by Steve Holmes
One solitary round of tracer ignited the full tank of fuel in a deafening explosion as the flames leapt thirty feet into the air. The soldiers of the Waffen SS never stood a chance with their single shot rifles as they tried to compete with the Browning guns of the Stirling. A huge ball of flames engulfed them and their guns fell silent.
Reg was back on the radio whooping and cheering.
‘You fucking beauties, the beers are on me when we get back home!’
John smiled at the reaction of his navigator but it was also a smile of relief. He’d been exposed in that turret with Len Jones, he could almost smell the German bullets as they’d flown just whiskers from the Perspex dome and they had ridden their luck… of that there was no doubt. Another three or four seconds at the most and a German round or two would have found its target.
Back at Tarrant Rushton there were more than a few anxious airmen training their eyes on the southern night sky. The two crews of the other Stirlings had landed thirty minutes ago.
‘They should have been back by now,’ whispered Mark Azouz to his navigator. ‘Even if they’d had a ten-minute skirmish they should have been back by now.’
Azouz bent down to stroke the small black and white dog that had mysteriously appeared by his side.
‘Whose dog is this, what’s his name?’
The navigator shrugged his shoulders.
‘I think it might be Sherlock’s, Skipper. It was with him last night as he left the mess.’
Azouz stroked at the back of the dogs neck.
‘You looking for Sherlock, little fella? Coming back to see you, is he?’
Just then the dog’s ears pricked up and his nose pointed up into the sky. He barked twice and looked up at Mark Azouz.
‘What is it boy? What can you hear?’
The navigator spoke.
‘He hears something Skip.’
Mark cocked his head and strained to hear above the noise of the wind. Two or three seconds passed and then his face broke out into a broad smile as he slapped his navigator on the back.
‘I hear it too. Four bloody engines. I’d recognise that sound from a million bloody miles. They’ve made it.’
As Mark finished talking the silhouette of Stirling EA 874 loomed up like a ghostly apparition and the dozen or so men let out a huge cheer. The dog ran around in a circle barking excitedly. Mark Azouz bent down and picked it up.
‘Don’t worry son… Sherlock’s coming home.’
The plane landed and taxied towards the assembled men. John was the first to climb down from the rear hatch, quickly followed by the rest of the crew. Mark walked over and offered his hand.
‘Where the hell have you guys been? You should have been back ages ago.’
John shook his hand warmly and Azouz embraced him.
‘The Skipper thought it best to fly west out to sea. He said that every German anti-aircraft gun between Limoges and La Havre would have been waiting for us on the way back so he got Reg to draw up another route home.’
‘Makes sense I suppose.’
John grinned. ‘I can’t argue with his logic, after all we’re back home in one piece.’
Vanrenen breezed past them aware of their conversation.
‘Head for thinking, Flight Engineer, feet for dancing. We Australians are taught that from quite a young age.’
All three squads attended a debriefing in the Officers Mess and the RAF had woken a barman to pull a few pints. The small Jack Russell had followed them in and no one seemed to mind as it squeezed under the table and lay at the feet of John. He leaned across to Mark and whispered.
‘By the way Mark, what’s your dog called?’
‘My dog? It isn’t my dog, Sherlock, I thought it was yours.’
CHAPTER TEN
Keevil Airfield was located four miles east of Trowbridge in Wiltshire. It was 16th March 1944 and Sherlock’s Squadron were on the move yet again. John Holmes had walked the leather from his boots in a vain attempt to find out who owned the black and white Jack Russell who had followed him around for three days. He’d kept back a few sausages from breakfast time as had Len and Reg and Doug had even poured some sweet tea into his water bottle so that the dog would enjoy a hot drink that morning.
John was determined to find the owner, though the rest of the crew weren’t so sure. They’d been relayed the story of how the dog was the first to hear their Stirling as it flew in late from Oradour-sur-Glane and it instantly became a good luck charm.
