Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  He had a thin face and sad brown eyes. The fourth, whose name she couldn’t remember at all, nodded vigorously.

  ‘Is very difficult with machines. Speed in miles per hour. Altitude in feet. Fuel in gallons. All different for us.’

  ‘Oh, dear. How awfully muddling for you.’

  ‘No, is not awful. Is good for us. We happy to be here. England is beautiful country.’

  ‘Beautiful girls,’ Stefan said unexpectedly and with another huge smile.

  In the next room someone had put on a record and people had started dancing. The one whose name she couldn’t remember at all bowed to her again.

  ‘Please, you dance with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She went with him into the next room where they had turned the lights down low and the music was smoochy. He seemed very nice but he wasn’t the one she wanted to dance with. She kept him at a distance and talked brightly in stilted English. The awful thought occurred to her that because he had been the first to ask her to dance, some peculiar Polish custom might decree that the others were disqualified. She need not have worried. As soon as they returned to the other room, Stefan clicked his heels and smiled at her hopefully, making twirling motions with his right hand. After him, and some fairly firm controlling in the darkened room, it was the sad-eyed Henryk’s turn. Finally, when she was beginning to despair of his ever asking her, Michal Racyñski turned to her.

  ‘Now, at last is my turn. Please.’

  As she moved into his arms he drew her close against him. He smelled of some delicious cologne and his cheek felt slightly rough and hard against hers. They danced in complete silence, without any need for words. She wished that the music would never end.

  When the party ended he drove her back to the station in a very shabby Wolseley.

  ‘I apologize. This car is most old. I get it from dump. The squadron mechanics make it to go.’

  She laughed, not caring a fig about the car – whatever it was, or wherever it came from. She felt unbelievably happy.

  ‘It’s a very nice car. But what about the others – your friends?’

  ‘Tadeusz has a car too, but much better. He will take Henryk and Stefan. They will understand.’

  He turned his head towards her as he spoke and she thought, though in the darkness she could not be sure, that he was smiling.

  The Wolseley coughed and spluttered before consenting to burst into steady life. It was very draughty and the springs seemed either badly worn or broken. Comparison with Johnnie Somerville’s Lagonda was a joke. An ironic joke, since for all that car’s expensive comfort, she had felt none of the bliss she was feeling now in this ancient, uncomfortable vehicle.

  She said: ‘I like your friends. Do you know, I’d never met any Poles before. Not one.’

  ‘So, how do you find us?’

  ‘Oh . . . very polite. Very charming. Very polished.’

  ‘Polished? I do not know this word.’

  ‘Smooth. Elegant manners . . . that sort of thing.’

  He laughed. ‘Thank you. Is not so true, I think, but thank you.’

  ‘And very different from most Englishmen. From the other pilots, anyway. I can’t explain it exactly.’

  ‘Perhaps we are different because we have lived different lives. And we are older than your pilots. We fight longer. The Germans take our country . . . kill many Poles, destroy our cities, take our freedom . . . We hate them very much for that. So, everything is different for us, like Henryk said.’

  ‘Squadron Leader Robinson told me that you were all in France before – with the French Air Force.’

  ‘Is true. Then we come to England – with some problems. We come with a boat. We arrive at a place called Falmouth.’

  ‘In Cornwall.’

  ‘Tak. A beautiful place where all the people are smiling and not afraid. I forget such places exist. They give us fish paste sandwiches and tea. Very kind. We have been many days without food on boat. A woman in a green hat gives me a cup of tea with milk and I am feeling very sick. In Poland we never put milk in tea. So, I ask her, please, is possible to have without milk? She laugh a lot – such a big laugh – and gives me a different cup with black tea. She says to me, soon you are used to it. A very nice lady. Very kind.’

  ‘What about the paste sandwiches? Did you like those?’

  ‘I never have these too. They are good but I cannot eat much in one time, so I eat a little bit and put the rest in my pocket for later. After that, we go by train to Liverpool. Then to Blackpool. Then, at last, they give us RAF uniform and we swear allegiance to your King. We learn first to fly Defiants. For me is like a chauffeur, with gunner in back. Then, they give us Hurricanes and I am very happy. And then we come to Colston. And then I meet you.’

