She had liked the way the young Australian danced, she’d liked it very much. He didn’t know all the dances too well, but the ones he did, Mmm! , this was one lovely young man to be held close and spun around by. Besides, he was her first ‘officer’: To date, she’d only ever been asked to dance by Sergeants. But this one was no toff, oh no, nothing up himself about this one. He was gentlemanly without being too so, a directness to his manner and the way he spoke. When she whispered in his ear to ask if perhaps he’d like to come up to her room and rivet her to the wall, he’d said yes please – She liked that touch.
Once they got there, by God, did he know what to do to her. And what he didn’t know, he was eager to learn and, love him, did he learn quickly! His eyelids, hooded, his eyelashes, so long for a boy. Such a sweet urgency about him… And he was a nice fella, this Pilot Officer from Sydney. Ruby Baxter would have liked to have got to know him. To know all about him. But he’d quite likely be dead in a week, poor love, so what was the point?
*
Next morning, Mick awoke to actual sunlight beaming into the small room of the hotel in which he’d been billeted. Though the room was cold, he was warm under the blankets provided and stayed rugged up in them. He remembered how Ruby had thanked him for a first-class fuck, as she termed it, and how, just in case she might not see him again, she’d given him a ‘goodbye’ one.
The Canadian navigator with whom Mick would be sharing the billet room was brewing coffee on a small gas burner by the window. Mick had met the bloke on arrival the previous afternoon, a Pilot Officer, name of Earl. The coffee smelt lovely.
‘Like some, bud?’ hummed the Canadian mid-stir.
‘Sure. Thanks,’ returned Mick, rubbing his eyes.
‘Gahd, almost forgot…’ The Canadian clasped a buff-coloured envelope and flung it sidelong at Mick. ‘Delivered in yeur conjugal absence,’ he grinned.
Mick opened it. It was a telegram.
REPORT TO NO 17 A.F.U. WATTON AT ONCE. STOP.
RAIL WARRANT ENCLOSED. ENDS.
‘Here, Earl,’ Mick looked up, ‘you’re the navigator, where’s “Watton” on your map? You’d have one of Scotland, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure thing, buddy.’ The Canadian produced and diligently pored over a couple of charts. ‘Rings a bell… But I got a funny feeling that ain’t in Scotland…’
‘Eh?’
The bloke was on target almost instantly.
‘Man, have I still got it… Watton. Here. In the English County of Norfolk. A.k.a. “East Anglia”… Nearest large town… Nor - wich. I make it you’re headed roughly… 70 miles north of London. Here, take a look,’ he said, passing Mick the map.
‘Just 70 miles?’ Mick took the map, and studied it very closely indeed. Going by the young navigator’s estimate, that made where Mick was going also only 70 miles across the North Sea from German-occupied Holland. ‘Shit…’ said Mick. ‘That makes where I’m going…’
‘A “forward” aerodrome,’ breathed the Canadian.
Mick chuckled slightly. ‘But I’m only in training…’ His grin faded. He looked up, proffering the map back to the Canadian. ‘ That’s pretty very bloody close to the bad guys…’
The Canadian took it, focused hard on it. ‘Hell,’ he countered, with a most determined attempt at a smile, ‘it must be alright.’
Mick suddenly felt very cold in the little room. ‘Yeah. It must be.’
*
From his so brief glimpse of it – though the night-life had been sensational – Mick gathered that Bournemouth was a major holiday spot for the Brits and considered a pretty special place by them. Taking his seat on the train, it occurred to Mick what the place reminded him of.
Wollongong on a blowy day with an air of Luna Park.
Shifting to try and get comfortable on the hard carriage bench, he drew his great-coat more securely about him.
That or the South Pole with shops…
CHAPTER SIX
January 1942
The aircraft spun crazily. And straight down from 20-thousand feet.
Yet of spiralling earth and sky Mick saw nothing. Only the orange-lit dials on the instrument panel before his face, Airspeed needle spinning up, Altimeter spinning down, Artificial Horizon just spinning. All else was blackness.
Nothing left to do but stay calm. And follow new dogma…
In a right spin, resist the body’s survival urge to throw left stick; that’ll make it worse. Contradict the blood. Defy the brain. Stick neutral, and ever-so-slightly forward. Push left rudder pedal. Gentle movements only will keep you alive.
