by Nevil Shute
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Half past three tomorrow.’ That wouldn’t bring bad luck, would it?
He said: ‘That’s a date. Have you got a map?’
She had a map, a map on which in lonely absorption she had traced in red the solitary cycle rides that she had made around Hartley Magna. He studied it for a minute or two and then drew a little pencil circle at an intersection of two lanes. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Half past three tomorrow.’
She smiled up at him. ‘I’ll be there.’
He went back to the mess and she went over to her quarters and up to her room. She undressed partially and lay down on her bed, pulling a blanket over her. Life for her had suddenly become very full of incident. First there was the operation immediately ahead. She took her work very seriously. She had been bored with the work of training at her last station; she had wanted to be more closely in contact with the war. Now that she was at an operational station the war terrified her. From time to time when the machines were coming back from the target she had to bear quite heavy responsibilities in the fleeting moment. There had been a terrible occasion ten days previously when a crippled aircraft running short of petrol over the North Sea had appealed for a W/T fix, and when she gave it had complained, in a thin whisper of Morse, that their transmission had been weak and undecipherable. For a desperate half-hour she had laboured with a flight sergeant and two wireless mechanics to check the station transmission and to get in touch again with C for Charlie, while a stream of signals from the other aircraft were passing in and out. There had been nothing wrong with the transmission. The fault must have been some damage to the receiving set in the aircraft, but they were never to know that. That last whisper of Morse haunted her, making her more vigilant and serious about her work than ever.
Beyond the problems and the perils of the night there lay this matter of the badger’s earth, and Flight Lieutenant Marshall. At her last station she had been out from time to time with young officers, had been kissed once or twice at dances, and had taken it all with an air of detachment that showed her lack of interest. None of them had ever touched the Achilles heel, her interest in country matters. To her this little expedition to see the badger’s earth was like the opening of a door. It was a return to the sane, pleasurable matters that she had abandoned as a schoolgirl, when she had first joined the WAAFs. For the last couple of days she had been well aware that the things she liked to do were to be found at Hartley and that a young man called Peter Marshall was doing them. Now she was to join him in them, for an afternoon at any rate. For her that made an enormous difference to the Hartley scene.
She lay for some time wakeful, thoughtful, and feeling herself to be much occupied, very much involved. Presently she dozed a little. She was called at half past four and went down for a cup of tea before the briefing.
Marshall also lay upon his bed, reviewing the many calls upon his time. He was consciously and absurdly happy; this week, he felt, had been a splendid week. First there had been the big pike; he still got a thrill from the memory of the first snatching take, and the scream of his reel in the first rush. It must, he thought, be rather like catching a salmon, only in the case of the salmon it went on for half an hour or so. It was always in his mind that one day he might be transferred back to Coastal to fly Liberators over the Atlantic; if that should ever come off he would try to get a station in the West of Scotland or the Hebrides, where he could have a crack at salmon. Then there was the badger and fox business, which had been wizard.
Tomorrow afternoon there would be this expedition to the badger’s earth; he looked forward immensely to that. Everyone else upon the station seemed to think him crackers except his own crew, who had similar interests, and possibly the Wing Commander, and now Gervase Robertson.
This operation, he thought, was a bloody nuisance. Certainly it was his job and one had to do a spot of work sometimes. Still, but for that he might have been walking through the woods with Gervase at that moment, showing her things, talking to her, and watching her smile. She would have come with him that very afternoon; he was sure about that, but for the raid. Still, it was something to look forward to, to think about till tomorrow. He wondered anxiously about the weather, would it keep fine for them? He was not concerned that afternoon about low cloud in the night, or ground mists, or icing; it was only important to him that the sun should shine in Kingslake Woods at three-thirty the next day.
And, after that, there was the chance of pigeon-shooting, and he simply must contrive an afternoon to have another go at the pike before the season for coarse fish ended in a week or so, and there might possibly be other afternoons with Gervase Robertson which would take precedence over everything.
He lay for a while revolving his many occupations pleasantly in his mind, and presently he slept, to be awakened in time for his high tea before briefing.
Section Officer Robertson was on duty that night in the control office. She had taken over from her predecessor, and she was now in charge of radio and telephone communications at Hartley, working closely under the control of a flight lieutenant at Group Headquarters, Charwick. Three stations formed the Group: Charwick, Wittington, and Hartley Magna. There was a Group W/T station at Pilsey, a hamlet three miles from Hartley; this was manned for operations by the signals officers from the three stations working in rotation.
In the control building on the aerodrome a radio and telephone room opened out of the control office; this housed the R/T sets and the more secret equipment, and a small telephone switchboard. Four girls were normally on duty in this room upon an operations night, with Section Officer Robertson in charge of them, unless she was on duty at the Group W/T station, when Section Officer Ford took the control. The work was not very difficult. It mainly consisted of taking signals as they came in and marking up a very large blackboard, showing the position of each aircraft in the successive stages of its flight in order that the Wing Commander and the control officer could see the operational position at a glance.
