Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  She admired the jigsaw again. ‘Does it look like this from an aeroplane?’

  ‘Yes, but is not the same feeling. We have feet on ground. And is low.’

  ‘What’s it like being high up?’ She lifted her head. ‘Up there in the clouds?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Is very difficult to tell you. Like to dance in space. Like in paradise. Like to reach for the stars . . . I have not the words in English. Or even, perhaps, in Polish.’

  She had watched his face as he struggled to express himself. ‘You love flying, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much. Since a small boy I want to fly. As soon as I am big I join the Polish Air Force. When Warsaw is bombed we fight the Germans. Many, many die. Many ’planes are destroyed. Our aerodromes are bombed. The army is fighting German tanks with horses. Everything is very, very bad.’

  They began to walk westwards along the ridge of the Downs. There were blisters coming on both her heels from her beetle-crusher shoes, but she scarcely noticed them. He had taken off his cap too and the wind was blowing his hair about. It made him look much younger, she thought, stealing a sideways glance. She could imagine him as a small boy.

  ‘How did you come to England?’ she asked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, is long story.’

  ‘Tell me, just the same.’ She wanted to know everything about him.

  He smiled at her. ‘You are very curious. If you want so much, I tell you some.’ He put his hands in his pockets as they walked along. ‘When all is so bad in Poland, I am sent to Rumania with other pilots to fetch French machines. The Rumanian government promise these, but instead, when we arrive, we are all made prisoner and put in camp.’

  ‘How rotten of them!’

  ‘Rotten? I do not know this word.’

  ‘Beastly. Not nice.’

  He laughed. ‘No, was not nice at all. The camp is place for horses. Was only straw and cold water. We eat soup and black bread one time a day. So, soon I escape. I walk and I walk. I hide in ditch and woods. I sleep in cellars with rats. All the time I walk and then I hide. Then I come to railway station. I have no money for ticket, so I jump on train when is moving.’

  It all sounded incredible to her, like a story out of some adventure book. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I sit in train. All are Rumanian people. A man who is opposite look and look at me all the time, and I think I am finished. I was told many Rumanians are for Germans, you see. He speak to me in Polish because he sees my Polish pilot’s bag and he knows this. I think he betray me but when the man is coming for the tickets he gives me his ticket and pretends to lose his own. When we arrive at Bucharest he takes me to a restaurant and gives me food. I did not eat for two days before and so was very good. Best food I ever taste. Then he shake my hand and wish me luck.’

  ‘Jolly decent of him.’

  ‘Tak! Jolly decent. I like that English.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I go to Polish Consulate in Bucharest and get train ticket to Belgrade. Was no longer possible, you understand, to go back to Poland. So, I try to go south west, to go to France. I never think then of going to England. At the frontier station to Yugoslavia there are German soldiers everywhere. Everybody is taken from train and put in room for interrogation. There are two German officers who ask many questions. I speak to them in German and tell many lies. I say I am student. When we go to Rumania we are all given false passports which say we are students, not military. I think because I speak good German they believe me and let me go on to Belgrade, but many others are arrested. I see them march away.’

  And all this had been going on, Anne thought, while she had been moaning about cleaning ranges and peeling potatoes, and finding the whole war rather, a yawn. She pictured the train thundering across war-torn Europe, the frontier station, the jackbooted soldiers, the cold-eyed German officers rapping out frightening questions, the shuffling queue, women sobbing, children crying, the unlucky ones being hustled away . . .

  He went on. ‘From Belgrade I go to Athens by train and then go with Polish ship to Marseilles. That bit is easy. I join with the French Armée de l’Air. I speak good French, much better than English, so language was not difficult like here. They teach me to fly Potez – French fighters, you know – and I go north, near Rennes. We do what is called chimney flights . . . We protect factories and power stations . . . things like that. Was the beginning of 1940, before France fell.’

  ‘Poor France.’

  ‘Poor France,’ he agreed. ‘But we Poles are not understanding them very well. We ask them: Why you not attack the Germans? Why you wait and wait until is too late?’