Let the Artificial Horizon slow gradually. Let its spinning slow to a sweep, slow the sweep to a revolution, let the revolution fade, fade away and die. Almost steady now. Get the damn thing level. Pull gently on the stick. And out of the dive… Control now regained in the dark.
*
Mick squinted from the bright light of day that only now hit his eyes as the canvas-covered frame of the cockpit ‘hood’ was retracted, the instructor locking it back behind Mick’s seat.
While Mick unclipped and unplugged, the instructor moved back on the wing-root to his rear cockpit position of the two-seater Miles Master trainer, grabbing a few items of kit, then returned forward for the post-mortem. Jules Bellingham-Pitt was English, the same age as Mick, as a Flying Officer one above Mick in rank.
‘Well, old chap, that was a bugger of a spin I put you into just now. But I’d venture to say you can fly her nicely enough. In fact a bally decent recovery.’
He’d been an instructor for the past two years, having joined the RAF a full year before the outbreak of war, specifically, the ‘Auxiliary’ Air Force – “best flying club in the world,” he chortled. His accent was almost comically ‘upper-class’, thought Mick, he’d been to school some place called Eton, then in the Oxford University Air Squadron, his family owned a Tiger Moth, which he flew, he called everybody and anybody “old chap” but was a good bloke as far as Mick was concerned. Rated Exceptional out of training, Bellingham-Pitt had never flown in combat, the RAF considering him too valuable an asset as an instructor, something Mick, for one, had no problem with – none at all. Mick asked him what the medal ribbon strip beneath his wings patch stood for.
‘Oh, that’s my AFC, old chap,’ he said, patting its red-on-white diagonal stripes.
‘AFC?’
‘Air Force Cross… Awarded for conspicuous gallantry not against the enemy,’ he grinned. ‘In my opinion infinitely preferable to the more highly revered D-FC, which one is awarded for being shot at… Distinguished Flying Cross? Due for Catastrophe, more like it…’
He was the best pilot Mick had ever flown with. Sensational.
Better even than Tim Curran. Quite simply, he lived for flying. Mick had asked if ‘Jules’ was perhaps short for Julian…
‘No, it’s as-is, old chap. As in Verne. Whose work, my dear Michael, you should bally-well read as it foresees one or two things which will render your be-all-and-end-all Spitfires old-hat. As indeed they already have been rendered.’
‘Old-hat compared to what?’ put Mick.
‘Jets.’
‘Eh?’
‘The “jet”, old chap, is a fighter aircraft with no propeller.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Au contraire, Michael; I’ve seen one.’
‘Where?’
‘RAF Boscombe Down. In Wiltshire. My old House Captain’s a test pilot down there, got me a half-day chit. Good old Taffy.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well, not a pretty craft, I confess… More a stumpy sort of tube with wings. Air goes in the front, mixes with petrol, out the back like a firework. Anyway old Taff flew it right over our heads at 400 knots.’
‘You’re shitting me.’
‘I’m what, old chap?!’ guffawed Bellingham-Pitt.
‘Pulling my leg.’
When Bellingham-Pitt’s mirth had subsided, his eyes were still smiling, yet seared into Mick’s.
‘Michael, it was the single best thing I have ever seen. Or heard – this great, long bally tearing sort of whistle – loudest thing you’ve ever heard – followed by thunder that just doesn’t quit.’ He shook his head slightly. ‘Bally bloody marvellous. You should fly one. Yes… Yes, that, old chap, is what you should head yourself towards.’
‘Way of the future, y’reckon…’
‘Ohh,’ Bellingham-Pitt released, ‘full marks there, old chap. And a future which I personally plan to be part of. As should you. Jets. …Can’t tell you who makes ’em o’course; most dreadfully top secret…’
‘Fair enough.’
‘It’s the Gloster Company.’
February 1942
RAF Watton was 250 acres of grass, four major hangars and a wide assortment of other buildings including a large and well-established Officers’ Mess to whose comforts Mick was now entitled. Until recently Watton had been a Bomber station – Blenheims: yet another pre-war craft murdered by the Luftwaffe, in addition to about a hundred of which had simply crashed in the local area. Soon after arrival Mick had learnt why he hadn’t been posted to the safety of further north in Scotland: There were so many like him coming in that the RAF had run out of training bases.
