First Time Solo

by Iain Maloney

  Four men on watch on the bridge. Captain in the middle, two flanking him, one more at starboard, the fourth at port, eight binoculared eyes and the Captain’s weathered look. I was at starboard, the emptiness of the ocean, the sea and whatever was under the surface. I stared, hoping I’d never see a periscope, that nothing would come, that if there were something, I’d see it in time. She lurched ungainly against the waves, her usual slow roll exaggerated. Every six minutes another course change, zigzagging like a drunk.

  Out from Gourock at night. Everything done by the military under cover of darkness. Hanging around, last minute letters. She was anchored off the coast for protection, Jerry bombers, so we were ferried out and came on board up that massive black hull. Like an island she stood, blocking the horizon. ‘No way that thing floats,’ someone said. ‘No fucking way that thing moves.’

  The Titanic was made of metal and stone. Tiger Moths are canvas and wood.

  Pitch and roll with the swell of the sea. She’s floating. She’s moving. Welcome aboard, and Devine, you’re on guard duty.

  I relieved the Yank, who handed me a machine gun. ‘See this space here, buddy? Anyone wants to board through here, shove this in their face and tell him to fuck off. Everyone comes on over there, where you came on.’

  It was a shell door, about six feet off the sea. ‘Who’s going to come from down there?’

  ‘Some of the crew are on twenty-four hour leave, but most’ll be back late. One more glass, one more trick. They’ll come up here so they don’t get caught. You’re to stop em, right?’

  ‘Do I shoot them?’

  ‘Best not to. Ever used one of these?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Well, let’s keep it that way.’

  Scan left, right, near, far. Looking for unnatural geometry. The straight line. Should be fine, at full steam she could outrun any U-boat. Soon be out of range, closer to America than to Europe. A four day crossing. Dry land. Those boys in the U-boats though, by Christ. Rather them than me. They can have the ocean, I was going to the New World. America.

  The dark streets and bright lights, the smoky clubs and smoky girls, Glen Miller, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, a mythical world that came through the wireless. It was mythical, yet I was on a boat heading towards it. The wild west. Of course, we might be going to Canada. I thought about Canada. Nothing. An hour of my watch left. I closed my eyes against the binoculars and could feel sleep coming. Snap out of it. A few hours into that first guard duty, as we lay off Gourock, the sound of drunks trying to be quiet rolled up the hull and a rough naval head appeared. ‘Hey lad, any officers about? No? Give us a hand up then.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been told to let no-one pass.’

  ‘Come on, out the way.’

  ‘No. I’ve got orders.’

  ‘Aye, but orders is for officers, not for the likes of us. Let us up and we’ll see you all right. Extra rations. Bit of grog on the crossing. We look after our own.’

  Brought the gun up. ‘Best to go back down. Come up the proper way.’

  More swearing. The Navy must have their own dictionary. ‘Officious little prick aren’t you? Bloody pilots, poker up their arses the lot of them. Come on Jock, get out the fucking way.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You planning on shooting us? No? Then get the fuck out of the way.’

  I cracked the barrel against the rail, clanging in the dark. ‘Fooksake, that thing could go off.’ Hard look in the eye. ‘Fine Jock, you win. We’ll try another way. We’ll remember this though. Hope you don’t need for anything in the next few days.’

  An hour later the Yank returned and took his gun, handed me a stick instead.

  She was built for luxury, the Queen Elizabeth, but you’d be hard pushed to notice. The Navy got hold of her, retro-fitted her to match the needs of troops crossing the Atlantic. Stripped of all her finery, anything that might make us working class boys who’d never get on her in peacetime realise the fact, realise that even at sea the haves live far better than the have-nots. The cabins were kitted out with bunk beds, the floors bare. Not a carpet in sight. The wood however was beautiful. As we’d descended that first night I ran my hand appreciatively over it, feeling the smoothness, the run of the grain, until my fingers caught on something, a groove. Kilroy was here

  Shook my head. There was more vandalism in the cabins. The American troops had passed their time confined below decks carving their names into the wood. A memory, Joe carving No Pasaran into a tree. Watch over, I entered the bunkroom, a splitting headache and a pain in my eyes like someone had held a match against them.

  There was little but tension and seasickness on board. All British ships were targets but the Queen Elizabeth, the biggest and fastest ship in the merchant fleet, would be the jackpot for Jerry. All four hundred of us onboard knew it. To cap it all, we weren’t allowed on deck. Too dangerous. We could get in the way or attract attention. We were trapped below, except when on duty. There was fuel to burn.

