The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘Excellent. Congratulations.’ The officer smiled for a moment before his face hardened. ‘I thought it best to catch you directly off the transport, save you from hearing in the mess.’

  ‘Hearing what, sir?’ Sudden tension sharpened Tommy’s voice.

  ‘We posted your crew as missing on Thursday morning. They didn’t return from the raid on Wilhelmshaven.’

  Tommy’s shoulders sagged. ‘Does anyone know what happened?’

  ‘There was no word from them at all’ – the adjutant shook his head – ‘and, as you know, the majority of the route to that target is over the North Sea. We can always hope they crash-landed somewhere on the German coast. But I’m afraid it’s most likely they’ve been lost at sea.’

  Tommy nodded, mute with sadness.

  ‘Go back to barracks, Scott. Get yourself a good night’s sleep. I’ll put you on the rota as a reserve gunner until we can crew you up again.’

  ‘Yes, sir’ – Tommy stood and retrieved his duffel bag – ‘thank you, sir.’

  ‘And congratulations on becoming a father.’

  The words did not penetrate Tommy’s numbness as he walked out the door.

  Chapter 5

  Bluebird Squadron climbed steadily east. The grey stains of the satellite towns rolled beneath them, first Sevenoaks and then Maidstone. Bryan levelled out at fifteen thousand feet and throttled back to cruising speed. The other Spitfires bobbed in the turbulent air on either side, organised in four fighting sections of three aircraft, the third member of each section weaving lazily around, protecting the patrolling squadron from surprise attack.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader’ – the wireless crackled into life – ‘make angels eighteen and patrol Canterbury.’

  Bryan eased his nose up to add the extra altitude and eased his throttle forward to maintain airspeed. He glanced down at the fields, uneasy about the instructions from control, fearful that fighter-bombers may be penetrating at lower levels. The minutes passed.

  ‘Beehive Control to Bluebird Leader, thirty-plus bandits approaching Canterbury. Angels twelve.’ Static filled the pause. ‘They’re crossing Kent coast at Deal now.’

  Bryan pushed on his throttle and the squadron sped forward, the Kent Downs rolling by beneath at a quickening pace. The huge megalith of Canterbury Cathedral sat squat and solid in the centre of its city. Bluebird overflew the sprawl of buildings, seeking the raiders approaching from the east coast.

  ‘Yellow Two to Bluebird Leader’ – Bryan’s wingman sounded hesitant – ‘large formation at 2 o’clock. Lord knows what they are.’

  Bryan eased to starboard, taking the squadron directly towards the intruders. He thumbed the transmit button: ‘Bluebird Leader to Beehive Control. Are there any training flights in the area?’

  ‘Hello, Bluebird Leader. Nothing in the area except you and your intercept.’

  As the strange formation got closer, Bryan could make out more details. Eight large planes lumbered along in ragged formation. They carried a propeller on each wing and a third on the nose. Above them, but somewhat below Bluebird, flew two groups of fifteen smaller planes. One gaggle comprised chubby monoplanes with bright yellow engine cowlings, the other group were biplanes with fixed undercarriage. The strange collection of aircraft processed beneath Bluebird straight towards the city.

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ Bryan muttered to himself, then: ‘Bluebird Leader to Bluebird Squadron. The bloody Italians have turned up at last! Yellow Section, let’s break up those bombers. The rest of you take care of the escorts. Tally-ho, Bluebird, tally-ho!’

  Bryan peeled into a dive and took his section down through the escorts. The Italian fighters broke in all directions as they realised the danger. But the bombers held their defensive formation and sparkles of machine gun fire flashed from dorsal gun positions.

  Bryan chose a raider in the middle of the formation and thumbed a speculative burst. From the corner of his eye he caught other bombers on the formation’s edge peeling away and diving. His target filled his windscreen and Bryan felt a shock of surprise to see the gunner returning his fire stood tall in a fully open cupola, slightly behind the enclosed cockpit.

  Bryan fired a sustained burst. Hits slashed across the back of the bomber’s fuselage, ripping through and around the gunner, and coughing shards of Perspex from the front of the enemy aircraft. Bryan roared over the Italian machine as it nosed out of the horizontal into a shallow dive. Bryan pulled up into a zoom and checked his mirror before banking hard to port.

