Storm at Sunset

by Hall, Ian

  Ken’s eyes narrowed; his crew knew from experience that this was a dangerous sign. Their affable skipper wasn’t easily riled, but when he was it was better to be on his side of the argument than the other. On the odd occasions when people had obstructed his crew’s work, they’d seen him turn into a fearsome beast. Belatedly, the sergeant sensed trouble and, colouring up slightly, attempted to deflect it.

  “Yes, well.” He backpedalled. “Perhaps we could move on ...”

  But it was too late now to realise that he’d over-stepped the mark, and the sergeant was already seriously regretting tripping this man’s switch. Ken’s eyes were hard as he interrupted quietly.

  “The peacetime Royal Air Force, eh? Fun in the sun you said? Now you might think the war’s been over for a long time, and I’m sorry if we’re interrupting the cosy routine that you and your office-wallah friends have set up here. But we’re not some of ‘your’ Lyneham people. Far from it. Let me explain what I and my crew have been doing in your peacetime Air Force. We’ve been in India, Burma and Indonesia for the last 18 months. Some for much longer than that. None of us have seen our families for all of that time. We’ve been fighting the Japs, first, and then liberating and caring for POWs – male and female, adults and children, British, Dutch, Australian and Malayan. We’ve been attacked by a murderous bunch of rebels. Did you know that the RAF has been involved in a shooting conflict in Java for the past year?”

  A shake of the head. The sergeant was ruing the way he’d approached this crew.

  “No, I bet you didn’t. Nobody does. We’ve lost friends to hideously violent deaths and have witnessed some of the most horrible human suffering a man could imagine. We’ve lived in primitive jungle conditions, and most of us have had prickly heat, malaria or dysentery. Some have had all three. Are you aware of what prickly heat is, sergeant?”

  “Yes. Well no … not exactly.”

  Warrant Officer Ticehurst smashed his fist down on the desk and the sergeant leapt backwards.

  “Well, you don’t exactly want to know about it, either. So I’ll keep it brief. You sweat until you get a blistery rash. Then you scratch it until you bleed. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  The sergeant didn’t know whether nodding or shaking his head would raise his tormentor’s temperature more. He looked uneasily sideways, perhaps hoping for some support.

  “Pay attention! And you? I suppose you spent the war in some cosy billet somewhere?”

  The question didn’t need an answer. In full flood now, Ken roared on, months of pent-up emotion pouring forth. “We’ve eaten bloody awful food, which explains why we look like skeletons. We’ve been on mepacrene for the whole time to ward off malaria, which accounts for our revoltingly yellow complexions. We’ve spent the last two or three weeks ferrying this bloody old crate home, begging fuel at lazy staging posts and overnighting in sub-standard billets without decent baths – which accounts for the fact that our clothes and bodies are in less than sparkling condition. Our ears are ringing after hundreds of hours sat bang between two Twin Wasp engines, and we’ve just landed at this shit-hole you call an airfield in the filthiest weather you could imagine. Now we’re hoping to wrap all this up and get back to those families of ours – trusting, by the way, that they’re still where we last heard they were. So, if you dare to say another word out of place I can guarantee that my crew will step behind this desk and stuff you head-first into your neatly ordered filing cabinet.”

  The sergeant had taken a further couple of steps backward during this outburst, and he was now looking very sheepish. “I’m sorry, sir – I simply didn’t think.”

  “That’s better. You’re dead right; you didn’t think. Now if you would be good enough to organise that transport, we’ll leave you to your paperwork. Oh – and you might get on the line to your pals in the general office. Let them know we’re on our way and that we don’t want any more of this sort of bollocks. Might save some embarrassment all round.”

  Counting himself lucky, in the circumstances, that he’d got away without being physically assaulted, the sergeant picked up the phone and dialled station headquarters.

  It got done – and in double-quick time. The truck returned, and once more they heaved their meagre belongings into the back and clambered aboard. They cast a last, backward glance at their trusty Dakota, standing forlornly on the apron. Dear old ‘Sugar’. Trusty, reliable old friend. The solitary shaft of sunlight had long since disappeared, and now the aircraft’s tattered jungle camouflage contrasted sadly with its hastily applied peacetime roundels. The Dakota made a sorry sight in the damp murk. But she didn’t deserve the knacker’s yard.

  The truck turned the corner and the curtains closed over the tableau – for ever.

  The line office sergeant’s warning phone call had evidently done the trick, and their transit through station headquarters was rapid. They entered as servicemen through the side door, put their signatures to hastily drafted discharge documents, received railway warrants to their various destinations, and stepped out of the front door as civilians. No ceremony; no fuss; it was over as quickly as that. Clothing stores would, as a rule, have had de-mob suits ready for issue to those leaving the service, but this crew hadn’t been expected – and anyway, they didn’t have time to change. The transport was available again to take them to the nearby railway station at Swindon and, perhaps for the last time, they readopted their service personae as they heaved themselves wearily over the tailgate of the military lorry.

