‘Hey! It’s down here. Come quick. They’re going to shoot him.’
The police car crossed the junction and accelerated towards him. As it drew level it stopped and the officer in the passenger seat wound down his window.
‘The tea room’ – Bryan pointed – ‘it’s been hit. Two soldiers have collared a looter. I think they’re going to bloody well shoot him.’
The police car drove on and Bryan strode after it back towards the wrecked building. The policemen got out as the soldiers emerged. Bryan couldn’t hear what they said, but he could see the soldiers handing over the looted property. He came level with the group as the policemen started towards the yard and the troops turned to leave. The bigger soldier levelled cold eyes at Bryan as he slung his rifle and walked away. Bryan swallowed hard and stumbled after the policemen.
The trio entered the shop’s yard. Empty wooden crates stood in neat piles, a handcart and a sack barrow stood next to the back door. In the middle of the space knelt the thief. Sobbing wracked his body and drool hung in a sickly curtain from his lower lip. He peered at the newcomers from under rapidly swelling brows, and his nose, skewed sideways across his face, dripped blood into the dust. With his left hand he cradled his right wrist close to his chest. The fingers on his right hand bent backwards at horribly unnatural angles.
***
The police car drew up on the road outside Du Cane Court and the driver twisted in his seat to smile at Bryan: ‘Here we are, sir. Thanks for your help this afternoon.’
‘It doesn’t feel like I did anything.’
‘Well, you might’ve saved that looter’s life’ – his smile evaporated – ‘for all that’s worth.’
‘Isn’t it the bombs?’ Bryan asked. ‘Isn’t it possible the bombs change the way people behave? Lead them to make bad choices?’
‘Maybe, sir’ – the policeman pursed his lips – ‘or maybe they give London’s vermin the opportunities they would be waiting for anyway.’
Bryan climbed out and walked into the courtyard. It was well past 6 o’clock and the sky darkened around the brooding mass of the building. Blackout curtains already blotted out many windows. Some glowed with light, the occupants of the flats, perhaps distracted, still unaware of the deepening gloom outside.
Bryan strode through the entrance, entered the lift, and within moments found himself in front of Jenny’s door. His uncertainties uncoiled to fill his stomach. The unfamiliar feelings that had stalked his recent days, and the vulnerability they pressed upon him, summoned loveless spectres from the depths of his leaden youth. But the brute force of elemental desire had dragged him here once more. He raised his hand to knock.
‘Hello, Bryan.’
He started at the voice behind him, composed himself, and turned.
‘Hello, Jenny’ – he smiled – ‘I was in town…’
A wry smile twisted on Jenny’s lips. ‘All we have is vegetable soup, and that’s mostly potatoes. You’re welcome to share if you’re hungry.’
She stepped between him and the door, the scent of her hair teased into his nostrils and her proximity traced a tingle down his neck.
‘Vegetable soup sounds perfect.’
Jenny unlocked the door and strode into her bedroom. She threw her handbag onto the bed and pulled the blackouts closed. Bryan walked down the hall to the lounge and closed the blackouts there.
‘Thank you,’ Jenny said as she flicked on the lights and breezed into the kitchen. She lit the gas under the large, covered pot that stood on the stove. ‘I am so hungry.’
Bryan sat down at the kitchen table while Jenny stirred the soup.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘We must make sure we leave some for Alice.’
Silence settled between them for long minutes and Bryan’s knots of anxiety loosened as he watched Jenny taste the food, add a pinch of salt and turn off the gas.
She pulled two bowls from a shelf, ladled in the soup and placed them on the table.
‘You left a note.’ She avoided eye contact as she fetched two spoons.
‘Yes. I’m not going to Scotland. I’ve asked for a transfer.’
Jenny handed him a spoon and sat down.
‘A transfer?’
‘I’m joining a squadron in Hampshire.’
Jenny frowned. ‘I thought rotation was meant to give pilots a rest.’ Her voice roughened at the edges: ‘How can they let you hop over to another squadron and simply carry on?’
‘They asked for volunteers. It’s a new development.’
Jenny cocked her head in silent question.
