Secret Letters

by John Willis

  The night continued more merrily after that conversation and Geoff’s friend in the searchlight unit, Charlie, led the way.

  Charlie stiffened up. He was at his eleventh or twelfth double whisky –a little more than usual and it began to tell.

  With Pete Brothers at the wheel and Carl Capon alongside, the drunken Charlie decided to play a joke. After the men had stopped to relieve themselves by the roadside he pretended to collapse in the road. Pete Brothers drove slowly on knowing that Charlie was playing the fool and would soon catch up. Soon, Charlie was out of sight when a big Army lorry came round the bend.

  Charlie was lying all crumpled up in the middle of the road and panting heavily. Half groaning, half crying he said, ‘Oh Geoff, the lorry. Oh, it’s not a joke… the lorry… lay down, didn’t hear it… ran me over.’ He spoke slowly and faintly, gasped again and went on groaning. ‘I felt as if somebody had tried to strangle me…’ I took hold of Charlie’s hand.

  The utter futility of the whole thing flashed through my mind. A night at an inn. Overdrinking. He must have fallen asleep after lying down in the road. Charlie’s hand was limp, but still warm as he moaned and gasped again. I was beside myself. Suddenly his hand stiffened and gave mine a good squeeze. ‘You bastard,’ I shouted. Charlie guffawed…

  While Myers was dutifully writing his experiences and thoughts in his notebooks, in occupied France, Margot Myers had not heard from her husband in England for nearly six months.

  December 6 1940

  I am waiting for every mail in the hope of receiving another word about you. Just a word to reassure me. I am also waiting for news of the family in Southampton after the devastating bombing there.

  I hope you do not listen to the French wireless. The propaganda of the Paris radio is unsettling. I must not think of France. Let me just think of the past.

  December 12 1940

  The squadron was first moved to the north of England. Killed, missing and posted have accounted for all the officers but the doctor and two pilots. 257 was then moved south again, back to East Anglia, and closer to the front line.

  December 18 1940

  We have now been at Coltishall for little more than a week. Our pilots call it the Bullshit and Bumff Station. Obligatory church parades, a fat volume of standing orders, a mess like a morgue and stiff plots of grass around roads with one-way traffic… a station where fighter pilots are apt to feel they are of secondary importance in comparison with the overwhelming number of portly gentlemen who comprise the ground staff officers.

  We arrived for Christmas. Plenty of good fun, hemmed in by regulations. The WAAFs, who had been over-disciplined for months, went wild, got drunk and lolled around the place kissing officers and men indiscriminately… all because the regulations were applied so rigorously, to give the impression that the place was spotless.

  We arrived here feeling depressed, so we were naturally prejudiced against the place from the start. Pete Brothers was posted from the squadron. He was sent off to be an instructor at an operational training unit… Two others went off at the same time as Pete, then two days after we had moved here, five more of the pilots were posted. The squadron has been torn to shreds. Peter Blatchford is still here. If he goes there will be nothing left.

  Brothers had already turned down one promotion to stay with his squadron until he felt that his job was done. Myers, too, refused a promotion. He was asked by the station commander at North Weald, a man he hugely respected, to become intelligence officer for the whole station rather than just a single squadron.

  I would have liked to serve under him but my heart was with the squadron. I ought to have guessed that it would change again as much as it did during the first phase of the long weeks of the battle.

  In hospital, Pilot Officer David Hunt was recovering slowly from further operations on his burns, as his wife recorded in her book. ‘He was lying there in the big ward where they had moved him. There were blood spots below the crepe bandages over his eyes. He told me that everything had gone to schedule and that he should be home by Christmas. David panicked sometimes behind his bandages. He said it was like that moment in blind man’s bluff when you are suddenly aware of the darkness, and you must tear off the bandages or suffocate. I hated to leave him in his blindness each day at four.

  ‘The purple mask was coming off all the time. The nurse would cut curved strips off it with scissors, and soon there was nothing left but a false nose; a fascinating object, so loose round the edges that you longed all the time to lift it off. It seemed quite natural to have a husband with a purple false nose; and it was only when the nurses were there that I stood back and called him koala…’

  With Brothers and so many others gone, Myers wondered how the squadron would hang together and what the impact would be on some of the younger pilots.

