The Forgotten War

by David Fiddimore

  I nodded as though I knew all this. ‘The CO did tell me that I’d have to fly weather flights occasionally.’

  ‘Weather flights?’ It was just the way that Miller said it.

  ‘Yes. How do I find out about them?’

  ‘You’ll get a signal. Anything more before I go home?’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  Something bothered me. ‘Mrs Boulder hates me already, and I don’t know what I’ve done.’

  Miller thought. Then she decided to tell me. ‘She was going out with Freddy Timperley: that’s all. She’ll come round eventually.’

  ‘An American I know has a new phrase for things like that.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Shit happens.’

  ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ When she looked up at me her eyes glistened. I was suddenly rather jealous of the late Freddy Timperley. I was back on the slippery slope myself, of course.

  ‘Anything you want to ask me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Two discreet dabs with a clean handkerchief from her jacket pocket. ‘Why did you smile when the Commander introduced us?’ Some women have memories for that sort of thing.

  ‘I knew a girl once, who called herself Gloria . . . in certain circumstances. It was a name that she asked me to give her. A pet name. Do you have a name like that?’

  Good try, Charlie. Miller sniffed and informed me, ‘I’m nobody’s pet, Charlie, and if I have a name like that the only man who knows it is called Mr Miller.’

  Not so good try, Charlie. Some girls close doors on conversations gently; some slam them right in your face. Best to know where you stand from the start, I suppose.

  I spent a second night at the Lamb, and a second evening in its bar, reacquainting myself with its cider.

  Ming was the first person I saw after I signed in the next morning. He wasn’t in uniform. He wore a huge khaki overall, and was tending the flower beds around the guardroom. I hadn’t noticed them before. He was delicately lifting weeds from a mass of deep pink bell-like flowers. This time he saw me. He stood up and said, ‘Morning Mr Bassett: I get extra money for tending the garden on my day off.’

  ‘I didn’t notice them yesterday.’ I indicated the flowers. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Love lies bleeding,’ he said. ‘If you’re kind to them they’ll last all summer.’

  ‘But then they die?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Then they die.’ Can’t say I hadn’t been warned. ‘But then they come again the next year. Better than ever before.’ In my head I wrote Ming down as an optimist.

  ‘Can you tell me where people stay around here? I can’t live in a pub all the time – my dad wouldn’t like it.’ I had intended that to be funny but Ming didn’t smile.

  ‘You’ve got digs all fixed up. Didn’t you go there last night, sir?’

  ‘No, no one told me. I went back to the Lamb.’

  Ming looked away, and spoke from the side of his mouth. ‘Useless bleedin’ civvy shower, begging your pardon, sir. I fixed you up myself: then they forgot to give you your envelope. I’ll fetch it for you.’

  It turned out that there was a bank of pigeon-holes on the floor behind the guard desk. That was where things were left for you, but you had to ask. Nobody offered. The envelope was a welcoming pack – a list of do’s and don’ts and operational procedures. I had been supposed to read it the day before, initial a copy and return it to the SPs. There were more don’ts than do’s by a factor of ten, so I decided to read it again and make the buggers wait.

  There was also a fat envelope with a London ministry date stamp that had come in the internal mail – it carried with it a suggestion of Dolly’s perfume. A third envelope contained details of my billet. I was to live with a Mrs Abbott, at a farmhouse about three miles away. There was a hand-drawn map of how to get to her – it was exceptionally finely drawn in ink, almost like a flyleaf illustration from a Victorian book, and was signed at the bottom right corner with a single large flowing M. There was even a sketch of a farmhouse, and a woman in a summer dress at the door. She didn’t look old.

  The operators were already working as I let myself in. I sensed Mrs Boulder stiffen as I walked past her open door, and Elizabeth waved an arm over her head but didn’t turn to look at me. The choice in the small kitchen was char or Camp coffee. The coffee won; flavoured with condensed milk. Miller paced in just as I was opening the envelope from London and tipping its contents onto my desk. A ration book, petrol coupons and clothing coupons: three books of them. No message. Miller said, ‘Gosh. You wouldn’t have any to spare, I suppose? When did you last buy yourself anything to wear, Charlie?’

