It wasn’t so bad as this when Gillie was here. Gillie didn’t give you time to think. He was always pushing you about, making you do this and that, never leaving you alone. Sometimes it was irritating but it did help to take your mind off things. . . . What a wonderful thing to be like Gillie . . . afraid of nothing . . . doing anything you wanted to do without first thinking of the consequences.
Mind you, there had been times when he had hated Gillie. He had hated him when he attacked that flak ship. For weeks he had dreamed of that murderous flak, of steel cutting upwards through his body.... He jerked now at the memory and sweat formed inside his clenched hands. That hadn’t been fair of Gillie. And it wasn’t fair of him to take the chances he was taking up in Scotland. The way their kite had lurched when they hit that tree. . . . And a couple of days later . . . Dawson and Taylor . . . dying in flames for doing the same thing....
Yet, on the other hand, you couldn’t help feeling confidence in him. He gave it to you with that big laugh of his. He was so tough and sure of himself that he seemed indestructible.
But no one was indestructible! He’d kill them both sooner or later. And even if he wasn’t so reckless, how long could you last in this game? At their last station, when they’d been operating on maximum and sustained effort for weeks on end, their losses in crews every two months had equalled their entire complement. So even if you were one of the lucky ones, like Gillie or Grenville, how long could you hope to last?
And now there was this new job coming up. From all the fuss and training it looked as if it might be one of those suicide raids.
Panic swept over the boy, bringing first a hot sweat, then a cold one. He couldn’t go on; he couldn’t stand the flak any longer. That raid on Eindhoven had finished him. If it hadn’t been for Gillie all the squadron would have heard of it by now. But they all knew he was on the way out—you could tell it by the way they avoided his eyes and the way they bought him drinks. They knew all right.
And soon the M.O. would know. And then he would be grounded and disgraced. The dreaded letters L.M.F. would appear for all time on his documents. Grounded for Lack of Moral Fibre—a denounced coward, an object of derision for any safe clerk or aircraftman. And it would not end there. Knowing himself, he knew that that final proof of his cowardice would torment him for the rest of his life.
His body, tortured by his thoughts, rocked backwards and forwards in his chair. Tears stung his eyes. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that other men were never expected to face enemy fire while he, who had already done twenty operations, could have L.M.F. put on his documents. It wasn’t fair that some men grew up like Gillie and others like himself. His tear-stained, resentful eyes lifted to the pin-ups again. Gillie got everything out of life. Girls brightened up immediately on seeing Gillie but never showed a spark of interest in him. They knew; they could recognize a failure better than men. And they were less forgiving, particularly over cowardice.
He’d go crazy if he stayed in here much longer, and yet he couldn’t face the Mess. He remembered what Gillie had said, that if he felt like company he should go over and have a chat with Maisie in the pub. . . . He’d like that—Maisie was very pretty—but how would she treat him? She’d always been friendly, but that might have been for Gillie’s sake—she was crazy on him.
Jimmie was a good quarter-of-an-hour before making up his mind to go. After all, he finally argued, if she wasn’t glad to see him he could always come straight back....
There were no more than half a dozen customers in the lounge and he felt very conspicuous as he approached Maisie at the counter. But she gave him a bright smile.
“Hello, dear; I was wondering when you were coming to see me.” She motioned to one of the stools alongside the bar. “Here, sit down and talk to me. What are you going to have—a beer?”
They boy nodded. “Yes, please.” He hesitated, then went on with a rush, “Will you have a drink with me?”
Maisie’s dark eyebrows lifted in good-natured surprise. “Say, you’re getting the idea! ’Course I will, dear.”
She was pleased the boy had come over. Humming cheerfully she drew his beer, then bent forward and helped herself to a bottle underneath the counter.
She was wearing a black satin dress with a plunging neckline. As she bent forward Jimmie could see the deep cleft between her generous breasts. He found his eyes drawn down in guilty fascination.
“You’ll be missing the big boy, I suppose.”
He realized with a shock that she was looking up at him and could see where his eyes were fixed. His face burned with colour.
“I’m sorry. ... I mean yes. . . . Yes, I am. Very much.”
She threw a quick glance downwards and saw where his stare had rested. For a moment her dark eyes were amused.
“I’ll bet you’re missing him. What are you doing with yourself at nights?”
“Nothing, really,” the boy muttered. “I haven’t been out since Saturday.”
Maisie tut-tutted her disapproval. “You could have come over to see me. I ain’t far away.”
Jimmie’s face was still flushed. His efforts to keep his eyes from her while he sipped at his beer were almost painful. Maisie did her best to put him at ease.
“You ought to go to the Trocadero in Highgate one of these nights,” she told him. “That’s where all the boys go. You can get a drink there, and there are plenty of girls.”
He looked surprised. “Do the girls go alone?”
“ ’Course they do. They go lookin’ for men like you. A warrant officer and an observer at that—you couldn’t go wrong.”
The look of longing faded from his eyes. “It’d be no use my going there. I can’t dance, and anyway I’m too shy with girls.”
Maisie gave a snort of disgust. “You probably act the gentleman with ’em too much. You want to push ’em about a bit. Girls like a man to be a bit on the bossy side....”
