To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  Rose lay on his back in the field where he had lost his first pipe, and felt at peace. Dry blades of grass scratched gently against his neck.

  It was hard to believe that only yesterday he had been almost killed by the sudden, violent, explosion of the Stuka.

  Altogether, B-Flight had claimed ten Stukas definitely destroyed, six probable, and many more damaged.

  At least he now knew first-hand what a ‘Stuka party’ was.

  Rose himself had been credited with two confirmed (It had been Farrell who had been stepping on his toes, but he would not claim a share in Rose’s kill, saying that the Stuka had already been on its way down when he’d fired his passing burst, and anyway he’d got two of his own), and two damaged.

  One of the damaged claims was the second Stuka of the pair Rose had attacked. It had been damaged when its companion had blown up under Rose’s fire. It had last been seen rapidly descending, with smoke issuing from the engine, but it had not been seen to crash. So he had only been allowed a ‘damaged’ claim.

  Granny had been so pleased with his success that Rose had feared Smith would kiss him, whilst simultaneously being furious and envious with having missed a ‘Stuka party’.

  Molly, too, had been pleased, but sadly, unlike Granny, she had not come near to kissing him.

  The celebrations, however, had been tempered with sadness.

  The squadron had suffered two aircraft losses, and the death of a pilot.

  Pilot-Officer Renfrew, an addition to the squadron who had arrived the day before Rose, had collided with one of the Stukas, and had been killed.

  Unlike the combat on the 10th of July, this time he hadn’t managed to get out.

  Sinclair, to his great chagrin, had been shot down, but had been rescued.

  The loss of Renfrew had been the first fatal loss that the squadron had suffered after becoming operational again. It had cast a gloomy light upon the success, and Donald had walked around with a melancholic face for the rest of the day.

  A-Flight was not rostered for operations today, and the pilots had the day off. Granny had disappeared in his ancient Austin Seven, in the direction of London, on one of his forays to what he termed the ‘Gin and Popsie Palaces.’

  Donald did not approve of Granny’s tomcat-like behaviour, but as Skinner had soothed, ‘”Don’t worry. When Granny’s willy drops off, he’ll have nothing left to play with, and then he’ll be able to concentrate even better on his flying and fighting.” He’d smiled gently, “’His girls will likely be grateful for the rest.”’

  Rose stayed at Foxton, despite the invitation from Granny to further his non-RAF training (or what Granny termed his ‘social education’). He planned to air test his Hurricane later, but his lunch would be a picnic alone with Molly. They would have a sandwich together in the short time available to her.

  In the distance they could hear the muted sounds of the busy fighter aerodrome. But even the faraway sound of engines and machinery, or the crackling of the Tannoy, were unable to dispel the peacefulness of his surroundings.

  He sighed dreamily, glad for the peace, for the rest after tense days of being on stand-by or in the air.

  “It’s so peaceful here; I wish it could always be like this.” Molly’s voice was hushed, as if she were afraid to disturb him.

  His eyes were closed, the sun warming his face, “Isn’t it wonderful? That first day, after talking and flying with Granny, I needed some time on my own, try and get everything straight in my head. So I decided to go for a walk, and I found this place quite by chance, and since then, this has been my favourite place to come to whenever I have some free time. It’s easy to forget about everything for a little while, here.” He sighed contentedly, “I could just sit here for ages, listen to the birds and smell the sweetness of the air. It’s nice to just lie here quietly, forget about the war, and enjoy the blissful peace.”

  “Oh! I do hope I’m not intruding on your blissful silence?”

  This time, he did open his eyes, turning to look at her anxiously. “Oh my goodness! Of course not!”

  He was relieved by her mischievous smile, “No, Molly, what I was trying to say was that I thought it was idyllic before here, but you weren’t here with me then, and I didn’t know any better.” He smiled back at her bashfully.

  “Now that you are here with me, I know what true bliss is. You being here makes it truly perfect.”

  Molly stuck out her tongue at him, and he gazed at it with great interest. What a lovely little red thing. It was the sort of tongue that he had always imagined she would have, small, delicate, and very desirable. Every part of her was beautiful to him.

