What the Raven Brings

by John Owen Theobald

  Gower takes a long breath. ‘“Women are not built to fly fighter aircraft,” the officials say. “Their minds are not conditioned for it.” The first time we had a pilot burst a tyre – after a year of clean flying – they grounded all flights. Held an inquest. Men from the RAF came down, conducted a full review of airwomen: leg strength, powers of concentration, reaction times.’

  Gower looks back at us, her eyes bright with anger.

  ‘On you go. Fast now. Cooper, never let that tail end out of your sight. And those bloody Spits better get here shining new.’

  *

  ‘But... we can’t,’ I say, casting my eyes to make out the distant church spire. Nothing can be seen. It is an utter washout.

  Minx shakes her head. ‘A hole will open up. Let’s go.’

  I squint ahead. Can we really get through? We march in our groups of five, Minx taxiing me, Joy, Canada, and Bella. We sit as the engine warms up, quiet. Unconsciously, my hand goes to the Flight Authorization Card in my top pocket. I can do this. I can fly a Spitfire.

  Minx begins our taxi to the east end of the runway. The sky is dark. All at once, there is a burst of colour in the sky. A red flare soaring above the control tower.

  We all watch it, motionless, as it hovers over us.

  Green: proceed. Red: unsafe.

  It is advice only, the ATA covering themselves. We have no choice. The flare is red but we are flying. No sound comes from the pilots beside me. Just as we lurch into the clouds another flare blossoms in the sky behind us, glowing red and angry.

  Sunday, 1 August 1943

  I have mastered all kinds of fuses and bombs over these past gruelling months. I am a real sapper. And I could run right to London and back without breaking a sweat. Not even Quarter could doubt I’m a proper soldier now. It’s what’s next that frightens me.

  We are being introduced to Mr RAF pilot. I stand upright, my eyes on Major Roland as he says some introductory words.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’ll put you in the right spot. One of the RAF’s finest pilots, the captain here has flown the route multiple times in preparation. Once the bomber lets go of the tow line, the glider pilots will take over. They know the exact orchard, and they will get you there.’

  I’ve never been to France. I’ve never been outside England. They’re just going to drop us in some field – some orchard – with a wrench and a map? I can’t worry too much. The Ox and Bucks lads are considered some of the best soldiers in the British army. I’ve seen them with my own eyes heaving themselves across barbed wire so the troops behind them had stepping stones over the barricades.

  That’s if we land without busting into a million pieces.

  Then Mr RAF pilot will fly back and collect some more poor sods to drop off in our place. Major sees that my mind is drifting, and fixes me with his dark eyes.

  ‘Do you want to be part of this invasion drop, Squire!’

  ‘No, sir.’

  A moment of skidding silence. ‘What’s that, Squire?’

  I cough, trying to find my voice. ‘I’m a builder, sir – by training. And those Hearses are made of plywood, sir.’

  Major Roland does the most extraordinary thing possible – he laughs. ‘Well, hell. That they are. But they’ll take you there in one piece – if you’re in one piece when you take off. Can you keep it together, Squire? A whole country is counting on you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Well, say hello to your new pilot.’

  Mr RAF goes down the line, swiftly saluting and shaking hands. When he gets to me, he smiles his best public school smile.

  ‘Fair point, sapper. Those boxes wouldn’t stand a fall. Don’t worry, I’ll have you safely across the Channel, and the glider pilots will see you to the landing point. You lads just take it from there.’

  Not such a bad bloke this toff. Looks like a hero straight out of a comic book, too. Dashing, Anna would say, if she wasn’t too busy laughing at his slicked-back hair. Just another of the Brylcreem Boys, but hopefully he’s got enough sense to do his job properly. If he’s such a great pilot, let’s get him in the glider.

  ‘Timothy Squire,’ I say, extending my hand.

  He only hesitates a moment before taking it. The war is destroying the officer class, Lightwood told me. No more barriers. Pay us what you pay these pilots and maybe I’ll have the cash to waste on wads of Brylcreem.

  His grip is strong. ‘Captain Cecil Rafferty.’

  *

  Our test flight begins as Rafferty and his bomber tow us into the sky. The lads sit facing each other across the narrow fuselage, holding helmets in their hands. The reason is clear enough once I spot the green tinge to some faces. I breathe in, slow. Rafferty knows his business; and the glider has two pilots. No need to fear.

