by MARY HOCKING
`He’s off the camp, otherwise he’d be here.’
He would be bending over the chart, his face muscles working in the agitated way that she and Robin had always found so embarrassing. Corder moved away from the chart.
`Is anything happening in flying control?’ he asked.
`F was about to suggest something. I didn’t wait.’
`I think I’d better go up there. You can manage here, can’t you?’
He tried to sound solemn, but she caught the gleam of excitement in his eyes. This was the nearest he had ever come to action and he was eager not to miss anything. The little ghoul wants something to go wrong! she thought angrily as she heard his hurried footsteps in the corridor.
She began to prowl round the room. The teleprinter was making too much noise for her to hear the Mosquito; but the fog was there, seeping into the room in spite of the black-out. She thought of the pilot in his cramped cockpit; no contact with the world of humans except for the one voice talking over the R/T, no stars, no moon, no silver thread of a river to guide him. It must be the ultimate in loneliness. She prayed, `Oh God, let us bring him down safely, please, please God!’ Why had they sent him up on a night like this? Because no one had realized the fog would clamp down over the whole of the south of England, because it was a routine flight and no one had bothered to cancel it, because one pilot more or less hardly mattered? `I hope they shoot the man who sent him up!’ she blared at the busy teleprinter. `I hope they shoot the whole ruddy ground staff!’ He had been very young, American by the sound of his voice, but when she visualized him it was Peter that she saw, lonely, abandoned. . . . The teleprinter was muttering away in the corner. There was something obscene about it; a monster with a grinning mouth and a lolling paper tongue that grew longer and longer. She tore the tongue off. The machine hiccuped and then began busily moving back and forth, creating a new tongue. The door opened and Corder came in, looking important.
`We’re going to pour petrol on the runway and set light to it; an improvised flare path.’ He sounded as though he himself had made the decision. `Jake is still talking to him. I think he’s rather worked up – Jake, I mean. These Aussies are pretty soft at the centre, aren’t they?’ He tried to peer through a crack in the black-out. `Let’s go out and see what’s doing. There’s nothing much coming through on the teleprinter just now and a flare path at Guillemot should be quite something!’
They stood by the outer door to the control tower, shivering in the shrouded darkness. Kerren waited, biting her lip, for the miracle of fire; when it came it was nothing but a dingy orange blur to the west. The Mosquito came over, very low this time.
`If he overshoots he’ll rip straight through A camp,’ Corder said.
Kerren put her hands over her ears; when she took them away the Mosquito was throbbing into the distance. They waited for it to turn and come in again. Nothing happened, except that far in the distance there was a muffled thud. Corder said, `Oh Lord!’ He sounded like a child dismayed by a damp firework.
`Probably a fog signal on the railway line,’ Kerren said.
`I don’t know . . . it had a crumpled sound, didn’t you think?’ She turned and ran up the stairs to flying control. There was only Jake there, slouched in his chair, his head hanging forward. He was not speaking into the R-T any more. He held out his hand to her.
`Come and talk to me, Paddy.’
He laced his fingers with hers. His hand was damp.
`Could he have baled out?’ she asked.
`He didn’t have enough height.’
`Isn’t there anything we can do? He might still be alive.’
`The C.F.I. is alerting other stations. But what can they do? Even if we had his position, how would anyone get to him in this?’
They sat for a few moments in silence, then he said:
`I talked to him for an hour. He was quite chipper to start with. I thought to myself, if you keep his pecker up and F manages to bring him in, this is just one thing in this whole bloody holocaust you can look back on with some pride.’
There were no words. How can you communicate when you don’t know what it is you feel, when there is only fog and futility? But there are times when platitudes are better than no comfort at all, so Kerren said:
`At least he had someone to talk to, Jake.’
He squeezed her hand, then released it.
`Let me know when you’re making tea, Paddy.’
Kerren wrote to Peter and told him about the incident. Then she decided that she had made too much of it, so she tore up the letter. She did this sort of thing quite often lately; her mind exercised a constant censorship – this may worry him, this may sound as though I’m worried, this is too trivial, this is too intense. Although she saw him occasionally because the Victorious was at Lee for repairs, it was not much better when they were together. She confided in Cath one Sunday evening as they were walking back after a rare attendance at evensong at Holly Green church.
`He’s so unpredictable, and I’m not experienced enough to know how to cope. A more mature woman would be able to deal with these wild displays of temper; but I become paralysed, afraid to say anything in case I say the wrong thing.’
It was an effort to say this and having said it she felt better, as though confession was its own reward. The relief, however, was dispelled by Cath who said in her candid way:
`You’ve got quite a temper of your own. I’m surprised you don’t hit back.’
Kerren looked across the fields from which the frost’s white breath was rising; she looked at the scarecrow trees and the moon above, thin as a slice of peel.
`It would be no use, Cath. There’s no one there . . . at least, no one that I recognize. That’s what I find so terrifying about these dreadful tempers.’
`Have you any idea what’s happening to him?’
`He’s bored with service life. Flying is becoming a chore, like driving a bus.’
The frost cooled her breath, extinguished the silly, idle fantasy even before Cath spoke.
