Roger ventured a friendly smile as he put his movement order and other documents on the flight sergeant’s desk.
“Good afternoon, Chiefy. Here I am, back already.”
Public schoolboys in sergeants’ uniform! Why didn’t Air Ministry put them in the officers’ mess, where they belonged?
The flight sergeant did not return Roger’s smile. He had never smiled at another man in all his born days.
His voice was as cold as the look with which he had watched Roger approach.
“Hello, Sergeant Hallowes. We’ve been expecting you. You’d better get along to the squadron straight away.”
“Right. See you in the mess later, then.”
The flight sergeant nodded. On Saturday nights it was his practice to drive his wife into Lincoln in his cherished 1930 solid-tyred Trojan, to have a couple of drinks with other mess members and wives. He couldn’t do that tonight, because they were confined to camp; so they were having a few friends round to their married quarter to sup a little ale — sweet sherry for the ladies — and play cards or dominoes. But that didn’t concern Sergeant Hallowes.
Roger reported to his squadron adjutant, who took him in to the squadron commander, Wing Commander Dean. Dean reminded Roger of a whippet. He was lithe and fairly tall, with a narrow skull and a hard, bony look as though he had been sweated or dieted down to an assembly of sinew and stringy muscles. He had big hands with prominent knuckles and was just old enough to have flown bombers in the last six months of the Great War.
“Glad to have you on the squadron, Sergeant Hallowes.” It sounded like a sincere avowal.
“Thank you, sir. I’m lucky to get this posting.”
“I’m putting you on B Flight. Have you done much flying since you were with us?”
“Just over twenty hours, sir.”
“On Harts, I suppose?”
“Afraid so, sir.”
“Never mind, you can get some twin hours in now.” Squadron Leader Eastman, who commanded B Flight, gave Roger the same friendly greeting. He had on first acquaintance struck Roger as more than a little suspicious of the adequacy of the training he had received in the Volunteer Reserve. After a week, during his June attachment, however, Eastman had evidently been reassured. Roger was glad of this because the flight commander had very piercing bright blue eyes, which, with his bushy, straw-coloured moustache, made him sometimes appear alarming when he cast a long, shrewd look at anybody.
“You’re lucky, Hallowes. You’ve arrived in time to fill a vacancy. I’m crewing you up with Flying Officer Pike. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger quickly scanned his memory. Pike: short service type, exuberant, ginger hair and very forthright.
“His second pilot pranged his motor bike on Thursday, rushing back from leave, and broke an arm and an ankle.”
“Sorry about that, sir.”
“You’ll find F.O. Pike in the crew room.”
When Roger entered the crew room he felt hesitant. He did not know how well he was remembered or whether Pike would resent having a V.R. thrust on him as second pilot. The Blenheim carried a crew of three: pilot, second pilot and wireless operator-air gunner. The second pilot’s principal duty was to navigate. He seldom had the chance to fly except on air tests. With his good head for figures — like his cousin James — and the training the bank had given him in meticulous accuracy, he was a good navigator: but he had not had the benefit of the long navigation course on which some of the regular pilots were sent. During his previous two weeks with the squadron he had never flown with Pike and they scarcely knew each other.
Roger stood uncertainly by the door and looked around. The windows were open but there was more tobacco smoke in the room than he had ever known. There was also a lot more noise.
Everyone had turned to look when the door opened and the chatter had abated. Of a sudden, Roger felt as shy and nervous as on the first day of his visit last June. He searched for anyone with whom he had established some sort of friendship last time. There were two sergeant pilots with whom he had spent quite a lot of off-duty time. He looked with some desperation for either of them.
An arm waved from a corner, attracting his attention.
“Over here, Sergeant Hallowes. You lucky chap. You’re joining the best crew on the station.”
Pike was grinning at him.
Someone called “You poor sod, Hallowes; he’ll kill you. He’s a terrible pilot.”
“Go away before it’s too late,” somebody else suggested.
“His last second dicky pranged his motor bike rather than go on flying with him,” a third detractor claimed.
“Ignore them,” Pike said loudly, rising from his chair, “they’re jealous.”
