Trial By Fire

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  She didn’t seem to mind leading him up the garden; prick-teasing. He felt miserable and cross. His annoyance lasted only a few seconds while he stayed silent. His gloom persisted. But what right had he really to expect more? He had never told her he loved her. They had never exchanged endearments, except that each had now and again said to the other “You’re sweet.”

  “But you’re my guest. I asked you to come. Let’s both go to a hotel.”

  He turned to look at her and found that she was looking at him, her expression apologetic.

  “But that wouldn’t be fair. There’s no reason why you should pay my hotel bill. Anyway, it was I who suggested this; months ago.”

  Too bloody true. And he had expected a lot more of it for that very reason.

  “Bayswater! It’s miles from where I’ll be staying.”

  She laughed and patted him on the thigh. “They haven’t taken all the buses and taxis off the streets or stopped the Tube.”

  There was no more to be said. On the way to her hostel on their first evening, after going to the theatre, dining and dancing, she clung to him in the taxi and kissed him in a way that made his head spin.

  “I’m sorry, Roger dear...to disappoint you...I’m sorry you thought...”

  “It’s all right.”

  When he got to his hotel he was about to go in when a girl on the pavement cooed. “‘Ullo, Wings,” She was very pretty.

  He stopped.

  “Looking for a naughty girl?”

  He mumbled “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll give you a nice time...it’s just round the corner...you can spend ten bob, can’t you, Wings?” She scratched a finger nail on his D.F.M. ribbon. “Wotcher get that for, brave boy?”

  He turned abruptly and strode off, around Piccadilly Circus and along the north side of Piccadilly. He was as taut as though he were under fighter attack or being shot at by flak. Turned right up Sackville Street, left into Burlington Gardens.

  A tall, full-bosomed girl with slim legs, in high-heeled shoes, a silver fox fur around her shoulders, a pert little hat tilted over her pretty face, took shape in the moonlit blackout.

  “‘Ello, cheri. You come wiz me?”

  “How much?” Why was his voice shaking, his whole body trembling?

  “One pound.” She smiled into his face. “All right?” Her hand was already tucked under his arm.

  She led him at a fast clip to a flat in Cork Street. Fifteen minutes later, disappointed by the cursoriness and speed of the event — it had not been much like those he’d shared with the lady pilot or the holidaying redhead — he turned right out of Cork St. instead of left, then left at Bond St. towards Piccadilly.

  A girl stepped out of a doorway. She had very short skirts, moonlight touched her platinum blonde hair, she was as dainty as Daphne and had a charming smile.

  “You’re in a hurry, darling.” She stood in his path. Well, why the hell not ? See if it’s any better this time. “Hello.”

  “Coming home with me?”

  “A quid?”

  “All right. It’s here.” She stepped back into the doorway and inserted a key in the lock.

  A quarter on an hour later they were both on the pavement again. He was accosted several times as he strolled along Piccadilly, but did not stop.

  He was feeling no disgust: rather, a banker’s indignation at not having got the value he had expected for his money. He did not feel triumphant, either, but did feel that he had...he thought on it...what? Got his own back? Yes, there was something of that about it. But it was his fault for having taken too much for granted. He knew perfectly well that well-brought-up middle-class girls didn’t do it: or, to be more realistic still, about ninety per cent of them didn’t. Not when they were as young as Daphne, certainly. There was a consolatory feeling of physical relief also. He had been bottled-up, tense, his nerves jumping. He felt soothed now and knew he’d sleep well and late.

  The next day with Daphne was undiluted pleasure. When he took her back to her Bayswater dormitory he felt so much tenderness and admiration for her that he said “I’m so fond of you, Daphne...really fond.”

  She snuggled her cheek against his, in the old taxi that smelled of well-worn leather seats and stale tobacco.

