Ghosts of the Empire

by Justin Sheedy

  ‘This on?’ he said into the mask.

  ‘That it is, me old mate…’

  The voice was Australian. And one Mick would know anywhere. ‘Dave bloody Matthews!!’

  ‘In the flesh,’ his voice grinned. ‘Saw your sorry mug on the way in. Knock me down with a feather, y’did.’

  ‘Jesus, Dave, what are y’doing here?!’

  ‘Rescuing your raggedy arse, apparently…’

  Mick felt them level out of the shallow climb. ‘Well I’ll be buggered.’

  ‘Seems y’well mighta been…’

  ‘Eh?’

  Matthews’ voice now verged on businesslike: ‘We don’t usually fly these ops except on full moons… t’navigate by. As a matter of fact, hold on a sec, will ya?’

  Mick felt them enter and fly through a highly smooth left-hand curve – his first ever ‘in reverse’ – then straighten, as Matthews continued.

  ‘…No, so it seemed a bit odd but they still said go… I swear, mate, I’ve been goin’ mental; been ’ere eight months an’ I ’aven’t fired a shot in bloody anger!’

  Mick’s eyes bulged as a dead-vertical stream of tracer fire whipped past on the left. ‘ Jeee-sus,’ he released. A white-hot hose of light in the darkness, though now gone behind and ever rising.

  ‘…Still,’ Matthews kept on, ‘seems all this buggerizing around at night’s been good for something; bringing back blokes like y’good self, that goes without sayin’ but old Dave Matthews just got picked for a team, didn’t ’e… Hold on again…’

  Mick now felt them enter a right-curving bank. And straighten.

  ‘…Yeah, this big knob… 105 Squadron. Asked me to join, I said what for? Two things in particular, ’e said: low flying an’ night navigation.’

  Another stream of tracers flashed past, also going straight up, this time on the right.

  ‘…But what sold me was the new kite this mob fly: Fastest thing in the air. Called the Mosquito.’

  At which point Mick realised precisely what Dave was doing even as he spoke…

  ‘…Two man crew an’ a Spitfire engine on each wing it’s so fast it doesn’t need gun turrets ’an a crew of seven ’cause enemy fighters can’t catch it.’

  What Dave was doing was guiding them between mapped German anti-aircraft positions on their way to the French coast in the middle of the night.

  ‘…Un- like the Lancaster bomber which enemy fighters can catch and which most of Bomber Command are flying, poor bastards… Thing is, mate, I’m with Bomber Command. If they put me on Lancasters I’m fucked. In a Mosquito I stand a chance. Fifty times better chance. Oh, an’ it’s made of wood.’

  Mick saw the half-moon twinkling on water now as they left the French coast behind, more than one tracer stream rising in their wake as if in protest. He spoke into his face mask. ‘Made of wood…’

  ‘Canadian spruce, balsa and cedar ply.’

  ‘Fifty times better chance…’

  ‘Fifty times.’

  ‘Dave, you’re shitting me.’

  ‘Have you ever known me to shit anyone?’

  Mick considered this for a moment. ‘I have not.’

  ‘No. So that’s where I’m goin’, old mate: Mosquitos… I may be a sleepy Queenslander but I’m not stupid…’

  For the remainder of the flight they barely spoke; in the long darkness out over the Channel, for Mick the rush of escape and reunion with his friend melted to a crushing gloom. A gloom born of guilt for the death of a very nice man. A very nice man indeed.

  And for a brand-new orphan.

  To whom he now owed his life. A debt he would repay. But when? And how?

  Suddenly it struck him that she had kissed him. It struck him, also, how lovely her kiss had felt.

  And how it still did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The rain hit hard on the shut fourth floor office window by which Mick sat. Beyond the pelted glass London was leaden-grey in early afternoon.

  After landing the previous night at Tangmere on England’s south coast and being served ‘supper’ of Bovril and fried bread with Dave Matthews – the Bovril laced with sherry – they’d each been shown to quarters by a Corporal of the RAF Military Police. Mick had fallen asleep quickly to begin with, though his sleep turned uneasy, and at first light he woke tired to find Matthews gone – taken off for wherever he was heading.

