Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  And then the patterned carpet had vanished abruptly as the bomber had flown into cloud. A thick fog had enveloped them, shrouding the cockpit, blotting out everything from sight. The Lancaster had climbed on blindly through the grey and when the nose had suddenly burst into a world of brilliant sunlight and dazzling blue skies, Winnie had blinked in astonishment and gasped in awe.

  K-King had soared around in that sparkling air, wheeling majestically like a great bird of prey, and the sensation of it had taken Winnie’s breath away. Somewhere – hidden far below that dense barrier of cloud – people were going about their earthbound, humdrum, ordinary lives, but up in the crystal clear blue had been a world of endless space and freedom.

  Now she no longer stood gazing up into the skies and wondering what it was like up there. Now, she knew.

  In summer it could sometimes be as uncomfortable working on the aircraft as it had been in winter. Chiefy was a real stickler for rules and regulations and she had to wear her collar and tie even in the hottest weather. ‘I’m not having half-naked women in my hangar,’ he’d said. Whereas she had shaken with cold up at Kirkton, she now ran with sweat and was parched with thirst.

  Sometimes, when they were off duty in the cool of the evening, she would bike down to the Fox and Grapes in the village with the others to have half a bitter or a cider. On one of these evenings she met the American waist gunner again.

  She noticed the group of American airmen as soon as she entered the bar – heard their accents and saw the olive uniforms. They had taken over the far corner, making it their own territory, and were teasing the barmaid. Then, to her dismay, she saw Virgil Gillies among them, and Buzz, Nora’s boyfriend. She shrank back behind the RAF corporal fitter beside her. Buzz, though, spotted her. He waved and sang out loudly.

  ‘Hi there, sugar! Come on over ’n say hello.’

  The Americans all turned to look in her direction.

  ‘You know them?’ the fitter said, surprised, and with a touch of disapproval.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, they seem to know you all right. All of them.’

  There was a chorus coming from the corner now, hailing her, hands beckoning, faces grinning at her. She knew her own face must be red as a beetroot and she wanted to run out of the bar and get back on her bike and pedal away as fast as she could, but the only way to stop them was to go over, like they wanted. She felt a traitor, knowing how a lot of the RAF were about the Yanks and English girls, and inside she was as angry as she’d been when the gunner had made her dance.

  They crowded round her, hemming her in, dwarfing her, offering her drinks, telling her their names. One of them bowed and held out an open packet of cigarettes with a picture of a camel on it.

  ‘Howdy, ma’am. I’m Hank.’

  ‘He’s from Texas,’ someone else said. ‘That’s why he talks funny.’

  Virgil Gillies looked down at her, grinning wider than any of them. ‘Gee, I’ve been comin’ here, hopin’ I’d see you, ain’t that so, Buzz?’

  ‘Sure is. An’ who spotted her? I reckon she was tryin’ to hide from you, pal. Figure she’s smarter than most of ’em.’

  ‘Lay off it, Buzz.’

  ‘OK, OK. Hey, fellas, back off now . . . We saw her first.’

  She found herself manoeuvered further into a corner. Buzz melted away and she was left with the waist gunner.

  ‘I found out you ain’t married,’ he said. ‘Least not any more. Got Buzz to ask his girl, seein’ as she lives in the same place as you. She told him all about you. He passed it on to me.’

  ‘It was none of your business,’ she told him coldly.

  ‘Wanted to know if I’d got a chance. First time I saw you standin’ there on your own at the dance, I figured you was the girl for me.’

  He was teasing her – just the way they always teased girls, the Americans. Sweet-talked them. Led them on.

  ‘Don’t say things like that. I don’t like it an’ it’s silly.’

  ‘It ain’t if I mean it, an’ I do.’ His eyes travelled over her pointedly. ‘You’re sure cute in that uniform. What’s your rank?’

  ‘I’m an aircraftwoman, first class.’

  ‘You sure are!’ He laughed. ‘I’m a sergeant now, since I last saw you.’ He lifted his arm to show her the three stripes on his sleeve. ‘Reckon I’ll soon make staff sergeant.’