  A question which needed serious calculation. ‘1942 or ’43, I think. A blue blazer and a pair of grey off-duty trousers. I lost them somewhere.’

  ‘Well, they’ve certainly sent you more than enough to catch up – if you can afford it,’ she told me.

  ‘I probably can; I didn’t get much opportunity to spend my pay in the last couple of years. Where do I go?’

  ‘There’s a Co-op and two gents’ outfitters in Cheltenham, but they’re only any good if you’re a farmer or a doctor. The Commander shops there. Oxford’s better, and not too far away. You could buy a cap and gown . . . or a fancy suit with a felt collar. Go when you get a day off. Either that, or wait until you get up to Town.’

  ‘Maybe you could help me?’

  She saw that one coming, and struck it straight for the boundary. ‘Ask one of the single girls, Charlie. They’d enjoy it: I wouldn’t – I don’t like shopping.’

  ‘Perhaps I could ask Elizabeth. Elizabeth who, by the way?’

  ‘Regina Brown. You could; and you’d end up with a cowboy outfit – she’s got a thing going with the Americans at the moment. I’d do it yourself, if I was you.’

  Miller didn’t leave too much to chance. Her hips swung as she walked out. I thought that we’d drawn that game. Then she stopped and turned back, offering me my fourth brown envelope of the day. I’d forgotten that I was waging a war armed with paper: it was going to be that type of job. She said, ‘There was a call before you got in: you’re flying tonight. Ciao.’

  She blew me a kiss. Game, set and match.

  6. I Like to Go Back in the Evening

  I went to see Watson. He sent me off to check into my digs and get a few hours’ kip. Transport at the guardroom at 1430: working uniform to be carried in a travelling bag. I didn’t have a travelling bag.

  I’d known a man named Abbott when I was on the squadron; in fact, I was driving his car. Pete bought it from his widow. I had it from Pete, because cars lasted longer than people did in those days. That was the reason I drove warily up the farm track to Mrs Abbott’s house. I needn’t have worried: she was a different denomination of Abbott. She was a heavy, cheerful woman who smelled of hens. Abbottsville was a chicken farm on a scale I’d only ever read about: thousands of chickens in four big fields around the farmhouse. Mrs Abbott collected the eggs twice a day, and every night used two gentle dogs to herd hens into low houses built on stilts. I guessed that I’d eventually get used to the smell: it hung like mustard gas for hundreds of yards around.

  I showed her Ming’s drawing, which made her smile; she asked if she could keep it. The figure in it, she said, was her daughter: I’d get to meet Alison when she came home from school. Mrs Abbott wore a mourning ring. You don’t see many of those these days: a plain gold wedding ring with a black band set around its centre. She was missing someone: I guess that we all were in 1947.

  They let me stick the Singer behind the guardroom. I hadn’t expected Miller to meet me there. She handed me a package wrapped in greaseproof paper, tied inexpertly with string. I remembered that Grace could never tie parcels either.

  ‘Bread-and-dripping sandwiches, for later,’ she told me with an embarrassed smile. ‘I guessed you would forget. You’ll get coffee or soup.’

  I should have been interested that she knew the form: I was actually int
erested in the fact that she was embarrassed about handing me food. It was as if she was afraid I would refuse.

  ‘Smashing. Thanks. Pork or beef?’ And then, before she could answer, I stuck in: ‘I love the brown bits, don’t you?’

  ‘Pork. Yes. Our family loved the dripping when I was a kid. Charles hates it; makes him want to throw up, he says.’

  ‘Who’s Charles?’

  ‘My husband. I should have told you.’ Then Miller opened her mouth to speak again and I knew that the ‘Good luck’ was coming, so I reached out and gently touched her upper lip with my forefinger,

  ‘Don’t say it . . . please. And don’t worry; it’ll be OK.’

  I wasn’t sure, but I might have felt just a faint pressure against my finger before I pulled it away. Miller held my gaze and said, ‘Fine,’ in a small, flat voice. Then she turned on her heel and walked away. She didn’t look back.