  ‘My brother says the French think we let them down. Deserted them.’

  He shrugged. ‘I think the French do this to themselves. They were not well organized. Many stop to fight. A Pole is never like that. We fight to die, even when is hopeless.’

  She hated to hear him talk like that. Henryk had died because he had gone after a German without any bullets left. That was crazy. But everyone said the Poles were like that. They hated the Germans. Loathed them. She had never met a British pilot who felt such hatred.

  ‘So, when France fell, you came to England?’

  He smiled. ‘Was not so easy. Not so quick like that. When we are in France the Germans come nearer and nearer and one day when I come back to land I am told I must switch off engine and leave my machine. Germans are coming very soon and we must all surrender. But I do not do this. Instead, I take off again very quick. They shoot at me, but they miss.’

  ‘The French shot at you?’

  ‘I do not obey the order, so they shoot. Is natural.’ He shrugged. ‘I have not much fuel, so I fly south to next aerodrome.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go north, towards England?’

  ‘Because I know Germans are already in north, and I cannot go as far as England. So, I go south and then I leave my machine and I walk.’

  ‘More walking?’

  ‘Tak. More walking. I walk many, many miles since this war begins. Then I meet other Polish pilots, also walking, with some Czech officers. We try to find transport but the French do not want to help us. With luck we find big depot and make the gate open with guns. We take lorry, fuel, some food, and we drive to Bordeaux. Is all bombed. All ships there are sunk, except one. We get on this ship and the captain he take us to England. Five days on sea and no food except some peanuts that is cargo before. The captain has mascot. An animal . . . I do not know name. Has milk.’

  ‘A cow?’

  ‘No, is too big. Smaller. Little like this.’ He held out his hand, palm down. Then he stroked his chin. ‘And has little beard.’

  ‘Oh, a goat.’

  ‘Yes, a goat. But she disappear during voyage. People eat her. Captain is very sad. Very cross.’ He laughed at Anne’s expression. ‘Don’t be so shocked. I do not eat her. Everyone is very, very hungry. You must understand this. You never know what is like. You are lucky.’

  She stopped walking and turned to face him. ‘I know. I’ve been thinking just that, listening to you. I am lucky. We’re all lucky in England. We’ve never had to go really hungry. And we haven’t been invaded by the Germans. Not so far, anyway.’

  ‘It never happen,’ he said. ‘We stop Germans, I swear. They are never in your country, like they are in mine.’

  She saw the sadness in his face, and bitter anger too, and longed to comfort him.

  ‘One day you’ll go back to Poland.’

  ‘Of course. First we fight Germans here, then we go back to free our country. And then I think we need you to help us fight Russians. You see, is never finished with Poland.’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Is always war. But we not talk of this now. For now I am happy to be here in England.’

  ‘I’m happy you’re here too.’

  He smiled down at her, into her eyes. ‘Thank you, Anne. I am very glad you say that. You are so English . . . So . . . so simple.’

  ‘Simple? That means
stupid.’

  He frowned, vexed with himself. ‘Is wrong word. I certainly not mean this.’

  ‘Straightforward?’

  ‘Perhaps. I wish I speak better English to talk how I want with you. Ah! Decent. Tak. Jolly decent. That is something like I mean, I think.’

  She said doubtfully, ‘It sounds a bit hearty. Jolly hockeysticks, and all that.’

  ‘Hockeysticks?’

  ‘It’s a game. We played it at school.’

  I can’t explain all that to him, she thought. He’d never understand. She was downcast to think that he saw her in such a light. Like a schoolgirl. A jolly English schoolgirl. All giggling and blushing and innocent. He’d be used to other women, of course. Polish ones, French ones . . . slinky Continental women who were not a bit ‘so English’.

  They walked on and she tried not to stride out too energetically beside him, to make a more graceful impression. Then she began to think about the hatred he must feel for the Germans who had taken his country away from him, and to wonder if she would ever feel the same if they invaded England . . . whether she would be able to kill a German, to fire a rifle like the airman had shown her, without hesitating.