  “I’m glad, Roger dear, because I’m very fond of you.” When he kissed her she opened her mouth and made timid exploratory probings with the tip of her tongue and he wondered which of the experienced W.A.A.F. back at camp she had been talking to, who must have put her up to it. He found her venturesomeness immensely endearing. He did not respond in kind, but relished what she was doing; and only wished that either of those girls had been as forthcoming last night in return for his quid...his two quid, dammit.

  He still had mixed feelings about those forty-eight hours: although they had spent no more than twenty-eight of them actually together. All along he had owned to considerable reluctance to deprive her — or any girl — of her virginity. His conscience told him it would be starting her on a path that no decent girl ought to follow. It imposed a heavy responsibility; and guilt. To that extent he was relieved that she had made it impossible for him to take her to bed. On the other hand, he had passed his twenty-second birthday, he held her in genuine affection and high regard, and the experiences he had had in the past few months had matured him more than as many years would have in civilian life. A man needed a woman and he wasn’t interested in anyone but Daphne. So they ought to have a full physical relationship. But...he could be killed any day, and it wouldn’t be fair to go, say, as far as an engagement, and then to bed, and leave virtually an unchurched widow; in a way. For there was no question of marriage yet. If he lived through the war, he would have to go back to the bank one day: and he was a long way off earning a salary on which he could decently support a wife.

  After his telephone conversation with James he contemplated taking Daphne with him when he met his cousins in London. James always had lots of girls, and he was pretty sure he poked most of them. Christopher was a handsome young rascal and had given him a hilarious account of his first bang in some knocking shop at Cherbourg. No doubt by now he had had several more. Both the Fenton brothers would surely be able to produce beddable wenches, and that might make Daphne feel that she ought to extend the privilege to him.

  From the telephone he went to join a group of friends in the ante-room and with each succeeding pint of beer the scheme appealed to him more.

  * * *

  Christopher celebrated his brother’s D.F.C. by taking his crew to the best of the local pubs and paying for every alternate round of beer: which meant that they consumed eight pints in two hours. He and Brinsden then had a couple more in the mess. There had never been any rivalry between James and him. They had their different accomplishments and took pleasure in each other’s successes. Of the two, he was academically the more gifted but James could run rings round him at maths. He was an outstanding racquets, fives, squash and tennis player. James excelled at rowing and rugger and at sprinting. Each fancied himself the better helmsman when it came to racing a dinghy. Living by the sea, they were both strong swimmers. They shared a love of literature, but neither could claim to be better read than the other. James’s decoration delighted him and stirred him to emulation.

  He had been diligent in all his flying at the O.T.U. It was not his nature to sulk because he had been denied his request to be posted to a fighter squadron. On the contrary, he was spurred on by a spirit of “I’ll show the so-and-sos.” Added to that was the satisfaction he found in the close comradeship and working relationship within his crew. Suddenly he had a new interest: to make the crew the best on the course, not merely himself the best pilot. The wish to fly the beautiful and sensitive Spitfire lingered, as did the wish to taste the excitement of hurtling into battle at over three hundred miles an hour sending German bombers down in flames. The most he could hope for was to see his torpedo sink a ship and his air gunner shoot down an enemy fighter. He had almost reconciled himself to i
t, because at the back of his mind was the fanciful notion that if he did very well on Beauforts, he might get himself onto fighters eventually. Because his brother was a fighter pilot and he had made up his mind to be one too, the belief persisted that a fighter pilot was intrinsically a better flyer than any other sort of pilot. If he demonstrated that he was superb at flying Beauforts, surely the R.A.F. would see that he deserved to be given Spitfires! It was an illusion he could cherish because he was so ignorant of the way the Service functioned.

  James’s visit had unsettled him somewhat. He had thought more about the attractive W.A.A.F. parachute-packet as a means of consolation. But for two nights following James’s visit his crew had been night flying. Then had come the news of James’s D.F.C.; which had to be celebrated. So another evening passed before he could take her out.

  He had already provided himself with one small consolation. His father had bought some War Loan certificates during the Great War, and when his sons were born had set aside £50 worth for each of them.

