To So Few

by Russell Sullman

  He could not understand it. What was a picture of a young pilot, not unlike himself, doing in her pocket? Might she have had it in safe-keeping for one of her girls? Or perhaps it had been placed in her pocket by mistake?

  No. The message was addressed to her. Dearest Molly. It could not be for someone else.

  He meant a lot to her, for she carried it everywhere with her, as Rose carried hers wherever he went.

  Sweet God. What did it mean? His battered mind was thrown in shocked turmoil. He’d been through monstrous waves of pain already, and now this came out of nowhere to further shred his already frayed heart!

  When she held him to her, when she kissed him passionately, was this other in her thoughts? When he touched her cheek or her breast, did she wish it was this other, this damned Teddy?

  Had all she had said to him been a lie? All the protestations of love a sham? Was this blasted Teddy her true love?

  He felt dead inside, his chest cavity as cold and cavernously hollow as a burnt-out grate, as if she had cut out his heart and lungs.

  Did she say the same words of promise to this other, too? All the intimacy, was it the same for this man? Did she, God help us, feel the same for him?

  Was he her lover? Had he enjoyed her in that way? The very thought of her with this ‘Teddy’ was almost too much to bear. Surely, it could not be so?

  The thought of another man’s hands holding and caressing her was abominable.

  Oh, bloody hell! You are my perfection, and mean everything to me. Why can’t I be the same for you?

  Oh, God. So much pain, why must there be more?

  What have I done, that I am tortured so?

  It was as if his innards had turned to powdered ash, dust blown away by hot, scalding wind, leaving him scoured of all happiness and empty.

  Thinking of you.

  Like cold steel stabbing wickedly into his heart. Another man, thinking of my Molly.

  Except she’s not mine alone. She’s shares her affections with another man.

  And sudden revelation. So, that’s why she won’t marry me! She wants the other more than she wants me!

  Who are you, bastard?

  How could she do this to him? It was as if she had no feeling for him. She must have been laughing at the pair of them, each of them thinking she was theirs alone.

  But that was not the Molly he knew. Not the girl he loved. It could not be as he feared; she was too good to have done this, surely?

  Why? Why?

  Oh Molly! What does it mean?

  His mind was a swirl of jumbled, confused questions. It was the shattering of his world, shattered into a hundred million tiny pieces. The loss of innocence that he had thought the fury of war had already taken from him these last few cruel weeks.

  He had never thought that betrayal could be so harsh. It left a taste more bitter than anything he had ever known, just wave after wave of unbearable incredible pain.

  A hurt so brutally intense, like the excruciating agony he felt when he had seen her laying there, hurt and weak, when he had known that he had let her down.

  Let them all down.

  He felt a sudden desperate yearning to be amongst his own kind. The world he understood. There was no excruciating pain like this with the boys, just friendship and companionship. The risks were straightforward enough. There was nothing hidden, no falsehoods.

  He looked up at the darkened sky, but instead of the smoke and soot and dust, he saw only the cruel dejection of loss and loneliness. He had thought her dead mere moments earlier, and the joy of her incredible salvation had been so bright, to be tempered then by this monstrous disclosure.

  She was not even his, after all.

  Never, ever, had he felt so very alone.

  Rose pushed the photo back into the tunic pocket, his hand unsteady.

  He hugged the torn and dusty tunic tightly to him, as if it were she, tried to find her lingering scent, but this time, like her, it was gone. All that he could smell from it was smoke and ash and her blood. The smell of broken dreams mixed with the shock of cruel reality.

  It was as if she truly was lost to him, after all.

  God, why did he have to see this day?

  Far better to have rammed the 110, after all. The pain would have been only for an instant, and he would never have discovered this betrayal. Would not have had to feel this awful hurt that was like nothing he had ever experienced before.

  Better to have died ignorant than to have experienced this. The pain felt as if it would cut him into two, as if it would kill him.

  A despairing sigh, like a silent cry of unbearable sadness escaped his lips, and he closed his eyes as he mourned all he had lost this terrible day.

  As if it would block out everything. But, it could not.

  His life could not be the same ever again.

  But despite everything, he loved her still. He would always love her, even though he knew that she could never possibly reciprocate his feelings.

  He cursed himself for being such a fool.

  He would not share her with anyone. If she would not be his alone, he would not be hers.

  He would forget her.

  Teddy could have her. She must care more for him anyway.

  Fucking Teddy, the bloody bastard. I’m going to keep your picture, you dog, and if I ever meet you, I’m going to knock you out.

  And, anyway, he was not truly alone, no matter how much he felt it was so.

  For he still had Excalibur squadron, and his friends.

  Those, at least, that had survived this terrible, terrible day.

  And of course, there was still the fight up there, amongst the clouds. He would put his heart completely into his business. He had been trained for it, and he was a veteran now.

  The Germans had brought to him this shocking day. In this afternoon of fire and blood and broken dreams, they had brought to an end all the hopes and aspirations that he had formed over the last few weeks.

  They were responsible for taking her from him, they were responsible for shattering the dream he had been stupid enough to believe in.

  He must repay them in kind. Return the favour they had done him.

