Alex undressed and carefully placed his uniform over the back of the chair. On pulling back the bedclothes, he discovered a hot brick wrapped in a towel as a makeshift bed warmer. He wondered who was responsible and concluded that it was probably Corporal Drake hoping for a tip. In any event, it was most welcome, as Alex, standing there in his underwear, realised that the north was considerably colder than London. He dressed in his pyjamas, removed the brick and clambered into bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Alex was asleep.
*
His slumber was disturbed when he was shaken awake gently at 07:00 hours by an RAF corporal.
‘Good morning, sir; I’m Drake, your batman. It’s 07:00 hours, and I was wondering whether you would care for a cup of char?’ he asked.
‘Char?’ asked Alex.
‘Yessir, char… a cup of tea, sir; would you like a cup of tea, sir?’ insisted Drake.
Tea in bed? I might get used to this! thought Alex. ‘Yes, please, weak with no milk, thank you.’
‘I don’t know whether we can run to that, sir; it comes out of an urn already prepared with milk and sugar, sir.’
‘I am sure it will be very nice, Corporal,’ acquiesced Alex.
It was not; the tea was far too strong, had stewed in the urn for much too long, had been turned a bright orange by the condensed milk and was excessively sweetened with sugar, but Alex drank it nevertheless.
After washing and shaving in the ablutions at the end of the hut’s corridor, Alex got dressed and knocked on Charles’s door.
‘Coming!’ Charles called from within
Alex smiled at the minor triumph of having beaten Charles to the jump eventually.
Charles opened the door, still pulling on his jacket, which he buttoned and belted as they made their way towards breakfast in the mess.
On arrival, finding a table in the mess was not difficult; even though there were only ten, each laid for two, they were all empty apart from one where an elderly squadron leader was breakfasting.
As Alex and Charles entered, the other occupant looked up and said in a lilting Welsh voice, ‘Morning. Caradoc, station adjutant, often known as “Uncle”; welcome.’
This staccato manner of conversation sounded strange, but Charles was not to be undone. ‘Phipps,’ he said, then indicated Alex, ‘Carlton, guests.’
To which the elderly squadron leader merely nodded, before continuing his meal.
Corporal Drake appeared and asked Alex and Charles, ‘What can I get for your breakfast, sir?’ Although he had used the singular, it was clear that he was addressing both men. ‘Cook does a nice fry-up here or there is toast; tea or coffee? We also usually have kippers, but Uncle had the last one.’
Alex took the initiative and commented that the fry-up would be excellent, and Charles nodded in agreement. Alex, remembering his wake-up cup of tea, asked for coffee, and again Charles nodded in agreement.
After a leisurely breakfast and a read of the morning’s various newspapers, which were stacked on a table by the door, Charles decided that it was time to go and find Squadron Leader Harvey, as he did not want to cause affront by being late. Charles called Drake over to enquire where they could locate the squadron leader.
‘We have organised transport for 09:20 hours, sir, to get you to the squadron leader’s office,’ Corporal Drake advised.
Checking their watches, Alex and Charles noted that they had ten minutes to spare to give themselves a final tidy and wash their hands before the transport arrived.
*
At 09:20 hours, Alex and Charles emerged from the officers’ mess to find an Austin utility vehicle parked outside. They jumped aboard, and before Alex’s backside had hit the side box section in the rear the driver had released the clutch violently, and the vehicle had launched itself towards several other Nissen huts about 400 yards away. Alex was obliged to grasp the canvas roof frame firmly to prevent himself being spilt out.
The journey only took a couple of moments, but Alex was able to admire the vast expanse of greenery that was under conversion to an RAF station. He was no expert in these matters, but, even to the untrained eye, there was much to be completed before the aerodrome would be fully operational, and this caused him to wonder exactly where he would be taught the skill of safely jumping out of aeroplanes.
‘Second on the left, sir,’ commented the driver as he skidded to halt outside one of the Nissen huts.
