by Mary Nichols
The weather abated sufficiently for them to take off the next night, twenty-four hours later than planned, although it was still windier than those who were going in by air would have liked. Alec, in charge of his stick of twenty, led the way to the Dakota. ‘What d’you reckon it’ll get postponed again?’ Trooper Langford said, as they numbered off and climbed in to sit down on either side of the fuselage ready for take-off. Keyed up as they were it seemed to take for ever. The engines had been running as they embarked, but now one of them coughed and stopped.
‘Sorry, folks.’ This was the American pilot. ‘We’re having trouble with the engines. We’ll have to transfer to a standby aircraft.’
‘That’s all we need,’ someone said as they scrambled out of the stricken plane and marched across the tarmac to another one. Everyone else was silent, wondering if it was a bad omen and not daring to say so.
They went through the drill again and this time they did take off. After a few minutes’ tense silence while they realised they were in the air and really were on their way, someone started to sing. Everyone followed suit and the strains of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ competed with the noise of the engines. Below them in the Channel a huge armada was steadily making its way towards the coast of Normandy. A lot depended on the airborne troops doing their job before the troops landed.
‘French coast ahead,’ the pilot called back to them. They flew on through the flak which was spitting at them from the coastal guns, some of it rattling on the fuselage like pebbles. They hooked themselves up ready to jump and waited for the red light, but it remained stubbornly unlit. Alec unhooked himself and made his way to the cockpit. ‘It’s only supposed to be about a minute from the coast to the DZ,’ he told the pilot.
‘We’ve been blown off course. Don’t know where we are.’
‘Well, we’ve obviously overshot, so go back and try again.’
‘Not so easy, we’ll come up against the incoming aircraft and paratroopers, if we manage to find them.’
‘You mean you’re lost?’ He couldn’t keep the annoyance from his voice.
‘That’s about it. We’re going back to England.’
‘Not with us on board, you’re not. We’re jumping.’
‘Where?’
‘Here. Now. We’ll find our own way.’
‘If you say so.’ It was obvious the pilot thought he was mad.
Alec returned to his place. ‘We’ve overshot and the pilot doesn’t know exactly where we are, but I don’t reckon you want to go home, do you?’
‘Not on your life,’ was the answer from Corporal Glover, his number two, and this was echoed by everyone else. ‘We’ve come this far, we’re not going home with our tail between our legs. You tell him that from us.’
‘I already have.’ As he spoke the aircraft levelled out, the red light came on, the door was opened and they went through the drill in silence.
Green light. ‘Go!’ Alec heard the dispatcher’s voice at the same moment he flung himself out.
As he drifted down, with his kitbag dangling on its line below him, he looked about him. He was alone in the sky. He was joined by the rest of the stick and the canisters containing their weapons, which had been carried under the fuselage and were released by the dispatcher in the middle of the stick, but he knew, even before he hit the ground, that they would be well scattered, and what was more, they were some way behind enemy lines.
Harry was back in the air. Every available aircraft and aircrew were needed and he wasn’t going to be left behind if he could help it. He had had a few qualms about Pam and the babies, but they had been overcome; these were momentous times and he was determined to be part of it all. Best of all, Tim had returned and they would be flying a Mitchell, a sturdy aircraft that could take a good deal of punishment but whose twin engines were the noisiest they had ever experienced. They had spent the last few weeks bombing the northern coast of France, targeting bridges, railway yards and factories, anything to disrupt Germany’s ability to hit back at the invasion forces, and doing exercises with the army because one of their roles would be to support the ground troops. He had not known any more than anyone else where the invasion was to take place, nor its exact timing, but the area around Calais and the Normandy Peninsula featured strongly. Every time he came back safely, he sent up a little prayer of thanksgiving and at the first opportunity raced across the field to Pam and his children. His family was everything to him; they were what kept him going. He parted from them reluctantly and at the end of each raid returned to them joyfully.
Tonight was no different and yet it was very different. The tension and feeling of expectancy were palpable as they kept the usual lookout for enemy fighters.
