by Iain Maloney
‘Do you think we’re ever going to get through a gig without a fight breaking out?’ I said.
‘Not as long as Joe’s in the band,’ said Terry.
The fire doors swung closed behind us as we went two by two into the darkness.
Another train, rattling from Torquay to Swindon. In London there’d been hundreds of us. In Babbacombe the numbers had come down. Now we were in groups of twelve, each posted to a different Elementary Flight Training School. A dozen. You can’t hide from each other. Certainly not on a train. Ten of us in the same carriage, Pete and Chalky in the baggage car with the kit. The band wasn’t split up, but Clive was with us. He and Joe were tied at one sucker punch each. Maybe it would be over. A draw. A truce. No chance. We were bored. Smoking. Swapping papers, magazines. I spy. Cards. Smoke. Inhale. Exhale. Tick.
‘John Wayne’s real name is Marion,’ said Terry.
‘Aye? Marion? That explains a lot,’ said Joe.
Terry was flicking through old magazines and newspapers, trying to find something, anything of interest. He rolled his head, like he was stretching his neck, trying to ease a strain. ‘Frank Sinatra isn’t in the Army,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t say why.’
‘Maybe he’s in the Navy,’ I said.
‘No, he’s not in the military is what I mean.’
‘He’s got a good voice,’ I said.
‘It’s all right,’ said Terry. ‘Bing Crosby is better.’
I remembered I had a letter from Lizzie. I’d picked up my mail but with packing up and shipping out of Babbacombe, I’d shoved it in my pocket unopened. ‘Oh, a letter is it?’ said Malcolm. He’d been in Doug’s flight group, so we’d never really met until the platform. ‘A girl back home?’
‘Hey, Jack’s got a dirty letter,’ called Bill, another new face.
‘Better not be,’ I said, ‘it’s from my sister.’
‘You dirty sod,’ said Malcolm.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Here,’ said Bill. ‘Where’s that letter you got, Malc? The one from whatsername.’
‘Lily?’
‘No, the other one.’
‘Ah, Babs. You’re not seeing that one. You’ll go blind.’
I slit it open, tuned out of the banter. Paper must be getting short at home, Lizzie had written on blank pages ripped out of a book.
Dear Jackie, I hope this letter finds you well. You did not say in your last letter when you would be leaving Babbacombe. Life on the farm continues much as usual. Mother is convinced that someone is stealing her cigarette cards and Father only comes in for tea and sleep. The ditch in the bottom field has collapsed in but he does not have the strength to sort it himself. Hope you get some leave soon, there are hundreds of jobs waiting for you.
I have been volunteering in the hospital two or three days a week. They do not need me, but you know what it is like. It is not too bad, a few other girls from Inverayne are there so it is a laugh, sometimes. I have some bad news, I am afraid. Willie Rennie is in the hospital, recovering. He is not bad – I mean, he is not critical - but he lost his right leg. He was in Tunisia and got hit by a mortar. He has been in hospital in Edinburgh but they have transferred him here before he goes home. Mrs. Rennie is in every day. Apart from the leg, he is fine. Healthy, anyway. He is not talking much. Maybe you could send him a letter? He just sits there all day, staring at the wall. Write back soon, tell us where you are. Have you played any more gigs? I am writing this outside. It is lovely today, Mother’s roses are beautiful.
Take care, Jackie,
Your loving sister, Lizzie.
‘You alright?’ said Terry.
I swallowed. ‘Aye, fine.’
‘Bird given you the elbow?’ said Clive, giggling.
‘You, shut it,’ said Joe. Clive stood but Bill pushed him back down.
‘A mate,’ I said to Terry. ‘Back home. Lost his leg.’
‘Fuck.’ The joking, the posturing stopped. ‘Where abouts?’ said Joe.
‘Tunisia. Mortar.’
Another one. The list getting longer. Not dead though, that was something. Fuck. Willie? I remembered him alongside me, up a tree, stepping from branch to branch, jumping into the rhododendron bushes, sinking to the ground. I’d write to him. We should get leave after Swindon, I’d go see him. And say what?
