by Tony Park
‘Sergeant, here at Kumalo air base we’ve got a sewage farm at one end of the runway and a cemetery at the other. As some of the instructors like to say, and pardon my crudity, Constable, you’ve got a better than even chance of ending up in one of those places before your course is over.’
Hayes smiled and Pip grimaced. The man was adjutant of the camp. She’d expected something a bit more inspiring from him when addressing a couple of first-time visitors to the base. ‘You were saying, Squadron Leader, about the air training scheme?’
‘Call me Paul, if you like. The aim of the Empire Air Training Scheme is to produce about twenty thousand pilots and thirty thousand air gunners and observers a year, for service overseas.’
‘Gosh,’ Pip said, ‘that’s an awful lot of people.’
‘You wouldn’t know it from the newspapers and the cinemas, but we’re losing an awful lot of people in this war,’ Bryant said, deadpan.
Pip felt her cheeks colour. All she knew of the war was what she read in the newspapers and saw on the newsreels at the cinema. She was smart enough, though, to realise that the government censors made sure the reports put a brave face on things.
‘Anyway,’ Bryant continued, ‘there are bases like Kumalo also operating in Australia and Canada. Here in Southern Rhodesia we’ve got airfields operational around Bulawayo, at Gwelo, and at Cranborne, Norton and Belvedere near Salisbury, to name just a few. Over here the scheme is implemented for the Royal Air Force by the Rhodesian Air Training Group. It goes by other names in Canada and Australia, but the aim is the same. As well as pilot training there are other schools where aircrew are trained as gunners, wireless operators and bomb aimers. All up, there are about seventeen thousand people serving in the training group, including five thousand Africans who work as askaris – providing base security – and in general duties roles, such as the cooks, cleaners, groundsmen and maintenance staff.’
‘Seems a lot of effort, shipping people from as far away as England and Australia to do their training here,’ Hayes said.
‘I’ll agree with you about shipping Australians here, Sergeant,’ Bryant conceded. ‘We could train our blokes just as easily back home. It’s all about politics and the spirit of the Empire, I suppose. Above my level, anyway. But this is a good place to train Royal Air Force pilots and aircrew from Britain. For a start, you’ve got no shortage of sunshine and clear skies, and there are no German bombers to interrupt the training program.’
‘It must take quite a while, to get a pilot fully qualified,’ Pip said.
‘Twenty-eight weeks for a pilot, twenty-one for a gunner or bomb aimer. This has been a big year for us and the pressure is always on to train more and more people. We’ve got our biggest ever wings parade – pilot graduation – coming up in a few days’ time.’
‘How many people?’ Hayes asked.
‘A lot,’ Bryant replied. ‘We don’t like to talk about exact numbers. Loose lips and all that. I’m sure you understand. If the Germans could find a way to sabotage the training here in Rhodesia or inflict mass casualties on the pilot trainees, the RAF might simply run out of aircrew to man its bombers.’
‘Of course, but you said before, Southern Rhodesia was picked as a base because it’s safe,’ Hayes countered.
‘From what I read in the intelligence reports and the newspapers, there are more than a few people down in South Africa who wouldn’t mind seeing Germany win this war,’ Bryant said.
‘You’re talking about the Ossewa Brandwag?’
Bryant nodded. He’d read with interest the reports of the far right-wing movement, whose name, translated into English, meant the ox-wagon sentinels. The Ossewa Brandwag – OB, for short – were self-styled guardians of the ideals espoused by the original voortrekkers, the Cape Dutch Afrikaner pioneers who had set off into the wilderness of what was now South Africa to carve out a white homeland.
The OB had evolved in the years following the Boer War, a manifestation of lingering Afrikaner resentment at the British victory and their ongoing rule of South Africa. They were anti-British, anti-Jewish, and anti-black. The party’s paramilitary wing – the stormjaers – bore a chilling resemblance to Hitler’s prewar Nazi storm troopers, and had already been responsible for acts of sabotage in South Africa, such as blowing up power lines and robbing banks to raise funds for their activities. Even the group’s symbol betrayed its Nazi sympathies. The OB eagle, beak turned to the right and clutching a circle containing an image of a covered wagon, bore a striking resemblance to the bird on the breasts of uniforms worn by German soldiers, sailors and airmen.