Watton also had a large Signals bunker which, due to the base’s proximity to the enemy coast, doubled as a 24-hour listening post for German radio traffic with an RAF radio and coding staff of around thirty. Through the self-proclaimed ‘divine intervention’ of Bellingham-Pitt, it was of this Signals bunker, specifically, of a discrete member of its staff, that a highly irregular use had been arranged…
It had taken a few weeks to set up, he conceded, but he had secured the willingness of a young WAAF Sergeant on the bunker’s ‘graveyard shift’ to send a short, coded message to her opposite number, call-sign SUGARBAGS, at a certain RAAF training establishment located on the east coast of Australia. One which a certain Australian Pilot Officer might just have a passing interest in hearing from…
‘How on earth did you manage it?!’ beamed Mick, just as thrilled as he was grateful.
His instructor smiled. ‘My dear Michael. Not having had a classical education you may not be aware that in days of yore the gods did pop down from Olympus on occasion to corrupt a really smashing mortal…’
Only yesterday had he given the happily corrupted party the names of Mick’s terrific trio at Evans Head and the WAAF Signals Sergeant teed it all up: She’d sent ‘Sugarbags’ the names, the Australian wireless operator confirming she would make all enquiries and be back on station 24 hours later with a reply, 0300
Hours Watton-time.
At 0259 Hours, Watton’s radio bunker ‘graveyard shift’ bustled, Mick and Bellingham-Pitt by the desk of the headphoned WAAF Sergeant. In blue-grey service tunic and skirt, strawberry-blonde hair in ‘short rolls’, above her Sergeant’s stripes she wore the embroidered shoulder patch of specialist wireless operators – quite striking, Mick thought: three lightning bolts clenched in a fist. She sat before a large radio set bristling with switches, knobs and glowing dials – one of many radio sets in the bunker of various shapes and sizes, one taking up a whole wall. On her desk lay a Morse Code keying device, a typewriter, something like a typewriter but not – evidently a ‘coding’ machine, in-trays, out-trays, note pads, assorted stationery, three different telephones and an ashtray jammed with butts.
‘A minute from now,’ she said, ‘Sugarbags will be on station. 24 hours ago I gave her the names of your boys,’ – consulting a notepad – ‘Curran, Doherty, Finney. Whatever there is to know about them, you’ll know it in a minute’s time,’ she said. And lit a cigarette.
‘Our thanks to you, Sergeant,’ said Bellingham-Pitt. ‘What news of the War?’
‘Well, sir,’ she sat back in her swivel chair, ‘five types of shit in the Pacific…’
Mick let slip a chuckle, though stifled it: He’d never heard a young woman speak like this before, let alone to her superior officer. He looked to Bellingham-Pitt. Whose face was beaming. Beaming pride.
The girl didn’t miss a beat. ‘The whole sodding way south from Japan: Hong Kong, Borneo, Rabaul… I love this American git: MacArthur? Abandons his complete army at Manilla and broadcasts, “I shall return.” What a fucking statesman.’
‘I love this girl,’ Bellingham-Pitt swooned quite audibly to Mick.
In a single movement she swiveled away from them, leant in to her radio set, adjusted a dial minutely: clearly something in her headphones. ‘It’s Sugarbags,’ she said, writing furiously on a notepad. After only a short line’s worth of dots and dashes, she discarded the pencil and what little she’d scribed she began typing into her coding machine.
As she did, Mick sensed commotion to his left and right, RAF staff stopping, leaning in at a few different radio set positions round the bunker. ‘Well that’s torn it,’ he heard one operator murmur. ‘ Singapore,’ gasped another.
The Waaf’s coding machine pinged, she tore off the paper ribbon issued and read along it. ‘It’s fallen… Surrendered to the Japs.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, lit another. ‘Five types of shit and counting; next stop Australia… I imagine the Pilot Officer might just be keen to head back in that direction at this juncture…’
‘Too bloody right,’ Mick answered.