Len sat proudly at the wheel of his MG TB Midget convertible, the roof off, despite the cold temperature of a particularly freezing spring morning. He was berating his flight engineer.
‘Just get in the fucking car Sherlock and bring that stupid dog with you. I’m telling you no one owns it… it’s yours, it’s ours.’
The rest of the crew had left for Keevil by bus some time ago. Len said that John could travel with him.
‘No way Jonesy, it must belong to someone. It would be like stealing.’
The unnamed dog sat patiently by the car cocking its head in different directions as the conversation progressed. John watched it.
‘I swear that dog is the nearest thing to a human I’ve ever met, it knows everything we are saying.’
Len looked at his watch for dramatic effect.
‘Listen mate I love you like a brother but if we don’t get going we’ll miss dinner and supper and more importantly a night out at the local boozer too. I can handle missing a couple of meals but not a couple of pints of England’s finest bitter.’
John looked at the dog, then Len Jones, who had started up the engine.
‘Last chance mate, climb in or you’re walking.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
‘I would.’
John pleaded with Len Jones. ‘Look, Jonesy just give me another half an hour and I’m sure his owner will turn up.’
Len Jones was shaking his head.
‘Thirty seconds.’
‘Look mate, I…’
‘…29…28…27…26.’
John realised he had pushed Len’s patience to the limit. He picked up his kit bag and threw it into the back of the car.
Len slapped at his forehead.
‘At last.’
John bent down and the dog came towards him.
‘I’ll miss you little fella but you need to stay here.’ The dog cocked his head again, listening as if trying to understand what John Holmes was saying. ‘Your dad will be back soon, I’m sure he will.’
John lifted his head upwards and planted a lingering kiss on its head.
‘You stay there boy, I’m sure we’ll see you again.’
‘In the car, Sherlock, spare me the emotion.’
John opened the door and climbed into the seat. Len Jones revved the engine and put the car into gear.
‘You sure you want to leave him?’
John nodded, felt a lump forming in his throat.
‘Okay Sherlock, your decision.’
He lifted his foot from the clutch and the car lurched forward.
‘Don’t look back Sherlock; you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.’
‘I won’t Jonesy… I won’t.’
And he didn’t. John kept his eyes firmly fixed on the three long concrete runways as they drove past them. He kept his eyes on the sentries as they drove through the gates and locked them onto the tarmac as they hit the open road.
John and Len were silent for the best part of five minutes. It was Len who broke the ice.
‘You should have brought him with you, you’re going to pine for the rest of the month you silly bastard.’
John remained silent, lost in his thoughts.
‘Oh fucking great, what an exciting trip this is going to be.’
Silence.
‘So Sherlock, where do you fancy tonight? Know any good boozers in Wiltshire?’
Len Jones kept up his sarcastic comments for over fifteen minutes.
‘I’ve heard Trowbridge is
quite nice in the spring.’
And on it went until suddenly John Holmes exploded.
‘For fuck’s sake Jonesy, can’t you shut up for one minute?’
Len Jones turned to face him.
‘Ooh, it has life, master…it speaks.’
John Holmes suppressed a smile; he knew he was out of order, knew he shouldn’t be acting this way. It was only a dog… someone else’s dog for that matter.
‘And one other thing.’ John said.
‘Speak to me, Sherlock.’
‘Turn the fucking car round and let’s go and get Patch.’
‘Patch! Who the hell is Patch?’
‘That daft dog we left in Leicester.’
Len Jones brought the car to an abrupt halt as the tyres bit into the road with a screech.
‘You want me to turn back?’
John nodded. ‘Yes I want you to turn back… I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Fucking sorry…’ He shook his head incredulously then gripped the steering wheel as if he was going to rip it from the steering column. He turned to face John. ‘And anyway, since when was he called Patch?’
‘About two minutes ago mate… that’s when I named him.’
