“Oh, my maternal grandfather was a Captain in the Navy. He died a few years ago.”
Grandpa Arthur, who treated his grandchildren with the same discipline and firmness as his matelots. A scowl or a sharp word from him turned the blood cold. Rose handed the model back to him carefully.
“But a life in the air force was the life for you, eh?”
Rose grinned, “Well, the thing is, I read all the W E Johns novels,” he had read every Biggles novel he could find, “But, I also get seasick.” He grinned again.
“Well I hear you’ve already given the old Hun a bit of a bloody nose. So the next drink is on me.” Jack replaced the model back on its plinth, and then pointed at a black and white photograph.
“This was one of the ships I served on during the war. The last lot, that is,” He smiled fondly, “She was the HMS Lizard, when we were in the First Destroyer Flotilla at Jutland.”
Rose peered up at the smudged picture. The ship was just a grey shape in the dimly-lit inn, but to this proud old man she had been a home. As his eyes focussed, he picked out the long lean shape at anchor. Her upperworks were mainly a bridge superstructure, three funnels, and deck gun, whilst flags waved gaily from the mast.
Men were waiting for drinks and the barmaid was rushing from one to the next, but Jack did not seem to care.
“That was a terrible day, that was,” Jack seemed faraway. “There were great ships wherever you looked. Blowing the living hell out of each other. Ships just blew into tiny little pieces, took all their crews with them. The smoke was so thick at times you couldn’t see a thing, just the flame from the muzzles, and that awful ripping sound as the shells would pass over us. One fell short, near us. Fair shook us up, that did.” He cackled. “That could have been it for us, but I’m still here. A lot of good lads weren’t so lucky.”
Rose’s glass was empty. “I’ll get you that other drink. Mr Rose is it?”
“Please, Jack, call me Harry.” The other beamed and turned to his bottles. “I’m busy boys; Mabel will take care of you.” He called to the pilots lining the bar. They groaned out aloud. Mabel’s lips turned down, and she shook her head. Denis shouted, “Come on, Jack, I’m one of your heroes. Give me a pint, mate!”
Jack just waved at him as he poured another drink for Rose.
Rose leaned against the bar and looked around. He noticed the WAAF still staring at him over the rim of her glass. Her eyes glinted across the packed room, and he looked away again hurriedly. She was really pretty, but she was not alone. Luckily (for Rose, at least), her companion, a pale flying officer, had not noticed him looking.
She had shoulder length wavy fair hair, bright eyes and very red lips. Had she been on her own, and shown him the same interest, Rose may very well have gathered up his courage and made his way over to her.
But he had no intention of competing for her interest whilst she had a burly beau in tow, besides he did not want to create a feud between 97 and Excalibur. Or, rather, be on the receiving end of a thumping. They all had to share the same aerodrome, after all.
But he was quite tempted.
She was really, really pretty.
“Here you are, lad. Have a sip of that.” Jack placed the cold glass down before him.
Billy was being held upside down by a couple of boys from A’ Flight, Carpenter and Renfrew, as he tried to ‘walk’ across the low ceiling, tracing the path of a trail of ink marks that looked strangely like feet on them. His foot caught one of the beams, and he ‘tripped,’ losing what precarious balance he had managed to achieve.
The three of them collapsed in a jumble of arms and legs, to catcalls and howls of the onlookers. Rose leaned forward anxiously, but the three got to their feet, Billy nursing his head, but raucously demanding a pint and medical attention.
“That Billy, he’ll do himself a mischief one of these days,” sighed Jack affectionately. “Here, Harry, you ain’t the sort who does all that sort of stuff, are you?”
“No, Jack, that’s not me, really. Sometimes I think I must be in the wrong place. The boys are quite crazy sometimes, and I think I’m a bit too boring.”
Jack placed his hand on Rose’s forearm, “No, son, you may be quiet, but we all go crazy sometimes. When you feel it, you be crazy, but when you don’t, you stay as you are. I’ve seen all sorts of crazy, so I know boring ain’t bad at all. You’re alright, you are.” He squeezed gently.
