War Wounds

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “Why, Father? What would you have done?”

  “I’d have taken a shotgun and perhaps one of them would have drawn his pistol and tried to get away. I’d have bagged the lot: shot while attempting to escape. Quite legitimate. Legitimate extermination of vermin.”

  “You don’t mean that, Father,” Harry said quietly.

  “I mean every word of it. I lie awake at night wishing a German aircraft would be shot down and the crew would bale out right overhead here; by night or day.”

  “That’s a pretty unhealthy symptom, Father. I can understand your feelings, of course. I share them, to a great extent. But there’s a difference between hatred and morbid preoccupation.”

  Templer rounded on him, his eyes alight with anger.

  “Don’t dare speak to me like that, Harry. How dare you! Morbid? Preoccupation? My God, boy, you should have seen that house in St. John’s Wood ... obliterated ... dust and rubble ...”

  Templer’s voice broke, tears came into his eyes, he gulped. He turned away and strode to his armchair.

  The moment was saved by Mrs Meyer’s appearance bearing a teapot on a silver tray.

  When they were alone, Templer said, sane and composed again, “What can you tell me about your escape?”

  “Everything, Father: seeing that you are my father and you are a retired Regular senior officer. Despite the total security clamp the Intelligence types warned me about.”

  “God took your mother, but he restored you to me. I’m grateful for that.”

  “The first thing I want to tell you, Father, is that I could never have escaped but for the help of two of the finest people I have ever met. And perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it was God, or Providence that led me straight to them when I baled out. A Nazi-hating doctor and his wife ...”

  “You baled out over Belgium, then? Or France? Holland?”

  “Germany; between Aachen and Cologne.”

  “These people whom you say were sent by Providence were Germans?”

  Templer sounded as incredulous as though Harry had claimed to have been helped by naked Hottentots in the middle of Europe.

  “Yes, Father: Germans who are working actively against the Nazis as hard as any of us, and ...”

  “Germans! You can keep that part of your story to yourself. I don’t wish to hear about it. I want to hear how you got away, but kindly spare me any mention of ‘good’ Germans. What we used to say in the last war is still true; the only good Hun is a dead one.”

  “I hardly think these two people qualify as ‘Huns’, Father.” Harry was quietly firm.

  “I hate to remind you of this, my boy, so soon after you have come home: but kindly remember you are under my roof ... your mother’s and my roof ... so kindly respect my wishes.”

  “Very well, Father. I was sheltered ... hidden ... provided with false identity papers and civilian clothes, and taken to the Belgian frontier ...” Harry told his story, omitting the part that was to him the most significant, feeling ungrateful and even disloyal for doing so.

  *

  Elizabeth — Harry held her image in his mind’s eye while they talked: tall, slim, fair, their father’s genes strongly evident; capable, brisk, born to minister to others; and pretty with it all — said “Harry, darling! Are you absolutely all right? We’ve been harrowed by notions of you wounded and ill-cared-for.”

  “I’m fine. Father isn’t. Far from it.”

  “Don’t I know it. I gather he practically threw poor Dr Bradley down the steps.”

  “He needs sedation, I’d say. Can’t you send me something to slip into his tea? Or his whisky, which is what he mostly drinks these days.”

  “Good wheeze, but unethical, I’m afraid. You’ll have me struck off the Register while the ink’s scarcely dry.”

  “I forgot to congratulate you. A lot’s happened while I was away: you a qualified sawbones, Margaret a Waaf.”

  “We felt it was an age; it must have been even worse for you.”

  “Father is the one with the most, and worst, scars to show.”

  “You’re so right. And they’re all the worse for the fact that he seemed to have come to terms with being prematurely retired. He was becoming involved in all sorts of war work. Of course, Mother deserved all the credit for that. The trauma ... the shock of losing her came at the worst possible moment.” She hastened on: “I don’t mean that it could ever have been anything but an appalling tragedy; for us all: I was speaking medically.”

  “I know,” Harry said soothingly. “Don’t fret yourself. But do you know the extent to which his phobia about Germans has taken hold of him since it happened?”

