A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  `Up guards and steerage!’

  Another atmospheric crackle, then silence. Kerren opened her eyes. There was no stocking, but the sleeve of a greatcoat hung down from the bunk above. She stretched an arm towards it and cold snaked down into her bunk. She drew the blankets tight around her again and closed her eyes. Something scratched at the roof of the hut, the branch of a tree, perhaps a bird? Her mind, still wondering, dived into the well of sleep and seemed to jerk back immediately as the tannoy gasped, spluttered, and finally uttered:

  `Wakey, wakey! Lash ’em and stow!’

  There was a soft thud on the floor, a patter of feet, and Robin was at her side, eyes alert as though she had never slept.

  `Do you wash?’

  `Of course.’

  `There’s no “of course” about it. I’m the only one who does first thing in the morning.’

  Kerren eased herself into a sitting position and gazed at the chair on which her clothes were piled; she hesitated, shivering, as reluctant as a non-swimmer at the sea’s edge. Robin was already dressed in shirt and `black-outs’; a straight, slim figure, apparently undismayed by cold although beneath the brilliant hair her face was lemon-coloured and her lips were white. She found silk stockings and drew one on; she had very long, shapely legs which she displayed with nonchalant elegance.

  `I love getting up in the morning, don’t you?’ she said, as Kerren finally made the plunge. `At home we had two aged maids – the last remnants of mother’s gentility – and mother would never allow anyone up until Dulcie or Amy had brought morning tea.’

  `We didn’t have servants.’

  `In spite of your mother being such a fine lady?’

  Kerren, hating the coarse wool against her legs, answered:

  `I come from Belfast. My father is a bank manager.’

  `Oh lord! Oh lord!’ Robin crowed. `Were you happy?’

  Kerren considered, taking a long journey into a half-forgotten world.

  `Not really. It was so dull. My parents were quite old. I was a mistake.’

  Robin found a collar and tie and slung them over her shoulder. `I was a disaster. My parents adored my brother and they wanted to give him the earth. It was maddening for them when I came along to claim a share. When he was sent to Burma and taken prisoner the house went into mourning. I don’t think they noticed my going.’

  A voice at the far end of the cabin muttered:

  `It must have been quieter.’

  Robin grasped a sponge-bag and towel. She whacked one of the humps with the towel as she went towards the door.

  `Food?’

  `Bread and dripping.’

  As they opened the door figures rose from the bedclothes like ghosts rising from tombs. A chorus of instructions followed them on to the cinder track.

  The ablution block was empty. As she stood in a muddied pool splashing herself with icy water, Kerren understood why the others didn’t wash in the morning. Robin, stripped to the waist, her skin mauve, chirped gaily, `Cheer up! The water’s always boiling in summer.’

  They had breakfast quickly. Robin sprinkled brown sugar on bread and margarine and explained:

  `It gives you energy. There’s a long, long trail ahead. Two miles, at least. This place is a miracle of dispersal – did you know?’

  `What does that mean?’

  `It means that if the Enemy comes he will find it very confusing. In the meantime, it can’t be run effectively and we get confused, too. I’ve been here months and I haven’t yet discovered where all the buildings are. For example, Beatie, who is a writer, works in one of the offices attached to C flight, and I haven’t the faintest idea where that is!’

  They collected the cabin’s breakfast orders and hurried through the wood with piles of bread and margarine, sugar and dripping. Greedy hands stretched out as they entered the hut. There were many faces Kerren did not recognise, but one belonged to the bread-and-dripping donor of the previous night. She was older than the others, rather majestic in build, with a dark, ravaged face and an air of constant disapproval. She took the bread and dripping from Kerren and said, `Look at that wall! Damp! We shall all have T.B.’

  Kerren and Robin put on their coats and caps and went out. There were several bicycles painted in bright yellow leaning against trees at the back of the hut. `That’s bequeathed to you.’ Robin pointed to a decrepit machine with tyres worn down to the frame. It had a very high saddle and Kerren had to ride standing up. They wobbled down the cinder track and turned past regulating office. Soon the Nissen huts and the wood were behind and they were in a country lane with fields on either side covered in a web of ground mist above which the tops of hedges and the upper parts of trees floated insecurely. The ground was hard and Kerren’s bicycle bucked uncomfortably. To one side, the roof and top floor of a farm emerged from the mist and farther on a milk churn at a gate was evidence of another life which went on over the hedgerows. Outside a cottage a woman unpegged a shirt stiff with ice from a line and spared not a glance for the girls as they rode by.

