not over yet.
That afternoon Wg. Cdr. Leatham said to me casually, “By the way, Bill, all the types who aren’t on ops. tonight have got an open invitation to come along to my place for drinks and a spot of food this evening; about seven-o’clock: I hope you and your crew will come along.”
I was taken by surprise. “Thank you very much, sir, we’d love to.” And, as far as I was concerned, it was an order: some of the sergeants may feel hesitant, but I would allow them no option.
I went to see the Squadron Adjutant. “The CO has very kindly invited us to his house, this evening: where does he live?”
I had already identified the adj. as a preternaturally chatty old thing, always ready to put his tedious office work aside for a good natter and wistful about flying. Eddie Hill had already learned, and told me, that the adj. sneaked off whenever he could, and often when he shouldn’t, to fly the station Magister or Tiger Moth.
The adj. settled himself comfortably, relit his pipe, shoved a stack of files aside, and said, “The CO’s home happens to be hereabouts: only five miles away. His country place, that is; he’s got a house in London as well...Mayfair, actually.” Well-heeled Tim Leatham, evidently. “He’s got a lovely place...local squire, actually...jolly convenient posting for him.” To my surprise, he winked, and it was like seeing Queen Mary toss her toque in the air or bare her knees. The implication, clearly, was that the CO was in a position to pull strings and pull them he had.
“There’ll be all sorts of transport going along; you can easily get there. The CO and his wife are awfully generous with their entertaining: anyone from the squadron is welcome any time.”
It was an eventful and momentous day and I was to remember it all my life; not least because that evening I met Margaret Leatham for the first time.
Three
On the tall stone gateposts was carved “Belton Grange” and the wrought iron gates were open. There was a gate lodge, but although there were curtains at the windows it appeared empty: a significance that was lost to me on that first visit.
The MT vehicle, of the kind known as an aircrew bus, in which we had come drove up a grand drive towards a mellow Queen Anne mansion set among beautiful gardens surrounded by trees.
There was no formality; no butler, footman or even a maid to usher us in. The front door was open to the warm summer evening and, my crew following the others who had been here before, we left our caps in a large cloakroom or on chairs in the impressive entrance hall and went into a big drawing-room.
A girl stood with her back to us by a table where bottles and glasses were arrayed. Her lustrous honey-blonde hair fell free and lovely to her shoulders. She was small, about five feet three inches, and three more in her dainty high-heeled sandals. In those days of austerity she wore, like so many women, leg make-up that took the place of stockings and gave the illusion of suntan; her legs were very pretty. She had a slender waist and when she turned and I saw her whole body momentarily in profile I noticed how well developed her bust was, a surprise above so small a waist.
I had another surprise when she turned fully round and smiled at us. This was no girl but a mature young woman of about the same age as the wing commander.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Margaret Leatham.”
She looked straight at me with eyes which were the first truly violet eyes I had ever seen and she smiled with lips that I thought looked the softest I had ever seen.
For a moment I felt tongue-tied and gauche, taken unawares by the sudden revelation of both her age and her beauty. “G-good evening, Mrs Leatham, I’m Bill Bracken; this is our first day on the squadron.”
She favoured the whole crew with her smiling welcome then and they each introduced themselves and shook hands. My hand was still tingling from her touch.
Then her husband detached himself from a group at the far end of the room and came over to add his welcome.
He left the party for a while later on, to return to camp and see the first crews taking off for that night’s raid on Germany. His wife seemed to become gayer when she had to play hostess single-handed, and kept moving about the room and laughing a lot and changing the records on the radiogram. There was a buffet supper set out in the dining room and I marvelled that anyone could muster such a spread in that rationed era.
I noticed that Ron Emery had become a trifle morose, so I took him aside, judging it a good moment to ask the questions that had been plaguing me most of the day.
“Tell me a bit more about the CO,” I invited.
Ron gave me a look which was just a bit shifty and asked, “What d’you want to know?”
“What is he like? Eddie said he’s a tiger, before we left OTU.”
Ron snorted. “More like what the Chinese call a paper tiger, I’d say.”
This took me aback. “How d’you explain his DFC, then?”