  This time she was sure that he was smiling. She half-hoped that he would stop somewhere en route and live up to the terrible reputation, but he drove her straight to the main gate.

  ‘You permit I take you out one evening, please?’

  ‘I most certainly do permit. But I’ll have to meet you somewhere outside the station. We’re not supposed to go out with officers. They think it’s bad for discipline.’

  ‘That is pity. But I meet you wherever you say. I do not wish you to have trouble because of me.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘We meet soon?’

  ‘Yes, please. Very soon.’

  ‘I’ve met him, Pearl.’

  ‘Met who, love?’

  ‘The dark stranger. The one you saw in my tea leaves. And he’s come from across the seas, just like you said.’

  ‘Blimey!’

  ‘I saw him on the other side of the room and I knew he was the one.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that. His name’s Michal Racyñski.’

  ‘Bloody funny name! Sounds like you got something stuck in your throat, then you sneezed.’

  ‘It’s Polish. I think his first name is really Michael, but that’s how they pronounce it – Me, not My, and with that sort of ch in the middle, a bit like a Scot saying och.’

  ‘I wish he was a Scot. You want to be careful of Poles, duckie. I’ve heard some stories about them . . .’

  ‘They’ve got beautiful manners.’

  ‘I bet they have! Did I ever tell you about the Polish airman I met on the train coming back from leave?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, he was a bundle of charm. All smiles and hot looks, you know . . . Bloody train was packed, as usual, and he got up and offered me his seat.’

  ‘That was decent of him.’

  Pearl chuckled. ‘Oh, very gallant. He bowed to me like he was Prince Charming, pointed to the seat and said “plis, park your arse,” ever so politely. ’Course he hardly spoke any English so he didn’t know any better. Must’ve been some RAF joker taught him that.’

  Anne snorted with laughter. ‘Michal speaks rather good English. He’s got a lovely accent.’

  ‘Yeah . . . You watch it, though, love. Don’t go and lose your heart to a pilot, whatever he is. You know what can happen to them.’

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s too late.’

  ‘It’s not worth it, love.’

  ‘Oh, yes it is.’

  Pearl sighed and lay back on her pillow. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  They had been whispering across the space between their beds after lights out. The hut was stiflingly hot and Anne kicked her blanket off. She felt restless and excited and not in the least like sleeping; more like getting up and dancing around, or doing something quite idiotic. Something completely crazy . . . She sat up suddenly.

  ‘I’m going for a swim, Pearl.’

  Pearl’s bed creaked. ‘Now I know you’ve gone bonkers. What do you mean a swim?’

  ‘It’s much too hot to sleep. I’m going to take a dip in the static tank. Cool off a bit.’

  ‘Don’t be such a loony. You’ll get caught and there’ll be hell to pay.�
��

  ‘No, I won’t. Not if I’m careful.’ She was already out of bed and pulling on her knickers.

  ‘You haven’t got a swimsuit.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I won’t wear anything. I’m going skinny-dipping.’

  Pearl lay back and put a hand over her eyes. ‘Christ!’

  She carried her shoes until she was out of the hut. Practice with illicit comings and goings had made perfect and she could open both doors, inner and outer, without a sound. The moon gave her enough light to see her way and she moved silently, keeping in the shadow of buildings. The big static water tank stood above ground and its black depths looked rather sinister and less inviting than she had imagined. She hesitated for a moment and then undressed quickly and climbed up over the side and lowered herself into the water. It felt wonderfully cool and refreshing and sinfully free to swim without a bathing suit. Just the sort of thing she felt like doing. She swam across to the other side and then back again, and then to and fro a few more times. After that she lay on her back for a while, floating aimlessly and looking up at the stars and thinking about Michal Racyñski. She thought about his incredibly sexy eyes and how it had been dancing with him and sitting close beside him driving back in the Wolseley . . . to keep herself afloat while she was thinking about all this she paddled at her sides with her hands.

