Summer of No Surrender

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  She gave a small laugh. 'It's not quite the same, darling.' She was going to say that nobody was shooting at those City gents, but he would not like that.

  'It's everybody's war. Those types who go up to Town every day curse when their trains are delayed by air raids: that's all the war means to them. They're just as likely to have a bomb dropped on them as we are.'

  She knew he was right. There wasn't room in the armed forces for everyone who volunteered: some who had done so were still waiting to join, sometimes delayed for several months. Others, feeling no dishonour, waited to be conscripted but would go willingly enough when their turn came. In the mean­ while there was nothing to do but carry on with their civilian jobs. The war had hardly changed their way of life.

  Although the whole population of south-eastern England had experienced air raids, few related them to the 'airmen in uniform whom they saw around them. The residents of East Malford who went to London every day were used to the sight of air battles overhead and they read about them daily in the newspaper. But they did not know, when they saw a pilot in the village street or in a pub, that he was the man whom they had seen firing his guns fifteen thousand feet overhead, whose tracer bullets and vapour trails they had watched, from their office or train window, from shop or farmyard.

  In the evenings, civilians and air crew rubbed shoulders in cinemas, restaurants, dance halls and pubs. Both were fundamentally doing the same thing: seeking relaxation at the end of a hard day's work. The civilians had lived through some danger too: railways, aerodromes, coastal radar sites, docks and engineering works were all targets for bombs, of which many fell on town, village and farm. The difference was that when they jostled a Hurricane or Spitfire pilot in the bar of the Mucky Duck or one of the other local pubs, they had merely washed off the grime of the City or the farm and were escaping from the boredom of files and figures or manual labour; whereas the pilots had come fresh from the smoke and terror of battle, with the stench of cordite still in their nostrils and their ears ringing with the din of gunfire and engines at full throttle. And that was their normal day's work.

  Betty Maxwell said 'There's a strange kind of exhilaration in the air. Everybody knows we're all in it, and it seems to have drawn people closer together.'

  'That's why Hitler can never beat us, 'her husband said quietly. 'At the moment, this war is having to be fought almost entirely by the air force and the anti-aircraft boys. It's because we're so completely identified with the ordinary life that goes on around us that we've got a huge advantage over the enemy. The Germans are flying from strange bases in a hostile country: they've beaten France, but they must feel the hatred which surrounds them. 'He laughed apologetically for being solemn. 'And, of course, there's the wonderful British disdain for foreigners: the ordinary man in the street doesn't think the Jerries have got a celluloid cat in hell's chance; just because they're only foreigners!'

  'They seem to be reconciled to foreigners in Polish, French, and what-have-you, uniforms,' Betty smiled. 'The girls, anyway.'

  'That's just sympathy for the under-dog. They don't really believe they're as good as our own.' 'Quite right,' she said stoutly.

  He laughed at her. 'It's the commonplace life that's going on here which makes one feel so confident. As I was coming in to land just now, I saw people playing tennis at the local club: can you imagine them playing tennis on a summer evening if this were France or Germany? They'd be at panic stations. There'd be politicians bellowing at them through loudspeakers, exhorting them: 'courage mes amis' and whatever that is in German; there'd be military bands everywhere and half the population would be lining the cliffs shaking their fists at the enemy. But here; we just take it all for granted. No dramatics.'

  Betty got up and put her arms around him and nuzzled her cheek against his. 'I don't know about the ordinary man in the street, Max, but you sound pretty disdainful about foreigners yourself.'

  'Probably the greatest strength this country has is that, whereas in Germany the civilians believe their armed forces are invincible, here, our civilians know that they're never going to give in. They take it for granted our fighting Services are the best in the world But they rely on themselves as much as on us.'

  We'll know soon enough, Betty thought: if the invasion comes; and when they start really bombing big cities.

