Too Late the Morrow

by Richard Townshend, Bickers

  ‘That’ll do. And how are things otherwise? Creamy tells me you got yourself shot up.’

  ‘A bit. Sorry about Jorkins.’

  ‘Poor old Jorkins. Luckily my people breed bulldogs. I’ve got a pup back at Callingham; name of Bentley. Looks a lot like Jorkins.’

  ‘You’re looking very smart. Did you fly down?’

  ‘In an old Battle we use for target-towing. I changed before I came wandering round the station: didn’t want to give the wrong impression. We’re a bit tough about turnout on the squadron; I didn’t want to talk to prospective new members in my Irvine jacket and flying boots. O.T.Us are too damn scruffy in my opinion.’

  ‘The Air Force has changed, Ginger. It’s not like it was in peacetime.’

  ‘Well, it can change right back. I won’t put up with sloppy turnout and neither will my C.O.’

  Roger looked at Creamy. ‘Do we really want to serve under this martinet, Creamy?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  ‘You’ve got no choice,’ said Ginger. ‘I’m going to ask for you. And I’m going to want a deputy flight commander quite soon: my present one’s damn good but he’s about due for a rest.’

  Roger said ‘Now it’s bribery.’

  ‘Nothing like a spot of bribery and corruption to oil the wheels. And how are things otherwise, Roger? I read about James now and then, and I was glad to see Christopher had got a good D.F.C. the other day. Seen them recently?’

  Seeing Ginger Pike safe and sound and talking about matters far removed from the O.T.U. and his dreary crew, Roger felt in better spirits and physical fettle than he had since Kate so abruptly ended their affair. Pike did not mention Daphne - who came only fleetingly to Roger’s mind - and he knew that Creamy Devonshire must have warned him off the subject.

  When he was alone again, even thinking about the imminence of his return to operations did not make his old wound ache. But in the lonely darkness of that night, waking in the small hours, he did not feel quite so bold. He sat up and tried to read, but that did not help. He thought about his last five weeks at Blythewold and after a while he thought that perhaps he had found a way in which to derive the courage to face up to the inevitable.

  He was discharged from Sick Quarters the next day, a Sunday. He found that his crew could not be fitted into the flying programme until the afternoon. The chaplain held services in a Nissen hut but Roger did not feel that the atmosphere would be conducive to the state of mind he was trying to attain. He drove to the village and walked into the church just as the vicar was emerging from the vestry. There was almost a full congregation but it was a very small church. Heads turned to stare at him. The vicar looked surprised. During the hymns and psalms Roger felt that his voice was too loud. People were looking at him. He felt self-conscious and dropped his voice almost to a mumble.

  He prayed for courage, trying to summon the fervour which he felt should accompany his ardent wish to be brave and resolute when he next found himself under enemy fire. The only words he could find were those of everyday speech, not the formal entreaties of a prayerbook, and he wondered if that were why he could not, strive as he may, attain a sense of spiritual communication, a conviction that he was in contact with a Supreme and Almighty Being who loved him and whom he loved in return. He had no sense at all of a genuine love for any being except his parents or of true affection for anyone but his few nearest relations: James… Christopher… their parents… and one or two others… Creamy Devonshire… Ginger Pike. He tried to force himself into a mood of feeling some sincere attachment to God, in whom he thought he believed but for whom he could find no love at all in what he supposed must be his soul. He begged God to grant him physical courage and strength of will, but when it came to loving Him he could visualise only a biblical illustration of a meek and mournful-looking Palestinian carpenter who needed a haircut; and he could see no way in which he could honestly declare a love for a Middle Eastern artisan with whom he would not even know how to be friends.

  Roger rose from his knees knowing that he had done his best, trusting that some good would come of it, but aware of a considerable disappointment that the great effort had yielded no spiritual exaltation whatsoever nor even any sense of conviction.

