‘Your Jedburghs,’ she told me.
‘You got permission to brief me?’ That was a surprise.
‘No. I’ll tell you again, when HQ tells me to.’ She shrugged, ‘I made a decision, that’s all. Do you know what the Jedburghs were?’
‘No.’
‘They were small teams of two or three commandos, dropped into Europe before D-Day and before we crossed the Rhine, to arm and organize resistance to the Germans. They were administered and trained by SOE and OSS but were not quite the same as either of those outfits and of course no one who was originally involved wants anything to do with them now.’
The penny dropped. ‘So what are they still doing out there? The war finished two years ago.’
‘Hunting Nazis. A few of the Jedburghs refused to come in at the end of the war – just like you did. They stayed out there to find specific Nazis; war criminals, if you like. Particularly those connected with actions against Jedburgh or SOE staff at the end of the war. They find out what happened to the people we lost and, if it was bad, bring the perpetrators to justice.’
‘So they’re working for the War Crimes Bureau now, then?’
‘No. That’s probably the point. They’re working for themselves; particularly the Jewish teams – there are at least two of those. Investigators, judges, jurors and executioners – very economical little operations.’
‘What’s that to us?’
‘The war’s over. The WD wants them back: it wants them to stop killing people, and come home.’
‘Won’t they do that, once they’ve finished what they set out to do?’
‘It’s time they stopped now.’
I suppose that Miller was right. Neither of us knew what to say next. I switched off the radio set. One of the valves clicked as it cooled down – it would need replacing soon. Eventually I asked, ‘What are we supposed to do about it?’
Miller sighed. ‘We’re probably a bit of a forlorn hope, because they must have people out on the ground looking for them as well. We’re supposed to triangulate on their signals, if we can, working with an out-station at Southsea. It never works – they’re never on air for long enough. You heard those short bursts. We were allocated listening watches on two of them. I don’t know if any of the other huts have any; there can’t be that many left out there. Sometimes we’re asked to try to break into a transmission and get them to talk to us. That never works, either; they just shut down and move on. They’re still very good.’
‘So what happens?’
‘We record their signals, and put them in the pouch with all the other stuff. Someone somewhere must scan them for clues to where they’re operating.’
‘All coded?’
‘No; just mostly. Sometimes it’s in clear, and sometimes it’s in a simple Tango Charlie. We can read those with little effort, although we’re not supposed to. It’s a bit like doing a crossword.’
‘Explain Tango Charlie, Miller.’ I wasn’t being funny; it was new to me. If it meant TC it wasn’t the phonetic alphabet I was used to.
‘Sorry, we’ve only just started using the phrase. TC means transposition code. Either the alphabet folded up on itself, or letters for numbers – that sort of thing.’
‘And we’re supposed to tell them “Come home; all is forgiven.” ’
‘Something like that.’
‘Bit bloody haphazard, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’ Miller took the criticism personally, but that wasn’t what I had intended. Change the subject, Charlie, before the upside-down smile comes back. I didn’t see her again before I jacked it in for the day and returned to the Abbott house. It was overcast but I drove with the lid down, and in my new raincoat. It fitted over my working clothes as if it had been made for me.
11. Lonesome Mama Blues
On Wednesday afternoon Mr Summit danced outside the guardroom at the gate. He danced to ‘Lonesome Mama Blues’. Ming ushered him to one side to let me through. The blind man skipped his shuffling steps sideways, drawing Ming after him. For a moment they looked as if they were dancing together. I probably had a silly grin on my face. I parked up in a space behind the gatehouse and collected my lumpy package of sandwiches. I wondered if Miller was paid to provide them, and if she’d made them up for Fearless Freddy. Then I stood outside smoking my pipe, waiting for my transport.
It wasn’t late: when they’re going to stick your neck out the RAF is never late. The same driver in the same crew carrier. The same cheerful, cheesy smile. What the hell – I was in a good mood myself. Miller was buying me clothes, and making me sandwiches – I guess that it was like being married, except that I couldn’t help notice that something was missing. I had addressed an envelope to her, and put it in my own post box. That way they’d only find it if I didn’t come back: I was getting back into old habits. In the bus I hugged the raincoat around me.