  As instructed by written orders which Mick was then handed including rail pass, from nearby Chichester he caught a train headed north for London. A few hours and train changes later, he finally alighted at a London underground station called Charing Cross. Once up and outside this, all he had to do was cross the street to his stated destination, The Metropole Hotel, a grand old stone building with a look of stately defiance in the filthy weather.

  Presenting his written orders to the foyer clerk, he was directed, via the elevator and down a very long corridor indeed, to one Room 474.

  *

  After an hour’s ‘post-retrieval interrogation’ by him, the Head of MI9 seemed to Mick a decent enough bloke – almost kind. A British Army Major, his accent had the air of Jules Bellingham-Pitt’s, yet differed, as did his manner, for its clipped reserve. At a relaxed distance, though, across the rather large room from Mick, the officer, having just lit his pipe, now waved out the match with heavy, slowing flicks of his wrist, finally dropping it in the king-sized stone ashtray on the desk before him.

  ‘So there it is,’ he puffed. ‘You’re finished with ops. Put the case you have to bail out over the Continent again: Resistance group who got you out the first time. Gestapo’ll sweat their star-signs out of you. And we can’t have that; must protect our networks: keep them open for more chaps just like you.’ His eyeslits narrowed at Mick, ‘Or I’m out of a job,’ followed by the briefest of smiles.

  Additionally, yet privately, the Major had no wish to see fifty more Frenchmen snuffed out in the blink of an eye, though refrained from voicing this as the young Australian, from the account he’d just rendered, clearly felt personally responsible for the violent death of one of the poor sods within the last twenty-four hours. As well as for a now fatherless daughter.

  ‘So, my dear Michael, you’ve some choices before you.’

  ‘Choices, sir?’

  ‘Yes. For a start you can always go home. Your transfer request was approved…’

  ‘It was?!’

  ‘Yes. Seems someone went in to bat for you there.’

  Mick wracked his brain as to who on earth…

  ‘Of course,’ puffed the Major, ‘that way lies the Pacific, and flying against the Japanese… Dreadful business… Unless they revert you to your original classification of Instructor at, ah…’ – he referred to a sheet of paper in a file before him – ‘…Wagga Wagga… Sounds even worse.’ He looked up again. ‘Alternately, you’ll make more money if you stay in the UK; faster promotion here. Become an OTU instructor up in Scotland. Pass on all you’ve learned to other chaps.’

  ‘So I really am done with ops, sir…’

  ‘You are. On this side of the world. Where, if you remain and don’t do anything silly, you could survive the war. You’ve had a short but honourable one, Michael; you’re an “ace”.’ He looked down at the file again. ‘Eight kills. Not bad.’

  ‘Seven, sir…’

  ‘No, you had a second confirmed over Dieppe, a Dornier 217, though you wouldn’t’ve received word yet…’ He struck another match, continuing as he re-lit his pipe. ‘A third option open to you is you could pitch in with us…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘With us here at MI9.’

  ‘…You serious, sir?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘It’s a desk job but, ah, as you well know, we do some good. Plus you’d be ideal given your direct experience of what we do behind enemy lines. I’d even recommend you for promotion. Squadron Leader. You could send the pay-rise home to your family, couldn’t you. And do I believe they could use it, Flight Lieutenant.’
/>
  Now Mick’s eyes narrowed back at him. The Major didn’t miss it, nor a beat.

  ‘Michael, just as I explained to you that we knew all about the Orval girl and her poor father before you’d even sat down, by the same token we know all about things like one’s family; it’s my job to know all things regarding our reclaimed assets. And that’s you. You do understand, don’t you…’

  Mick took a moment. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In fact, I’ve some mail for you f’your way out.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Mick brightened.

  ‘As for these options before you, you’ve a week’s leave in which to make up your mind. Effective immediately. You can draw pay from the Boomerang Club, o’course. Regarding kit, your RAAF tunic plus bibs an’ bobs should be arriving from 611 Squadron for you right about now at the Savoy. Which is where I’ve booked you in. On the firm, naturally.’