“Cripes, Jack, you telling poor old Harry all your war stories again?” Smith placed his pint glass on the bar next to Rose’s drink, peered myopically at the drink in Rose’s hand. “Oh, dear. I see you’re drinking some of that weak piss again. Jack, be a dear and get our Harry a pint of something manly. You need something a bit stronger to last through our Jack’s tales of Jutland.”
Jack shook his head mournfully. “Ah, Granny, I dunno what we’re going to do with you, lad.”
“Just keep pulling the pints, Jack, and you’ll not go far wrong.” Smith winked at Rose, “You could let Harry tell you one of his own war stories, too.”
Another sing-song had started; Smith patted his shoulder kindly, and winded his way back through the crowd, singing at the top of his lungs in a wicked high falsetto.
Rose smiled fondly. It was amazing how Smith had become so much more approachable since the end of his ‘training’ period.
The heady mixture of alcohol, cigar, pipe and cigarette smoke and the warmth of the pub were making his eyes smart, so he raised his glass to Jack, and made his way to the side door. “I’ll be just a moment, Jack.”
His host cackled and made a shooing motion with one hand. “I’ll tell you about my time on the China station when you get back, lad!”
Outside, it was cool and fresh. The sky was partially cloudy, but a patch was lit up by the moon, brilliant white in the darkness. He gazed at it. How clean and pure it looked, just as it had looked on that frosty night when he had been unable to sleep at the O.T.U.
Across the channel there would be Germans who must surely be enjoying that very same sight at this very instant.
Did they wonder about what must come tomorrow, as he did?
He stood for a moment, comfortable in the darkness, enjoying the muffled sounds of the men and women inside, tunelessly murdering a song in the inn.
The voices lingered hideously over a particular note. Rose fancied he could hear Smith screeching above the rest, and laughed quietly to himself.
“It is pretty awful, isn’t it?”
Startled, Rose dropped his glass. It hit the edge of the wall with a sharp crack! Like the retort of a pistol shot, making him jump a second time. Then the pieces smashed into the ground, shattering and flinging shards of glass everywhere, and lemonade splashed against his feet and legs. It was so loud he imagined the sound in the inn checked for an instant, before continuing unabated.
For a second, unexpectedly, the image of his first Messerschmitt 110 surrounded by the golden, coruscating cloud of splintered glass appeared in his minds-eye. He shook his head to dispel it.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” The girl standing nearby spoke calmly. “It’s just that I’ve been standing out here for five minutes, to escape that awful hullabaloo inside.” A low throaty laugh, she paused, then, with concern, “I say, are you quite alright?”
The unexpected sound of her voice struck him dumb, and for a moment he could only stare mutely towards her.
In the darkness, his unaccustomed eyes could just make out a dark shape leaning against the darker wall, just beside the door. He must have just brushed past her as he had stepped out.
He had not even noticed her.
A thought struck him. It couldn’t be the girl who had been staring at him so openly earlier, could it?
Oh My God. What do I do?
At last, he found his voice.
“Oh, uh, I didn’t realise anyone else was out here.” His voice sounded high-pitched. He made an effort to deepen it. “It was a little stuffy in there, so I
thought I’d nip out. I was just enjoying the night air.”
It couldn’t be that little WAAF. He was certain she had still been sitting amongst the crowd of pilots when he had come out.
The singing inside suddenly stopped. The sudden quiet was deafening.
“I know. Me too. It’s awfully poky in there when all the boys decide they need a bit of watering, and pile in together.” She breathed in deeply, “And it’s dreadfully smoky too.”
The shape moved as the girl came closer, “So its evens as to whether or not you’re going to get crushed first, or pass out from the noxious atmosphere.”
He could sense her smile, “Perhaps I should have brought my respirator, but it’s just so tiresome carrying that blessed box everywhere.”