  When James had joined the R.A.F. and his commission was confirmed after his elementary flying training, during which pupil short-service pilots remained civilians, he had given him his £50 in certificates, which had by then earned some interest. Hence James was able to buy a car. When Christopher, in his turn, was commissioned at the end of his advanced flying training, Stephen Fenton had given him a similar present.

  With the war, second hand car prices had fallen drastically. Despite petrol rationing, there were still a lot of cars on the road, but very few people buying them. Servicemen were well placed for obtaining petrol coupons. Christopher, at home on commissioning leave, scoured the local dealers for the best bargain. He acquired, for £20, a Talbot 15 coupe which had two enormous headlamps (now heavily masked) and enough room in the back seat for the nefarious purposes which Christopher had in mind. Its bodywork was pale blue, which he said was most appropriate, and the mudguards black: which he said was a seemly gesture of mourning for the lost virginities of the girls he intended to seduce in it.

  The O.T.U. was near a dour little market town which had few attractions but did at least boast two good inns accustomed to catering for the critical farmers and cattle dealers who lunched there on market day. It was to one of these that Christopher took Corporal Morag MacWhirter.

  She had asked him to pick her up at the main gate: ostensibly for convenience, but, he guessed, so that the greatest number of people could see her not only being squired by an officer but also driven off in some style.

  She drank neat scotch — stipulating straight malt and naming her preferred brand — and surprised him by asking for wine at dinner; burgundy, she thought, rather than claret. After the meal she downed another malt whisky.

  Morag had a direct manner which he found both disconcerting and entertaining.

  “How old are you, Christopher?”

  “I’ll be nineteen next month.” He could have been specific and said “next week”.

  “English public school boys are very self-assured. You could pass for more. I’m twenty-two.”

  He gave her a smile which usually worked wonders with girls at home.

  “The men in your part of Scotland must be blind.”

  She was quick enough in the uptake. “I could have been married a dozen times over, but the right man hasn’t come along yet.”

  “Small population, the Highlands.”

  “Och, I meet plenty; of all sorts. My people own a small hotel and we have visitors from all over the world. I spent a year in France, learning about food and wine.” Her eyes twinkled.

  And learning about what else? he wondered.

  “What on earth are you doing packing parachutes? You should be a Catering officer.”

  “Aye, and miss the chance of a new experience. I’m doing gey interesting work. Maybe I’ll apply for a commission in some other branch in a few months. Anyway, it gave me an excuse to get away from home again. If I’d said I was going into the Catering branch, my parents would have told me I might as well stay on at the hotel.”

  She asked him about his life before the war, and he hedged: talking about a time when he was still a schoolboy would not advance his designs on her, he felt. But he told her about his home and sailing and frequent visits to the French coast. She knew about James’s D.F.C., which surprised him.

  “Och, the whole station knows: your two sergeants have- been full of it. I saw your brother’s performance: I’d never seen anything like it before.” Her eyes were on him — her look was as straightforward as her manner — and he saw her expression become concerned. “Have I said the wrong thing?”

  “No, no, it’s all right. James isn’t bad, is he?”

  “You’d like to be doing the same thing. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m quite happy flying Beauforts. Besides, if I hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have met you.”

  She smiled. “That implies you’d have missed something.”

  “I hope I would have.”

  Her smile this time was enigmatic.

  “If you’d like to go to the flicks, we’ll be in time for the main picture.”

  “Aye. I like yon Clark Gable fine. “

  In the cinema they held hands among several entwined couples. Out of respect for his uniform, Christopher resisted an urge to put an arm around her shoulders. In the row in front of him two fellow pupils, both commissioned, were devouring their W.A.A.F. companions.

  On the way back to camp she pointed to a cart track.

  “Why don’t you pull in there for a wee while?”

  He stopped the car between tail hedges and had barely switched off the engine and lights when her arms were around him. Presently she jerked away, breathing unevenly in tense little gasps.

