by Max Hennessy
Udet smiled and shook his head. ‘Goering tried to get me to join the party. He said I belonged with them but I told him that politics didn’t interest me. But then he said, “Not politics, aviation,” and there he had me because aviation’s the one thing I want out of life. He said that things were changing and that they needed men like me and could he count on me vhen the time came?’
‘What did you say?’
Udet shrugged. ‘I said, “Yes, sure, he could.” But I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t serious. I was just trying to get rid of him because he always talks too much. If they do get power I hope he forgets.’
‘What about the Jews?’ Dicken asked. ‘We read stories of them getting beaten up. Do you go along with that?’
Udet was a simple, kind, shallow man. He liked his pleasures and lived for flying, and his reply was unequivocal.
‘Werner Voss was a Jew,’ he said. ‘I could never see much wrong with Voss. He was only tventy and he shot down forty-eight of your boys before he vas killed.’
It seemed to sum up Udet’s entire attitude to politics. Voss was a flier so, whatever was said about Jews, to Udet Voss was all right.
‘All the same,’ he went on slowly, ‘Germans have noticed that Jews are in key positions everywhere – in politics, industry, entertainment.’ He shrugged. ‘Because they are cleverer, I suppose. But it leads to anti-semitism. The politicians stir it up and the generals feed everybody the theory that they did not lose the war but were stabbed in the back by Socialists and Jews who remained at home during the fighting and destroyed the will to continue.’ He seemed faintly depressed. ‘They say that Germany’s become a Judenrepublik – a Jewish republic – and the people begin to feel they have too much influence.’
‘Do you?’
Udet grinned. ‘I’m never here. I’ve built aeroplanes and lost the money I made from them. I’ve won races and lost races. I was once out of cash in Italy so I borrowed a saw and gave a musical entertainment on it to raise enough to get me home. Publicity’s my bread and butter and I have some good friends. I’ve lost a few, too. Paul Baumer was killed diving into a lake. Berthold was strangled with the ribbon of his own Blue Max by the Marxist bastards who tried to run the country in 1918. I flew with Thea Rasche – Rash Thea they call her in the States. I’ve written a book on flying filled mit my cartoons. I’m making films, doing the flying for Leni Riefenstahl. Pitz Palu was good and I’m in the money again. So why should I worry about politics? It won’t last long so I’m going to enjoy it while I can.’
Two
In the RAF, even senior officers were killed occasionally in crashes and, returning to England, Dicken found that Hatto’s chief was one of them. Hatto himself had left to command a squadron of troop-carrying Vickers Victorias in Iraq – ‘Back to gooly chits,’ his note said – and nobody else seemed to have the slightest interest in what Dicken had to say. It was puzzling, particularly as only now, eleven years after its birth, was the RAF, its much publicised efforts abroad saving it from extinction at home, beginning to walk on firm legs.
‘The Allied Control Commission’s well aware of what’s going on,’ he was told as he tried to recount what he’d learned in Berlin. ‘But they simply close their eyes. At least we know about it and if we tried to stop the Germans, they’d only do it somewhere else. The first batch of pupils in Russia were ex-wartime pilots on a refresher course.’
‘They’re not now,’ Dicken said. ‘And they’re being taught on machines that fly at two hundred.’
‘My dear chap, don’t get in such a flap. We know they’re building aeroplanes. We haven’t got our eyes closed. And we know they belong to the League of Nations and preach peace and disarmament while they’re secretly thinking of the next war. After all, the press is on to it. The Times long since suggested there might be a secret clause attached to the Russo-German Treaty, even that there are other secret bases. One for training tank crews, another for gas warfare.’
Almost as if he’d become an embarrassment, Dicken was given a temporary job with the Directorate of Staff Duties at Adastral House, the RAF Headquarters in Kingsway, where he found himself working with Tom Howarth on plans to be put into operation in the event of a war and a general mobilisation.
‘You needn’t bother much, of course,’ he was told. ‘Because there isn’t going to be a war.’
Having listened to Udet, Dicken wasn’t so sure. ‘I know exactly why this country always starts her wars by nearly losing them,’ he growled. ‘It’s sheer lack of the right equipment because of the Ten Year Rule.’
Howarth smiled. They’d all heard of the Ten Year Rule. Every officer involved in trying to foresee the future was thwarted by it. It had been laid down as Treasury policy that expenditures must be governed by the assumption that no major war would break out within ten years.
‘It was probably a good idea when it was laid down,’ Howarth said. ‘At that time no major war was likely to break out within ten years.’
‘It’s different now,’ Dicken growled. ‘And the bloody thing’s self-perpetuating. At the end of every year, it starts again, so that war’s always officially ten years away. And, Tom, I’m not so bloody sure that war is ten years away.’
There seemed a total lack of realism. It was well known that the embryo German air force, still secret and still expanding, had accurate models of all RAF aircraft while the RAF had none of theirs, and, driven to bring it up at a conference, Dicken pointed out that there wasn’t even a draughtsman at the Air Ministry to make drawings, let alone models.
Diplock was sitting at the opposite side of the table. ‘There’s no establishment for a draughtsman,’ he pointed out.