‘Look at that,’ Tim shouted above the noise of the Mitchell’s engines, though the rest of the crew hardly needed to be told. Through a break in the clouds the Channel appeared to be thick with shipping making for Calais, but they knew, because they had been told at their briefing, that it was a diversionary tactic, the barges were not full of troops; the real invasion was well to the west. Their job was to continue the deception by bombing installations in the Calais area. They left the make-believe armada behind and flew on to their target, all grinning from ear to ear, elated that it was happening at last.
They were going back to France to avenge Dunkirk and all those who had died then and since, Harry thought, and that included those many thousands of civilians, like Julie and George, who had perished as a result of Hitler’s bombs. Now he could think of Julie with a kind of affectionate nostalgia; someone he had once known but who had faded into history. It was difficult to recall her face now, and he could hardly remember what George looked like. That did not mean they didn’t have a place in his heart, but the memories were tucked away in a corner where they no longer tormented him.
The babies often disturbed Pam’s sleep, but it wasn’t the babies that woke her that night; it was the noise of aircraft. Out of habit she sat up in bed and began counting, but soon realised how futile that was. Leaving her bed, she went to the window. The night was cloudy and blustery, but even so, she could tell the air was black with aircraft, not just those from Swanton Morley, but hundreds, no thousands of them, droning on and on. This was it, this was what they had been building up to, ever since Dunkirk. Some of those aeroplanes would never return. She stood at the window and prayed, as hard as she had ever prayed in her life, that Harry would come safely back to her.
Everyone had the wireless on the following morning and all work stopped as they listened to the news. ‘This is the news and this is John Snagge reading it,’ came over the airwaves. ‘D-Day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the north-western face of Hitler’s European fortress, Paratroopers have landed in northern France …’ Julie and Florrie had been stood down and were listening to it in the mess, along with a crowd of off-duty airmen. The headlines were followed by a short account of the landing and the tremendous organisation which had been involved to bring it about. It had gone according to plan, so they were told, although the weather had not been favourable. It had been cold and cloudy and the sea rough.
‘Well, we know that,’ Florrie said to Julie. ‘Why don’t they tell us about the airborne troops? I know Matt shouldn’t have told me, but he’s towing gliders, and there’s Alec. He’s bound to be involved. I shall be like a cat on hot bricks until I know they’re both safe.’
‘Me too,’ Julie said. ‘How long do you think it will be before we know?’
‘Dunno. Probably days, if at all.’
Julie jumped to her feet. ‘I can’t sit here doing nothing. We won’t learn anything more for ages. Let’s go for a walk.’
‘It’s going to rain again.’
‘We can wear waterproofs. Come on. We can’t do any good here.’
And so they went. It was blustery but the rain held off.
It was strange how deserted the countryside was. The day before it had been bristling with troop movements. No
w they had gone. The tented camps were deserted, the sea empty of craft, the inflatable equipment gone. And there were few aircraft on the ground.
‘It’s creepy, don’t you think?’ Julie said.
‘Yes, but it’s only a lull. Not everyone has gone, they will be assembling reinforcements and you can bet your life we’ll be as busy as ever tomorrow.’
‘You mean because people will have been killed and wounded. The news didn’t say much about casualties.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they? I’m going to try and ring Matt tomorrow.’
They heard the drone of an aircraft flying very low and then a Mitchell broke through the clouds, coming down very fast, one propeller idle. ‘It’s going to crash,’ Julie said and started running back towards the airfield, with Florrie behind her.
* * *
‘We can come down at Manston, Skipper,’ Harry said, turning from the radio. ‘The runway’s clear to land.’
‘Right.’ The enemy, believing the invasion was going to be at Calais, had subjected the bombers to even more flak than usual, and they had been hit in the port engine and the undercarriage, which had affected the landing gear. ‘I can’t get the wheels down, it’ll have to be a belly flop, so hold on to your hats.’
The ground seemed to come up at an incredible speed and then they were sliding down the runway, bumping and jolting, making a terrible scraping noise along the tarmac as bits of the undercarriage sheered off, and then one wing tip hit the ground, the tail came up and they were all thrown towards the cockpit as the nose buried itself into the grass beside the runway. There was a second of complete and eerie silence.