Despite the moonlight, she was still in shadow, and he could just make out her trim figure, a pale oval that was her face. Not wishing to seem to stare, he averted his eyes.
It was quiet behind them, and then the singing began again, interspersed with the tinkle of glasses and the occasional shout or laugh.
They stood in companionable silence for a while. They were so close that Rose could smell her perfume, and he found it far more enjoyable to the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle in the air.
Mixed with the alcohol of her drink, it was a heady mixture, and he felt positively light-headed.
And tongue-tied.
Curse it! I need to say something witty and clever before she decides I’m a dense troglodyte and goes back inside.
Think, think!
What was that certain something about ladies that turned him into an awkward, speechless, red-faced idiot? When he most wanted to seem humorous and interesting, he could only behave like a brainless dollop of a schoolboy.
As he was searching frantically through his mind for something special to say, she broke the silence for him.
“I saw that you were looking at the sky. The moon looks lovely tonight, doesn’t it?”
Ah! “Oh yes. I love the way the moon illuminates the clouds up there. When it’s bright and cold, like tonight, the clouds look like frosted patterns on a clean, clear sheet of glass.” The words rushed out, like an unstoppable flood, “Like a painting really, thin, milky skeins stretched taut across a dark canvas.”
Oh God. He cringed inwardly at his words. Say something, something else, for goodness sake, before she falls asleep listening to you. “It’s strange.”
“What is?” She asked.
“Oh, I just think it’s funny that the light makes everything look so different. Different and quite strange sometimes. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to look at the earth from the moon. What a sight that must be!” His voice took on wistful tone, “Perhaps there is someone up there looking at us?”
Oh no! No! This conversation was going rapidly downhill! He sounded grave and dull, boring, not like a proper fighter-pilot at all. He should be standing there shooting a line to her. He winced silently.
“Oh, I see that you must read some of those stories about life out there in space.”
She sounded amused and he felt like a bit of a chump.
“Well, I like to keep an open mind. There’re so many stars up there. I’ve always wondered what the world must look like from a distance. It must be a grand sight.” He said it defensively.
“I’ve never met a pilot who was a dreamer before. You seem very philosophical.”
“Just a few careless thoughts,” He turned to look at her, “Sorry. You did ask.”
“Indeed.” she agreed, solemnly. They lapsed into silence again. It seemed that his usual ineptitude was in the ascendant. He sighed sadly.
Behind them the door creaked open. They turned. Outlined in the light was the slight figure of a girl, the light making her hair a golden-red halo. He could not see her face, but he knew at once that it was the little WAAF. She stood there for a moment, looking at the two of them, said “Oh” in a surprised sort of way, then turned on her heel and walked back inside, the door partially closing behind her.
“Oh dear. I think poor Janet may have wanted to speak to you. I rather seem to have queered her pitch. What a shame.” There was no regret, and there was still that note of underlying amusement in her soft voice. He reddened again.
So he’d managed to bore this one and alienate the other. Well done, Harry, lost two girls in just a few minutes. Must be some kind of a bloody record. You can shoot down Jerry, but you’re a dead loss with the fairer sex.
Useless.
He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment. The door was still a little ajar, and the light from it fell on them.
He looked at her, seeing her properly for the first time.
Wow!
She was the same height as he, and large brown eyes gazed warmly back at him from beneath arched eyebrows and a fringe of dark hair. She had high cheekbones and full red lips that appeared almost black in the faint light.
Very welcoming, smiling sensuous lips, a long shapely neck. He felt his heart flutter ridiculously in his ribcage. Like Janet, the girl before him was a WAAF as well, and she was lovely.
Really, really lovely.
The corners of those lips turned up even more than before in amusement.
“Don’t you think you should close it?”
Was he standing there with his mouth open like some thick dolt? Dear God!
“I beg your pardon?” he managed to stammer.
“The door,” she pointed, “Don’t you think you should close it? I’m sure Jack wouldn’t like it if some German bomber decided to bomb him. The Inn isn’t really an important military target, although I think the pilots in there may disagree. Nonetheless, I would prefer not to have a bomb fall on me tonight, I must say.”
