by James Blatch
“… anyway, it was damn close.”
Millie opened his new packet of cigarettes and screwed up the flap of silver paper folded over the filter ends. He offered the pack around, and Hill leaned forward to take one. When they were close, Millie spoke quietly.
“I hope you’re not being indiscreet, Brian?”
Hill shrugged, and tapped his cigarette on the drinks shelf surrounding the pillar.
“We can trust old MacLeish. He’s Scottish. The most trustworthy of the Celts, I believe.”
“That may be,” Millie continued, more quietly than Hill, “but he doesn’t need to know.”
Hill snorted at the incongruous use of Kilton’s new buzz phrase, but Millie continued to look at him, waiting. Eventually, Hill gave a resigned look and nodded in acknowledgement.
In the awkward silence that followed, Millie drained half the measure of scotch, savouring the smoky flavour. The alcohol dulled his senses; it felt good.
He scanned the room, looking for Rob. The bar was filling up quickly as officers came off duty from various parts of the station: air traffickers in one corner, station adminners in another.
An ageing man with sunken eyes raised his glass. Millie lifted his tumbler in return, nodding at JR, a pilot with 206 Maintenance Unit, an unglamorous outfit nestled in the far corner of the airfield.
The rest of the room was TFU. Loud, brash, elite. His colleagues occupied the bar and most tables. What would it have been like thirteen months ago, with 206 MU as the sole flying unit? Rather nice, he suspected, and he suddenly felt a pang of jealousy for aircrew whose only task was the final flight of retired aircraft.
Finally his eyes landed on Rob. He was nestled among the elite of the elite: the chosen few senior test pilots, grouped at one end of the bar.
Millie raised an eyebrow and looked at Brian Hill.
“How did Rob end up over there?”
Hill glanced over. “Ah, the big boys came and took him before you got here, I’m afraid”.
Millie studied Rob. On one side of him was Red Brunson, an American on exchange from Edwards. Glamorous and larger than life, he flew with his own grey ‘flight suit’ as he called it, and a fancy helmet complete with mirrored visor. He looked like an Apollo astronaut.
At the other side was Speedy Johnson, a legend to every schoolboy in the 1940s and 1950s. Kept breaking speed records for the RAF as the jet age blossomed.
“You can’t blame him,” Hill said and it took Millie a moment to notice he was being spoken to.
“Huh?”
“You can’t blame Rob, having his head turned by that lot. He’s a promising test pilot.”
“Let’s hope they don’t corrupt him,” Millie eventually said.
A round of drinks arrived; as Millie reached for his next glass of scotch, he noticed a ripple of movement across the room.
Mark Kilton had arrived.
This precipitated a stiffening of backs and subconscious opening of groups, hoping he would join them.
Kilton inevitably moved in to drink with the set crowded at the bar. Rob smiled at Kilton, who slapped him on the back.
The room was now heaving. Thick smoke hung in the air, and the heat of the day was making it uncomfortable.
Millie glanced at his watch. Six already. Georgina and Mary would be waiting for him and Rob, impatient to eat and get on with the card game.
He drained his glass, said his goodbyes, and approached the group at the bar. Red Brunson gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder as he arrived. Speedy Johnson exclaimed, “Ah, Milford. Come to talk to us about data?”
The group laughed.
“Well, someone has to look after the computers that are replacing you lot.”
This provoked some mock booing from the pilots.
On a whim, he turned to Kilton.
“Boss, can I have a word, please?”
Kilton nodded and they moved off to a corner near the mess piano.
“I was going to brief you tomorrow, and I will, but I thought I should let you know. Guiding Light failed today.”
Kilton’s expression didn’t change at first. Then he looked puzzled.
“What do you mean, ‘failed’?”
“It went blind, at three hundred feet and three hundred knots, in Wales.”
“Blind?”
“Suddenly we were descending. I happened to be looking at the panel at the time. The laser thought there was nine hundred below us. In reality we were still at three hundred.”
“So you cancelled?”
“It took a moment for us all to adjust to what was happening, but yes, Rob did a good job and intervened in time. Just.”
“Just? How close did you get?”
Millie paused and took a breath. “The tape wasn’t running, so I can’t be certain.”
“You don’t have any record of it?”
“I made some notes, but no, the tapes were used up at that point. It was the end of the run.”
Kilton stayed silent, studying Millie, making him shift on his feet.
“Anyway, we’ve no option, boss, but to ground Guiding Light until Blackton can identify the issue and see if they can rectify it. If they can rectify it, I’d suggest we start the trial from scratch.”
A flash of anger crossed Kilton’s face and Millie took half a step back.
“And you don’t think you’re making too much of this, Millie, as usual?”
“I’m sorry? With respect, boss, it nearly killed us.”
Kilton shook his head. “Put it all in writing and drop it on my desk tomorrow morning.” He made to leave, but then turned. “And no discussion with anyone.”
Millie nodded. “Of course, boss.”
He watched as Kilton joined Brian Hill and Jock MacLeish, rather than go back to the bar group.