Roger crossed the room to shake hands. Pike had a good, firm, dry grip. He was a trifle shorter than Roger and even more sturdily built, with beefy hands, and ears which showed every sign of battering in rugger scrums and boxing rings. Roger recalled hearing that he was a hooker of considerable repute.
Pike made for the door. “I’ve been waiting for you to turn up. Come on. We’ve got an air test.”
An aircraftman rose from a chair by the door and followed them out. On his sleeves he wore an air gunner’s brass winged bullet and the embroidered hand clutching three symbolic lightning flashes which showed he was a wireless operator.
“This is Devonshire, known as ‘Creamy’, my jeep.”
Devonshire nodded cheerfully. Despite his name he sounded as though he had never been far from London.
“‘Ullo Sarge. I remember you was here in the summer.”
“That’s right.” Roger offered his hand. Devonshire looked at it with momentary surprise, then shook it vigorously, grinning with pleasure. His face was thin and sallow, his hair black and his eyes the darkest brown; his teeth were not very good, his snub nose added to his urchin look. But his hair was tidy, his uniform well pressed and he had a neat, jaunty air which reassured Roger with its suggestion of efficiency.
Pike walked across the tarmac towards a Blenheim which had, after the two squadron identification letters, a large white Q on the fuselage.
“There was slight mag. drop on the port engine and low oil pressure on the starboard when I air tested her this morning.”
There must have been ample time to do another test, Roger was thinking. Ginger Pike was no fool. He had delayed it until his new second pilot could go up with him: he obviously intended to waste no time in putting his capabilities on trial.
A flight sergeant came out of the squadron hangar accompanied by a fitter and a rigger.
Pike said “I’m doing the air test now, Flight. This is my new second dicky, Sergeant Hallowes.”
“I know Sergeant Hallowes, sir. How are you, Roger? You’ve come back to the best squadron in Bomber Command, I see.”
“Hello, Reg. Yes, lucky posting for me.”
Roger followed his captain through the hatch and into the cockpit, with tension mounting so that he clenched his fists to make sure that his hands would not tremble. He had not expected to fly that day, let alone be rushed like this. Pike’s easy-going manner did not deceive him. He knew that he dared not make a fool of himself: a posting away from the squadron could be arranged as swiftly as his posting to it. If he let himself down now he would find himself either sent to a single-engine squadron or to a flying school for further training on twins. Either would humiliate him.
“Let’s see if you remember the taps,” Pike said, starting his pre-take-off drill. Roger followed him through, relieved to find that his memory had retained everything.
He was proud of being allowed to fly Blenheims. They were the R.A.F’s fastest bomber and when they came into service in 1937 they outpaced the biplane fighters of the era. Recently an improved variant, the Mk. IV, had been supplied to squadrons. Its two 920 h.p. Bristol Mercury engines gave it a top speed of 266 m.p.h. and with a maximum bomb load of 1320 lb. it had a range of 1460 miles. For defence
it was equipped with a .303 Browning machine-gun in the wing, fired by the pilot, two more in a rotating dorsal turret and another pair, firing astern, in a blister under the nose.
With no bombs in the bay or under the wings, and half-filled tanks, Q for Queen took to the air after a short run down the long concrete runway. Pike climbed to 3000 ft. and began an orbit a couple of miles outside the airfield boundary. When he had satisfied himself that the aeroplane was fully serviceable he turned for home.
“I’ll put her down and you can take her up again.”
Roger had relaxed but his tension and anxiety returned. He was tired after his long drive and would far rather have postponed this test of his skill until the next day. Pike greased the machine down onto the runway, stopped, and changed places with him.
They took off again, Roger brought the wheels up smartly and began his climb.
Pike said “Take her up to five thousand and do a few steep turns.”
Later he said, suddenly, “Stall her.”
Brave chap! thought Roger. He pulled the stick and throttles back. Queenie hung for a split second with her nose sharply tilted up, then slumped unpleasantly down. He moved stick and throttles forward and she came under control again at once.
“Spin her.”
Roger spun her.