  Two of the bombers spiralled lazily towards the fields where the jettisoned bombs of their companions exploded in ragged groups. All the surviving bombers dived east, seeking safety in speed and low altitude. Bryan glanced up at the escort, also heading east in a fighting retreat. The bombers made a tempting target, but the risk of being bounced from above was not worth taking.

  He jammed the throttle forward and climbed towards the battle above him. A Spitfire dived out of the melee and headed west, out of ammunition or damaged, running for home. An Italian biplane cocked into a vertical dive, rolling gently as it descended. Still labouring for altitude, Bryan watched its downward progress with suspicion until, one thousand feet below him, the Italian eased out his dive and gunned his engine. Black trails of exhaust smoke followed him in his dash for the coast.

  ‘Crafty bugger,’ Bryan muttered as he banked into a shallow, curving dive to give chase to the stocky biplane. At full throttle, the Spitfire quickly overhauled the Italian and he jinked into evasive banks as Bryan slid into firing range.

  The thin strip of a sandy beach flashed by below as Bryan squeezed out a two second burst. The Italian kicked his plane into a vicious right bank, Bryan turned to follow him, throttling back to match his opponent’s speed. The biplane stayed in the bank, pulling tighter and tighter. Bryan struggled with controls that became loose and flabby as he decelerated closer to a stall.

  ‘Shit.’ Bryan cast about for his adversary, but couldn’t catch sight of him. The Italian was out-turning him. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  The beach wheeled back into Bryan’s vision. He reversed the bank and dived towards it. The manoeuvre cut through the Italian’s flight path and white tracer rounds flashed over Bryan’s head. The increasing speed of the dive brought the tautness back to his controls and Bryan jinked away from the menacing tendrils of phosphorus that sought to grasp him. The beach loomed in the windscreen and Bryan pulled out of the dive, making landfall at treetop height. A feverish glance into the mirror revealed his attacker had disengaged.

  ‘Shit,’ Bryan breathed to himself. ‘Shit.’

  ***

  Bumping down onto the grass at Kenley, Bryan fought to control the shivering that spasmed through his upper body. The beads of sweat seeping into his leather flying helmet, drawing a dark brown band across his forehead, belied the chill that quaked across his chest. Breathing deeply to steady himself, he pulled the canopy back as he taxied to dispersal. The slipstream dried the sweat and the crackling dryness of engine fumes steadied his nerves.

  His ground crew helped him swivel the Spitfire onto the pad and he felt a jolt as Mortice jumped up onto his port wing.

  ‘Any luck, sir?’ Then in softer tones: ‘Are you alright, Mr Hale?’

  Bryan drew another steadying breath and looked up as undid his straps.

  ‘We ran into some Italians, Mortice’ – Bryan forced his jocularity – ‘queer birds, they are.’ He stood and shrugged off his parachute, stepping out onto the wing. ‘The bombers go down easily’ – he jumped to the turf on legs that felt vaguely disconnected – ‘but their fighters are saucy little bitches.’

  Mortice clumped to the ground next to him.

  ‘How so, sir?’

  ‘Biplanes’ – Bryan looked the rigger in the eye – ‘higher wing loading.’

  Mortice sucked his breath through his teeth: ‘Giving him a tighter turning circle…’

  ‘One of them got a good long burst off at me’ – Bry
an gestured at his Spitfire – ‘I don’t know whether there’s any damage, I didn’t feel any hits. Give it a once over, will you?’

  ‘Will do.’

  The rigger set about the task and Bryan stood for a moment, willing his leg muscles to come back under his control. Lighting a cigarette, he raised his face to the sound of other Bluebird Spitfires streaming back to base. Two or three waggled their wings in triumph as they swooped in for their approach. He smiled with relief and a rough affection swelled in his throat. Dropping his head in concentration, he walked unsteadily towards the readiness hut.

  Sunday, 13 October 1940

  Bryan pulled on his leather driving gloves and climbed into his black Humber motor car.

  ‘Good girl,’ he muttered as it sprung to life on the first turn of the ignition key.