  Kerren was not much interested in the countryside; Robin had her complete attention. What a glorious companion she would be! Gay, gallant and scornful, sceptical, unkind and without care. Even now, her thin face peaked with cold and her lips bloodless, she rode her bike with an imperious disregard for Kerren’s safety or her own balance. All the time that they rode she imparted information, more for her own pleasure than for Kerren’s benefit since Kerren only kept up with her in spurts. Kerren learnt that Jessie never changed her clothes and that Beatie was a `nymph’; that Naomi was having an affair with a civilian to whom she always referred as `my friend’ and that Peter Shaw . . . Here Kerren lost ground and when she caught up again Robin was saying: `That’s Dincote Hill over there. At least, it will be there when this mist clears. Eight miles away and 900 feet high. The pilots hate it, poor lambs, sticking up like that in the middle of a plain. But it’s wonderfully useful when you’re doing the obs.’

  The lane came out into a wider road with a better surface and after a hundred yards of this they approached barbed-wire gates beyond which there were buildings bigger and more solidly constructed than the huts on B camp. Robin slid off her bike as they came to the gates.

  `You mustn’t ride through these gates. It does something quite dreadful to the Jaunty’s blood pressure. There’s a quarterdeck somewhere. We’re supposed to salute it, but I’ve never made up my mind just where it is.’

  They mounted their bikes again and turned towards the airfield. It was getting much colder. The road was fenced off on either side with barbed wire and beyond there were planes dotted about incongruously, as though a child had been playing and had neglected to gather up its toys before going to bed. A dumpy one gazed at them ponderously, its chin resting on the barbed-wire fence.

  `A Walrus,’ Robin made the introduction.

  `What other planes do we have here?’

  ` “Planes”? We don’t have “planes” at all.’

  Farther on, something big that she was not to call a plane was standing with a vicious whirl of air round its nose. Robin dismounted and wheeled her bike to the far side of the road. Kerren, following, asked, `Why do you do that?’

  `It’ll gobble you up, otherwise.’

  Kerren laughed.

  `Truly it will!’ Robin insisted. `A new girl in A camp got sucked into a propeller only the other week. The pilot was sick when they told him.’

  As they cycled between long, dingy hangars, Robin said affectionately, `It’s a very dangerous airfield altogether. One way, if a pilot doesn’t get height quick enough he goes into that bank of poplars; the other way, he hits the nine-fifteen to Paddington. We have more prangs here than at any other base in the south of England. What’s the time?’

  `Just after eight.’

  `Oh dear, late again! Maggie will be cross and Adam will be cross because she’s cross.’

  `Who is Maggie?’

  `The other met. Wren. There are three of us and a petty office
r. Maggie is a tedious creature with no sense of humour whatsoever.’

  `And Adam?’

  `Adam?’ Robin freewheeled, at a loss for the first time. As the wheels went round and round, her thoughts circled the subject but found no way in. `He doesn’t lend himself to thumb-nail sketches. You’ll have to make him out for yourself.’

  A little farther on she stopped, one foot on the ground. Behind and on either side there were lanes lined with huts; in front there was nothing but a level expanse of frosted grass intersected by narrowing ribbons of tarmac. The untrammelled wind was bitter.

  `You go that way to the admin, block. I go out on to the perimeter track to the control tower – that little pimple right in the centre. When you’ve done your rounds come out there and see what’s doing.’

  It was after lunch when Kerren came back to the place where Robin had left her. She had never flown, but she had the sense of it as she went out on to the perimeter track. The landmarks fell away one by one. There was isolation and a battle with the wind; there was excitement, too, pleasurably tinged with fear. The control tower seemed very remote and she could not see a way that led to it; she felt that she would just go round and round, circling this crystal sea that sparkled in wintry sunlight. After some minutes she came to a runway on the far side of which there was a sailor capering about energetically with a red flag. Perhaps he was trying to keep warm, there did not seem to be any other explanation for his activities. She started across the runway. The sailor’s movements became even more agitated. She glanced about her, but it was difficult to see what it was that could be disturbing him, there was no one in sight, man or beast; only a dark bird hovered above the poplars. The runway was much wider than she had realized; as she struggled across it, buffeted by the wind, it seemed to open out so that she had farther and farther to go. The bird grew bigger, dipping low on the near side of the poplars. Suddenly she knew why the sailor was so agitated. She flung herself down, bike on top of her, and saw, seconds later, the shadow of wings darken the grass; something, blood or an engine, roared in her ears.