  I groaned and pulled myself up again, reached under my pillow.

  ‘You’re not playing that in here, mate.’

  ‘Dinnae worry, I’m going out.’

  We weren’t allowed to go up on deck but as long as we didn’t get in anyone’s way or get seen by a bored officer, we could wander around below deck. Some of the lads preferred to go down to the engines, listen to the roar, talk to the engineers who did all the work, made the thing go. Joe would’ve been straight down there, seeking out comrades. I’d found a room near the back that no-one seemed to use, a meeting room it looked like, but empty of any furniture. I figured it might be safe to use. Music practice isn’t subversive so I probably wouldn’t be in too much trouble if someone came along. During the day I could remove the blackouts from the portholes and look at the ocean, this time with the eyes of a traveller rather than the eyes of a watcher. I could imagine Britain receding into the distance and for some reason I felt lighter. It wasn’t that I don’t love old Blighty, just I never thought I’d ever get away from it. Born on a farm in the North East of Scotland, it took a war to get to Edinburgh, let alone overseas. No grand tour for the likes of me. I’d always wanted to see the Far East; that would take World War Three. But it wasn’t Britain I was escaping. I’d told the Warrant Officer everything. He took off his cap. Scratched the back of his head. ‘Look, mate. I’m here on me tod. Hundreds of men passing through, coming in, coming out. Us lot, Yanks, Canadians, fucking French and Poles and Christ knows who else. You think I’ve got time for this? If you’ve been up to no good in Manchester it’s none of my business. That ship turning up in New York without you on it? More than my job’s worth.’

  He got an MP to escort me onto the launch, told him I was seasick, a coward, LMF. A truncheon in the back and then cast off.

  A week out, there was no land to be seen in any direction. In my mind, as I pictured Britain getting smaller I couldn’t help seeing it in darkness, burning. The last three years had been blackouts and air raids and now that’s how I thought of her. A low dark shape on the horizon, hellish glow of fires, cones of searchlights, distant insect whine of Jerry bombers, crump, crump, crump.

  We were never bombed at home, out in the middle of nowhere, beyond the targets on the coast, but at night you could hear the bombs falling on Peterhead, on Aberdeen, and see the damage on the rare trips into town for the pictures, the markets. That near miss in Manchester, the whistle, the silence. That burning landmass slipped behind us as we sailed and I felt relief. Guilt at that. The bombs were still coming, sleepless nights and distraught days, burning homes and streets reduced to rubble, and there I was, racing across the Atlantic to what must be the safest spot in the whole world. Ma, Da, Lizzie, all had to stay, had to face whatever was to come.

  A few months and I’d be back, a proper pilot and ready to be sent up against the Luftwaffe in a Spit or a Hurricane. Then I could try to silence the ghosts, all those voices demanding justice.

  I blew an F sharp, ran up and down a bit,
not really playing, just warming up, slow and mournful at first, thoughts moving through my breath, sticking around the low end, improvising a tune like an old dirge on the pipes, something to play up in the heather after a battle as the claymores and the kilts lie bloody. It suited the weather, the situation, dark and sombre. I never blew hard in case a U-boat was up and listening, some sharp-eared Captain hearing Night in Tunisia across the water, but gently, as my mood shifted, play helping me forget, I began to move up into the higher registers, a note here, a trill there, intruding on the theme like sunlight through clouds, the balance shifted, light ran throughout like the moments before dawn. Perfectly weighted, two distinct motifs moving away from each other. The music suggested images, ice floes on the ocean, massive plates floating around and I imagined the motifs that way, floating around, and I, the player, had to choose one before it was too late and so with one final push the darker melody dropped behind the horizon, it was day and the lighter tune won. I finished on one final F sharp, two octaves up, held it, lip-trilled harmonics but ended clean, bright. That idea, the ice floes. Like me and Scotland, floating apart. But if I could move, maybe Scotland could too. Today it was moored off the coast of Europe but in a few million years, who knew where it could be? Somewhere tropical maybe, with palm trees and coral reefs. I imagined Scotland like the Hispaniola in Treasure Island, freeing itself from the anchor of England and sailing off to more exotic climes, all hands on deck, mountains like sails, Shetland as a rudder and me, Jack, Jim Hawkins, scrambling over the ropes, up the masts, exploring below decks. England falling over the horizon as I, onboard the RMS Queen Elizabeth, moved towards America. That ship was like a continental plate, a self-contained metal world moving between the Old World and the New. I started a new tune. One of Terry’s but improvised in a bebop style, like Nathanial had taught me. As I played I fantasised they were all still with me, like it had been in Babbacombe. Doug in Rhodesia, Terry God knew where. Joe? In prison. A quick arpeggio and I left the room, tired.

