by Iain Maloney
The top brass filed back out, leaving us with Sergeant Hawkins, the man we’d mistakenly saluted that morning. ‘Right. Over the next few months, here in London and at other postings, you lot will do nothing but drill and study and only if you successfully clear every hurdle, only if you do exactly what is expected, walk the line without deviation, only then will you be allowed anywhere near His Majesty’s aircraft.
‘This isn’t Sunday School. You’ll be given no leeway as recruits: Learn the rules, follow them or suffer the consequences. You aren’t men yet. You’re nothing. My job is to turn you into men. To turn you into RAF officers. We are not interested in what you think or what you hope. You are here to learn how to follow orders without question, how to march, dress, speak and think in one standard fashion. Individuality will not be tolerated. You aren’t needed for your creativity or your ingenuity or your intelligence. You are needed because kites can’t fly themselves. The RAF doesn’t need human beings, it needs machines who follow orders. This is just the beginning of that process. So heads down, mouths shut or you’ll never see the inside of a cockpit. Clear?’
Clear enough.
The morning was a blur of orders, shouts, rooms and forms and names. Snatched conversations, brief introductions.
‘All right, mate? Seen room 213?’
‘Tommy’s the name. London born and bred. You?’
‘EYES FRONT!’
‘Nice suit, pal, how much that set you back?’
‘Spare a smoke?’
‘QUICK MARCH.’
‘Jack.’
‘Clive.’
‘Micky.’
‘Nev.’
‘How do?’
By lunchtime I was desperate for a minute to myself. I took advantage of a lull to nip to the toilet, lock myself in a cubicle and just be silent for a minute or two. In my suit, carrying around my suitcase and trumpet, I wasn’t part of anything yet. In the afternoon we would get our kit, head to our digs. Maybe once I changed into the uniform, got the cap on, stashed the bag, I’d become an Aircraftman Second Class. Every time we passed in the corridor Joe said something like ‘the swan flies south for winter, Mata Hari.’ It was just like Dod had said. The next room and the next; lists of rules, facts, figures, statistics. I sat behind a too-small desk trying to fathom the military language on the stack of paper in front of me and thought about my mother’s belief that ‘school prepares you for life.’ I’d thought that meant school taught you how to survive in the world but I was beginning to suspect otherwise. Any time I’d been involved in anything official it featured classrooms, too-small desks and someone shouting. Time blurred, seconds dragged, hours disappeared. That morning’s forms were filled, the lectures over. Lunchtime.
The mess, it turned out, was the restaurant at London Zoo. ‘Do we get in to see the animals, do you think?’ I asked Terry. He shook his head, dipped a chip in his fried egg. ‘I’ve never been to a zoo,’ I continued. ‘I thocht I might get to see a lion or a giraffe.’
‘Thocht?’ said a voice from down the table. ‘What the ’ell does “thocht” mean?’
‘Thought,’ I said, reddening.
‘Christ, mate,’ said the man. ‘You don’t ’alf speak funny.’ The others at the table laughed. ‘You a foreigner?’
Now I’d get it. It was like being back at school. In Campbell’s class an inadvertent ‘aye’ could get you the cane. A word like ‘thocht’ and your hand would be raw for a week. Constant alert, constant vigilance. ‘He’s Scotch,’ said another voice. He’d an accent I couldn’t place then, but later learned was Mancunian. ‘That’s why he speaks funny.’
I kept my head down, tried not to listen. I could imagine Lizzie on her feet, giving them a barrel of anger and a barrel of wit or Willie, his quiet look, ‘Outside. Now.’ As much as I wanted to, as much as the anger was there, I knew I’d stumble, trip over myself, make things worse. ‘You think you two sound normal?’ said Terry. We all looked at him. They were as surprised as I that he was coming to my defence. The cockney recovered first.
‘More normal than you, you Welsh cunt.’
‘Really? Normal for an Englishman would be the King’s English. You think you speak like the King?’