Joe Humm had a bruise on his forehead, and a small stitched cut over a cheekbone. I asked him, ‘What happened to you, then?’
‘Oh, that.’ He touched the stitches and winced. ‘I fell over last weekend.’
His navigator smirked. There was a story in there somewhere. Ten minutes into his short leg of my flight he began to hum a tune I recognized; it was ‘Willy the Weeper’.
Waddington was locked down, but not for us: someone was already out – things were hotting up. More to the point, a strong wind was blowing a veil of rain across the runways. I almost didn’t notice the wind because airfields are the windiest places on Earth anyway. I had the same SP escort sergeant as the first time. My face was slick with the fine rain; at least he had the jeep’s canvas rigged. I asked him, ‘What happens if we don’t fly, sergeant?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir, but I’d expect you’d wait over until we can.’
The same briefing in the same hut, from the same Squadron Leader, but with only one crew this time. I always hated waiting for them to reveal the place I was supposed to die in. I didn’t mind so much this time. This time it was smiles of relief all round.
‘We want you to go to Celle in Germany, gentlemen. Celle is still well inside our zone – marshalling yards, and a concert party. I visited it myself a few months ago. Didn’t like it, actually; it’s full of military policemen – you wouldn’t like it either, so don’t land there. OK?’
Polite laughter all round. The dour nav asked, ‘Are we to stay inside the zone throughout the trip, sir?’
‘Yes. Don’t go near Brother Red. One of their top dogs is coming over to meet the PM this weekend, so we have to pretend to be friends.’
Someone asked, ‘What about the met, sir?’
I looked around the room. The tousled Met Officer wasn’t there. Why hadn’t I missed him before?
‘That’s the only problem. You’ve got a hold for three hours. Then we’ll look at it again. You’ll have to stay in here, I’m afraid. Sergeant Ramsden will be here with you; I’ll get coffee and things sent in. Can’t use the radio – sorry. You can play cards or something.’
I’m convinced that the services have never been much good at alternative contingency planning either.
The wind and the rain conspired against us. The result was that I spent my first night in a proper officers’ mess. And hated it.
I got a free breakfast and lunch out of it the following day, though.
Despite myself I was beginning to relax with the buggers. We were beginning to feel like a crew. Late afternoon I stood with the Skipper in the crew room while the others played pontoon for matches. We looked out of a window, peering across the runways. Somewhere out there a great black beast of a bomber was waiting for us. By then the rain and the wind had blown away into the North Sea and Europe; I just hoped that we wouldn’t catch up with them later. I said, ‘It’s funny, Skip, but I went to Celle one night in ’44. If the balloon goes up with the Russians, it will feel just like old times. They were always sending us back then, to clobber the same targets time and again.’
Tim touched my shoulde
r. I moved away slightly because I’ve never liked people touching me unless they’ve been invited to.
‘I don’t think the balloon’s going up, Charlie. I think the Reds are as tired as we are. It’s just a few old men posturing.’
‘When old men posture,’ I told him, ‘young men get the chop. I was there once before – and this operation isn’t exactly risk-free, is it?’
‘You want to live for ever, Charlie?’
‘No, Skip; just a bit longer than this. That would do for me.’
It was a different Linc: it smelled older. Out of habit I checked the fastenings on the fuselage door after Neil had dogged it shut behind us. He gave me the thumbs-up, and turned aft. I found my place and slotted in with my back to Perce, wondering which crew he’d flown his last trip with. As my radios came in, and the lights came on I felt like a stage magician muttering ‘Open, sesame’ above a magic casket.
Tim’s voice brought me back, click, ‘Radio check, Charlie?’