At last he understood what she meant. The blackout! He rushed to close the door. The stream of light was extinguished. He was going to say that he could not hear any aero-engines, so there was probably little danger, but thought better of it.
She sighed. “Much better.”
The light had shown that she had rings on her sleeves, and that she was an officer, although he couldn’t remember seeing her at the aerodrome. He realised he hadn’t introduced himself. “I’m Rose, by the way.” Should he offer her his hand? He decided not to.
“Yes, I know. Pilot Officer Harry Rose, isn’t it? You’re from Excalibur squadron, aren’t you? A’Flight?”
“Why, yes.” He was surprised that she knew of him.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from some of your friends. They think very highly of you, you know, although they’re always grousing about how you never come here for a drink with them. They say you never get drunk, and they’re always joking that they can’t understand how you passed out as a fighter pilot.”
How could he explain his aversion to drink? She had never seen his father late at night, drunken, to dull the pain and the memories. He could never drink so.
She spoke into his uncomfortable silence, “I heard you were successful a couple of days ago.” She had heard of him! Good Lord!
“May I congratulate you on your victories?”
“Thank you.” He hesitated, then, “Actually, I feel a bit of a fraud. I was lucky to get the first one. I got a bit excited, peppered him, and then lost sight of him. I didn’t realise he had gone down until I got back, and the second one went in only when Sergeant Carpenter shot him down. Everything happened so quickly.”
“Not quite what I heard, but, whatever happened, you must have kept your head, acted the way that you needed to at the right time. The attacks you made were successful, and, in the end, that’s what counts, isn’t it?” her head tilted questioningly.
He blushed at her words, nodded in response.
“In the end, it doesn’t matter how you did it, the important thing is what you achieved.” She sighed again. “We watch you and all the others go up every day, and we know that you’re all up there to defend us, and I can think of no nobler duty than the defence of this green and pleasant land
and its people. I wish I were up there with you all, too.”
She took a sip, and her glass glinted, the drink inside like quicksilver in the moonlight. It was delightful even just to watch her take a sip.
“Of course, we’re all are doing our own bit, but you are the tip of the spear, so to speak.” She laughed, “I’m sorry to sound so awfully serious, but you aren’t full of bravado, like some, quite the opposite, in fact, so I feel I can speak quite candidly to you. I hope you don’t mind my speaking so?”
“Erm, no.” He mumbled. I’m just happy you’re talking to me, he thought, gratefully. You could be giving me a meteorological report or reading out your shopping list. I’d still listen raptly to your lovely voice.
They sat there quietly for a moment. He was embarrassed by her words, and she seemed a little embarrassed by them as well now, but she had spoken sincerely, and had obviously meant every word.
He also felt pleased, and flattered. He had to say something, but what? He cleared his throat.
“Can I get you another drink, Miss, um…?”
“I’m sorry, how terribly rude of me. I’m Flight Officer Digby to my girls, but my friends call me Molly.” She turned to face him, as he shifted uncomfortably. Flight Officer!
That was the same as Flight-lieutenant, if his hazy recollection of WAAF officer ranks was correct.
She was his senior officer.
“Oh dear, maybe I should have saluted you, or something?”
“We’ll overlook the serious lapse in regulations this time, seeing as you shot down those German’s yesterday,” she said lightly.
“And, now that we’ve met, I think we can safely say you’re a friend, so you’d better call me Molly. But what should I call you? Harry, or would you prefer Pilot Officer Rose?”
Molly!
What a lovely name.
He wished that there was more light, to see her better again.
“I’d be very pleased if you’d use my first name. The boys have a number of names for me, most of which I’d never dream of repeating to you, but most of ‘em call me by my first name.”
“So Harry it is, then. And, in response to your question, yes, I’d like another drink, a small gin, please.” She laughed again. It was lovely, a light thing of dancing beauty, “You had better get yourself another drink, too.”
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