At that moment four locals entered the lounge. Maisie eyed them with dislike. “Here they are—they’ll probably start cornin’ in now you and me are havin’ a nice chat. Don’t go away, now! We’ve got plenty more to talk about.”
But after its deceptively quiet start, the evening proved a busy one and Maisie found little time to talk to the boy. Before closing time, however, she made him promise to come over on the following evening.
To her surprise he came early, and she was delighted to find his shyness with her a little less pronounced. She had the opportunity of a long talk with him before the lounge filled, and managed to get him talking a lit- tie about his life before the war. She discovered Gilli-brand was right; he had lived an unnaturally protected childhood. He promised to come again and she imagined he was looking more confident when he said good-bye that night.
To Jimmie this was a novel and exciting experience, so much so that his sensitive nature began to exaggerate it. He began to question whether he was playing fair to Gillibrand in seeing so much of Maisie while the Canadian was away. The thought worried him and on the Thursday night he decided to ask Maisie’s opinion. But at first his shyness proved too much and he drank more than usual to give himself false courage. By nine o’clock the floodgates of his mind were down and his eyes followed Maisie with both longing and devotion. Yet he was still worrying about his loyalty to Gillibrand and as soon as the opportunity came he put the question to her.
At first she was highly amused that the boy could see himself a serious rival to the big Canadian. Then she realized the question was confirmation that her campaign was succeeding. She had to be careful: his sensitive eyes were on her. . . . She used the amusement in her voice to advantage.
“Anything’s fair in love and war,” she said. “Why, that’s one of the Big Boy’s own sayings.” In spite of herself, bitterness crept into her voice. “Heck; he ain’t got any cause for jealousy, he’s gone down to London to see his girl friend. I’m only someone he passes his spare time with. Don’t be so silly.”
Loyalty to Gillibrand and resen
tment at the Canadian’s conduct made a confusion of the boy’s mind. “I hadn’t tought of it like that,” he muttered. “Then you think it’s all right?”
“ ’Course it is. You come here and see me whenever you like, whether he’s here or not.”
The thought of himself competing against Gillibrand made the eagerness in Jimmie’s eyes fade. Seeing his dejection, Maisie’s voice rose. “What’s the matter with you? You take the same chances that he takes, don’t you? You’re doing just as important a job....”
As she spoke a nightmare vision returned to her.
Gillie lost over enemy territory, struggling to find a course home as flak and fighters closed in, and this boy helpless with fear beside him. As her eyes cleared she saw tears quivering under Jimmie’s lashes and realized that at any moment he was going to confess to his cracking nerves. Instinct told her it was the best thing he could do, but not here in the lounge. There was that cow Valerie Adams over in the comer. Her eyes had been on ’em all night. She wouldn’t miss a thing....
Maisie laid a hand on the boy’s sleeve. “Listen, dear. I’ve got to wash these glasses now, but-we’ll have another chat later on when we can be nice and private. You stick around until closing time and meet me outside near the front door. I’m finishing early tonight.”
Jimmie’s face flushed, then went deathly white. Maisie’s black eyes held his faltering gaze, her voice full and comforting.
“You needn’t be afraid of me, dear. I’ll take good care of you.”
* * *
The room was quiet after the boy’s sobs. His tears had soaked through the front of her dress, wetting the smooth skin beneath. Now, with his agony spent, he was resting his head where his eyes had rested earlier. Her body had a warm smell, both stimulating and relaxing, and he shifted his face, trying to get even closer to her.
Maisie’s voice was rich, confident. “It feels better now, doesn’t it?”
She had to strain her ears to catch his reply. “Yes. Much better....”
She had left the bedroom dark to make it easier for the boy to talk and to weep. Now she stroked his damp hair gently, like a mother soothing a child. Her fingers wandered down his face, touching his eyes and wiping away the last of his tears. His body jerked once, spasmodically, then quietened again as she drew his head closer to her breast.
“You must think me an awful coward,” he muttered.
“No; I don’t. You’re tired, that’s all. You wanted 124 someone to talk to, and now it’s all right again. Isn’t it?”
His face, a white blur in the darkness, lifted up to her own. “I do feel better ... much better. I’m awfully grateful.... Do you want me to go now?”
Instinct told her as sure as words the last thing needed of her. Her black eyes were unfathomable in the darkness. “No. I want you to stay.”
He gave a gasp, almost one of protest. His body began trembling violently, yet she was conscious of a new strength rising into its weakness. She felt like a mother with a child at her breast, giving it strength from her strength. She bent over him, conscious of nothing but the ecstasy of sacrifice.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said. “Nothing at all.” And her full, firm mouth pressed against his lips, checking their trembling.
15
The training of 633 Squadron went on right throughout April, but with two important changes. The first concerned their bomb load. Towards the end of March they had started dropping 1,000 lb. dummy bombs; now each Mosquito was loaded up daily with a single 4,000 lb. monster (the plane’s maximum bomb load) and sent out to fling it into the target area. Twice a week lorries brought the specially-constructed dummies back from Scotland to be used again.