‘OK, Skip,’ and I started the call-through. The metaphor extended itself, because the words that ran through my mind were from that song, ‘That Old Black Magic’. At just that moment I realized that by delaying the flight for a day the RAF was sending us out on a Thursday again. Bollocks.
Out over the North Sea, after Perce and I had calibrated our pre-tuning set-ups, we had time for a breather. With my old gaffer Grease in the front seat we might have risked a quick fag. Turnaway Tim was a different kettle of fish.
Someone once told me that all the best plans are simple ones. Anyway, our route was blessed by the virtue of simplicity. We were supposed to insert from over the North Sea between Brunsbuttel and Cuxhaven. Cuxhaven was an old U-boat base on which we used to unload our not so friendly bombs. Forget what you’ve been told about Slough. Our getaway was out over Osnabrück and Groningen, although it wasn’t supposed to be a getaway per se because no one was supposed to be shooting at us. Perce’s job was to plot the radar profiles of significant features on our way out: you already know what mine was. We were skirting south of Bremen when it became all too interesting . . . we should have known better than to fly on a Thursday.
Perce clicked, started to say something, coughed as if embarrassed, then started again. ‘Skipper, this is Perce. We’ve going to have company.’
Click. ‘Say again, Percy. We’ve done nothing to upset anyone this time. Are we still on the right side of the line?’
The nav broke in. The question had pissed him off. ‘Nav. Skip, we’re right on track. If Percy’s got a Red closing on us, then it’s a lost one.’
‘OK, Henry. Give me a couple of easy course changes; we’ll see if we can throw him off. Perce, tell me if he matches us.’
A minute later my bum gave me the message that Tim was turning us away from the Red Peril and back across the land of the free. Another five and we were turning back onto track, and the bogey turned with us, of course. I looked up out of the small window on my left just as I heard the voice in my earphones – up until then I’d had nothing except routine trade from the outside world. The voice said, ‘Hello, English.’
It was a nice voice: gentle, a bit breathy and definitely a bit female. Her husky voice was heavily accented. A bit like Greta Garbo. When I looked up it was into the eyes of the pilot of a small fighter plane keeping station on us. It had no propeller on the front, so either it was in trouble, or it was another first-division job with a jet engine. I felt Tony, our top gunner, swinging his turret to bring his two hefty cannon to bear. The MiG didn’t flinch.
Tony clicked and said, ‘Shall I shag him, Skipper?’ He wanted to sound cool, but his voice was suddenly about three octaves too high for that.
‘Her,’ I clicked, and stuck in. ‘Definitely a her.’
Tim said, ‘No, Tony; not yet. I rather want to know what happens next. Can I talk to her, Charlie?’ Now he did sound cool. He was showing us the way.
‘That wasn’t very friendly, English,’ the woman said. No need for a translator here.
Tim said, ‘Sorry about that. What are you doing out here, my dear? Lost?’
‘I’m just flying around, English. Looking for some company.’
‘Are we going to shoot at each other?’
‘I don’t see why we should.’
That seemed to kill it for a six-beat. Then Turnaway Tim offered, ‘You might be annoying a lot of people, you know – they’ll probably send someone unfriendly up to look at you.’
‘I know. I won’t stay long. I just wanted someone to talk to.’
I turned to Perce and said, ‘She’s a nutcase. Keep an eye out for anyone else.’
He nodded, and asked, ‘How did she get hold of a machine?’
‘Come again?’
‘She’s a woman. How did she get hold of a kite like that?’
‘They have women pilots in the Russian Air Force.’
‘Oh.’
I could see her gently weaving her aircraft to match its speed down to ours. There was just a bit of a moon, and whenever she changed attitude her silver fighter would flicker like a Christmas-tree candle.
Eventually Tim said, surprisingly firmly, ‘Time you went home, old girl.’
‘Nowhere to go, English.’ There was a terrible sadness in her voice. ‘This is my last flight. I will be arrested when I return. They arrested my husband and my children this morning. Can you imagine that? Children are not yet four years old.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I am an officer. That is enough to be arrested for today.’ The small jet must have been harder work than it looked, because we could hear her drawing deep breaths.