  He was the last to leave and the vicar was standing in the aisle a few feet away, watching him. It was not the vicar’s habit to stand in the porch shaking hands with each member of his congregation as they left and saying a few polite words. That was the custom only in upper middleclass parishes; or in the country, where the squire and his friends expected such courtesies. It went with invitations to take a glass of sherry at one house or another or at the vicarage itself, before going home to lunch. It would have been as out of place in this squalid community as orchids on the altar.

  The vicar was a hollow-cheeked, sallow man with a hint of body odour and the smell of woollen undergarments which had been harshly laundered for too many years. He had evidently found his way to this sullen corner of Lincolnshire from the Midlands, to judge by his Black Country accent.

  He held out his hand and attempted a smile.

  ‘Good morning. I’ve very glad to see you here. But I hope I’m not robbing Squadron Leader Ponsonby of a member of his congregation.’

  ‘How d’you do, Padre. No, I’m afraid I’m usually flying on Sunday mornings. The station chaplain won’t have missed me.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have gone to his service: I gather they’re very sparsely attended.’

  ‘I needed… wanted to come to a proper church, Vicar. To get away from the camp altogether. I needed an atmosphere in which I could pray.’

  The vicar looked embarrassed. ‘Well… I’m glad you came… I hope you found what you wanted… If you’ll excuse me, I must have a word with the verger… Give my regards to Squadron Leader Ponsonby… Glad to have met you.’

  Roger felt that he had made an indecently extravagant revelation. He felt like saying that he would not trouble the vicar again, but instead he muttered ‘Good morning’ and departed.

  *

  Acw Pugh was making his bed when he went into his room.

  ‘Hello, Taffy. Late this morning, aren’t you?’

  When she straightened up and turned to face him he saw that her eyes were red.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I’m not complaining, Taffy,’ he said gently. ‘You’re usually so brisk and early.’

  She burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Hallowes… ‘ A grubby little handkerchief, damp and screwed into a ball, appeared in her hand. It was a hard, calloused little hand, reddened with drudgery.

  Roger quickly took a handkerchief from a drawer and gave it to her. ‘Here you are. Now, what’s the matter. What can I do to cheer you up?’

  She sat on the bed. ‘Nothing… no one can do anything… I’m frightened to go home… ‘ She began sobbing loudly and tears flowed down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s up, Taffy?’

  ‘I’ve got to take my discharge… I’m having a baby.’

  Good God! This unappetising little drudge? Roger was filled with compassion.

  ‘Who’s the bas… the swine that… ?’

  ‘He’s not… he’s lovely… at least I think it was him.’

  ‘Aren’t you sure, Taffy?’

  ‘No… ‘ She was still weeping. ‘There’ve been four of’em… lovely boys… pilots… three sergeants and an officer… I loved them all and I’m scared of my Da… he’ll belt me.’

  Roger felt sick. It was worse than the worst fright he had ever had in action.

  *

  Callingham gave Roger a greater spiritual uplift than his attempt to derive it from religion. It was a handsome pre-war station with mellow brick buildings and a large officers’ mess adorned by Virginia creeper. Besides the early 1920s buildings were later single-storey ones, but even among the wartime additions there were no Nissen huts or wooden structures. There were two tennis courts at one side of the officers’ mess and two squa
sh courts behind it. There were trees around it and around many of the other blocks. The parade ground was surrounded by a wide grass border and flower beds, which suggested pleasant peacetime ceremonial attended by smartly dressed ladies and their escorts rather than brazen-throated sergeants hectoring defaulters on punishment drill.

  The station playing fields adjoined the aerodrome and on the day that Roger and his crew arrived a rugger match and a soccer match were being watched and cheered by large groups of officers, airmen and W.A.A.Fs. The village began only half a mile from the main gates. It was well-kept, with a wide main street, a marketplace, a cinema and several good-looking pubs. It seemed a prosperous place. The farmers in the district were well-off and it was close enough to Norwich to attract affluent businessmen and their families as permanent residents. The main road was only three-quarters of a mile from the airfield and the village had a railway station.

