The Bluebirds Trilogy Box Set

by Melvyn Fickling

  A large black scar marred the grass on the runway’s edge where burning fuel had crisped the winter grass. An impact furrow ran from its centre, away at an angle towards the perimeter. Trucks stood next to this earthen gash and men raised their faces as the Beaufighter roared overhead.

  ‘Blackbird C-Charlie to Tower, requesting permission to land.’

  Bryan banked into the circuit, dropped the gear, and planted a three-point landing. He taxied onto the hardstanding and swung around with a vicious burst of revs on the starboard engine. The fighter settled facing out across the field, like a roosting owl awaiting sunset.

  Bryan shut down the engines and waited for the propellers to windmill to rest. He heard the clank of the rear hatch hitting the ground and the clunk of it closing as Tommy exited the craft. Moments later he dropped through the cockpit hatch onto the concrete and pulled off his flying helmet.

  ‘I’ll try to find out what went on,’ he called over his shoulder as he started off towards the office block.

  A subdued tension sat over the field. Ground crews moved methodically at their tasks but the usual sound of banter and laughter was absent.

  Bryan pushed through the doors at the station office and approached the orderly’s desk.

  ‘Is he in?’ Bryan cut an incongruous figure, dressed in full flying kit, his hair plastered flat.

  ‘Wait a moment.’ The man picked up the handset and made a hushed call.

  Bryan paced up and down, a rankle of choler filling the gap in his demeanour carved by last night’s fear.

  ‘Please go right in.’

  Bryan strode into the adjutant’s office.

  ‘Sir, I…’

  The words died in his throat when he saw the other’s drawn features and ashen pallor. The man sat with the broken disposition of a grieving uncle.

  Bryan softened his tone: ‘We saw the wreckage as we flew in. What happened?’

  Campbell pushed a half-finished, handwritten letter away across his blotter and lifted solemn eyes to regard Bryan.

  ‘We think it was a Messerschmitt 110. Whatever it was, it caught us stone cold. He joined the landing circuit and simply waited for his chance.’

  Bryan lowered himself into a chair. ‘Who bought it?’

  ‘Carson in G-George and Moss in M-Mother, with their operators, of course. None of them stood a chance.’

  Bryan’s head sank into his hands. ‘So what do we do now? They know where we live and they know what time we get home from work.’

  The older man shook his head: ‘There’s nothing that can be done, not immediately, beyond posting observers on the ground to listen out for engine noise. The intruder came in far too low for RDF detection. And even if we detect them, we can’t use Bofors guns in the dark.’

  Bryan pursed his lips. ‘So, we simply carry on and hope for the best?’

  Campbell nodded: ‘Unfortunately, that’s all we can do.’

  ‘Have the bodies been retrieved?’

  ‘Yes. All four are in the mortuary.’

  ‘May I go to see them?’

  The adjutant’s eyes regarded him with milky sadness. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  ***

  Bryan trailed out of the office block and walked back to his aircraft at the perimeter. Tommy sat on the concrete, leaning against the port tyre, tossing stones at a propeller blade. Each hit rewarded him with a metallic ‘ting’.

  Bryan lit a cigarette and dropped the packet and matches next to his operator’s leg. Tommy retrieved a smoke and struck a match.

  ‘It was Carson and Moss’ – Bryan’s eyes settled on one of the distant trucks they had overflown. Several men bustled around the vehicle, heaving bits of wreckage onto the flatbed – ‘and their operators, of course.’

  Tommy looked up at his pilot: ‘Desmond and Donald were their names,’ he said. ‘I was close to making them my friends.’

  Bryan sucked in a lungful of tobacco smoke. ‘Having friends is dangerous.’

  Chapter 21

  Friday, 24 January 1941

  The Stygian sky arched above them with an opaque vacancy untroubled by the rayless new moon. Its impervious blankness lacked dimension and its impalpable solidity mocked the senses. The Beaufighter sped through this alien vault, while at once appearing suspended and still in its empyrean expanse.

  ‘Night-warden Control to Blackbird C-Charlie, return to base.’