  “Let’s get in the back, Christopher. You needn’t worry about precautions...I thought I’d take you by surprise...so I came prepared.”

  The tears he felt on her cheeks against his as they lay together afterwards took him no less by surprise.

  “When can we do this properly, Christopher...in a bed?”

  “As soon as you can get a sleeping-out pass.”

  EIGHT

  On Wednesday 3rd July, the Germans made their first significant assault in what was to be immortalised as the Battle of Britain.

  James’s squadron had been released at dusk the day before and was not required on readiness until nine o’clock. An hour later, A Flight was scrambled. Cloud base over south-east England and the Channel was at 6000 ft. A raid was approaching the French coast and suspected to be making for a convoy which was near Hythe. The three Spitfires patrolling the convoy were due to land and refuel. The six Hurricanes were to take over.

  They had been in position for less than a minute when the Stukas appeared. James had seen the Ju 87 dive bomber in action now and again in France but had always been too occupied with Heinkels, Dorniers or Messerschmitts to have time to challenge one. This morning he counted eighteen Stukas. There were twenty-four merchant ships in the convoy, escorted by two destroyers and a corvette.

  The conditions were almost perfect for the Ju 87s. Although they had a maximum speed of 242 m.p.h., they cruised at only 160 m.p.h. with a full bomb load of 1542 lb. They liked to approach a target at between four arid five thousand feet, dive almost vertically at it — at an angle of between seventy and eighty degrees — and release their bombs at 2300 ft. An automatic mechanism immediately put them into a steep climb. With cloud as low as 6000 ft. they could disappear into its cover within a few seconds.

  They were difficult to shoot down while diving, because fast-accelerating Hurricanes and Spitfires overshot them easily. They were highly vulnerable when climbing out of a dive: which made a Roman holiday for the fighter pilots but was poor fun for the people on whom they dropped their bombs.

  They were single-engined, and for defence carried two 7.9 mm machine-guns in the wings, which the pilot fired, and a third at the back of the long cockpit, for the air gunner.

&n
bsp; James had had nearly three weeks’ respite from aerial combat. Since returning to England he had been flying patrols on which he had not even sighted the enemy. Now it was as though he had never had a break. This was simply an extension of those five hectic weeks in France; except that he felt rested and fresh.

  Walter Addison said “Tallyho” and the Hurricanes swept into the attack. James dived towards a Stuka from its beam and fired a short burst as it flashed through his reflector sight. Missed. He got his sights on another, but flew past it before he could fire. He turned tightly, greying out. When clear vision returned he saw two ships burning, one on its side with steam and smoke gushing out of it, another with its bows submerged, wreathed in smoke.

  He fired at a Stuka that was climbing for cloud cover. The new De Wilde incendiary bullets with which fighter squadrons had just been issued made bright spurts of yellow as they struck. The Stuka’s engine stopped, it stalled and started to spin into the sea. He looked for another. He found one as it rose from its dive, gave it a good burst and saw it catch fire. He shot at two more before his ammunition ran out but missed one and scored only a few shots on the wing of the other.

  The Ju 87s, those which had survived, had gone as suddenly as they came. Five ships were burning, one lay with her bottom and keel uppermost, another two had sunk. Oil, flotsam, lifeboats, life rafts and men in life jackets floated in the wake of the merchant ships. One of them and a destroyer steamed round slowly, picking up seamen.

  The scattered Hurricanes reformed. One had hurried back to base with a faltering engine.

  The Stukas attacked convoys again on each of the next six days. The squadron was on readiness or stand-by every morning at first light. Readiness meant that they had to be airborne within five minutes of being ordered to scramble. In practice, most squadrons cut it down to between two and four minutes, depending on how many aircraft were ordered off, how far the pilots had to run to reach them, how cold their engines were. Pilots on stand-by had to sit in their cockpits with engines warmed, ready to leave the ground within two minutes. Again, depending on the relevant factors, this time was generally reduced.