Enduring Passions

by David Wiltshire

  Now he was walking out to the Hurricane he had been assigned, for his first ever solo flight. His heart hadn’t beaten so fast since that first ever solo in the Tiger Moth.

  The ground crew helped him up on the wing, put on his parachute, and strapped him into the small cockpit. A cockney corporal asked ‘All right, Sergeant?’

  He nodded and went slowly through the pre-flight checks. When he was completely satisfied he waved to the waiting ground crew and pressed the starter button. With a terrific cough, a stab of flame from the exhaust, and a billow of smoke, the engine roared into life. The tremendous power was immediately apparent. Tom Roxham secured his oxygen mask, licked his lips. This was what he had spent nearly a year working for, a period during which he could have been dropped, ‘bowler hatted’ at any point, or finally, sent to multi engines.

  But now, all he had to do was fly this beauty and get it back down in one piece, and he would be a fighter pilot. Tom hoped Hayes, Trubshaw and Dickie Dickinson were going to be proud of him.

  And Fay.

  She received a cable from her father, via the Governor’s Office. It told her that she would be better off where she was, that Tom was safe – he’d checked through the Air Ministry but that he wasn’t allowed to say anything more than that. Initially delighted and relieved that he was all right, her elation gradually gave way to frustration. Her parents more than likely hadn’t told Tom she was safe, and she seemed unable to contact him, in fact, didn’t even know where he was.

  She pondered on that as she got on with her work. She was helping the Red Cross, toiling under the ceiling fans on suffocatingly hot days – the temperature always seemed to hover around the nineties. Ever since the declaration, Singapore had been a hive of activity, though strangely remote from the war. Rubber, tin and other strategic materials were urgently needed, and the docks were working day and night to fulfil orders from home, and the USA. Although there was no sense of urgency affecting themselves directly, everybody was keen to show ‘Home’ that they were doing their bit. Consequently Fay was one of many volunteer nurses rolling bandages and filling medical boxes, whilst others were organizing themselves into air raid wardens, auxiliary firemen, defence volunteers, and queuing to give blood to the bank.

  It was all done in earnest, but with a sense of unreality – the war was too far away. Admittedly the battleships The Prince of Wales and The Repulse had arrived at the naval dockyard, but people just took it as an essential safeguard to the supply lines. Life went on as usual, but even more hectically.

  She’d got used to the smell of the place, the drains, spices, fish, and the swamp land on which the place was built.

  The city districts were colourful and different, the Chinese families eating with chop sticks and washing in the street, men carrying bamboo poles with their wares dangling at each end, washing lines strung from window to window, and a sense of frenzied activity.

  In the Indian sections, the smell of spices and curries predominated. The red juice of spat out betel stained the pavements, men wandered about, some hand in hand, or squatted in the gutter.

  But everywhere the steaming jungle made inroads into the suburbs, in places down to the water edges, where sampans were moored side by side, whole families living and dying on one boat.

  In the white and business areas all was wide avenues, and beautiful cut grass; the Cricket Club padang with the tall spire of St Andrews Cathedral and the cupola of the Supreme Court made for an elegant city centre.

  Everybody sweated continually, not helped by the dress codes – which were strictly upheld. These demanded collars and ties, dinner jackets or, for the military, bum freezers – the short white mess jackets.

  She’d got books from Kelly and Walsh, medicine for her aunt from Maynards, the chemist, and shopped in the new big department store, Robinsons.

  Everything was here in this lively city except one thing – Tom.

  She pondered how to get a message to him, and decided to visit the Governor’s Office or, failing that, see if the RAF could help.

  She knew of several airfields – the closest at Kallang just by the city, then one at Tengah and another at Sembawang, and of course, there was always the Cricket Club. She knew the chief Air Force Officer was an Air-Vice-Marshal Pulford who more than likely was a member, if not a visitor.

  She finished another box, ran a towel over her sweating face and arms and lifted her dress away from her front to let the air pass over her skin. Tomorrow – she would start tomorrow.

  He’d been on the squadron now for several weeks, doing dawn patrols out over the North Sea, only coastal shipping interrupting the endless grey waves. Not a dot in the sky, despite all the intense staring that eventually led to dots whirling all over the place – in his eyes.

  He could still remember the first patrol, with the CO and a wingman. Tom had been keyed up, tense with the thought that he was going into battle, that Huns with live ammunition were going to try to kill him. His mouth had been so dry he’d got ulcers and had had to see the dental officer who’d given him a mouthwash and told him to suck lozenges. It was something to do with breathing near pure oxygen. Tom didn’t believe him for one moment – he could still remember the fear.

  But as the days passed and nothing happened, he grew used to the routine. The fear stayed with him, but was at the back of his mind, not the front.

  And it wasn’t only him getting used to the boredom. The populace in general seemed to have decided the war wasn’t going to happen, despite the events at sea. ‘Forget Hitler, and take your holiday’ was one resort’s slogan.

  The news filtered in as Tom was sharing a pint in the local pub with the young Australian, one of the sergeants he’d joined the squadron with on the same day. They’d struck up an immediate friendship.