  Roger drove Devonshire, Unwin took Bailey in his big Wolseley and the others followed by train: MacTavish grievously hung-over after a final drinking session with his cronies in the sergeants’ mess.

  Wing Commander Wetherall, who commanded the squadron, was an obvious Cranwell product and an equally obvious Etonian. Roger would have recognised all the signs on the young wing commander’s personal totem pole even if he had not been showing an inch of shirt cuff with thick gold links enamelled with the Eton badge on one side and the colours of the Old Etonian tie on the other; and even if there had not been four framed group photographs on his office wall bearing the R.A.F. College’s name and badge. Two of these were of the Cricket XI.

  Weatherall was pink-cheeked, blue-eyed and flaxen-haired; which made him look five years younger than his twenty-seven. He had a D.F.C. and the General Service Medal for four pre-war years in India. He was tall, lissom and wore tunics which were slightly longer and more fully skirted than the regulation pattern. He wore battledress only when flying and had contrived to obtain a roll of the shoddy material from which they were made so that he could have two tailored to his own measurements and lined, like his tunics, in sky-blue silk. Into his left cuff he always tucked a crimson silk handkerchief, which he used exclusively for polishing the monocle through which he read his correspondence and other official documents.

  He disarmed Roger of whatever prejudice his flamboyant style may have aroused by the firmness of his handclasp and the cordial informality of his greeting.

  ‘Jolly glad to have you. We’re lucky to get chaps like you, with a long tour already to their credit. You’re all too rare.’ He gave Roger a cheerful smile of equality and complicity. ‘You’ll find you cut a lot of ice with the squadron. Everyone else except the two flight commanders and myself, and one other captain, is first tour. We haven’t many gongs on the squadron. With two, you’re going to find yourself the cynosure of a lot of attention. Don’t let it embarrass you. But it’s bound to make you feel that a great deal is expected of you.’ He paused. ‘Well, it is. And not only by the less experienced types, but also by me. You can be a great power for good on the squadron: the others will automatically look up to you. Ginger Pike, of course, will back you all the way. You probably know him even better than I do. And of course you can count on my full support.’

  Roger was not at all sure about the circumstances in which he might expect to call on all this support of which he was being assured, but he didn’t much like the sound of it. It had an ominous ring.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let the squadron down.’

  ‘I know you won’t. We’ve had a couple of rather dicey dos lately and some of the chaps were a bit shaken. You’ll be a steadying influence.’

  Roger had no desire to be a steadying influence over anybody except, and in that order, himself - which he faced with less than total confidence - and his crew; on whom he had no difficulty in imposing his authority: which might have to take the place of influence by example. As long as he could dissemble his fears, he would not disgrace himself; but the very existence of those fears hurt his pride. Ginger had mentioned nothing about recent casualties having unnerved his squadron. The tenor of the squadron commander’s interview had made a smooth shift in portent and its significance had become suddenly and shockingly evident. Roger had never expected to wish that he were back at the O.T.U. he had just left, but at this moment another month’s training would have been a boon.

  He vaguely heard Wing Commander Weatherall say '‘You’ll need three or four days to shake down, then we should be able to put you on the ops roster.’

  It was as though Weatherall were offering him a gift or a reward, but the only gift he wanted was of courage and the only reward the assurance of survival to a healthy old age.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He stood up, saluted and walked to the door, hoping that his back expressed all those sterling qualities which his C.O. had just assured him he so abundantly possessed.

  Leaving Squadron Headquarters, he saluted a dazzling blonde in a leopardskin coat who smiled at him from the huge, dark blue VI2 Lagonda Rapide drophead coupe in which she had drawn up near the entrance.

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked Pike when he reported to him.

  ‘The C.O’s missus. Isn’t she a stunner? He snatched her away from a promising career in films. They live in a super little manor house down the lane, which they’ve rented. They give wizard parties.’

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  ‘Good works, I expect. She’s always organising or doing something for the erks’ welfare.’