  ‘They’re the wrong way up.’

  ‘No, they ain’t. That’s the way we wear them – to be different from your guys. Did it on purpose after we got independent from you, so I’ve heard. Kind’ve a poke in the eye, I guess.’

  She looked at him coldly. ‘How many Jerry fighters’ve you blown out of the skies – like you said you would?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s a lot tougher ’n I figured – I gotta admit that.’ He shook his head. ‘They keep on comin’ at us from every which way . . . ain’t sure I’ve clobbered any of ’em yet. An’ if it’s not the fighters, it’s the flak – so thick sometimes you could walk on it. Those Jerries aim real good. We’ve lost a whole lotta guys. Seems like not many of us’ll be goin’ home . . .’

  Most of her anger evaporated at his words and she felt rather ashamed of the rude way she had spoken to him. Whatever the Americans were like, they were fighting and dying just the same as the RAF. They’d come over to try and help. She stared down at her glass uncomfortably. He was busy lighting a cigarette now – not from a packet with a camel on it, but one with a circle. She wondered if they were very different from English cigarettes. They smelled luxurious, somehow. Gran would have seized the whole lot from him if she got the chance. With the shortage of cigarettes she was having to do without some days, which made her crabbier than ever. Somehow she’d got hold of some American chewing gum – though she wouldn’t let on how – and when she ran out of cigarettes, she’d sit chomping and champing away with the few teeth she’d got left.

  He lifted his head, snapping the lighter shut. ‘Nora told Buzz your folks’ve got a farm. That right?’

  ‘Yes.’ None of his business either.

  ‘Same as me.’ He looked pleased for some reason. ‘Born and bred on one. My folks’ve got a spread near Clyde, Ohio. Think I already told you I come from thereabouts. My grandpa settled the land. Hundred and sixty acres. Corn, wheat, oats, alfalfa . . . an’ we’ve got some cows an’ some chickens, few pigs . . . how about your folks’ place?’

  ‘It’s not as big as that,’ she said shortly. He was off bragging again. ‘It’s only fifty acres. We’ve got cows and chickens too, and pigs – well, only one pig really, ’less she’s got a litter. But we’ve got a flock of sheep. An’ we grow turnip ’n swedes ’n worzles ’n beet. An’ we grow oats ’n corn as well.’

  ‘Yeah, but your corn’s what we call wheat,’ he told her. ‘I found that out seein’ it grow round here an’ talkin’ with the farmer at the base. What we call corn, you call maize.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she said, muddled. ‘I’ve never seen maize. Dad doesn’t grow it. And what’s alfalfa?’

  ‘Animal feed crop. Roots go down real deep . . . get full of goodness, see.’

  ‘I’ve never seen that either,’ she admitted.

  ‘There’s lots o’ things I ain’t never seen ’fore I got over here.’

  ‘Such as?’ she asked suspiciously. Any moment now he was probably going to start grumbling about the weather, or the food, or the money – like people said the Americans did.

  ‘Real old houses. Ain’t never seen anythin’ old as you’ve got here. I guess the oldest building I knew’s our barn, but that’s not more’n seventy years old. My grandpa built it when he first settled there last century.’

  ‘Our barn’s five hundred years old,’ she said, unable to help telling him so.

  ‘Son of a gun! That’s real old. How come it’s still standin’?’

  ‘They built them very strong. Good as houses. The beams are very thick.’

  ‘I’d sure like to see it . . . must be som
ethin’.’

  ‘What else hadn’t you seen?’ She was feeling quite gracious now, seeing as he’d been so impressed by the barn.

  He raised his glass. ‘Beer like this – watery an’ with straw in it.’

  ‘It’s meant to look cloudy like that.’

  He peered sideways into the depths of the glass. ‘That so? With all those bits floatin’ around? Beats me why they serve it warm, though. It’d sure taste a whole lot better chilled.’

  ‘It’s meant to be warm like that too,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘OK, if you say so.’ He drank some and grimaced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Hey, I just remembered somethin’ else I ain’t never seen before. Square eggs.’