Hayes was dismissive. A few Afrikaner lunatics who want to refight the Boer War. Hardly representative of the whole community, and no real military threat – certainly not this side of the border, as they’ve no support in Rhodesia.’
‘My office is in here, at the end of the orderly room.’ Bryant said as they entered the brick building. Above the door’s lintel was a casting of the RAF’s flying eagle, beneath the Rhodesian lion, and the date, 1940, when the airfield had been commissioned. The orderly room was sparsely furnished, the walls painted a drab grey.
An airman stood to attention and Bryant motioned for him to resume his seat behind his typewriter. He led them into his office and sat down behind his desk, inviting them to sit on the two spare bare metal chairs.
Pip Lovejoy stayed standing, studying a panoramic black and white photo on the wall. It showed a large number of men sitting on the wings of a twin-engine bomber. ‘You served in bomber command?’
‘Yeah, I’m somewhere in that mob. You’d hardly recognise me, though. That was early in my first tour. Full of mustard and no grey hair. The kite’s a Wellington. I went on to Lancasters on my second tour.’
‘You must have quite a few stories to tell.’
‘Look, Constable . . . Lovejoy, was it? I don’t want to be rude, but I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about the Empire Air Training Scheme or my military career.’
‘Of course. Quite right,’ Hayes said, clearing his voice again. ‘Constable Lovejoy will take notes during our discussions, if that’s all right with you.’
‘I hope I’m not going to be charged with anything. Whatever it was, I didn’t do it,’ Bryant said, hands up, smiling.
‘It’s a serious matter, Squadron Leader. One of the women serving here at Kumalo has been killed in, shall we say, suspicious circumstances.’
Bryant sat up straight in his chair. ‘What? You mean murdered? Who . . . ?’
‘A Rhodesian member of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Service. One of your WAAFs, I believe you call them. Leading Aircraftswoman Felicity Langham, aged twenty-four.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, dear God. She is . . . was, well liked around here . . . It’s a terrible loss to the base.’ Bryant took his cigarettes from his pocket. He offered the pack to Hayes and the woman, but both waved him off. He lit his and inhaled.
‘Well liked?’ Pip asked, looking up from her notebook. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’
Hayes shot her an annoyed glance and said, ‘I was about to ask the same question.’
‘Are you all right, Squadron Leader? You look very pale.’
‘Fine,’ Bryant coughed. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly parched from the smoke. ‘Um, we’ve had losses – deaths – here before, but never a woman. Flick was one of our parachute packers. They’re mostly local girls. She also gave the trainees their initial instruction on how to use a chute if they got into trouble. She had a unique way of starting her lessons, and that made her a hit with the boys.’
‘What do you mean, unique?’ Hayes asked.
‘She used to arrive at her lesson by jumping out of a Tiger Moth.’
‘Yes, I read about that in the newspaper,’ Pip said.
Hayes ignored her. ‘She jumped out of a perfectly good aeroplane, one with no damage? I thought those things, parachutes, were only to be used in emergencies.’
‘Flick, LACW Langham, had a rather
different idea of excitement from most people. She jumped out of aeroplanes whenever she could, not just when giving her lessons. Parachuting’s come a long way since the first war. Both sides are making widespread use of airborne forces and Flick reckoned one day people would pay to do it for fun.’
‘Ludicrous,’ Hayes said.
‘I’m with you there,’ Bryant agreed. ‘I almost had to do it once, to save my life, but the prospect scared me shitless. Pardon the language, Constable.’
‘No problem,’ Pip said. ‘Just then you referred to Miss Langham as “Flick”. Were you two close?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ He tugged at the collar of his shirt. It felt hot inside the office, and he wanted to throw open the window, but he forced himself to sit still.
‘You tell me.’
Hayes intervened. ‘Constable, we’re getting off our original tack and . . .’
‘No, it’s all right,’ Bryant said. ‘She was one of our instructors, and a damned good one. The permanent staff here socialise together sometimes and I knew her, as a casual acquaintance, as well as through her instructional duties. We’d chatted a few times, over drinks.’