Tim said, ‘You can always follow me. I’ll take you in to one of my bases. We would look after you.’ There was what is often called a pregnant pause, except that pregnancies don’t last for ever, and this one seemed to.
Then she said, ‘And leave my children, English? No; I do not think so. Goodbye, English . . . and good luck.’
Then she did a very professional wingover: Tony couldn’t have followed her with his guns even if he’d tried. I leaned close to the window to watch her as she dropped away from us, until the silver blur became just a faint red glow from the jet exhaust, and finally nothing.
The stupid thing was that Tim said goodbye, back to her. Then so did I, and then the others, one by one. The sky suddenly felt very empty.
I said, ‘Skipper; Charlie. I think we’ll probably get a bollocking for that.’
‘Then they can fly their own fucking aircraft, can’t they?’
I smiled inside my mask, and fumbled in my flight bag for a packet of day-old sandwiches. I could probably grow to like him.
He clicked, ‘Nav? Where are we?’
‘Still on track, Skip. Next way point in . . . twelve minutes.’ A voice totally devoid of emotion – like a mechanical man. Learning to like the nav would take more effort, and I wasn’t sure that I was up to it. Brown-bread Spam sandwiches: the butter tasted genuine.
We landed at Wadders into the dawn of a fine morning. I was stiff as I stepped down the small ladder and onto the concrete. Ramsden was there to greet us with a flask of tea. I thought about the Russian pilot, and imagined her being escorted away from the last aircraft she’d ever fly, by a man with a Tommy gun. Would she see her children again? I shivered, even though it was not cold.
12. It Don’t Mean a Thing
The Buddhists have this theory that every time you fuck something up you are reborn to do it again, and maybe again, until you get it right. That’s what we call déjà vu. That’s what I think, anyway. Is that why the RAF kept on bunging me back into aircraft over Germany?
Alison had tea on the table before I came down from my room and Bella soon put in an appearance. She’d had another successful foray into the big city – Oxford passes for a big city out there – and had a pocket full of denarii. But her Austin van had run out of petrol at the end of the track. She was flushed when she walked in. I told her I’d siphon a gallon from the Si
nger, and walk it down to her van later in the evening. She threw off her jacket, kicked off the army boots she wore most of the time, and sat down heavily in an old soft chair in the corner of the kitchen.
Alison handed her a half-pint of cloudy cider. Bella said, ‘Thanks, love. Life-saver.’ She slurped her first sip, and had to wipe her top lip. Alison asked me, ‘Fancy putting the kettle on and making the tea, Charlie? I can do the rest.’
I hate it when someone tries to domesticate me, but I kept my trap shut; she was only a kid, after all. Later, when we were around the table, talking, playing cards and listening to a new jazz programme from London, I mentioned that I might drop along to Joe’s jazz club on the Saturday night. Alison studied her cards, and said, without looking up, ‘It’s not going to be open. Someone at school said that some RAF guys got into a fight there, and the police have closed it for two weeks to teach everyone a lesson. It was over a girl.’
‘It usually is,’ I told her. ‘That’s why I’m staying single.’
Alison couldn’t disguise her small frown when I said that, or Bella a small smile. I was holding my own. Just. And at this rate it was all I’d end up holding unless I could wangle another trip to London. Alison grabbed a book and sloped off to bed.
I awoke in the early hours as the bedroom light snapped on. I sat up immediately, reaching for a parachute that wasn’t there. I said, ‘What is it?’ probably rather muzzily. Bella stood by my bed, wearing silky pyjamas. Behind her, in the doorway, I could see Alison. She wasn’t smiling this time: she looked frightened.
‘Are you all right?’ Bella asked me.
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘You were shouting,’ Alison said. ‘You woke me.’
‘It’s OK,’ I told them. ‘I was in an accident once. I was dreaming about it. I should have warned you.’
The Forgotten War Page 17
