The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  Andrew circled. Three aircrew climbed onto the wing and inflated a dinghy. One needed help to board the small craft and slumped into the bottom of the boat as the other two paddled away from the sinking bomber.

  ‘Well done, Andrew.’ Bryan paused: ‘Have you got enough ammunition to finish the job?’

  The question hung in the ether for long moments as Andrew circled the dinghy. The bomber’s tail reared like a flagpole, the large, white-edged swastika plainly visible, before sliding out of sight under the waves.

  ‘Yellow Three to Yellow Leader’ – Andrew found refuge in wireless protocol – ‘suggest we return to base.’

  ****

  Bryan dipped into his landing approach. Andrew peeled away to do another circuit. The adrenalin throbbed through his system. The excitement of hurling damage across the sky still danced over his skin. As soon as he rose from this cockpit, as soon as his feet touched the ground, it would catch up with him. But while he still flew he could outrun the reality of the killing.

  Throttling back onto the glide-path he pulled the canopy back, enjoying the cough and chafe of his idling engine. His wheels bumped to the ground and the tail settled. He swung off the landing strip and taxied to dispersal.

  Andrew unhooked his harness and swung out of the cockpit. Sliding down the wing to the grass, he walked across to where Bryan waited.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Bryan hissed. ‘Those aircrew were sitting ducks.’

  ‘They were beaten, Bryan. For the sake of humanity—’

  ‘Humanity?’ Bryan cut him short. ‘When did humanity enter the equation? Those people are trying to enslave us. You saw them bombing defenceless soldiers at Dunkirk. Beaten soldiers. Men with nowhere to hide. They’re butchers, plain and simple. Forget your chivalry, forget your honour, forget your humanity. Take every opportunity you have to kill the bastards. Every single opportunity. If only for Molly’s sake—’

  ‘Molly?’ Andrew shouted. ‘If we get through this alive, we will have to live with what we’ve done. I will not make my child’s father a murderer. Not for you, not for the King, not for anyone.’

  ‘I say, chaps.’ George strolled over. ‘What’s the flap?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bryan chirped. ‘Just a disagreement about tactics.’ Bryan looked into Andrew’s eyes and nodded: ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  13th June, 1940

  ‘Disembarking now.’ The shout echoed down the corridor. Gerry knotted his tie and stepped back from the mirror. The pressed blue-grey uniform fitted him well and the RAF wings glittered under the dressing table light.

  Gerry grabbed his holdall from the bed and strode down the corridor. Stepping out onto the deck, he merged into the crowd shuffling along towards the gangplank. The ship sat alongside a quay, hemmed in on all sides by tall red-brick warehouses. Large multi-paned windows dotted their walls, lending them the demeanour of prisons.

  Smoke and steam from the vessels shunting around the dock dirtied the blue square of sky between the buildings and the gulls’ absonant cries split the air around his head.

  Gerry walked down the gangplank, scanning the quayside. Disembarked soldiers formed into columns and marched away to the shouted orders of platoon commanders. More soldiers spilled onto the quay, jostling to get into formation and follow their comrades. At the edge of the khaki-clad river of soldiery Gerry spotted a man in a dark blue uniform standing next to a staff car.

  Gerry stepped onto the quay and weaved through the crush of soldiers towards the car. The uniformed man stepped forward to shake his hand.

  ‘You must be Pilot Officer Donaldson.’ The man smiled in greeting. ‘My name is Day, Gordon Day. I’m one of Dowding’s a

  adjutants.’

  ‘Dowding?’

  ‘Hugh Dowding.’ The adjutant raised an eyebrow. ‘AOC of Fighter Command.’

  ‘AOC?’

  ‘Top brass’ – Day smiled again – ‘did the Canadians teach you nothing?’

  ‘They did, sir,’ Gerry replied. ‘They taught me how to play bridge.’

  Gerry put his holdall in the boot of the car and climbed onto the back seat next to the adjutant. The man leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The engine growled into life and they crawled forward through the crowds.