  Mick rose from his chair. ‘I owe you, sir.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ the man smiled, and fully now. ‘Oh, before y’go, there’s something over here I need you to sign.’

  ‘What is it?’ Mick approached the desk.

  ‘Oh, just the standard contract, though do check the fine print.’ He passed a form and fountain-pen across the top of the desk. ‘A little thing we call the Official Secrets Act.’

  ‘How come?’ put Mick, scouring its uppermost lines.

  ‘Well…’ the man stretched his hands behind his neck, his focus settling on the dim light of the window, ‘because I don’t exist… nor does this department… we didn’t just hook you back from Occupied France…’ his focus settling back on Mick, ‘and you were never here. Were you.’ Another brief smile.

  *

  After a few blocks in the rain, except for the mass of sandbags through which he entered it, Mick didn’t register much of the Savoy. Dripping soundly all over Reception, he checked in, squelched to the elevator, found his room, locked the door behind him.

  Shedding the jacket and shirt with which Jacqueline had provided him, with a towel draped round his neck he sat down on the bed, and very carefully peeled apart the three letters the Major had handed him, luckily only half sodden. Never the slightest question which to open first, Mick smiled at pencilled letters on the page now unfolded in his hands.

  Dear Michael

  I am now 6.

  For my birthday we all went on a scursion. To Bankstown! It was my choice because as you know the air force is there and we might see a Spitfighter. We all went in the train Dad and me and Jo and Gezza and Seanie and Mary looked after little Pete. All that steam and smoke I wasnt mad at nothing all day! Even though you wernt there Mike we all had icecreams and we were happy. Really Mike we all had one each and didnt even have to share! We all felt so lucky because we were. Dad was smiling but you know when sometimes big people smile but look sad? Well this was one of those times.

  At Bankstown when the planes went over it was marvlus thats my new word Mike. My lessons with Gezza are going real good Gezza says real well not real good whos letter is this Gezza. She is still writing for me it is still hard for me to write and makes me cry sometimes but Im trying like anything Mike. Anyway we saw heaps of planes Jo said there wasnt a Spitfighter but ones like it some were beautiful yellow and even I knew they wernt Spitfighters because they had up and down wings which is different to our model we made but I still liked them. When one went right over us I imagined it was you.

  About my promise to you not to get mad all year thats been hard. But I try every week Mike every single Monday but then something goes wrong and then everything goes wrong and then its Monday again. I know I could make it all the way to Sunday if you were back here with us I know I could.

  I have come to a decision. I am getting a bigger map. One of where you are and not even torn or nothing! Dad has written a letter Jo and Gezza too which you will receive.

  Love you to pieces Mike

  Bridie.

  *

  On his room’s bedside telephone, Mick attempted to put a call through to one Squadron Leader Brozek, C.O. 611 Squadron, RAF Redhill.

  ‘Yes, hello? Hello, Feliks? Feliks, it’s Mick… Is good to hear your voice, my friend… Yes, I just got back, I’m in London… Yes…

  ‘No, I’m not sure right now, mate; they’ve just told me I’m done with ops over here. That’s all I can tell you… No, no, exactly… Yes, I’ve got a week’s leave…

  ‘Yeah, Jubilee… Yes, most very bloody terribly, I gather. …All those poor blokes…

  ‘Feliks… Listen, mate, I… what I mean to say is… that was you over the forest, wasn’t it… Yes, I thought so… Oh, yes, a right mess…

  Yep, two of them… Eh? …Feliks, they weren’t just dead, they were very dead… Yes, I s’pose it is…

  ‘Look, what I really wanna say is thank you; you saved my skin.

  ‘I would drink with you too, mate. …I owe you one.’