  “I suppose every apple has to have a worm.”

  “You’re certainly no worm, sweet Molly.” He marvelled that he found it so easy to talk to her now, that he was no longer as tongue-tied as he had been before. Even then, despite this new-found familiarity, he could still sometimes look at her, and feel speechless and shy.

  “How do you know I’m not speaking about you, you dreadful child?”

  He sat up. “I know that you could never call a fine, brave warrior like myself a worm, you sweet girl. And I can’t understand how you can call me a child. We’re about the same age.”

  Rose sat there before her, a young man in rumpled air force blues. Unruly brown hair that had never seen Brylcreem curled gently, two or three wisps of grass sticking out of it. His scarf loosened, and the scarlet and white of his striped ribbon bright in the light.

  “Hmm. About the same age, eh? You forget the simple matter of five years or so as if they were nothing.” She examined her fingernails. “I am twenty-five, you know.” She made a face, “Oh dear, you see what you’ve made me do now? No woman should have to admit to their age, even an ancient fossil like me.”

  He reached into his pocket and waved his briar pipe at her. “Twenty-five? Is that all? But that’s nothing!” He stared at her beguilingly. “I think you’re very young and so very lovely.”

  Molly wrinkled her nose at him. “I wish you’d get rid of that smelly nasty thing, Harry.” She was pleased by his words, but ignored them. What was it she always said? ‘Flattery will get you nowhere!’

  He raised his eyebrows, questioningly, “What do you mean?”

  “That horrible thing you’re waving around, it’s disgusting!”

  “But this pipe is a part of me!” He stuck it belligerently into his mouth, sucked on it. “It helps me to think.”

  “You’ve never even lit it, you shameless fraud. I doubt it’s ever seen a shred of tobacco in its life! You just sit there and slobber on it like some dirty old man. I think it’s disgusting. Get rid of the rotten thing.”

  “Get rid of it? This is a part of a fighting man’s armoury.”

  “Yes, I shouldn’t be surprised. The thing’s so whiffy, it’s dangerous. If you chucked it into the Reichstag, they’d probably surrender before passing out. It’s such a horrid, stinking thing; I wish I’d brought my respirator.” She conveniently forgot that it was beside her; instead she waved a hand theatrically under her nose, and rolled her eyes. “In fact, I feel rather faint. I think I may pass out.” She coughed delicately.

  Rose’s eyes brightened, “Perhaps I could minister tenderly to you?”

  “Ha! Try it, and I’ll do something dreadful to you, fighting man or no.” She held out her hand. “Come on. Give it to me.”

  He stared at her. “What? You’re not really serious are you, dearest Molly?””

  She tried not to laugh at his shocked expression. “Come on,” she scowled, “Give me that infernal thing.”

  “Why? What are you going to do with it?” he clutched it against himself, “Don’t tell me you want to smoke it? Get your own one. This one is mine!”

  “I’m going to get rid of it. Horrible thing. Smells bloody awful.”

  “Oh, no, Molly! I love this pipe! Please?” He gazed imploringly at her.

  “If you don’t give it to me, I’m leaving. You and your
horrid pipe can enjoy the flowers here together.”

  She stared stonily at him, her hand outstretched, palm upwards.

  “Come on, Harry, me or the pipe, you choose.”

  “Must I?”

  She threw his cap at him and made as if to stand.

  Sighing, with eyes downcast, he grudgingly handed it to her. She gingerly took it from him with two fingers, as if she were handling a dead rat, took out her handkerchief and wrapped it up.

  “Yuck! Don’t worry, Harry. I’ll see the nasty thing is disposed of decently.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously, “I have a friend whose brother works in bomb disposal!”

  He pouted at her, and pretended to wipe away a tear.

  Two Hurricanes roared past above, canopies flashing in the sun, brave and glorious, and together they looked upwards to watch them. She turned to look at him, at the dark circles beneath his eyes, at his narrowed serious eyes as they followed the aeroplanes.

  “Is it grim, Harry?” Her voice was soft.

