“So, because I’m well brought up, not like you ugly mutts, I thought I’d help her down first. Problem is, those flaming sandbags were a bit past it, and we lost our balance. Arse over tit, headfirst, if you’ll pardon the pun. Nice tits and arse they were, as well.”
He looked around pathetically, held up his hands, and, “How was I to know there would be so much mud in there! Apparently nobody bothered to dry them out! Deirdre was quite put out, and it stopped her from putting out, if you get my drift.”
He gazed mournfully around. The others, delighted at the tale, and the disconsolate look on his face, began to laugh again.
The teller of tales wiped away imaginary tears, “And then, to cap it all, the local ack-ack wallahs decided that a pigeon passing by was a Heinkel in disguise, and started having a pop. Bang, bang, bloody bang. I s’pose you can’t blame it for unloading its load. I just wish it hadn’t been all over Dierdre. So, y’see that was the only banging going on that night…”
They roared, Billy included. Rose smiled.
Then they noticed Rose and Denis standing behind them, and turned to look curiously at the newcomer.
Billy pointed at Rose with his fork, “This is Harry Rose, boys, we came down on the train together last night. ‘Morning, Harry, come and take a pew! Are you in B’Flight as well?”
Denis snorted, “No chance, this lad’s been spared the shame of joining your pitiful shower, Billy. He’s been chosen for A’ Flight, cream of the cream.”
“Bollocks, Dingo!” called one of the pilots, a Flying Officer, rudely. Like Denis, he too wore the ribbon of a DFC.
Rose looked with discomfort at the WAAF’s in the room, but they had not, or at least appeared not to have heard anything.
Probably hear a lot worse every day.
“Here, plant your posterior here with us, Harry. You may not be in B’Flight, but we’ll let you have breakfast with us, you too, Dingo.”
“Oh quieten down, for Pete’s sake, Dicky! My blasted head feels like it’s about to blow up.” Another of the pilots muttered viciously.
The Flying Officer, Dicky, smirked at his other companion as he spread jam onto a piece of bread, “That’ll teach you to over-imbibe, you naughty boy. You should learn to control the amount of beer you sup. When one has had the benefit of a chorister’s upbringing, as have I, one knows that one pint is always more than enough.” He nodded piously.
Denis shook his head, “Take a seat with these reprobates, Harry. I’m just going to check on our kippers, and then I’ll be back, don’t let ‘em ruin your morals.”
Dicky leered again, “You’re the danger to the poor chap, old man. Check on our kippers, my arse. Going to check on your little Dolly, more like, you old devil.”
“In order to truly appreciate a dish, one must first understand and appreciate the cook, in every sense,” Denis said pompously, and walked away towards the kitchens amid catcalls.
“Is this Dolly a bit of a dish, then?” asked Billy quietly, with interest.
Their other companion, a gaunt looking youth of no more than twenty, nodded. “I’ll say, old boy.” His voice was low, “The girl is lovely. Not often you see such a veritable beauty.” He sighed, “Wish she was mine.”
“Not half! I dunno what she sees in an old colonial like Dingo.”
Harry, hearing what sounded like a terrible slight of his likable new flight commander, his first operational flight commander, felt the pricking of new found loyalties. “He seems nice to me. I’m sure Flight-Lieutenant Denis has many endearing traits that, er, Dolly can appreciate,” he said rather stiffly, regretting the words as soon as they came out, knowing how priggish he sounded.
Damn! He looked around, anxious not to fall out with his newfound colleagues.
They looked at him curiously, sensing his imprudence. Rose reddened, “What I meant to say-“
“Well, I’m bloody glad that one of those endearing traits you’re blathering about is being effective at killing Huns,” This from another pilot who walked over and sat down. He too, was a Pilot Officer, tired old eyes in a round, young face, “though I’d be willing to bet the outrageous size of his wedding tackle may play a part.” He smiled wistfully, “Dolly must be a hell of a woman.”
The wistful expression vanished. Now he stared belligerently at Rose, “Who the hell are you, anyway?” Are you one of ours or do you belong with those Spit bastards? If you do, why don’t you just piss off back to them?” He said referring to the Spitfire squadron sharing the airfield. A couple of heads turned for a moment, and then looked away again.
