Georgette was subdued and quiet and walked slowly alongside him. They got to a dry stone wall with a stile built into it. Carter stepped over and turned back, offering his hand to help her across. She gripped his hand tightly and climbed over the wall, doing her best to maintain her dignity which was not easy in a knee length skirt. The path was well worn this side of the wall and the going was easier as they got closer to the river.
It was a warm day. The sun shone brightly and as they walked, Carter took off his tunic and rolled his shirt sleeves up.
“When do you need to get back?” he asked her.
“Not for a while yet. I’m not on duty until tomorrow but I do went to get back in time to do my hair.”
“I think we can manage that,” he said as he smiled for the first time today.
The end of the path was shaded by trees that lined both sides of the river bank. A footpath wended its way amongst the trees that leaned out over the water. The river was about twenty feet across, but the water was low and the current was quite weak. Here and there the bank had subsided, offering a gentle way to get down to the edge of the water.
They sat down on a fallen log surrounded by long grass. Georgette stared at the water, watching it flow over and around rocks that stood proud of the surface.
“Funerals,” she said. She shuddered and rubbed her hands together. “Our parents didn’t let us go to funerals,” she told him. “We didn’t even go to our grandparents service even though we wanted to.” Her mouth twisted in a small moue of annoyance, the past hurt resurfacing for a moment. “They said it was too upsetting for us. I just remember a bunch of people who came to the house, talking in hushed whispers; lots of black.” Carter remained quiet and let her talk. “You know, this is only the second funeral I’ve been to?”
Carter mentally kicked himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I should have realised.”
“It’s all right, darling,” she gave him a weak smile. “That was another life, a long time ago.”
“Still-” she put a finger on his lips.
“It’s all right.”
The mood passed as suddenly as it came. Georgette looked around to make sure there was no one else around. When she was sure the coast was clear, she stood up and slipped off her shoes. She hitched her skirt up and rolled her stockings down.
“What are you doing?” Carter asked, surprised. He grasped her hand to steady her while she took them off. She turned to him and pulled him to his feet.
“Come on. It’s too hot to just sit in the sun.”
Her laugh drifting on the breeze, she navigated the slope down to the water. Rolling the hem of her skirt higher, she walked into the stream, picking her way forwards. The water only came up to her ankles, but it was nice and cooling on such a warm day.
Carter stood watching on the bank, pleased to see the gloom lift as she paddled around. He went down to the waters edge and rummaged around in the fine clay soil. He selected a few smooth flat stones and crouched low, skipping them off the water. He got one to bounce three times before making the far bank. He sent another one skittering through a cloud of midges that clung to the surface under the shade of a weeping willow.
“Come in,” she called to him. Taken by the same impulse, he kicked off his shoes and socks and rolled up his trouser legs.
“Ya bugger,” he said as he waded out, surprised at how cold the water was. He gingerly edged out towards her, his feet feeling the way through the sand and silt and pebbles.
“Come on silly,” she chided him, laughing. “You’re not going to drown.”
She kicked water at him and he dodged out of the way. For a few moments they were like children, the cares of the world washed away. She chased him around, kicking water as she held her skirt up. Carter gave up, his trouser legs soaking. Finally, he ran out of breathe and he held up a hand.
“Stop; enough.”
Georgette giggled. She closed the distance between him and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She leaned into him and they stood there, in the shade with the water rushing around their ankles.
55 - Hold Them By The Hand
After such a concentrated burst of operations, 363 settled down to a more normal pace. Training continued as usual and new crews came in to replace the losses over Warnemunde. After a few days, three crews went minelaying in the Baltic. Some more went the next night off Heligoland. Four went out, three came back. Lord HawHaw took great delight in citing the serial number of the missing aircraft and boasting that a flak ship got them.
On the Sunday, there was a station sports competition. Etheridge had arranged for teams from Waddington to come across. Lunch was laid on and the men spent the afternoon hacking at each others ankles while they chased a football around the pitch.
Woods moaned the following morning when he saw the bruises come up on his shins. He sat on his bed staring at the lurid purple marks. He hobbled around the Mess at breakfast and he was not the only one.
Once a week, Etheridge had got into the habit of having a meeting with the ground staff and squadron staff. Church, Everett and Carter attended as did Pullen and other specialists as and when required by whatever agenda the Group Captain was working to. Etheridge found it an excellent way to have discussions about morale and any other issues that cropped up on the station.
A directive came from Group regarding adherence to bomb loading procedures. Particular emphasis was laid on isolating the release mechanisms before bombs were loaded. There was no specific finger pointing that it was because of their accident, but they could all read the hidden message.
After the meeting broke up, Carter was nearly back to his office when Saunderson slid smoothly alongside him.
“All right, sir?” he asked pleasantly; too pleasantly and Carter could feel his antennae twitching.
“Not bad, what I can do for you?” he replied. Saunderson paused and looked around.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said, his voice evasive, a little mysterious.
“Er…okay.” Carter waited. Saunderson hesitated. “Spit it out.”
“Gambling, sir.”