‘I would if I were you,’ said the Waaf. ‘Stand by… Your reply, I think,’ already writing on her notepad again – a longer message than the previous, more typing, the ping, the ribbon. She read it, saying nothing this time, only writing on a fresh notepad, carefully tearing the slip of paper from it, and handing it to Mick. ‘Sorry, love,’ she offered as he read.
Signals Sergeant Eadie Best had scribed it for him in plain English. Over the remaining few hours until dawn, Mick read it many times.
ANSON FLT EX 1BAGS 15 OCT 41 REPORTED MISSING SINCE DATE PLUS 1. PRESUMED DEAD END OCT. PLEASE PASS ON TO ENQUIRER VERY SORRY. GOD BLESS. COME HOME SAFE. ENDS.
*
After a one-on-one technical lecture the next morning of which Mick had taken in little, Bellingham-Pitt’s face was full of concern for him, though there was a genuine resilience in his voice as he said it: ‘Go for a bally long walk, old chap. Always did me a power of good – Used t’get downhearted, y’see: in m’first few terms at that bally gulag they called a school…’
‘Thanks, Jules,’ Mick returned. ‘Think I will.’
Bellingham-Pitt brightened. ‘Oh, you should, old chap – called a “ramble” over here, and some nice ones hereabouts… “England’s Green and Pleasant Land” n’all that… S’pose y’should see a bit of what they’re all fighting for, yes? Mind you, I’d take a scarf; the sun’s out but it’s bloody cold… No, on second thoughts, wear your flying jacket; keep y’warm.’
Over his service tunic Mick put on the fleece-lined leather flying jacket he’d been issued with at Watton, zipped it up, and set out on foot toward the RAF station’s main gate. Reaching it in his numbed state he was startled a degree by the RAF gate sentry’s rifle-salute, the young airman ‘presenting’ his .303 rifle with abrupt precision one movement to the next. As Mick plodded past he returned the salute, touching the fingertips of his right hand to the peak of his officer’s cap.
*
Beyond the township of Watton, the countryside through which Mick walked was something bleakly other than ‘green and pleasant’, most of the trees being leafless, and everything shrouded in mist. This, though, was lifting in the morning sunlight, and turning to a golden glare as it did.
Crossing fallow fields, skirting hedgerows, down country lanes, it occurred to Mick that, in his life so far, he’d never been on a walk in the country… It was farmland but deserted – the frigid time of year he guessed – and never any distant view with the mist still lifting, little even when it did as Norfolk seemed pretty flat under the clearing blue sky.
With not a soul in sight, he found himself on the beginning of a long, straight road. A Roman road, he guessed: Jules had joked about them as ‘t
he only straight things in all Great Britain’ and instantly indentifiable as a result. And it was true, Mick found: He could actually see about a mile straight ahead down this one. Other than the slightest breeze now in the hedgerows on either side of it, the only sound was his own footsteps on its gravely surface. He unzipped the flying jacket a few inches as he went; it certainly was a warming thing…
As he kept on along the road’s unchanging straightness, their faces came to him.
Tony Curran. Those dark brown eyes of his, determined, with just a hint of cheer. Then in squinting hysterics in the decomp chamber.
Max. Max Finney. A face too young for the family doctor. Yet the look was already there: at all times either smiling or listening intently.
And Rog Doherty. That brylcreemed sincerity of his, the effort of precision in his face as he explained some gem of maths to you. His slight smile when he’d left you perfectly clear.
If blokes like that could get the chop, Mick reflected, then anyone could. No matter how bloody ‘exceptional’. Gone. And not even in combat.
Mick was only staring vaguely down the road as he walked. Yet far ahead, something now caused him to focus. Way down the road, its twin hedgerow lines were spanned by something: Like a rope-bridge, weighed down in the middle by some object, something round and white… Mick focused harder, blinked: The round thing was growing as he looked… So was the bridge…
Its white propeller spinner coming straight on up the road, its wings mere feet above the hedgerow lines, the Supermarine Spitfire rammed a sound at Mick like a thousand bodily impacts in the space of a breath. Sweeping over him, in its thick, booming wake Mick never heard the gasp from his own mouth, at a few hundred miles an hour on down the road the Spit’s wingtips combing the hedgerow tops either side. It lifted subtly, wing-waggled: Christ, the bloke’d not only seen Mick, he was saying Hello!
Ghosts of the Empire Page 8