  Roger licked his lips. ‘I wish she’d do something for mine.’

  *

  Roger found that the briefing procedure had greatly changed since he had last flown an operation. It was no longer a casual affair carried out in the Operations Room. A Briefing Room had been built onto the Station Headquarters block, with a dais at one end and rows of chairs and benches facing it. On the end wall behind the dais was a map of eastern England and enemy-occupied Europe.

  It was an occasion for captains, second pilots and navigators only. The wireless operators would be briefed separately by a Signals officer and the air gunners by the squadron gunnery leader, a flight lieutenant air gunner. The squadron was putting up ten crews.

  When Roger led Unwin and Bailey in he saw that a red tape pinned to the map led from Callingham to Colgone along a route which was supposed to avoid flak belts and night fighter standing patrols as much as possible. From the gossip he had heard in the past four days, he gathered that it was a very slim possibility. He wished he had led a better life and resolved to mend his ways if he returned unscathed from this trip. It was typical of the horror in which all the Christian Churches held sexuality that he thought of leading a better life not in terms of being kinder, more generous, less gluttonous or slothful, but only in terms of chastity. From his first evening in the mess he had set his sights on an attractive raven-haired girl with an olive complexion and a lilting accent which he did not know was contemptuously dismissed in India as ‘chee-chee’ and branded her as socially unacceptable. She had taken a degree at Lucknow University and been commissioned in the W.A.A.F.

  without having to go through the ranks. Her name was Spinks (‘Call me Dollee’) and something else that Roger and most of the other officers were too untravelled to know was that she was a Eurasian. On the brink of venturing to bomb Cologne, he renounced the flesh in the shapely form of Section Officer Dorothy Spinks in a silent pact with his Maker and with the hope of a good bargain.

  The station commander, both squadron commanders and all four flight commanders sat in the front row. The other squadron was also putting up ten crews. There was by now an established ritual. When all the crews were seated, the two wing commanders who commanded the squadrons went out to report to the group captain and followed him back. Everyone stood up on their entrance, the group captain called out ‘Sit down, please’ and with a loud scraping of shoes and the legs of forms and chairs, they did so.

  The squadron commanders took it in turns, if both squadro
ns were on a raid, to start by announcing the actual targets at the crews’ destination. Tonight it was Weatherall’s turn. The targets were a steel works and an electricity power station, with a railway yard as a secondary objective. He gave the take-off time, the height at which to fly out, bomb, and return. He warned of what other types of aircraft would be over Germany that night, how many, at what heights and what should be done to avoid collisions. He said what the bomb load would be. After him came a Meteorological officer to give a weather forecast; an Intelligence officer to inform the crews about enemy flak, searchlights and night fighter activities; an Armament officer to elaborate on the bomb load and fuse settings.

  It was to the Intelligence officer that Roger listened with the greatest interest. A chain of German radar stations had been set up from Norway southwards across Holland Belgium, Germany and, to date, northern France. These detected approaching raiders and kept track of the movements of the defending fighters. The fighters each patrolled in a certain area, ready to be diverted to an individual bomber or the bomber stream. It was an increasingly effective defence and already, three months previously, had cost the R.A.F. ten per cent of the force it sent out one night. Searchlights and flak were co-ordinated with the radar and fighters.

  The misfortune of the bomber crews was that the same weather conditions which favoured them helped the enemy. They needed moonlight and an absence of low cloud in order to see well enough to bomb accurately. In those conditions, the German night fighter crews could best see them. Low cloud, which made precise bombing impossible, also hindered the searchlights.

  Roger had made a special study of all this.

  Tonight, the Met officer predicted high cloud; and Roger knew there was a moon, because he had driven Dolly Spinks home in the moonlight from the village cinema the night before.

  Dolly Spinks had kissed him goodnight with her mouth wide open and she had made his senses reel. He reckoned he was sacrificing a lot by offering to give up Dolly Spinks’s kisses and all that they portended, if God would bring him back unharmed from Cologne.