No. 29 EFTS Cliffe Pypard, Wiltshire. July – August 1943
The Tiger Moths were lined up waiting for us. We hadn’t slept well the night before. It was like Christmas morning; learning to fly. Every moment of childhood joy. Impatient yearning. Tripping over the steps, our eyes on the kites. Desperate to get our hands on them. We settled behind yet more classroom-like desks and tried to keep our focus on Thor. We’d encountered him briefly the day before. It was his job to decide which of us would become pilots. This man was our God, sitting in judgement. All through the training in London and Babbacombe we’d known this moment would come, when we’d meet the decision-maker. Thor didn’t disappoint. Named for his muscular build, his blond hair and thick moustache, Thor was officially known as Pilot Officer Olsen. If a civilian walked into the room, someone who knew nothing about rank and insignia, he would instantly assume Thor was the boss. He never had to demand respect. That casual confidence of a leader. This was the RAF we’d been imagining, the service we’d volunteered for. Kites, big moustaches and complete command of the skies. Tally ho. ‘This, gentlemen, is the Tiger Moth, our primary trainer, and she is a beauty. The work of Geoffrey de Havilland who was an amateur lepidopterist, hence the name. Before you leave this airfield you will have fallen head over heels for her. Twenty-three feet eleven long, wingspan twenty-nine four, powered by the totally efficient Gypsy four-cylinder a hundred and thirty horsepower engine. This little darling has never ever failed in mid-air. A range of approximately three hundred miles and capable of climbing to thirteen thousand feet at a rate of six hundred and seventy-three feet per minute, you can do what you like to her and she’ll take it. Throw her about, fly upside down for minutes, she’ll come out of any spin or dive with a minimum of fuss and you can bang her into the ground on landing and she won’t break. Which is why we let you loose in her. By the time you leave here, some of you may be permitted to go on to become pilots. This is where we separate the wheat from the chaff, boys. Twelve hours of flying and then an assessment. If you pass, you will become a pilot and go on to fame and glory. For those of you who show sufficient aptitude, you will be asked to fly solo at a time of your instructor’s choosing. Flight Sergeant White, please.’
White took his cue and dished out thick, square books bound between two hard, blue covers. A face of mangled skin and scarred flesh, one eye bulging violently out the socket. One of the civvy girls told us later he’d had to crash land and his kite ran into the petrol depot. He was lucky to be alive, though clearly he wasn’t grateful: From the moment we climbed down from the train in Swindon, he’d been hectoring, insulting and punishing. We called him The Face.
Books handed out, The Face returned to his spot along the wall next to Flight Sergeant Graham. Thor continued his address. ‘This here is your log book. Guard it with your life. It never leaves you. Every second you spend in the air is written down in this book. If you lose it, I will personally hunt you down and do something imaginative and nasty to you. It is more important than your rosary, more important than that photo of your little darling, if it is a choice between losing your balls and losing your log book, you will sacrifice everything you hold most dear.
‘I will be instructing some of you. Others I’ll have little or no contact with. I wish you all well. If you listen, learn, and leave your cockiness on the ground, we will begin the long process of turning you into deadly weapons. There is nothing more lethal to the Nazi than a Royal Air Force pilot in a Spitfire, and if you do what we tell you, exactly as we tell you, there’s no reason why that can’t be you. ‘Now, Flight Sergeant White will assign you to your instructors and then we will proceed to the first flight.’
His job done
, Thor left the room in charge of White. He took the stage, rubbing his hands. The atmosphere changed. ‘Right you lot. You may think you’ve learned a lot about flying with your head in the books at ITW and your pre-pubescent dreams of downing Jerry but I’m here to tell you that you know nothing. Flying is not about weather forecasts or lines on maps. Over the next few weeks we’re going to teach you enough not to destroy His Majesty’s aircraft. We’ll see if any of you actually have what it takes to be a pilot. I doubt it. Every month we get a dozen like you, and every month we send back bomb aimers and navigators, a dozen boys so inept as pilots that they’d help the British war effort more by joining the Luftwaffe. Now, I suppose, by the law of averages, we have to find a pilot one day, but as I look at you lot here, today, it will not be this month.’