  ‘Square eggs?’ She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Dried ones. At the base, they mix ’em up and cook ’em in tins and serve ’em up cut in squares – so we call ’em square eggs. They stink real bad – make a buzzard gag.’

  ‘Fresh eggs are very scarce here.’

  ‘That’s what they keep tellin’ us. Brussels sprouts ain’t, though. We sure get plenty o’ those. Jeez, they’re worse ’n square eggs. How come you grow so many?’

  ‘We like them.’ In fact, she hated them too when they went soggy and yellow.

  He shook his head in wonder. ‘Can’t figure out why. Now, fish ’n chips – they’re great. Best food you got over here, I reckon.’

  ‘Most food’s rationed,’ she reproved him. ‘There is a war on, you know.’

  He gave her a wry smile. ‘I’d kinda noticed that. Sorry, didn’t mean no offence. I know you folks’ve been doin’ without for years. They told us all ’bout the tough time you’ve been havin’. Gave us a little handbook called A Short Guide to Great Britain. I guess we just don’t know nothin’ yet. But I sure do miss some of the things we have back stateside – peanut butter, chocolate milk shakes, maple syrup, T-bone steaks, apple pie . . .’

  It sounded a funny sort of list to her.

  “Nother thing I ain’t seen before’s rain like there is here,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘Never seen so much as when I first got here. Nor mud so bad neither. Been enough to swallow a man whole up at the base.’

  ‘Don’t you have rain in Ohio?’ There he went, complaining about the weather.

  ‘Sure we do. Couldn’t grow crops, else. But it ain’t like here. Reckon that’s why England’s so green. Real pretty, your countryside . . . all the grass, ’n trees ’n flowers, an’ I ain’t never seen hedges, like you got here. Wish we had those back in Ohio.’

  He had a way of making her cross and then saying something nice, which flustered her. She didn’t know what to make of him. He kept reminding her of one of those cowboys she’d seen in the Western films. He was tall and broad-shouldered like they were. She could picture him riding into town down a dusty main street, getting off his horse, looping the reins round a rail and walking up the steps to the saloon bar. He’d be wearing a broad-brimmed cowboy hat and guns sticking out of each holster and a kerchief tied the wrong way round his neck. She could see him pushing open the swing doors and they’d go flipping back and forth behind him as he strolled over to the bar and ordered something out of the corner of his mouth. The bartender, in shirt sleeves and a dark waistcoat, would slide a little glass along the counter top towards him and he’d toss back the contents in one gulp. There’d be a long mirror at the back of the bar and he’d catch sight of the villain’s reflection as he sat at a table in the saloon, playing cards and smoking a thin sort of cigar. He’d be wearing a black hat and a fancy waistcoat and there’d be a gun sticking out of his holster, too. Their eyes would meet in the mirror, and narrow, and the cowboy would turn round very slowly, fingering his gun . . . The villain would draw first, from under the table, but the cowboy’d be faster and there’d be a bullet hole in the fancy waistcoat in the blink of an eye. The piano would have stopped strumming and he’d stand there in the hushed saloon, gun smoking. He’d blow on it and put it casually back in the holster. Then he’d call for another drink and toss that one back in one gulp as well before pushing his way out of the swing doors to get back on his horse and canter away into the sunset . . .

  The waist gunner put his hand on the wall above her head. ‘Nora told Buzz everyone calls you Winnie. That’s cute. Mind if I do?’

  ‘If you like.’ What else could she say, trapped against the wall. It was easy to picture him blazing away with a machine gun in a B17, too, she thought. Not much different, really, from the cowboy.

  ‘It’d be great to see that old barn of yours someday,’ he said. ‘An’ the farm. Meet your folks. Ain’t never been in a real English home . . .’

  ‘I don’t get there very often.’

  ‘Must do sometimes.’ He grinned down at her. ‘It ain’t far. We could fix it so’s I came over then.’ His blue gaze seemed guileless. ‘Your folks like ham, and peaches, and pineapple? I got cans o’ them. An’ I can get plenty o’ gum, ’n candy, ’n cigarettes . . .’

