633 Squadron

by Frederick E Smith

  1

  “I always thought it one of the greatest stories of the war,” the young American said, his eyes shining. “The way those boys went in, knowing what was coming to them. . . . Gee, what great guys they must have been!”

  The innkeeper’s eyes were growing reminiscent. “They were,” he said, “Great guys.”

  “And every operation connected with the Black Fjord was carried out from here?”

  “Yes; Sutton Craddock was made their base. They arrived in January ’43, and began training for the job shortly afterwards.”

  “So you’d met the rest of the squadron—Gillibrand, Barrett, Bergman ... all of them as well as Grenville himself?”

  “Yes, I knew them all.”

  The American shook his head in envy. “Grenville has been my hero since I was a kid at school. I never thought that one day I’d be standing in the pub where he and his boys used to drink their beer.”

  His eyes wandered round the lounge. Like the rest of the Black Swan it was of great age, with panelled walls and a timbered ceiling blackened by the smoke of centuries. Polished brass ornaments were everywhere, some shining golden in the soft lights from the shaded lamps, others winking back the firelight from the stone hearth. The counter against which the American and his friend were leaning was a massive structure, scarred and weathered, and at one end of it a large bowl of daffodils glowed with startling brightness against the pitch-black wood. Behind it a huge stand of oak shelves obstructed the view into the bar which lay beyond.

  But the outstanding feature of the room was its photographs. These were hanging in double tiers round its panelled walls. There were pictures of aircraft: of a

  Boston, of a crashed Messerschmidt 110, of a graceful twin-engined plane with R.A.F. markings and cannon protruding from its sleek nose: there were photographs of airmen, some in flying-kit, others in uniform, nearly all young and nearly all smiling. Among them, seeming incongruous in their company, was the portrait of a tall, fair-headed naval lieutenant. In its way the room was a hall of fame: the innkeeper’s tribute to courage, to the men he had known and loved.

  The American drew in a deep breath and turned back eagerly. “Tell us something about ’em, Pop. Tell us all you know about the Black Fjord job.”

  “Haven’t you read the war histories?” the innkeeper asked.

  The American’s voice was contemptuous. “Of course, but you know what they are. They’re so cold-blooded they give you the creeps. Folks want to hear the real stuff—how those boys felt during their training, the girls they had, what they let out when they were drunk, how they felt on the last day. . . . The human stuff! One day some guy’s going to put it all down, and what a story it’s going to be.”

  There was an odd light in the innkeeper’s eyes now. “You mean a biography that tells the stories behind the story.”

  “That’s just what I mean, Pop. And you must know a few of ’em yourself—a pub’s a great place for hearing things. How about telling them to us?” The American motioned towards his companion, a young English pilot officer alongside him. “Me and Danny here are pretty soft on 633 Squadron. We heard about your place a few weeks back and made up our minds to do a trip up here the first chance we got. We thought if we came across soon after opening time you might be able to spare us a few minutes. We’re due back tomorrow, so don’t let us down.”

  The innkeeper, heavy of build and short-sighted, looked at each eager face in turn. Both men were young, no more than twenty-two or three. The American, who had introduced himself as Malcolm Daly, was slimly built with dark hair and humorous yet thoughtful eyes. He was wearing the uniform of the

  U.S.A.A.F. His friend in the R.A.F., Danny Johnson, was more stocky of build with sandy hair and a square, pleasant face. Both were still young enough to feel hero-worship, and the atmosphere of the room had brought its glow into their eyes. The innkeeper glanced at the clock, then nodded.

  “All right,” he said, “I was going to look after the bar until eight, when a friend who’s staying with me is due back from Highgate. But I’ll ask my girl to take over. She won’t mind—we never do much business on a Monday, particularly in the lounge. Take your beers over to a table while I go and ask her.”

  The two pilots went over to a table by the fire. Two minutes later the innkeeper returned. He had a thick folder and a photograph album under his arm. He put them down on the table in front of the two men.