  ‘I saw a Messerschmitt shot down the other day,’ she said. ‘It was awfully close. Pearl and I were biking over to the station when we heard the siren go. We jumped into a ditch to take cover.’

  He exclaimed. ‘Close? What happened?’

  ‘Well, it came over very low and there was a Spitfire chasing it all across the fields. The Spit got it and the Messerschmitt crashed and burst into flames. It was rather awful, seeing it happen like that. I felt rather sorry for the German pilot. It was such a violent, horrible end.’

  She didn’t add that she had seen it again many times in her mind’s eye and had nightmares of it happening to him.

  He shook his head. ‘I am never sorry when I shoot them. Never. In Poland, in France . . . here, in England, always when I see a German go down, I hope he is dead. I say to myself, that is one less of them to fight . . . and I am very glad.’

  Because their backs were turned, they did not see the fighter approaching fast from the direction of the Channel. The Pole caught the sound first and, looking over his shoulder, instantly grabbed the girl and flung himself and her to the ground. He shielded her with his own body as the Messerschmitt streaked over them, unleashing a vicious stream of bullets that stitched a pathway along the turf only feet from where they lay. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the enemy raider was gone, pelting back towards the coast and France.

  Michal lifted his head. A torrent of Polish came from his lips and there was murder in his eyes. He stared after the fighter.

  ‘I kill him,’ he said. ‘I kill them all.’

  Eleven

  ‘FIREFLY BLUE LEADER, this is Beehive calling. Are you receiving? Over.’

  ‘Hallo, Beehive. Loud and clear. Over.’

  ‘Vector one-eight-zero. Angels fifteen. Over.’

  ‘Message received and understood. Out.’

  Friendly and hostile plots advanced towards each other across the plotting table. Virginia reached out with her rake to alter hers.

  ‘Hallo, Blue Leader. Beehive calling. Orbit. Bandits approaching you from south west. Over.’

  There was a long silence. The Controller wiped his face with his handkerchief in the stuffy heat. The Ops Room loudspeaker crackled suddenly again, this time with a different voice. Urgent.

  ‘Blue Three calling Blue Leader. Aircraft two o’clock.’

  ‘OK Blue Three, I see them. Christ! Hordes of the buggers! Hallo, Beehive. Blue Leader calling. Tallyho! Going in now . . . Over.’

  ‘Good luck, Blue Leader. Listening. Out.’

  The Controller mopped his face again. Beside him, Ops B lit a cigarette. Virginia passed the back of her hand across her forehead. In a moment the battle would begin, against overwhelming odds.

  Sometimes she still went on plotting in her dreams. And there was a recurring nightmare in which her hands felt too stiff and leaden to move the blocks and arrows fast enough, and the rake was much too big and heavy for her to lift. She would wake up in a terrible agitation that subsided only slowly as she registered her surroundings – the high ceiling, the fancy plaster moulding, the flowered wallpaper with the patches where the owners’ pictures had hung before the WAAF had taken over the house. The other plotters on B watch, who shared the room, slept peacefully and soundly. Madge, next to her, big and noisy when awake, often snored loudly when she was asleep. When they were on nightwatch and trying to sleep during the day, Madge would wear a sanitary towel as a mask across her eyes, the loops hooked over each ear. At first, Virginia had been shocked; now, as with other things that had shocked her, like bad language and nakedness, she had become used to it.

  Sometimes, too, she dreamed of Pamela – dreams in which she was still very much alive, walking and talking in her confident way. It was a shock, then, to waken and realize that she was dead. She would remember, against her will, the grey stockinged legs protruding oddly from the rubble, the black shoes, the seeping pool of blood mixing with the white dust . . . And, if she were not very firm with herself, she would start to imagine the rest of Pamela lying beneath that crushing slab of concrete.

  It was tiredness, she decided, that was the cause of the vivid dreams and nightmares. They were all dog-tired. The hours of concentration demanded on the day watches, with an incessant stream of plots coming into their ears, had taken their toll. And the night watch, though far less frenzied than the day, could be even more gruelling in its way. The vigil sometimes seemed endless. They would struggle to keep awake round the plotting table during long spells of inactivity and, during their twenty-minute break in the small hours, would often fall fast asleep, their heads resting on each other’s shoulders.