  But I’d rather be anywhere else. Send me back to Disley, where nothing has happened in a hundred years. Two days will seem like a week. I remember when Dad took me to see the pub, and then we spent an afternoon staring at the golf course. The family who took us in – the Gibsons – couldn’t believe we’d had enough of walking the course after only ten days.

  I will miss you both, Mum and Dad. I will come home.

  With a great stagger we are pulled upwards into the clouds. My stomach goes west.

  There is no way I am going to be sick into my helmet. Desperate to look away from all the green faces surrounding me, I glance at the porthole. Empty blue sky streams past. The major’s words echo in my head.

  ‘Once released from the towing aircraft, you are committed to making a landing. Go-arounds and second attempts are quite impossible. The glider is completely powerless.’

  The glider pilots cut us loose from the bomber. We are plunging, helpless, and I grip the seat with all my strength as we drop from the sky. As we come to land – to crash? – I vomit noisily on the floor. Steady on, Squire.

  ‘Sapper,’ a voice calls after we have landed intact and made our way back to the parade ground. I hear the bombers touching down across the yard. ‘Never do that. You make the floor slippery; you could cost a man his life.’

  I nod, swallowing hard and forcing my eyes open.

  ‘You OK, Sapper?’ Rafferty asks, hurrying over. His face is distinctly un-green.

  ‘Fine, yeah, Captain.’

  ‘Good man.’ He clasps my shoulder, walks away. Decent bloke, him. A real-life Rockfist Rogan, a strapping young RAF pilot. Glad he’s on our side.

  *

  We are loading up the glider again. I can do this. My stomach is empty, my nerves under control. Captain Rafferty stands out front, the men in their kit queuing to get in.

  His eyes slide over the troops, find mine.

  ‘Where are you from, Sapper?’

  ‘East,’ I say. Like he needs me to tell him. Truth is, he doesn’t seem to be listening at all.

  ‘You’ve seen the worst of the bombing, I’ll wager. Hitler took it to the east.’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  ‘Women, children. Civilians dead.’ I nod, but he’s just gazing around. ‘You seem a reasonable chap.’

  A reasonable chap? ‘Thank you, Captain.’

  ‘You know a bit about bombs. Firestorms.’

  Firestorms again. Why is that all everyone wants to talk about? I should introduce Captain Toff to Anna, they could talk about firestorms until they both fall asleep. The thought immediately curdles. There is no way I’d introduce this guy to Anna. Not that she’d ever go for a stiff like this bloke. She doesn’t care about good breeding and pots of money.

  ‘Sapper here knows all about the Blitz,’ pipes up one of the Ox and Bucks lads. ‘Grew up in the Tower of London.’

  Captain’s head turns slowly to face me, the clouds gone from his eyes.

  ‘The Tower of London?’

  ‘Squire looked after the ravens. Bit of a bird tamer, aren’t you, Squire?’

  Now how did that daft nickname follow me here? Lightwood, you blighter. Not sure if Captain Rafferty’s heard it before, but he’s
staring at me like I’ve got horns.

  ‘Timothy Squire from the Tower of London? Looks after the ravens?’

  Before I can answer Rafferty lets out a terrible growl and lurches at me. I hold out my arms to block him but the impact throws me down. Pain floods up my neck. I rise but the weight of the giant posh bastard tumbles me back to the tarmac. The bleeding captain is attacking me.

  It occurs to me in that flash of pain that I thought of Rafferty as a real-life Rockfist Rogan. Rockfist was a champion boxer.

  Suddenly the weight is lifted, and I roll away, finding my feet. The muttered curses tell me it’s over. One of the Ox and Bucks lads is leading Rafferty away.

  My bloody pilot, trying to kill me before we even get over there. And here I thought my luck was back. Lightwood is here, and it looks like he’s earned himself a crack in the nose for trying to gentle this raving toff. Christ, maybe he is a champion boxer. Well, Lightwood deserves that, for spreading that daft nickname around the base.

  ‘Bang on time, mate,’ I say.

  He pulls back bloody fingers, and I wince as he wipes them on his pristine uniform. ‘What’s that all about then?’

  ‘How should I know? But I owe you, Lightwood. Again.’

  ‘We might not have a chance for a third. Bloody captain trying to kill you.’