That night the aircraft took off for Dortmund in succession between seven-thirty and eight-fifteen. Miss Robertson was busy with her chalk upon the blackboard while all that was going on; then there was a lull as the machines were winging outward to the target. At ten o’clock she gave the Squadron Leader who was serving as control officer a cup of tea and a piece of cake, and had a little meal herself, sitting at her desk in a corner of the control-room. At 10.35 the first ‘Mission completed’ signal came through, and began another round of duty for her with her bit of chalk.
One by one she marked them up as the messages came through upon the telephone from the W/T station. D for Donald — that was Sanderson. L for London, Humphries. S for Sammy, Johnson. N for Nuts, Davy. R for Robert, Marshall.
She chalked up N for Nuts and R for Robert on the board. The bare office room seemed suddenly more cheerful; she looked through into the radio-room and asked the WAAF corporal for another cup of tea. From his desk the control officer glanced up at the board. ‘Davy and Marshall,’ he remarked. ‘I wasn’t losing any sleep for them.’
She was curious, and vaguely resentful. ‘Why not, sir?’ she enquired. ‘The risk’s the same for all of them, isn’t it?’
He said briefly: ‘Those two have been at this for years. They know all the answers.’
He sat thoughtful for a moment, his eyes fixed on the blackboard, studying the ciphers and figures written neat in the lined spaces. ‘Check back to Group,’ he said quietly, ‘and see if they’ve got anything from H for Harry.’
H for Harry was Pilot Officer Forbes, the second aircraft to take off that night. A minute later Section Officer Robertson said: ‘Nothing yet from H for Harry, sir.’
The control officer said absently: ‘Okay.’
At one-fifteen the first aircraft, D for Donald, was heard making a wide circuit overhead, and the operation of landing the machines began. By two o’clock they were down and parked at the dispersal points, all except the one. Gervase Robertson stayed on
with her sergeant and her corporal in the control-room till after four o’clock, combing by telephone the aerodromes and W/T stations throughout the country for some news of H for Harry. In the cold hour before the dawn she walked back grave and sleepy to her bed, unsuccessful.
Chapter Three
LONG AGO TO thee I gave
Body, soul, and all I have —
Nothing in the world I keep:
All that in return I crave
Is that thou accept the slave:
Long ago to thee I gave
Body, soul, and all I have.
Had I more to share or save,
I would give as give the brave,
Stooping not to part the heap;
Long ago to thee I gave
Body, soul, and all I have —
Nothing in the world I keep.
Translated into English by SIR HENRY NEWBOLT
from the French of Wenceslas,
Duke of Brabant and Luxembourg, 1384
Gervase Robertson woke up in the middle of the morning and got up shortly before lunch, feeling stale and jaded. She looked into the sitting-room of her quarters before going over to the mess. Flight Officer Stevens was writing at the desk. Gervase asked: ‘Has anything been heard of H for Harry yet? It was missing when I went to bed.’
The older woman said: ‘It was shot down over the target. Several of the others reported it.’ She had found, from two years in the Command, that the harder and more matter-of-fact you were about these things, the easier it was.
The girl said: ‘Oh. . . . Did any of them get out?’ Sometimes there were reports of crews who had been seen to bale out, and to drift down in the glow of flares and fire.
‘I didn’t hear of anything like that.’ The Flight Officer folded her letter and put it in an envelope. ‘There are two more officers coming in this afternoon. I’ve just been putting Pilot Officer Forbes’ things together. We shall want that room.’
Gervase winced a little. ‘It’s pretty awful,’ she said quietly. ‘His best friend was killed at Stuttgart — only last Saturday.’
‘Bobbie Fraser. Forbes was very much upset about that — there was a diary.’ The middle-aged Flight Officer lit a cigarette and flipped the match away. ‘It’s not uncommon, that,’ she said in her hard voice, ‘when two boys are great friends. First one goes, and then the other.’
There was nothing to be gained by discussing it any further, nor did either of them want to do so. Gervase went over to the ante-room. Peter Marshall was there looking as fresh as a daisy; when he saw Gervase he came over to her, beer-mug in hand.
‘I say,’ he said cheerfully, ‘have you seen Ma Stevens? She gave my batwoman the hell of a raspberry this morning, just because she went to get a cup of tea for me. I’m going to have an up-and-downer with her about it.’
Gervase said: ‘I wouldn’t do that today, if I were you. It’s not one of her best days.’
‘Why not?’
She could not enter into that with one of the pilots. She said: ‘She’s a bit off colour this morning. Leave it till tomorrow if you want a fight with her.’
‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘But I take a pretty dim view of it. I sent the girl down; if she’s got anything to say about it she can say it to me.’
‘Did she put her on a charge?’
‘No,’ the pilot said. ‘She made her cry instead.’
‘Silly little fool,’ said Miss Robertson unsympathetically.
Marshall glanced at her. ‘Okay for this afternoon?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’
He moved away from her, fearing to call attention if he stayed talking with her for very long. He began a chat with the Equipment Officer about sea-markers that did not mark, a subject cheered beyond all reason by her last words.
They met that afternoon at the intersection of the lanes by Kingslake Woods that he had marked down on her map. The girl was out there first; the weather was kind to them, and she sat for ten minutes on a stile in sunlight waiting for Marshall. He arrived presently, apologizing for lateness.