  Carl Capon will not want to stay in a training squadron, even though he has been with us from the beginning. He is no longer shy in the mess. He is glad to find that he can drink double whiskies and be at readiness the next morning. To give himself more confidence, he has taken to criticising the food, the servants and the service as a whole. His criticisms are made in a gentle way… He will never really grow old as long as his golden hair curls slightly over his clean forehead and blue, bashful eyes. Capon is one of the few unmarried pilots who never talk loosely about women. He is chaste. When he goes home it is always to visit ‘Pop, Mum and the little brother.’

  He often talked to Myers about his worries, especially what he would do after the war. Myers always tried to boost Capon’s confidence, to let him know that his skills and judicious sense of right and wrong would serve him in good stead whatever came next.

  He was direct in his speech, clean in everything. His personal affairs were always in order, his laundry placed neatly in his drawers, his post office savings book had a substantial credit. He had become our favourite. I teased him by calling him our mascot. In fact, I always teased him. Tuck had recommended him for a mention in dispatches.

  As Christmas drew closer, Myers naturally thought more and more of his family and, once again, he grew gloomy.

  December 20 1940

  My Ducky, My Little Ones,

  Tonight I happened to look into the mirror and saw an old man. He had a scar on his forehead, wrinkles below and sad, tired eyes. His hair was still dark and he had a trimmed moustache but both might have been grey. He looked as if his thoughts were either a long way away or wandering into the past. He was therefore an old man. Those drooping eyebrows must be an indication of sorrow. ‘Not a cheerful companion,’ I thought. ‘He should pull himself together, not let the gloom get the better of him. He should be stronger, think of the future and be confident. He should be brave.’

  I did not recognise myself. I had to move my head, just to convince myself that it was I.

  Myers found the forced jollity of the wartime RAF difficult. He was, by nature, a serious-minded man with deep feelings. He was also more than ten years older than most of the squadron and had a family in France which set him apart. But he also knew that being jolly was part of his job – a way that he could support his pilots, listening to them over a whisky or heading off to the pub with them. But clearly, he didn’t like it.

  December 31 1940

  My Ducky, my little children,

  New Year’s Eve is over. I went to the sergeants’ mess. I tried to shake off my feelings and forebodings. I tried to be jolly but I could not dance. I have got to hate the sight of flirting women. The WAAFs fill me with disgust and scorn when they throw away restraint so easily.

  The adjutant, Freddie, encouraged me. He hinted that I should force myself to be jolly. I knew he was right. I made an effort. I chatted foolishly, laughed and told jokes. I tried to be social and drank plenty of whiskies and beer. Freddie danced, bumped into me with a WAAF. I took the hint, danced, and was furious. I don’t know what she looked like. I was wondering all the time if I should force myself to dance like this. In the end, I said to
myself ‘Damn it, no. Either be at ease and make others jolly or don’t attempt anything.’

  When we got back to the officers’ mess, Freddie stayed up and played bridge, snooker or poker until four o’clock in the morning. Tomorrow he will not be up in time. Happy New Year! I’m off to bed.

  Geoffrey Myers was right. Ernie did not get up in time for the first day of 1941. Five new sergeant pilots had arrived and Bob Stanford Tuck asked Myers to put them through their paces.

  January 1 1941

  Happy New Year. Good God! What a start.

  Stanford Tuck did not attend the dance last night… there had been other attractions at Duxford. ‘Do you think me very wicked, Geoff?’ He asked, looking at me with those little daggers of eyes that never stayed still. ‘I suppose you’re saying to yourself he’s an awful swine.’ He looked at me apologetically, hoping that I would offer an excuse for him. He was a little worried when I, like a prig, said, ‘Yes, I do.’