‘Then let’s call him a mapmaker,’ Dicken snapped. ‘We’re surely entitled to that.’
‘He’d have to take a mapping course.’
There was a long silence and Dicken burst out angrily. ‘Then let him! Who’s operating clandestinely? Us or the Germans? Their activities are understandable. They’re trying to build up their air force without anybody knowing. But surely we don’t have to justify ourselves. The only way we can find out anything about the Germans is by reading Flight and Aeroplane and looking at the illustrations in Continental magazines.’
Quick to criticise out-of-date methods, he pointed out that while the Americans were using full aerodrome floodlighting for night-time landing, the RAF were still using paraffin flares but his report came back with the comment in Diplock’s handwriting that flares were mobile while floodlighting was not. The same attitude existed in the navy, and one of the Lords of the Admiralty appeared to give an address that still doggedly denied that aircraft could be a danger to a battleship. ‘Their Lordships,’ he announced solemnly, ‘do not consider that any warship competently handled is in danger from aerial attack.’
‘Pity we can’t challenge the bugger with a few big bombs,’ Dicken muttered to Howarth.
Because Hatto was in Iraq, Dicken occasionally made a point of seeing his wife. He had known her almost as long as he had known Hatto and she was the same Hon. Caroline he and Hatto had taken to The Maid Of The Mountains and the Ritz with her friend, the Hon. Maud, before departing for France in 1917 to fly 1½ Strutters. She was still beautiful, still slender, still gentle. Occasionally, the Hon. Maud appeared. The fact that Dicken had ended up in her bed on the night they had gone to the theatre with Hatto and the Hon. Caroline didn’t seem to matter much any longer because she had married a colonel in the Guards, whom she’d left within a year, and was now married to a man who made motor cars. But it soon became clear that she hadn’t changed much. She was still stunningly beautiful and always managed to stay close to Dicken. Dining out with her and her husband, Dicken was just considering the absence of Zoë and wondering whether he ought to grasp the opportunity the Hon. Maud was clearly offering when the waiter slipped a card on to his plate. He recognised the writing on the back
at once.
I’m coming round to your flat afterwards. See you later. Zoë.
The words leapt out at him as if they were underlined in crimson and, swinging round, he searched the crowded tables behind him. But there was no sign anywhere of his wife and, excusing himself as they left on the grounds that the card had been a summons back to duty, he hurried to his flat and poured himself a drink with a trembling hand.
‘For the love of God!’ Furious that the thought of Zoë appearing brought him to this pitch of excitement, he crushed out his cigarette. She didn’t deserve his interest. She had never in the whole of their marriage done anything to warrant his faith in her. Her outburst when Harmer’s plane had crashed had convinced him finally that they had been lovers and he suspected even that there had been others, yet he was still eager for a sight of her face.
At the tap on the door, he almost leapt across the room to fling it open. She was standing in the corridor outside, dressed in the sort of evening clothes that only a wealthy woman could afford.
‘In the name of God,’ he said, ‘why do you always turn up when I’m least expecting you?’
She grinned in the old forthright way that had once enchanted him. ‘I arrived just in time,’ she said. ‘I saw you eyeing that old bag at your table.’
He was aware of a guilty flush crossing his face. ‘What do you expect? It’s months since I saw you.’
‘I telephoned your mother,’ she went on coolly. ‘She was a little stiff with me–’
‘She probably felt she had the right to be.’
She shrugged. ‘But she told me where your flat was. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
He held the door open and she stepped inside.
‘How did you get here?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you were still in the States.’
‘I was. But I had to go to Paris.’
‘And now?’
‘You’ll have heard of Alan Cobham. He was knighted a couple of years ago.’
‘Of course.’ Everybody had heard of Cobham. He had been advancing aviation with meticulous long-distance flights ever since 1921.
‘He’s thinking out a technique for refuelling aircraft in flight.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in it.’
‘I do now. He gave me a lift to London. I know him well.’
‘You move in exalted circles these days, Zo.’
She eyed him calmly. ‘So could you, if you wished. With your record and skill. He’s interested in air-to-ground communication.’
‘The RAF have been experimenting with it for some time. Me in particular. Because of that bloody radio certificate I took in 1914.’
‘He’s a good man to work for.’
He eyed her for a moment. ‘Is this another stunt, Zo? Like the Dufee Derby and those bloody awful aeroplanes Harmer built?’
She gave him an icy look. ‘It’s stunts that further aviation,’ she snapped. ‘Not your stuffy RAF flying by the book.’
‘It was the RAF who pioneered the routes you civilians are so smugly flying these days,’ he snapped back. ‘And the day will come when all flying will be done by the book.’
Within minutes of meeting, they were at each other’s throats, both of them prickly because they had always seen aviation from different viewpoints.
Zoë’s expression was one of contempt. ‘You haven’t even started using monoplanes yet,’ she said. ‘In the States monoplanes are everywhere. Lockheed, Fokker, Ford, Travel Air. They’re all flying single-wingers these days. All the records that are being broken are being broken by monoplanes.’
‘Are you breaking records?’
