Summer of No Surrender

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Fifteen

  II JG 97's mess was quiet that night. There were more empty chairs at the dinner table, more toasts drunk during the meal.

  The tired men sat listlessly sipping brandy, smoking and talking in subdued voices. The exultation of a few weeks ago was replaced by sadness over friends who were missing. Victory in an air fight was no longer a novelty; but even if they had felt like celebrating, how could one decently, when a friend who had shared a joke at lunch time was now nothing but charred flesh or limbless pulp?

  Hafner sat with Wolf's chin resting on his knee. Ihlefeld put a record on the battered portable gramophone; a moment later a sentimental popular tune filled the room.

  Richter was grateful for the excuse this offered him. He stood up, bringing all his officers to their feet. He smiled at Keiling. 'Come on, Manfred, let's go and listen to some real music; and a decent gramophone.' He paused. 'Anyone else interested?' Nobody accepted his invitation. He made a perfunctory Nazi salute, muttered 'Heil Hitler' and went out, followed by his young protégé.

  Keiling was feeling as though his bowels had been scraped with a blunt chisel. His throat and mouth were sore from retching in the privacy of his room, with only a sympathetic batman as witness, and the brandy he had drunk before and after dinner. He could not get over the guilt of killing one of his own comrades. He could not rid himself of his fear that any day now he would meet his match in the air: every time he flew it seemed to him that the British were becoming more expert, more savage. In his mind were clear pictures of every German aircraft he had seen shot down during the day, yet he could hardly remember seeing German victories.

  He followed his Commanding Officer into the now familiar room with its four-poster bed, the curtains around it inviting seclusion from the worries and dangers of the life outside these cosy draperies, these homely walls.

  'Make yourself comfortable, Manfred.' Richter smilingly gestured to a deep chair. The boy sank into it, his eyes following the older man's movements. He was beginning to feel powerless to think or act for himself. His life was in Richter's hands. As long as Richter was there to protect him, to care about him, he was cocooned in strong armour. He could feel the affection flowing towards him, just as he felt the sturdy presence when they flew wingtip-to-wingtip.

  A low voice said, 'Here's your cognac.' He looked up, straight into Richter's eyes. The music was playing softly. Richter's head was bent, his face very close to his own. What finely modelled lips he had. How noble the shape of his head. How strong yet gentle his hands.

  Everything flowed then in a warm stream of compulsion and inevitability. He fell headlong into the pit that had been dug for him: dug by himself, too, and the essential weakness of his nature, as much as by the scheming, perverted selfishness of the man who dominated him.

  Connie Gates was loath to leave the mess. Her duties ended after dinner, but she chose to stay and help the barman: carrying drinks into the ante room gave her an excuse to cast an eye over the youngsters who were the source of her never ceasing anxiety.

  It was only ten-o'clock, but the place was half empty already. There was a subdued air over the whole station and everyone was talking in low voices tonight.

  Squadron Leader Maxwell had come in with his boys for a quick drink and then, with Flight lieutenant Poynter, left early. Bernie Harmon had not come to the mess at all: she could picture him jumping on to his bike as soon as the squadron was told to stand down, and pedalling furiously home to his dewy Sarah.

  Blakeney-Smith had seated himself among a group: Peter Knight, Six-gun Massey, Jumper Lee and - her heart skipped a beat - Nigel Cunningham and Roddy Webb. They were all sober and quiet. Connie was surprised that Knight hadn't gone to see that pretty girl of his; but this was one of those times when none of the squadron, except those with wives to go to, was willing to desert the others. She understood that, as she understood so many other moods and motives of these young men.

  Cunningham gripped a tankard until his knuckles shewed white. He was thinking about the bad moment when he had wavered between trying to forced land or baling out. The long seconds of hesitation came back to him clearly. Memories of battle were compounded of intimate details peculiar to each man's own trade. For fighter pilots the background noise of battle was the whistling of their gun ports after they had blasted the sealing canvas strips away with the first burst of gunfire. That whistle was ever present and they took it for granted, yet when they thought about a sortie afterwards it was something they remembered. The smell of cordite was another, from their own guns and the explosion of enemy shells. And the noise of a bullet through the cockpit: a vicious, short-lived whine; or the slam of a cannon shell through a wing. And the leaping and bucking of a Hurricane or a Spitfire when it was hit.