“Gambling?”
“More specifically, your lot gambling.”
Carter started to have a germ of an idea where this conversation was going. They went straight to his office. Carter dumped his peaked cap on his desk. He flopped down into his seat and indicated for Saunderson to sit.
“I’ve noticed an increase lately in people complaining about being skint in letters home.” Carter motioned for him to continue. “A few of them made some oblique references to being unlucky. Then they said their luck would turn.”
Carter leaned back and frowned. He was waiting for Saunderson to join the dots.
“It’s pretty much an open secret that there’s a regular game in one of the Flight Sergeant huts and all of your bods live there.” Bingo. “I just thought a quiet word might be better than doing something official.”
Carter sighed.
“I’ll sort it out.”
Saunderson looked relieved and bobbed his head in thanks. Ordinarily, he would have dealt with something like this himself, but he felt it was better coming from Carter.
During the walk to the billets, Carter thought about this and the host of other things that crossed his desk. This was the other side of squadron life most people never saw. It certainly wasn’t something that had bothered him on his first tour. Running a crew was about as far as most people got. Mothering 'B' Flight, shepherding a squadron with a guiding hand was another thing entirely.
This was why Adjutants were so important. They were the glue that held everything together. They were a shoulder to cry on. The good ones anticipated problems and had the knack to recognise needs before you were really aware of it. In this instance, Saunderson had shown his value yet again, adroitly raising a potential problem and putting the good of the squadron ahead of process. Carter wished Saunderson could pull a similar trick with the s
enior WAAF. She had rung him earlier pestering him for an update on her representations.
He had been able to deflect her with the events of the last few days but he knew it was just putting off the inevitable. The thing was, there really wasn’t very much to tell her. The SP’s were nowhere with the great WAAFery break in. As to illegal joyrides, that was a complete non starter as he and Everett knew it would be.
Regarding the pregnancy thing, she would have a fight on her hands. One of the alleged fathers was the best engine mechanic on the squadron. There was no way Church was posting him elsewhere. There would be words of advice and some serious hints would be dropped about being a gentleman and doing the right thing but that would be it. Five minutes of fun in the armoury had earned the Corporal a posting to Saint Athan in soggy Wales and a reprimand. Carter had a feeling Hakes wouldn’t be happy with that.
That internal tussle took him to the billets. He knocked on the door and waited a moment until Murphy opened it.
“Boss.”
“Can I come in?” he asked. A little surprised, Murphy stepped back and Carter entered. He looked around. The billet was the same as before. The only difference was the pile of tins was gone like he had told them and the heap of wood and coal was a more normal proportion.
As expected, the Poker game was running and Carter stepped over. Flynn was sat on an upturned vegetable crate. A cigarette hung from his lips. He riffled a pile of shillings in front of him. Murphy sat back down next to him and Carter watched while they played a few hands. Byron sat by the window, reading a technical manual on Merlin engines. Todd was elsewhere. A Canadian gunner did quite well. Flynn did better, clearing three hands in a row. Carter watched carefully. There were no strategically placed mirrors and no underhand manipulation of the cards.
During a tea break, Carter picked up the pack and riffled them. It was a worn pack, but there were no bent corners, nothing obvious to give certain cards away. He split the pack in two and shuffled them together again.
“Shall we deal you in, sir?” Flynn asked, flashing him his best smile while he sipped from a tin mug. Carter handed him the pack.
“Too rich for me.” He gestured to the pile of coins. “You’d have the shirt off my back in no time.”
He remembered his early flying training, losing heavily in the dorms as he was introduced to five card stud Poker. Carter could follow the game all right, he just wasn’t very good at figuring odds and predicting who had what. He could have a little fun, but there was no future in it.
The thing was, some people didn’t know when to quit. They would start chasing bad hands and follow that with bad play and stupid bets trying to win their money back. Young lads, away from home for the first time with money burning a hole in their pocket were an easy mark to a seasoned player.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, addressing himself to Murphy and Flynn. “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” The tone was friendly but his face said otherwise. His mouth was fixed in a rictus grin, the scar twitching. Murphy knew that look.
“Time for a break lads. Come back in an hour,” Murphy told the rest of them. Murphy and Flynn grabbed their forage caps and crammed them on their heads. Flynn picked up his winnings and shoved the coins in a jar on the shelf by his bed. Carter waited until they were a good distance from the billets before speaking again.
“I think it’s good for a chap to have hobbies outside of work,” he said simply.
“Everyone needs an outlet,” agreed Flynn.
“I’m not one to cramp a mans style. When you’re not flying, you can entertain yourselves doing whatever you like best. Smoke, drink, shag whoever you want. As long as you don’t get into punch ups in town in which case you’ve made a rod for your own back. Get in trouble financially…” He left the unspoken threat hanging.
Flynn and Murphy could see the metaphorical club hanging over them. Murphy found the grass fascinating. He kicked at a clump of dandelions and watched as the seed head exploded in a cloud of white fluff.
