To So Few

by Russell Sullman

The other RAF men turned out to be a group of NCO pilots.

  Billy hailed the pilots just as they passed a pair of older men, dressed in civilian garb, but both were wearing the armbands of the new Local Defence Volunteers, and medals from the Great War, ribbons faded but hanging proudly from their breast nonetheless.

  The colourful ribbons might have been faded, but their spirits weren’t. They eyed the two young pilots suspiciously from beneath their broad-brimmed helmets, and, irrationally, Rose began to feel very guilty.

  It was always the same for Rose. Even at school, if a window had been broken or a bottle of ink dropped, he would feel guilty for some inexplicable reason, resulting in awkwardness, and his ridiculous behaviour had often earned him punishment even though he was invariably innocent.

  “Would you kindly show us your identity cards and paybooks, please,” one asked heavily, peering through a pair of old-fashioned spectacles at them. “Sir,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Billy grinned disarmingly, “Of course you may, Mon ami,” and he nonchalantly tossed the remnants of his chocolate into a nearby dustbin before reaching into his pocket.

  Billy and Rose handed over the documentation, and the LDV man examined them minutely with a shaded torch, whilst his companion cast a suspicious eye over the pilots. He sighed. “Perhaps you could show me your travel orders, as well, sir?”

  Rose started to feel a little apprehensive as their papers were examined, but while Rose broke into a sweat, Billy was relaxed beside him, casually leaning against the wall, hands in pockets and that big, relaxed oafish grin on his face. He even winked at the second of the LDV men.

  Of course, everything was in order, the documents were returned, and the men of the LDV thanked them both, rendering the young RAF officers an immaculate parade-ground salute that would have made an RSM of the Guards weep with pride. Their faces were impassive but Rose could have sworn that their eyes twinkled.

  We may not have the uniform or the weapons, lads, but we’re here to fight too. We may be older than you, but we’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with you and face the Hun when the time comes.

  The two old soldiers turned smartly on their heels and marched off down the platform, arms swinging in time.

  In his mind, Rose could hear, “It’s a long way to Tipperary…” The only thing that diminished the effect was the civilian garb and the broom handles that rested on their shoulders, instead of rifles. Despite their age, their drill was superb.

  Bloody hell, thought Rose admiringly; wish I could march half as well as those old boys. They’re ancient, must be almost sixty years old...

  He was well aware of his own shortcomings on the drill square, which had caused more than one apoplectic ranting session from dear old Sergeant Reynolds.

  If they fight half as well as they marched…

  Billy noticed his look. “If old Adolf has any sense at all, he’ll not risk any of his precious storm troopers in an invasion, hm?” He murmured.

  “Not half,” agreed Rose, admiringly. He glanced back at the pair of old soldiers. “I don’t think those two would leave anything over for us!”

  He was only half-joking.

  The three RAF Sergeant pilots had politely stopped to wait for Billy and Rose, and now greeted the two young officers cheerfully, and confirmed that there was, indeed, motor transport waiting outside for RAF arrivals.

  Moreover, it turned out that they were from one of the two fighter squadrons that shared the airfield.

  The three were Spitfire pilots, and were happy but weary after a long three-day leave of drinking, dances, girls and general debauchery in ‘The Old Smoke.’

  Sure enough, as Billy had predicted, a Bedford three-ton truck with RAF markings was outside the station, comfortably parked beside the single bus shelter, obviously the airfield duty transport.

  So either somebody knew they were coming, had expected the NCO pilots to return, or a vehicle was always ready to meet the evening train, to collect returning personnel; most likely the latter.

  Beside the Bedford stood another of the LDV men, a short, squat old man, firmly holding a gruesome looking home-made club studded with bent nails and broken glass. He was chatting with the driver; his head upturned, the weathered and lined face expressionless.

  The MT driver was quite different, being a very bored looking airman, deeply engrossed in picking at an uneven set of fingernails on one, grimy, oil stained hand, deeply ingrained with a thick layer of dirt and oil, a cigarette perched on his lower lip.

