Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  … although still hazardous, as Theo and his intake were to discover – but not until they’d completed ground training. That first morning they were roused rudely from sleep before dawn, turfed out on to the moonlit grass in full kit and ordered to run round the airfield, some three miles in circumference. Upon arriving back sweating and gasping, they were ordered round it again, only the other way. After breakfast of porridge, bread and jam they then cleaned and tidied their huts before reporting to stores where they were issued with exotic new boots with crêpe soles and laces at the sides, and an old-fashioned leather flying helmet with extra padding in the top. Then they were divided into groups to begin training as parachutists. Theo’s group was led outside to an apparatus called the Trojan Horse. This heavy wooden construction consisted of a platform supported by four legs fitted with wheels. The platform, which was ten feet off the ground, had a circular hole around which four men could sit, legs dangling, while the others took turns pushing the ‘horse’ over the ground. At the given order, the pushers accelerated the horse to a running pace whereupon the instructor shouted ‘Number one go! Number two go!’ and so on until all four jumpers had ‘dispatched’ through the hole to impact with the concrete ten feet below. This training, they were told, was about learning to land without injury, which involved bending the knees and rolling on to your back, and also jumping closely one after another without getting in each other’s way. Due to difficulties pushing the horse and confusion over the jumping order, Theo’s first attempt resulted in all four jumpers crashing painfully to the ground in a confused heap. Repeats followed until, bruised and dazed, they slowly got the hang of it, whereupon they were sent running round the perimeter again.

  After lunch they were introduced to the parachute harness, a heavy webbing affair that passed over the shoulders, round the chest and waist, and up between the legs, to a central release point on the midriff. It was from this harness that the jumper hung from his parachute, therefore donning it correctly – and learning how to release it – was of paramount importance. Loose straps resulted in agonizing ‘bites’ when the parachute opened, particularly in the groin area, while fumbling the release mechanism after landing meant being dragged painfully over the ground. Both these scenarios were simulated, the first by having the trainee leap from a platform with his harness too loose, the second by taking him outside and pulling him face down across the concrete while he tried to release it.

  In the evening the trainees changed into PE kit for an hour’s ‘physical jerks’, and a run round the perimeter again for good measure, before collapsing on to their cots, battered and exhausted. A further two days of this ‘synthetic’ training followed, including classroom lectures on wind, drift and descent control, plus a closely attended demonstration of how a parachute was folded and packed. Then on the third morning they made their first jump.

  Before it came a change of clothing, variants of which were constantly in development. After their early-morning run, wash and breakfast, they reported to stores where they regretfully handed in their crêpe-soled boots (too expensive) and less regretfully their leather flying helmets (of no practical use) to be issued instead with their old boots, and enormous doughnut-shaped headgear featuring a rubber ring held by a chin strap. Following this novelty came a curious new garment resembling oversize overalls with the legs cut off. This ‘smock’, they were told, was to be worn over their battledress, but under their parachute harness, the idea being that in a real scenario, a paratrooper would carry his weapons, supplies, rations, ammunition and other paraphernalia in his battledress pockets and webbing in the usual way, then don the smock over it before strapping on his parachute, so nothing caught up when he jumped. Copied from the German version or Knochensack – ‘bone sack’ – the sartorial effect was comical; the men immediately dubbed it ‘maternity wear’, but its practicality was quickly proven.

  Duly attired in new smock and helmet Theo and Burnsy helped each other into their harnesses, this time with parachutes attached, and clumped outside into the sunshine with the others. Two barrage balloons waited, attached to winches mounted on the back of lorries and swaying gently in the breeze. Beneath each balloon was a metal cage with a hole in the floor.

  ‘This is it, I’d say, Burnsy.’

  ‘About bloody time.’

  The lorries moved off, their balloons following behind like lumbering elephants, until they reached the middle of the airfield.

  ‘Right!’ The instructor rubbed his hands. ‘Who’s first for the long drop?’

  It was quite bad, Theo decided afterwards, but could have been worse. The most unsettling part was not the coming down but the going up. They were dispatched in pairs, and when their turn came he and Burnsy clambered awkwardly into the cage, where an instructor bade them sit on either side of the hole while the balloon ascended. This took some time and all the while it swayed and jerked and strained on its wire like a bull on a tether. Disconcerting sounds emanated too, sighing and flapping and creaking, while the cage itself tilted and wobbled alarmingly. The net result was nausea and vertigo, made worse by the view, which was either straight up at the trembling skin of the balloon, matted and patched like a worn bicycle tyre, or straight down at a receding circle of grass dotted with upturned white faces, or straight across to Burnsy whose sickly grin offered neither humour nor encouragement. Undecided which was worst, Theo closed his eyes. Eventually the winch jolted to a stop and it was time to jump.

  ‘Sit on the edge, legs together, arms at your sides, just as you practised.’ The instructor clipped Theo’s parachute line to the cage and checked it with a tug. ‘Keep your chin up and listen for instructions from below. A good push off now, and GO!’