‘Night-fighters’ – he took a sip of the hot soup – ‘we’ll be operating against the bombers at night.’
Jenny regarded him in silence for a moment, her eyes flicking over his features: ‘So instead of taking the break you deserve, you’ve chosen to fly about in the dark over London trying to shoot down bombers.’
‘Someone has to-’
‘But why you, Bryan?’ Her voice hardened in tone but dropped in volume: ‘You deserve to step back from it. You’ve done your bit. You’ve been at the sharp end all summer. What were you thinking?’
Bryan dropped his eyes for a moment. ‘I suppose I was thinking about the things I’ve seen. The shelterers in the tunnels. The gaps in the terraces. The rubble in the roads. The bodies they’re still pulling out of the tube station.
‘I went into town this afternoon for a walk. A year ago, that would’ve been a wholly unremarkable thing to do. Today, I saw a tea room blown to hell and two soldiers beat a looter halfway senseless. A tea room, for Pete’s sake. I can’t walk away from all of that.’
Outside the mounting wail of the air raid sirens nibbled at the tension hanging between them.
Bryan reached across the table to take Jenny’s hand. ‘And I was thinking about you-’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Jenny snapped, pulling her hand away. ‘I’m not prepared to carry a weight that heavy to your funeral, nor do I expect you to carry it to mine. It’s not fair.’
‘I’m sorry…’
‘No. Don’t be…’ Her tone softened and she reached back to grasp his hand. ‘It’s not your fault that I can’t say what you want to hear. But I don’t want you to get killed.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Let’s live for as long as we’re allowed to. Let’s live without debts or anchors’ – her eyes glistened with infant tears – ‘and let’s die without regrets.’
The windows rattled to the opening salvoes from the Clapham anti-aircraft battery, prising the night apart to throw speculative explosions into the inky London sky.
Jenny let go of his hand and returned to her soup.
‘I know, Bryan,’ she murmured, ‘but please, don’t say it. Just be content that I know.’
Wednesday, 23 October 1940
The feeling he was being watched tickled Bryan out of his slumber. He opened his eyes to see Jenny’s face. She was propped up on her elbow, regarding him with an unreadable expression.
‘So where is this new station?’ she asked.
‘Mmmm?’ Bryan squeezed the bridge of his nose and blinked the sleep from his eyes.
‘The one you’re moving to?’
‘You know I shouldn’t tell you that.’
‘I work for The Ministry, Bryan. I could tell Hitler much more interesting things than where you’re going to be hanging your hat.’
Bryan regarded her for a moment, but her expression didn’t change.
‘It’s called Middle Wallop…’ he conceded.
Jenny snorted a laugh.
‘…and it lies midway between Over Wallop and Nether Wallop.’
Jenny dropped back onto her pillow and melted into giggles.
Bryan sat up and reached for his watch.
‘I have to go. They’re expecting me to report there before lunch.’ He looked down into Jenny’s eyes. ‘When can I see you again?’
‘I don’t know, Bryan’ – she smiled – ‘what with you having to work nights and everything…�
�
Bryan grinned in spite of himself. Jenny reached up and pulled him down towards her.
‘So, you need to say goodbye properly.’
***
Alice sat sipping her tea, listening to the murmured farewells exchanged at the flat door. She heard a kiss planted on Jenny’s cheek or forehead and the click of the closing door. Jenny trailed into the lounge and leaned back on the sofa.
‘You’ve got ‘perfect couple’ written all over you,’ Alice said.
‘We’re not a couple. We’re just friends.’
‘Come on, Jenny. Anyone can see how much he means to you.’
Jenny regarded her friend with a steady gaze: ‘It doesn’t matter what he means to me. Once the fire and the bullets have finished with him, he’ll be gone. Then no amount of feeling will make a difference. He could’ve transferred to Scotland and been safe. But he’s chosen to be a hero, he’s chosen the front-line, he’s chosen the war.’ She closed her eyes as if picturing a face. ‘I have an auntie who still loves a man who got squashed into the soil on The Somme. There was nothing left for the army to send home to her. But she loves him still. She gets through her days by clinging on to a photograph and a ghost.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Bryan won’t stop until the war ends or he gets killed fighting it.’