She gave him a cold look. ‘I’m thinking of having a go. So are other women. There’s a girl here in England. From Hull. Amy Johnson. But she’s short of cash. I’m not.’
‘Who’s doing your navigating? You couldn’t navigate across a football pitch.’
Her look became an angry stare. ‘I can afford to hire navigation now. The best there is. I’d like to fly to Australia. Amy Johnson likes the idea, too, so I’ve got to get a move on.’
For a moment there was silence. Then Dicken spoke.
‘And why are you here now? Apart from the lift you got from Cobham?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘I need you, Dicky Boy. You might not realise it–’
‘I might not.’
There was another silence and it occurred to Dicken that every time he and Zoë met the silences grew longer.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to stay the night?’ she asked.
‘I can’t stop you. As you’ve just pointed out, I’m your husband, so that makes you my wife.’
‘Dicken, I love you.’
He didn’t say anything and she tried once again to explain. ‘I do, Dicken. It’s something I can’t explain. I’ll show it to you if you’ll melt a little and give me a chance.’
Their love-making was fierce and passionate but somehow, despite what she said, Dicken knew something was missing. The following morning, he made coffee but, as he took it into her, she eyed him warily, as if expecting him to launch another attack on her.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well what?’
‘Doesn’t this satisfy you? I’ve shared your bed.’
‘There’s nothing odd about that. The only strange thing is that you share it so rarely. What happens now? Do I get a larger flat?’
She sipped the coffee. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to the States.’
‘When?’
‘End of the week.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘To see you.’
‘To do what?’
‘To get you to run Toshack Air Travel. I have three Avro Tens. You’d be surprised, now that Imperial Airways are operating regularly to Paris, how many people have become air-minded. A businessman wanting to go to Glasgow from London is prepared to fly these days. We have cabins. Big enough for seven people and a steward to supply them with brandy to calm their nerves. I could do with someone to run it. George Peasegood’s all right for the garages but he’s not big enough for this.’
‘You hated my guts when Harmer was killed.’
‘That’s forgotten.’
‘I’m not a businessman, anyway. I can’t even read a balance sheet.’
‘You could soon learn.’ She seemed to be making an appeal. ‘Dicky Boy, can’t you see? Love isn’t just being in the same house together and sharing the same bed.’
‘It goes a long way.’
‘It demands mutual respect, mutual allowance for the other person’s wishes.’
‘Getting me out of the RAF and into business doesn’t seem to indicate it.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
‘Dicky Boy, people are making fortunes from flying.’
‘If that’s what you want, we seem to be different. I’m really not very interested in making a splash, old love.’
‘Come in with me.’
‘Why should I, Zo? For God’s sake, why? Of your own choice, you spend your life as far away from me as you can, but then you tell me, after announcing once more that you’ve no intention of staying with me, that you need me. I find it hard to believe.’
She went into a long rambling explanation. It was confused, almost incoherent. As far as Dicken could make out her need was for acceptance, for people to regard her as a normal woman and not as a freak who knew nothing of anything except aeroplanes. She felt she was different from everybody else, but was still prepared to disappear back to the States. She seemed to want her bread buttered on both sides.
‘If I gave up the RAF now,’ he pointed out quietly, ‘I’d
have wasted the last ten years of my life. I’ve not moved as fast off the mark as others – Arthur Diplock, your beloved brother-in-law – has made sure his place in the hierarchy’s secure – but the higher ranks are open to me now and I don’t want anything to do with commercial flying. I tried it once and I didn’t like it.’
She was silent for a moment and he saw there were tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve got to go back to the States,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to. Won’t you come, too? Just to be with me?’
He kissed her gently on the cheek, affectionately but not with passion. ‘I think it’s most unlikely,’ he said. ‘I’ve put in for a posting abroad.’
Three
He had expected India and when he was ordered to a squadron flying Handley Page Hyderabad bombers he decided someone in Personnel had got his wires crossed.
Zoë was back in the States now trying to find an aeroplane.
‘Miss Zoë Toshack,’ the Daily Mail announced, ‘is preparing for her proposed record-breaking trip to Australia.’ ‘Miss’, Dicken noticed, not ‘Mrs’. And ‘Toshack’, not ‘Quinney’. ‘She is at the moment in the States, looking over likely aircraft. She is considering a Lockheed Vega like Amelia Earhart or a Stinson Detroiter capable of carrying five passengers. She claims she would prefer a British machine to anything else.’
And there she was again, smiling at the camera, so that Dicken’s heart jerked uncomfortably at the sight of her.
But he knew it didn’t really matter any more and he’d finally even been to see a lawyer about a divorce. Unfortunately, the following day a letter had arrived begging him not to abandon her and, calling himself a fool, he’d dropped the whole business.
They were an unlikely couple, he decided, with differing temperaments, different aims, different demands on life, and what had held them together for so long he didn’t know. He suspected it was nothing more than familiarity, and that, had he met anyone else, he might have done something about it. But since Nicola Aubrey there never had been anyone with whom he could imagine living the rest of his life so he’d always let things slide, suspecting he’d always be there when Zoë became frightened at her growing wealth and fame and needed a shoulder to cry on.