‘The King’s English?’ said someone behind me. I turned to see Joe standing with a tray of food. ‘That cunt cannae even manage a single sentence. Why would you want tae sound like him? M-m-m-m-m-my l-l-l-l-l-l-oyal s-s-s-s-s-s-subjects. That’s your King whose arse you’d kiss from sunup to sundown and you think “thocht” is funny?’ It was a riot. They were on their feet, shouting, threatening. I ducked down, out of harm’s way. Terry hardly moved, just his head turning back and forth like it was a sporting event, a football game or something, following the abuse, nodding at a particularly good insult, shaking his head at a weak attack. Blows hadn’t been traded yet, but it was only a matter of time.
‘If you Jocks hate England so much,’ said the one who had laughed at my accent, ‘why are you fighting for us?’
‘We’re no fighting for you,’ Joe replied. ‘You think we’d die for you and that stuttering cunt of a King?’ He couldn’t leave it alone. ‘We’re fighting against Fascism. We’re all fighting the Nazis but that doesnae make us all English, does it? The Yanks and the Russians and the Free Poles are all fighting the Nazis but does that make them English? Course no. First we fought Fascism in Spain. Now we’re fighting it across Europe. When that’s done we’ll fight Fascism in Britain.’
‘There’s no Fascism in Britain,’ said the same voice.
‘Where does Mosley come from? And Lord Haw-Haw? Half that stuttering cunt’s family are Nazis, so they are.’
I wanted out. Joe was dividing us into groups. I said nothing. I couldn’t see, seated in the ring, but officers were coming. The circle thinned as the spectators retreated. Everyone had scarpered, leaving Joe, his adversary, Terry and I, and a few others at the table, staring at our food, projecting innocence. Joe hadn’t noticed. Hawkins let him go on for a moment more before interrupting. ‘So, you’re a Red then, are you Jock?’
‘Aye,’ he said, wheeling round.
‘Sir!’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Yes, sir. This is the King’s Army and we use his English here.’ I wondered exactly how long Hawkins had been there. If he’d heard Joe calling King George a cunt, he was finished. ‘Name?’
‘Joseph Robertson, sir.’
‘Report to me after, Robertson. You’re on a punishment drill for insubordination.’
Joe looked like he was going to say something, but held it together. The officer waited, his raised eyebrow, sarcastic smile egging Joe on. Joe was boiling over but he wanted to be a pilot as much as the rest of us. He kept the lid on. A nasty grin spread across Hawkins’ face.
‘We don’t like Reds here, Robertson. The Soviets may be on our side now but we won’t forget they were on the Nazis’ side first. Turncoats, each and every man of them. Nazis and Communists? Both scum.’
One slip and he’d be out. Hawkins had made that clear.
Veins twitched. Fists clenched and unclenched. Hawkins left and Joe sat down next to me. The men he’d been arguing with scarpered. Joe said nothing, just started eating.
Orders: Collect kit. Report to digs. We were billeted in requisitioned flats in the area. I looked at the address, at the map I’d been handed, paper flapping around in the wind as I tried to hold it steady without dropping my suitcase of the new kit I was now loaded down with. One of the London boys took charge.
‘Follow me, lads,’ he said. ‘Abbey Road’s just round the corner.’
I felt like a pack horse: Suitcase, two kit bags, a back pack, a side pack and a gas mask box. We were supposed to march all the way there, but nobody could manage it carrying all that. Knackered, each coped as best he could. I was used to heavy loads from the farm but Terry, who was also in Abbey Road, was struggling. I wanted to help him. Hawkins, the evil bastard, was watching us, waiting for someone to step out of line. We set off, an
unsteady troop. Down the street we turned right. The second we were out of sight of Hawkins our line disintegrated completely. ‘Fuck me,’ said a voice. ‘If I wanted to do heavy lifting I’d have joined the bloody artillery.’
Bags were dropped and rearranged. I helped Terry get his side pack and gas mask box on properly, tightened the straps of his backpack. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Now I know how a snail feels.’
From a side-street, Sergeant Hawkins appeared on a bicycle. The few who noticed snapped to attention. He was purple with rage, though also sporting a smirk of satisfaction. ‘What the hell do you lot think you are doing? You are in His Majesty’s Royal Air Force now, not your bloody nursery, so you will damn well begin acting like it.’
