The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  ‘It’s the second Sunday of Advent, Tommy.’ She pulled him closer. ‘What’s to become of us when the fires of Hell burn on our doorstep in the season of goodwill?’

  PART 3

  VESPERUM

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday, 10 December 1940

  Bryan sat in the corridor twiddling his thumbs. He considered the two separate worlds in which he now lived: His new world, London, with its streets, its people, and Jenny, with her warm bed and warmer skin, tugged at his heart night and day. His old world, the sky, with its infinite expanse, its sudden danger, its noise, fear and fire, had its talons firmly embedded in his soul. He was content in both, but could no longer travel between them so freely. He chewed his bottom lip and waited.

  The door opened and the orderly leaned out. ‘Flight Lieutenant Hale. The squadron leader will see you now.’

  Bryan stood, straightening reluctant joints, and walked through the orderly’s office. He knocked on the squadron leader’s door and entered.

  Lawson stood leaning on his desk, supporting his bulk on splayed arms as he regarded a folder of documents opened on his blotter.

  ‘Ah, Hale’ – he looked up and smiled – ‘come in, take a seat.’

  Bryan approached the desk and sat down.

  ‘Actually, I’m glad to have this opportunity to speak with you.’ Lawson sank back into his chair. ‘I heard you had some misgivings about flying up and down on standing patrol while raids were clearly in progress elsewhere.’

  ‘Erm, yes,’ Bryan muttered, ‘it was only an observation. My operator has family in London…’

  ‘No, it’s a perfectly reasonable point’ – Lawson stabbed at the documents on his desk with a finger – ‘which is why you’ll be interested in this little lot.’

  Bryan leaned forward and squinted at the upside-down document stamped Top Secret in red ink.

  ‘They’ve come up with what looks like a simple solution,’ the older man continued. ‘They’re taking a homing beacon, exactly like the one that guides you back to the aerodrome, and setting it up in open countryside, down near the coast. We get several Beaus airborne and they circle the beacon at different altitudes. That way, control knows where everyone is. Then, when a target presents itself, control vectors a fighter onto it. Once the customer has been served, the fighter returns to the beacon and circles, waiting for its next turn to be vectored. A line of these beacons will be established, meaning we can concentrate forces on an incursion where it’s happening rather than hanging about waiting for it to fly past.’ Lawson beamed at Bryan: ‘What do you think?’

  Bryan nodded: ‘A bit like a taxi rank, queueing for business. It could work out quite nicely.’

  ‘Exactly, Hale. Crews like yours are the best weapon we have against the night raids and we need to get better at putting you into the right place to do your job.’ Lawson leaned back in his chair. ‘What with this ‘taxi rank’ idea coming into operation before Christmas and the latest upgrades to the AI boxes, I’m expecting great things from you in the coming months.’

  Silence descended on the desk and the men regarded each other across it.

  ‘What was it you wanted?’ the older man asked.

  Bryan shook his head: ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You asked to see me, Hale.’ Lawson raised one eyebrow: ‘What was it you wanted?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Bryan stammered. ‘Nothing really…’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Erm… except to thank you for your intervention on the black paint. I appreciate it could’ve gone a lot harder for me.’

  ‘Don’t mention it’ – Lawson’s eyebrow stayed cocked – ‘we’re all in this together, after all.’

  Bryan nodded.

  ‘Well, if there’s nothing else?’

  Bryan lurched to his feet, saluted and made for the door. He hurried out through the orderly’s office, down the corridor and out into the chill December breeze. Releasing a lungful of breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, he stood and regarded the flint-grey sky. The faint sound of rigger’s banter interspersed with the clink of tools drifted across the field and a raucous laugh leaked from the mess bar where off-rota pilots had started drinking early. Bryan sucked the cold air through his nose and the undercurrent of aviation fuel tingled on his raw sinuses.

  ‘You have to promise me you’ll live… or get on and die.’

  Bryan thrust his hands into his pockets and headed off to the crew room to check over his flying kit.