“Oh my Gawd! You’re not a blasted sprog are you?”
Then he noticed the shiny new ribbon of the Air Force Cross on Rose’s chest and looked more searchingly at Rose. “Not a sprog, then?”
“Whoa, Wally!” cried Dicky, “Bloody Hell! Calm down! You really must learn to relax a little! This is Harry Rose. He’s in A’ Flight, poor fellow. It’s not his fault. You mustn’t hold it against him, though, you know. Harry, poor chap, thinks that Dingo is a choir boy and that little Dolly’s a girl guide. He’ll learn, the dear wee thing. Say hello nicely to Harry.”
Dicky winked at Rose, “Don’t mind this moaning old misery-guts, Harry, this is Wally Wilson, used to be a lawyer, hence his sunny disposition and cheeky smile.” He waved to a passing WAAF waitress, as Wilson raised a hand, wiggled his fingers and curtly nodded at Rose. “Hello nicely, Harry.”
There didn’t appear to be any neat white-coated waitresses here, just the three overworked young WAAFs with rolled up shirtsleeves, stained shirts and harassed faces.
“Holly, my love, some tea for our brave young new boy, here.” With a smile the WAAF retired to fetch Rose’s tea. “You mustn’t take any notice of old Wally, here. He’s always been a miserable bastard. Born like it, poor sod. They all are where he comes from, in the benighted North, comes from living in the rain, clouds and smoke,” he whispered the last in a conspiratorial whisper, as if confiding a great secret.
“Anyone with an AFC,” he continued in a normal voice, nodding at the red and white diagonally striped ribbon on Rose’s chest, “Particularly a nice new boy like you deserves to be pleasured by the delights of Dolly’s gorgeous kippers. They positively seduce the tongue, and copulate vigorously with your senses. However, I’m afraid our supply of butter has disappeared this morning, though. Those Spit bastards have nicked it all, I suspect, so we shall have to use some of that dreadful oily margarine stuff.” He made a face.
“Dicky, you are such a silly sod, and you talk such a load of old cock, as I’m sure poor Harry’s noticed. I’m from the north, Lancashire. It’s lovely.” Wilson glowered at them. “We’re happy, decent folk, y’know. We haven’t all been born with a silver spoon up our arses. Just because everything north of Cambridge is foreign to you.”
Ffellowes ignored him, instead sipping delicately from his teacup.
“You’ll understand our desperate jealousy when you gaze upon the scrumptious Dolly, chum,” said the haggard youth, holding out a hand, “I’m Johnnie Farrell and this smooth-talking rogue is Dicky Ffellowes.”
“With an ‘e’, young Rosie, with an ‘e’.” Added Ffellowes languidly, “Don’t forget the ‘e!’ We Ffellowes earned it at Agincourt, you see. Proud of our heritage, doncha know?” He smiled calmly.
“I daresay you fellows are,” retorted Rose, tongue in cheek. Billy grinned and slurped his tea.
Ffellowes smiled too. “Very good, old boy. Heard it all many times before, of course. You know Billy, of course, and the alluring but obdurate Wally. He doesn’t like the Spitfire bods very much, because one shot him down over Dunkirk.”
Wally Wilson had a broken nose and a shock of curly black hair. He nodded, morosely. “Had to go for a blasted swim, and then the fucking brown jobs almost shot me before they pulled me out.” He picked up a fork and studied it closely, “When they found out I was RAF, they had a go too. That’s how I got my broken nose. Pongo bastards.”
“Doesn’t like the Army much, either, I’m afraid, in fact, I don’t think he likes anyone, but it’s only to be expected with someone as ugly as he is.” murmured Ffellowes sadly, “But overall, he isn’t such a bad fellow for a northerner.”
“Or for a lawyer. Just piss and wind really, but very dependable and stolid, bit like a cow, just not as pretty or as useful.” agreed Farrell.
“Fuck me. You’re such a pair of bastards,” scowled Wilson, chin thrust forward and hands flat on the table. “If you’d appeared before one of my judges, I’d have got the pair of you sent down for a few years of hard labour.”