  “He was almost raving about it immediately after Mother was killed. I had hoped it would wear off. Not that he’s ever been rational, normal on that topic.”

  “I think he’s seriously round the bend.”

  Elizabeth sounded worried. “Oh, dear. I’d better try to get down for a couple of days and try to assess the damage: and have a word with Dr Bailey. If he needs psychiatric treatment, we can make sure he has it, without his knowing and making a fearful fuss.”

  “How could you do that?”

  He heard her chuckle, and was glad; it was the first laughter of any kind he had heard since he arrived home.

  “I’ve got a friend on the staff here, who’s a very clever psychiatrist; young, and very nice-looking: he’d disarm Father. I could introduce him as a friend, and Father would think he’s too young to be a trick-cyclist or any other sort of menace to him.”

  “Is he a menace to Father’s elder daughter? To Dr Elizabeth Templer, who is now on easy professional terms with old Bradley, who brought the three of us into the world?”

  She laughed again; suggestively, he thought: and the suspicion came with an astonishing flash of protectiveness.

  “That would be telling!”

  Harry was briefly quiet while notions rampaged through his head. Elizabeth had gone up to Cambridge at seventeen and a half, qualified in Medicine five years later. She was nearly twenty-three. She had been among a minority of women surrounded by men for five years. Doctors and nurses were notoriously casual and matter-of-fact about matters which those outside the medical profession treated with modest reserve. It was not unreasonable to suppose that she had lost her virginity to some handsome Blue or doctor. It made him resentful.

  “Well, you’d better bring this paragon along soon.”

  “Don’t sound so stuffy; and huffy.” She was manifestly amused; and mocking.

  “Sorry. But can you do something?”

  “Of course. How long are you on leave?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “You’ll spend it all at home?”

  “I’d intended to spend a few days in London, but in view of Father’s state of mind, I’d better stay here.”

  “I’ll come down for a day or two in the next three days.”

  “Bringing your trick-cyclist boy friend?”

  “I think it would be a more useful visit than if I came alone.”

  “Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you, anyway: that was the main reason for coming up to London.”

  “I’m longing to see you, Harry dear.”

  Harry called Margaret, who came breathlessly to the telephone.

  “Harry, darling! This is divine, my poppet… wizard ...”

  “For God’s sake drop the Fighter Command act, will you.” He was much amused.

  “I’ll ignore that, you beast. Are you all in one piece, my lamb? Mens sana in corpore sano, and so on?”

  “Not a scratch. And, as far as I know, no ... ah… mental trauma either. And you?”

  “You’ve been talking to Elizabeth,” she accused. “Trauma, indeed. I’m wizard, thanks. Glad to hear you in such good form. When am I going to see you? Are you coming here to take me out? The other girls will be madly impressed if I go out with a handsome flight lieutenant who’s just escaped from ... wherever it was.”

  “I’ll come and see you as
soon as possible. Meanwhile, I’m worried sick about Father. I’m staying here and Elizabeth is coming down; with some trick-cyclist colleague.”

  “Oh, Hector,” Margaret said, taking the colleague’s identity for granted.

  “I don’t know the type’s blasted name.”

  “Don’t sound so cross: and stuffy and huffy. He’s a super type.”

  Harry laughed. “That’s exactly what your sister said: stuffy and huffy ... Hector did you say? Hector? What d’you know about him?”

  “Hector McNeil? Oh, our sister’s been having quite a walk-out with him for ages ... weeks, anyway.” As long as it’s not a lie-in as well, thought Harry ... “I’ve met him: he’s rather wizard; all kilt and fascinating slight Highland accent under the Fettes polish. He was up at Cambridge five years ahead of Elizabeth.”

  “Then why the hell isn’t he in uniform now?”

  “Because he’s studying for some frightfully important trick-cycling degree, and then he’s off into the R.A.F.” Margaret giggled. “When he does join, I should think he could start on you, darling: you sound downright unbalanced to me; about Elizabeth having a steady boy friend, about boy friend dodging the column and deserving a white feather; and probably about me chucking Cambridge halfway, to join the Waaf.”