By now we were used to these spirit crushing speeches. No-one listened.
Willie. I wanted to write to him, but what do you say?
The Face got round to doing his job. Doug, Pete, Chalky and I were with Thor. Joe, Bill, Sandy and Clive got Graham, and Terry, Malcolm, Danny and Frank got The Face. No-one reacted openly, but inside there was considerable cheering or swearing. We were to wait there in the crew room until called. Bill, Pete and Danny were up first. ‘I tell you one thing,’ said Terry. ‘At least with him sitting in front of me, I won’t have to look at that face.’
‘Second against the wall,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll take great delight in putting that bastard against the wall when the revolution comes. But only after that cunt there.’
Clive gave him the fingers.
Joe jumped up, his chair flying out behind him, clattering into the wall. Clive didn’t flinch. I thought for a moment Joe was going to go for him, but it looked like he was going to stick to threats for the moment. Not going to get into trouble this close to his first flight. They’d circle each other, but neither was going to make a move. We had little to do but wait. Terry suggested cards but we were unsure of our footing and The Face would be waiting to catch us out. The room offered little in the way of entertainment. A wooden hut filled with wooden chairs and desks, a blackboard, a light and some windows. The dark wood soaked up the light and it felt like late afternoon, even though it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Doug rose and walked over to the window. Outside stood the Tiger Moths, three of them were taxiing out in a bumpy line. Even under the control of the instructors they looked like young birds hopping along for their first flight. ‘Away, away, for I will fly to thee,’ Doug said. Others came over to join him and we watched the first three complete a circuit: Up, four lefts, down, out and back to the crew room. Bill and Pete came in with big smiles, already walking the walk. Danny looked pale, the contrast with his jet black hair making it even more pronounced. Thor patted him on the back and looked around the room. ‘Thirty minutes alone and not one of you got a pack of cards out? You’re not going to last long as pilots if you don’t learn to fill the time, lads,’ he said.
‘Sir,’ said Terry, producing his pack in a flash, appearing like they’d been in his hands all along.
‘Preparation is the key,’ said Thor.
The next three were called. I was one of them.
Perched on top of my parachute trying not to think about why it was there. Remain in control, focus the mind. The mind wouldn’t focus, birling off in every direction. Every nerve tingling, every sense primed. I was ready. Time. Focus. Focus on Thor’s broad back. Through the rubber communication tube he was outlining the pre-flight routine, the checks to make, the things to remember, focus on that, listen, Jack, listen. ‘There isn’t much to it, Devine,’ he said. ‘There are so few controls and dials, but the important thing isn’t the utility, it’s the habit. The kite doesn’t move an inch until everything has been checked and rechecked.’ Check, Jack. Recheck. ‘On the left we have the engine revolution counter. Next is the air speed indicator which indicates air speed. Follow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Below that is the cross level so you can fly straight. Then there’s the altimeter which shows your height and the small one is the oil pressure gauge.’
Revs, speed, level, height, oil. ‘Righto, Devine,’ said Thor. ‘Grab hold of your joystick. Move it sideways. See the ailerons moving? They control the angle of bank in a turn. Move it forwards and back and it raises or lowers the elevators. This makes the nose go up or down. Pull back, we go up. Push forward, we go down. Rudder you control with your feet. Speed is controlled by the throttle here, open or shut, and this is the ignition switch. Up for on, down for off. Questions?’
Questions? Is your stomach doing this as well? Were you like this the first time?
‘So I check the chocks are in place, turn on the ignition and ask Doris to kindly start the prop.’
A girl in civilian clothes swung the prop and it took, sending violent vibrations through the kite and through us. Only my clenched teeth didn’t rattle. ‘I will have control throughout the flight. Is your stick locked?’
‘Yes, sir.’ I held my breath. We shuddered forward, taxied into place.
‘Ready?’
Not even slightly.
‘Ready, sir.’