  Tommy glanced out of the dome, his jaw knotted with frustration, ‘What’s happened to our luck, Flight? Not a sniff in ages.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Bryan said with wooden weariness as he pulled the aircraft onto a northerly vector. ‘Give me a bearing for home, I’m tired.’

  Tommy ducked his head back to the screens. Suddenly a blip burst through the clutter and rushed down the trace.

  ‘Contact… Head on… Port about… Hard, hard!’

  Tommy clenched his stomach muscles against the wrench of inertia as Bryan stood the big night-fighter on its port wingtip. His face compressed into the visor and the green glow darkened around the edge of his vision with the creeping onset of blackout. The blip slid over to the right, slowed and then receded, creeping back towards the centre. As the fighter came out of the turn and levelled out, the pressure eased.

  ‘Bang on, Flight,’ Tommy enthused, ‘we’ve got him cold. Our luck has changed.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Two thousand yards. Dead ahead.’

  Bryan stared out into the flat blackness, willing a shape to coalesce, while he performed the adjustments in course and power called through from Tommy.

  ‘We’re very close’ – Tommy’s voice stretched with tension – ‘approaching minimum range. I’m beginning to lose the contact.’

  Bryan gritted his teeth. ‘Where are you…?’ he breathed to himself.

  The fabric of the night rippled with a gentle anomaly. Bryan squinted, searching for a way to decode the teasing inconsistency that plucked at the edge of his vision. A shape suggested itself, shimmering in and out of his perception.

  ‘I think I see something. It’s fat enough to be a Heinkel.’

  Tommy screwed his head around, the darker patch swam in his vision, gaining and losing the familiar shape of an enemy bomber.

  ‘I don’t know. Something doesn’t look right.’

  The ghostly smudge shimmered and morphed like a mirage. As the Beaufighter closed, the shape grew larger and flirted with solidity. In a terrifying rush, the black phantom coalesced and its tail reared out of the night.

  ‘We’re above it!’ Tommy’s shout tore from his throat.

  With an ugly jolt, the night-fighter bucked over and past the bomber’s fin. Noise thundered around Tommy as the fuselage floor blossomed with a frenzy of explosive flowers formed from dust and metal. The air by his head ripped with vicious suddenness and holes clanged into the metal skin above his face. A giant assailant punched him hard in the kidneys with a red-hot fist, jerking him against his straps and knocking all the wind from his body. His head tilted for a moment, listening with awful detachment to the receding rattle of the Heinkel’s dorsal gunner.

  His empty lungs burned like acid and he forced his spasming muscles to suck in some air. His head jerked back with the effort and the icy blast from the holed dome dragged tears into his eyes. Incongruous warmth spread across his buttocks and down the backs of his legs. His head lolled forward and he stared without comprehending at the dark liquid dripping from his boots. Somewhere far away a voice shouted and he bent his will to make out the words…

  ‘Scott! Scott!’ Bryan’s voice cut through the fog. ‘For Christ’s sake, man. Are you there?’

  Tommy heaved in another breath and coughed against the foul taste of bile in his throat.

  ‘I’ve been hit’ – his voice sounded disconnected in his own head – ‘my back hurts like hell.’

  ‘Alright. Hang on. I’ll get you back. Can you give me a heading for home?’

  Tommy squinted at the screens
and leaned forward. Pain jolted like lightning strikes up and down his spine. He straightened, pushing against his backrest.’

  ‘No. I don’t think I can.’

  Tommy’s vision grew indistinct, a veil of softness blurred the details and beckoned him towards the warm cocoon of slumber. Bryan’s voice calling control for an emergency bearing drifted to fuzzy irrelevance and then slipped into silence.

  ***

  The Beaufighter clunked onto the grass between the flarepath lights and Bryan eased on the brakes as hard as he dared, slewing the aircraft off the runway onto the rougher grass. As he pulled at his harness buckle, he caught sight of trucks approaching, their muted headlights squinting their way through the night. Bryan pulled off his flying gloves and jabbed on the cabin lights. Twisting out of his seat, he swung through the armoured door and stopped dead.

  Tommy slumped in his chair like a sleeping drunk. The bumpy landing had rocked his head backwards and his open eyes were raised skywards, gazing without depth through the shattered dome.