  A small American GMC crew bus pulled in a couple of minutes later. It was wearing RAF blue, and RAF markings. The AC1 driver nipped round and asked me, ‘Pilot Officer Bassett?’

  I nodded and headed over to him.

  ‘Hop aboard, sir. I’ll get you to the CFS in half an hour.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I’m in no hurry.’

  He didn’t believe me, and laughed. What had Watson told me about the CFS at Little Rissington? Something about them dropping kites all over the county, and killing people?

  A twin-engined Hudson was waiting outside one of the hangars, alongside a Harvard trainer with a crooked wing. The latter looked as if it had been in a taxiing accident. My misadventures in France had started in a Hudson. This one was painted silver, which looked a bit strange to my war-educated eye. The pilot sported a black beard above his smart uniform jacket. That looked even stranger.

  ‘Joe Humm,’ he told me as he offered his hand. ‘Don’t worry about the face fungus; I get a shaving rash so I have permission to grow.’

  ‘Charlie Bassett. 12 Flight. If I had permission to grow maybe I’d be as big as you.’

  He grinned, inclined his head to the hangar and asked, ‘Like to nip in there and get changed? Then we can get off.’ He must have seen doubt in my eyes: I was wondering how far I’d get in a clapped-out old Hudson. ‘Don’t worry; I’m only your lift to Waddington. After that you’re with the big boys.’

  Joe Humm had a navigator, but there wasn’t much for him to do and on the flight we found a common interest in jazz. They promised to introduce me to some of the local clubs. Apparently, Nat Gonella and the Georgians sometimes came down from London.

  Waddington was locked down – just like a wartime station before a raid. After landing we were met by an SP in a jeep. He insisted on carrying my bag for me. That was embarrassing, because my non-flying clothes were now in a large brown-paper carrier bag that I had borrowed from Mrs Abbott. It still contained one or two downy feathers, and smelled of dead chickens. We were followed away from our flight by another SP jeep. The passenger in that jeep was carrying a rifle at port. When the RAF begins to take itself that seriously it’s time to get out the toilet paper. I didn’t get my bag back; they drove us directly to a small Nissen hut on the airfield periphery, where I was dropped off. The hut was like a fighter-squadron dispersal of years before. It had a decent brick fireplace, big leather chairs, a table and a couple of map boards on the wall. And six men.

  I’ve always liked bomber men – these were already in their faded flying overalls, and looked like crap. The skipper who walked over wore more mend patches than flying suit. He drawled, ‘Hi, I’m Tim, your driver – you are?’

  ‘Charlie. Radios. From—’

  He cut me off. ‘Doesn’t matter where you’re from, Charlie, welcome to the party. All we need now is the radar, and we’re set.’ What he meant was we don’t want to know where you’re from, Charlie. Just about then the young boy I remembered walked in. He said, ‘Hello, everybody, I’m Perce.’ And to me, ‘Hi, sir, long time no see.’

  ‘I’m Charlie on this trip, Perce, not sir – like I once told you.’

  He shrugged, and smiled. That worried me. There was a light of excitement in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He was wired. Here was a kid who had missed his best war, who still wanted to win his spurs.

  They gave us padded brown overalls in scarcely better condition than their own, soft leather helmets, gloves and ox masks. Oh, yeah, and a parachute. It was when they handed you the parachute that you began to wonder. Then you began to sweat.

  The RAF has this tendency to do things by numbers; did anyone ever tell you that? There were two crews going out, and they’d kept us separate. So now they bussed us together for the briefing, in a classroom hut twice the size of the one we’d been parked in earlier. There were no introductions, and the other crew looked as professional as mine. I couldn’t identify their interlopers, if there were any; perhaps they’d worked together before. A ranker swept in with his assistant in tow: we all stood – some things don’t change. It wasn’t like any briefing I’d been at before: it was conducted by a Wingco, very low-key, and was about as informative as a dead elephant. In retrospect it was as interesting for what we weren’t told as for what we were. He began with a secret little smile, stroked his moustache and said, ‘Welcome to Waddington, gentlemen. My name is Peterson.’