The second change concerned their time of take-off. Until now they had done the exercise in the middle of the day. Now they were ordered to be airborne at 0430 hours every morning. To crews already heartily sick of the valley and all it stood for, this was a most unpopular change. To make matters worse (and more incomprehensible) such an early take-off meant they had to stooge over the valley for over an hour before there was enough light to commence the exercise. On the surface the order was received with stoical resignation, but in the privacy of billets the comment from both air crews and ground personnel was lurid and descriptive.
There was one notable exception to this routine in the days that followed. It came on the 23rd April. ' When the Form D came through, rumours blazed round the airfield. This must be it! The Big Show was on! For hours the whole station sizzled like the fat in a frying-pan. Even the sight of the Supply Dropping Containers that the armourers were loading on to the Mosquitoes did not quell the excitement, although it considerably modified it. It all depended what was inside ’em. . . . Must be something important or there wouldn’t be all those Redcaps hanging about.
The rumour was finally dispelled at the briefing of the crews that afternoon. It was not the Big Show. But it was an operation whose importance could not be exaggerated and one that had to be carried out with the utmost attention to detail.
The briefing was certainly detailed, for it lasted over two hours. Take-off was at 0025 hours as it was to be a night operation. Prompt to the minute the occupants of the inn opposite heard the roar of the Mosquitoes’ Merlins as one by one the planes climbed into the darkness. The long night hours dragged slowly by and dawn was breaking before the low, deep hum of the planes was heard again. Anxious eyes counted them as they dropped over the boundary fence to sink from sight....
But all were back. The operation had been an outstanding success. No enemy opposition had been encountered and all S.D. containers had been dropped inside the target area. Crews dropped out of their Mosquitoes, almost disappointed by the anti-climax. If the Big Show was going to be as easy as this, what was all the fuss about, anyhow?
There was no suggestion of disappointment, however, in a country house not far from Sutton Craddock. When the news came through a certain Brigadier and Davies gave vent to their relief in ways characteristic of their temperaments. The Brigadier smiled, coughed, then wiped his neat moustache with fastidious care. Davies jumped up like a puppet on a string, spun jubilantly round, then sat down with some haste. The Brigadier, however, showed no contempt for such behavior.
“Well done,” he said instead. “If anything had gone wrong in that operation, the whole thing might have fallen through. Congratulations.”
“If anything ever does go wrong it won’t be 633’s fault,” Davies said, his eyes shining with pride of his Service. “Particularly with Grenville taking ’em out.”
The Brigadier nodded. “So it seems. In fact, I think we should keep him on the ground now until the Big Show comes off—unless something exceptional crops up, of course. We can’t afford to lose him at this stage.”
“I’ll see to it,” Davies agreed.
“I also think it’s time he was told the full story,” the Brigadier said. “Will you bring him down next Wednesday morning after ten?”
“I’ll fix that up. Next Wednesday at ten....”
The Brigadier nodded again. Only his hand, doodling with a pencil on a pad before him, betrayed his hidden excitement. “That operation last night got us over the last really big obstacle. All we need now is our fair share of luck. If we get that, it won’t be long before the curtain goes up.”
* * *
The lounge of the Black Swan was full on the following Tuesday night. Maisie was serving at the counter and Gillibrand was draped over a stool alongside it. The Canadian’s efforts at conversation were being thwarted by the demands of trade, and his usually good-natured face was sullen. Twice in the same minute he was interrupted. Once Maisie broke away to serve a pint of mild to a thirsty airman, a moment later she turned her head to answer the banter of an old countryman, one of her regular customers.
Gillibrand scowled. “Say; what’s the matter with you tonight? You know I ain’t exactly been on top of the world lately. D’you have to talk to every other guy in the place?”
Maisie sniffed. “It ain’t my fault if your girl left you for someone else. Don’t expect me to cry about it.” Gillibrand stared at her moodily. “You know, that was a funny business. It ain’t happened to me before.” “There’s always a first time,” Maisie said with satisfaction. “Maybe she found out what you were doin’. I don’t blame her one bit.”
The Canadian’s face darkened. “I spent my leave lookin’ for the guy she fell for. Gee; I’d have given a lot to have taken it out of his hide.”
“You’d better cut down on the drinking,” Maisie snapped, seeing the resentment flaring up in his muzzy eyes. Her voice turned curious. “Where did you say Jimmie had gone tonight?”
“He said he was goin’ into Highgate. Wouldn’t come 128 in here with me. I can’t make out what’s happened to that little guy. He ain’t the same any more.”
Maisie’s hand fingered an empty glass. “What do you mean?”
“Aw; he seems to have more bounce an’ cheek—he ain’t so backward as he was.”
“Aren’t you glad?”
“Sure I’m glad. Maybe the rest we’re havin’ is doin’ the kid good. Only he doesn’t have to quit goin’ out with me, does he?”
“Maybe he feels it’s better for him to go out on his own now and then,” Maisie suggested. “He might learn to stand on his own better that way. You don’t want to let it worry you.”
Gillibrand shook his head moodily. Then his face cleared. “Anyway, kid, there ain’t nothin’ between the two of us now, is there? We’ve got a straight road ahead of us now, honey, ain’t we?”
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