  But she knew, as her husband did, that the war was, so far, for most people, a huge adventure. A lot of men were happier in uniform than they had ever been. They had left humdrum jobs for a healthy, open-air life. Some, who had been clerks and trainees and salesmen, were better paid, and enjoyed higher social standing, as junior officers than ever before. Whether they were in the ranks or commissioned, they had comradeship, a new pride, freedom from the nagging worries of economic survival. Some welcomed new responsibility, others were as glad to rid themselves of it.

  Betty Maxwell understood the strain under which her husband must be to have talked, even so deprecatingly, about his feelings: she was grateful to him for what he had told her; she knew the depth of his compassion and sensitivity, but during the past few weeks he had more and more hidden it under an almost callous-seeming manner; the customary British Service off-handedness, which she sometimes thought came near to puerile irreverence. There was nothing amusing or trivial about war, and it deserved to be accorded its own horrid dignity. She kissed him again, and said cheerfully 'Are we going out?'

  He responded quickly, his tired face breaking into a smile. 'Indeed we are: the boys have got a very rara avis in tow tonight; you've got to meet her. 'He told her about the exotic and glamorous Elaine Dundry Todd

  In 1940, 'compensation', 'insecurity' and 'virility symbol' had not yet become everyday jargon terms, but it was sometimes hinted that anyone who drove a sports car was likely to be doubtful of his potency and he who flaunted a big limousine was trying to reassure himself that he was as good as the next man. The truth, that some people just like sports cars and others enjoy the comfort of big, luxurious ones, was too dull to be worth printing.

  Purveyors of half-baked psychology would have had a field day if they had taken their note books to the car park of the Spider's Web that evening.

  Peter Knight's car was a third as old as himself: a Rover tourer with cut-away front doors which gave it an illusory sporting air. Being gregarious, he liked to have room for his friends, and the roomy old four-seater usually carried five or six.

  Jumper Lee's would have confused anyone who maintained that an owner's character was reflected in his car: it was not rakish and dashing, but a sober and elderly Austin saloon; chosen for the roominess of its back seat.

  The roadhouse was a phenomenon of the 'thirties, an attempt to bring sophistication to the rural fringes of the big towns; a neon-lit cross between pseudo-Tudor and concrete cubism, with the essential and superfluous swimming pool, where motorists could eat, drink and dance for faintly extortionate prices. Despite petrol rationing the Spider's Web was close enough to the big South London suburbs and several R.A.F. and Army camps in Kent and Surrey to continue in flourishing business. The blackout had doused the exterior illuminations, but it was lit up like a gin palace indoors.

  Knight took Anne there when he felt opulent. He had brought her here on their first evening out, and she knew it was to impress her. She also knew that twenty-two-year-old flying officers could not afford to entertain often on that level. If they did so frequently, their motive was obvious. She had decided weeks before that Peter could have whatever he wanted, whenever he asked for it.

  She would have preferred to dine alone with him, but she liked Six-gun and immediately approved of Elaine. She had never met an American woman before; but, from what she had heard of them on the talkies, had the impression that their normal speech was a brassy clangour. It was an agreeable surprise that Elaine's was low pitched and smooth. Like everyone else, she had a soft spot for Jumper and admired his unquenchable élan, although she had reservations about his attitude to her sex. His girl of the week
was a bit of a bore: a round-eyed (and presumably round-heeled) brunette who had just come back from a provincial tour of 'White Horse Inn' and was talking vaguely about joining E.N.S.A.

  Jumper's juices had begun to flow when he first saw Elaine Dundry Todd, and now that she had changed into a fresh dark blue, gold braided, A.T.A. uniform and scented herself with a perfume that was quite different from the aroma of flying machines which bad lingered with her out at dispersals, she made him fidgety. His dark eyed actress or dancing girl accepted the straying of his attention with aplomb: there was no lack of men, and she rather fancied both Peter and Six-gun.

  'How did you come to join the A.T.A.?' asked Jumper. 'Did you come over from America specially to join?'

  'Not really. I'd done some air racing and rallying and here I was living in England, with a British husband…'

  'Does he fly?'

  She looked amused. 'A bit, yes.'

  'You mean he's an enthusiastic amateur?'