“You might want to think about making the games shorter and for smaller stakes. Not everyone can afford it.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Boss,” complained Flynn. “Everyone’s a big boy. We’re not holding a gun to anyone’s head either-”
“I know,” interrupted Carter. “But it’s no longer an innocent game. It’s been noticed. If I were you I’d be thankful it’s just me having this conversation and not someone else. Next time it might be the SP’s knocking. They’ll make it official, then the CO will have no option but to take action. Just be a little more discrete, okay?” he warned them.
Pullen used the lull to sort all the little mechanical niggles that had built up recently. The Lady was put to rights. The damaged engine was replaced. The holes in the fuselage were patched and the outer part of the port wing was scrapped and changed. Every day, Carter went out to the hangar to watch the progress.
As The Lady wasn’t ready, Carter took one of the Manchester’s up for a flip. It wasn’t just a nostalgia trip. As it was dual control, Carter used the opportunity to give Byron some stick time. It was nothing fancy of course, but it was better than nothing. He finished by deliberately trimming nose down and getting Byron to keep them level. It was as close as they could get to simulating damage.
“Just remember,” Carter told him. “Once you’ve been damaged, it’s a matter of finesse. Yanking the things around might cause more problems.”
Byron just nodded and concentrated as he wrestled with the controls.
On the way back to Amber Hill, there was some chatter about plans for the evening.
“Do we have to go to The Tarleton?” asked Byron.
“And what’s wrong with it?” demanded Todd.
“We always go there.”
“So?” replied the Aussie, a hint of challenge in his voice.
“Tradition, Mister Byron,” said Carter. “If there’s a particular pub you have in mind, I’m open to suggestions, but we always start at The Tarleton.”
“Anyone decided what to do with their leave?” asked Woods. There was a stony silence for a moment. Their next leave was when their tour was over. Talking about that felt like tempting fate.
“Sleep,” responded Todd.
“Shagging,” said Murphy.
“How original,” said Carter, deadpan.
“I thought we could all go to London before we scatter to the four winds,” Woods suggested. “We might not see each other for a while after that.”
“I’m game,” said Vos.
“And me,” echoed Flynn, already thinking about the lovelies around Piccadilly Circus he could bestow his favours on.
On the truck back to the equipment room, the banter continued. Flynn was describing a brunette who was his latest conquest.
“Like an older Olivia de Havilland,” he enthused. “With curves in all the right places.” He moved his hands up and down in an hourglass shape.
Todd was unimpressed. He had yet to see Flynn with one of these girls and he had his suspicions regarding their existence. Then again, he had thought the same thing about Murphy and look how wrong he had been about that.
Todd was still quietly seeing Muriel. It had taken a few weeks of him seeing her at the pub before the frost had thawed. They had gone to the pictures since and one Sunday they had spent the day together, walking in the ornamental gardens in Lincoln and finishing with tea back in her flat. It was slow going but he was happy to go at whatever pace Muriel wanted. She was still brittle but relations between them were a lot better than they had been.
“Have I mentioned my kill?” Murphy asked casually. Everyone groaned in good humour. It had become the running joke on the ride back in the truck.
“What about mine,” Todd countered. “I don’t think I’ve mentioned it for a while.”
“I’m not surprised,” chided Murphy as he blew a raspberry. “Bagging a sitter was too easy.”
“Hey!” Todd protested.
“How about a slap up dinne
r before we go on leave?” suggested Woods, changing the subject. “Anyone can bring a guest if they want.”
There was little enthusiasm for that.
“Bit formal for me,” said Byron nervously. He still felt a little bit of an outsider when things like this were discussed. Murphy said yes, Flynn was non-committal. Todd said no. He would have loved to bring Muriel but he doubted she’d want to come. The idea fizzled out.
“Well it was just a thought,” Woods said moodily.
Back in their billet they got changed to go out. Another letter from White had come and Carter read out bits aloud to Walsh as they dressed.
Progress had been slow. A skin graft to his neck had gone well but McIndoe had yet to have a go on his hands. Elaine still visited when she could and they had gotten engaged. There was no date for a wedding yet. White wanted to be in better shape, but he wanted as many of the crew to come if possible once the date was set.
“Remarkable,” said Woods. He was in awe of the strength it took for White to keep going in the face of so many challenges.
He looked in the mirror and ran a hand over his chin, contemplating a shave. He decided he was good enough and shrugged his shirt on.
“Talking of dates,” said Carter. “How about dinner at the weekend? You, me, Vos, our girls and I’ve got a friend and his wife who might be able to come.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” agreed Woods.
Carter asked Vos about it on the way into Lincoln. The Belgian said yes and he mentioned it to Denise later in the evening. She looked down at her changing figure. She felt fat and dowdy, but Vos talked her round.
“It’ll be good for you to get out.” Denise was still unsure. “I’ll buy you a new dress,” he said in good humour.
“Shoes?” she asked with a smile.
“And shoes,” he agreed, laughing.
The date was set for the following Saturday, ops permitting of course. Carter rang Wilkinson and asked him.
Maximum Effort Page 61