`If you really thought that I don’t believe you would be so worried.’
Kerren hated Cath for not flicking her fears away in the airy way that Robin would have done. Nevertheless, she said:
`What’s your diagnosis, then?’
`I think he’s been flying too long.’
`That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
`He’s not bored, Kerren.’
They walked in silence. Cath, walking with her head down, her fists deep in the pockets of her greatcoat, thought about the men she had known. Kerren felt cold inside and told herself that she should have had soup for supper before setting out; there seemed to be something inside her lately that gnawed and gnawed and was never satisfied. She did not want to talk about Peter any more, but once Cath had her teeth into a problem she would not let go. Now, she said:
`Peter reminds me of a RAF type I knew when I was at Culham. Only he was the kind who has to talk a lot when things go wrong. We used to go for endless country walks and I was mad for him to make love to me, but he just talked and talked. I don’t think he really noticed me.’
`What did he say?’ Kerren was not concerned with Cath.
`He had been something of an ace in his time. He said that in the early days, flying was a kind of fulfilment; he seemed to fuse with the Spitfire as though all that complex mechanism was an extension of his own body, controlled without effort by his brain. Only “control” was the wrong word, because there was no sense of power or domination, no thrill of mastery. It was only later that he became aware of the need for control.’
They stood back to let one of the camp trucks pass on its way from Templedene station; as the truck swung away in the distance they could hear men singing, `She’ll be comin’ round the mountain.’ Then after a while it was quiet again and the trees moved closer. Kerren said:
`What happened?’
`Nothing happened at any given moment. He simply began to be aware of himself as a separate entity
, no longer a part of the machine. At first he put this down to too much night life. Then he found he was thinking more and more about the way he was handling the kite. As time went on he became obsessed with little things he had done automatically before, the need to check instruments, for example. He noticed that his reactions were not so quick. His co-ordination was still all right, but he was aware of the need to co-ordinate; he had to force himself to concentrate. There began to be friction between himself and the Spitfire, it seemed to have a life of its own, to behave a little capriciously. And, you know, Kerren, I think this distressed him more than anything else. He thought it was such a beautiful machine, he had such respect for it; as he lost his skill he felt ashamed as though his clumsiness was a kind of betrayal. If he had been an indifferent pilot, I don’t think it would have mattered; he would have learnt to adjust himself. But he had been so good, he couldn’t accept the fact that as far as flying was concerned he was on the way out. In the end, he talked about the Spitfire as though he hated and feared it, as though it had become an enemy.’
They had come to the last turn in the lane; the barbed wire fence was ahead of them. Kerren did not ask what became of the Spitfire pilot.
`What did you do?’ she asked.
`I listened.’
`But didn’t you say anything?’
`What was there to say? He had to go on and we both knew it. I couldn’t stop the war. Anyway, it was the listening that mattered. It was what he needed.’
`But Peter doesn’t talk. I’m his wife, but he doesn’t talk to me!’
`They’re all different. He’ll ask for what he needs in his own way.’
After this Kerren resolved that she would forget herself and think only of Peter’s needs. But his needs varied so much that she was always unprepared. Sometimes he seemed to be full of energy which could not be released quickly enough; at such times they had heavy drinking sessions followed by whirlwind drives in borrowed cars. She would watch his hands clenched on the wheel, his face rigid, the lips drawn back from the teeth in a grimace of pain. It seemed that it was the pain, and not the craving for speed, that goaded him on as though he sought a release that would only come when the pressure of blood broke the ear-drums and the torrent carried him over the threshold of peace. At other times, he seemed burnt out, too exhausted to speak; on these occasions everything she did or said was wrong. Even a simple inquiry about a fellow pilot who had been injured in a crash could make him snap:
`Why are you forever trying to ferret out things about people you don’t even know?’
`I’m interested in your friends; that’s natural, isn’t it?’
`You’re not interested, you have a morbid obsession with sickness and injury, you’re the kind who stops to gape at an accident.’
But all the time he behaved in this way, she could see that it distressed him terribly. When he said good-bye he would cling to her, whispering `Oh Kerren, I love you, I love you so much. You do believe that, don’t you?’ She did believe it, it was her joy and her despair. But what could she do? He would not talk and she sensed that this was his last defence against fear. And even if he had confided in her, what could she have done? He was worn to the nerve’s edge; but this was happening every day to thousands of men and the war would go on while there were still some left who had not reached the limit of endurance.
Love-making was the only real communication between them. To Kerren it became something beyond the mere gratification of desire, it was an attempt to transfuse a love strong enough to fight the germs of death in his body. The only time that it seemed there might be a chance of victory was when, after they had loved, they reached a place on the far side of desolation, a tranquil state beyond the borders of care. Love was her only gift and she gave it unsparingly; she drained herself on the nights she spent with him and her appearance when she returned to the camp gave rise to many comments.
`I wouldn’t have thought she had the stamina, a little half-pint like her!’ Naomi said.
`What you call a voracious appetite,’ Marney murmured.