  En route they remarked as they passed the cinema where they’d watched the newsreel of VE Day, wondering for the briefest of moments what had subsequently happened to the WOp who’d broken his leg. That evening before they’d left the UK seemed a lifetime ago. A very long lifetime. Now they were all headed off in different directions, and at the railway station they consulted their various timetables. They were splitting to the four winds.

  Maybe they’d correspond in time. Send Christmas cards perhaps. It could be that, sometime in the future when they’d all resumed civilian life and raised families, they’d feel the time right to meet again – perhaps even form a squadron association and have a reunion. Drink a few beers and chew over the old times. They’d think of dear old Keith and Ray, and shed a tear or two – for them and for the other comrades they’d left behind, buried in the soil of that distant land. And they’d raise a glass for them.

  Perhaps they’d again meet some of the POWs they’d rescued. They hoped so. One day, when time had healed their mental wounds, they might even be able to talk about Bekasi. What would they think then of the perpetrators of the atrocity and those who’d murdered their other friends in Java? They didn’t know yet. And perhaps some of them would never know.

  For now, though, they’d run out of comradeship. The windy station platform didn’t seem appropriate for speeches. In any case, the important words had been said in the silence of the aircraft immediately after the engines had stuttered to a stop for the final time.

  “Well, that’s it, chaps. It’s been a long job and an even longer trip home. But we’re here.” The skipper’s words. “Thanks for your work and your good company. It’s been great knowing you and I hope we meet again sometime.”

  Mumbles of appreciation and agreement. There had been no need for more.

  Now, waiting for their trains, their conversation became desultory and eventually dried up.

  Each man was deep in thought. Most were thinking of their families, feeling a twinge of anticipation deep in the stomach about those coming meetings. Or was it nervousness? Perhaps some were thinking of jobs. Would there be any?

  Dusty Binns, in particular, had his mind on his imminent meeting with John Brimstone’s family. And Ken, facing the longest journey, was wondering how long he’d have to hang around at some bleak holding unit before eventually proceeding onwards to Canada.

  Each of them was preoccupied.

  And, as distant whistles on the damp afternoon air signalled the approach of their
various trains, there was for each of them a round of handshakes and a muttered “have a good trip, mate – all the best.”

  Then waves through open windows as the trains steamed away, heads craning out until the platform was out of sight. The crewmembers were gone, one by one. The carriages faded, like wraiths, in the gloom. As they disappeared from view and the clatter of wheels on track diminished to nothing, all that was left behind was swirls of smoke and steam. And as sounds and sights faded, the station staff removed each train’s destination boards from the departure indicator. As though the train – and its passengers – had never existed.

  One by one the men were gone. Until no trace of the crew – or of the old 31 Squadron – remained.

  CHAPTER 33

  Camden Town: Highgate. The Tube train rattled onwards towards the suburbs and green acres of north London. There were empty seats now, and he settled on one of the green and red benches near a door. Same upholstery as ever, he registered; he felt its distinctive, rough pile, and memories flooded back of how it had made his bare legs itch in the days when, as a schoolboy, he’d worn short trousers. Not so long ago, he mused – and yet half a lifetime away.

  It was stuffy in the carriage and his mind wandered. Already he was standing on the pavement by the gate of number 36. The address which, for the past eighteen months, had been no more than a cipher scrawled on the envelopes which had borne his letters home to Mrs Joy Brownlow. She – and the house – had somehow not been a part of his reality for the duration. Only a memory – a mirage. Distant and out of reach – intangible.

  Home. Through the open curtains of the front window he could see paper chains stretching from corner to corner across the room, with balloons around the centre lampshade. Of course; she’d got the house ready for Christmas in anticipation of his arrival. And now his wife swam into the picture, entering the front room, pausing and moving to the mantelpiece to adjust some of the decorations. She bent down out of his sight for a moment, and straightened up again with a toddler in her arms. Arthur was momentarily puzzled. A child? Maybe the offspring of one of the neighbours. Or perhaps this could be the niece she had written about. His niece, too! A pity their reunion was going to be spoiled by guests. He’d have liked to have had her to himself. But then she’d had no certain knowledge of his arrival plans. Unreasonable, he knew, for him to have expected her to have kept her diary completely clear for his possible homecoming. He reached to open the gate.

  At that moment a man moved into the room, his lithe figure illuminated by the lights of a Christmas tree. He came up behind her, draped his arms around her neck and pulled her and the toddler towards him. She turned, laughing, towards him and he embraced the two of them. Arthur didn’t know the man, and a chill shivered over him. In a flash he understood the situation.

  His hand withdrew from the latch of the gate and he stood back for a minute. Frozen with indecision, he could neither advance nor retreat. Finding a new resolve, he reached again for the latch. But a great weight in his legs and arms was holding him back. Joy put the child down and turned again to the man in the front room. She was holding a wisp of something small above his head, and Arthur saw with awful clarity that it was a sprig of mistletoe. The two faces in the room came together.