  That’s when I realized there were other strangers here.

  ‘Your target for tonight is in the Soviet Bloc.’ He was using the old form of words, which was why he smiled. They couldn’t be serious, could they? No. He banged on. ‘The first thing I’ll say is that everything you learn in the course of the next few hours will be classified. We’re back to the walls have ears rules of a few years ago. Be like dad; keep mum. Got it?’

  We all nodded. I would have had difficulty responding immediately anyway: my mouth had gone dry. That was never a good sign.

  ‘The background to your mission is an assessment by minds better than ours that we will be at war with the Soviet Union and its axis within two years.’

  Bang. Just like that.

  ‘If they look like getting the atom bomb, maybe even before that.’ Peterson paused for effect. He didn’t have to. I was all ears. ‘Bomber Command will have a leading role in that conflict, just as we did in the last, and what you do tonight will give us the edge. The navigation of aircraft in the next war will be carried out by radar – not by a man with a hand calculator and dividers. Aircraft will fly from one pre-plotted geographical radar profile to the next – what you are going to do is to come back with those profiles. Over the last few months officers like you have flown routes to strategic targets accross the Soviet Zone, capturing the radar profiles of significant navigation features or way points. You’re going to do the same. One aircraft will make the actual penetration of Soviet airspace. The other will fly a diversion mission along the borders to draw up his fighters, which will leave gaps for the lead ship to sneak through.’ Ship, I thought. Another bugger who’d spent too much time among the Americans. ‘Navs and radar, stay behind for separate briefings, please. Radios and guns will be briefed by aircraft captains. Weather brief in about one hour fifteen: take-off in about ninety minutes. That will be all, gentlemen. Good scouting, all. Good afternoon.’

  Good scouting, all: that was it. Charlie was off to war again. Only this time with a bunch of Boy Scouts. Where was Baden-Powell when you needed him? I still remember the promise: On my honour, I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God and the King, to obey the Scout Law, and help others at all times. We’d all been there. Funny what you remember.

  We gathered in two groups, each crew around its own small bus. A lot of shoes were scuffing on the tarmac, and a lot of fags were being smoked. I filled my pipe and leaned on the bus’s front wing, trying to work out how to stay alive. Neither our nav nor Perce had reappeared yet. Tim mooched over, looking about as nonchalant as a cat with its tail between a dog’s teeth. He started to offer me a fag until he noticed my pipe. ‘I’m glad you’re with us, Charlie; y
ou’re the only one with actual operational experience.’ If that was supposed to make me feel good he was mistaken.

  ‘Weren’t you out in the last lot?’ I asked.

  ‘No, they liked my flying so much they kept me in a conversion unit as an instructor. It was all over before I got to a squadron.’ That meant that he could fly properly, anyway.

  ‘What are we going out in?’

  ‘Lincoln B2. Have you seen one?’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘They called the prototype the Mark 6 Lancaster – just a big Lanc, really – a bit bigger all round. Goes a bit faster, a bit further and a bit higher: you’ll like her.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘A bloody long listening watch, writing down anything you hear and understand. Anything you recognize . . . and I understood that you were good at the feeling once: that’s what I need tonight.’

  I don’t know where he’d got that from. ‘The feeling’ was what happened when a radio operator was eavesdropping on an opposition night-fighter controller talking to a night fighter and realized that it was about him. Even if you couldn’t understand their language, or their codes, sometimes you just knew they were talking about you. That was ‘the feeling’. I suspected that it was a function of fear, but I didn’t tell him that. ‘Listen to the Reds for me tonight, Charlie, and tell me when they’re stalking us.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘There’s only one other thing you need to know: anything that you dial into will be relayed automatically as a separate signal to a ground station here in England, where the operator, unlike us, will be proficient in Russian, German or Polish. We’ll be like a flying aerial for him. If he thinks that we’re about to get into trouble he’ll call you up. OK?’

  ‘Is that it? Is that the radio briefing?’

  ‘I can tell you the same thing using longer words, if you like.’ At least he was still smiling. ‘Any advice for me?’

  ‘Yes. Do we have Monica with us?’