  Once, at two o’clock in the morning, she had plotted a friendly aircraft from Coastal Command, lost in thick fog over the Channel, and with engine trouble. It had been directed to Colston and she had watched its progress anxiously, as though she herself, by moving its plot across the map, could bring it safely down. At last they had heard it droning overhead, circling unsteadily, and she had waited in suspense until news came that the Hudson had landed safely. Later on, the pilot had come into the Ops Room and she had not been able to help staring at him as he talked to the Controller. He had looked very young to her, hardly more than a boy. Under the bright lights his face was chalk-white and she could see the marks from his mask and flying helmet. He had glanced down from the gallery and, catching Virginia’s stare, had smiled at her and raised his hand in salutation. The memory of this salute, as though in personal thanks, had stayed fixed in her mind, sustaining her through further wearying hours.

  It was Madge’s idea to go to the Salvation Army canteen in the town. She and Virginia had gone to the pictures one rainy evening and, counting their pennies afterwards, two days short of pay day, had found they hadn’t enough money to go to a café. As usual, Madge was ravenously hungry.

  ‘Let’s try the Sally Ann place. Dirt cheap. Warm and dry. What more do we want?’

  The Salvation Army had taken over a church hall in the town centre and when the two plotters entered it was crowded. Army khaki, air force blue and naval navy sat shoulder to shoulder at the long trestle tables. The big room smelled of damp uniforms, cigarette smoke and steam from the big urns at the counter.

  They queued for tea and buns and Madge elbowed a space at the end of one of the tables. Three airmen, sitting opposite, nudged each other. One of them leaned across to Madge.

  ‘Wot’s your name then, darlin’?’

  In her own way, Madge could be quite as intimidating as Pamela. Her background was far less exalted – her father was a dentist and she had been brought up in a small house in Brighton, not a big house in Kensington and a vast mansion in Yorkshire – but she could be as outspoken as she was large.

  She looked at the airman coldly. ‘Are you talking to me?’

&
nbsp; ‘That’s right, sweetheart.’

  ‘Then, please, don’t.’

  He stopped smirking and glowered. ‘Wot’s the matter? Same rank as us, aren’t you?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. I simply don’t want to talk to you.’

  One of his companions tittered. The other, small and weasel-faced, said sourly:

  ‘Oh, leave it alone, Sid. Bloomin’ toffee-nosed WAAFS. Officers’ groundsheets, that’s all her kind are. She wouldn’t give you the time of day.’

  Virginia had gone scarlet and was staring at the table, but Madge looked at the little airman as though he were a weevil who had just crawled out of the hall woodwork.

  ‘Do you usually insult defenceless women on their own? What a coward you must be.’

  He shifted uneasily. Sid sniggered.

  ‘Squashed you, too, Ron.’

  Madge ignored them and turned her attention to her plate. Ron drained his tea and stood up.

  ‘She’d squash me an’ all . . . Built like one of them battleships.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, lads, let’s leave their ladyships. Not worth the bloody trouble.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Madge calmly, when they had gone. ‘Now we can have a bit more room, as well as some peace.’

  But before she could move round the other side of the table, the spaces left by the airmen were filled at once by three soldiers. They were all Canadian corporals, and one of them was Neil Mackenzie.

  Virginia’s blush deepened and she did not know where to look. If he felt any awkwardness at the encounter himself, he showed no sign of it. His face had lit up into an easy smile as he recognized her.

  ‘Well, hallo, there! Great to see you again. How’ve you been?’

  Madge glanced at her in surprise. ‘You’re a dark horse, Ginny.’

  ‘We met out biking . . .’ she said lamely.

  ‘Well, introduce me, then.’

  Madge was as gracious with the three Canadians as she had been sharp with the airmen. Virginia could tell that she approved of their pleasant manners, and wished she didn’t. Before long she was roaring with laughter at some joke.