  “Pardon me?” He turned to her, confused by the sudden change of her tone, firm one moment, now gentle.

  “Up there. You know. What’s it like? Is it hard for you, for all the boys? Please tell me. I’d like to know, to share it with you.” She tilted her head, waves of hair cascading to one side, and her eyes glistened. “You risk everything for us. I want to know everything about it.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “We-ell.” He ran a hand absently through his unruly hair. How could he tell her of the exhilaration and the gut-wrenching fear as enemy bullets sped to greet him? The buttock-clenching terror as bullets smacked into the armour plate behind his seat. The dry mouth and iciness in his heart as men fell away in shattered planes, be they friend or foe. How could he explain, how could he make her understand?

  He affected a light tone, “It’s the best thing a boy could ever wish for. Lot of aerobatics, pop off a few bullets, then home for tea.”

  “All sounds like real Boy’s Own stuff!” She smiled gravely. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, however. Why don’t you tell me about it? I’d really like to share it.”

  Molly picked a buttercup and held it delicately beneath her nose.

  Rose sat up and brushed some grass from his tunic. “I always used to wonder, as well, you see, before that first time. My father was in France in the Great War, first in the PBI, wounded at Ypres, then into the RFC.” He looked back up at the sky, but not really seeing it. “He hardly ever talked about the war, but he used to think about it a lot. He would be digging in the garden, or writing in the study, when he’d suddenly stop. Just stop. As if he was somewhere else. And the look in his eyes…”

  Rose rubbed the back of his neck vigorously. “I wanted to know what he’d had to endure, so I read as much as I could about the war, about Ball and Bishop and Mannock. About the Red Baron’s Flying Circus, the slaughter, the mud and the Trenches. I wanted to know about my father. What he had done, where he had gone, what he’d seen. He wouldn’t talk about it.”

  The sound of machine guns came faintly in the distance, like ripping fabric, and he momentarily cocked his head towards the sound. Was Jerry visiting?

  But they were only Brownings. It was some test-firing and adjustments being done down in the firing butts.

  “I saw all the films, you know, Hell’s Angels, All Quiet On The Western Front, that sort of thing, but that’s not reality, really. I read everything that I could find, but it only told me the facts, some of the feeling, only not really the true realities about what it was like to be there. They are so impersonal. The books can only tell someone about battles and campaigns, not real first hand experiences. At least not the ones I read.” He stopped, then, “I’m not very good with words, and it’s hard to explain, Molly, but…”

  His mouth was parched, and he was feeling more than a little awkward under her searching eyes.

  Two sparrows pirouetted close overhead, diving down to skim just over the grass before shooting back up into the air, their chirps sharp and excited, but he was not even aware of them, caught up in the web of his memories. Instead, he moistened his lips and pushed on, “Even the accounts I read by the aces weren’t enough. I don’t think they gave the full story. It’s one of those things you can only know by experiencing it, So, when Hitler started this madness, I knew I had to do what Father had done, as he would have done it again if he had to, I would do my duty.” He shrugged, “And so now, I’m here.”

  She smiled that heart-achingly warm and beautiful smile at him again. “Good thing, too, if you ask me. I would never have met you, otherwise.”

  He was thrilled by that, and she was surprised how her words brought him so much simple happiness.

  O.T.U., Granny, operational experience and combat had taught Rose to be a competent fighter pilot, but underneath it all, underneath the trappings; he was still the quiet boy.

  Her voice was still soft, “Tell me about your father…” she hesitated, “is he…?”

  “Yes. He’s dead.” He held up a hand at the stricken look on her face. “No, it’s alright; I don’t mind talking about it with you, besides,” He looked away, unable to meet her eyes, lest his gaze reveal too much of what he felt for her, “You’re special. I want to tell you everything. I want you to really know me.”

  And to love me, he thought to himself.

  She half-smiled again, but her eyes were still troubled.

  “Anyway, he had a disease of the liver. He used to drink, quite heavily, sometimes. He was hurt quite badly in the war, so he had to take a lot of medicines. I don’t think he should have drunk, but he did. I loved him very much, but the drink could make him…unhappy. That’s why I don’t often drink. Almost never. I can’t bear the stuff, because of what it did to him. In the end, it killed him.”

