by Thomas Wood
“It’s alright. I have other places to be. And please, it’s Johnny.”
I spun away for a second time, pulling my cap on over my darkening, ruffled hair, just before I got to the door.
I glanced over at Mike for one final time, already working his inexplicable magic over the young girl, with a look that said, ‘We’ll talk later.’
We would have plenty to talk about, especially as my little mind began to whir and creak as I tried my hardest to think about what it was Hubbard wanted us to do.
We would both see him again in the next week or so, for yet another interview that would for some reason be conducted in an amalgamation of English, French, German and Italian. No doubt he would probe into more of our seemingly unconnected talents; art, sporting prowess and the ability to make snap decisions.
The more thought I gave it, as I skulked around the streets of London, waiting for Mike to finish his rendezvous, the more it began to terrify me.
There had never been an option for me to refuse a meeting with this Major, and it didn’t seem like there would be a way out at all.
For the first time since leaving Telwyn Farm, I thought about returning there. Under a different name, with a different story altogether. There would be no fooling Mrs Philips, but she seemed like the kind of lady that would turn a blind eye for a pound or two.
I needed to get away. I needed to leave this war behind and everything that it was asking me to do and everything that it had already taken from me. I was in desperate need of a new life altogether.
7
There was a very faint drizzle just beginning to slowly slide its way down from the heavens, making a marvellous job at dampening my clothes, but more so my spirits. I felt like doing the only thing that I knew how to in this sort of situation to buoy myself, and that was to look across at Mike.
He could sense my apprehension, he knew me well enough to be able to read the slightest change in my face, and as ever, he tried his hardest to distract me from the fear of failure that I had become so accustomed to.
“We’re making good progress, old fruit.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. But it makes me sound like something you would find at the bottom of a forgotten garden.”
Mike thought for a moment, clearly debating whether or not the thought that had come into his mind would be an appropriate one to voice. It was unusual, for him to consider what it was that he was about to say, for he had often dived headfirst into hot water, on account of his eager tongue.
Nevertheless, he decided it was worth the risk.
“I suppose Telwyn farm could be considered something of a forgotten garden.”
I looked at him, as we progressed down the country lane, adorned either side by nettles and decaying berries, the misty-like rain more kissing my cheek than hitting it. The clean water, its chill and simplicity, reminded me no end of Telwyn farm, and of the little stream that I had frequented, fully clothed.
For a fleeting moment, I was perplexed that he had known the name of the establishment that I had spent almost a month of my life staying at. But quickly, it turned to annoyance and frustration, that he had somehow gone rifling behind my back, without having the decency to have asked me to my face.
“Why would you say something like that?” I asked, with a tone of anger that was hardly an accident.
“I just thought that, maybe, you needed to talk about it all.”
“There’s nothing for me to talk about, Mike.”
“Oh, come off it Johnny. You need to at some point. You can’t just forget it forever. Besides, we’ll be leaving soon, and I don’t want slip-ups from you.”
“What makes you think there will be any?”
He looked to the ground for a while, our footsteps crunching on the sodden gravel as the rainfall really began to find its strength.
I knew as well as he did that I was a walking liability and, some days I wasn’t even a walking one. More of a stumble. He was right, I knew that I had to get it all off my chest eventually, but for some inexplicable reason, I simply desired nothing more than to hide it all away under lock and key, and pretend that nothing had ever happened.
This was my chance at a completely new life. One where no one would know my real name, or my background, what troubled or concerned me. It was a chance to start afresh, without the constant worrying glances or pitying apologies.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know. You shouldn’t blame yourself. You’re a decent fellow and you have every—”
“Be quiet.”
“Oh, come on. I’m trying to big you up here. Most chaps would take a pew and lap it all up.”
“No. Shut up. Use your eyes for once. Regardez.”
For once in his life, he did as he was told. I supposed that it was because it was most unusual for me to command such attention in the way that I had done, or the downright shock at my impertinence.
But as he listened to my instruction, his head began to turn, slowly, so that he did not give off an impression of being surprised or nervous. He did not do so with any particular kind of emotion, he just looked.
Dead ahead of us, walking with a slight limp but still managing to hold his body in a taught, proud posture, was a member of the Gendarmerie. The arrogance with which the man seemed to walk, was only accentuated by the uniform that he had pulled over him, the immaculate creases and glistening buttons adding a certain sparkle to the man’s eyes.
His kepi hat, complete with a thin white band around the top, was on at an odd angle, as if the peak was pointing to one or two o’clock, rather than the customary twelve.
It was a uniform that I had been used to seeing for many weeks now, having studied photographs and drawings of every variation imaginable, from what might be worn on a hot summer’s day, to the all the more sombre affair that was adorned on a dingy, misty December’s evening.
“What should we do?” he asked, looking up to me as a schoolboy to his father. I resisted the temptation to look down on him, as I knew that his face, with features so sunken that he always looked as if he was in a darkened room, would be glaring back at me with the hope of a small puppy.