Len opened the door, walked around to the passenger side and stared John Holmes in the face.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this, don’t you know there’s a war on? Petrol’s in short supply.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ll reimburse you. I’ll get you a few gallons.’
Len walked back to the open door, climbed in and slapped the dashboard hard. ‘Jesus Christ.’
John looked at him nervously. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘What are you doing? Are we going back or not?’
Len tapped at the fuel gauge on the dashboard. The needle hovered just above half full. His face broke into a beaming smile.
‘You bet we are buddy, you bet we are.’
Patch hadn’t strayed an inch from the spot where they had left him. The little dog’s tail started wagging as soon as he had heard the familiar sound of the engine as it had approached the gates of the airfield. John simply opened the passenger door and he had jumped on his lap, licked him once on the face and then turned around several times as he made himself comfortable. Len Jones reached across and opened the glove compartment and pulled out a bar of chocolate. He broke off two squares and pushed them gently towards his mouth. The dog took the gift gratefully, chewed on it then closed his eyes as the car moved off.
‘Bloody chocolate on ration too Sherlock, you gonna reimburse me for that?’
John smiled, reached over into the back seat into his kit bag and pulled out his RAF-issue sweater. He wrapped it around the dog to protect it from the cold. The dog slept like a baby until the car pulled into RAF Keevil.
Reg and Chalky were standing at the gatehouse as they pulled up to the barrier and the two sentries brought the car to a halt.
‘Jesus Christ where have you two been?’ asked Reg.
Len Jones shook his head.
‘Don’t ask Reg… don’t ask.’
By now Patch had woken and stood up. He arched his back and let out a long yawn. Reg and Chalky spotted him and broke out into broad beaming smiles.
Chalky spoke. ‘You brought the dog, Sherlock.’
‘That I did, Chalky. Now stop standing around and go and get the poor bugger something to eat.’
The sentry who had been inspecting John’s paperwork reached across and stroked him.
‘Lovely little chap isn’t he.’ He handed John his documentation back. ‘Everything in order, there’s just one thing not quite right, Sergeant Holmes. Wait here a second will you.’
The sentry walked quickly back to the gatehouse and disappeared inside. John looked at Reg and Chalky, shrugged his shoulders. Two minutes later the sentry reappeared with a small package, stood beside the door of the car and reached inside.
‘Can’t be having the little fella saying RAF Keevil doesn’t feed him.’ He pulled out a sandwich. ‘Corned beef, I’m sure he’ll approve. Welcome to RAF Keevil gentlemen, please enjoy your stay. And you too, err…’
‘Patch,’ said John, ‘his name is Patch.’
Just before they drove away the sentry called over again.
‘Sergeant Holmes, I almost forgot. You have a letter postmarked Lancaster.’ He handed the letter over. ‘It came redirected about two hours ago along with a dozen others that came into Leicester early this morning.’
John tore at the seal with vigour.
‘I know what this is. My sister is pregnant, due any day now.’
The rest of the crew watched patiently as John quickly scanned the letter. The important information was at the bottom of the first page.
‘I’m an uncle, an uncle to twins no less!’ He turned the page over and continued to read. ‘Margaret and Lillian, two little girls.’
Reg Tammas grinned broadly.
‘That’s great news, we’re wetting the babies’ heads tonight, don’t you worry about that. C’mon Uncle Sherlock, let’s go and find you your bed because you’re going to need it tonight.’
Reg and Chalky stood on the running boards of the car as they guided them towards their accommodation. They explained that they had booked the whole crew into their new billet. Everyone, that is, except Vanrenen who had somehow wangled something a little better. They were lodging with another crew headed up by a pilot from Australia called George Tickner.
Reg explained.
‘It’s much better accommodation, just a small dormitory with about 25 beds and three big bathrooms.’
They pulled up outside and the two men jumped from the running boards as John, and Len opened the doors of the car and walked towards the building. Patch jumped down from the car and fell in behind John taking time to urinate on the tyre of the car and then the doorstep before they all went in.