  A shove from behind and he was plummeting, the breath sucked from his lungs. Rushing wind, then a crackling noise, a sharp jerk and suddenly he was floating. The transition was instant, the silence startling, the sensation magical, and relief surged over him like a wave. A whoop from above as Burnsy’s parachute opened, a few more seconds of blissful floating, then: ‘Keep your fucking legs together, Trickey!’ from below. He looked down. The ground was already rushing up and he was drifting sideways; he tucked his elbows, bent his knees – a bone-jarring crash and he was down, tucking and rolling as best he could.

  ‘Bloody shambles!’ the instructor pronounced. ‘Get it right next time or else.’ But he knew he’d done well enough, and later that day he made a second jump which earned him the rare plaudit: ‘Better.’

  After three balloon exits the trainees moved on to aeroplanes. First, however, four of their intake were removed, two for refusing to jump from the balloon, and two for deciding to ‘un-volunteer’ for special ops. Nothing was said: they packed and left, and the training went on. The aeroplane jumps took place over a large country estate nearby called Tatton Park. Groups of ten jumpers called ‘sticks’ embarked the Whitleys at Ringway, flew to Tatton Park, jumped, and then marched the six miles back to base carrying their parachutes with them. The ‘pulling off’ jumping method had by now been replaced by the ‘dropping through a hole’ method, as per the balloon, the hole being where the Whitley’s lower gun turret used to be. This was a vastly improved arrangement, for as well as being safer, it meant jumpers could exit in reasonably quick succession, as would be required on a mission. But it had one serious drawback, which became known as the ‘Whitley kiss’. The hole in the floor was not so much a hole as a tube, three foot long and narrower at the bottom. In order to exit satisfactorily, therefore, it was essential the trainee adopt the ‘thin as a pencil’ pose and push himself off very precisely. Not enough push and his parachute caught on the lip, pitching him forward. Too much push and he hit the opposite side as he fell. Both resulted in painful injuries to head and face: bloody noses, split lips and broken teeth. ‘Oh, hello,’ the instructors would quip as another stunned victim gathered himself from the ground, ‘kissed the Whitley again, I see.’

  Days turned to weeks and bad weather delayed their final j
umps; they were reduced to classroom lectures and endless PE. That and worried queuing for the telephone as German bombers struck London and elsewhere. Then at last the day dawned for their final qualifying jump, which was to be performed as an ‘operational’ demonstration before a specially invited audience of military chiefs, War Office officials and possibly even the Prime Minister himself. For the performance, four Whitleys were to take off from Ringway, each carrying a stick of ten men, fly in formation to Tatton Park, then drop them in a simulated attack on a building in the grounds. Theo and Burnsy’s stick were to fly in the leading Whitley. In addition to battledress, smock and harness, each man wore a chest pouch containing smoke bombs and a whistle to add authenticity to the attack, and upon landing they were to make for a weapons cache where they would further arm themselves with rifles and bayonets.

  The weather was clear, the autumn breeze slight, and the first three Whitleys took off as scheduled, climbing steadily into the sunshine over Ringway. There was then a delay with the fourth bomber due to technical problems, but since VIPs were waiting it was decided to press on with three, with the fourth following when possible. As they neared the target Theo’s stick took up position, two men sitting on either side of the exit hole, the rest bunched closely behind. Minutes of tense waiting followed; then with a shout the instructor dropped his arm and out they went. The descent went well; Theo landed heavily but rolled quickly on to his knees, releasing his harness without difficulty. Hearing whistles around him, he dropped a smoke bomb and set off towards the arms cache, dimly aware of a crowd of onlookers to one side. Overhead came the drone of the fourth bomber with the final stick of men. He reached the cache, where he found Burnsy and the others busy collecting rifles.

  ‘Bloody terrific, eh, Trick?’ Burnsy grinned.

  Then came a shout and everyone looked up. Hands pointed, necks craned, the VIPs turned to see. A figure, one of the men in the last stick, was tumbling rapidly earthwards, arms and legs flailing, his unopened parachute streaming behind him. Everyone froze, the demonstration forgotten, watching in mesmerized silence as the figure dropped, struggling all the way, until it hit the ground with a sickening thump.

  *

  They finished the demonstration, or an abbreviated version. Afterwards, while the dead man was discreetly removed, they were lined up on the grass for the VIPs to inspect. The Prime Minister was not among them. Few made comments as they passed; their mood seemed distracted.

  ‘Gliders, Geoffrey, is the way to go,’ Theo heard one man say to his colleague. ‘Why risk throwing them out of aeroplanes when you can pack a dozen in a glider, in full kit, and land them safely bang on the target?’

  ‘You could be right.’

  It was a ‘Roman candle’, their instructors told them later, a rare malfunction of the parachute whereby it deployed, but didn’t open, just streamed behind like a horse’s tail. Nothing to be done, they said, a chance in a million. It was a poignant climax to their training. The victim was a Yorkshireman called Gelling and well liked; now his locker was cleared and his bunk empty, as though he never existed.

