Hurricane Squadron

by Robert Jackson

  A few hours later, a lone Henschel 126 observation aircraft appeared over Châlons. It circled the airfield several times. The pilot and his observer, seeing no sign of life, touched down on the grass and got out to make a closer inspection. Satisfied, they took off once more and flew away eastwards.

  Early that evening, the little village of Ecury trembled to the roar of engines. The inhabitants, those who remained, came to their doors and peered apprehensively into the sky. Low overhead thundered a formation of Stuka dive-bombers, their silhouettes black and menacing against the clouds. A few minutes behind them came four lumbering Junkers 52 transports, carrying support personnel.

  The Stukas went into line astern and curved down to land at Châlons, taxiing past the burnt-out Hurricanes and dispersing around the airfield perimeter. The Junkers also touched down, disgorging ground crews and stores, before taking off again. The dive-bomber crews stayed beside their aircraft, awaiting the arrival of the Luftwaffe column which, with armoured support, had been breaking all records to keep up with them.

  The first Panzers rumbled on to the airfield ninety minutes later.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Paris was just as Yeoman had always imagined it, with its broad, tree-lined avenues and landmarks which, although new to him at first hand, somehow seemed familiar.

  Thanks to Julia, the journey from Châlons had been uneventful. Whenever they had been challenged, her fluent French and her credentials had seen them through. If he had been on his own, Yeoman reflected, it would probably have been a very different story.

  Because of the hold-ups and the congested roads, it took them over three hours to cover the seventy miles to the French capital. They arrived with petrol to spare, stopping at a cafe in the suburbs to telephone their respective embassies. After some consultation, an official at the British Embassy promised to contact Yeoman’s squadron with the news that the pilot was safe. Transport to Creil, he said, might be arranged if the pilot reported to the embassy in two hours’ time.

  They ordered a cool beer apiece and fell gratefully into wicker chairs at one of the little tables outside the cafe. The proprietor, on learning that Yeoman was a British pilot, refused to let him pay for the drinks.

  Yeoman looked at Julia, almost as though he were seeing her for the first time. She looked tired. He reached over the table and patted her hand. ‘I think you’re bloody marvellous,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself. Sorry, but I was miles away just then, planning my next article. I’m a working girl, don’t forget. You just wait until I write about your exploits; I’ll turn you into a hero and embarrass the life out of you!’

  He laughed and drained his glass, thinking suddenly of Wynne-Williams’s escape story. ‘There are others far more deserving of the adulation of the great American unwashed than me,’ he said. He leaned towards her, his face becoming serious. ‘Listen,’ he told her, ‘whatever you do, write the facts. Somebody’s got to set the record straight. Somebody’s got to tell the world about all the cock-ups, all the apathy, all the stupidity that helped to create this little lot. And somebody’s got to tell the world, too, about all the beastliness and the bloody arrogance of people who think they can walk all over everybody else just because they’ve got a big stick.’

  He sat back. ‘I don’t know whether I’ll come through or not,’ he continued. ‘I just don’t know. I’ve been in action for exactly a week, and already I’ve seen more than one man I was proud to call my friend get killed. I just thank God I’m not an infantryman; I don’t think I could take that. But you’ll come through all right, Julia; nothing is going to harm you. Look around you, at the heroism, the comradeship, the misery, the sheer bloody awfulness of it, and write about all these things. But leave glory out of it. My father went into the last war thinking there was glory in it, and came out of three years in the trenches hating the world. Yet even after that, people were still writing about glory. Don’t you make that mistake. Not ever.’

  He stopped suddenly and passed a hand wearily over his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized, ‘I didn’t mean to make a speech. God, I sound like a veteran, and I’m hardly dry behind the ears yet.’

  She smiled. ‘I understand, perhaps better than you think. I must admit that I feel a phoney at times, standing in the wings, so to speak, and watching somebody else’s show. One thing I am certain about, though; the good guys are going to win in the end. No matter how black things may seem in Norway, or here, I can’t see the British giving up without a hell of a fight. And I believe, although there are millions of folks back home who would shout me down for saying so, that America will make this her war too, before very long. And then the funny little man with the moustache had better watch out!’