“Good show. Let’s go back.”
Roger’s confidence had completely returned but he remained taut until he had touched the wheels down feather-light and taxied back to the tarmac.
“I hope your navigation’s as good.” Pike smiled and gave him a matey pat on the shoulder. Roger, telling himself this was ridiculous at twenty-one, felt as delighted as he had been when his school rugger captain had awarded him his Second XV colours.
* * *
Roger heard the Prime Minister’s lugubrious announcement of war in the crew room. The dead silence was broken by some ironical cheers and derisive comments about politicians who couldn’t make up their minds. Then everyone resumed reading the Sunday papers but with an air of expectancy that they would be interrupted by orders to take off at once and bomb Germany.
Like James Fenton, Roger spent the rest of the day lying on the grass at the edge of the airfield, with his flying helmet, overalls and parachute handy, wondering how long it would take the new war to get going. The N.A.A.F.I. van drove round selling cups of tea, rock cakes and buns. A portable wireless set played the sort of music that the B.B.C. deemed fitting for the sabbath. Nobody tuned it to the jollier tunes of Radio Luxembourg or Radio Normandie for fear of missing a news bulletin. Wing Commander Dean’s bull terrier practised a few intimacies with Squadron Leader Eastman’s black labrador. As both were males, these were inconclusive for them both. Ginger Pike’s bulldog, Jorkins, stretched his legs fore and aft in the peculiar bulldog manner, breathed stertorously and ignored all the other squadron dogs. From time to time L.A.C. Devonshire would try to tempt Jorkins into activity by saying “Cats” or rolling a sorbo ball along the grass near him; but Jorkins was not disposed to disport himself this afternoon. He stayed close to Pike.
Someone laughed and said “Old Jorkins knows your days are numbered, Ginger. He’s making the most of you while he can. God knows why.”
Pike smoothed a hand like a dinner-plate along his dog’s massive head.
“Jorkins knows there’s a war on, all right. He wants to come on ops. That’s why he’s hanging around.”
“Balls. He sees The Grim Reaper hovering behind you, Ginger.”
Everyone laughed in the usual R.A.F. appreciation of grisly jokes. Pike was unperturbed.
“You’d all like me out of the way so you wouldn’t have such a high standard to emulate, you idle bastards.”
This provoked a concerted groan.
And that was the first day of the Second World War as far as Pilot Sergeant Roger Hallowes was concerned. It was about as exciting as a day at the bank, he told himself when he returned to the sergeants’ mess at six-o’clock. He wondered if James had been scrambled.
* * *
At mid-morning on Monday, shortly after the N.A.A.F.I. van had been round and Roger had drunk a cup of coffee which left an unpalatable, bitter flavour in his mouth, the telephone in the crew room rang. There was an immediate uneasy stillness as Pike, who was the nearest, answered it. He began to scribble on a page of the notebook which lay beside the instrument. When he put the telephone down and turned, Roger noticed that his freckles were more prominent than he had ever seen them; and he realised this was because Pike had turned slightly pale. But his colour quickly returned.
“Three of us are wanted in the flight commander’s office: Tyson, Brown and myself.”
He hurried out, followed by Flying Officer Tyson and Sergeant Brown. Their second pilots and air gunners eyed one another. Roger felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. Devonshire grinned and winked at him. He contrived a smirk in response.
A moment later the telephone rang again and three aircraft captains were summoned by the A Flight commander.
The silence continued. Cigarettes and pipes were lit. Newspapers were rustled. One or two people shuffled to the door and stood outside looking towards the flight offices.
Roger wondered why, when he had been keyed up for action, he had felt such a sudden qualm. Where was all the high purpose of two days ago, all the elation as he drove here so keenly?
The three B Flight pilots came back. Pike paused in the doorway and beckoned to his crew. They jumped up and hurried to him. He took them outside, Jorkins waddling in front of them.
“The squadron’s putting up nine aircraft for a raid this afternoon. The C.O’s leading. There’ll be four from each flight: Squadron Leader Eastman, F.O. Tyson, Sergeant Brown and us from B.