  You stand by your mates

  Four hours watch. Eight off.

  Straighten up and fly right, Jack. Food. Tea. Newspapers read and reread and circulated and recirculated.

  Days passed.

  Late morning, we arrived. I was cooking, bubbling. About ready to blow. I needed off that boat. Away from myself. Work. Action. Something. From the moment the Statue of Liberty could be seen, all the threats and colourful imagery the Captain could muster failed to keep us off the deck. That skyline. Liberty. The Empire State Building minus giant monkey. All those buildings scraping the sky, tops like churches, like cathedrals, castles and that’s what they were, the cathedrals and castles of the wealthy, the American dream.

  Bridge, strong and graceful. The scurry of boats and ships this way and that across the water, ferrying, carrying, moving the people, moving the wealth. The hard angles, the human geometry of it all, sharp and fixed, a clear victory over nature. Smoke, black and white rising, drifting across the clear sky. Industry at work. The harbour side was lined with waving crowds. We disembarked, hardly a sight to inspire confidence. Like returning from war, not preparing to go. More like refugees than brave warriors. The seasick had yet to lose their pallor. Yet the New Yorkers cheered us. As we attempted to march through the crowds a woman handed me a banana. I looked into the faces trying to see something of the America I knew from the cowboy books and films, from the music, from the Yanks I’d met in Britain. Some glimpses, some turns, the voices, those accents, Satchmo, but these were real people, flat caps, trousers held up with string and everything. Docks are docks. This could’ve been Leith, Greenock, Aberdeen.

  Gratitude

  Much of the information about RAF training came from my grandfather, Tom Foubister. For enduring endless questions, for allowing me access to his log book and memories.

  My grandmother, Marjorie, for background details, day to day life and for never letting me forget that women contributed just as much as the men.

  My mother, Patricia, for passing questions and answers between Grandad and me. Without her efforts, I’d never have been able to produce anything. For this and a multitude of other debts. Adrian Searle, for years of support and encouragement; Rodge Glass, for bringing clarity and insight when I’d lost both; Judy Moir, for support, advice and patience; Vicki Jarrett for catching my many mistakes. Robbie Guillory and all at Freight for everything.

  Simon Sylvester, Robert Porter and Michael Callaghan, who read the book in its various badly written and poorly proofread forms. When I get lost in the trees, I couldn’t ask for better friends to show me the woods.

  My father, Michael, for everything over the years. And of course my wife, Minori, for the love, the support, for dealing with a husband who wakes up at three in the morning with an idea and switches on the light to note it down, who spends much of his life in front of his laptop and who for years at a time lives inside his head playing with imaginary people.

  Acknowledgements

  The majority of background information on RAF life and training, and day to day existence for recruits came from my Grandfather. I also read a great deal in preparation for writing this novel, and two books in particular proved invaluable:

  By The Seat Of Your Pants! Basic Training of RAF Pilots in Rhodesia, Canada, South Africa and USA during WW2. Hugh Morgan (ed.). (Newton Publishers, Kent 1990).

  How It Was In The War: An Anthology. Godfrey Smith (ed.). (Past Times, London 2001).

  They provided a factual base for my flights of fancy, and the anecdotes inspired a number of smaller incidents in the book. My thanks to the editors and writers involved.

  By some reckoning, the Second World War started in Versailles in 1918 and ended in Warsaw in 1989. The war against Fascism is part of our collective consciousness and to attempt a list of all the cultural sources that fed into this book would be impossible. The sheer amount of writing, film, television and art about or inspired by the conflict is intimidating, but soon that will be all that remains. Everyone who fought in the Great War has gone. All too soon, the generation that fought on the beaches and on the landing grounds will join them. I hope this book may be a tiny pebble added to the memorial cairn for a truly special generation. Not the few, but the many.

  Quotations

  Nagasaki, words and music by Harry Warren and Mort Dixon. Straighten Up and Fly Right, words and music by Nat King Cole and Irving Mills.

  ‘Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,’ from Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats.

  ‘The British Army is not fighting for the old world. If honourable Members opposite think we are going through this in order to keep their Malayan Swamps, they are making a mistake.’ From Aneurin Bevan: A Biography: Volume 1: 1897-1945 by Michael Foot.