Millie went back to the bar and tugged Rob on the shoulder.
“We’d best be getting back, young man. The wives will be waiting for their card game.”
“Oh no! Rob’s dad’s here to pick him up,” said Johnson. “Ooh, please, Rob’s dad. Can he stay for just one more drink?”
Rob looked at his newly presented pint.
“I might just have this first, Millie. I’ll see you at yours later.”
The rusting wheels of Millie’s ten-year-old Rover complained as he scraped the kerb outside his married quarter.
“And that’s why I’m not a pilot,” he reminded himself, clambering out and into the warm June evening.
The sound of laughing women drifted from the back garden as he made his way down the side passage.
Georgina and Mary sat in two tatty garden chairs. Summer dresses, floppy hats, and what looked like gin and tonics in hand. Georgina in her favoured red, Mary in yellow. Millie stood and watched for a moment.
“Darling!” Georgina shouted when she spotted him. “Whatever are you doing lurking in the shadows?”
Millie set down his flight case just inside the open French doors and picked up a third garden chair.
“Just admiring the local beauty.”
“Peeping Tom, more like.” Georgina lifted herself and kissed him hello. “Drink? scotch?”
“Do we have any ice?”
Georgina thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, but I’ll see if I can pull something off the inside of the freezer if you like.”
“Needs must.”
Millie’s relief at being home must have shown in his eyes, as Georgina loitered for a moment.
“Everything OK?”
He tried not to glance at Mary; this wasn’t the time to say anything about the incident. It was up to Rob and every member of aircrew what they shared with their wives.
“Yes, fine. Just tired.”
Georgina looked unconvinced, but then disappeared into the house.
“Well,” Millie said turning to Mary, “I thought you might be missing us, but apparently not.”
Mary laughed. “The heatwave is so gorgeous. It’s just nice to be in the sun.”
“No cards tonight?”
“Well, we need four for cards. Did Rob go home to change?”
“Actually, he was still in the bar when I left. I expect he’ll be along later.”
“Fine, well we can enjoy the evening sun, the three of us.” She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes, her shoulder-length brown hair gently shifting in the breeze. Millie smiled at her; so young and pretty and with an up and coming test pilot by her side.
He felt a twinge of jealousy as he recalled the time after the war when he was promoted, and he and Georgina were considered the young ones.
The three of them ate outdoors and remained there in the last of the warmth; it was unusual for it to last so long into the evening.
The Milfords’ grandfather clock tolled, its gentle clangs seeping out of the house through the open doors and windows. Ten bells. It was apparent Rob would not be appearing that evening. He was either still in the mess or had headed home, worse for wear.
Millie walked Mary back to their married quarter, two streets away in Trenchard Close.
The house was dark.
“Not here, either.” She turned to Millie. “Has my husband forgone us for some new drinking pals?”
“I fear so. We all need to let our hair down every now and again.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, of course. A bit rude as we had cards planned. Sorry, Millie.”
“Think nothing of it,” he said and they kissed their goodbyes on the cheek. “I’m sure he’ll be back presently.”
Millie sauntered home. Had he missed anything important in the bar of the officers’ mess?
It was nagging at him, the brief exchange with Kilton.
Making a bit much of this… Bloody silly thing to say.
He thought of Kilton going over to Brian Hill as he was leaving.
Were they discussing the Guiding Light situation without him?
He looked up as he approached the house and saw Georgina in the kitchen looking at him. He gave a little wave and pushed open the front door.
She was at the sink, apron on, finishing the washing up.
“Let me help you,” he said, and he picked up a drying up cloth.
“Thanks. You know what I thought watching you waddle back home?”
“How handsome I look?”
“Yes, obviously, but also how porky you look. You need to lose some weight, mister.” She poked him in his side.
“I know, but it’s so tedious exercising and, god forbid, dieting.”
Georgina stopped washing up. “What happened today?”
Millie smiled. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
“Nope.”
Millie shrugged and spoke as casually as he could.
“We had a little moment in the air.”
“Oh, god.” Georgina pulled off her yellow rubber gloves. “Tell me.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. Everyone’s OK. It was just a moment. Briefly scary, but we got out of it and that’s all that matters. Actually, Rob was flying and did a sterling job.”
“Rob was flying? Is that why he isn’t here tonight.”
“I think so. Letting off some steam in the mess.”
“Fair enough. Did you say anything to Mary?”
“No. That’s up to Rob. Everyone’s different.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Millie thought for a moment. “Not really. Sorry.”
She reached forward and put her hands on his cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re safe, Squadron Leader Milford.”
They kissed and he welled up, the near-death experience catching up with him.
He’d seen it in others: a delayed reaction.
Georgina didn’t seem to notice. She released him and walked over to their wall calendar, pinned to a cork board over the table.
“I nearly counted the days today. It’s something like one hundred and twenty. She lifted the pages until October showed.
“I’m sorry, what?”
Her finger rested on October 19th. “This is the day, isn’t it? October 19th. Your last day in the RAF.”
“Ah. Yes.”
