Take care, your friend,
Ambrose William Walsh.
It was too much. Carter leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, suddenly very tired and worn out from the futility of it all.
There was a knock at the door and he sat up, wiping his eyes.
“Come,” he croaked.
The door opened and Merlin rushed into the room. The dog barked and lunged at Carter, almost knocking him out of his chair.
“Merlin!” Woods said. The Labrador sat down, tail beating the floor. Woods lowered himself into the other chair. He fished a bottle of beer out of his coat pocket and handed it to Carter. Carter took it and cradled it in his lap.
“A bit early isn’t it?”
“Never too early to have a drink,” said his navigator. “Come on, skipper, tie one on with me. I don’t feel like sleeping.”
Carter drank from the bottle without really noticing. He stared off into the distance, oblivious to Woods being in the room. Woods gave Carter a searching glance, curious at his demeanour. It was more than being tired. In the seven months they had been together, he had never seen him appear so deflated. Picking up on his mood, the dog shuffled forwards and shoved his nose into Carters lap. Carter absently stroked the dogs head as he finished the beer. He picked up the letter and silently handed it to Woods. The big Canadians face turned grim as he read it.
“Dour stuff.”
“Did you know any of that?” Carter asked.
“About his family?” Woods shook his head. “No. He kept his personal life pretty private.”
Carter looked down at the Labrador. It looked back at him with big eyes, with unquestioning loyalty. Carter thought about that. He thought about loyalty and what made men kill other men. Real men looked their enemy in the eye when they did their killing. Carter just dropped bombs on towns and factories and train stations and scuttled away in the dark. He’d never thought about the people on the ground until last night. Rostock had been different.
“How do we keep going back to do this?” he asked, his voice cracking. Merlin barked.
“It’s the job we volunteered to do,” Woods said simply, recognising the need for candour.
He wondered how long Carter had kept this pent up inside himself. They were all guilty of this on aircrew, suppressing fear and ignoring the close shaves; hoping to god the fear didn’t show, dreading being labelled LMF or having the twitch. Every day you got up and went where they told you. It was natural to be scared, that was part of the job but you had to believe that you would come back to get the job done. If you started thinking too much, that was when the whole pack of cards so carefully constructed came crashing down around you.
Woods had been scared many times. At the beginning he’d stood behind Carter in the cockpit to see the outside world. As the tour had progressed he’d stopped doing that. Sat at his navigators table with the light on he was oblivious to most things on an op, it was easier that way. The terror came when they were attacked by fighters and Carter flung the bomber around the sky. Each plunge could have been their last but every time, Carter had brought them home.
Woods believed that confidence was the key. You had to believe in yourself. That provided the core you needed to get through, mentally ticking off the ops until the tour was over.
“Look, skipper. We didn’t start this war, but the Nazis made it our fight when they bombed London and Liverpool and Rotterdam and god knows how many other places. When we joined up, we did so for a reason, do you remember that?”
Carter glared at him and simmered, the anger lurking beneath the surface like the embers of a fire. Woods could see it there and he was pleased, he wanted to stir the fight in Carter, to pick him up by his bootstraps and shake him until he fought back.
“There are people counting on you,” Woods told him. Carters eyes flashed, the scar on his cheek rippled as his mouth pulled into a sneer. That one had stung. “The crew, me, the Flight; Georgette-”
“You leave her out of this,” Carter snapped back, his temper rising.
“No, I won’t,” Woods flared. “I saw how she looks at you. I saw how she cares for you, and you her. Surely that’s worth something?” When Carter stayed quiet, Woods carried on, baring his soul. “You know, I’ve never told anyone this, but after the first few ops I thought I wouldn’t live to see the end.” Carter shot Woods a look of disbelief.
“Oh yes, I did. I made my peace with that, I thought it was worth it. Then one day after the trip to Bremen, we were all tired and you said we just had to keep going until the job was done, no matter how long it took. Do you remember that?”
Carter nodded slowly. Woods called the dog and Merlin padded over to him. He stroked down his back and ruffled his ears, Merlin liked that.
“Nothings changed, boss. There’s still a job to be done, but you’re not doing it alone. No man can get by on his own. We all need someone to get us through. You’ve got Georgette. I found, Yvonne.”
That struck a chord in Carter. He’d said something similar up in Lossiemouth when he was training the crews at the OTU. More than once he had told them they needed to depend on each other as a crew if they were going to survive, no man could go it alone, he’d forgotten that.
The conflict within him suddenly receded like waves on a beach. He sat up, refreshed, as one does after facing a hard truth about yourself. There would always be doubts about what he was doing, but he recognised that it was such a broad problem it was beyond his ability to solve on his own. The simple truth was, he wanted to survive. The rest he would worry about another day; if he lived to think about it.
He went to the window and opened the curtains. The horizon was starting to get light, the sun would be up soon. His mood lifted and he turned to Woods. The Canadian saw the change come over him. His pilot was standing a fraction taller, his shoulders straightened and his eyes were bright and strong, just as they were the day he first saw him, telling them what he expected of them.