  Clunking into gear, he reversed off the gravel outside the officer’s mess and drove sedately down to the station gates. The guard saluted him through the barrier and he accelerated down the road, bound for South London. Bryan glanced at his watch. It was a ten-mile journey, he’d certainly make it by mid-afternoon.

  Cruising steadily north he could make out the bulbous grey shapes of the Croydon balloon barrage floating like bloated carp on fishing lines, shocked into torpidity by their unnatural inversion into the chill autumnal sky. Skirting around the west side of Croydon he noted an occasional space in the terraced shop-fronts. Many contained no rubble, the gap still incongruous, but cleared and tidied, as if the menace of the nightly terror had to be denied.

  Heading further north through Thornton Heath he passed more recent evidence of the raiders’ passing. A corner block lay demolished, the pile of rubble giving vent to the odd wisp of grey smoke as a buried timber smouldered away its air supply. The side road next to the ruin was roped off and a policeman stood kicking his heels next to a sign proclaiming the dangerous proximity of an unexploded bomb.

  The sun broke through the grey clouds as Bryan drove on through Streatham, the Sunday afternoon walkers on the common lifted their faces to receive it like a gift. Following the signposts now, Bryan cut between the wooded fringes of Tooting Bec Common, swept down the hill and stopped at the red traffic light outside the tube station. A newspaper seller watched him lean over to wind down the passenger window.

  ‘Du Cane Court?’ Bryan called across.

  ‘Take the left under the railway bridge,’ the man drawled, ‘it’s down there on the right. Biggest building in town.’

  Bryan waved his thanks and pulled away on the green light, a sudden knot of nerves tangling in his stomach.

  Within a few seconds he recognised his destination. A huge block of flats sat squat along the edge of the road behind a low brick wall. Two entranceways breached the wall, each flanked with brick columns emblazoned with the building’s name. Bryan pulled through the closest gap and parked in the courtyard.

  He followed a path to the double-doored entrance and shouldered his way in. The foyer beyond the doors stopped him in his tracks. Eighty feet long and tiled with white marble it swept in an elegant curve around a large ebony-panelled reception desk. Black-painted columns topped with uplighters punctuated the floor, their light washing outwards across the white plastered ceiling. At one end, a staircase rose into the bulk of the building between curved, golden handrails. Someone cleared their throat and Bryan’s eyes were dragged back to a young man standing behind the desk wearing a green uniform with silver buttons.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ the porter asked.

  ‘Er, yes.’ Bryan advanced to the desk. ‘I’ve come to see a Miss Freeman. She said you’d let her know I’ve arrived.’

  The porter leafed through a small directory and picked up the telephone. After a brief, hushed conversation, he hung up and turned back to Bryan.

  ‘She’ll be a few minutes, sir.’ The porter inclined his head towards a group of three leather armchairs in one corner of the lobby.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Bryan lit a cigarette as he ambled across, choosing a chair that secured an easy view of the staircase and the nearby lift doors. Tightness returned to his stomach. It was not quite fear, yet it was too craven to be called excitement. It was like waiting by the readiness hut, eyeing the telephone, knowing it would ring but unsure if, or how, you’d get through whatever happened next.

  The lift door dinged open and Jenny stepped out onto the smooth marble floor. She wore a red dress and black raincoat, her outfit topped off with a bright red pillbox hat, finished with a black ribbon.

  Bryan stubbed out his cigarette and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Hello, Jenny. You look very lovely.’

  Jenny’s heels clacked across the stone.

  ‘Hello, Bryan.’ – she smiled – ‘do you live in that uniform?’

  Bryan looked down at himself and grimaced with mock chagrin.

  ‘I tried on my suit this morning, but it’s been packed away for so long it looked like I was going gardening’ – he mirrored her smile – ‘so this is the finest piece of tailoring I can currently muster.’

  She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘Let’s hope Alice doesn’t see you.’

  They walked outside where the sunshine persisted in the face of a rising breeze that robbed it of its warmth.

  Bryan glanced up and down the road. ‘I’m in your hands, I’m afraid.’