‘But she was a leading aircraftswoman – one stripe, if I’m not mistaken,’ Pip said.
‘Yes, she is – was – what we call a noncommissioned officer. And it’s a single propeller in the air force, not a stripe.’
‘But you’re a commissioned officer, and a relatively senior one, I gather. I would have thought fraternisation between the ranks was not on,’ Pip said.
Bryant noticed her eyes were following his cigarette hand. He realised he was smoking very fast. Perhaps she was looking for signs he was nervous. He put the cigarette on the lip of the ashtray on his desk, carefully, so the tremor wouldn’t be so noticeable. ‘We didn’t fraternise in terms of a relationship, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Constable. We have separate messes, on base, for officers, NCOs and trainees to drink at, but, sometimes, such as at the end of the course, a mob of us will go into town for a few drinks at one of the pubs. It’s an all-ranks affair then. We don’t stand too much on ceremony. We might be training people for the Royal Air Force, but it’s certainly not all spit and polish over here.’
‘We understand, Squadron Leader,’ Hayes interjected. ‘Did Miss Langham live on the base?’
‘I’m really not sure. I’d have to check. I think she had a flat or a house in town. I’ll get her file for you when we’re done here,’ Bryant said. He was relieved that the male officer had taken over the questioning.
‘How would you describe her character?’ Hayes asked.
‘Good worker. Excellent instructor, if somewhat unorthodox. She seemed to enjoy life in uniform.’ He looked across at the woman police constable and noticed she averted her eyes. Women, in his limited experience, usually fitted well into service life. They faced prejudice and sometimes outright abuse and intimidation from some of the men but, despite this, or maybe because of it, they often outshone men in similar ranks and positions. He’d seen it in England too. Women were filling jobs that they’d never dreamed of doing before the war.
‘What do you know about her personal life?’
‘Not much at all, Sergeant. As I said, we weren’t what you would call close.’ Bryant suddenly felt hot and he rubbed his finger around his collar. He saw the policewoman was still watching his every gesture, and that made him feel even less comfortable. He felt the sweat running down each side of his ribcage from his armpits and hoped it didn’t show.
‘Come now, Squadron Leader, we’re all adults here. She was an attractive young woman surrounded by hundreds of men, most of them far from home. She must have enjoyed more than her fair share of attention,’ Hayes said.
‘That’s none of my business. Tell me, how exactly did Miss Langham die?’ Bryant asked.
‘Her body was found in a part of Bulawayo which is, shall we say unsavoury,’ Hayes said. ‘She was partially clad. Her body may have been dumped there, or she may have died there.’
‘Was she assaulted?’ Bryant asked. He wondered if his face betrayed his emotions.
‘To tell you the truth, we don’t know yet,’ Pip interrupted.
‘Do you think one of the men here on base might be responsible?’ Bryant inquired, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘It’s too early to come to any conclusions,’ Hayes said. ‘In fact, Miss Langham was found in an area frequented mostly by Africans. There’s a possibility she was abducted by someone and things went wrong.’
A bloody understatement if he’d ever heard one, Bryant thought. ‘Poor Flick. Either way, whether it’s a black man or a white man who’s responsible, this could get nasty once word gets out.’
‘Did she have many female friends that you knew of? Other WAAFs, perhaps?’ Pip asked.
‘I’d have to check that for you,’ Bryant said, scratching his neck. ‘I can ask around and get back to you, if you like.’
‘What are your movements over the next few days?’ Hayes asked.
‘I’ve got to drive up to an area north of Wankie Game Reserve. One of our Canadian trainees, a chap called Cavendish, crashed his Harvard up there last week and I’ve got to conduct an investigation before the wreck is recovered. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’ll possibly be away overnight. You can leave messages here for me with the orderly room corporal’ God knows where Smythe’s Harvard would turn up, let alone if the Englishman were still alive.
‘Sarge, we could save time by splitting up. I could stay here and talk to some of the other airwomen, if that’s all right with you, Squadron Leader,’ Pip said.
‘No worries here. You might as well start in the parachute hangar where Felicity worked,’ Bryant said.