  ‘It’s a five-hour trip to London.’ Day took off his cap and scratched his scalp. ‘So please call me Gordon.’ He pulled a flask out of the foot well. ‘Tea?’

  Gerry shook his head. Gordon poured a tea for himself and juggled the cup while he retrieved a pencil and pad from a briefcase.

  ‘So, tell me about your history, your family and suchlike.’

  ‘Why would you want to know that?’ Gerry asked. ‘It’s not very exciting, I promise you.’

  Gordon fixed Gerry with a quizzical look through the steam from his tea: ‘You do know you’re the first American to enter the war? The guns in your fighter will fire the first American shots against the Axis Powers. That makes everything about you interesting.’

  ‘I never thought about it that way.’

  ‘Nevertheless’ – Gordon licked the end of his pencil – ‘the papers are going to write something. If we don’t give them the story, they’ll just make one up themselves.’

  15th June, 1940

  Andrew and Bryan sat on a hard, wooden bench in the cavernous concourse of King’s Cross station. People flowed past, the trub of their conversation settled in the air around them.

  ‘I don’t even want to go on leave.’ Bryan sat hunched like a disgruntled crow. ‘Let alone go on leave to bloody Norfolk.’

  ‘You need it, Bryan. It’s only three days.’ Andrew lit two cigarettes and passed one over. ‘And you couldn’t stay on base with the squadron buzzing off on patrol without you. Besides, you’ll like it up on the coast, it’s… bracing.’

  Higher-pitched noises pierced the background mire of voices; the serrated squeals of children ricocheted around the walls.

  An elderly woman walked past trailing behind her a line of young evacuees. Each child carried a suitcase or bag and every one wore a gas-mask box slung over their shoulder. A brown parcel-tag tied to their clothing bore their name in large letters. Their excitement at the grand adventure was uncontainable, and the long line trooped past in noisy elation. Bringing up the rear, detached from the others, a small boy stumbled along, his tear-streaked face filled with fear and misery. He locked imploring eyes on the two pilots as he passed. The boy’s parcel-tag read ‘Peter’.

  ****

  Andrew and Bryan stepped out from Wells-on-Sea station. Andrew’s father waited to greet them.

  ‘Hello, son.’ He hugged Andrew.

  ‘Hello, Dad. This is Bryan. He flies in my section.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Francis’ – Bryan stepped forward to shake hands – ‘he flies in my section.’

  ****

  After a late lunch the two pilots emerged from the Francis household into the afternoon sunshine and set off for a stroll. Skirting around the edge of the town they found themselves outside the graveyard.

  ‘Do you mind if…?’ Andrew nodded at the gate. ‘My mother…’

  They walked through the arch and along a path lined with graves. Andrew stepped off the path and moved along the rows of stones.

  ‘Ah, here she is.’ Andrew crouched on the grass. ‘Dad keeps it immaculate. These roses are from his garden’ – he touched the fresh open blooms in the stone vase on the grave – ‘and he does love his roses.’

  Bryan nodded: ‘That’s nice.’

  Andrew stood up and the two men walked back to the gate.

  ‘What about your parents, Bryan?’ Andrew asked. ‘I’ve never heard you talk about them.’

  ‘That’s because I never have.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bryan shook his head: ‘My parents didn’t love me.’ He threw a flat glance at Andrew. ‘They weren’t beastly to me, you understand, they just didn’t love me.

  ‘They never encouraged me, never praised me, never
really understood anything I did or said. I never went hungry or cold, they always looked after me, but they did it in the manner in which you might look after a neighbour’s dog. You feed it, make sure it doesn’t hurt itself, try not to lose it anywhere—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bryan,’ Andrew stammered, ‘I should mind my own business.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry’ – Bryan patted him on the back – ‘now I’ve come to understand it, I can cope with it.’

  ‘Are they still alive?’ Andrew asked.

  Bryan stopped. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t know.’