  In truth, he seems more annoyed than hurt. I clutch his shoulder, give him a grin that only slightly hurts my neck. ‘Next round’s on me, Lightwood.’

  13

  Sunday, 1 August 1943

  Pilots, both RAF and ATA, scurry to the Spits on the grass. There must be fifty planes still here, or more. No chits, no ground crew, no control tower. Scrambling from our Anson, we abandon it next to the empty hut. Even on the ground the winds buffet us mercilessly.

  The Spits aren’t like the one I saw at the base, not quite. Khaki on the top, blue on the underside; and fully equipped with weapons. Ready for the invasion. And we’ll need every one to even have a chance. ‘Take one and follow me,’ Minx calls, taking her own advice. The winds whip away her next words. ‘Keep the formation.’

  Standing before the plane, I slide back my coat sleeve. The light catches the large silver watch on my wrist before vanishing under my sleeve. I climb surefooted on to the wing, squeeze into the cockpit. It is small, barely wider than my shoulders. My hands are rigid on the stick. I start the engine and power roars through me. No time for check-ups here.

  Swallowing deeply, I grab the oxygen mask and loop it on as fast as I can, turning on the valve and setting the height. But I can’t move swifter than the thought: it feels just like a gas mask.

  Mum.

  I can’t think of her, not here. I must focus.

  Spitfire after Spitfire rolls forward and takes off. I watch Minx and Bella go, and then Joy signals to me; I pull up behind her, the Spit surprisingly nose-heavy and sluggish. My growing fear is difficult to hide even at this distance.

  My helmet feels too tight, the goggles seem to narrow my vision. My suit, too, pinches at my throat. The thick rubber mask makes it hard to breathe. It’s an oxygen mask. Once we get above 10,000 feet, it will help me breathe.

  Canada appears in the mirror behind me. We are the last to go.

  Joy doesn’t waste a moment, her wheels spinning and bumping along the runway. I urge myself on with a smile.

  ‘Right. I can do this.’

  Joy takes off and I open the throttle and follow her into the clouds.

  *

  The Spitfire’s awkwardness on the ground vanishes in flight. The sky is its element. With the stick much higher up, I simply twist my wrist to turn. The smooth acceleration, the pinpoint turns, the speed. The balance is perfect. The Spit practically sings.

  But strong cross-winds gust from the right. I open up the starboard throttle, straightening the plane, then close it. The winds are strong – 60 mph at least – sending even a Spit bucking like we’re on the sea. I flip the oxygen on.

  In a hurry the sky has grown deeply unfriendly. Great climbing towers of black ahead soon reach out, grab at us, but Joy edges away and I shadow her. Joy at least knows how to use the instruments; she knows where we are. I can see no one else, but can sense them around me. Astonishing to think that such huge aircraft can all be invisible in the same patch of sky. All I can hear is the sound of the wind and my own muffled breathing. Then an echo of something inside the dark clouds.

  The air in the cockpit has turned frozen, my fingers and hands shaking. It is not the cold. I am terrified. Something is out there.

  Directly in front of me wings suddenly harden from the clouds. I scream through my oxygen mask, swerving the plane wildly.

  It is nothing. Only a flicker. Clouds do mad things. I am too suspicious. But I do have a strange feeling, a feeling there is something above me, almost possible to glimpse through the grey. My hands are shaking madly, and sweat-soaked hair clings to my forehead.

  I must keep my head. Opening the throttle, I catch up to the plane in front, which in the half-light I can see is Joy. I can see, too, Canada behind me. We are going to make it.

  A heavy sound as a great weight tears through the clouds. Fast and slow all at once, the yellow nose of a fighter materializes, flashing golden. A great golden hawk, with the taste for blood.

  Without thinking I heave to the left. I could have slammed right into Canada, but the moment I swerved, I saw it. An angry, bright light.

  Machine-gun fire.

  Unbelieving, I pull up, crashing through the last bank of cloud. I’m out. And there they are. A squad of 109s – at least a dozen Nazi fighters, clearly leading the bombers to Castle Bromwich. The world slips away.

  They have found the Spitfires after all.

  *

  We can’t get away fast enough. All over the sky the 109s hurl themselves at us, locking on to our positions. Around me white light flickers, angry, insistent.