  She leaned back suddenly and sighed, tapping herself on the side of her head with her index finger. ‘I must be crazy,’ she said. ‘We both must be crazy. Here we are with at least two whole hours to spend in gay Paree and what do we do? Sit around and talk about something we should both be doing our best to forget for a while. Come on, I’ll give you a conducted tour. I know Paris like the back of my hand.’

  They rode into the heart of the capital, with Julia giving a running commentary over Yeoman’s shoulder.

  ‘You should have seen this place a couple of months ago,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve always loved Paris in the springtime, with the chestnut trees bursting into leaf and the sun lighting up those gorgeous grey buildings. I used to spend hours standing in front of the shop windows of van Cleef, Mauboussin and Cartier, just admiring the diamonds as the sun caught them. There were a few shortages. Some days you couldn’t get sugar, or meat, and the patisseries were closed three days a week, but it never seemed to make much difference. Just before I left, on the second of May, there was a great party, a charity gala at the Marigny Theatre. Everybody was there, including your Duke of Windsor. I guess they don’t have parties like that anymore.’

  It came as a surprise to Yeoman to see queues in Paris. He had been familiar with the sight in England ever since the early days of the war, but somehow he had never associated the habit with anywhere else. He noticed that most of the queues were outside clothing and shoe shops. The Parisians, he thought, obviously get their priorities right, with food first on the agenda.

  There was a marked increase in traffic as they approached the centre of Paris. In the Place de la Concorde, it was so dense that Yeoman was forced to stop. Most of the traffic here was military; Julia pointed out the Navy Ministry, outside which stood a convoy of lorries. Naval personnel swarmed like ants around them, loading what appeared to be files. ‘The ship isn’t even sinking yet,’ Julia observed quietly, ‘but it looks as though the rats are losing no time in getting out.’

  ‘I’m famished,’ Yeoman said. ‘Let’s grab something to eat.’

  They found a café and sat down at a small marble-topped table under a striped awning, ordering rolls and coffee. Julia looked suddenly depressed. They sat in silence, watching the life of the city ebb and flow around them. ‘I wouldn’t have believed that a couple of weeks could have made so much difference,’ Julia said. ‘Everybody seems listless and resigned, as though they are meekly accepting the fact that the Germans will be here in a few days. They’ve just given up. And yet most of their armies are still intact.’

  The flow of traffic built up gradually as they sat there, private cars laden with personal possessions crawling along nose to tail, heading south. A hundred yards up the road, outside what looked like a government building, a bonfire blazed on the pavement. Staff were running back and forth like ants, feeding the flames with documents. Charred scraps of paper floated through the air.

  Yeoman looked at his watch. ‘I think we ought to be going,’ he said. ‘I feel damned uncomfortable sitting here.’

  They mounted the motor-bike and Yeoman eased his way through the crowded streets. Julia directed him across the square by the Hôtel de Ville to the Avenue Gabrielle, where the American Consulate stoo
d. He pulled up a few yards from the main entrance. The Stars and Stripes flew bravely over the building, making a vivid splash of colour against the sky. It was a solid, reassuring sight, an island of sanity amid all the chaos.

  They dismounted and stood on the pavement, facing one another. Julia reached out and took his hand.

  ‘Well, George Yeoman, this is where we part company. Think you can find your way to the British Embassy all right?’ He nodded.

  ‘We won’t say good-bye,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve a feeling London’s my next port of call. Look me up there, if you get the chance.’ She fished in her bag and produced a card. ‘That’s the address of the London office. It’s in Holborn. But give me a couple of days’ notice, if you can; you never know where I might be.’

  Suddenly, her arms were around him and her cheek pressed against his. Then she was gone, running up the steps into the building, her parting words echoing behind her: ‘Don’t get yourself killed, George.’