“What do you mean? What else can we do?”
He thought about my question for a second or two, as we both naturally slowed our pace to avoid the inevitable meeting with the Gendarme. It was something that we had been taught to do, to give ourselves a little longer to run through our stories, or to give the officer a chance to deviate in his path and move on elsewhere.
“We could always turn around, Johnny. Make out as if we’ve forgotten something and head home.”
“Mike, we’d have half the German army on top of us before we could even take a step. It’s too late now. Make sure you know your story.”
“But…” his voice trailed off until there was no other sound but the trickling of the mist on the trees that flanked us, and the crunch of the gravel that ground and rolled under the weight of our feet.
Ever since we had started our training, I had realised that Mike was the kind of chap that wanted out of every situation that he felt cornered in. It was strange, for a pilot who had shot down at least four and a half enemy aircraft. Just a half away from becoming a fighter ace. I did not quite know what had caused him to become predisposed to such a stance, but there was a deep-seated unbelief in himself, a lack of confidence to such a scale that I considered even myself to be bolder in my own abilities.
I locked eyes with the Gendarme officer who was now only yards away from being within spitting distance from us. His eyes seemed to droop downwards at either end, like a pair of bananas, as if they had suffered some sort of crushing disappointment in his life that could never be remedied. Something like the occupation of the land that he had served for many years.
He was old, older than Mike and I put together, which could still put him under the age of fifty years old. But, despite that, his face told of a life
hindered by pain and disappointment, but a life that he was keen to spend inflicting the same kind of misery on all those that he came across.
A faint smirk seemed to creep up one side of his face, as if the left-hand side was non-compliant in the game that he was playing.
“Salut,” he called out to us, perhaps a little too far away for the range of his voice. He repeated his salutation to us, this time a lot closer, so close in fact that we could both smell that he had only recently consumed his evening meal.
We replied, dutifully, maintaining a bold eye contact with the man, so as not to arouse any kind of suspicion that we were riddled with nerves. The truth was though, that we were, I was anyway. I was frightfully aware that at any moment he could blow down hard on his whistle and have us arrested. We would be in a police cell with interrogators all around us before we even had the chance to blink.
My palms had been clammy ever since we had been handed our objectives, but subconsciously I curled them up into fists as we stood there, in case the ample supply of perspiration began to roll off the tips of my fingers and drip on the gravelly ground.
My heart, rhythmically striking at the inside of my skin, felt like it would give the whole game away and I began listening to it closely, petrified that it may have been banging out some sort of message in Morse.
A foolish supposition, but not one that was totally inconceivable to the paranoid state of mind that I had learned to live with.
My mind had been tuned in the last few weeks and months, rewired completely in some regards, to be suspicious of everything and everyone. The way that someone spoke would include indicators as to their real intentions, the manner in which a tree swayed would be determined by either a breeze or a movement behind it. I had been taught to never take things as I saw them. There was always something hiding behind everything.
“Cartes d’identité.”
We complied, removing the thick cards from our pockets before handing them to the Gendarme’s outstretched palm.
As he inspected them, I inspected him. His dreary face made drearier still by the miserable rainfall, sloped down towards the ground, as if he wanted nothing more than to slump into a heap on the floor.
We had been taught to be careful around these men. Some, the most patriotic of Frenchmen, would stop at nothing to help us achieve our aims. Others, those with pockets being lined by the Germans, would do everything within their power to make sure that we were arrested and interrogated.
There was no way of distinguishing what side this chap was on.
I glanced to one side, as the man continued to rub his thumb over parts of the card, apparently testing to see how well made the card was and if any of the ink would rub off in the rain.
Mike was stood to my side, his eyes slowly filling up with water, as they always did when he was beginning to let his nerves overcome him. Other than me, I did not think that anyone else knew of this disposition and so, as long as he kept everything else in check, we would be okay.
“What are you gentlemen doing here, at this time of the evening?” the Gendarme queried, without really looking up from his inspection.
I felt the dryness of my own mouth, and assumed that the arid desert would be reproduced ten times over in Mike’s own mouth, as it so often did.
“Well, officer…”
“We are just out enjoying this lovely weather.”
I held back from glaring at Mike, instead, frozen to the spot, I watched the permanent smirk on the Gendarme’s face begin to morph into something all the more sinister.
At first, it was a leer, the kind that screamed that we had just landed ourselves in the hottest kind of water known to man. But then it developed into something else, something far more comforting and satisfying.
He began to smile.
It was an expression that seemed foreign to the rest of his face, as if he hadn’t known what a grin was since the days of his youth, which were long since passed. But the teeth were bared more and more, till the point where his mouth would stretch no further.
He passed our cards back to us, removed his kepi and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Very well done, chaps,” he began as the cap was tucked under his arm. “You composed yourselves with a confidence that was both satisfactory and yet not exuberant.”