  Bryan stepped forward, his feet sliding thickly in the slick, oily puddle that settled beneath the operator’s chair.

  ‘Scott?’

  He leaned forward and unbuckled the lap strap, then reached around Tommy’s back to hoist him from his perch. Something hot and flaccid slipped over his hands and hit the metal floor with a wet slap.

  ‘Scott?’

  Tommy’s head slumped forward in a slow, stiff motion, coming to rest with a gentle bump on Bryan’s shoulder.

  The access hatch dropped open and a medic scrambled up the short ladder.

  ‘Sir. Let me get to him.’

  The man reached between them and grabbed Tommy’s shoulders, pushing his torso upright into the chair. Tommy’s head swung back and his face caught the weak glow of the cabin light.

  Bryan looked into milk-glazed orbits that no longer reflected the world.

  ‘Pilot’ – another medic called from the hatch – ‘this way, please. Come out this way.’

  Bryan latched onto this new, vibrant face and meekly obeyed, climbing down into the sudden freshness of the freezing, still air.

  ‘Come and sit in the ambulance where I can get a proper look at you.’

  ‘What about Scott?’

  ‘He’ll go in the other ambulance, sir. Don’t you worry.’

  Bryan nodded once and then gave way to the quaking, trembling shudders of shock.

  Saturday, 25 January 1941

  ‘Hale. Wake up.’

  Bryan’s eyelids fluttered open to the strident, bright blankness of a whitewashed room. The heavy scent of iodine prickled his nostrils.

  ‘Hale?’

  Bryan forced his eyes into focus and the adjutant’s face appeared, haloed in the glare.

  ‘They gave you something to help you sleep.’ Campbell leaned over him. ‘Apart from that, you’re all in one piece. How do you feel?’

  Bryan hoisted himself onto his elbow and wiped the sleep from his eyes. ‘Scott’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Campbell nodded: ‘Blood loss.’ He sat down on the chair next to the bed. ‘He’d died before you reached the ground.’

  Bryan exhaled a long sigh and closed his eyes to shut off the hurt.

  ‘Has his wife been told?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I’ll telephone sector headquarters this morning. They’ll arrange a telegram, probably later today or tomorrow.’

  ‘No!’ Bryan looked into the other man’s face: ‘I want to tell her. I’ve met her. She’s been kind to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure the medical officer would agree to it. You’ve had quite a shake up, it’s unlikely to be good for you.’

  ‘I did it for my best friend. I want to do it for Scott.’

  The adjutant frowned in thought for a moment, then stood and left the room. He returned a few minutes later.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘As long as you have a quiet night, they’ll discharge you first thing in the morning. Bear in mind, I’ll want you back on the flying rota for Friday. We’ll have a replacement operator assigned by the time you get back.’

  Bryan nodded wearily, sank back onto his pillow and stared into the virtuous serenity of the white ceiling.

  Sunday, 26 January 1941

  Bryan pulled up the collar of his greatcoat against the morning chill as he trudged behind the adjutant across the courtyard to the operators’ barracks. Two sergeants leaving the building averted their eyes to the ground and nodded in salute as they hurried away.

  Bryan and the adjutant pushed through the door and paused inside the now-unoccupied building. Glancing down the rows of beds it was easy to spot which had been Tommy’s by the suitcase that sat at its foot. The two men approached the bunk.

  A few loose items sat on top of the suitcase. Bryan picked up the lock of hair tied in red ribbon and twirled it around in his fingers.

  ‘These few bits were on his person,’ the adjutant explained.

  Bryan tucked the lock of hair into his tunic’s inside pocket and put the wallet and identity disc into his greatcoat pocket.

  ‘And we found this’ – the adjutant held out an envelope – ‘under his pillow.’

  Bryan took the letter. On the front, in scrupulous handwriting, it read: To Elizabeth and Robert.

  He picked up the suitcase and both men walked out of the barracks.

  ‘Good luck,’ the adjutant said. ‘Come straight back. I want you rested up before you get back in the saddle.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ Bryan walked towards his Humber parked outside the officers’ mess. Behind him, a Beaufighter on flight test opened it throttles and bumped along the grass runway, the ragged roar of its engines singing a song that lay somewhere between despair and defiance.