  He stood there for a long minute, staring at the empty doorway. There was a lump in his throat. He raised his hand and gently touched his cheek, remembering the softness of her skin against the bristles of his face. Julia.

  Damn the war. Damn everything. He turned and swung a leg over the saddle, kicking the engine into bellowing life. He roared away up the avenue, seeing nothing but the stretch of road immediately in front of him, his mind a turmoil of painful emotions. Later, when he had time to think rationally, when life came to mean something more than the stink of petrol and cordite and the roar of a Rolls-Royce Merlin, he would analyse his feelings. And then, with all the clarity of his twenty years, he would know for certain that he was utterly, irrevocably, in love with Julia Connors.

  *

  The corridors of the British Embassy in the Faubourg St Honoré were thronged with people, both military and civilian. There was no panic here, but rather a sense of urgency, of tasks that needed to be carried out and little time in which to do them. Yeoman identified himself to an armed policeman at the door and was shown into the foyer, where a harassed clerk peered at him from behind a mound of papers on top of an enormous Victorian desk.

  ‘Look, old chap,’ the clerk fussed, ‘I’m up to my neck in it. VIPs, and all that sort of thing. I’ll sort you out in a minute. Have a seat over there, will you?’

  Yeoman slumped into an armchair, feeling incredibly scruffy and out of place among the immaculate suits and uniforms that flowed past him. People stared at him curiously. Sardonically, he thought: maybe I ought to have a big placard on my chest proclaiming the fact that I’m a British pilot, in big red capitals. He hid his face in a two-month-old copy of Punch, and settled down to wait.

  He must have dozed off. A sudden commotion awoke him. He looked around, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The foyer seemed to be full of diplomats and generals, all looking at their watches as though expecting something momentous to happen. It would really knock them for six, Yeoman thought, if Hitler appeared in the doorway. With sudden wild humour, he giggled uncontrollably. The group of diplomats nearest to him turned and glared. He returned to the sanctuary of Punch.

  The clerk scurried over. ‘Look here, old chap, I’m afraid we’re going to have to shift you. We’re expecting a VIP at any moment — a very, very important person, you understand. Can’t have you flying types making the place untidy, what?’

  The fruity voice of the man, who appeared more pretentious than any of the diplomats who were his superiors, was beginning to irritate Yeoman. He rose from his seat and mustered what he hoped was a fierce expression.

  ‘No, old chap,’ he said, emphasizing the words deliberately, ‘you look here. I was promised transport to take me to my squadron, and to my squadron I intend to go. So get your finger out, if you don’t mind, or take me to somebody who can solve my particular problem.’

  ‘All right, all right, old man, don’t get het up.’ The clerk looked uncomfortable. ‘Fact is, it’s not as simple as that. I’m afraid your squadron isn’t there anymore. Not at Creil, I mean.’

  Yeoman groaned, feeling his heart plummet into his boots. ‘Then where the hell is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Well, as far as we know they’ve gone up to Amiens. Something about providing air cover for the BEF. I’m really sorry about your position, but it’s getting harder by the minute to get hold of any real information. Communications are falling apart. We tried to ring your Air Headquarters, but it seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. We don’t really know what’s going on up there.’ The man looked a little hurt. ‘You aren’t the only one, you know. Everybody who’s lost or strayed comes to us for help, and it’s not nice to have to tell them we can’t do much.’

  Yeoman nodded, relaxing a little. ‘All right, I’m sorry too, I didn’t mean to be quite so abrupt. Any suggestions?’

  The clerk shrugged. ‘Well, all I can suggest is that you hang around for the time being. I’ll keep on top of things for you as far as I can. We’ll see if we can work something out. You’ve caught us at a bad moment, I’m afraid.’

  Yeoman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as he noticed a general movement towards the door. He walked forward a few steps until he was standing beside a pillar, from where he could see across the foyer and past the groups of diplomats into the street.

  Two limousines had drawn up outside. Men in uniform were milling around them, opening doors and saluting. The diplomats and army officers formed two lanes in the foyer. The clerk kept trying to push Yeoman into the shadows but he resisted, his curiosity getting the upper hand.