50 - Bull And Brass
On the 28th April, the London Gazette published the citation for the award of the Victoria Cross to Squadron Leader Nettleton. The Augsburg raid had already been a sensation in the press. Nettleton’s VC gave the action renewed prominence. Whether by accident or design, Bomber Command was no longer a dirty word.
Suddenly, the press wanted to see Lancasters. The Propaganda Ministry sent them to Amber Hill. One squadron was like any other and besides, code letters on the aircraft could be blanked out by the censor.
The station was made presentable and the men tidied themselves up a bit. The weather held and the VIP’s turned up right on time. A motorcade of staff cars came through the main gate and drove straight past the admin blocks to the hangars.
Four lancs had been drawn up to make three sides of a square. One on each of the sides and two in the middle. The men lined up. Heels crashed on concrete and they came to attention when the AOC 5 Group alighted from the lead vehicle. His staff and guests got out of the other cars.
The station photographer was on hand along with the war correspondents. Flash bulbs popped as the dignitaries walked up and down the lines of men, talking to a few here and there.
Eventually, the AOC came back to the middle of the square and stood on a dais. He made a speech full of the usual platitudes. They’d heard them all before. The greenhorns puffed up their chests with pride, the rest tuned out, waiting for it all to end so they could go for lunch. A few decorations got handed out. Everett got a DFC, a few DFM’s were pinned on chests and two others got mentions in dispatches. Saunderson made a mental note to make sure the press got the right spellings. It wouldn’t do for a chaps moment of glory to be spoiled by some grotty little reporter who couldn’t spell.
Once the parade was dismissed the AOC and guests retired to the Officers Mess. The Deputy AOC went to the Sergeants Mess. As a Flight Commander, Carters presence was obligatory and he hung on the shoulder of some man from the Air Ministry who had come along. The man droned on about production an
d the difficulties of introducing new types without interrupting factory output. Carter put on a pained smile and nodded in the right places. Eventually, Wilkinson rescued him.
“If you’ll excuse us, sir, I need to arrange some things with, Squadron Leader Carter.”
“Oh, but of course,” the man from the Ministry said in understanding. He floated left and attached himself to a small knot of pilots so he could ask them some questions.
Wilkinson pressed Carter to have a beer.
“Congratulations, old man. Well deserved and in my opinion, overdue.”
Carter perked up. The last few days he had pottered about, doing admin, seeing to some niggles down at the hangar and doing the rounds of the men. He’d gone to the cinema with Georgette and they’d dined at The Madison as a celebration for his promotion.
She had almost preened with pride to be out with him. By the same token, he’d been floating to be with her. Mrs Lloyd spoke to him before Georgette had been ready. The woman had been almost warm. Clearly, one of her girls courting a newly promoted Flight Commander was a step up from seeing a mere pilot and now made him worthy of her attention. Carter made polite conversation for a few minutes in the glacial parlour.
After dinner, Georgette had guided him back to the summer house in the grounds. Here, her plans were to be frustrated as someone had padlocked the door and they couldn’t get in. Carter burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Two grown adults and they were reduced to sneaking around like a couple of lovesick teenagers.
During the short drive back to Georgette’s digs, the air in the car was electric, both of them almost drunk on each other. She kissed him goodnight and bit her lip with frustration before going inside. When she left him in the car, the blood was pounding in his ears. He had driven back at a million miles an hour with the windows down to clear his head.
“How’s Helen?” Carter asked.
“Marvellous,” said Wilkinson, almost buzzing with enthusiasm. “Sends you her love. They both do actually.”
Carter grinned, pleased to see his friend so happy.
“How does it feel?”
“I’m still floating, old man. The miracle of life. It’s quite remarkable.”
A week ago, Helen had been wheeled into the maternity ward and Martha Louise Wilkinson had been born in the early hours of the morning.
Wilkinson had paced up and down in the corridor outside. Her father had been more stoic, he’d done this three times already. He sat in an armchair, smoking his pipe and reading the paper counselling patience. In contrast, Wilkinson had gone through at least two sets of nails and chain smoked like there was no tomorrow.
He didn’t mention the sleepless nights. It was remarkable how well one could do on two or three naps. He just had to be careful not to nod off in the afternoon in his office; the mid afternoon fade he called it. A well timed cup of tea usually managed to ward it off.
“You must come round and see the baby. You and Georgette both.”
“We will. There’s just not been a lot of free time lately,” Carter cracked. Wilkinson had to laugh at that. It had been just as manic at Group as it had been on the stations.
Wilkinson suddenly saw one of the bods from the press heading towards the AOC with purpose and their notepad and pen out. There was going to be a press conference back at Group later, but Wilkinson wasn’t surprised one of the reporters would try to get a few minutes to themselves. He congratulated Carter again and then he was off.
“No rest for the wicked,” said a voice at his shoulder and Carter jumped. He turned to see Cullen standing there, one hand gripping a pint pot.
“You’re back,” said Carter stupidly.
“Of course. I go where the stories are. Lancasters are big news.”
Carters mouth twisted.
“And what’s the story this time?”