  ***

  Bryan and Tommy walked out through the creeping dusk towards the dispersed Beaufighters. The hunched, predatory aura of the aircraft was made more sinister by the black, night-time disguise that blurred their edges against the retreating daylight.

  ‘Are you alright, Flight?’ Tommy offered a cigarette, his brow creased with concern.

  Bryan accepted the smoke. ‘Yes, Scott. I’m fine. A little worn down perhaps. Trying to keep too many promises.’

  ‘How do you mean? Promises to who?’ Tommy held up a burning match in his cupped hand.

  Bryan’s cigarette glowed and he regarded his operator with momentary dispassion.

  ‘For a start, your wife believes you’re safe because you fly with me.’

  They stopped a short distance from C-Charlie to finish their cigarettes.

  Tommy chuckled to himself: ‘Well if they get me, it’s likely you’ll buy it too, so at least you won’t have to explain yourself.’ Tommy sucked hard on the last half-inch of his cigarette, its end illuminating his face with an orange glow. ‘Every war has its veterans.’ He patted the breast pocket where he kept the locks of his family’s hair. ‘We just need to stay lucky. Speaking of which… I’ve applied for leave, three days over Christmas. They’ll let me go if you’re happy to sign it off.’

  Bryan dropped his cigarette butt onto the grass and crushed it out with the heel of his flying boot.

  ‘Of course.’ He cuffed the other man on the shoulder. ‘Now, let’s get up there and stay alive.’

  ***

  The Beaufighter’s metal skin thrummed in satisfied union with the double roar of Hercules engines as Bryan climbed steadily eastwards away from base. At three thousand feet the aircraft broke through the cloud into a clear, dark sky rimed with silver moonlight.

  ‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie, turn due south and listen out.’

  The fuselage tipped as the fighter lounged into a starboard bank, then levelled out, slightly nose-up as Bryan continued the climb towards the coast.

  Tommy gazed at the vault of stars sparkling from heaven to horizon, their exuberance intersected by the night-fighter’s black wing. Only the blue and red roundel mitigated its dark density, staring blindly upwards like the dead eye of an alien creature.

  As they crossed the coastline, the cloud cover ended in an abrupt line, like the cleaving edge of a wide glacier edging into the sea above the luminous chalk-white cliffs stretching west from Beachy Head. Tommy watched the intermittent lines of breaking waves recede into the haze as the Beaufighter ran out into the channel.

  ‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie, orbit. I repeat, orbit. We have picked up a bandit coming in at angels twelve. Listen out.’

  ‘Understood’ – Bryan’s voice resonated with the quiet patience of the skulking hunter – ‘orbiting and listening out.’

  The engines’ growl took on a more guttural tone as he pulled the nose up and around, spiralling to greater height to lay in wait for their prey.

  Night-warden fed Bryan with vectors while Tommy settled down to watch the AI display. Glancing at his compass he noted their controller was shuffling them over to one side, allowing the intruder to pass. Then came the vector that straightened them onto a course back towards the English coast. One more course correction was followed by a moment’s tense silence.

  Then: ‘Blackbird C-Charlie, flash, repeat, flash. Good luck.’

  Tommy’s gut knotted and he pressed his forehead closer into the vis
or, scanning the mute green screens for a sign.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  Bryan made no reply. The aircraft hummed in exhilaration as it sliced through the night air into blind blackness.

  Tommy squinted and sweated. There… a bulge gathering in the ground returns. He waited and watched until it strengthened into a blip.

  ‘Contact. Range five thousand yards. Slightly off to port. Well below us.’

  The blip started its journey down the trace, veering to the left-hand side of Tommy’s screen.

  ‘Check step to port.’

  The fighter swung to port for a moment and then regained its previous heading, side-stepping to the left behind the quarry. The blip centred again and resumed its slow progress down the screen.

  ‘Range three thousand yards. We need to lose some height before we get much closer.’

  Diving to lose altitude added too much speed and risked overshooting the target. Instead, Bryan throttled back slightly and lowered the undercarriage to increase drag. The whine of the landing gear ended in a ‘clunk’ as the wheels locked into place. Tommy’s stomach fluttered as the craft sank. The range decreased at a comfortable rate.