‘But he’s alive now,’ Alice whispered.
Jenny’s eyes snapped open: ‘Yes, and that’s why I loved him this morning.’
Chapter 9
The sentry at the gate eyed Bryan with suspicion through the guard’s hut window as he made the telephone call to confirm a new pilot was expected at Middle Wallop. At length he approached the Humber and leaned down to the open window.
‘All cleared, sir. Follow the signs to the officers’ mess. The squadron leader’s office is in the next building along.’
Bryan nodded his thanks and crawled his car up the drive. He pulled up outside the mess and glanced at his watch. Still over an hour before he needed to report for duty. Time for a stroll.
The mess commanded views over the whole aerodrome. Many twin-engine aircraft stood dispersed around the field’s perimeter, some under tarpaulin covers, some with maintenance crews tinkering in opened engine panels. Bryan grunted as he lit a cigarette. Bristol Blenheims - the exact same bus he’d been flying at the declaration of war over a year ago. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and walked towards the nearest aircraft.
The plane wore its chipped and faded camouflage paint like a spinster aunt at a fashionable party, willing to join in, but sadly behind the times. As Bryan approached, he noticed the top turret had been swapped with a featureless Perspex dome. Getting closer he noted the familiar gun pod on the bottom of the fuselage, its face pierced by four machine gun barrels. He grimaced; only half the punch of his Spitfire. He ducked under the fuselage, examining the unfamiliar aerials poking from the nose and wings.
‘Hello, sir?’ A rigger approached, rolling a cigarette between grimy fingers.
Bryan straightened. ‘Flight Lieutenant Hale. New on squadron. These kites are a bit the worse for wear.’
‘We only use the Blenheims for familiarisation and operator training.’ The rigger licked and sealed the paper, then pointed with the finished cigarette. ‘Our proper kit is away down the other end of the field.’
Bryan squinted in the direction of the rigger’s gesture towards some squat, twin-engine machines in the middle distance.
‘Now those are Beaufighters. Different proposition altogether.’
‘And why should I like those any better?’
The rigger’s smile widened: ‘There are four 20mm cannons in their bellies.’
Bryan mirrored the rigger’s smile. ‘That sounds like a good enough reason. Right, I’m off to check in with the squadron leader. Carry on.’
***
Squadron Leader Lawson rose as Bryan entered his office. He offered his hand, Bryan saluted and accepted the shake.
‘Sit down, Hale.’ Lawson sank back into his leather chair and regarded his new arrival. ‘You’ve come to us from single-seats, I see’ – he glanced down at the papers on his desk – ‘with quite an impressive operational record, I have to say. Well, we’re gearing up to play a different kind of game on this station.’ He paused and chuckled: ‘You might even call it ‘murder in the dark’. It won’t be to everyone’s taste.’
‘I’ve spent the summer shooting Germans in the back, sir. I have no qualms about carrying on with the job.’
‘Good,’ Lawson said. ‘You’ll spend the next couple of days reacquainting yourself with the Blenheim before you start training on interceptions during daylight.
‘Tomorrow, we’ll team you up with your operator and you’ll get the basic instruction on the Airborne Interception equipment.’ Lawson leaned forward. ‘It’s all top-secret stuff. We need the Germans to think they’re still safe coming over in darkness.’ He smiled: ‘It’ll make them easier to hunt. Here’ – he pushed a document across the desk – ‘sign this.’
Bryan scanned the document. ‘Official Secrets Act?’
Lawson nodded: ‘Like I said…’ He waited while Bryan signed and then scooped the paper into a drawer. ‘Welcome to 604 Squadron, Hale. Our code name is Blackbird. Report to the adjutant at 8 o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He stood and offered his hand again. ‘Good luck.’
Thursday, 24 October 1940
Bryan and the adjutant, a portly man named George Campbell, walked together towards the lecture hall. Newly-built hangars bounced back a dull gleam from the watery autumn sun and the hoarse roar of engines crackled along the breeze as mechanics tested and tweaked their tuning.