  Unlike the LDV man standing smartly and solidly in a position of parade rest before him, the MT driver was slouched casually against the truck’s radiator grille, one heel on the fender, but when he noticed the pilots’ approach, he leisurely got to his feet.

  Rose had seen curmudgeonly regulars who resented the sergeant’s stripes awarded to NCO aircrew once they received their wings, after only a short time in the service.

  Despite years of peacetime service, volunteer youngsters half their age now wore the same ranks that had taken the regulars’ years, decades even, of hard work to attain, and they were often seen as upstarts and given a tough time by their regular service counterparts.

  It looked for a moment as if the driver was not going to bother to salute the young sergeant pilots, or at least begrudgingly offer one.

  However, once he saw the single thin blue stripe on each of Rose and Billy’s sleeves, he immediately had a change of heart, straightening his side-cap hurriedly and jumping to attention. The cigarette rapidly disappeared.

  For a moment, Rose toyed with the thought to give him a talk on how to smarten up, but decided against it.

  Best not to cause ripples until he had found his feet. It wouldn’t do to get a reputation as a martinet.

  Rose was still young enough and unsure enough about his new found authority to feel some degree of embarrassment at being treated deferentially by men twice his age, with ribbons and decorations on their chests from service in wars that had taken place before he had even been born.

  The two young officers returned his salute and then passed up their kitbags and cases to the willing hands of the others, before clambering up into the back of the vehicle.

  Perhaps they should have got in the cab as they were officers, but, foolishly maybe, Rose felt more comfortable amongst the other pilots, and it seemed that Billy, too, felt the same.

  Theirs was a kinship that overcame any differences in rank.

  They would ride together with their fellow brethren of the air in the back of the Bedford, all for one, and all that.

  Rose didn’t know them, and they spoke amongst themselves, quietly, comfortably, yet they were just like him. The three young Sergeants wore the same silk wings on their left breast, and were dressed in the same blue uniforms, but the gap in experience between the officers and the NCOs gaped wide like an abyss.

  Had they seen action, faced the enemy, and killed others like themselves from the other side? What was it like to see the enemy up close? Rose longed to ask them, to find out about what he would very soon be facing.

  But he was unsure, and, if he were totally honest with himself, was also too shy to ask. They were all one and the same, yet the divide between the veterans and the new boys was too wide.

  These men, Heavens preserve us, may look to my leadership in the air one day!

  The thought was both exciting and terrifying. Billy seemed to share Rose’s thoughts, for he sat down opposite, but appeared equally preoccupied as he too looked at their companions. His face was thoughtful, his grin now gone.

  Awed into silence by these relaxed young veterans, Rose pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and settled back, his thoughts turning to what lay ahead.

  And so they made their way to the airfield together, passing through the peaceful village of Foxton, on the last part of their journey.

  Five young men dressed in RAF blue, jostled and bouncing around in the back of a truck on a quiet country lane, their futures un
certain and formless before them.

  They could not possibly know that of them, some would not survive the grim and difficult months that lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Every little bump and imperfection in the road seemed to make the truck spring and bounce horribly, causing everybody in the back to be flung up into the air, time after time.

  After a few minutes, when his throbbing bottom felt as if it had been repeatedly whacked with a sheet of corrugated iron, Rose decided to stand, but this was even worse than before. Although he held on tight to the metal frame, he continued to be thrown upwards, and Rose hit his head twice in the tarpaulin covered roof frame of the lorry, his hips, knees and ankles beginning to ache from the jarring impacts.

  The wind whistled through gaps in the canvas covering, threatening to whip away his cap, and turning his sweaty shirt into an icy sheet.

  Sitting down again, ignoring Billy’s grin and wink, just discernible in the darkness, and surreptitiously rubbing his sore head, he cursed and wished for the umpteenth time that he had decided to sit in the cab after all. He was an officer, should bloody well act like one.

  Idiot.