She let the pages of the calendar fall back down.
“One hundred and twenty days, Millie, that’s it. All I ask is that you remain in one piece. OK?”
He laughed. “I promise. Believe me, I’m looking forward to it as much as you are.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, of course. I’m going to take up sailing, remember? I’m sure the RAF pension can stretch to the Lee-on-Solent place we saw. Just.”
She tilted her head, appraising him. “Good. It’ll be fine, Millie. We’ll still see all our friends, wherever they get posted.”
Millie finished the drying up. Georgina disappeared and reappeared with a tumbler of whisky.
He sat down at the kitchen table and lifted it to his nose.
“Ah, the Lagavulin.”
“Well, I think you need a treat. And it’s the posh tumbler, the wedding set. Last one standing.”
“The last one? We started with eight.”
She smiled. “All things must pass, Millie. Anyway, the attrition rate for glasses in married quarter is pretty high. We’ve had some pretty wild nights over the years. I think we must have lost three of them in Hong Kong playing that silly game with the cricket ball.”
Millie laughed at the memory. “Test Match Sofa was a brilliant game. I was quite the slip catcher when positioned correctly near the piano.”
“I’m sure you were, I’m sure you were.”
She kissed him on the head and whispered, “I’m glad you’re home, Squadron Leader Milford.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled up at her.
“Don’t worry, our retirement is safe. I’ll be getting under your feet every day before you know it.”
“Good.” She smiled back and headed upstairs, turning off the hall light.
The kitchen light was dim; the midsummer sun had finally set. Orange sodium light from the street lamps filled the window. Millie turned the tumbler over in his hand and let the light glint off it. A beautiful piece of crystal. Such a shame they’d lost the others. But maybe it was a price worth paying for the fun they’d had.
He made a mental note to ensure this tumbler survived into retirement. Something to drink from and remember the glory days.
He drained the glass, suddenly remembering his morning appointment. Nobody came away from a Mark Kilton encounter without bruises.
A drunken test pilot played the piano, badly. Rob laughed, still huddled in among the senior pilots.
Kilton watched from the bar, as the pianist beckoned the men around Rob to join in with the song. Most of them sprung up, but Rob remained in his seat, enjoying the show.
The TFU boss picked up his drink and made his way over, choosing the vacant space next to his young prodigy.
“I’ve been thinking about this nonsense in the Vulcan. I don’t think we can let a single uncorroborated incident derail an internationally important project.”
He studied Rob, who nodded slowly.
“Its strategic importance cannot be underestimated, you understand that don’t you, May?”
The music grew raucous as the men sang a bad version of Cliff Richard’s ‘Livin’ Doll’.
Rob nodded again, staying silent.
Kilton had to raise his voice above the singing.
“Don’t you think there was a chance you could have overridden the autopilot with the stick?” Rob furrowed his brow, but Kilton continued. “It won’t disengage if you touch the stick. The computer will fight you for a bit until you let go.”
“I didn’t grab the stick until we cancelled,” he finally said.
“Maybe not grabbed it, but it’s a tight space, and you may have gently leaned on it or subconsciously pushed it forward while monitoring the flight. You wouldn’t have been the first to do that, May.”
Rob pondered.
“I
mean,” Kilton continued, “it would be enormously helpful to me personally to hear that there might be some other explanation. And it’s possible. Isn’t it, May? You might have accidentally nudged it. That’s all it would take at that speed and height to cause a scare.”
Rob bowed his head.
“You’re not in trouble, May. This is what testing is all about. Now we know how she’ll react.” He paused and spoke slowly. “It’s important you agree that you may have nudged it.”
Rob’s head came back up and he turned to look at the boss. Kilton gave a small nod of encouragement.
“I suppose it’s always possible.”
2
Wednesday 8th June
Millie’s burgundy Rover was a luxury car in 1951. Fifteen years later, life had taken its toll. The leather seats were scratched and torn in places, and adorned with occasional strips of black tape from his own running repairs. But it was comfortable, if a little tank-like in its handling. Either way, thanks to a misjudged pension investment and with retirement looming, Millie had little choice but to run it into the ground.
It rolled, rather than turned around corners. It creaked on the worn springs as he guided it along the narrow country road toward the RAF West Porton main gate.
He struggled with the stiff window handle but managed to wind it down enough to pass his identification card to the security guard.
The man in the strange West Porton Security Police cap studied the card carefully. The WPSP were a branch of the military police that appeared unique to this station, as far as Millie knew. He also knew questions about security arrangements were not encouraged.
The sound of jet engines drifted into the car over the breeze. Engine runs after maintenance. Hard working engineers, toiling all hours to ensure Mark Kilton’s TFU got a full complement of aircraft to play with every day.
The guard handed back the card, and Millie encouraged the heavy car to leave its moorings and continue on to TFU.
It was quiet in the planning room: no laughter, no excited chatter, just a few murmurs from the men at the tea bar.
He knew something was up and it could be only one thing.
Mark Kilton was in a temper.
He made his way over in search of information.