We leapt back into line at the sound of his voice and a lot of bags were dropped. Lesson learned: Always assume that somewhere there’s an officer watching.
Hawkins sent us on our way with an earful of abuse. We continued along Abbey Road, counting down the numbers until we reached ours.
‘Bloody hell, boys, this is proper posh.’
High, old buildings, red brick walls, a wide, tree-lined road. Up to then the only posh place I’d ever seen was Inverayne House, seat of the Southalls. Inverayne House stood on the other side of the small forest from our farm. Ma worshipped Lord Southall as a great example of the British gentleman, good manners, always nicely turned out, spoke beautiful English with no hint of an ‘aye’. Throughout our childhood we never heard the end of him: ‘Do you think Lord Southall acted like that when he was your age?’ I was sure he did much worse. We weren’t even allowed to use the central doors or the stairs at the flats on Abbey Road. We had to use the ‘staff’ entrances and the back stairs. The rooms had been cleansed of anything that might resemble luxury. ‘I’m amazed they didn’t strip out the toilets and replace them with a bucket,’ said Terry. Sharing a room with seven others, including Terry. Four sets of bunk-beds jammed into a single bedroom. Where was Willie sleeping? I didn’t fancy a hole in the desert. We threw our stuff on our beds and set to unpacking.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘They’ve at least left the beds and the sheets. I thought we might be camping on the cricket ground.’
‘These are nice sheets,’ said Terry. ‘Worth a bob or two. I wonder if they’d miss any?’
I tried to unpack as best as I could but there was nowhere to put anything. All throughout the building, all along Abbey Road, all across St. John’s Wood, my new comrades, my fellow fliers were doing the same. Hundreds of us unpacking, sorting, changing. Making new friends. Getting into arguments. Pushing kit under beds. I stashed my trumpet out of sight.
Terry had half emptied his suitcase. Cigarettes, chocolate, nylon stockings, a brown paper package, random bags and envelopes were spread out over his sheets. I had the bottom bunk, he the top. It was clearly all black market stuff. I pretended not to notice. A few years back they’d introduced harsh penalties but after years of rations, around us it was business as usual trading potatoes for meat, flour for veg, whatever you had that others wanted. Da swapped milk for whisky. Said it went much better with his tea. Our room-mates also spotted Terry’s stash, as I guess he intended, and a discussion of prices started up. It reminded me of the farm: Watching Da haggling over a penny, the disinterested air of the interested man, the semi-aggressive nature of the conversation. A battle. I’d have to do it myself one day, with Dod gone. I couldn’t imagine it. Lizzie now, she’d be brilliant. Maybe she could take over the farm. ‘How much? For how many grams? Look mate, you may get that in the valleys but you’re in London now, you’ve got to be more realistic. It’s a buyer’s market here.’
‘Fine, go out on the market for your chocolate and nylons, but if you’re wanting your hoggins tonight, you’d better get moving.’
‘Hoggins? I’d say all that chocolate is for him.’
‘And the nylons?’
‘Sleep with your backs against the wall, lads.’
We got changed. There was something about the weight of the uniform, the heft of it, the feel of the material that straightened your back, aligned your shoulders. We stood there admiring each other, angling our forage caps this way and that, trying to get the best effect. All fits were an estimate.
‘Christ, I’m going to need rubbing with lard to get in and out of these.’
‘Stop eating all that chocolate then, tubby.’
‘You could fit three of me in this jacket.’
‘It’s so you can wear it over your parachute.’
I folded my civvy suit away. The uniform was the first clothing I’d ever had that Dod hadn’t worn before. I closed my suitcase.
‘What’s that?’ said Terry.
‘What’s what?’
‘That.’
‘Oh. It’s… it’s my trumpet.’
At that moment the cockney who’d been our guide stuck his head around the door. ‘All right boys? Settling in? Just spreading the word. There’s a boozer round the corner if anyone’s thirsty.’
I looked at Terry. ‘Pint?’
He shrugged. ‘Pint.’