“Where are we going, sir?” Roger asked.
“Shipping off the German coast. Let’s go and see what they’re doing to Queenie.”
They were bombing her up. Trains of bomb trolleys were being towed by tractors towards the nine designated aircraft. They were fuelling her as well, and bowsers were being driven across the tarmac apron. The bombs looked ugly and menacing and Roger had the suspicion that one of them might detonate at any moment and blow them all sky high. Such accidents did happen. The air was thick with the fumes of aviation fuel and a miasma of hundred-octane petrol shimmered over the tank inlets and hose nozzles.
Pike said “Another twenty-nine Blenheims and Wimpeys are attacking before us. And six Hampdens are going out later. There’s a briefing in the Ops. Room after lunch.”
When he heard the word “briefing” Roger felt that they were irrevocably committed. It sounded so serious and purposeful, such a solemn ritual. He felt slightly sick.
Devonshire said “I’m going to ‘aye another look at me guns.” He trotted off to go aboard the Blenheim.
Pike watched him and spoke without looking at Roger.
“Conscientious little beggar. He loves those guns. Best jeep on the squadron, too: spends hours on the set, keeping it on the top line. Doesn’t leave it all to the wireless mechanics.”
Roger wondered how Pike was really feeling under his cool professional manner. He looked for signs of tension but could see none. Was there really no more to going into action than this? This matter-of-fact composure, as though bombing up and being briefed, loading the guns, taking on as much petrol as the tanks would hold, portended nothing more than a routine training exercise? He doubted it. He was sure that Pike was experiencing the same stomach cramps and doubts as himself. He wished, though, that he could perceive some flicker of apprehension in his eyes or some faltering in his tone.
After lunch the nine crews who were on the operation went to the Operations Room. This was in the basement of the H.Q. block and its steel door was guarded by a Service policeman who would admit nobody, not even the group captain commanding the station, unless he produced his identity card. Roger filed in behind Pike and had his first glimpse of the big room with its wall maps and aircraft state boards, weather information board
and movements board.
The Women’s Auxiliary Air Force had been formed at the end of June, and several of the Ops. Room staff were airwomen. W.A.A.F. were still a rarity. Roger had seen a woman flight sergeant and a sergeant in the mess; both plain, hearty and thirtyish. He was pleased to see two pretty young girls at work over a pile of maps and charts at a table in a corner.
The crews assembled around a large centre table at which the station commander, Group Captain Brand, was standing. Brand wore the ribbons of the O.B.E. and Military Cross and two Great War medals under his pilot’s brevet, as well as two medals for peacetime service overseas. His large, balding head was bent over some papers. His florid face and pouched eyes, when he looked up, had a somewhat hangdog air but his voice was brisk and firm.
“Your target is enemy naval shipping in Schillig Roads.” Roger had never heard of Schillig Roads and he wondered how many of those present knew where it was. The group captain reached out and plonked a fat finger down on the appropriate spot: to the east of the East Frisian Islands, unpleasantly close to the mouth of the Elbe and the German coast. “There are two pocket battleships in the roads, Von Scheer and Ritter, as well as a cruiser and at least three destroyers. The battleships are your main target. You are to take notice that on no account must you hit any civilian property: no dockyard installations, and certainly not any private houses. I have to warn you that this is a Government order and the consequences for anyone who fails to observe it will be dire. I repeat: ships only. No bombs are to fall on shore.” He glared around. The aircraft captains nodded attentively.
“The weather in the target area is poor. From reconnaissance flights this morning we know that the enemy is flying barrage balloons. You won’t see them, because they will be in cloud. So you will have to go in low. When you get there, don’t hang around. If you can’t deliver an attack on any legitimate target, come straight back.”
The group captain turned to Wing Commander Dean, who stood beside him, and said quietly “Carry on.”
Dean scanned the faces of his crews for a moment, frowning. His gaunt cheeks looked hollow in the strong lighting. He reminded Roger of a greyhound waiting to leap from its trap in pursuit of an electric hare. Roger had never been to a greyhound track, but that was how he imagined it was.
Trial By Fire Page 4