Alex and Charles got out of the vehicle, walked to the indicated hut, and Charles knocked on the door, from behind which a curt, ‘Enter,’ was heard.
On entering, Charles snapped to attention and saluted, and, taking his lead, Alex followed suit.
‘Lieutenants Phipps, and Carlton, sir,’ announced Charles.
The squadron leader sitting behind the desk ignored them while he finished what he was doing, and then he looked up, assessing both officers standing before him, and stood and extending his right hand in greeting. Alex saw that the left sleeve of the squadron leader’s tunic was empty and tucked into his tunic pocket. However, Alex noted the wings of a flyer on his breast, surmounting two rows of medal ribbons, which included both the white and purple horizontal stripes of the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC), as issued in the previous war, and the purple and white vertical stripes of the Military Cross; the DFC ribbon had a silver rosette, indicating that the squadron leader had been awarded the medal twice. Apart from the ribbons of Pip, Squeak and Wilfred – the affectionate names of three Great War campaign medals – there were others that Alex did not recognise.
Squadron Leader Harvey appeared to be in his late fifties, but he was probably younger and had aged prematurely. His hair was grey, and the moustache that separated his nose from his mouth was waxed meticulously into place.
‘Welcome to Ringway,’ greeted the squadron leader, ‘although I fear you have had a wasted journey!’ Addressing Alex, he continued, ‘I understand that you no longer need to be instructed in parachuting as other alternatives have presented themselves for whatever you will be doing. That is just as well, because – despite my telling them not to bother sending you – we are not fully operational and not currently equipped for live jumps. The best that we could have offered you was ground training and the jump tower, which is hardly the best induction to parachuting in combat situations.
‘However, so that you did not have a wholly wasted journey, I believe that the navy is sending over an armaments expert to see you; I have no idea why, though. He should be here early this afternoon; in the meantime, I will get one of the lads to show you around.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Alex, ‘I am sure that Lieutenant Phipps and I would greatly appreciate that.’
Charles, however, did not look as though he would much enjoy a guided tour of any aerodrome, but he was far too well-mannered not to accept the offer graciously. He did look moderately annoyed at the wasted journey, or was it that he had secretly hoped to experience parachuting himself?
There was a knock at the door, and a pilot officer entered.
‘Ah, Graves, these are Lieutenants Phipps and Carlton,’ introduced Harvey, ‘Show them around and make them feel welcome, but do not stray too far as some navy chappie is coming to see them this afternoon.’ He turned to Charles and Alex before confirming, ‘I shall leave you in Pilot Officer Graves’s charge, but I may see you again later before you go.’
All three junior officers saluted, and Graves led the way out of the office.
‘Hello chaps; Archie Graves at your service,’ he stated, and gave them a genuinely warm smile, ‘What would you like to see?’
‘A bar would be nice,’ commented Charles, still harbouring a frustration at the wasted journey, ‘but, failing that, I suppose some aeroplanes? By the way, I am Charles, and this is Alex.’
‘Nice to meet you, and welcome to the freezing north. As someone who grew up in Bright
on, I have yet to get acclimatised to the Arctic!’
For the next two hours, Archie Graves showed his charges around the aerodrome, explaining where the building work was going to take place and describing the types of aeroplanes that were likely to be stationed at the base. Graves announced proudly that the Hawker Hinds that were lined up on concrete apron belonged to 613 Squadron, which was known as “City of Manchester”, part of the auxiliary air force, and whose motto was “Semper parati” or “Always ready”, which was a bit of a station joke as they seldom were, and their base most certainly was not.
During the guided tour, they met other officers, all of whom were extremely open about what roles they fulfilled, and both Alex and Charles were amazed at the lack of security.