  He lay down again, cradling his head in his hands, his face brooding, “I thought I could find out about it, understand what it was like for a young man at that time. I wanted to know why he had become the man he was, what had made him into that. He once said that he had seen thousands of men dying needlessly beneath him, and the sight would be with him always.”

  She shivered, at the image of grey death reaping the fields of young humanity, leaving shattered landscapes and endless carpets of the ruined dead.

  He paused, immersed in reflection, eyes faraway, and it was as if he had forgotten she was there.

  She held her breath, and then he spoke again, “apparently he was completely different before he went to war. The man I knew was quiet, and patient, and often kind, but then, he would suddenly get angry for no reason at all, shouting like a madman. Screaming suddenly in the night. In the end he was like that even if he hadn’t had a drop. Mummy said he was the gentlest man she’d ever known, and that he had captured her with softness. I wish I’d known him when he was like that. I used to think it was so unfair.” His voice was flat, colourless, as he relived the sorrow. “I suppose it was like that for a lot of people.”

  The pain was dulled by time, but not the sadness, the sense of loss.

  What must she think, he wondered, and, Dear God, how maudlin he sounded!

  But, in his mind he could still see his father, raving senselessly, weeping. Memories of a lost generation, of friends eternally young, and never forgotten.

  And those who would die young, years later, after the armistice, just like Dad.

  And the terrible, horrific, handful of times his father had hit him. The shock fresh and awful each time. It had worsened over the years.

  Rose’s face felt tight, his ears and eyes hot. He was scared that his voice might quiver, but he wanted to share it with her.

  “So I decided to learn to fly. Air Force kites like Dad. See what it was like for him. To try and understand it all. To try and understand him a little more. He didn’t shirk, though it cost him so much. I want to be like him. Protect others as he had protected all of us.”

  She tossed her hair back, and his heart ached to see the way
in which the sun caught the glistening strands with gold. How wonderful it would be to touch her hair! He almost reached out to her, but his courage failed, and instead, he pulled out a blade of grass, uncomfortably twisted it between his fingers.

  “Mother didn’t say anything, but she didn’t really want me to go. Thing is, she’d always taught us that we had to do what we thought was right. So she didn’t try and stop me, either.”

  Suddenly he peered at her, “Gosh! Listen to me babbling! I’m sorry, Molly. Your ears must be feeling a bit sore! You should have told me to be quiet!” He looked at her apologetically.

  Molly shook her head, her hair shimmering, and her face thoughtful, “I like to hear you talk, Harry, and I told you, I want to know about you, and the people who are or have been important in your life. I like to think that you and the other boys are fighting for all of us, and that we’re all family.” She spoke quietly, but with feeling, “Please carry on, if it isn’t hard on you, because I really want to know all about you and your people.”

  Her gaze was intense, but her voice was soft. “You see, I think you’re very special, too. Very special for all of us, of course, but also very much for me.” She reached out and took his hand lightly, her grip gentle, soft and warm. “But I’m too old, Harry. It can’t go on, you know.”

  Rose could feel his neck suffusing, and he coughed to cover his mingled pleasure and ridiculous feelings of embarrassment. “You aren’t old at all. Stop talking such nonsense. I don’t want to hear it again.” He could feel his heart banging hard against his ribcage. Surely she must hear it? It sounded like an artillery barrage! Boom-boom-boom!

  “Phew, it’s hot.” He fanned his face with his cap. “It’s too lovely here to talk about gloomy things. Let’s just enjoy the sunlight?”

  She had said he was special! To her! Bloody hell!

  She smiled softly, “I’d like that, but,” she looked at her watch. “Unfortunately, I’m back on in fifteen minutes. You’re not off the hook, yet you know. I want to know more. Thank you for trusting me, and telling me about your Dad.” her hand gripped his tighter, “Would you walk me back to the airfield?” She gathered the crumpled paper bags with her free hand and placed them carefully in her respirator box.