  Rank hath its privileges and all that drivel.

  Should bloody well use the privileges of my stripe, he remonstrated with himself irritably; being one of the lads was proving to be a painful decision.

  After ten more minutes of driving along winding, narrow country lanes, at what seemed like breakneck speed to the unfortunate passengers, they finally came to the airfield.

  All that was visible of RAF Fighter Command station Foxton in the night was a high wire fence with a simple entrance leading to the gates and gate guardhouse.

  The lorry slowed and stopped beside a great coat clad sentry who came round the back of the lorry to investigate.

  Hastily, Rose pulled out his identity card, papers, paybook, and movement orders from his breast pocket. After a few moments of scrutinising their documents, the Guard Corporal, a British Army soldier who had appeared beside the sentry, handed back the papers.

  “If you gentlemen would stay in the lorry, sir, I’ll ask the driver to take you to the Orderly Room. You’re expected and your Adjutant wants to see you, he’ll take care of you,” finally, with a smile, “Welcome to Foxton, sirs. I’ll phone ahead and just tell them you’re on your way.”

  The Corporal exchanged in some friendly banter with the other pilots, accepted an unlit cigarette from one, a mysterious packet from another, and waved the lorry through. Luckily these soldiers seemed pretty friendly to the RAF!

  Once inside the station, the truck stopped again almost immediately, to allow the Sergeants to get off. They wished Rose and Billy good luck, shook their hands, before disappearing into the darkness.

  After another short journey, they finally arrived at a large brick building, which housed the administrative offices and the Orderly Room.

  Waiting outside in the darkness was an officer. In the subdued headlights of the Bedford, Rose could see that he was a tall, florid, fortyish Flight-Lieutenant with a huge bristling ginger moustache.

  Rose noticed that the Flight-Lieutenant, whom he assumed to be the adjutant, wore the ‘Mutt, Wilf and Jeff’ trio of Great War medal ribbons and the purple-and-white of a Military Cross with the single rosette of a second award below the silk winged ‘O’ of an observer.

  So, another old warrior from an earlier war keen to do their bit in this new one.

  “You pair of rascals, took your time getting here! I’ve had to wait here for you for the last two hours, and I’ve missed a game of Bridge because you young rakes have been chasing totty all around town instead of reporting here. There is a war on, you know!”

  He sniffed, as if trying to detect the smell of alcohol. “Anyway, you’re here now, so we’ll say no more about it. Welcome to Excalibur Squadron.”

  He had a surprisingly soft voice and a sparkle in friendly eyes that took the edge off his sharp words, “My name is Skinner, and I’m your Adj, and once we’ve sorted out a few things, I’ll arrange for someone to take you to your new home. Have you had anything to eat at all? You must be thirsty. Chasing totty is stiff work, I seem to vaguely remember. Mrs Skinner wasn’t always watching me with her beady little eyes, y’know. I’ve had my share of a mis-spent youth.”

  He leered knowingly at them, “You should allow the little darlings to do some of the pursuing, y’know. There was a pretty little thing from Paris, couldn’t speak a word of English…”

  He smiled at a memory. “Well, come on, then, can’t stand here all night talking about women. You’re here to fight, not fornicate, y’know. We’ll get some of the formalities sorted out, then perhaps we can phone ahead to sort you out a sandwich or something. OK? Follow me.”

  He turned and strode purposefully back into the building, not checking to see if they were following. Billy and Rose exchanged a bemused glance and followed him.

  In no time at all, the formalities had been taken care of, and a Corporal was called to take them to their quarters.

  It was quiet and deserted outside, the transport they had come in having long since departed, doubtless having returned to the Motor Transport Pool, duty done.

  Instead, there was a dusty RAF-blue Hillman parked outside.

  “All the pilots have gone into London for a show, Sir,” answered the Corporal, with a vague wave into the distance, almost dropping one of the kitbags, which hung precariously from his shoulder, when Billy questioned him about their fellow pilots.