The pub was pretty full when we arrived. I wasn’t sure whether to stand at the bar or find a seat, whether to offer to buy a round or just get myself a pint. The only pub I’d ever been in was The Clansman back home, but I knew everyone there. I knew not to sit in Mackie’s seat, that the last barstool meant getting up every time Norma needed to collect glasses, that the third table along was wobbly and if you didn’t stick a beer mat or two under it your pint would end up in your lap. Terry pushed his way through and ordered two pints of bitter, handing one to me. ‘Always get the first one in. Everyone’s sober so they remember you buying your round and the group is usually at its smallest so you can save a bit.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
‘Cheers.’ He seemed content to stand at the bar.
‘No-one but us RAF boys, by the looks,’ I said. ‘Makes sense. We’re billeted in local flats, so the locals must be elsewhere.’
I’d never met a Welshman before, and his accent was a little hard to follow. A bit Orcadian, but harder, more bass. ‘So,’ I said, trying to make conversation. ‘Wales. What’s that like?’
‘Like anywhere else, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Some have, some don’t. Some work, some don’t. Rain falls down, crops grow up.’
‘Any brothers, sisters?’
‘Brother.’
‘He in the forces?’
‘No. Down the pits. Same again.’ He gestured with his glass. I took the hint. He was constantly looking past me, over my shoulders, up and down the length of the bar, like he was searching. ‘Cheers,’ Terry said. ‘Back in a bit.’ He went over to the hatch at the end of the bar, beckoned the barmaid. Great, I thought. I only know one person and he’s buggered off. Everyone around me was deep in conversation. How do you break into a group, join a conversation without being rude, without bringing the chat to a halt? I could stand there waiting for someone to talk to me or I could look busy. There was a paper on the bar. That would do. Now I was alone in a crowded bar, I realised how tired I was. It had been a long couple of days, the goodbyes, Ma crying, Da at the gate, pipe smoke fog, Lizzie walking me to the station all ‘have you got your piece?’ and ‘did you remember your hankie?’ playing the nagging mother. Leaving home, the train down, all the marching and paperwork and meeting new people. After that pint I’d head back, I thought, write a quick letter home, get my head down. Tomorrow was bound to be exhausting, and the day after. We were in for a hellish few weeks and we’d have fire-watching night shifts on top. Sleep would be rationed. A body pushed in beside me. Joe.
‘All right there. Nobody talking tae you?’
‘Just having a look at the news,’ I said.
‘Dinnae blame you. Right bunch of wankers this lot, I’ll tell you. The fuckers I’m bunking with, fairies the lot of them. Service!’
The barmaid was still talking to Terry, so an older bloke I assumed was the landlord came over. ‘Pint of heavy, pal.’
‘Heavy what? Speakee English? Heavy, pal. Pint.’
‘Listen Chief, I’ve no idea what you’re on about. Now if you want a pint, tell me which beer.’
‘Fuck sake, what kind of country is this? No fucking heavy?’
‘Oi, Chief, watch the language.’
‘Language, fucking aye. What’s that piss you’re drinking, Jack?’
‘Bitter,’ I said.
‘Fine, pint of bitter.’
The landlord went off shaking his head, muttering. He must get it a lot, I thought. Folk from all over the country. No locals, no regulars anymore. Can’t be much fun. I wanted to say something to Joe, ‘he’s just doing his job’, something like that. ‘Here you are, Chief.’
Joe took a filthy pound note out, handed it over. The landlord sighed. ‘Got anything else?’
‘What you mean, got anything else?’
‘Anything that ain’t Scotch. These notes are as good as useless down here.’
‘What you mean as good as useless? That’s a pound that is. See. I promise to pay the bearer, pounds sterling, the King’s fucking head there, clear as day.’
‘Watch the language. I know what it is, we’ve had enough Scotch through these doors. But I can’t circulate it. If you’ve got any proper money I’ll take that.’
‘You’ll fucking take that or you’ll get fucking nothing, pal,’ said Joe, his voice rising. Up the bar I saw that Terry had stopped talking to the barmaid. She’d slipped from behind the bar and gone outside.
‘I’ve told you, watch the language. Any more of that and you’ll be out.’
‘Out? Fucking out? You’re gonnae fucking throw me out? I’d like tae fucking see that. I’d like tae fucking see you try, cunt.’
‘Right. I warned you. Out.’
‘You and whose army?’