  ‘Level out now. Range is still over two thousand yards. Increase speed again.’

  The undercarriage clattered back into their housings and the engines purred up a notch as Bryan squeezed open the throttle.

  ‘Range one thousand yards. Throttle back a touch. Target is dead ahead and high.’

  The blip continued its progress down the trace.

  ‘Range seven hundred yards. Dead ahead. Fifteen degrees above.’

  The blip crept closer to minimum range and Tommy fought the urge to turn away from the screens and search the sky for the enemy himself.

  ‘Range four hundred.’

  Bryan remained silent.

  ‘Range three hundred. Still ahead. Thirty degrees above.’

  The engines droned on.

  ‘Range two hundred.’

  A small tremor ran through the aircraft; a twitch of a gloved hand on the control column. ‘I can see it.’ Bryan’s voice was tinged with relief. ‘You can take a look.’

  Tommy dropped the cover over the AI visor and gazed up into the darkness to where a darker shadow was stamped onto the night.

  Bryan settled in directly underneath the enemy and crept to within one hundred yards. The blacker smudge of sky acquired an outline that became a recognisable shape.

  ‘Heinkel 111.’ It was more a statement than a question.

  ‘Without a doubt, Flight.’

  ‘Alright. Attacking now.’

  Bryan began a measured ascent. The enemy aircraft dropped slowly, like a holed vessel settling in the water, until it sank almost below Tommy’s line of sight. He held his breath as Bryan jiggled the target into the centre of his gunsight.

  The cannon breeches in the floor flashed with violence and the clatter and thud of their fire shook the fuselage. Acrid smoke drifted up around Tommy, stinging his nostrils. He didn’t notice this, nor the sudden silence as the firing ceased. He simply gawped at the bomber flying on straight and level, seemingly unconcerned about their attack.

  ‘The guns have stopped.’ Bryan’s voice, terse with tension, brought him round. He unlatched his harness and jumped from his seat, stamping on the magazines with his heel.

  ‘Still plenty of ammo in the drums, Flight.’

  ‘Alright, let’s try again.’

  Tommy climbed back to his perch and looked ahead at the bomber, still ploughing sedately through the night.

  The cacophony reprised and Tommy watched the concentrated smattering of white sparkles dancing over the target’s starboard engine as it flew on unperturbed. Then silence fell again.

  Tommy jumped down to the cannon breeches and bent to examine them.

  ‘Shit!’ Bryan’s exclamation came as the Beaufighter lurched over into an evasive turn, knocking Tommy off his feet. ‘They’re firing back.’

  Tommy grabbed out for handholds and hauled himself up to peer through the dome. Red balls of tracer floated towards him, curved and flicked over the wing like angry insects bursting from a disturbed nest. Bryan peeled away to the left and the return fire followed their trajectory, whipping past but never hitting the airframe.

  The firing quelled. Bryan levelled out and banked onto a parallel course to the Heinkel, still visible in the moonlight.

  ‘We’ve lost air pressure to the breeches, Flight.’ Tommy was surprised by the ragged edge in his own breathing. ‘It’s not something I can fix.’

  ‘Alright, Scott. Never mind.’

  The two men kept a watch on the Heinkel. It slowed down and tipped into a shallow descent as it wallowed in a wide bank to head home across the channel. Grim visions intruded on Tommy’s imagination; scenes of death and maiming, panic, fear and the dread of cold channel water. None of this could be fathomed from the serene, dark fuselage that they shadowed.

  ‘At least they haven’t bombed anyone.’ Tommy’s voice sounded distant to his own ears.

  ‘It might be as well for them to get home. Unloading that crew might put the fear of God into the others.’ Bryan banked away from the retreating intruder. ‘Give me a bearing for home.’