  “Oh I say which show?” Billy’s eyes lit up, “Was it at Queen’s? I hear they do some absolutely ripping shows there.” Rose was too tired to care. All he wanted was to have a wash, a bite to eat, and to lie down and close his eyes.

  Corporal Fricker had sad, sleepy eyes, as if he had just stirred from his bed, “I’m sorry sir, they didn’t confide in me, but they should be back soon, I shouldn’t wonder.” He placed their kit in the car, “You’ll live outside the airfield, with the other pilots, Sir. I’ll drive you there.”

  They drove carefully through the airfield, past the dark shapes of buildings, vehicles, and once, a pair of fighters, and back out the other side, through a different, smaller gate with an imperious wave at the lonely figure of the guard on duty. They continued once more along the main road, with the driver sniffling miserably all the while.

  Rose watched the light reflected back from the newly laid cats-eyes on the road surface. Comprising spherical marbles of glass in a protective case, they were a new-fangled idea, originally invented in the mid-1930’s, and they were proving extremely useful in giving a driver an idea of where he was on the road. They were a particular blessing in these times of blackout.

  Rose had heard that they were invisible from the air, so hopefully there was no chance Jerry could use the roads for navigation at night time.

  Thank God for these things, he thought. At least now we know which side of the road we should be on and we can stay on it, just hope everybody else does.

  There had been too many road accidents after the black-out had been originally brought into force throughout the country.

  At the beginning of the war, in late 1939, all street lights and headlights had to be kept off, as part of the black-out, but after a number of pedestrians were killed by cars that could not see them, and drivers killed by obstacles that came suddenly out of the darkness without warning, the situation had to be reconsidered and important changes introduced.

  Like painting the kerb or some roadside objects white, or the slitted hood that was fitted to the Hillman’s single uncovered headlight.

  After a mile or so, and a journey that was so much more comfortable than the recent trip in the Bedford, the Corporal swung off the road into a small gap between the high hedges that lined the road like brooding giants in the dark, and onto a smaller private side-road that led gently uphill.

  Rose breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

  A little part of his mind had feared that in the dark
ness the chance of a collision with an oncoming vehicle was highly likely. He’d been hardly able to see a thing through the windshield.

  Indeed, unconsciously, he’d been bracing his feet against the foot well in anticipation of an accident. Billy had also seemed a little tense. Perhaps he too was a little nervous about driving around the countryside in the darkness.

  Near the top of the hill, set against the blackness of the sky, was the pale square shape of a large country house nestled amongst a darker background of trees.

  The airman, Corporal Fricker, deftly pulled up into the gravel driveway in a wide curve, and parked the service car beside a collection of other vehicles.

  The light from their single hooded headlight had momentarily illuminated the assorted group of vehicles, notably picking out a Lagonda Tourer, a white coach, and a rather grand looking, but strangely dented, Bentley with broken headlights.

  To one side of the cars were a motley thicket of bicycles that looked hopelessly entangled.

  The cars were lined up haphazardly near the main entrance of the large house. Billy whistled quietly in awe, “We’ll be living in style, I reckon!”

  Rose looked up at his new home, as Fricker unloaded the bags.

  Crumbs. It was all a bit grand.

  “Yessir, it’s a home from home for the gentlemen from the squadron.”

  Fricker took them in, past a threadbare looking stag’s head with a huge set of antlers, crudely tied to a small pillar with steel wire. It had been shot at, for there were quite a few ragged holes with stuffing poking out of it, and the pillar was badly chipped and pocked with bullet holes.

  The once-treasured trophy regarded them coldly with one glassy eye. The other one had disappeared altogether, leaving behind an empty hole filled with stuffing.

  They passed a rusty blue tricycle lying on its side in a trampled bed of flowers by one of the windows.

  Fricker noticed them looking. “Mr Ffellowes, erm, borrowed that from the toy room, sirs. Something to do with a race between pedals and pistons. I believe Mr Ffellowes lost.”