Gervase said: ‘You aren’t late. It’s only just half past three now. I was early.’
Marshall said: ‘How long did it take you to get here?’
‘About three-quarters of an hour.’ She paused. ‘It’s a lovely ride.’
He said: ‘I don’t think three-quarters of an hour on a bike could be a lovely ride, but have it your own way. We’ve got about half a mile to go.’
They went on together down the road. Presently they got off at the gate, put the machines inside, and went forward up the track between the trees.
Gervase asked: ‘Is this the way you came?’
He nodded. ‘It looked all different then, but this is the place. It was dark, of course — moonlight.’
She glanced around her at the bare trees and the low undergrowth. ‘It must have been sort of eerie,’ she said.
Marshall said: ‘It was damn cold.’
The girl laughed: ‘I forgot. I suppose being in the woods at night doesn’t mean anything to you.’
He said: ‘Well, I usually try and keep above the tree-tops, matter of fact. The boys don’t care for driving through the woods at night.’
She said: ‘But you do get accustomed to the darkness, don’t you? I mean, more than I should be?’
Marshall said: ‘Yes, I think one does. I don’t think I find the black-out so difficult as I used to.’
‘Have you been flying bombers very long?’
‘Fifteen months,’ he said. ‘I was with Coastal before that.’
‘All the time at Hartley?’ she enquired.
‘Well — yes. I did my thirty operations here and then I was grounded for three months and sent to Stamford, and then I came back here again. I’ve done all my bomber flying from here.’
Gervase glanced at him. ‘How many raids have you done?’
‘In all? Fifty-one, if you count four I did as second pilot when I came from Coastal.’
He turned to her. ‘You came from Training Command, didn’t you?’
She nodded. ‘I was at Hornby for a year after I got my commission. Then they sent me down here.’
‘Do you like it?’
She said: ‘I thought at first it was the foulest hole I’d ever seen, but I’m getting to like it a bit better now.’
He was surprised. ‘But why?’ he said. ‘I think Hartley’s a good station.’
She was not sufficiently accustomed to him to be able to shed reticence. She could not tell him yet that the grim anxiety of operations and the casualties, had made her loathe the place. She said vaguely: ‘I don’t know. Some places you like, and some you don’t.’
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘But I like Hartley Magna. There’s always something to do here, not like Northolt or one of those places. I think they’re deadly.’
She was with him in that. ‘Were you brought up in the country? I mean, how did you get to find out about the things you do?’
He said: ‘I’m not country-bred. My home is in Northwood, a sort of suburb place north-west of London, about forty miles from here. I worked in Holborn, in an office, for a bit. No, my rear-gunner taught me how to fish, and Gunnar got keen on it, too. He’s my navigator.’
She thought of the fifty-one raids that he had made. ‘You must have an awfully good crew,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I’m frightfully lucky. Gunnar and Phillips were with me in my first turn, and then when I came back here after the three months I managed to get them with me again. We’ve been together for the thick end of a year.’
‘What are they like?’ she asked. She was wondering what sort of supermen these were, who took a Wellington on raids all over Europe in the dark night fifty-one times without mishap, and apparently thought nothing of it. The risks were real enough; she had to look no further than Forbes and Bobbie Fraser to see that. What sort of supermen manned R for Robert?
He said: ‘Gunnar’s a Dane; he was a medical s
tudent in Copenhagen when the Germans walked in. Phillips worked on a machine in Terry’s chocolate works in York. They’re grand chaps to be with.’
He began to tell her all about them as they walked up through the woods towards the badger’s earth. She listened, a little bewildered. There was no explanation to the point that puzzled her about the incidence of casualties. These were ordinary young men, competent and likable perhaps, but not outstanding figures. Was it just luck that kept the flak away from R for Robert?
He studied her furtively as they walked. She had a firm chin, he decided, beneath a kind mouth; she had rather large, intelligent eyes. Such station gossip as he had been able discreetly to collect led him to believe that she was a good officer, cool in emergency and well liked by her girls. It would be a disaster if she got a transfer to another station.
‘Is your job interesting?’ he asked. ‘What do you do, apart from the control office?’ He knew about her supervision of the R/T; it had been in his mind intriguingly as he was coming in to land soon after half past one.
She told him what she did. ‘It’s interesting enough,’ she said at last. ‘A bit too much so sometimes.’
He glanced down at her. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.
She wanted to confide in him. She walked on for a pace or two in silence. Then she said without looking at him: ‘It’s awful sometimes. Do you remember about C for Charlie?’
He wrinkled his forehead. ‘You mean that chap Sawyer? The time we went to Kiel?’
She nodded. ‘He asked for a fix,’ she said. ‘And when we gave it, he couldn’t make it out and said our transmission was all wrong. That was all we ever got from him.’
He said: ‘I remember. But there wasn’t anything in that, was there? I mean, the station was all right. We got a bearing from you that night, I think.’
Gervase said: ‘Our strength was quite all right. But he thought it wasn’t, and we tried and tried to get it up and make it stronger for him.’ She hesitated, and then said: ‘It was beastly.’