  The two men walked in silence back to the centre of town. Andrew bit back the urge to apologise once more, instead he allowed the uneasiness to diffuse itself in their wordless walking.

  When they reached the top of the main street Bryan brightened. He browsed in the shop windows and smiled at passers-by. They made their way down to the quayside and stood watching the tide flood into the harbour.

  ‘You were lucky, Andrew,’ Bryan murmured. ‘Growing up here must’ve been fun.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ Andrew pointed at the edge of the quay wall: ‘Me and my best friend Peter would catch shore crabs right there.’

  ‘Ah,’ Bryan mused, ‘your pongo friend. Went to fight the Bosche in France to avoid buying you a wedding present.’

  Andrew nodded: ‘I’ve heard nothing from him since.’

  The flowing tide dragged in the fishing boats. One by one they wound down the narrow channel, most stacked with crabs and whelks in wooden boxes. Amongst them a yellow-painted trawler chugged into the harbour and pirouetted to face the flow before manoeuvring towards its moorings.

  The boat settled against the wall and Andrew spotted a ragged bundle on the deck. He nudged Bryan to follow him and walked closer.

  The bundle was a bloated body dressed in British aircrew uniform. The man’s face, eaten away by fish and gulls, hung in strips around the grinning teeth of his exposed skull. His hands, also stripped, curled like claws at his side and his lower body and buttocks were black and charred.

  16th June, 1940

  Bryan sat out in the garden studying the Sunday papers in the morning sunshine. Andrew stepped out of the house, shrugging into his jacket.

  ‘I’m just off to see someone,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  Bryan peered over the top of the paper: ‘Not a hometown floozy, I hope.’

  Andrew laughed and headed for the gate.

  Memories crowded around Andrew’s head on the short walk to Peter’s house and he let them ebb and flow through his mind as he strolled along the road.

  In the Ellis’s dishevelled front garden the roses straggled on long legs and the half-open gate sagged on its hinges. Andrew pushed through the gate and walked down the path to the front door. He knocked and waited.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Andrew started at the voice and turned to see Donald Ellis walking down the path behind him.

  ‘Hello Mr. Ellis,’ he said. ‘You remember me… Andrew… I’m an old friend of Peter’s.’

  Donald brushed by him and fumbled his key into the door: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I came to find out if you had any news about Peter. I wondered if he may have written you a letter.’

  The door swung open. ‘He might’ve.’ Donald stepped into his house. ‘There might be one in that lot.’ He nodded at a pile of unopened mail behind the door.

  ‘Would you mind?’ Andrew asked.

  The older man shrugged and walked down the hallway to the kitchen beyond. He took a bottle of wine from one jacket pocket and a bottle of gin from the other. Setting them on the table, he reached into the sink and retrieved a tin mug.

  Andrew stepped inside and shut the door. The air in the house carried a clinging sourness that stung his nostrils deep under the bridge of his nose. He crouched by the pile of mail, leafing through the envelopes. From the kitchen he heard the pop of a wine cork leaving the bottle.

  Andrew came across a brown envelope bearing a regimental crest. Standing, he dropped the others to the floor around his feet. He flipped the envelope over and loosened the flap with his thumb. Unfolding the letter, he walked slowly to the kitchen as he read the typed words.

  He halted by the table. Donald Ellis looked up from his drink.

  ‘Peter is dead, Mr Ellis.’ He placed the letter on the table next to the bottles. ‘Dunkirk. I’m very sorry.’

  Andrew turned and walked back down the hallway, over the scattered envelopes and out the door.

  Chapter 14

  Patris

  18th June, 1940

  The gruff voice crackled into the air above the silent pilots in the readiness hut.

  ‘…the whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war.

  ‘If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.

  ‘But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark age…’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Bryan burst out, ‘are we honestly still listening to that man?’

  Several pilots made frantic shushing noises and leaned closer to the wireless.

  ‘Shush, yourself.’