Harry extricated himself from the tangle of arms and legs. He felt battered and bruised and his ribs ached. Tim was unconscious with blood pouring from a head wound. The gunner was moaning his legs were broken, the other two were swearing, so they were not so badly hurt. ‘Out!’ he said.
They didn’t need telling; the fear of an explosion and fire was uppermost in their minds. Harry reached across Tim to try and release the canopy, but it wouldn’t budge. The bomb aimer, ignoring his injured leg, crawled across to help. By this time they could hear vehicles arriving and then someone appeared on the other side of the canopy. He had an axe in his hand. ‘Keep clear,’ he mouthed.
Harry tried to shield Tim while the others hitched themselves up the splintered floor of the aircraft. It only took seconds to get them all out but it seemed like years. They had barely got everyone clear than the remaining engine burst into flames, followed by a huge explosion. Debris flew everywhere.
Julie and Florrie came sprinting across the field just in time to see and feel the explosion. They stopped and watched in horrified dismay as the Mitchell was engulfed in flames. Only then did they see the five airmen in flying kit nearby, two standing, two sitting and one on a stretcher. They were being put into the ambulances which had raced up behind the fire engine. ‘Did they all get out?’ she asked one of the firemen who was playing a hose on the wreckage.
‘Yes, all out, though we aren’t sure the pilot will survive; he’s badly hurt. The others will be all right once they get to hospital.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Come on, Eve, we can’t do anything here,’ Florrie said, pulling on her arm.
Julie was reluctant to leave. She had heard of casualties before, of aeroplanes who didn’t return from an op, paratroopers whose parachutes hadn’t opened, of road crashes in the blackout, of people dying in air raids, but since being bombed herself she had not been this close to a disaster and she felt she ought to be doing something to help.
‘Your friend is right,’ the fireman said. ‘We’ll deal with this and the medics will look after the men. Don’t trouble yourself about them.’
‘I can’t help it,’ Julie told Florrie as they moved away. ‘I keep thinking of Alec and hoping that if he was hurt someone would help him.’
‘I know. I think the same about Matt. Let’s go back to the mess, there might be more news.’
* * *
‘Pam, it’s me.’
‘Harry! Oh, thank you, God, thank you.’ It had been the longest and most miserable twenty-four hours of her life, since the station commander and the padre had come up her garden path to tell her Harry had not returned and they feared he had been shot down. ‘Of course, they could have come down somewhere miles from anywhere and unable to contact us,’ the padre said in an effort to cheer her up.
‘You mean in occupied France?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He could have been taken prisoner?’
‘It’s possible,’ the station commander said. ‘He could have been picked up by the Resistance. We haven’t had any contact since they turned for home. It may just be his radio malfunctioning and they’ve landed somewhere in England. If that’s the case, we’ll hear soon enough.’
They had no telephone at Honeysuckle Cottage but there was one at The Papermakers, and the landlord had sent her a message that a call had been booked for her at midday. Guessing it had something to do with Harry, she had been sitting beside the instrument, fearing the worst, for the last half-hour, and to hear his voice, sounding so normal, had filled her with unbounded relief and joy. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Canterbury Hospital. We had to come down early, couldn’t make it all the way home.’
‘Hospital!’ she squeaked. ‘You mean you’re hurt?’
‘A few bumps and bruises, nothing serious. I’ll come home by train just as soon as they let me out of here.’
‘Thank God! What about the others?’
‘Tim bought it.’
‘Oh Harry, I’m so sorry.’ She knew how close the two men had been and how it must be affecting Harry. He’d try not to show it, of course. That’s why he used that idiomatic phrase, prevalent among airmen.
‘Yes. He was a damned good pilot besides being a good pal – but for him we none of us might have made it. I hope he gets a posthumous medal.’
‘What about the others?’
‘One broken leg, one gashed ear and broken ribs, one dislocated shoulder, nothing too serious but they’ll be in hospital a bit longer.’