Kerren lost weight, smoked a lot and never relaxed. In company she was incessantly bright and she never stopped talking. She was particularly distracting on duty, ordering Sue about and indulging in moments of hysterical gaiety with Robin. She became great friends with Staitham’s replacement, Sub-Lieutenant Boxer. He intended to teach English when the war was over and they spent a lot of time discussing poetry and literature. One of them would start a quotation and leave the other to complete it; they devised quizzes for each other. One morning when Hunter was off the camp and Adam was in charge, they started a session of this kind. Boxer said:
`What book begins “I have just returned from a visit to my landlord, the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with”?’
` “Wuthering Heights”. Here’s one for you. What book ends “I can never forget ’ee; for you was a good man and done good things”?’
` “Did” good things, if I remember my “Woodlanders” aright. Who said “Never, never, never, never, never”?’
Adam intervened, `Sounds like Peter Pan with a stutter.’ He looked out of the window. There was no cloud and not much wind; nevertheless, he decided that he wanted a balloon to be sent up. P.O. and Boxer were dispatched to do this because Kerren was plotting the chart. Adam rarely bothered with balloons so Kerren guessed that this was a manoeuvre to get the others out of the room. Adam had looked at her rather oddly once or twice lately and she had been conscious of a current of feeling that was stronger than mere pity. She was grateful, but she did not want him to try to express this feeling in words, so she concentrated fiercely on the chart. It took her a few seconds to realize that it was not sympathy that she was being offered.
`You may not be aware of this,’ Adam was saying, `but whenever you come on duty you’re wound up like an alarm clock and half-way through your duty the alarm goes off and keeps ringing until your relief arrives. We are all finding it rather wearing.’
`I’m sorry,’ Kerren said stiffly, `but things are rather difficult for me lately.’
`I realize that. But you make matters worse by dramatizing everything that happens to you. It’s exhausting for others and very bad for you.’
The words went through her like an electric shock; she was tingling with anger and humiliation. The incident had the effect of bringing her back to the world of trivialities which she thought she had left behind her for good.
When Peter flew over to Guillemot for the weekly camp dance she was in a much calmer mood. It was one of those late autumn evenings when the air gives a dusky purple bloom to tree and hedge, field and path. As she cycled to A camp to meet him, she thought of Ireland; she could smell the peat smoke rising from crofters’ cottages in the Mournes, feel the mist creeping over Strangford Lough. She resolved to take Peter home on their next leave.
He seemed in good spirits. She noticed with satisfaction how different he was from the subbies on the latest course; although he was thinner than ever, there was nevertheless something substantial about him, more a man’s weight. They danced very close, their feet making a series of rhythmic jerks which slowly rotated their bodies but did not lead them forward or backward so that at the end of the dance they would scarcely have moved from the one spot. Kerren told him her grievance about Adam without specifying the nature of the trouble. Peter said:
`He needs to get away from you Wrens. I’d be terrified to be on duty with a couple of harpies like you and Robin.’
They wrangled amicably for a while and then the conversation ebbed. The lights were low, only one coloured spot at the centre of the floor. Kerren and Peter rotated slowly in the spotlight. Those who really wanted to dance swung round the periphery, their shadows leaping and flickering like night birds at the extremity of a candle’s light. Here, at the flame’s centre, the movement was almost non-existent; Kerren and Peter swayed, lips slightly parted, eyes blank, seeming to deny the existence of other couples yet marginally aware of them as
a part of a pattern, dark spokes in a gigantic wheel.
The band’s repertoire was limited; but no one wanted new tunes, `Paper Doll’, `Can it be wrong?’ `Time goes by’; these were the tunes they wanted, Kerren fingered the sleeve of Peter’s battledress, felt the hardness of bone beneath; she pressed her cheek against his shoulder and experienced a thrill of possession that was simple and uncomplicated. It is this that he needs, she thought, why didn’t I realize it before? Adam was right; I dramatize everything, I have identified myself with Peter’s feelings so much that he can’t escape from his fear when he is with me. The dark-clad couples moved round and round, manipulated by the slow pulse of the music; the light at the centre dimmed at the end of the dance.
When the lights went on, Peter and Kerren went outside for a breath of fresh air. The stars seemed a long way away, tiny pinpricks in the purple haze. Other couples drifted out, leant against the wall, lighted cigarettes. The band began to play a Paul Jones. Kerren could imagine the circles forming, the sailors watching the girls they wanted to dance with, the girls only meeting the eyes of the men they wanted. She and Peter walked across a patch of rough grass to a hut which was no longer in use; through the broken windows they could see a board and a piece of chalk on a ledge below, the floor was cracked and grass was growing up between the cracks.
`When we’re gone the whole camp will be like this,’ Kerren said.
The thought pleased her, it was as though they had escaped into the future. Strolling back to the dance hall, Peter’s arm round her waist, she imagined that they were at a dance in Belfast, the lights on in the city, the people in civilian clothes; afterwards they would walk slowly home planning what they would do the next day, and the next day and the next day, even a week ahead. Beside her Peter talked about a friend who had recently returned from a training base in Canada.
`I wouldn’t mind settling there,’ he said. `It sounds like a country with a future in it.’