  To add to these, Cunningham now had the experience of what it was like to bale out.

  It had been unpleasant remembering what he had seen done to other parachutists; what he had done himself.

  Added to the accident of the morning, that horrifying episode of the whirling, headless body and the blood spattering from his propeller, and on top of yesterday's horrors when he had seen the parachuting Hurricane pilots shot down, and then his own inhumanity, baling out today had made a burden he could not carry.

  He said quietly 'I’m going to bed, Roddy.'

  Webb looked at him, unhappy. 'Me too. I've had enough for today.'

  Connie watched them go to their rooms at the far end of an upper corridor.

  'D'you sleep well, Nigel?'

  'Sometimes I can't get to sleep for an hour or more after I'm in bed.'

  'I know what it's like. Same with me. Look...' Webb hesitated and touched his friend's shoulder diffidently. 'If you can't sleep, come to my room and we'll keep each other company...'

  Cunningham turned his head and looked at him frankly. 'Thanks, Roddy. I'll...I'll remember...'

  He went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed, in the dark. He was trembling.

  His whole upbringing had been designed to give him self-reliance, yet he desperately felt the need for someone to lean on. He was used to fending for himself: he had been sent to boarding school when he was seven, and ceased depending on his parents.

  He was not ignorant of life. Public schools are not the breeding grounds of perversion that their detractors pretend, but neither do they foster innocence.

  Sitting in the dark with his body aching and his mind con­ fused, he longed for the physical contact with his friend which had tacitly been offered to him. If only he could share a bed with someone who was suffering the same mental and physical discomforts as himself, perhaps sleep would come easily. That was all either of them wanted: peace of mind and sound sleep; rest for brain and body.

  There was no other way. He had tried getting drunk and that had not worked.

  He switched on the bedside light and began to undress.

  The sheets were cool and soothing but he knew they could not bring him sleep.

  For twenty minutes he lay, the light out, his arms folded under his head, moving restlessly. The door opened and he sat up hurriedly. There was a thin streak of light from the corridor before the door closed and darkened the room once more. His voice was uncertain and more than a little afraid: 'Roddy?' He heard the key turn and asked again 'Is that you, Roddy?'

  'Ssh.'

  'Who is it?'

  'It's all right. Lie down.’

  'Corporal Gates!'

  'Connie, m'dear.'

  'You can't...What are you doing here?'

  The answer was a low, provocative laugh and he heard the rustle of falling garments. Then there was the scent of powdered flesh and Connie's warm body was beside him, her fingers on his buttons and pyjama cord.

  She kissed him. 'Lie still…No, not that way…Here…Now come here…Turn this way a little m'dear...' And presently, with a giggle. 'Haven't you ever been with a girl before, Nigel? No? I can tell you haven't, m'darling…' And later: 'That's better...’ and her deep contented
sigh.

  He called out uncontrollably in his ecstasy, and when he had made love to her the first time he subsided shuddering in her arms, but she would not let him rest: her kisses, her skilled and gentle hands, soon set him alight again and this time it was longer and slower and even more like being struck by lightning. And then it was all over and he was asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. Connie kissed his cheek and left him.

  Robby Webb had lain awake for an hour, his mind ranging far and wide in search of some tranquil thoughts which would bring sleep to him. He shifted from side to side, pummelled his pillow, threw off the blanket, then pulled it up to his chin. Sleep would not come.

  God! Why didn't Nigel understand how badly he needed his companionship, his physical reassurance? If they could comfort one another instead of being alone, tomorrow would lose some of its menace. He remembered how, when he was ten and his brother eight, and their mother died, they had lain in each other's arms all night until their weeping ceased and the loneliness went. He needed the same comfort now and wanted to give it in return. Someone to share with, who would ease the fear from his mind.

  He heard the door creak and pushed himself on to one elbow in time to see a sliver of light before the door shut.

  Hope, relief and joy were in his voice: 'Nigel?'

  The sound of bare feet on the linoleum and the bedside rug. The smell of fresh soap...perfume...glowing flesh.