  There was so much pain, so very much, that there was more than enough for everyone to share.

  And he would make sure that they shared it.

  And at least she was alive. She may not love him, her heart may not belong to him, but she was alive.

  And in the end, that was all that really mattered. Because he would always love her, no matter what.

  CHAPTER 35

  The devastation done to RAF Station Foxton that day, the 16th of August, had been severe.

  By some incredible fluke, no bombs had fallen on the married quarters, and there was not a single injury amongst the civilian dependants.

  Miracles still happened.

  The same however, could not be said for the rest of the station.

  The enemy bombers had planted a plentiful amount of explosive on the vital heart of the station, wrecking the guard barracks, the armoury, photo, parachute and radio sections, one of the squadron hangers, and both the repair and maintenance hangers.

  Extensive damage had also been done to the watch, signals and meteorological offices, MT pool, and to the vital ops room and station headquarters.

  Fortunately, however, the fuel dumps, and the ordnance depots had largely escaped damage. The loss of life, already dreadful, would have been even heavier.

  The Wing Commander had been seriously injured on the ground, the gallant old fellow had been trying to get to his Gladiator, and now it was expected that he would not survive his wounds.

  So much lost.

  Despite the despair, individual acts of heroism shone through. By ground crews, members of the Army guard, and not least by the WAAFs of Foxton.

  Nerves had broken at other stations, too. At Manston, on the 12th, hundreds of the station personnel had hidden for days in the catacomb-like caves running beneath the airfield.
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  Aircrews were forced to perform a lot of the vital tasks done by men now cowering in the underground natural shelters. The women of the WAAF silenced their critics forever with their epic courage in those dark August days.

  To all intents and purposes, the Germans had removed the airfield from Fighter Command’s list as an effective base of operations and fighter aerodrome for the two squadrons based there. It would be months before the damage done could be put right, and weeks before it could be used again as a fighter airfield.

  With the damage done at Foxton, the two squadrons were, at least for the short term, homeless.

  There would be no more operations from Foxton for the foreseeable future.

  The Spitfires of 97 had escaped destruction (even though their ground crews had suffered), and although Excalibur squadron had suffered, it was still an effective fighting unit. It had lost six Hurricanes on the ground, with three pilots killed and two injured, although the acting MO had promised they would both be flying again within the week.

  Billy, one leg in traction and an arm in plaster, had vowed from his hospital bed to be back in the air within a couple of days.

  Rose had been shocked by the transformation overnight in his CO.

  The normally unflappable Donald had developed a tic in his left eye, and was gaunt with grief at the loss of his pilots, the ground crews and the station personnel. It was something Rose could understand completely, though, for the face that stared back at him in the early light that morning from the mirror showed the same pale drawn features with the haunted eyes and down-turned lips.

  Fighter Command, in their wisdom and need, sent 97 to Duxford, part of 12 Group, whilst Excalibur squadron was to be re-deployed to the small satellite airfield at Keeleigh.

  It had been a civilian field, a Flying club in the 30’s, and the facilities were woefully inadequate, but it was a functional site from which to fly and fight.

  Corporal Fricker threw together a few items for each pilot, placed a grouchy Hermann into his cage, and drove to Keeleigh to begin the preparations and to set up amenities and accommodations for the pilots before they arrived.

  Excalibur circled Foxton once in salute and farewell, the airfield a sorry sight now that it was no longer shrouded by smoke, even though not all the fires were out.

  Donald led the surviving six Hurricanes of his squadron to the new field, whilst the remaining three pilots were sent off to collect new Hurricanes from Brooklands.

  The ground crews, air defence and the essential support elements, with a dented but thankfully recovered Skinner, would come by road, once the necessary vehicles and spares could be scraped together.

  With a bit of luck, there would be replacements sent to them soon. Until then, they had to make the best with what they had.

  RAF Keeleigh matched the grim mood of the six pilots as they came into land. It was a large flat grass aerodrome, with a clutch of wooden buildings, something that looked like a concrete type pillbox (that was in actual fact a rudimentary watch office), a single large wooden hanger that suspiciously resembled a barn, and a windsock.

  Beside the wooden ‘barn,’ a timber and canvas Bessonneau-type hanger had also been erected.

  The first element of the support personnel had already arrived, and after the comforts of Foxton, it felt like being banished to Siberia.

  Foxton had been home to them for so long, it was hard to accept this unfinished and bare place as their new one.

  At the far end of the field, a crop of drab olive-green tents had sprung up, neatly laid out in four rows. It was like one of those black and white Times photographs of the ‘30s showing an army encampment on the North-West Frontier.

  These would be their new accommodations, a far cry indeed from their previous lodgings. Amongst them were a single ambulance, a fire-tender, and some 15cwt trucks. No sign of any of the AEC refuelling bowsers, not yet.

  After landing, they left their aircraft bunched together at the southern end of the field, near the hangers, partially hidden by hastily applied camouflage nets. It would be some time before the main body of ‘erks’ would arrive to tend to the fighters.

  A small truck, with No1 Works Area (Field) written on the side, collected them and took them to the field kitchen and the new ‘mess,’ a long canvas tent that smelt of damp and mildew.