  Tall, gangling George Hawksley was from Western Australia, and happened to have been touring Europe before going home to the family mining business.

  Having seen the Nazi Party at first hand in Germany, when he’d arrived in London he’d immediately joined the RAF – much to his father’s disappointment.

  He was slow speaking, with a dry humour, often directed at pom bastards – especially anybody with a plummy accent.

  Tom’s problems which stemmed from his working-class origins naturally drew them closer together.

  ‘My shout.’

  George collared the glasses and went back to the bar to order a couple more pints, leaving Tom. He suddenly remembered, yet again, the phone call he’d made that morning to Codrington Hall. Fay’s lack of contact was beginning to eat into him. Despite the dislike of doing it he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

  Wilson answered, and greeted him cordially enough, so Tom asked him if he knew about ‘Miss Fay’. He said he didn’t. Something about his voice made Tom suspicious. He asked if his Lordship was in, and he was not, so eventually Tom found himself waiting for Lady Rossiter.

  When she eventually came on the line he was beginning to run out of time and money.

  ‘Lady Rossiter, I’m trying to find out about Fay – has she been in touch?’

  The voice at the other end was remote. ‘No, she has not.’

  ‘Do you know if she’s all right?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. Can’t you find out? After all you are her next of kin now.’

  There was no doubting the implication that she wouldn’t help him even if she did know, and by then he was sure that they had some idea, something in her voice and Wilson’s, had made him feel that they didn’t seem worried about her – that was something at least.

  ‘Look, can I give you my address and forces post office number?’

  The pips started up. As he struggled with getting more loose change from his pocket, the line went dead. He tried twice more, but it was always engaged. He got the message. He’d have to find some other way. Maybe the CO could help, after all, as her mother had implied, she was an RAF wife.

  George came back with the pints and set them on the tabl
e.

  ‘Hey, they’re talking around the bar about a Reuters message – seems the Jerries may be attacking Norway.’

  They looked at each other, downed their pints, and hurriedly left.

  In the Sergeants’ mess everybody was gathered around the wireless as the details started coming in. A massive German thrust through Denmark was already landing in Norway. Later that day Denmark surrendered.

  And still nothing happened.

  They all fretted about as the British force in Norway ran into trouble. Apart from that débàcle all remained quiet.

  The CO took Tom shooting – explaining that skills developed on the northern moors and estuaries could be transferred to air fighting. The highest scoring pilots of the Great War were the game shooters, well acquainted with the deflection shot.

  So Tom shot birds as Norway fell. But his closeness to the CO did have one other benefit. He listened when Tom told him about his wife.

  ‘I’ll get on to old Tommy Parker. He’s out there now.’

  Happier, Tom blew a fast flying teal out of the sky. It plummeted at speed to earth.

  ‘That’s the way, Roxham.’

  The CO clapped him on the back. ‘Give the same medicine to the Hun when we meet him.’

  Fay had just got up, showered and was at her dressing-table, combing her wet hair and enjoying the cool air from the overhead fan, when there was a knock on her bedroom door.

  Pulling on a robe she opened it to find the houseboy standing there.

  ‘Missie needed. Soldiers come.’

  Puzzled, she hurried along the hall.

  Her aunt was already up.

  As soon as she saw the young flight-lieutenant she knew it had to be about Tom.

  ‘What is it?’

  The flight-lieutenant, who had his hat under his arm enquired, ‘Mrs Roxham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her heart was banging so violently in her rib cage she thought they must all hear it.

  ‘I have a message from your husband, madam.’

  He held out an official buff-coloured envelope.

  As Fay took it, her aunt was already inviting him to have a cold drink, and to have another sent out to his driver. Fay turned away, hands trembling, and tore it open.

  Dear Fay

  Hope this finds you in good order.

  I am all right, no problems – other than your absence. Long for Sheringham again. Glad you are in a safe place. I will do my best to keep in touch.

  Take care,

  Your loving husband

  Tom

  She read it over again and then once more. Its shortness and lack of sweet sayings was disappointing. Then she realized that it had come through official channels – probably unofficially. He had had to avoid some jumped up little twirp stopping its transmission.

  And the reference to Sheringham was his way of telling her he wanted to make love to her again. She ached for his touch.

  ‘Is there any reply, madam?’

  It was the young flight-lieutenant.

  ‘I can reply?’

  He grinned. ‘I should say so. Apparently somebody knows somebody and is pulling strings.’

  She raised a finger. ‘Just a minute – I’ll be quick.’

  In the bureau she pulled a sheet of paper to her. It was then that she realized how difficult it was to write anything personal, knowing that she was going to give it to a stranger, who would read it and then others who would also read it. She thought quickly, and started writing.

  Dear Tom

  I’m very well and safe, living with Aunt Blanche in …

  She looked up, said to the flight-lieutenant, ‘Can I say I’m in Singapore?’

  He nodded. ‘Don’t see a problem there. Anyway, if they don’t like it they will erase it fast enough – black it out.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her pen scratched again.

  … Singapore. Please keep safe and don’t do anything silly for my sake. Shall always remember you at Sheringham – we must do it again as soon as we can.

  Thinking of you every minute of every day.