  The sailor picked her up. He had a broad Scots accent and she did not understand much of what he said, only that he wanted to know why she thought he was waving the bleeding flag.

  `I’ve no idea,’ she told him.

  `No idea!’ he repeated hoarsely, staring at her. `Dinna they tell ye a thing afore ye come oot here? Lassie, ye might ha’ been kilt.’

  He was old. His hair was grey, and his face was grey, too. When he walked away from her his limbs shook as though he had ague. She got back on her bike. She had nearly been killed; she had been here only half a day and she had nearly been killed. She must write to her friend Dorothy and tell her about it.

  While she was thinking what she would say to Dorothy, she came to the path that turned off to the control tower. She looked at the squat brick building ahead of her. It was not much to compare with the turreted fairy castles of childhood; but all her dreams were centred there. Nothing had disappointed her so far, but this was the great test, this was the nerve centre of the strange new world that she had entered. Now she would meet the men who controlled it. For years, on her way to and from college in Belfast, she had looked at a poster bearing the words `Back up the man on the bridge’; she had been enchanted by the face of the Man, the wry amusement, the far-away sailor’s eyes. The boys at the university had been so dull, planning the small details of their little lives, risking nothing. Now at last she would meet men sharpened and refined and made beautiful by danger.

  She was almost at the control tower when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She turned, resting one foot on the ground while she gazed at it. It lay low, breast almost touching the frosted grass, itself the colour of frost, gleaming in the steely winter sunlight. Although it was still, its spread wings gave the impression of a bird skimming the surface of waves. But what kind of bird she could not decide. It had the elemental beauty of the wild goose, and yet there was something of the bird of prey in the ruthless simplicity of line. It moved her more deeply than anything else had done. All the time she had been saying to herself, `I have arrived, I have arrived.’ Now she knew that it was true.

  She propped her bike against the wall of the control tower. She opened the small, unspectacular door which was hidden away at one side of the building and went in. Immediately to the left there was a lavatory where a sailor was filling a kettle from a tap on the wall; to the right there was a flight of stone steps. The building was quiet, but it was not the taut, nerve-strained silence that she had anticipated; teleprinters and radios nattered like bees on a summer afternoon, giving the building a rather sleepy atmosphere. Ahead there was a short corridor with three doors leading off it; the nearest door had a sign bearing the words `Met. Office’. She went in.

  Robin was standing at a table; she was wearing her greatcoat and she was swinging her cap in her hand. There was a man by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out. He did not turn round but said in a deep, rasping voice:

  `You can stop grinding your teeth and go now, Egan.’

  Robin put on her cap and spoke very fast to Kerren.

  `P.O.’s gone to hospital with some ominous lumps behind her ears, so we’re one short. I’ll be back when I’ve had lunch.’ She grabbed her sling bag. `Should I make introductions, sir? This is Wren Nolan: Lieutenant Grieve. Lieutenant Grieve wants the 1300 chart done rather quickly, don’t you, sir? You do know how to plot a chart? Good.’

  She was gone.

  Kerren hung up her jacket and rolled up her sleeves. The man turned round. He was not `The Man on the Bridge’; he was a civilian who had donned fancy dress and wore it with a kind of contemptuous acceptance. Robin had said that he was Lieutenant Grieve, but Kerren knew that he was Adam. She also knew, although she could not explain why, that he did not belong in her dream world.

  `And can you plot a chart?’

  He managed, in this simple inquiry, to suggest many things: that he had been waiting for a long time, that he had little hope and less concern, that the next hour would be wearisome, even unpleasant, but that they would survive, that none of it mattered anyway.

  `I can plot very well,’ she assured him.

  He returned to the window and stood with his back to it, leaning against the wall. She sat on the high stool facing the sloping board on which the new chart was spread out. There was a finished chart on the wall to the left of him; she looked at it to remind herself what was expected of her. She looked at him, too. He was much more interesting than the chart. He had greying hair and a strongboned face scored by channels where pleasure had run deep. But whatever the past had given, it had been cancelled out: the eyes, although they were amused and not unkind, had little interest in people or things. Kerren understood why Robin had been defeated by Adam.