The smile began to wane from his face, the upturned bananas returning to his eyes, and the altogether wearisome features returning to what they had been for the last few weeks.
“But do not ever interrupt one another again. It undermines one another. It makes it seem like you are hiding something, which simply cannot be apparent to an inspecting officer.”
I felt the redness of Mike’s skin worsen as the shame was heaped upon him by the bucket load.
“Remember gents, you are actors, in the largest play imaginable. A play in which the curtain will not be drawn for a good many months, possibly years. And if your audience is not convinced by your performance, you will be killed. It is as simple as that.”
We both stood in front of our instructor, Captain Gallagher, dumbfounded at what he had said.
“You are to be Circuit Fortunae, is that correct?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Fortuna was the Roman god of good luck. Let’s hope it stays on your side chaps.”
We were mere weeks away from being in the field for real, but were still making mistakes, potentially fatal ones.
Mike and I would need to improve drastically in a short amount of time, otherwise, that curtain could be coming down on our lives much quicker than we would have liked.
8
It was not the first time that I had been in one of the Whitley bombers that Mike and I found ourselves in, but it was the first time that we were in one in the dead of night. The stillness of the night, the peace and serenity that I had so often enjoyed, was shattered by the two huge engines that roared on either side of the fuselage that we were both perched in.
It wasn’t the most uncomfortable place to be, but there were certainly other places that I would have chosen to take a seat that wasn’t in the belly of the aircraft. But still, it felt good to finally be back up in the air.
Months had passed since I had last been cruising around the skies at this kind of altitude and, although the speed was considerably less, I was still drawing an immense kick of finally being back in the sky.
What I was not enjoying however, was the fact that I was no longer in control, I wasn’t the one in the cockpit enjoying a spectacular view of the British countryside as we glided around.
That was what I had missed the most about being in the Hurricane, the way in which I felt completely in control of my own destiny, and not even the sight of an enemy fighter would be able to sway me in that regard.
I felt superior to everyone and everything when I was up in the air, the second that the nose lifted, and the undercarriage was retracted. There was nothing between my backside and the ground, other than a light wooden structure, covered by a thin canvas.
It was that same thin canvas though, that would cause me all sorts of problems if I ever had an encounter with the enemy, their bullets being more than capable of zipping through one side and straight out the other, leaving two gaping wounds in what could only be described as my best friend.
“Hello Ganer leader. This is Cowslip control. Your customers are now over Gravesend. Vector zero-eight-zero. Angels two-zero.”
It was all I could hear repeated through my mind as I sat in the back of the Whitley, reliving the days gone by where I was at the top of my game, flying side by side with my squadron as we hunted down the enemy.
No sooner had I thought about the rampaging success that we had achieved in shooting down hordes of enemy bombers, I had already begun to reminisce about the equally numerous disasters that we had been subjected to.
“Break! Break!” began to echo around my ears, as I fumbled between my legs to find the spade-like control that I would need to push forward into a dive. I would
lose altitude as quickly as I could, to get out of the way of all the other planes now carving their way through the skies.
I would roll and bank, snapping my neck this way and that so as to check that I had nothing on my tail. Even when I was certain that there was no one around, I still remained as vigilant as ever.
The minute you thought you were comfortable, would be the time that you found yourself ditching in the English Channel.
As I pulled back on the imaginary control stick in between my legs, I pictured the lone 109 that was flying dead ahead of me. I thought for a moment that I was seeing things, as the aircraft was flying steadily southwards and hardly altering their course. Either the pilot inside was already dead or was silently wishing that he was.
With a slight adjustment to the throttle and a dabble with the mixture, I was soon directly behind the 109, still flying as straight as an arrow, with my Hurricane just below him.
I bided my time, every five or six seconds checking my own tail, in case it was all a part of a trap, to get me to fly as straight as him. But I could see nothing. This pilot seemed like he was heading home after a training sortie, not flying over his enemy’s territory.
Gently, with the slightest of jolts, I pulled back on the spade with my right hand, gripping it tightly, the sweat beginning to seep into the lining of my gloves. With my left hand, perspiring with an equal effort, I pushed the throttle forwards gently, so that I could rise up and match the altitude of the 109.
His tail was now perfectly in my gunsight and I quickly had to correct myself before I flew higher than him. Even if I was just an inch too high, he would see me, and no doubt be out of my grasp in no time.
Holding the whole aircraft as steady as I could, my thumb moved to cover the button that would activate my weaponry.
I closed my eyes gently, just letting in enough sunlight to constantly remind myself that I was still awake, as I said a quick prayer for the man who would soon be going down. It wasn’t a confidence reason that I did it, but out of a genuine respect and care for the man inside. I was firing to shoot down his aircraft, not to kill the poor soul inside. I always hoped that the Luftwaffe pilots that we came across shared the same mentality.