  “There you are,” he said to Daly. “There’s your biography. And here are some more photographs.”

  Daly stared at him. “Biography!”

  The innkeeper smiled. “Yes. I’ve already done what you said—written a biography of 633 Squadron’s operation in the Black Fjord, or the Svartfjord as it’s called in Norway.”

  The American was dumbfounded for a moment. He picked up the folder and stared at it. The English boy was the first to speak.

  “Are you going to go through it with us?” he asked eagerly.

  The innkeeper settled his heavy body into a chair beside them. “Yes; I’ve arranged it with Ivy. She’s going to finish her tea in the bar and take care of both rooms. She’ll manage all right—as I said, we get very few in on Monday night.”

  The eager mood of the two airmen had infected the innkeeper, and he was now as keen to talk as they were to listen. He opened the album and pointed to a photograph of two shell-tom aircraft. “That’s how two of the planes looked after getting back from Bergen. They flew four hundred miles like that....”

  At that moment a car engine sounded on the drive outside. It revved up once as if in protest, then died sullenly away. After an appreciable pause a man entered the lounge. The innkeeper half-turned, saw Ivy bustling through from the bar, and turned his attention back to the airmen.

  The newcomer, wearing a trilby hat and an old, belted mackintosh, hesitated in the doorway. The atmosphere of the room seemed to daze him with its impact, and the sight of the three men at the table to add further irresolution to his movements. Be was turning back to the door when he shook his head almost angrily and approached Ivy at the counter. After a further glance at the engrossed innkeeper, he ordered a beer in a low, unfriendly voice.

  Ivy, blonde, over-ripe, inquisitive in a good-natured way eyed him with interest. In his middle thirties, she’d say, and not at all bad-lookin’. ... A commercial traveller was her guess, having drink to help him forget how badly things were going. . . . She watched him take his glass into the comer by the door, then shrugged and returned to the bar. The newcomer sat among the shadows, his head lowered, his eyes alternating between the photographs and the bespectacled innkeeper at the table.

  The innkeeper closed the album and pushed it aside. The young American grinned. “That was just to whet our appetites, Pop, huh? Now for the story. I can’t wait—this place has got me....”

  The innkeeper was suddenly aware himself how the atmosphere had grown. The past was very much alive tonight—an invisible force, tugging at the sutured veins of his memory and starting the living blood flowing again.

  As he drew the folder towards him, he suddenly thought of the newcomer and peered back across the room. His short-sighted eyes detected the blurred, shadowy figure in the comer, and he wondered if he should invite him over. He finally decided against it: the war had not hit everyone alike. If he were interested he would surely come across without being asked. He would be able to hear what they were talking about clearly enough in the quiet room....

  As he turned back to the airmen, the light reflections from the framed photographs, distorted through the lenses of his spectacles, surrounded the room with dozens of luminous shapes. His mind, conditioned by the atmosphere of the room, gave him an instant simile. Like ghosts, he thought—their ghosts, gathering in silen
t company around them. But why had they come tonight, and what was the strange eagerness among them . . . ?

  Both amused and irritated by his imagination, the innkeeper turned to the American. “You’re quite right about there being a great deal missed out of the war histories,” he said. “Much of the truth could not be told at the time. In fact, it has taken me all these years to get permission to write this biography. Apart from the intelligence work and the organization behind the raid, it also tells the inside story of 633 Squadron—why they were nearly wiped out over Bergen, and the real reason for Grenville’s attack on the building there. It might even explain why Gillibrand won himself a V.C. ... Of course, no one can ever know the full workings of a man’s mind in a battle crisis, but at least the facts help one to make some shrewd guesses. I think you’ll find all those facts in here.”

  There was respect as well as eagerness on the faces of his listeners now. “You’ve got all that in?” Daly muttered.

  “Yes; this is the complete story of the operation. It starts with 633 taking up their new base on the airfield opposite, and ends among the Focke-Wulfs and flak in the Black Fjord.”

  There was a hush in the room as the innkeeper opened the folder. The ghosts nudged one another and drew nearer....