  A trestle table had been set up inside, with a pair of tea-urns and plates of bread and jam were awaiting them. But there was little appetite in them, and they slumped down into the chairs in grim silence, lost in their own thoughts and memories.

  After a while, he could stand it no longer, and Rose stood up again. He wanted to get back up there.

  “Sir, when do we go on patrol?”

  “We’re going to have to wait for the supply train to catch up with us, Flash. I know we’re rearmed, but we haven’t the fuel for a proper patrol.”

  “Will you give me permission for a test-flight, then, sir?” he looked out through the tent flaps at the distant Hurricanes. “The tank’s almost full, and as you said there’s a full load of ammo.”

  Donald looked at him shrewdly. “You’ll get another chance for a crack at the enemy soon enough, my lad.” He closed his eyes, and sighed. “Be patient. There’s going to be a hell of a lot more fighting before the month is out. More than enough for everyone. Besides, who knows, sector control may get on the blower for us. God knows they need every fighter that’s available.”

  He rubbed his eyes wearily, lowered his voice. “She’ll be alright. The matron was an old friend of my wife’s. Just a matter of time. Be patient, Flash.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Rose replied dully, looking longingly at the clutch of Hurricanes.

  “I heard about you breaking up the low-level attack by those 110s. They would have made things a lot worse. Between you and me and the table leg, I believe there’s a Mention for you on the cards. You did well, Flash. I know it’s hard to believe right now but it could have been even worse.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Could have been worse? How that was possible was difficult to imagine. Even the thought that he might receive a Mention in Dispatches did nothing to cheer Rose. It meant nothing. Nothing seemed to mean anything anymore. All there was now in his life was sorrow.

  Donald watched him compassionately. “You’ve nothing to reproach yourself about, Flash. You did extremely well in a damnable situation. There’s nothing any of us could have done. We all wish we could have, of course, but we couldn’t.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, “At least we hurt them back. I know it doesn’t help, but there you are. We all lost a lot of people who meant a lot to us. And we managed to get some of the sods.”

  “Yes sir.” The words held no comfort.

  He felt dead and cold inside, and he walked out into the daylight, but the bright sunlight did not warm him, and there was nowhere to go. He was trapped alone with this deep well of sadness and depression.

  He could not get the image of Molly’s tear-stained face out of his mind, the pain in those large brown eyes, those warm, beautiful eyes that had sparkled mischief, but had become deep pools of pain.

  With Granny, he had visited the little country hospital, late in the night, but she had been unconscious the whole time, following the general anaesthetic given her for the surgery.

  The doctor had warned that it was possible that she might also lose her foot. It was so badly broken by fragments of bomb casing. And they still had to determine the damage done by the shrapnel that had pierced her back. He had assured Roe that she would walk again, that any damage to the spine was temporary.

  The most important thing was that she was alive. And with so much death in so small a time, her survival was a wonderful miracle.

  Oh, Molly. I loved you so very much. Why did you have to love another? Dear, kind God, why can’t she be mine? She’s all I could have ever wanted. And now, she’s badly hurt, and I could not even say goodbye before we left.

  The nearby odour of manure did n
othing to cheer him.

  There was a low cough beside him, and he turned to see Cynk standing beside him. He had been so caught up in his thoughts; he had not even heard the Polish sergeant approach.

  “I walk too, yes? With you?” he smiled widely, revealing gold-capped canine teeth and orange nicotine-stained incisors. His concern was obvious. Rose tried not to stare.

  “No,” said Rose, shortly. “I’d prefer to be alone, Sergeant.”

  Cynk ignored him. “Not be sad. I tell you about Poland, yes?”

  “Are you deaf? I said no.” Rose started to walk away.

  Cynk fell in with him. “Come on, Flash, stop being such a sulky little shit, talk to me.”

  For God’s sake! “Sergeant, I want to be alone! I don’t want to know about Poland. Leave me alone, that’s an order!” then he realised Cynk had spoken to him in perfect, unaccented, English!

  The other gazed at him blandly, with wide open grey eyes, eyebrows raised. “In Poland, young man, I was a Major. They outrank Pilot Officers, you know. Even a sergeant in the RAF, however, deserves a little respect.”

  Rose shook his head in wonder, held up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, er, Sir. I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that. I apologise. But…um…?”

  Cynk smiled gently, “What you’ve seen so far was an act. I am Polish but I grew up in England, went to boarding school in Hampshire and I read History at Oxford. However, for the present, I prefer to remain a stolid Nazi-hating Pole with little English. I’m only interested in killing Nazis.”

  Still stunned by the revelation, Rose nodded ruefully, “Yes. I had noticed. You’re pretty single-minded.”

  “If the authorities knew that I spoke good English they’d give me a squadron of Polish airmen to train and command. How can I kill Jerry if I’m trying to herd together a flock of bloodthirsty young Poles whenever I’m in the air? I’m not interested in being a nursemaid.”

  Rose shrugged wearily. He didn’t have the will to argue anymore and he was more than a little intrigued by this revelation. He sat down on the grass. “Oh. Yes, alright then, er, Major. Sir. Tell me. About Poland?”