  Once they have sight, they’ll never lose it.

  Panting, I fumble with the throttle, force the plane to move. Move. One is on me. He is too fast. He’s got me. He’s on my tail and I can’t shake him. My hands are rigid on the stick. I am too slow, too slow.

  Pray to whoever you pray to.

  Any prayer is shattered in a blast of machine-gun fire from the tailing Messerschmitt. He misses, but he is gaining. I’m doomed.

  Joy, ahead, swings back, and is lost in the clouds. I try to follow her, but the 109 has latched on to me, moving impossibly fast now, gaining, gaining. I watch him veer as I do, cutting a steep arc that mirrors my own, always drawing closer. An arrow, aimed at me, that cannot miss. Finally, he seems to slow, which means he has caught me; from this distance his machine guns will easily find their target.

  I stare ahead, past the horizon, my final thoughts on Maida Vale and home. I remember being with Mum in the old sitting room, opposite the fireplace.

  The air raid siren wails. Practised, precise, Mum draws the front drapes while I slam the shutters and bolt the front door. Mum hurries to fill the sink with water.

  Wordlessly, we rush up the stairs, and drag her mattress back down. The distant sound of bombs grows as we position the mattress in the centre of the room.

  ‘Is it close?’ I ask. ‘I don’t want to go outside – the Anderson shelter is so cold and there’s no loo.’

  ‘We’ll get all the blankets if we have to go out. Here.’ She hands me ear plugs. ‘Cotton wool is more comfortable.’

  ‘They are coming, aren’t they? The Germans.’

  ‘Don’t let your imagination get away from you, dear.’

  ‘I’m not brave like you.’

  Mum reaches out, fixes my hair with an easy gesture. ‘No one is brave, Anna, not truly. We only do what we have to do. It’s all we can do.’

  From nowhere Joy reappears behind the 109s. Is she hoping to scare him off? Joy, get out of there – are you mad? Another one will be hunting her.

  An explosion of fire. I scream again, wordlessly, pointlessly. Joy!

 
But it is the 109 on my tail that is plummeting to the earth.

  She shot him down! Joy shot down a Messerschmitt. I am cheering, tears running down my face in shock, in relief, my hands shaking on the stick. Then I see it. She is off, but instantly another 109 is on her tail. She rolls, tightly, a true air circus pilot, but he is glued to her tail.

  Up in the distance, she fights to break free, ducking, dodging, until clouds erupt from her wing.

  He got her. This time it is Joy.

  She is reeling out. Joy is on fire; she is going down. Again I am screaming, screaming for help, but no voice responds. There is no one listening. There is no one. The 109 circles back into the clouds. Joy’s Spit drops, the black smoke mixing with the grey cloud. She vanishes into the storm below.

  Joy.

  She is gone. I speed over, engine at full blast. Live, my mind shouts the word. Live. Did she get her chute up? I pull the nose up into a slow arc. My lips are cracked behind the mask, my tongue dry – my whole body burns with fear and anger. I have to go back, turn around.

  Back into the storm? Madness. The 109s will hunt me down in seconds.

  Canada shoots past and I know that I should, too. I should follow her, get back to base, report the crash so Gower can send someone.

  I can’t turn back.

  Joy came back to save me. I can’t abandon her. Canada is long gone ahead of me. I should follow. I should open the throttle, get away from the storm before it traps me again. The 109s are in there.

  Opening the throttle, I fly on. What if Joy is hurt? What if she is dead? This is not the time for frantic thoughts. I can’t go back. And I promised Gower – I swore to do my duty. Bring back the Spit. I said that I would, that I was ready for this.

  For a moment my mind whirls. Can I radio Nell at the WAAF? She’s a controller; she can tell me where the aircraft is. I stare at the controls in front of me, certain there’s a radio in here somewhere. Only I don’t have the first idea how to use it.

  What can I do?

  No one is brave, Anna, not truly. We only do what we have to do.

  I’m going back for Joy.

  Break port, that’s what it’s called. I pull the aircraft into a tight turn on the port side and the world disappears. Through the windscreen there is only grey. Even as I drop, the blanket of cloud thickens, turns black. My blood is racing from the quick turn, the steep fall. I can’t breathe. The oxygen. The mask has pulled away from my face. I struggle, tighten the mask, swiftly adjust the goggles.