  *

  Showered, shaved and dressed in his RAAF uniform, peaked cap, shirt and tie and polished shoes that had been waiting for him as promised, Mick peered out from under the Savoy’s main entrance to see the rain had stopped, the sky a deep, dark marble. Walking down The Strand, though, sunlight beamed through a single break in the cloud cover somewhere, buildings both monumental and in ruins lit as if by some giant, toppled floodlamp. Straight ahead loomed the old church steeple in silhouette – St Clements something – drawing up on the left the mass of the Australia House building with the weird afternoon light behind it.

  *

  Saluted by the elderly white-gloved porter, Mick took the elevator up to the Boomerang Club, where he drew his Flight Lieutenant’s pay, directing most of it home as usual, and headed out into the club’s recreation room. This was packed with RAAF aircrew – predominantly Sergeant air gunners by their forearm stripes and single-wing ‘AG’ patches. These were all the poor blokes who flew on Lancasters, he reflected, though it didn’t seem so; all talking, laughing, some trying to look older with determined new moustaches, hair all brylcreem-slicked, the room thick with smoke. Caps off indoors so no saluting of course, though Mick certainly noticed a deferential nod to him here and there as they registered the double cuff bands of his officer’s rank, and his pilot’s wings.

  At the reading table he scanned a few British newspapers: Churchill in Moscow – meeting with Stalin; a glowing report of the first American heavy bomber raid over occupied France. Though what he fairly swiped when he saw it was a copy of The Sydney Morning Herald – a mere two weeks old, it must have been flown in! Flopping down into an armchair with it, his eyes met bad news: Australian forces fighting and retreating against the Japs in New Guinea. He mouthed the place-name as he read it: Kokoda.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ hummed a female voice right above him.

  Mick looked up to the attractive young woman in navy-blue uniform standing right by his chair, on her left chest a pair of gold-embroidered wings. ‘Bess!’

  ‘Mind if I sit?’ Bess Underwood brushed her hands beneath her snug-fitting skirt as she lowered to the arm of the chair, her athletic hip pressing slightly but surely against Mick’s upper arm. ‘Just that’s it’s standing room only in here,’ she smiled.

  ‘Certainly, ma’am.’ Mick shifted slightly: ‘Can I… perhaps offer you my seat?’

  ‘No-no, it’s lovely right here, thank you… and, ah, I’m no longer “ma’am”,’ she said tapping the twin bands on his tunic cuff just by her knee. ‘Seems the tables have, as it were, turned.’ Her voice deepened slightly: ‘… Sir.’

  Noticing the two nearest Sergeant air gunners doing their level best not to drool with envy, Mick cleared his throat a little awkwardly – one of the pair venturing something about a cup of tea and bustling off, the other in his wake. On the embroidered patch between her wings Mick saw the letters ATA, also in gold, and remembered her burning ambition: ‘ Congratulations, Bess,’ he smiled. ‘The Air Transport Auxiliary. That’s brilliant.’

  Her eyes fairly sparkle
d. ‘It’s heaven.’

  ‘What are you flying?’

  ‘Well…’ she paused a moment until the room had regained its ambient hubbub, ‘ everything.’ She pressed open a cigarette case. ‘Transports. Bombers. Fighters. …Even Spits.’

  He beamed up at her. ‘It’s everything you wanted.’

  She selected and lit a cigarette with an expensive-looking lighter, inhaled. ‘Not quite,’ she said, releasing a narrow cone of smoke up to the ceiling. ‘I also want a dancing partner. …Yes. Tonight. You’ll do…’

  He grinned, deepened his voice: ‘You know what dancing leads to, ma’am…’

  She smiled down at him. ‘My dearest wish, Flight Lieutenant, is that it should.’

  *

  Though Mick was by now used to English summer afternoons hanging on half the night, the wet, bomb-damaged streets along which Bess led him arm-in-arm were darkening beneath the heavy sky. Palely visible in the gloom were the smaller golden wings on the forage cap she wore at an angle, as were her gold rank bands on each cuff, as an ATA ‘Second Officer’ on par with her old WAAF rank. Through a district called the West End, they then entered an area called Soho, heading towards her favourite nightclub, a place, she grinned, with no name as far as anyone was aware yet run by people from Malta…