  The sharp-eared Station Warrant Officer, making his way late to his quarters, heard the small splashing sound and paused. Bloody rat, he thought. Gone and fallen in the tank. Serve it right! There was another splash. Bloody big rat, he thought this time, altering his course quietly. Close to the tank he trod on something soft and clicked on his torch to see his foot on a pair of black WAAF knickers. Near by there was more female clothing – a blue skirt, a blouse and a pink brassière. He stared at them for a moment and then shone his torch over the tank’s side onto the water. Not a rat, a mermaid! She floundered as the beam caught her and sank quickly from view, but not before he had had a look. He grinned, waiting for her to re-surface as she would surely have to do, and then composed his features into a suitably ferocious warrant officer’s expression.

  ‘You in there! I’m turning my back for one minute while you get out and get dressed, then I want your name and number!’

  He grinned to himself again as he turned away. There were some compensations, at least, for having these bloody women about the place.

  Nine

  THE GERMANS ATTACKED the station for the first time on a warm afternoon in mid August.

  In the Ops Room, the plot for fifty plus hostile aircraft had moved remorselessly across the map, watched by all eyes. At last the Controller reached for his steel helmet.

  ‘Tin hats on everyone, please. I’m afraid they’re coming for us.’

  Virginia felt only the smallest flutter of fright in her stomach. Outwardly she moved her plot calmly. Not one of the faces of the WAAFS round the table betrayed any sign of fear. Pamela, directly opposite, was looking almost bored, as though it was no more than another mock attack.

  In her office, Felicity was talking to one of the aircraftwomen. The girl’s mother was seriously ill and she was arranging compassionate leave, reassuring the tearful ACW.

  ‘Don’t worry, Hale, go and get your things packed and we’ll arrange for you to be taken to the station so that you can catch an early evening train to London. Corporal Snow will –’

  The tannoy blared suddenly into life, cutting off the rest of her sentence.

  This is your Station Commander speaking. All personnel, except those engaged on essential services, are to take cover immediately! I repeat, take cover immediately! At any moment we will be attacked by enemy aircraft.

  The station siren was wailing as Felicity urged a startled ACW Hale out of the office ahead of her. Above the sound of the siren she could hear the roar of the fighters taking off. The corridors were already full of people hurrying from HQ, cramming their helmets on their heads as they went. She shouldered her way against the stream to check on other WAAFS in the building before she left it herself. Outside, everyone was running full pelt now towards the shelters.

  A WAAF on the pathway in front of her tripped and fell and Felicity grabbed her and yanked her roughly to her feet; the girl’s knees were bleeding as she limped on. At the entrance to the shelter she shepherded a group of airwomen down into the dugout, glancing anxiously at the sky. She could see the formation of enemy bombers approaching, like a shoal of black sharks swimming on against the blue. An RAF sergeant seized her arm.

  ‘Hurry them up, ma’am, for God’s sake!’

  She pushed the last two WAAFS down into the entrance and waited for a straggler who came flying down the path, holding her helmet on with one hand.

  ‘Quick as you can, Edwards . . .’

  The airwoman gasped at her. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but it’s Riddle. She wouldn’t budge. She’s too scared to move.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Ablutions, ma’am. She’s gone and locked herself in the lavatory.’

  ‘Get inside, Edwards. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.’

  The airwoman scuttled past her down into the dugout, like a rabbit bolting into its burrow. Felicity raced towards the WAAF ablutions block. Inside, a tap had been left running full on and the water was gushing noisily into the basin. The bombers’ drone was much louder now and the station Bofors guns had begun their deep, angry coughing. She hammered on the locked door.

  ‘Riddle! It’s Section Officer Newman here. I’ve come to take you to the shelter. Don’t be afraid. You’ll be quite safe there, but we must hurry. Open the door, please. At once!’