It was during lunch in the officers’ mess that a steward approached the table and said that a “naval gentleman” had arrived to see them. Charles suggested that their visitor might join them for lunch, but the steward responded that it would be inappropriate. Alex and Charles finished their meal quickly and went in search of their visitor. They soon found him; he was a squat, toad-like man, wholly devoid of a neck but somehow squeezed into the uniform of a petty officer armourer, and was carrying a leather attaché case chained discreetly to his wrist.
‘Mr Carlton, sir,’ he addressed Alex directly, not even acknowledging Charles’s presence, ‘my name is Harris, and I have been instructed to equip you with a personal sidearm. Is there somewhere that we may go?’
‘I genuinely have no idea,’ responded Alex, ‘Archie, any ideas?’
Archie Graves suggested that he could run them all up to the range, so they all clambered aboard the Austin that Graves had summoned, and the driver headed towards a distant corner of the aerodrome, which had been set aside for weapons testing. When they arrived, Petty Officer Harris began ascertaining basic facts and confirming the identity of Alex, explaining that he was to be trained on a Belgian Fabrique Nationale (FN) pistol.
Charles, not wishing to be left out of the activity, commented that his preferred weapon was the Walther PP.
A look of pain washed across Petty Officer Harris’s features, and it was clear that this was a man who did not take well to receiving advice from others, particularly army others, when it came to his trade. ‘The Walther PP or Polizeipistole is a reasonable weapon for amateurs and Kraut police officers, sir,’ he responded almost making the word “sir” insubordinate, ‘but it is hardly a gentleman’s weapon, especially if that gentleman wanted a reliable weapon. The other problem with the PP, sir…’ he again used that word almost contemptuously, ‘is the stopping power. If you pardon the expression, sir, the Walther PP wouldn’t stop a badger, even if you were close enough to bugger it!
‘Now, sir.’ This time the word was delivered respectfully, as Harris was talking to Alex, and removing from his attaché case a box holding a gleaming, black pistol. ‘What we have here is a Belgian FN sidearm based on the Browning 1910, which has several advantages. Firstly, it is widely available throughout Europe and is common in Scandinavia. Secondly, unlike the PP, it has a concealed firing striker as opposed to an exposed hammer, which means it is less likely to get snagged on clothing. Thirdly, it has two additional safety features, a safety catch here…’ Harris demonstrated the safety catch. ‘And a grip safety, here, which means that you cannot discharge the weapon accidentally unless you are holding it.
‘Therefore, sir, it is an extremely safe weapon to use, and the quality of manufacture of these Belgian guns is second to none. You also have the advantage of.38 rounds, while most of the PPs use 7.65mm, which is smaller. Hence, you have much better stopping power and better accuracy – in short, sir, you can bugger the badger before he buggers you!
‘Now, sir, shall we try it?’
Petty Officer Harris took the weapon out of its box, and showed Alex how to load the magazine and insert it into the butt of the pistol. Making sure that the safety catch was engaged, he made his way over to the range and demonstrated the safety features.
‘You disengage the safety catch like this,’ he explained, and showed Alex, ‘and if you pulled the trigger without gripping the weapon, even with the safety catch off, it remains fully safe.’ Again, Harris exhibited this feature.
‘To prime the weapon and chamber the first round, you pull back and release the slide,’ he stated and then chambered a round. ‘When you discharge the weapon, the slide blows backwards and it automatically chambers the next round. Therefore, it is crucial not to over-brace when firing a semi-automatic.’ He paused and illustrated to Alex what he meant by over-bracing, by placing his left hand over the wrist of his right hand, which was holding the weapon. ‘Otherwise, when you discharge the weapon, as the slide chambers the next round it will also take your knuckles off!’
Petty Officer Harris then revealed the correct manner to brace when firing a semi-automatic pistol, holding the weapon in his right hand, and gripping that hand with his left underneath, which had the added advantage of ensuring that the magazine could not be released accidentally. Harris turned his back on Alex and faced a target that had been set up on the range, and he fired six rounds in quick succession, hitting the target close to the centre, but slightly at 11 o’clock.