  She took out her black pen, her red pen, and crouched over the chart. Something seemed to be missing, but she could not think what it was. Adam sighed and went across to a corner where a teleprinter disgorged paper, he tore off a very long strip and put it down beside her.

  `You may need this.”

  She began to plot the chart. She was a craftsman and had had top marks on her course. After ten minutes, during which time he looked over her shoulder several times, he said:

  `This is very beautiful. Unfortunately, it has to be finished in an hour, not a week.’

  `But I can’t go any faster.’

  `So I suspected.’

  He waved her aside, sat down and began to plot at great speed. She stared at him resentfully until he said:

  `Tear the paper off. I’m not going to do that as well.’

  She tore it off unevenly. He said:

  `When you plot a chart for Lieutenant Commander Hunter, it would be as well to warn him that you have no experience whatsoever.’

  `But I do know all about it.’

  `Nevertheless, I shouldn’t give him any grounds for hope. It’s only a suggestion; you don’t have to accept it.’


  She stood, red-faced, watching while he worked. After a time, he said:

  `Are the Irish there yet?’

  `The Irish!’

  He sighed. `Did they tell you on the met. course that we forecast the weather?’

  `Yes.’

  `It’s not true. We simply wait anxiously for the Irish stations, and then, when we know what weather they are having, it’s a matter of simple arithmetic to work out how long it will be before it reaches us. Unfortunately, the Irish are always late. It’s typical of the race, I believe.’

  She went across to the teleprinter, anxious to disprove him; but it was clacking out something called the Larkhill prawt. He had put the pens down and was drawing the isobars around a low pressure area centred over the Atlantic. There didn’t seem to be much for her to do. She went across to the window.

  `When I cycled here just now, there was a . . .’ She stopped. `What does one say instead of “plane”?’

  He reached for a red pencil and put the letter L in the centre of the depression. `You can say plane if you like; I shall understand you. But I believe the pilots usually fly a kite.’

  `I saw one on the grass.’

  `Only one? I think we have more than that.’

  `This one was different. It was . . .’ She hesitated, feeling self-conscious. `It was rather beautiful.’

  `Then it was a Seafire.’ He put his pencil down and looked at his watch. `Nearly two. Can you do the obs.?’ She hesitated and he said: `The weather observations. They did tell you about them on your course?’

  He left her to find her own way about. The Davidson screen was on the grass some little distance from the control tower. She read the temperature and then went back to the building and ascended the stone steps leading to the heart of the control tower. It was really a very mysterious place. Yet it seemed to have no sense of its own strangeness; it was as though a producer had got his sets mixed up and something designed for Kafka was being used for a Dodie Smith matinée. On the first floor all the doors were shut; there were signs which said: Commander F, C.F.I., C.F.C.O. Robin had already told her something about the gods of the control tower. `F,’ she had said, `is God Almighty. He is also Commander in charge of flying. He is five-foot nothing, beak of an eagle, jaw the bow of a battleship and eyes chips from an iceberg. When a pilot does something wrong he has him up in his room and tears his limbs off one by one. The C.F.C.O. is the Chief Flying Control Officer; a big, shambling thing, wavy navy, not very formidable. The C.F.I. is the Chief Flying Instructor. He’s type cast for a Latin professor, but he’s one of the navy’s ace pilots and we’re terribly proud of him.’ It was very quiet: the gods must be having their siesta. On the top floor there was the flying control room. The atmosphere here was also rather somnolent. There were three Wrens with earphones on sitting at a table. One was stroking a cat, another was knitting, while the third repeated in a flat, uninterested voice: `Calling Purple Leader, Calling Purple Leader . . .’ A naval officer stood in the accepted position, hands behind his back, staring out of the windowed walls; his expression was one of supreme boredom. Another officer sat on the edge of a table and tried to mend the strap of a wrist-watch. He looked up as Kerren came in, smiled, and pointed to the ladder which led from the centre of the room to the flat roof above. Outside, on a balcony which ran round the tower, two look-outs, their faces streaked red and white in the wind, peered about disconsolately. Kerren went up the ladder, feeling very conscious of her short skirt, and below her an Australian voice commented pleasantly, `What a pair of pairs to get up them stairs!’