  And this, in somewhat greater detail, is the story they heard.

  2

  633 Squadron took over its new airfield at Sutton Craddock on the 8th January, 1943. It was a bleak day with a spot of drizzle and a raw wind from the east. The deep, low humming of the aircraft grew louder until the windows of the Black Swan were rattling with the noise. A crow, perched high on the crab-apple tree in the front garden, took fright and fled down the road like a startled enemy bandit.

  The first Boston appeared out of the cloud. It was piloted by Grenville, and he brought it low, studying the layout of the airfield. He caught sight of the lone inn on the road alongside the field and wondered what it was. A Cockney voice suddenly came over the intercom.

  “Looks as if the natives are friendly, skipper. See that girl down there, waving to us? Now ain’t that nice ...?”

  That was Hopkinson, his observer. Hoppy had the eyesight of a sparrow-hawk. Grenville’s eyes, the only part of his face visible above his mask, crinkled in a brief smile as he wagged his wings in reply. Then Control came through again and once more his gaze became intent on the airfield. He completed a circuit, then came down to land. With flaps down and engines throttled back, the Boston swooped over the field and landed as gracefully as a ballerina. The rest of the squadron followed her down, scattering groups of sparrows like dry leaves in a wind.

  The Black Swan across the way was an old country inn with thick, whitewashed walls and a grey slate roof. Behind its front garden was the private porch that gave access to the living quarters. Alongside it a gravel drive led to its two public rooms, the bar and the lounge, both of which were at the side of the inn.

  On hearing the approaching engines, Maisie, the barmaid, had run to the door of the bar. She was a big, handsome girl with black hair, dark eyes, and bold features. She stood on 'the steps, waving a duster at each plane as it roared by. She was joined a few seconds later by the innkeeper, Joe Kearns. Kearns was a man in his middle fifties, bespectacled, stout of build, with thinning white hair and a pleasant, ruddy face. He stood peering up into the drizzle until the last plane had gone by.

  It was a Bombay, full of administration and other groundstaff officers. Its black hulk passed right over them, the air whining through its struts and over its airfoils. Then it had landed, and the sky resolved itself into a formless ceiling again, devoid of shape or colour or noise.

  Maisie’s eyes were still sparkling with excitement as she drew reluctantly back into the bar.

  “They looked fine, didn’t they, coming in low like that? Did you see ’em waggling their wings—they saw me wavin’ to them.” There was satisfaction in her strong, throaty voice.

  A smile pulled at the comer of Joe Kearns’ mouth. “Yes; they saw you all right.”

  There was an archness in Maisie’s walk now as she stepped back to the bar. She flicked her duster reflectively over it.

  “I wonder who they are. One of the guards we had last week said they were a crack squadron cornin’ here for special duties. The corporal with him gave him a nasty look, so there might be somethin’ in it.”

  “We’ll probably get to know soon enough,” Kearns said, closing the door to keep out the drizzle.

  Maisie’s eyes turned dreamy. “Gee; just suppose they’ve got some of those aces among them, like those you read about in the papers! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” She looked eagerly at Kearns. “D’you think any of ’em will come over tonight?”

  Kearns shook his head. “I don’t know, lass. They’ll have their own messes, don’t forget. But we’re bound to get some over eventually.”

  One of them, although not one of Maisie’s aces, decided to go over that evening before dinner. He was Adams, the Station Intelligence Officer. Before leaving his billet he hastily checked his appearance in a mirror. The S.W.O. was a terror for smartness—there had been more than one case of senior officers being reported to the adjutant for untidy dress----

  The mirror showed a man in his middle forties with short legs, a plump, round face, and spectacles. His service greatcoat added to his stoutness and the peaked cap made his face look owlish. Nothing could look less military and Adams turned away from the vision in distaste.