  Winnie hesitated. She’d been going to find some other excuse, but then she heard Gran urging her on. No harm in thet thare. Think o’ yar ould Gran. Smoking was one of the few pleasures she had left – that and gossip. And she liked chewing gum too. Candy meant sweets – she knew that – and Gran loved sweets. She always finished her ration almost as soon as she got it. She owed it to Gran. It was Gran who’d made Mum and Dad let her join the WAAF. Thanks to her she wasn’t stuck milking cows or cleaning out pigsties, like Nora, or doing the same boring thing over and over again in a factory all day long. Thanks to Gran she was working with ’planes and flying in them, just like she’d always wanted.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘But Dad’s not very fond of Americans.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘I got a bottle o’ scotch too.’

  The Code and Cypher officer stopped Anne in the corridor. She was an ex-debutante with a double-barrelled name who reminded her irritatingly of Susan in the far-off Colston days.

  ‘I say, you know Johnnie Somerville, don’t you?’

  ‘Unfortunately. What about him?’

  ‘I just had a letter from a friend. Apparently he got shot up the other day and crash-landed. They took him to some hospital in East Grinstead. A special burns place. Frightful shame, isn’t it? He was awfully good-looking.’

  Anne had been going to hurry on, but now she stopped. ‘Was he badly burned?’

  ‘Pretty badly, by the sound of it. Jolly rotten luck . . .’

  The girl walked on down the corridor and Anne stood there for a moment. I’d far sooner be dead. That’s what he’d told her when she’d had dinner with him in London. She’d been rather scathing in return, she remembered. You live a charmed life. It won’t happen, you’re much too lucky. But Johnnie’s luck, it seemed, had finally run out.

  As she sat in the darkness of the transmitting room, Virginia would imagine the Pathfinder Mosquito flying high and fast through the night skies over enemy territory. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, but in her mind’s eye she carried the image of the pilot and navigator listening intently to the signal reaching their ears. If they strayed to right or left of the circular flight path, the continuous note would turn to dots or dashes to tell them so. The other transmitting station, far away in East Anglia, would be tracking the Mosquito too and waiting for the last ten minutes of flying time to the target. Then they would send out Morse letter signals and, in the closing seconds, a succession of pips. On the final pip the pilot would release the target indicators and their coloured flares would mark the spot for the heavy bombers that followed.

  She rubbed her hands quickly over her eyes. The long hours spent staring at the radar screen made them sore and she often had a headache by the end of the watch. But it seemed a small price to pay compared with the price so often paid by the men flying over Nazi Germany. And when she was concentrating so hard she could forget everything else, including the latest letter from her mother – bitter as ever.

  You needn’t troub
le to come home on your next leave. You’ve made it very clear that you’ve no wish to do so. In my opinion you have grown up into a very selfish and ungrateful person. I have only ever wanted the best for you, but I might as well have saved myself the trouble and worry. It was for your own good entirely that I tried to discourage you from a most unsuitable connection and one day, when you have come to your senses, you will find you have cause to thank me for that.

  I will never thank you for it, Mother, she had thought, as she read the letter. Never. I shall always hold it against you.

  There had been some Canadian Army engineers working for a while at the camp site. Just to see the Canada flash on their shoulders and hear their voices had pained her.

  ‘Do you know a place called Hamilton,’ she had asked one of them. ‘It’s near Toronto.’

  He’d shaken his head. ‘I come from Edmonton. You know someone from Hamilton?’

  ‘I did – once.’

  Once, but no more. Virginia rubbed her eyes again and concentrated hard on the screen.

  ‘Took yar toime a comin’ over here, yew Amuricans,’ Gran greeted Virgil Gillies from her chair by the range.

  He grinned at her, quite untroubled. ‘I guess so, ma’am, but then I reckon we was worth waitin’ for.’

  ‘Huh! Tis us’ll be the judge o’ that.’

  Winnie could see Gran’s eyes fix beadily on the green canvas bag that he was carrying.