  A period of limbo followed. They formally passed out from Central Landing School, which was suddenly renamed Central Landing Establishment amid rumours it was to include ‘other’ forms of airborne training. They were also informed they were no longer attached to 2 Commando, but something called 11 Special Air Service Battalion which no one had heard of. In compensation they were officially designated paratroopers and awarded newly designed insignia featuring a winged parachute, which they sewed proudly on to the shoulders of their uniforms. Another intake arrived, so they moved out to barracks in nearby Knutsford to continue their PE regime and weapons training, and go on exercises which often involved forced marches of thirty miles or more. At the same time, with invasion fears looming, the Blitz in full swing and rumours of war in Africa, many began fretting about deployment, especially when they saw former colleagues going to fight. Bored with polishing boots and endless training, and fearful of missing out, some began requesting to return to their old units. Stagnation set in, and with it the suspicion that having created an elite corps, the powers-that-be didn’t know what to do with it. To emphasize the point, and in time-honoured military tradition, they were sent home on leave.

  Theo returned to Kingston where Eleni greeted him with customary fervour and horror stories about the bombings: ‘My lovely haberdashing shop on Station Road gone, Teo, poum!’ As for Carla, he learned better news: that her political status had been downgraded from ‘A’ to ‘B’, which meant she wouldn’t be deported to Canada, but interned somewhere in Britain. Theo wondered privately whether International Research Bureau might be connected with this; Eleni said she didn’t know the reason but warned him Carla was suffering low spirits and poor health. ‘She jus’ want go home South Tyrol, my dear.’

  Next morning he took the bus to Kempton, riding up top to gaze out at rain-filled craters and smouldering rubble where once houses had stood, and noting how oblivious Londoners seemed as they hurried about their business.

  The Kempton camp had grown since his last visit, and in the dank autumn drizzle looked and smelled crowded, depressing and unsanitary. Nor was it housing only Italians, he learned, but foreign dissidents and agitators of many persuasions and nationalities, including many outright criminals. Life for the inmates, already oppressive and unhealthy, was clearly also unsafe. Carla’s appearance shocked him too: thin and wan as she entered the room, she burst into fits of tearful coughing when she saw him.

  ‘What is it, Mama? Do you need the doctor?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she gasped, ‘just the infezione. Everyone has it.’

  Nor was she cheered by her improved status. ‘Canada, Scotland, what’s the difference, Theodor, I’m still undesirable, no?’

  He asked about the Blitz. She said they heard the sirens and bombs sometimes and trooped down to shelters beneath the grandstand. Then he asked about Josef and Eleanora, at which she shook her head and sighed. Since declaring war the Italian authorities were more tyrannical, more paranoid, more cruel to their own people than ever, she said, and she feared her father might never be released. As for Eleanora: ‘Pah, let her go to Rodolfo in Rome, if she wants. I begged her to come here to England’ – she gestured around – ‘but for what point?’

  Back in Kingston he telephoned Captain Grant at Baker Street, was told he was unavailable, so left a message. Then with nothing to do and no one to see, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Street noises drifted through the window; from farther off came the hooting of river traffic. He felt lonely and adrift, like a stick in a stream. Home was an empty boarding house in a country he didn’t belong to, his family was scattered and broken, he had no friends outside the army, no trade but soldiering – which he felt inadequate at. He was a misfit, and a fraud. He rose and went to the washbasin, staring at the pale-eyed stranger in the mirror. ‘Impostore,’ he sneered, and then ran the taps and began to wash.

  ‘Theodorable!’ Susanna Price opened her front door. ‘You’re alive! And just look at you, all posh and handsome in your uniform.’

  ‘Hello, Susanna, you look well too.’ She’d blossomed in the year since last he’d seen her. No more the gawky Juliet to his schoolboy Mercutio, she’d filled out, was taller and more assured, like a proper young woman. ‘I wondered if you’d like to walk out?’

  ‘I’m not supposed, on account of the Blitz.’

  ‘We needn’t go far.’

  ‘I’ll ask my dad.’

  They stepped on to the blacked-out streets.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t mind. Somewhere quiet.’

  ‘Saucy!’

  ‘Not like that. I just meant, you know, get away from things a bit.’

  They set off down Wood Street; she slipped her arm through his.

  ‘Things?’

  He sighed. ‘War, fighting, the army, living with men all the time. It gets a bit much sometimes, t
hat’s all. That and, you know, family difficulties.’

  ‘I heard about your mum. Doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘No.’

  They walked to the river at Turk’s Pier and found a bench, staring out at the oily water and watching the barges pass. Away to the east searchlights swept the sky like silver wands.

  ‘Are you, um, still walking out with Albert Fitch?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ She nudged him. ‘Albert’s working in his dad’s greengrocer’s. He’s going with that Stella Watt from Woolworth’s.’