  Wednesday, 11 December 1940

  Jenny ran her thumb down the fat wedge of papers squatting in her in tray and sighed. She stood and walked to the window, stretching her legs and letting the blood return to her numbing buttocks. Her gaze drifted along the street where pedestrians hurried by in the brisk winter air. Her eye was drawn to a man carrying a Christmas tree over his shoulder. Green fronds poked out at the top of its sack wrapping, bobbing stiffly with the man’s purposeful gait. The brightness of the winter sunshine attested to cloudless skies. Last year such weather might’ve gladdened her heart. Today, once the sun had set, such clear skies would become the bombers’ friend, colluding with the near-full moon to illuminate their targets.

  Jenny fought the urge to look at the clock as she returned to her desk and the pile of documents she’d processed during the morning. She hefted the papers onto her forearm and walked to the bank of filing cabinets that stretched across one wall of the large office. A thin tang of perfume mixed with talcum powder hung in the air above the dozen or so women working in the space. The muffled clatter of a typewriter underpinned the soft murmur of a conversation. The sharp ring of a telephone sliced through both.

  Jenny laid her burden on a table and squinted at the hand-scrawled label on the first folder; November 1940 – Domestic dwellings damaged beyond repair – East London. Jenny paused. The thick wad of documents weighed heavy in her hand, a mute testament to the disaster that had befallen that part of the city. She pulled out a filing drawer and tucked the folder in front of a similarly fat file containing October’s figures.

  ‘Jennifer.’

  She turned to the sound of her supervisor’s voice. The woman was accompanied by a stranger. A man dressed in a tailored suit of brown tweed flecked with green. Under the jacket he wore a mustard moleskin waistcoat from which hung the silver loop of a watch chain, and a red silk tie nestled in the collar of his white cotton shirt. A shock of thick black hair sat atop his quietly handsome face, his aquiline nose emphasised by the bars of thick, ebony eyebrows that slanted over dark brown eyes.

  ‘This is James Bartlett, a new arrival in the Housing and Architecture department.’

  James held out his hand and Jenny shook it.

  ‘He’s working on a project that will need a fair bit of archive research. As you’re the best archivist we have, I’ve assigned you to do the work.’

  Jenny opened her mouth to ask a question, but the supervisor was already hurrying away to complete an interrupted mission elsewhere.

  ‘I’m still finding my feet’ – James spoke into the gap she’d left – ‘setting up my desk and learning who does what. So, it might be a while before I have any work that needs your expertise.’

  Jenny felt an unbidden blush creeping up he
r cheeks. ‘What’s the nature of the project?’

  ‘Infrastructure mostly. I’m an architect.’ He smiled. ‘Why don’t I come to see you early next week, after I’ve got my bearings? We can spend a day going through the document index and I can choose what I’d like you to dig up.’

  Jenny smiled and nodded.

  ‘Good. I look forward to it.’

  Jenny watched his back as he wove between the desks and left the room.

  ***

  The haze of cigarette smoke corralled under the wooden roof of the operations hut rippled in the draught from an ill-fitting window. The crews sat beneath it, most lighting their next cigarette with the dog-end of the last, waiting for the word to go.

  The squadron leader shuffled through the meteorological report before dropping the papers onto the table and straightening his back to speak.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Murmured conversations amongst the aircrews atrophied to silence. ‘The clear skies over the Channel have given way to a build-up of cloud. Cumulus and cumulonimbus can be expected along the coastal regions, with the possibility of electric storms. On top of that there’s a bombers’ moon, so we can reasonably count on a lot of custom coming through the shop tonight. Bear in mind, the stronger moonlight will make it more likely you’ll be spotted. So, once you get a contact, think carefully about the best angle of approach. Good luck and good hunting.’

  The crews surged to their feet, retrieving helmets and gloves before shuffling to the door.

  ‘Bloody full moon,’ Bryan muttered. ‘I can really do without getting shot at again.’

  Tommy followed him out into the refreshing cool of the evening air.

  ‘He never got anywhere near us last night.’ Tommy held his arm out straight and swept it in a slow arc. ‘He needed to add a couple more degrees of deflection, then we might’ve been in a spot of bother.’

  Bryan gave him a sidelong look: ‘That’s nice to know.’

  Tommy tapped the left side of his chest, where his single-winged air gunner badge still adorned the tunic underneath the flying suit. ‘Just my professional opinion.’