‘We’ll have a word outside, WPC Lovejoy. Squadron Leader Bryant, I think we’re finished here for the moment, but we’ll be back in touch in the next day or so, no doubt.’
‘Anything I can do to help, just let me know,’ Bryant said.
Bryant opened the door to his office and the orderly room NCO was standing just outside. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you, officers. Corporal Richards here can show you back to the gate if you’re both leaving now, or I can take WPC Lovejoy to the parachute hangar, if you like,’ he said to Hayes.
‘Just give us a moment to confer, Squadron Leader.’
Hayes nodded and walked out of the orderly room.
The two police officers moved outside and Bryant heard raised voices. ‘What were you doing hovering outside my door, Richards?’ Bryant shot the pimple-faced young Londoner a withering look.
‘I was just about to knock, sir. I just got a message for you, from the guardhouse. It was a phone call late last night, but the dozy buggers only just got around to calling it through.’
Richards handed him a sheet of message paper. ‘Thanks,’ Bryant said. He read it, then swallowed hard to maintain his composure. ‘Were you listening in on that conversation, Richards?’
‘No, sir, of course not.’
‘If I catch you eavesdropping I’ll have you posted to fucking Greenland. Do I make myself clear?’
Richards smiled sheepishly and said, ‘Yes, sir. Can I ask, sir, are the coppers here about Felicity Langham’s murder?’
‘Who said anything about that?’ Bryant replied.
‘Word’s getting around camp. A couple of the blacks in the kitchen were talking about it and some of the lads overheard, at breakfast.’
‘Her body was found this morning. I don’t know about murder, though. Do me a favour and let me know what the boys are saying about the news, will you?’
‘If it’s Kaffirs that raped her, sir, there’ll be bleedin’ hell to pay.’
One thing Bryant did not like about his young assistant was his attitude to Africans. It wasn’t uncommon, of course, to hear people using derogatory terms for Africans, but in Bryant’s book that didn’t make it right. There had been a couple of black West Indian gunners in his old squadron, and a Sikh pilot from India. They
’d all been good at their jobs, which was the only thing that mattered to him when he was on operations. A loud-mouthed Scot had made a point of taunting one of the Jamaicans in the mess, calling him a nigger. The man had laughed off the insult, but his crewmates had sorted out the troublemaker and afterwards the Scot had gone absent without leave and never been seen again.
‘Keep your bloody opinions to yourself, Richards. And you know what I think about name-calling, so stow it. What I asked is for you to keep me informed about what people are saying. We don’t want a riot on our hands.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The orderly room door opened again and WPC Pip Lovejoy stepped in. ‘I’m back,’ she said.
‘So I see. What about your sergeant? Sounded like a spirited discussion you were having with him.’
She failed to stop a little smile crossing her face. ‘Some issues about who does what. He’s going to check with the medical examiner.’
Bryant imagined it wasn’t the first time the pretty young policewoman and her senior had clashed. ‘Richards, escort Sergeant Hayes back to the front gate.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Richards put his forage cap on and excused himself, leaving Pip and Bryant alone.
4
Inside the cavernous metal-roofed hangar were a dozen long rows of trestle tables, laid end to end. On four of the rows were parachutes, in various states of being packed. The young women chatted as they methodically gathered in suspension lines and folded billowing panels of white silk.
Pip looked around her. She reckoned you could tell a great deal about someone from their home or workplace, by the things that were lying around, or objects that were missing. Glenn Miller’s ‘American Patrol’ blared from a Bakelite radio on a table just inside the hangar door. The table was littered with dirty teacups, sugar, powdered milk and a scarred enamel teapot. An ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. She imagined it was forbidden to smoke over the precious silk of the parachute canopies.
Bryant turned the radio down then strode ahead, towards the working women. Pip lingered by the entry for the moment. The tin wall behind the tea table was plastered with newspaper cuttings, photographs, torn pages from magazines. There were pictures of men in uniform – perhaps boyfriends or husbands – film stars and aeroplanes. There were articles from the Bulawayo Chronicle about the women’s work at the base, and about visits by various dignitaries. She saw photos of half-a-dozen women in overalls and baggy khaki uniforms, but recognised none of them.