  A fighter shrieked low overhead, drowning the last of her words. She hammered on the door again. An explosion nearby shattered the glass in one of the windows and she flinched as jagged splinters flew about.

  ‘Riddle! Unlock this door immediately! That’s an order!’

  There was still no movement from inside the cubicle. In desperation she thrust her weight hard against the door several times and, suddenly, it gave way. ACW Riddle – very young and very white-faced was sitting on the lavatory lid, her hands clapped over her ears, her eyes tight shut. Felicity put an arm round the airwoman’s shoulders and hauled her out bodily; she seemed unable to move of her own accord. She put her own tin hat on Riddle’s head and, supporting the girl against herself, dragged her out of the hut and towards the nearest shelter. The dark shape of a bomber swept overhead and there was a terrifying rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire and the smack of bullets tearing into masonry. They were still yards from the trench when another bomber screamed down and the blast from the mighty explosion that followed picked both WAAFS clean off their feet and hurled them to the ground. Earth and stones showered over them and waves of searingly hot air buffeted them like a rough sea. Felicity found herself clinging for dear life to the grass with one hand, her nails dug deep into the earth, while the other still hung onto the airwoman lying beside her.

  She raised her head to see yet another German bomber making its run in, with two fighters in hot pursuit. Yellow flashes spurted from the fighters’ wings as their guns fired, but the Junkers came remorselessly on and a stick of bombs dropped over by the hangars sent great eruptions of earth high into the air and made violent shock-waves through the ground. She clutched at the grass again as the world rocked about her.

  She began to crawl in the direction of the trench shelter, tugging the girl along with her. Then other hands caught hold of her and she felt herself being dragged painfully across the ground and downwards into the trench, like a sack of coals. She lay there, stunned and winded. Her eardrums felt as though they would burst with the noise and she covered them with her hands. Above the tumult, she could hear the heartening, furious stutter of a fighter’s guns.

  Anne had been off-duty in the WAAF recreation room when the alarm had sounded. She had been playing a game of table tennis with one of the MT drivers, and listening to Workers’ Playtime on the wireless at the same time. S
ome comedian had been in the middle of telling a joke when the station commander’s voice had cut in over the tannoy. For a few seconds she and her opponent stared at each other in disbelief and then, with one accord, they flung down their bats and snatched up their respirators and helmets. As she ran to the door, Anne heard a roar of audience laughter coming from the wireless in its corner as the comedian delivered his punch-line.

  In the dugout shelter they took their places on the benches, as they had done so many times in practice. But this time there was no giggling or fidgeting. She looked along the row of scared faces – Maureen beside Vera, Sandra with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, Winnie next to Enid at the far end. Enid was looking as though she was going to turn the waterworks on at any moment. Gloria and Pearl would have gone to another shelter. She sat back, her heart thumping in her chest. The WAAF cook sitting beside her in her white hat and overalls had brought her work with her. She was starting to peel potatoes and making a far better job of it than Anne had ever done – paring long, thin spirals of peel away before she lobbed the potatoes into the bucket of water jammed between her stout feet.

  Our Father, which art in heaven,

  Hallowed be Thy name . . .

  The girl sitting opposite had started to recite the Lord’s Prayer loudly, her hands clasped before her. The cook leaned her bulk sideways against Anne.

  ‘Don’t know what good she thinks that’s going to do.’

  The heavy drone of enemy bombers was clear now and she could hear the ponderous fire of the station guns and the fierce snarl of a fighter. Ominously, a bomber’s note changed to a high whine as it began its dive. Two explosions, one after another, made the shelter rock and the water leap in the cook’s bucket. Someone gave a choked scream of fear.

  Give us this day our daily bread,

  And forgive us our trespasses . . .

  The girl was shouting now. Why couldn’t she shut up? There was enough bloody racket going on without her adding to it. And who cared about daily bread at the moment? Another explosion, much closer, made the hurricane lamps rock wildly on their hooks. Michal would be up there, somewhere in the midst of all that hell, defending them. His Hurricane would be diving on the bombers, guns blazing . . .