  'He's certainly enthusiastic, but I guess he's not strictly an amateur.'

  'Airline pilot?' asked Massey.

  She shook her head and looked mischievous.

  Knight saw that his friends realised they had put their feet in it somewhere, and was enjoying their growing discomfort. In happy anticipation, he said 'Tell us the worst.'

  'Well…as a matter of fact, he's Chief Flying Instructor at an operational training unit.'

  'Oh, my God!' Massey rolled his eyes up to heaven. 'I'm seducing a squadron leader's wife.'

  'Wing Commander's, honey,' she corrected him sweetly.

  Six-gun pretended to hide under the table, while the rest of them laughed at his discomfiture.

  Mrs Wing Commander Todd went on: 'They turned us out, of our nice married quarters, and we could only find some horrid damp old thatched cottage to rent, and George - my husband - is so busy I just never get to see him, so I thought I might as well make myself useful in the A.T.A. Of course,' she added, looking directly at Massey, 'if he were on an operational station I'd have stayed right there with him, because I think that's a wife's place if her husband's on ops. But George is too old for operational flying now, so I guess I’ll be staying with the A.T.A. And when he gets posted overseas I'll be glad to have this to keep me occupied.' Her emphasis on 'old' was meaningful.

  She put her hand on Massey's thigh, under the table, and he quickly moved his own to hold it. The pact was sealed. He was going to be all right this evening, after all, despite that queasy moment of doubt. Hail Columbia! This broad…pardon, this gal, knew where her war work really lay: bless her patriotic little heart.

  After dinner the rest of the squadron turned up. The extra sleep the night before had renewed their energy and the whole day had seemed, in an odd way, a refreshment. The arrival of brand new replacement aircraft, the zeal of a fresh squadron in the wing, the day's successes: each had brought encouragement and added confidence. On some evenings everyone was in bed an hour after dinner; on others, there was a noisy surge all the way to London and a round of nightclubs. Some pilots lived quietly all the time, others flogged their wilting minds and bodies through hour after hour of drinking, dancing and womanising, night after night. 172 was a squadron which hung very much together and Maxwell set the mood. Tonight they were all out on the town, Maxwell, Poynter and Bernie Harmon with their wives, the others alone or with girl friends.

  Nigel Cunningham and Roddy Webb sipped their beer, blushed whenever one of the girls spoke to them, charmed Betty Maxwell and Elaine, and 'drew long, suspicious looks from Jumper Lee's musical comedy actress. She breathed a gin slurred question in his ear when they were dancing: 'Who are the two fairies?'

  'No fairies on this squadron.' Jumper bristled.

  'No? You just go and ask one of those two young queens if he'll give you a dance; you'd be surprised.' She buried her face in his shoulder to hide her giggles.

  Flight Lieutenant Lee took a poor view. This bit of crackling was treading on very dicey ground. He didn't want to be acid, but there were some things one didn't say; outsiders certainly didn't say them about the squadron.

  'They're shy. And they've got good manners: I don't suppose you come across either very much in your job.'

  'Ouch! I asked for that. I'll ask them to dance; that should break down their shyness.'

  'If you can't, nothing will'

  'Darling, you're being rather horrid tonight.'

  The Squadron M.O. looked on with professional interest and concern. God alone knew where Lee generated his inexhaustible energy; he was a phenomenon, he defied medical science and should have been either a palsied wreck, taking so much out of himself, or as unresponsive as a block of marble to be able to do so. He was neither. His reactions were fast, he flew brilliantly, ate heartily and slept well. The doctor sighed. Born military leaders not infrequently manifested a vast sexual capacity: Napoleon, Wellington and Nelson had never gone short of mistresses; he could envy them; comprehending them was something else.