  Startled, he exclaimed more loudly 'Nigel?'

  'Don't be frightened, Roddy m'dear…' That rich west country burr!

  Incredulous: 'Corporal...?'

  'Connie, m'darling. Move over, Roddy.' A lascivious giggle. 'My! You are a big chap, and no mistake. I'm glad to say!'

  He took her eagerly in his arms. It was more than a year since he had been in bed with a girl: at a seaside tennis tournament, and he had been trying to see her again ever since. Now Connie administered her never failing panacea for what ailed over tense young pilots.

  In fairness, she tried not to make comparisons between her lovers; but tonight there was one fact she could assert: she had satisfied herself twice as much as she had pleasured either of them.

  Tuttle, still waiting for leave and the opportunity to misrepresent himself as a fighter pilot, had not yet succeeded with the virgin W.A.A.F. from No. 1 O.M.Q.

  On most evenings he took her out, either to a village pub or the camp cinema. At station dances he partnered her untiringly. She rewarded him with much kissing and embracing, but smartly slapped his hand away when he ventured under her clothes. He would have abandoned her for a more certainly acquiescent prey, but was allured by her virginity and piqued by her resistance.

  On his way to dinner time duty in the Officers' Mess, he called at the W.A.A.F. officers' quarters to say a few cheerful words to the two batwomen. He found his young virgin in tears.

  'Never mind, love, I'll 'urry back a'ter dinner an' we'll go down the boozer an' 'ave a nice drink; that'll make you feel better.'

  His words were kindly meant and he had no baser motive than usual, but her ardour was roused by the instinct which seeks to compensate for death by urging humanity to procreate: helped by alcohol and gratitude for Tuttle's sympathy.

  So she had parted with the virtue which her mother had enjoined her to preserve intact, and neither she nor her seducer enjoyed the occasion very much.

  Henceforth, carnality would always be associated in her mind with the dank odour of an air raid shelter, the reek of metal polish and aircraftmen's serge; and the hardness of a gas mask haversack under her buttocks to raise them conveniently off the unresilient concrete floor, which would not give to Tuttle's awkward knees.

  When all was accomplished, and Tuttle feeling none of the elation he usually experienced, she whispered timidly, 'Do you really love me, Norm? You do, Norm, don't you?'

  He assured her briskly that he did. After all, he told himself, if she's good enough ter screw she's good enough ter marry; if I 'as ter. With ordinary luck, he wouldn't have to; he had taken the customary precautions.

  Even had he known that her surrender was a side effect of the German air raids, he might still have thought the damage done and lives lost at East Malford were worth it.

  Her bed was vast and spongy. So, reflected Greiner, was Madame Prudhomme.

  With her great arms enfolding him, her billiards-table legs wrapped about his matchstick ones, her massive breasts flattened against his bony chest, he was like a white bait in the embrace of an octopus.

  It had been an anti-climactic capitulation and she still would not, coyly, let him use her Christian name or call him other than 'Herr Greiner'. She, he knew, was named Blanche; but evidently some lingering sense of impropriety still forced her to delude herself that this was not happening. First names would come in time, he told himself with drowsy contentment.

  They had been sitting in the kitchen when they heard the footfalls of Hafner and Ihlefeld returning early from the mess. The heavy front door slammed. Greiner put down his newspaper, gave Madame Prudhomme a wry smile, and went off to see what he could do for his officer. Ihlefeld's batman was not received in the widow's living quarters and came in, grumbling, from the barn.

  Hafner was dejected and sleepy. He let his servant help him off with his boots and fold away his clothes, then dismissed him.

  Greiner returned to the kitchen, knocking respectfully before entering, to find a glass of calvados and a slice of cold apple pie and cream awaiting him.

  He looked his astonishment.

  With a self-conscious smirk, Madame Prudhomme said casually: 'I felt like a snack. I thought you might join me.'

  She dropped her eyes, which still had the long lashes of a girl, and Greiner's heart began to flutter. 'Merci bien, Madame. Vous êtes bien aimable...Bon appétit...et santé.'

  'Bon appétit, Herr Greiner. Ala vôtre. You are a kind man, Herr Greiner: you share all the tribulations of your young officer, and you care for him like a good uncle.'