“I’m not sure. I doubt Air Ministry will let me get within a million miles of, Squadron Leader Nettleton. They must have thousands of requests for an interview.”
They looked across the room to see Wilkinson deftly divert the reporter away from the AOC.
“But all I want is a few words for my paper,” the man protested.
“You’ll have everything you’ll need in the communique we issue later,” Wilkinson told him firmly. One of the Americans for Associated Press, the man had tried to buttonhole him earlier that morning about the number of aircraft quoted as going on raids. He was questioning the figures.
“What I can tell you, old man? We send our returns to Air Ministry and they draft the official communiques. I can’t possibly comment on what the other Groups are putting up. Not my area. Not my area at all.”
“But what about your own Group?” the reporter had persisted.
“Each station reports how many aircraft are away, and it’s just a matter of simple sums after that,” Wilkinson said smoothly.
“But you can’t say how many actually hit the target, can you?”
Wilkinson had sighed. He knew this sort of thing would come up. The whole issue of Bomber Command was still meat to the grist in some quarters, particularly as the first American bombers were coming over from the United States preaching the mantra of precision daylight bombing.
Wilkinson had his own view on that. Lobbing practise bombs in good weather on a bombing range was one thing. The Americans hadn’t seen European weather yet, or the Luftwaffe come to that. He doubted they were going to find it as easy as their own newspapers were saying it would be.
Only a week or so ago, the AOC had asked for his opinion on another report doing the rounds in government circles which had come to be known as the Dehousing Paper. Wilkinson had read it. Since Lord Cherwells protege, Bensusan Butt had pointed out the flaws of the bombing campaign in all the grisly details; the Dehousing Paper expressed the view that Germany could be bombed into submission. It proposed building up the bomber force with the express view of breaking German morale by demolishing their towns and making the population homeless. At a time when the Japanese were carrying all before them and North Africa looked like it was going to drag on for another year; the Dehousing Paper made the point that bomber Command were the only force taking the fight directly to the enemy.
The paper had provoked fierce debate between the Ministries and Parliament. Once more, the argument over allocation of resources was in full swing and Bomber Commands fate hung on the decisions of those in the corridors of power. Rostock and Augsburg had helped divert attention from the unpleasantness the previous Autumn, but Wilkinson knew the debate about Bomber Commands future was far from settled. The Butt report had only been the start of it.
“My dear chap,” he soothed. “Our target photos show we’re hitting the enemy. If you don’t believe me I’m sure I could get permission for you to see some of them. You’ll discover we’re hitting Jerry right where it hurts. Take Rostock for example. A model German town. Now it’s been blasted into matchwood after only a few raids. Marvellous effort from our chaps to take the fight to the enemy. I’m sure your Air Force will experience the same rousing success once they get going.”
Ladbrook grumbled agreement as Wilkinson took a grip of his arm and steered him towards the bar.
Once the last of the VIP’s were gone, Amber Hill let out a collective sigh of relief. Personnel rapidly left the station in search of booze and entertainment. After a week from hell, they needed to escape the confines of the airfield and see some life.
Vos, Woods and the others were on their way out the door when an orderly asked Todd to report to the CO. Todd thought he was pulling his leg. There was never an honest debt that couldn’t wait for morning, but when the CO asked for your presence, it would be a brave man indeed who would just carry on walking. He looked at the rest of them, stood there with a mix of concern and confusion painted on their faces.
“You blokes go on ahead.”
“We can wait,” Flynn told him. Embarrassed at the concern, Todd brushed them off.
“Nah, I don’t r
eckon this’ll take long. I’ll catch a later bus.”
“If you’re sure?” asked Woods.
“Of course, I’m bloody sure; sir.” He gestured to the orderly. “Lead on mate, let’s get this over with.”
As they walked back to the admin block, Todd wondered what it was about. There’d been no recent thieving from kitchens and there was nothing else he could think of that would have brought him to the CO’s attention. He knocked on the door and Church said, “come in,” from inside.
Todd caught up with the rest of the crew an hour later. He took the lit cigarette Flynn handed him and sat down amongst the crowd squeezed around the small table in The Tarleton.
“I told you it wasn’t anything to worry about,” he reassured them. “They wanted to screen me and pack me off to training school.” He giggled at the absurdity of it all. “Can you imagine; me, a teacher?” he asked them.
“Gawd save us,” said Murphy.
Todd neglected to mention that his knees had been knocking when he went into Church’s office. The CO had been sat behind his desk with Everett to the side of him. Todd had looked around but Carter wasn’t in the room. When he saw that, Todd’s anxiety had gone up another notch. Church had opened a file and commented that his tour was nearly up.
“Then they suggested sending me on a course,” he told his attentive audience.
That produced a stir of interest. After the last week of four ops on the bounce, a few weeks at some station sat in classrooms and learning some theory suddenly seemed quite attractive. Todd shook his head.
“I did a course once before and look what happened?” he asked them, gesturing around the table. “My mates got the chop and I ended up with you bums.”
That produced a laugh.
“Yeah, we got the shit end of the stick,” agreed Murphy.
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