  Brownlow made to turn away and then again hesitated. His legs were leaden, anchoring him to the spot. But he knew there was no choice for him, and he forced himself into motion. He had no idea where he was heading, but the sun had set now and a chill was in the air. The London suburb, still recovering from its beating in the blitz, was deathly grey in the early evening shadow. There were ugly gaps in the rows of houses – bomb sites. Dirty kids were kicking tins into goals marked out with pullovers thrown on the ground. Pre-fabs, hastily built to house the homeless, looked shoddy and cheap. Looking in through their windows he saw families with children playing with tinplate toys, the sight making him feel only colder and more gloomy. He turned into a road which sloped gently upwards towards a bridge over the railway. Pausing by the parapet, he put down his kitbag and watched as a train approached – just as he had as a boy, trainspotter’s notebook in hand. Out of habit he registered the locomotive’s number, and as he heard the hiss of the wheels on the smooth rails his eyes were drawn to that hard, shiny metal.

  His vision swam and he sat down on the kitbag. Flashing wheels. Rails. Bekasi. Slicing blades, swiftly wielded. A magnet was pulling him over the rail of the bridge; it wouldn’t hurt, he thought.

  But now the train had passed and, with an effort, he dragged himself to his feet. An image came to him of the hostel the Salvation Army had used to run on Duke Street. Was there still a call for such places in post-war Britain, he wondered? He really had no idea. Picking up his kitbag and shoving it over his shoulder he set off to find out and to see whether they might have a bed to offer.

  As he crossed the bridge another train clattered by. The noise was deafening and he woke with a start. He pulled himself upright in the carriage seat and rubbed a painful crick in his neck. His train was coming into a station. He craned around to see where they’d reached.

  Finchley Central. Now the Tube had left its deep tunnel and, approaching the route’s extremity, was running on the surface. The unease left by the bad dream began to wear off, and he turned his attention to the world outside the train’s windows.

  He stood up in the near-empty train, hanging onto a strap. This part of the line hadn’t long been completed at the time he’d gone abroad and now, as he gazed curiously at unfamiliar vistas, each mile saw the density of the built-up area reduce. Funny, his recall was of continual rows of houses and shops. But now he was struck by how much open space there was between the suburbs. Woods; parks; sports grounds. This really was much nicer countryside than he recollected. A faint smile crept across his features; he couldn’t see the future clearly, but whatever lay ahead he somehow felt less negative about it.

  The weather front had cleared away to the east, and a brilliant low sun was now casting long shadows across the landscape and into the carriage. The train guard watched curiously from his position at the end of the vehicle, wondering at the story that might lie behind this corporal’s extraordinary attire and his oddly yellow complexion. He registered the dusty boots and the motley mixture of worn and faded uniform items. The man looked, he thought, more like a tramp than a serviceman. He briefly caught Brownlow’s eye, noting a strange distance in the gaze. But he saw a thousand odd sights on the Tube each and every day, and he was soon occupied again with the doors and signals at the next station stop. He returned to his world, and the airman to his.

  ****

  Nearly there. As the train rounded a bend and emerged from a shallow cutting, Brownlow picked out with pleasure the distinctive outline of his own suburb’s town hall. He got to his feet, bracing himself as the Tube rattled across the points at the station approach, and deftly heaved his kitbag onto his shoulder. The doors slid open and he stepped out onto the platform, making his way up the wooden stairs. Out through the ticket hall and onto the street. The strains of a Christmas carol came across the crisp air from the High Street; he smiled, and mouthed the familiar words as he mentally joined in. The Salvation Army silver band, he thought, briefly struggling to understand why the Sally Army had been in his mind. He gave up. No matter; their distinctive music always made people feel extra good at this time of year.

  Christmas was a time of hope, wasn’t it? A time for fresh starts. He paused briefly to get his bearings. The station bridge was a new structure, built in his absence, and for a moment he was uncertain. But almost immediately he related the road layout to what had been before, and he set off into the labyrinth of terraced housing. Ten minutes at most now, he knew.

  As he continued into the maze of streets, increasingly distant traffic noise came briefly to him in the light air. For a moment it swelled in his head as though a great gathering lay somewhere unseen. VE Day. That was it; May 1945!

  But now it was December 1946 and his war wa
s finally over. The Far East was slipping away and the circle was completing. This was his VE Day, and with redoubled purpose he rounded a corner into his own road.

  And seemingly in an instant he was standing at the gate of number 36. Through the open curtains of the front window he could see paper chains stretching from corner to corner across the room, balloons around the central lampshade. His former doubts evaporated as Joy swam clearly into reality. She had heard the latch of the gate and there she was, peering through the curtains and waving to him with a smile on her face. Instinctively wiping the toe-caps of his boots on the backs of his grubby trouser legs, he dropped his kitbag on the path and bounded towards the front door.

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  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  For Those Who Wonder ...

  I know that readers of historical novels (I am one of them) sometimes wonder how much is fiction and, just as importantly, are curious about the provenance of the alleged facts. With this in mind I offer a few words of explanation regarding Storm at Sunset.