  “Father told me why you did,” he said seriously. “I love you for it, but I think it was a wild gesture. You’ll find it hard to make up ground when you go up again, after a long time without having to study.”

  She was serious now. “Poor old Father isn’t doing so well, from what I’ve seen and from what Mrs Meyer tells me. I feel guilty now for joining the Waaf: I could have been at home, taking care of him.

  “I’m afraid he needs professional care. Anyway, we’ll see what Elizabeth and ... er ... Hector can do.”

  “He’s a rowing Blue: you’ll like him.”

  “We need brains for this, not brawn.”

  “Hector isn’t short in that department, either.”

  “And what about your romantic life?”

  “Not much going on here: nearly all wingless wonders d’un certain age, or spotty youths. There are one or two old sweeties who were pilots and observers in the last war — some of them rather naughty, but I don’t play — and we do have dances to which pilots come from nearby stations. But it’s all very ephemeral.”

  Ephemeral is the word for us who fly, thought Harry. That is sure.

  “You’re playing the field, are you?”

  “With great circumspection.”

  “Can’t you get some leave?”

  “Darling, now that you’ve come back from the ...” she checked herself. “Dead” was not a word for any of their family to utter lightly. “Now you’re home, I’ll get a compassionate forty-eight.”

  “How soon? D’you think you should arrange it to be here at the same time as Elizabeth?”

  “I’m longing to see you, Harry darling. I’ll call her and see how soon she can get down, and I’ll arrange to be home then. Provided it’s not too long. It’s an age since I saw you.”

  Harry hung up, thinking fondly of his younger sister: effervescent, impulsive, five feet two inches of energy and good humour, an auburn-haired beauty who would make an irresistible advocate; if she ever practised at the bar before some man ensnared her in a marriage that precluded it.

  *

  Dr Hector McNeil was so close to the verbal sketch that Margaret had given, it was almost a caricature. He was of immense size and musculature; if the hidden portions of him matched the legs displayed under his kilt. He was shy, kind and immensely engaging. If he is sleeping with my sister, Harry thought, she couldn’t have picked a better type.

  To Templer, he passed himself off as a potential G.P., and was subjected to some critical looks until he mentioned that he was going to enter the R.A.F. in a month’s time.

  The war was a legitimate topic at any hour of the day and at every meal. There was thus no difficulty in bringing the conversation around to the subject of Germans. All three of Templer’s children and his guest noticed how strained he became at mention of the nationality, how his face contorted, how he frowned and his hands trembled.

  At the end of their forty-eight-hour stay, Dr McNeil, with conviction and a serious mien, talked to Harry and the girls.

  “I’ve talked to Dr Bradley, and this is what we’re going to do. Your father really has no confidence in anything but the R.A.F. as a source of any kind of opinion or advice.

  “Elizabeth is going to persuade him to let himself be checked over at the R.A.F. Medical Centre in London. There’s this astonishing chap Douglas Bader we’ve all read about in the papers, flying Hurricanes with two artificial legs, and shooting down Germans left, right and centre. It may sound cruel, but I’ve casually suggested to your father, in private conversation, that Bader might have set a precedent, and he might get back onto the Active List, despite his age, with only half of one leg gone. He might not be passed fit for flying, but at least he would be back in uniform. And, with his experience, there does seem to be good reason to hope that they will take him back.

  “I say it may be cruel, because if they turn him down, it could be the worst possible thing, create an even worse mental condition. But if it works, and the R.A.F. does have him back, it will be the best possible hope of a cure. If he is turned down, then the R.A.F. doctors will have had a good look at him, assessed his mental condition, and they can persuade or compel him to go into an R.A.F. hospital: for psychiatric treatment, although they won’t tell him it is for that.”

  “Brilliant,” said Harry. “And I’m deeply grateful to you. It’s a marvellous solution.”