  He thought for a moment and said, ‘Well, after all, Geoff, the girl had a good time too and likes it.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t mean with the girl last night but I’m thinking of the other one who hopes you’ll marry her.’ ‘I must tell you of the scene when I woke up this morning,’ said Tuck, ‘it made me laugh like a drain. I was very drunk last night and went to bed with the girl from the reception desk. Her name was Miss Marston. The first thing I heard on waking up was a knock on the door and a horrified “Oh, Miss Marston!” from the chambermaid. I was tickled to death and jumped out of bed. That made the chambermaid more confused than ever as I was stark naked.’

  Tuck laughed again, hit the table and said, ‘Ach, so.’ He had a habit of interposing two words of broken German when he was not quite feeling at ease.

  During the morning Tuck headed towards France to have ‘a thrash round the sky’ and ‘beat up the other side.’ He studied a map of the French coast and headed towards his aircraft.

  After walking a few steps he turned back, looked at me and said, ‘You know, Geoff, I don’t want you to think me sentimental or anything but in case anything should happen, you might give my girl a ring. Here’s her telephone number. Cheer ho!’

  He dived in and out of the cloud over the French coast, chased a Henschel 126, dived through a gap in the clouds on to St. Omer aerodrome and came back for tea.

  Tuck had left the experienced New Zealander, Flying Officer John Martin, to look after any routine convoy patrols. Late in the day, the weather closing in, 257 was ordered to send up two planes on a dusk patrol. When Sergeant Jones, who was due to fly, could not be found, Carl Capon, Tuck’s number two pilot, who had already done an hour’s flying, volunteered to take his place.

  ‘Come on John,’ he said, ‘I want to do a bit of dusk-flying. The clouds were low and there were fits of snowstorms… They took off at 5.30pm when it was almost dark. I felt uneasy. Just after they had taken off, the controller rang me to ask what the weather was like. I said that it was bad, that the cloud base was about 2,000 feet and that it had been snowing. He said, ‘Oh.’

  At six o’clock the controller and Geoff spoke again, and Myers was assured that they would be back in a few minutes.

  I went out onto the aerodrome. A sharp east wind, which had turned the puddles into brittle sheets of ice, was blowing. It seemed a long time before I heard the familiar drone of the Hurricanes. At last I saw the navigation lights of one aircraft circle above the black, open space. I saw the flashes from its recognition light and the aerodrome control pilot flash back his signal to land. Above the red obstruction lights of the hangars the plane circled round again more slowly. I could not stop talking to myself, ‘that’s it. A little higher … now then … good. A bit of a bump, but quite a good landing.’

  As he looked up, Intelligence Officer Myers was surprised to see two more aircraft circling above, although only one other Hurricane had taken off from 257.

  I was a bit puzzled but one of the two aircraft circling above must be from the other squadron stationed at Coltishall or from a neighbouring aerodrome. As one of the planes was circling round the field for the last time before landing, a sudden squall of snow blew up.

  I could hardly see the green and red dots of light, as the snow blew in my face… chance light on. Jove, how the snow shows up in the chance light beam in a whirling maze of whiteness. Just a glimpse of the navigation lights, then the graceful form of the Hurricane was illuminated by the chance light. Lovely landing.

  Myers did not have long to admire the landing as the Hurricane trundled peacefully across the airfield with its white welcome carpet of snow. There was a third plane still to land.

  ‘Good God! What’s that? The third aircraft above the middle of the drome at 500 feet. It shouldn’t be there. Oh! Stop! No! Oh!’

  I bit my lips in agony. The aircraft suddenly appeared to be drunk, reeled to port, banked to starboard. Red, green, white lights whirled around. A gust of snow slapped me in the face. God! The aircraft was going down. There was a great cracking up as it dived nose first into the ground. Not a hope in hell.

  Myers shouted for a fire tender and then jumped on the fire engine as it was overtaking him.

  The fire tender radiator had a leak and the water was bursting into the driver’s face, showing up a shower of golden rain as it was caught in the lights, blinding us all. ‘Over there! Over there! To the right,’ two or three aircraftsmen yelled at us. We could see nothing. The Hurricane had not caught fire. Its lights were out. As we raced over the field we perceived a mass of wreckage.