  ***

  The implacable nature of creeping inevitability was the enemy of every man on active service. It crawled into the head like a malicious insect and gnawed away at courage, capability and reason. Bryan had tacitly acknowledged this mathematical reality would haunt his life. But now, on the quiet, sullen drive to London, it sat close on his shoulder and whispered doubt into his ear: ‘Promise me you’ll live, or get on and die…’

  He drove steadily, his brain empty and aching like the exhausted muscles of a failed athlete. He had no need to plan what to say: Arriving without Tommy would be enough. He lit a cigarette and watched it vibrate to the chronic trembling that dogged his hands. The tobacco rasped its harsh flavour across the back of his throat. Wisps of smoke curled up his face and stung his eyes, dragging a tear over his eyelid and down his cheek. He let it run.

  The London streets rolled past the windows as he steered mechanically along the familiar route. The further east he travelled, the more a slinking dread nibbled at his guts. Lizzy Scott had trusted God to keep her husband safe. But no faith could account for the clumsy flying error that had laid them bare atop the enemy’s gun muzzles; no prayer could deflect the fragments of disembowelling metal tearing through soft, mortal flesh. Bryan pictured Lizzy humming with contentment, her babe in her arms, enjoying her last few minutes of serenity before his knock at her door stole away her future.

  Bryan passed the railway station and turned left onto Tommy’s road. He followed the gently curving thoroughfare, his apprehension bubbling like boiled porridge. Tommy’s house stood at the end, on a right-angle corner, his front windows facing directly down Bryan’s approach. The curve of the road unfurled before him. Tommy’s house was not there.

  The Humber shuddered into a stall. Bryan got out and, on unsteady legs, walked the last twenty-five yards.

  Scott’s house, and its neighbour in the terrace, lay demolished. The next along still stood, but without most of its connecting wall. The shattered remains of broken contents flapped in desultory harmony with the breeze that penetrated the crippled building.

  Large piles of rubble bore the only testament to the erstwhile presence of two family homes, and these, with the detached civic efficiency of a city in crisis, had been shovelled and s
wept into enforced neatness. Bryan stood and stared.

  ‘Are you alright, sir?’

  Bryan spun round at the sound of the voice. A postman regarded him with a concerned smile.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Late on Friday night.’

  ‘Where is Mrs Scott?’

  ‘They think she was in the outside privy when it took a direct hit.’ The postman looked away, chewing the inside of his cheek. ‘They only collected a few bits and pieces… but who else could it have been?’

  ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘They dug it out the next morning.’

  ‘It was a boy,’ Bryan said. ‘Robert.’

  ‘They found him under a table,’ the postman continued. ‘Would you believe it? They took him to a hospital somewhere. I couldn’t say where. Are you family?’

  ‘No. I flew with her husband. I came to tell her that he’d been killed.’ He turned back to the fetid rubble. ‘But it seems she already knew.’ Bryan stared at the ruins with unfocussed eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of atrocity.

  The postman coughed apologetically and sauntered away. A train chuffed along the line on its southerly journey, slowing as it passed above the bombsite as if testing the viaduct, like a child tests the ice. Bryan glanced up at the faces pressed to the carriage windows, then swung back to the postman’s retreating back, fighting an irrational outrage, a surge of helpless anger at these people for just carrying on.

  A chill possessed his skin. Loss and loneliness, fear and doubt jumbled in his chest.

  ‘Jenny,’ he breathed and stumbled back to the car. ‘Jenny…’

  Bryan hauled his car around, cursing the narrowness of the road, swearing and grinding the gears, rage and malice boiling in his guts. Finally facing in the right direction, a pain stabbing across his chest forced him to stop. He knocked the gearstick into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. The pounding of his heart pushed fluttering panic up his throat and his pulsing blood throbbed behind his ears. He sucked in sharp, violent lungfuls of air and his hands twitched and shook in front of his face with mounting extravagance.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, willing his body to come back under his control. The banging in his chest peaked and slowed. When it no longer thumped like a trapped animal against his ribs, he opened his eyes, pulled off his driving gloves and fumbled for his cigarettes with fingers that creaked on the edge of cramping.