Ron stared at me for a long time before answering. “With Donk in the second dickey’s seat he wouldn’t have much option but to press on, Bill.”
It had become customary, since the war began, for NCO air crew to address their own junior officers by first names and I had insisted on this informality from the time we were crewed up at OTU, although Keith Gray, Eddie Hill and Dan Feldman had been shy about it at first.
“You think pretty highly of Squadron Leader Moakes, don’t you, Ron?”
“He’s true blue, Bill,” Ron assured me with the solemnity of the slightly tight. “And I’m not just saying that because he was a great man in a boxing ring. I really mean it: he’s a hell of a fine pilot and he would never let anyone down.”
“Are you implying that the CO isn’t a good pilot and that he would let one down?”
Again silence for a while; then: “He’s a very good pilot, actually; as a pilot: but there were some rumours about him not being so hot when the shit was flying.”
“Rumours?”
“Well...Donk didn’t fly with him for very long before he was made a captain himself. And the next two second pilots he had weren’t too keen on him.”
“From what I’ve heard, that’s usually because a captain is too. press on, not because he hangs back when the flak and fighters are hotter than usual.”
Ron grinned despite his apparently sour mood. “Don’t go getting any wrong ideas, Skipper! We don’t want you pressing on regardless to the point of suicide, you can bet. But we wouldn’t want to stay with you if you did the other thing; know what I mean?”
We were interrupted by Mrs Leatham, who came up to us and asked why our glasses were empty. She lingered for a moment and I wished Ron would go away and leave us alone, but he didn’t and so I made some polite small talk until, with what I thought was reluctance, she moved on.
“She’s very charming,” I remarked.
“Yeah,” agreed Ron, “Mark Two.”
“What d‘you mean?”
“He was married to some Lady Something-or-other, and they were divorced.”
I followed the innocent-looking Mrs Wing Commander Timothy Leatham Mk II with my eyes and thought how wholesome she looked. “I can’t imagine she was the cause of the trouble.”
“I reckon not: he was divorced about seven years ago, and she’s only been married to him since just after the war started.”
It was no concern of mine, but I wondered whether Leatham was an inveterate rake and if he gave this pleasant and lovely littl
e second wife of his a bad time. With his looks and money, just about every woman he met must have tried to tempt him. If that were so, I felt a pang of pity for her.
But, really, it was no concern of mine, I reminded myself.
Sqdn. Ldr. Moakes was on ops. that night and I wondered if he would have come to the party if he were not.
When I said goodnight to Mrs Leatham, she said, smiling directly into my eyes, “Do come again whenever you’d like to. Don’t wait for an invitation, just drop in. Everyone else does.”
But she gave all the rest of my crew the same kind of smile and the same warm invitation.
It was only as we were leaving that I heard her call softly, “Bill,” and turned.
I went back to stand near her. “Yes, Mrs Leatham?”
This time her eyes were not bright and gay, but clouded. “I just wanted to say...good luck...you’re such a young crew...take good care.”
Four
Moakes drove his Lancaster doggedly on through the dark, hostile sky pocked with shellbursts, the heavy aircraft bouncing and yawing from time to time when the air was churned into sudden turbulence by close explosions.
He had had no difficulty — or, rather, his navigator had had none — in finding the target. The night was clear and the new-fangled electronic gadgets they used nowadays for finding their way about and for pin-pointing targets had made it a piece of cake. The searchlights had been a bit of a nuisance and there had been a brush with a persistent night fighter, but his air gunners had driven it off and he had dodged about so effectively that it eventually lost them.
Now they were on their way back and there were still a couple of flak belts to negotiate, and still the probability of another encounter with a night-fighting Ju 88 or Me 110.
This was all routine stuff and once the bombs had been dropped the back of the operation was broken; and he could let his thoughts wander a bit: not so far that he lost his concentration on flying, but enough to give his tired mind a little rest.
It had been quite a shock to see Emery again. He had forgotten all about him; not that there was any reason why he should remember an obscure leading aircraftman flight mechanic with whom he had served for a year. But he had a good memory and prided himself that he always recognised anyone with whom he had ever served, anywhere: and that covered a long time now, 21 years.
Operation Thunderflash Page 2