‘Shall I get Mum to look after the twins and come down?’
‘Good heavens no, I’ll be on the way home in no time. I must go, my pennies have run out. I’ll ring again when I leave here to tell you when to expect me.’
She put the receiver down and burst into tears.
‘Bad news?’ Greg was standing over her with a glass of whisky in his hand.
She took the drink and gulped it down. ‘No, he’s all right. Harry’s safe. He’s in hospital in Canterbury but coming home soon. I must go and tell Mum and Dad.’ She handed the empty glass back to him and hurried out of the pub and down to the mill house.
‘The Mitchell crew, Sergeant?’ queried the sister on duty when Julie approached her. ‘What do you want to know for? Do you know any of them?’
‘No, but I was there when the plane came down. It was awful.’ Florrie had advised her not to come, that it would only upset her, but Florrie had gone off to drive the group captain to London for a debriefing and was not around to stop her.
‘It always is. I’ve lost count of the number of casualties we get in here from Manston. It’s right on the flight path of planes coming home and many’s the one that’s come down there in an emergency.’
‘I know that, but what about the crew of that Mitchell? I’ve brought them some cigarettes and magazines. Can I give them to them?’
‘Very well. You’ll find three of them at the far end of the ward. Their injuries are not life-threatening, though I don’t think they’ll be flying again for a little while.’
‘Three? I thought there were five.’
‘The pilot died and one was well enough to be discharged; he’s only just this minute gone off to catch a train.’
‘He must have been the one who passed me coming in. I’ll go and see the others.’
‘Don’t st
ay too long,’ Sister called after her as she set off down the ward.
The crash must have affected him more that he realised, Harry thought, but the WAAF he had just seen was uncannily like Julie. Older, of course, and not so waif-like, smart in her uniform with her sergeant’s stripes on her sleeve. He thought she had been on the airfield when the Mitchell blew up, but in the confused state he had been in at the time, he couldn’t be sure. He had nearly stopped and spoken to her, but she had hurried past him into the hospital without sparing him a glance. The encounter left him feeling a little disturbed, as if he had seen a ghost. Oh, he knew airmen were a superstitious lot and often claimed to have been aware of an extra crew member on a flight or had seen ghosts on airfields or near the sites of crashes, but he had never counted himself one of those. And why Julie, why not Tim or one of the others from the station who had died? Mentally he shook himself and climbed into the taxi taking him to the railway station.
He had to cross London from Waterloo to Liverpool Street and, in a moment of guilt, decided to visit Highgate Cemetery. It was three and a half years since he had stood there talking to Miss Paterson. He wondered what had become of her and whether she had managed to keep the grave tidy. He bought a bunch of lilies at an exorbitant price from a flower seller at the station and took the Underground to Highgate.
The cemetery was a haven of quiet and he strolled among the gravestones and statuary, letting the peace of it wash over him. After the turbulence of the last few days and the death of his pilot, it helped him to unwind. The grave was just as he had remembered it. The garden gnome remained stood at its head, still smiling, although the broken arm had weathered, the rawness of the stump changed from white to dirty grey. It was a casualty of the war, just as Julie and George had been, just as Tim Harrison had been, just as the thousands who had died on the beaches of Normandy were. He removed his cap and, kneeling, took the faded flowers out of the vase and replaced them with the lilies he had bought and picked up the gnome and cradled it in his hands, saying a prayer for all those who had suffered and continued to suffer, for Tim and others who had died, brave men and good pals whose like he would never see again. Giving thanks for his own deliverance, he carefully replaced the gnome to stand sentinel over the grave. Then he stood up and spent a moment in quiet contemplation, remembering the girl Julie had been. He recalled that first meeting on the beach with wry amusement, and the woman she had become, so innocently naive, so loving, so anxious to please him. What would their life together have been like if she had lived, he wondered? How would they have changed, because everyone changed as they matured? Would they have continued to love each other through the years into old age? There was no sense in torturing himself with unanswerable questions; his future was with Pam and his children and in a few hours, God willing, he would be with them again.