“The kippers are on their way,” announced a voice, and Denis collapsed onto the chair beside Rose. It creaked alarmingly, and for a moment Rose thought his new flight commander was going to make an ignominious second landing, via his bottom, on the floor.
“I managed to cadge some butter from Dolly for us. Apparently she’d kept a little back. Imagine that.” His eyes twinkled as he picked up a thick-cut slice of bread.
Dicky smirked salaciously at Rose, and Wilson shook his head and blew out his cheeks.
“So what’s the chance of a flight?” Rose asked.
“Oh, I imagine Dingo will take care of that for you.” Ffellowes murmured nonchalantly, not looking at him.
“Any chance of some aerobatics or maybe gunnery instruction, do you think?” Rose knew that if he could fly his fighter as well as possible, he had a far better chance of surviving the combat that was to come. He still felt very inexperienced, and the thought of a confrontation with a gaggle of Messerschmitts filled him with more than a little trepidation.
“Oh we don’t talk shop over breakfast, old man.” Replied Ffellowes airily. “It’s bad form.” He picked up his tea cup and looked into it “Dear, oh dear. Cold.”
It’ll be worse form if I get shot down and gutted by cannon shells because nobody could be bothered to give me a spot of advice when I needed it, thought Rose, annoyed and exasperated, but he remained silent.
Billy caught his eye and winked.
Another of the WAAFs brought them a fresh tray of plates piled with sliced bread.
Denis crammed a slice of bread into his mouth, then patted Rose’s sleeve, reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, Harry, old man, it’s all in hand.” He mumbled around the mouthful of bread. “All in good time, mate. I’ve made arrangements for all that.”
He swallowed the bread convulsively and looked up as the waitresses reappeared. “Hm? Ah!”
This last as plates of kippers and preserves appeared, and Rose’s nose twitched at the delicious pungency.
There was a scrape of butter decorating the side of each plate, except for one, burdened with a pair of kippers, a fried egg, and a very much larger knob of butter, which in comparison to that on the other plates, looked like the Rock of Gibraltar.
This latter plate was carefully set before Denis, like a tribute being placed before a king. He leered at their envious faces, and reached out for another slice of bread.
They tucked in with great enthusiasm, and no-one talked for a while as they ate. Wally Wilson smiled beatifically as he chewed. His face changing completely with that smile.
Rose picked carefully at the yellow flakes of fish, savouring the flavour.
Denis was right; the kippers were really delicious, beautifully done.
“You don’t deserve her, Dingo,” muttered Farrell jealously through a mouthful of fish, a smear of butter on his lips. He was eyeing Denis’ plate.
Denis cracked a smile, eyes twinkling. “I know, mate.” He generously buttered the slice of bread, and his smile widened, “Terrible, ain’t it?”
CHAPTER 4
Flight-Lieutenant Skinner, the squadron adjutant, was waiting at the Flight offices, perched on the edge of a desk ‘manned’ by a pretty little WAAF, when Billy and Harry arrived to check about their position on the flying roster.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Had a good breakfast? Fantastic kippers, eh? Well, I’ll have to arrange a time for you both to see the Stationmaster today as well, of course.”
He noticed Rose’s perplexed look, “Oh, that’s just what we call the Station Commander, but that’ll be for later. For now, the CO would like to see you both. Just a few words of introduction, explain a few things. Say hello and welcome to you both. He’s already had a word with me about sorting out some flying for you both today. I’ll go through the form afterwards, once the old man’s seen you. Fair enough?”
He looked down at the little WAAF. “Look out for these two, my dear, they’re die hard skirt-chasers, real reprobates, don’t give ‘em the time of day, OK?”
The little WAAF smiled prettily at Rose and Billy, “OK, sir.”
“That’s my girl. Good, good, well come on then, chaps, follow me.”
He led them to another office. The door was partly ajar, and Skinner knocked, once, before pushing it fully open.
“The two new boys are here, sir. Would you like to see them?”
“OK. Please bring them in, Uncle, and thanks.” The voice was mild, almost gentle. It didn’t sound like that of a demanding fighter squadron commander, more like that of a mild mannered classroom master.
Skinner beckoned them in, and, automatically, they both checked their collar buttons, belts and ties (or scarf in Billy’s case), even though they’d already checked them each at least once.