  There had been no need to worry about his appearance, he thought, as he groped his way up to the camp entrance. The black-out was complete, he could have gone out in his shirt tails and no one would have known. Twice he wandered off the path into sticky mud, and once he stumbled heavily against a pile of stacked bricks. Nothing is more bleak or unhospitable than a newly laid airfield, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he passed by the sentry at the entrance and started down the road.

  Adams was something of a complex character. He hated war, yet would have given his right arm or a leg to have been young and fit enough for flying duties. Temperamentally he was unsuited for Intelligence work because of the romantic streak in his nature which constantly rebelled at having to keep silent over the deeds of courage he heard almost daily. He was a keen observer, highly imaginative, self-critical to a fault, and utterly contemptuous of his role in the war, being quite certain that the crews he interrogated shared his contempt. His wife was a woman fifteen years younger than himself—another indication of his inherent romanticism—and it was because of her he was making his present call at the Black Swan.

  He stood now in front of the black-out curtain of the lounge, staring round at the panelled walls with their glinting brass ornaments. Maisie, reading a thriller behind the counter, looked up and quickly preened herself. He wasn’t exactly the film-star type, but still he was a squadron-leader and Maisie decided he deserved one of her Sunday-aftemoon smiles.

  “Good evenin’, sir. What can I get you?”

  Adams approached thé counter. “Good evening. Is the landlord about? I’d like a word with him, please.” “The landlord, sir! That’s Mr. Kearns. Half a mo’, I’ll give him a shout for you.”

  With another bright smile, Maisie swung off to the side door, her skirt swirling invitingly about her legs.

  “Joe,” she shouted. “There’s a gentleman from the aerodrome to see you. A squadron-leader.”

  Kearns entered the bar, eyeing Adams curiously. “Good evening, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a place for my wife,” Adams told him. “I’ve just arrived today and one of the workmen said you had rooms here. What’s the position?”

  Kearns shook his white head regretfully. “Sorry, sir; but I don’t let rooms any more. I’m a widower and can’t get the help to do the cookin’ and that sort of thing. Help’s hard to come by these days, you know.” Adams looked disappointed. “If it’s only the cooking, I don’t think my wife would mind doing her own.”

  “It
isn’t only that, sir. There’s the washing and the cleaning-up....”

  “Mrs. Billan would help you out there,” Maisie interrupted. “She said she’d give a hand if ever you were stuck.” The grateful look on Adams* face encouraged Maisie to continue. “He’ll never get a room in High-gate—it’s full of evacuees. Go on—let him have one here. We’ll manage.”

  Kearns shifted uncomfortably. He was a kind-hearted man who always found difficulty in refusing a request. Maisie, exploiting his weakness ruthlessly, went on: “It ain’t right to keep a Service man away from his wife, not when you’ve got empty rooms. It ain’t patriotic.”

  She winked at Adams who felt his face redden. Kearns scratched his head. “You think your wife wouldn’t mind doing her own cooking, sir?”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Adams said, who was not sure at all.

  Kearns was still undecided. “I hadn’t intended to let them,” he muttered.

  “Go on—let him look at them,” Maisie said, “It’s the least you can do for someone who’s fightin’ for us.” Adams felt himself flush again. Kearns gave way. “All 9 right, sir. Seeing how things are, I’ll do it. You’d better come through and see what I’ve got.”

  “That’s better,” Maisie said cheerfully, opening the flap of the counter to let Adams through. “It’s up to us all to do what we can for the Services.”

  Somewhat hastily Adams followed the landlord. He came back ten minutes later, looking pleased. He went round the counter, then approached Maisie, who leaned forward.

  “Well; are you all fixed up?” she asked.

  “Thanks to you, yes. What will you have to drink?” “You don’t have to buy me a drink for that.”

  “I want to buy you a drink,” Adams said awkwardly. “What will you have?”

  Maisie surrendered gracefully. “All right; if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll have a drop of gin—we managed to get a few bottles last week. Like a tot?”

  “No; I’ll have a pint of bitter, please.”

  Maisie poured the drinks, then leaned voluptuously against the counter. “Were you in one of the planes that passed over here this afternoon?”