‘Your operator is a non-commissioned airman,’ the adjutant explained, ‘a young sergeant named Tommy Scott, he’s been reassigned from air gunner so he’s knows the Blenheim inside out. I reckon you’ll make a good team.’
They pushed through the door of the large wooden hut. Inside, a few dozen chairs were arranged in uneven rows in front of a desk. On top of the desk stood a large black box with two round screens, gazing blankly over the chairs like a robot owl. Behind the desk stood a tall man in civilian clothes, wearing glasses. In the front row, standing to greet them, was a slight man with an Air Gunner badge on his tunic.
Campbell locked the door behind them and ushered Bryan forward.
He gestured towards the tall man: ‘This is Albert Beckwith, our civilian science officer’ – then nodded at the uniformed man – ‘and Sergeant Thomas Scott, your designated operator.’
Scott smiled: ‘Most people call me Tommy, sir.’
The three men sat down and Bryan eyed the strange contraption on the desk with interest.
‘This is a demonstration model of the Airborne Interception device, Mark IV,’ the scientist began, ‘but before I show you how to read the screens, let me define the basic theory.
‘You are familiar with echoes. If you shout across a valley and measure how long it takes for the echo to return, you will be able to calculate the width of the valley, knowing the speed at which sound travels. If you used a sound locator to detect the echo, you could also estimate the direction from which the echo has bounced. Essentially AI does this with radio waves instead of sound waves.
‘The information thus deduced is displayed on the two cathode ray screens on this machine which is located at the operator’s station in the aircraft’s fuselage.’ He tapped the top of the owlish box. ‘The screen on the left shows the contact’s bearing in relation to your direction of travel. The other shows the elevation of the contact, in other words, the relative height difference between you and your target.
‘The operator’ – he nodded at Scott – ‘interprets the two readings and conveys instructions to the pilot until the target is sighted and an engagement is made possible.’
‘Does it work?’ Bryan’s question interrupted the scientist’s monotonous flow.
Beckwith regarded him over pursed lips: ‘Within limitations.’ He adjusted his glasses. ‘The biggest object i
n the environment reflecting radio waves is obviously the Earth itself. And it reflects them so well that they will tend to overpower reflections from smaller targets. The lower your altitude, the worse it is.
‘If you are flying at ten thousand feet, the ground reflections will limit your detection range to ten thousand feet in all directions. Much lower and the equipment becomes, for all practical purposes, ineffective. But this shouldn’t cause a problem as most raiders cross the coast at, or above, fifteen thousand feet.’
Bryan looked into the scientist’s benign, smiling face: ‘Any other limitations?’
Beckwith blinked twice. ‘Er, yes. Although the AI switches very quickly between transmit and receive, there is a problem with echoes arriving during the ‘transmit’ phase of the cycle. In short, they will not be received. This is far more likely to happen at close range when echoes are returning at a higher rate. So, overall it’s far more accurate at longer range.’
Bryan leaned forward: ‘So what actually happens as we close in?’
‘The AI will be rendered ineffective by what we call ‘instrumental disturbance’ at between one thousand and six hundred feet. To put this in context: on a moonless night, a pilot with good eyesight should be able to spot a medium bomber’s silhouette at about one thousand feet.’
Campbell stood up before Bryan’s intake of breath turned into another question. ‘Thank you, Mr Beckwith. I think that just about covers it.’
Beckwith threw a cover over the machine and tidied up the desk.
The adjutant turned to Bryan. ‘Sergeant Scott has passed through basic AI training on the ground simulator. So as soon as you’ve got yourself a few hours flying time on the Blenheim, you’ll start interception training together.’
Friday, 25 October 1940
Tommy Scott watched the Blenheim taxi smoothly along the perimeter and swing into the wind at the end of the runway. The engines’ roar subsided as the pilot throttled back to complete final checks.
‘Who’s that?’ a rigger sauntered up.
‘Flight Lieutenant Hale,’ Tommy answered. ‘I’ve been assigned as his operator. He’s transferred here from Spitfires.’
The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set Page 36