Six or seven men lazed around on the beds. One of the men stood up and walked towards the door. John noticed from his uniform that he was a pilot. He introduced himself.
‘George Tickner, gentlemen. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’
John shook his hand as did Len. Tickner introduced them to the rest of his Australian crew and one RAF Flight Engineer George Humphrey.
Len was in his element.
‘Well bugger me Sherlock, now the foreigners outnumber the Brits in this hut. Something tells me we are going to have a great time. Who knows, we might even win the war.’
George Tickner and the rest of the Australian crew were all laughing. George Humphrey strolled across and shook John Holmes’s hand.
‘That may be the case, Sergeant Holmes, but not one of those bloody Johnny foreigners is clever enough to be a flight engineer.’
John grinned broadly; something told him he was going to get along just fine with his new colleagues.
All occupants of billet number 78, RAF Keevil, climbed into a four-ton lorry laid on by the RAF and drove the four miles into Trowbridge. Patch sat up front in the cab with the driver, John and George Tickner. The driver proceeded to tell them where the best pubs were in Trowbridge and dropped them by the railway station on Boundary Walk. It was another RAF bonding session and one that John and his crew appreciated.
‘You’ve got four hours,’ said the driver, ‘and I’ll be back to pick you up. If you’re not here then you’re walking back and you might find yourself on a charge.’
‘We’ll be here,’ said John. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’
They visited the pubs on Stallard Street and an old fashioned Inn on Wicker Hill where the ale flowed like there was no tomorrow. By the end of the evening the Australians and the Brits were like long-lost brothers. John struggled to stay awake on the way home. By the time he crashed onto his bed and his head hit the pillow he was sleeping like a baby. Patch curled up at the foot of the bed and followed suit.
At a meeting the following day, The RAF announced eight days leave for the crew men of Billet 78. They w
ere told to report back on April 3rd. The men queued up for their travel warrants in the Adjutant’s Office two hours later. The line was full of friendly banter as they spoke of where they were going and what they were going to do. The Australians had requested warrants to London and talked about the West End shows and the pretty Cockney girls they would meet up with. Those who had families requested train warrants to their home town station.
‘Home station, Sergeant?’
‘Lancaster Green Ayre, Sir,’ John Holmes stated as the officer looked up.
‘And is that where you wish to go sergeant or are you heading for the bright lights of London too?’
‘No Sir, Lancaster please, I’m off to see the family, you can keep London for me.’
‘Me too.’ It was Len Jones who had spoken behind him.
John turned around. ‘You’re not off to London Jonesy?’
‘I don’t know Sherlock… I suppose I have to, I mean where else is there to go? I’m not staying here for eight days.’
John addressed the officer. ‘Lancaster Green Ayre Sir, Jones is travelling to Lancaster.’
‘What?’ Len looked at his friend incredulously.
‘You’re coming back home with me mate, back to sunny Lancaster where the sun always shines and the Crook O’ Lune always sparkles.’
‘What? But Sherlock, I…’
‘That’s final, you’re coming back to Lancaster with me and Patch.’
Len was nodding as a smile crept across his face.
‘Lancaster… with you and Patch, are you sure, buddy?’
The officer at the desk looked up.
‘Slight problem there gentlemen,’ he said as his finger traced a line down the long list of names. ‘I can’t see a Sergeant Patch, there’s no way I can issue a warrant.’
As the two friends walked away laughing, with two travel warrants to Lancaster, Len turned to John.
‘One question, Sherlock.’
‘Yes?’
‘Just what the hell is the Crook O’ Lune?’
The train stopped at London King’s Cross as the two men gazed out of the window. Hundreds of bodies lined the station almost fighting to get on and off the train.
Len Jones spoke.
‘Jesus Sherlock, I can’t say I’m too unhappy about leaving this spot behind, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place. I mean, where’s the pleasure in this?’