  Jenny grabbed his arm. ‘I know a cafe in Clapham Common where they make the best omelettes. The owner gets fresh eggs from chickens he keeps in his garden. It’s only two stops on the tube.’

  They struck out towards the station.

  ‘Your block of flats is very plush,’ Bryan said. ‘The foyer looks like it was lifted straight out of an ocean liner.’

  ‘Ah’ – Jenny laughed – ‘the last gasp of post-war architectural optimism. At least that’s how it was explained to me.’

  ‘But seriously, I’m impressed.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be. Alice and I are there under totally false pretences,’ Jenny confessed. ‘Most residents moved out as soon as war was declared. So, the landlord dropped the rents and the rest is history.’

  ‘Still,’ Bryan mused, ‘uniformed porters…’

  They ducked down the stairs at Balham station and Bryan bought two return tickets. Down on the platform, a dozen or so shelterers sat draped in blankets against the curved walls.

  Bryan glanced at his watch: ‘It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’

  The train whirred into the station and the doors opened.

  ‘It’s never too early to feel safe, I suppose,’ Jenny said, sitting down in the near-empty carriage.

  Bryan remained standing, uncomfortable about the intimacy that sitting next to Jenny might imply. Instead he allowed his eyes to wander, following the curve of her thigh against the close-fitting fabric of her dress, the drape of her fine, dark hair, hanging free over her shoulders, gleaming with chocolate tones, and the sheen of her red lipstick.

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said.

  She looked up, blinking. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘If you have a gentleman friend.’

  Jenny gave a short shake of her head. ‘I’m not looking for a relationship,’ she said. ‘I’m too busy with work. There’s too much uncertainty…’

  The train slowed and, for the second time, the dark tunnel gave way to a brightly-lit station.

  ‘Here’ – she stood – ‘this is us.’

  They emerged from the stale underground air into the sudden noise of traffic skirting the common.

  ‘This way.’ Jenny tugged his sleeve and they crossed the road to a parade of shopfronts. Jenny paused in front of a whitewashed window.

  ‘This used to be a very friendly Italian restaurant,’ she said. ‘They were fine people, built up their business over many years. The authorities interned the whole family in the summer, every single one of them.’

  Bryan bit his lower lip. ‘I came across some Italians yesterday, over Canterbury,’ he said quietly. ‘They may have
been fine, but they certainly weren’t at all friendly.’

  Jenny’s hand came to her mouth and she looked into his eyes, measuring the truth of his words.

  ‘Well’ – she linked his arm – ‘I don’t suppose there are any easy subjects anymore. Come on, let’s go and talk about omelettes.’

  The bell above the cafe door tinkled as they entered. The waitress waited for them to choose a spot and placed two menus on their table.

  ‘Do you ever go back to Hampstead?’ Jenny asked.

  Bryan glanced up from his menu. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Are your parents still there?’

  Bryan snorted: ‘My father is a vicar. They move through neither space nor time.’ He glanced up and frowned. ‘You’re not reading your menu.’

  She smiled: ‘That’s because I already know what I want; a cheese and ham omelette.’

  ‘That settles it, then.’ Bryan leaned back as the waitress arrived. ‘Two cheese and ham omelettes and a pot of tea, please.’

  Jenny watched the waitress return to the kitchen with their order, ‘My parents are still there too,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably go up to stay over Christmas.’

  A silence hung between the pair as the waitress delivered the teapot and cups, lifting them from a battered, green metal tray and arranging them in the middle of the table.

  ‘Sauce with the omelettes?’ she chimed.

  ‘Yes, Daddies, please,’ Bryan said. Jenny shook her head and the waitress retreated once more.

  ‘What are your plans for Christmas?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘I tend to avoid making plans if I can’ – Bryan pulled a wan smile – ‘it’s a bit difficult to predict what the work situation will be.’

  ‘Well, if you happened to be in Hampstead over the season, I could call on you when I need rescuing from my parents and their bridge table.’

  ‘Is this my function in life, now? Rescuing Jennifer Freeman from people she no longer wants to spend time with?’

  ‘It could be worse’ – Jenny smiled – ‘a girl’s Best Alternative isn’t a bad job, really.’