  Her speech was suspiciously thick and he guessed that she had profited by his absence to visit the calvados bottle more often than the modest tot she now had before her would suggest.

  'I do my duty, dear lady. They are young and they suffer much: at any moment they may lose everything; if not their lives, at least their limbs, their sight...or their sanity. I do what I can to make life easier for them; while they still have it.'

  'You are a good man, and I do not think you are sufficiently appreciated.' She looked him in the face, boldly. 'By anyone.'

  He laughed away her praise. 'Come now, how can you say that when you are being so flattering?'

  'It is not flattery, Herr Greiner. It is the truth. And you deserve a share of the concern you shew for others. You have been very kind to me, too...'

  She looked at him directly once more, then lowered her lashes and they ate in silence.

  Abruptly, she pushed back her chair, rose and said quietly: 'I shall not lock my door.' Then with meaning, 'You are a slow drinker.'

  Ten minutes later he was in her bed and she was devouring him. At the moment of fulfilment she burst into tears and he found himself calming her and crooning to her as though she were a child who had been punished. In a strange, uninvolved way they shewed each other an infinity of tenderness and when, later, he lay wrapped by her abundant softness, he felt marvellously at peace.

  In the small hours of the morning he was awakened by a shot and leaped away from her as though a whip had been laid across his bare shoulders. Scrambling into shirt, trousers and boots, he ran upstairs and along the passage outside the officers' rooms.

  Hafner and Thlefeld were there before him. The other officers crowded behind them.

  Hafner turned a bloodless face and said harshly, 'Go back to bed. All of you. At once!' Then as they lingered, sleepy and dumbfounded, he shouted, 'Go on, get out. Greiner, come here.'

  Greiner pressed himself against the wan to let the others pass, then went up behind Hafner and Ihlefeld who blocked the door. 'Fetch the M
edical Officer,' Hafner ordered, his voice shaking. 'And the Adjutant.'

  Greiner stole a glance into Keiling's room: the boy lay across his bed with a Luger dangling from his hand and the top of his head blown off.

  Greiner was familiar with the phrase 'to die of shame'; he did not know that he was looking at a tragic expression of it.

  Sixteen

  The day dawned cloudy.

  Knight, waking to Tuttle's usual heavy handed prod, sat bolt upright with a start and blinked at his watch.

  'Christ! Tuttle, what the hell's the matter with you? It's eight-o'clock. We're on dawn readiness...'

  'It's all roight, sir. Dawn readiness is cancelled...'

  Knight sprang out of bed and pulled back the curtains; took one brief look at the sky, grumbled and got hurriedly back into bed. 'Lousy weather.'

  'That's roight, sir. Ops phoned through and said everyone's stood down till ten-ow-clock.'

  Breakfast that morning was less silent than usual. Like Bomber and Coastal Command crews, who celebrated cancellation of night operations with a spontaneous party, the pilots of the East Malford Wing rejoiced at the release from immediate readiness and shewed it by unwonted chatter.

  Webb came into the dining room a few minutes after Cunningham and asked chirpily 'Sleep well, Nigel?'

  Cunningham, wondering how much the other had heard through the wall which divided their bedrooms, smiled slyly. 'Best night's sleep I've had since I got here.'

  Webb rubbed his hands. 'Me too.'

  Each of them felt smugly amused by his private thoughts, thinking he had scored off the other.

  Connie came by briskly, bearing two plates of bacon and egg. Both tried to catch her eye; with no success.

  Lotnikski was disgruntled. Non-flying weather meant loss of German killing time. He hurried through his breakfast and went to the ante room, to stand at one of the big windows and stare at the clouds while he smoked furiously. These damn English didn't allow smoking in the dining-room, and he couldn't last more than fifteen minutes in comfort without a cigarette. He and Dunal had always complained about it. Dunal. He frowned at his thoughts. Not a bad type for a Frenchman. Pity he had to go like that. Very unsatisfactory. He hoped it never happened to him. When he went, he wanted it to be in the excitement of a blazing fight, with his bullets hammering into some Boche. He stubbed out his cigarette and set out for dispersals. It was only nine-o'clock, but he felt less uneasy near his Hurricane than hanging about in the mess.