  ‘…let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour…’

  ‘I’m just back from the seaside,’ Bryan shouted over the rising protests, ‘can’t we listen to a bit of Arthur Askey?’

  ‘How does he get away with it, Andrew?’ Bryan’s voice dropped back to a conversational level. ‘He sold Dunkirk as a victory, and now we’ve got old men marching up and down with broomsticks, he’s calling it our finest bloody hour. If it wasn’t for the English Channel we’d already be in the same boat as the Frogs.’

  ‘We’ve still got the navy,’ Andrew said. ‘They’d make a pretty mess of an invasion fleet before they even reached the beaches.’

  ‘The navy is no use against bombers. When Fighter Command has shot its bolt, the bombers will have free rein. Factories, barracks, refineries – all of them bombed flat. And then they’ll parachute their army in, not a single wet foot amongst them.’

  ‘Well’ – Andrew slapped him on the knee – ‘we need to ‘brace ourselves to our duties’ and make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  Bryan gazed steadily at Andrew’s smiling face: ‘You should go to work for Arthur Askey.’

  ****

  A door opened at the end of the corridor and a uniformed figure stepped out.

  ‘Pilot Officer Donaldson,’ he called, ‘would you like to come down, please?’

  Gerry recognised Gordon Day. He stood and walked towards the open door.

  ‘Welcome to the Air Ministry, Gerry, please sit down.’ Day shuffled through some papers, holding one up: ‘This is very impressive. Converting to a Spitfire in less than 20 hours, well done.’

  Gerry blushed at the compliment: ‘It’s a very beautiful aeroplane, sir. A pleasure to fly.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got your transfer orders here’ – Day brandished a brown envelope – ‘but I need to have a chat about some other things before we get to that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I take it you heard Winston’s speech on the radio today, with the somewhat pointed reference to America?’

  Gerry nodded.

  ‘Winston is a realist,’ Day continued, ‘he knows Germany will not be defeated without America’s involvement. He also knows the Americans are not keen to get drawn into what they see as a European war.

  ‘So, Winston is very interested in the possibilities you represent. He sees your presence here as a ‘moral quest’ that transcends your national loyalties. He sees you as an example to hold up to the American people, something they can measure themse
lves against.’

  Gerry shook his head: ‘I came because it’s the right thing to do, not so I’d become any sort of example.’

  ‘Which is precisely why you have become an example.’ Day smiled his reassurance: ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need anything too onerous. We’ll send your story to the Evening Standard tomorrow. I expect that will attract some attention from American journalists. They’ll have to come through us of course, so it’s probably best not to speak to anyone we haven’t cleared.

  ‘And Winston would be very pleased if you could write about your experiences. Something we could make into a pamphlet.’

  Gerry remained silent.

  Day picked up the brown envelope: ‘And in return you get to have your very own Spitfire.’

  19th June, 1940

  The two soldiers stood atop the sand-dunes looking out across the North Sea. Stretched across the sand in front of them, the coils of barbed wire already showed spots of rust. Behind them the fenced-off grazing meadows lay empty of animals. A warm southerly breeze teased at their tunics.

  ‘Are the bastards here yet?’ The cry drifted from the other side of the meadow at their backs.

  The soldiers turned to see a man in civilian clothes approaching the meadow fence. One of the soldiers brought up his binoculars.

  ‘Stone me,’ he breathed, ‘he’s got a bottle in one hand and a service revolver in the other. Looks like he’s three sheets to the wind.’

  The soldier ran down to the meadow perimeter and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Do not climb over the fence!’ he shouted across the expanse of grass. ‘This is a minefield. Turn around and go back the way you came!’

  Donald Ellis paused at the fence, took a swig of gin and put the still-opened bottle back into his jacket pocket. He placed his right boot on the lower strands of wire and hoisted himself up the fence. Barbs pricked into his hands and body as he rolled over the top and landed heavily on the other side. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he lurched towards the sand-dunes.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ the soldier screamed. ‘Do not move—’