  ‘Raiders or no raiders, switch your spot lamp on.’ I went up to the wreckage. A gleam of light from the spot lamp illuminated the pilot’s head and back, smashed against the ground. ‘Who is it?’ I tried to recognise the hair, because Martin’s hair was golden russet too, like that of Capon.

  From the gloves the little group thought that the dead pilot was John Martin, although it was difficult to tell.

  The aircraftsmen were looking at the dismal sight, awed by the suddenness, the stillness and the death. ‘You’ll have to get an axe to hack him out.’ As I was looking at the steaming glycol pouring out of the wreckage, trying to ascertain that nothing would catch fire, Pat suddenly appeared. When he saw the dead body he swayed. ‘Come away quickly old boy,’ I said as I held him.

  Pat had been sleeping off the New Year’s party on a sofa in the dispersal room. If he had not been asleep it might have been him out on that routine patrol.

  ‘No, Pat,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to be done. Go back, old chap. I don’t want you to stay here.’ ‘It’s poor old John Martin,’ he said, ‘they told me that Capon had gone into the dispersal room. Poor old John.’

  Just the night before, at the dance in the sergeants’ mess on New Year’s Eve, John Martin had brought his wife, Edna. They had only married in November, and now he was gone before the end of the first day of the new year.

  Poor old John, and there’s his wife waiting for him in the ladies’ room at the mess, ready for him to take her back to the inn where they’re staying. And I’ll have to break it to her. She looked lovely, too, in her evening dress at the sergeants’ New Year’s Eve dance. She and Hugh’s wife were the only two girls in evening dress. They were all of a flutter when they found they were not supposed to wear evening dress. Mrs Martin seemed shy and upset… what a long time ago that seemed! And it was last night. How would I tell her? Poor woman.

  That would be for later but for now the ground staff needed to get the body of John Martin out of his Hurricane and back into the warmth of the buildings. An aircraftsman said to Myers:

  ‘The wreckage is buried very deep, sir, and it’s caught him on the legs, so it’ll be a bit of a job to get him out and we’ll have to fetch some other tools.’ ‘All right,’ I replied, ‘You’d better do that, Sergeant.’

  As he turned in the direction of the Mess, knowing that he needed to tell Mrs Martin before she heard the terrible news about her husband from anyone else, he was taken by surprise.
/>
  ‘What?’ I thought. ‘Good God, have I gone mad?’ There, in the beam of the spotlight was John Martin, staggering, glaring… at what? At whom? John Martin? I grabbed hold of him. ‘Come away,’ I said. ‘It’s all right, Geoff,’ he answered with a sort of groan. ‘I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. He’s dead. It’s poor old Capon.’

  Yates explained that the third aircraft, from a second squadron based at Coltishall, had been given permission to land first.

  I was in turmoil. I took John by the arm, walked slowly across the field with him. He said, ‘I was puzzled when I didn’t see Capon land. He was coming in after me. I had no idea he had crashed until I saw the spotlight, walked over and then noticed you were there… he must have got caught in the snow squall as he was circling in to land.’

  I rushed in in front to tell Pat and warn the others that it was Carl Capon and not John Martin who had been killed.

  That night Geoffrey Myers wrote a letter to his young son, Robert.

  My little Robert,

  Perhaps you will read this one day and ponder over Carl Capon’s death. Perhaps you will say, ‘But why, oh why should he, of all the boys, have been killed in this futile way. It seems so unfair.’ Don’t say that, my little boy. There are things in heaven and earth that we cannot fathom.

  Capon was pure and upright. He had no enemies, yet he was active and strong. He had a sense of duty but never gave the impression that he was righteous in carrying it out. When he spoke, he looked at the listener straight in his eyes. If others made foolish mistakes he forgave them, but he was not indulgent for himself. His code of conduct was based upon his conscience. There was no trace of vanity in his make-up and he was always ready to laugh at himself.

  My boy, your Dad feels that you will benefit by his example. Perhaps you will gain, through me, inspiration from his death to help you in your pattern of life.

  I will not forget Carl Capon. He has helped me, and perhaps he will help you.

  A few days later Myers wrote to his family again.