Rolling along the strip, picking up speed, concentrate, Jack. Don’t yell, don’t scream, don’t do anything to embarrass yourself, don’t get classified LMF on day one. Lacking Moral Fibre. A coward begging to be taken back down. Or reckless, yahooing like a drunk cowboy. These are all things that just aren’t on. Not done. Not cricket. Calm, in control. A RAF pilot. I tensed. Up. Airborne. Flying! Seconds, metres dropped away, untense, relax, think that maybe I was all right. I was supposed to be watching the instruments, learning how this kite flew, because in a few flying hours I’d have to do it myself, but the outside of the kite pulled my attention. Outside. In the air. My God, in the air. The freedom: this was what I’d been dreaming for years. All the waiting; All the marching; All the studying. High over the Wiltshire fields. Greens and blues and yellows. Smell of the fuel, feel of gravity. Eyes over the gauges: Fuel, altimeter, horizon, speed. Lifted my sight to the cloudless sky, sun on my left. Remain vigilant. There’s a war on, you know? Thor was saying something. ‘Sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?’
‘I said, how are you doing back there?’
‘Great, thank you, sir.’
‘Not queasy?’
‘No, sir. I’m enjoying it very much.’
‘Good boy. Don’t mind if I make it a bit more interesting, do you?’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Well, our brief is “straight and level flight”. A tad boring all that.’
‘You’re the boss, sir.’
‘Good lad.’
Goodbye stomach. Distance between arse and parachute, straps straining. Bite lips to avoid any sound escaping. This is a test. Numbers rolling down and down towards zero. We levelled out far closer to the ground than I thought safe and buzzed over the forest, treetops within reach. Sharp turns, banking, thrown about, this way and that. Do birds feel like that? Acknowledge the g-force as they spike and curve? Tiger Moths were nothing but canvas and wood and that didn’t seem nearly strong enough to withstand that kind of treatment. But withstand it, it did. Thor brought us up sharp and spun the kite around. Hanging upside down, kept in only by straps, the sound of the engine dying. We coasted along.
‘All right back there?’
‘Yes, sir. Sir, I thought Gypsy engines never failed?’
‘They never do. Unless you fly upside down.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry. Watch.’
We spun the right way up and immediately the engine kicked in.
‘The fuel can’t get into the engine. Once it can there’s no problem.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Good lad.’ We landed and Thor showed me how to fill in my log book. Thirty minutes flying. Duties: Familiarity with Cockpit Layout; Preparation for Flight; Air Experience. Patted me on the back. Enough moral fibre to be getting on with. And that was it, my day over. We spent the
rest of our time chatting, telling the stories of our first flight, comparing, contrasting, embellishing, exaggerating, covering up. Chalky had thrown up. The rule was ‘you throw up, you clean up’. From that day on, no-one ate much at breakfast or lunch.
Besides guard duty and flying, our time was free. The invasion of Sicily had begun, and we caught all the news. Willie should’ve been there, his regiment named. The RAF bombed Rome for the first time. We all cheered that, envious.
Machine gun nests dotted around the base needed to be manned, but since nothing much ever came over, we’d tune in a radio and bask in the sun listening to the latest tunes. We kept our attention on the skies. Everyone worked under the assumption that Jerry knew we were there, what we were doing, and may decide that untrained pilots on the ground were easier targets than fully-trained pilots in a Spitfire. We knew what Jerry would do given half a chance. Well, he wasn’t going to get even half a chance again. Not when we had machine guns and orders to fire. We secretly hoped Jerry would come on our watch so we could get one back. No exams for the first time in months. Flights were about thirty to forty-five minutes a time, once or twice a day depending on weather and rotation. Since we were only allowed up in perfect conditions, the weather became our main topic of conversation. Life was getting comfy. Terry practiced one-handed card cutting, one-handed shuffling, tricks that made him look like a pro card player, moves that might unsettle other gamblers. I was pretty sure I caught him rehearsing some dodgier skills, like dealing from the bottom of the deck, but I wasn’t sure and wasn’t going to mention it. I spent a lot of time in the library. Joe took one look at the library, dismissed it as ‘imperialist propaganda’ and settled down with Capital and a determined expression. He knew he’d never get through it and that if he did it wouldn’t be in full understanding, but Alec’d told him to learn, to keep bettering himself, and by Christ that’s what he was going to do.