  He watched Harmon for a few moments, dancing with his wife and laughing palely with her like a schoolboy staying up too late at his first dinner jacket party. Not a very good simile, perhaps, for an East End urchin who had certainly never possessed a dinner jacket and would very probably not live to do so. And if he looked like a child, that was where the common factor ended. Harmon was as complex a puzzle as Jumper Lee: but at least a doctor could put his finger on the reason why he was what he was. Young Bernie's instinct for self-preservation was so strongly developed that it was primitive and entirely unconscious. Other people attributed his success and survival to his fantastic sense of timing, but the doctor knew that this was not a cause but an effect. Harmon's frail look and natural pallor were misleading, too. He ate like a horse and the muscles stood out on this thin body hard and well defined; the Apprentices' School had taken care of that. The M.O. wondered when Hannon had last felt afraid.

  He knew that Blakeney-Smith lived in constant fear, and that was why he was so aggressive and flamboyant, so competitive and tried so hard to be the complete extrovert. His ruinous fundamental insecurity, as much as his genes, had made him a coward; an irredeemable one. But he had to fly and he had to fight when his aircraft was serviceable and he was under orders, he could not back out. When he was in the air he could not run away. The doctor, with all his intelligence, did not know how much alone a man could be in a crowded sky and a running fight, how easy it was in reality to turn tail. But, at least for the time being, Blakeney-Smith was doing all right with his A.T.S. officer, a necessary distraction, and the M.O. sucked contentedly on his pipe.

  Dunal was well away, too. That was not to be wondered at: British girls had romantic ideas about Frenchmen; the very word 'French' had limitless libidinous implications. Pierre was a Frenchman, therefore he must be a formidable lover; they fell over themselves to get at him first. He chain smoked, looked at them invitingly from under his heavy lidded eyes, twitched the corner of his mouth seductively from time to time, no doubt thought what boring little bitches they were, and took everything they offered. The doctor asked himself whether Dunal possessed them with the violence with which he set out to kill Germans. It was a personal fight for him, in a way which the British did not share, and it would be the cause, one day soon, of his death.

  Lotnikski flew with hatred and despair, too, and he went after women with the same dreadful zest. He was an animal when he had taken too much drink, like a randy stallion which only wanted to mount the nearest mare and would tear her to pieces if she resisted. He was the despair of the gentle, experienced senior W.A.A.F. officer, the 'Queen Bee', who knew what happened to any of her girls who was alone with him after dark. The doctor knew what happened, too, and how easy it was for the handsome, relentless foreigner, with his fascinating accent, to excite the sympathy and romanticism of young working class girls who had never been more than a hundred miles from home. He was both pathetic and glamorous: far from home, bereft of family and exotically sophisticated. Here was an
other man who smelt of death and made the M.O. bite hard on his pipe stem.

  The best of them could crack and sometimes it was the best of them who did: the ones like Lee, Knight, Poynter or Massey; because they were so physically sound and emotionally stable that they would go on stretching themselves further and further, until the breakdown came without warning.

  It was not only the fighting, but the waiting, the frustration of bad weather, false alarms, errors of controlling, all the irritants which were even more frequent than actual combat, although that was a daily experience too, which were abrasive to the nerves of fighting men.

  The doctor exchanged glances with Herrick, who held his eye and 'nodded. Journalists were not admitted to the free-masonry of the medical profession, but the Intelligence Officer and he had a special understanding. Spy was a good journalist, not a sensation monger; he had a true feeling for the squadron's stresses and respected their reticences. Wild horses would not have dragged the doctor into the cockpit of a combat aircraft, but Herrick was perpetually and mournfully half aware of his life's greatest regret: he was thwarted, by inadequate vision and a history of chest ailments, from flying. He and the M.O. shared confidences, with each other and with the young pilots.

  When Herrick prayed he asked God to warm the hearts of the Air Council towards those with astigmatic eyes and a less than perfectly efficient pair of lungs.

  The M.O., a sardonic man, did not pray at all. Nor did many of the pilots. Blakeney-Smith did, and then it was only through fear.

  The Spider's Web was closed. A large old Austin saloon stood in a field entrance, under some trees. Its springs began to wheeze and squeak as the coachwork rocked gently in rhythm with the close-coupled movement of Flight Lieutenant Lee and his sloe-eyed chorus girl.