Rose nervously pushed the door closed behind them before following Billy to stand at attention before the desk.
A blotter, a couple of pens, some scattered forms, a picture frame facing away from them.
The Commanding Officer of Excalibur Squadron was standing at the window, back to them, looking out at an AA machine gun nest.
“Welcome to Excalibur Squadron, gentlemen. My name is Donald.” He turned to face the two. Skinner stood impassively beside the desk, staring at them.
Edward Donald was a slight young man, no taller than Rose, of twenty-five. He had calm grey eyes, a prominent nose and a firm mouth. At first glance he looked no older than they were, but a second, closer, look revealed grey already beginning to sprout at his temples, and a network of fine lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth, lines engraved by a bright sky whilst endlessly searching in that wide arena, the indelible marks of strain.
A thin white scar began halfway up his forehead, and disappeared into his hairline. On his breast, below his wings, he also wore the ribbon of the DFC.
Another veteran, than. France or Norway maybe? Even though the war was less than a year old, there had already been so much fighting and so much loss.
“At ease, gentlemen.” He stuck out his hand. It was rock-steady, a hard grip. “Unfortunately I was off the field when you arrived yesterday, so I couldn’t receive you. Settled in OK, then, met the boys?”
He cast an eye over them. Both young men smartly turned out, young, expectant faces.
One of them serious, slight and dark, the other smiling, taller, and fair. Shy eyes and a red and white diagonally-striped AFC ribbon on the chest of one, the top button confidently undone and a colourful scarf on the other.
Fine.
A new boy then (but one with a calm head and courage in the face of adversity, if the act that had earned him the immediate award of an Air Force Cross whilst still in training, meant anything), Rose; and a Fighter Pilot with some experience, or at least one who fancied himself to be so, good reports, Brooks.
Billy Brooks, Gladiator biplane fighters. Has he been taught the old, flawed and outmoded ways, or has someone managed to instil modern tactics and ideas in him?
“Yes, sir, thank you,” they chorused together. They looked like a couple of schoolboys (but then, hadn’t they all?), and for a fleeting moment, he felt a wave of unhappiness wash over him.
Would they learn and survive, or...would they just become more faces and names to remember in those quiet, pensive moments when he was alone?
He smiled, a warm smile, and for a second the carefree youn
g man he had once been returned, but only for a second. “You’ve both been allocated flights, so I shall leave the details to your flight commanders. Rose will be in A’ Flight and Brooks will be in B’. There’ll be a couple more lads joining you in a few days. You’ll get to meet the other pilots during the day or this evening at dinner. They’re a fine bunch.”
Donald had a soft Scottish accent. “I’ve organised some flying for you both today with experienced section commanders from your flights. Uncle here,” He glanced at Skinner, “Will give you the details.”
Skinner nodded firmly, “I’ll give the little blighters the gen when you’ve finished, Sir.”
“Good.” He turned once more to look out of the window. “A’ Flight from this squadron fought in Belgium and France just before the end, and we provided air cover for the BEF’s withdrawal at Dunkirk.”
The Miracle, as it had been called in the popular press, the retreat of an army from a smoke-stained, blasted and burning seaside town, only made possible by the courage of a rag tag navy made up regular and irregular sailors. The Navy helped immeasurably by civilians, old men and boys.
He crinkled his nose and frowned at the memory, shook his head ruefully.
“We learned some important lessons fighting Jerry. Lost a lot of men learning them, ground crews and pilots, including the Old Man, Squadron-Leader Bolton.”
The old man, dead at twenty-six years of age. What a loss. He reached out and gripped the ancient radiator beside him. They had been his men. The CO had been a great man, a man who had died to save those men and others.
“I assume you’ve both got at least a few hours solo on the Hurricane? We had a lad turn up yesterday who’d only ever flown a Battle, so back he went. No damned good here.”
“Twelve, sir.” Said Rose. A pleasant faced boy, clear brown eyes and dark hair. Achingly keen, eyes eager but anxious. Very serious. A schoolboy in air force blue, but already proven under stress, not found wanting when really needed. Well thought of by his instructors.
And the saviour of one of them.
To So Few Page 5