  Your loving wife

  Fay

  She folded it and put it into an envelope after kissing it quickly.

  She gave it to him. ‘There we are. When will he get it?’

  The flight-lieutenant shrugged. ‘Can’t speak for the other end, Mrs Roxham, but that will be transmitted today as long as traffic is not too heavy. He certainly should get it in the next few days.’

  When he’d gone she excused herself, saying to her aunt that she was going to get dressed. In her room, she sat on the bed and read the printed message again, then lay down holding on to it and cried.

  Tom had come back from another boring patrol over the North Sea to find the place a hive of activity. He’d asked his ground crew what was going on as he stepped out on to the wing and saw fuel bowsers and armourers buzzing all over the field servicing the aircraft.

  ‘We’re on the move, sir – don’t know where.’

  He grabbed a ride on a Hillman 10 heading for the hangars. The excitement in the squadron office was obvious, with saluting dispatch riders coming and going and clerks emptying filing cabinets.

  The adjutant confirmed the news. ‘We’re off to Duxford, then across to France to support the BEF. By the way, the CO’s asking for you – go on in.’

  Tom tapped on the latter’s door and stuck his head around.

  ‘Sir?’

  Although on the phone, the CO beckoned him in and, leaning forward, used two fingers to push a communication sheet towards him. Tom picked it up and read Fay’s message. It was the most wonderful news.

  The CO slammed the phone down and roared. ‘Right, Sergeant Roxham, now perhaps we can get on with the war.’

  But he was smiling.

  They took off in threes, then lined up in ‘V’ formation over the sea and headed south.

  It was only as the coastline of North Norfolk came up that Tom realized they were going to come inland again right over Sheringham.

  He flicked the button on his mask radio.

  ‘Blue 3 to Blue 1 – over.’

  The CO acknowledged.

  Tom asked him for permission to drop out of formation and fly low over the town.

  Having received it, he eased the stick forward. At just over 200 feet he flashed in over the beach with its groins and newly laid barbed wire, then over the turrets and dome of the Grand Hotel.

  It was gone in a flash and, as he climbed away from the pine trees on the ridge and slotted back into formation, he felt a deep sense of sadness. A lump came into his throat. Already it all seemed such a long time ago.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Churchill’s grim voice came out from the wireless.

  ‘The Battle of France is over, I expect the battle of Britain is about to begin.’

  Lord and Lady Rossiter sat numbly in their beautiful drawing-room listening until Churchill finished – ‘last for a thousand years, men will say this was their finest hour.’

  When Wilson switched off the wireless they sat in silence.

  It had all happened so suddenly, so violently.

  On 13 May, Hitler had launched a sudden attack on Holland and Luxembourg. Rotterdam had been bombed with 800 dead and thousands homeless. By the 15th the Dutch had surrendered.

  But the main blow came from the Ardennes, the so called impassable route. The German Panzers were soon across the River Meuse, by-passing the Maginot Line upon which the French defence had depended so much.

  By 25 May, the outflanked and retreating BEF was converging on Dunkirk; by the early morning of 4 June, the last British and French personnel had been lifted from the beaches, and a new word had entered the language.

  Blitzkrieg.

  Tom had been fighting continuously and moving his Hurricane hurriedly from one grass strip to another as the Panzers and Stuka dive bombers devastated all before them, overrunning airfield after airfield.

  Over Ypres he’d had h
is first terror-stricken realization that he was being fired upon. He pulled his Hurricane around so hard that he momentarily blacked out, coming to as the blurred shape of a Messerschmitt passed before him. He fired his first ever burst in panic – and missed. Then his gun jammed, and thereafter he just ducked and dived to stay alive.

  As they flew back he felt elated – he had survived.

  But the elation soon turned sour. As they got back to their grass field they were told to refuel quickly and fly south as they were about to be overrun.

  On taking off, they were jumped by low flying ME 109s coming in with the sun behind them. He saw the CO go down in flames.

  Maybe the capacity was there already, but from that moment on Tom Roxham became a ruthless predator of enemy aircraft.

  His first kill came when they bounced some Stukas without fighter cover, diving on to roads clogged with civilian refugees as well as French Army trucks.

  The first one he caught in his cross-wires as it climbed away leaving a tremendous column of black smoke rising from the ground. He swooped through it. The awkward slow Stuka was no match for the Hurricane. Tom released the safety catch, and watched as his tracer thumped into the wing root. It promptly folded up and plummeted to earth like a shot duck. There was a ball of fire and that was that.

  He’d killed his first man – or rather two.

  Somebody else got another one, but Tom managed to be in the right place at the right time as a third one tried to escape at ground level. He dropped down, following the black cross as it flew along a railway line. Tracers started coming up – he could see the terrified rear gunner’s face despite his mask. He killed him first, then let his shells creep up the long canopy. With the pilot dead, the black gull-like shape flew along for a while, wobbled then veered away into a forest. Trees were still burning long after he left the area.

  Now the squadron was back in Scotland, badly mauled and at only sixty per cent strength.

  He and George Hawksley were the only two sergeant pilots left. They sat in a pub with two pints of heavy, not talking – just too exhausted. Lord and Lady Rossiter went to bed early.