Petty Officer Harris reloaded the magazine and handed the weapon to Alex. ‘Now you, sir,’ he said, ‘You will find that this weapon kicks upwards slightly and to the left, but, with practice, you will learn to compensate.’
It was the first time that Alex had ever fired a handgun, and his first attempt was somewhat wayward, spraying the target with the bullets going in all directions.
‘All right, sir,’ Harris said gently, ‘shall we try it without closing one eye? Keep both eyes open and watch where you want the bullets to hit.’
After going through four full magazines, Alex had become quite competent with the weapon and had quickly reached the standard that satisfied the petty officer.
He declared, ‘That’s very good, sir. Now, for specialist use, like what I think you are going to need it for, we go for what we call the “double tap”; that is, you fire two shots in short succession, so that if you miss with the first, you might just get lucky with the second!’
Harris demonstrated the double tap, firing from the hip at near targets, and from the shoulder at targets further away. He explained, ‘You see, sir, if you wing the target with the first shot, very likely the second will finish the job for you. Now, you have a go.’
Alex took the weapon back and did as the petty officer had shown him; keeping both eyes open, he fired a double shot each time. He was amazed at how much more accurate he was by just following these simple rules.
‘That’s very good, sir, and now I will teach you how to strip the gun down for cleaning and maintenance. If you care for your weapon, your weapon will care for you. There is no excuse for a dirty weapon!’ Harris almost made this instruction sound vulgar.
An hour later, Petty Officer Harris was satisfied that Alex was competent enough to be issued with the weapon, and he handed over the requisition chit for Alex to sign in triplicate. He turned to Charles, whom he had largely ignored since their first altercation, and said, ‘I’m done now, sir, and if you can organise transport, I might just make it back to Liverpool before two bells of the first watch.’
Charles picked up a telephone in the range hut and asked for the adjutant, from whom he requested a car and transport to the railway station.
Alex thought it an act of pettiness not to invite Petty Officer Harris to travel with them, but then realised that they had to return to the officers’ mess to collect their luggage, so Alex thanked the petty officer and got into the car with Charles, just as the Austin utility arrived as transport for Harris.
When Alex and Charles reached the officers’ mess, they collected their belongings; picked up a return travel warrant from the adjutant’s office, where they thanked Squadron Leader Caradoc for his hosp
itality; went back outside and got into the car.
‘Well,’ Alex said, ‘that was an adventure!’
‘No, it was not,’ Charles responded, ‘That was a cock-up! There was absolutely no bloody need whatsoever for us both to traipse up here and waste nearly three days. The blasted place was not even open for business!’
It was clear that Charles was not in the best of humour, so Alex settled down to enjoy the drive back into Manchester, during which he wondered whether he would ever have to use his newly issued weapon in anger.
X
Manchester Central Station at 5.00pm was always busy with commuters, and it took a while for Charles to learn that the London express had already departed and another was not due until 10.00pm. Rather than wait, Charles decided that they should catch a train to Crewe, then another to Birmingham, before finally changing onto a train for London. The prospect of such a journey was annoying, but if the timings were right, and there were no delays, Alex and Charles would arrive in London a full hour and a half ahead of the next express.
Regional trains in Britain are much less comfortable than expresses, and this was indeed the case on Alex and Charles’s return journey to London. The compartments were much busier, being full of commuters returning home from their day’s labours, supplemented by service personnel and the occasional family. The first-class compartments were grimier and much fuller, and Alex and Charles were forced to share compartments in all three trains, until the final train reached the junction town of Rugby, when a young airman on his way to a training station at Ansty disembarked. Alex could not help but think of Toby, and he wondered what fate awaited the fresh-faced young flyer who had been their travelling companion since Birmingham. As soon as the airman had left the carriage, Charles closed the blinds and slipped the lock into place so that they would not be disturbed.
Winston's Spy Page 9