  “I’m only astonished he hasn’t thought of it for himself. He’s always talking about Douglas Bader, since his name has been in the papers so much,” Margaret said.

  Elizabeth made a slight grimace. “The poor darling has been too pickled, his brain too addled, lately, for clear thinking.”

  “Let’s try to arrange it at once,” Harry said. “I’ll telephone Air Vice Marshal Bentinck and Air Marshal Sir Alaric Crichton immediately. They can arrange anything. I can take Father to London as soon as they can fix a medical for him.”

  Elizabeth and Margaret had been right. Hector’s brain was as impressive as his brawn. Expansively, Harry added: “Seeing that you’re coming into the Service, Hector, I’ll make sure that Bentinck and Crichton know that this idea originated with you; and ask them to pass it on to the top Medical brass.”

  Hector grinned. “And I’ll take gey good care of you, Harry, if ever you fall into the clutches of my profession; which God forbid.”

  7.

  Despite powerful influence at the highest level, it took several days to arrange a medical examination for Templer. Harry drove Margaret back to Bawdsey and stayed a night in the mess, attended an all-ranks dance, and enjoyed being lionised; and blatantly propositioned, by looks and clinging contact on the dance floor, by three pretty W.A.A.F. He made vague future assignations with all of them; aware that they would shortly be posted to fighter stations and swept off their willing feet by dashing pilots who wore their top tunic buttons undone.

  He took his father to London two days before the date of the medical, and they stayed at the R.A.F. Club in Piccadilly. One evening Elizabeth and Hector accompanied them to a theatre and dinner. Templer went early to bed and the young people to a night club. Harry met a pretty Wren officer among a party of R.A.F. acquaintances there, neatly cut her out from the herd, and spent the night at her hotel: leaving in time to bathe and shave before breakfast at his club.

  The Battle of Britain raged and Harry began to fret at his inactivity; and at the fact that he was not a fighter pilot and thus could only watch the air battles from the ground. He would have traded twenty bomber operations to take part in just one fight in the cockpit of a Hurricane or Spitfire. In the inter-war years, the Air Council’s theory had been that no enemy bombers would penetrate the British coastal defences and standing patrols of
fighters. Bombers were to be the prime instrument of Britain’s air strategy: thus bomber pilots were looked on as the elite. This, despite the brilliance of formation and individual aerobatic displays at successive annual Hendon Air Shows. Now, at a stroke, since the early successes of the Hurricane squadrons based in France during the war’s first nine months, it was the fighter pilots who were regarded as the cream: by the world at large, if not by the air crews of Bomber Command. Coastal Command, at that time, was virtually ignored by the public and the Service; although, in its inconspicuous way, it was doing as much as the Navy to frustrate the U-boat menace and keep Britain’s supply lines open, the country safe from starvation.

  Harry was impatient to get back to work. The last four days of his leave — the last of his visit to London and three more in the country — gave him little pleasure.

  His father stood beside his car as he prepared to drive away. It was a typical R.A.F. officer’s car, a dark blue 1937 M.G. that Liversedge had driven to Staton Manor when Harry was posted missing.

  Templer shook his son’s hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything. I hope they’ll let you get back on ops again very quickly.”

  “I’ll have to find a new crew, then we’ll have to shake down together and I’ll have to get my hand in again.”

  “That won’t take you long.”

  Templer watched his son drive off with great pride and affection, and gratitude for Harry’s gentleness towards him during their two weeks together. He had missed him while he was briefly away with Margaret; and now he faced the fact that he might never see him again.

  Mrs Meyer, watching from just inside the front door, waved, then descended the steps.

  “Come and have another cup of coffee, sir.”

  Templer nodded. Indoors, she watched, unobserved, while he took his cup to a window to stand looking at the sky. She was relieved that he did not, as he would have only a fortnight ago, turn to the brandy decanter to pour a stiff tot into it. They had his children to thank for that, she told herself; and that fine young doctor friend of Miss Elizabeth’s, with his Schottenrokschen… what was the word? Kilt, that was it.