  A figure emerged from the second limousine: the figure of a burly man, wearing a dark suit and hat, the stub of a cigar thrust into the corner of his mouth. He shook hands with someone who must have been the ambassador and a couple of others, then stumped up the steps towards the main door, looking neither to left nor right. He was followed by a very tall officer, a craggy-faced man who walked with a slight stoop. He wore a lot of medal ribbons, and the red tabs of a general.

  Yeoman had eyes only for the burly man who stalked into the embassy, nodding curtly to the waiting diplomats. His whole body exuded defiance, dedication and purpose.

  So this is what he looks like in the flesh, the pilot thought. The man who had taken over the reins of power from the weary, disillusioned Neville Chamber-lain; the man on whose leadership and unswerving purpose the hopes of the British people were now pinned. Winston Churchill.

  He felt something akin to panic as Churchill looked straight in his direction. If there had been a hole handy, Yeoman would have crawled into it. He wished he had followed the clerk’s advice and got out of the way. All heads turned towards him. He had never felt so conspicuous.

  Without altering his pace, the Prime Minister turned sharply left and barged his way through the line of diplomats, bearing down on the pilot, head lowered like a charging bull. Out of the comer of his eye, Yeoman saw the clerk making himself scarce.

  Churchill stumped to a halt and removed the cigar stub from his lips, scowling at the pilot. He eyed Yeoman up and down.

  ‘Well, young man,’ he growled. ‘It would appear from your attire that you are some sort of aviator. Pray give an account of yourself.’

  Yeoman swallowed hard and briefly recounted his adventures since the attack on the Meuse bridges. When he had finished, the Prime Minister, who had listened throughout in silence, grunted and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘So. And in the course of your actions, did you succeed in destroying any German machines?’

  ‘Three, sir. A Dornier and two Messerschmitts.’

  Churchill nodded. ‘And now I am to understand that you wish to rejoin your unit at the earliest possible moment?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but there are snags. I was originally told that my squadron was at Creil, not far from here, but now I am informed that it has moved to Amiens. I don’t know how I am going to get there. I’ve travelled over half of France already.’

  The Prime Minister looked away, apparently l
ost in thought. Then, to Yeoman’s intense surprise, he smiled. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘it is my privilege to shake you by the hand. I thank providence for you, and those like you. I think I may be able to assist you.’

  He turned and spoke rapidly to the tall general. Yeoman couldn’t catch more than the odd word. The general looked at the pilot, his cold, bright eyes boring into him, and nodded.

  ‘Young man,’ Churchill said, turning back to him, ‘you will have to suffer another small delay which will not, I trust, exceed forty-five minutes. Then you will be collected and seen on your way. Good-bye, and good luck.’

  Yeoman began to stammer his thanks, but Churchill cut him short with a wave of his hand. The pilot watched his retreating back as he plodded away, followed by his entourage.

  Much later, he learned that the Prime Minister had flown to Paris for urgent consultations with Paul Reynaud, France’s Premier, and General Gamelin, the French C-in-C; consultations which were to have no small influence on the eventual outcome of the Battle of France. Yeoman was to marvel that Churchill, with such weighty matters on his mind, should have found time to deal with the plight of a humble sergeant pilot. He was conscious that he had shaken hands with a very great man, and began to understand that a man’s greatness lay not only in the achievement of momentous things, but also in the consideration and understanding of all those lesser beings with whom he came into contact.

  Yeoman had a sudden thought. He went and found the clerk and asked him to look after the motor-cycle, giving him the address of the inn at Ecury. The man promised to see that the bike was carefully stored away, and the pilot’s conscience felt easier as he settled down to wait.

  Churchill proved to be as good as his word. After just over half an hour, the tall general strode through the foyer, followed by three staff1 officers. One of them beckoned Yeoman to follow. They went outside to one of the waiting limousines; the three officers climbed into the back and Yeoman sat next to the driver, a stony-faced civilian who said not a word.