Mick considered this a moment. ‘Yes, sir. That’s what I’m saying. And nearly all of those blokes will survive the war as a result. Unlike your Fortress or your Lancaster crews.’
‘Well, Wing Commander,’ said the Air Marshal. ‘Though you nor we were ever here we’d like to thank you for your time and for your thoughts and wish you all the best for your future. Please do consider your good self and the Flight Lieutenant dismissed.’
The pair smartly complied.
After they had gone, the door long closed behind them, it was the USAAF officer who broke the silence of the group…
‘I just hope t’God for our sakes he never goes public with all o’that… Bury him, I say.’
Bomber Bartlett still stared at the closed door. ‘I’ll second that, old boy.’ He spoke slowly. Surely. ‘I’d say it’s only fair to us. We had a war to win. And for better or worse, gentlemen, we will have won it. Bury him. Or he’ll bury us.’
The suited man touched his tie-knot again. ‘Make us look like a buncha damn war criminals…’
‘I think we’re all agreed, gentlemen,’ said the Air Marshal. ‘Yet now to new business…’ He looked down to his files. ‘As to the subject of Dresden…’
*
Room 474, Metropole Hotel, London
A red light glowed on one of four telephones on the MI9 Major’s desk. He picked up the receiver.
‘Yes? …Oh yes, hello, sir. …Yes, we have, as it happens, word just in: Yes, on the Australian… He’ll be landing at Abbeville in the early afternoon; ferrying a Spit IX across from Biggin Hill. … Yes, you could have someone there to meet him, couldn’t you. … Oh, no trouble at all this end, only too glad to be of assistance to you. Particularly as our work here at 9’s rather, well, rather dried up of late. …Sir, I would most highly appreciate that. Most highly indeed. …And yes, Abbeville. …No, no need, sir; all part of the service.’
*
The USAAF Sergeant seemed a nice enough young fellow, though hardly spoke, driving the open Jeep quickly and confidently the 40 or so miles from the airfield south-west to Saint-Saëns. Along the way Mick was astounded at the constant stream of wrecked German tanks, trucks and half-tracks by the side of the road, some still being cleared from it, around which the Sergeant barely slowed the white-starred Jeep complete with ‘Al Capone’ style sub machine-gun and wireless field telephone in back. Mick was grateful for the ride, and just a little amazed at how co-operative the Yanks at Abbeville had been.
Receiving hand-indicated map directions in Saint-Saëns, they picked up what appeared the road for the orchard, though as to the fate of Jacqueline Orval, Mick hadn’t been able to understand the French of the townspeople. One old man, however, had sombrely drawn a finger across his throat, then shrugged his shoulders.
Despite their seeming lost at first, the young American didn’t seem to mind – he simply drove – until finally they stopped at what was just possibly the entrance to the orchard according to the map, and turned in.
Creeping the Jeep along the dark and heavily overgrown path, at long last Mick saw the pointed roof of the stone farmhouse, the barn, the well, and knew he had arrived. Wrenching the handbrake and switching off the ignition, the Sergeant reached behind his seat, drew out the sub machine-gun, cocked it. ‘Cairn’t be too careful, sir,’ he said, holding the loaded weapon upright to one side. ‘Ah’ll wait here, sir, you take a look.’
Peering all about him, Mick stepped across the yard towards the door of the farmhouse, its windows shuttered, in the flower boxes below them only weeds. He thumped firmly on the door, and listened out hard. No answer. Scanning out across the yard a final time, he gripped the door’s ancient handle, turned it, and with a heavy click it opened.
Inside, all seemed in a sort of order yet everything, everything was dirty, dusty, a smell of cold stone. Crossing the room to its empty fireplace, a slight, sharp scent of smoke, he put out his hand, touched its white ashes.
They were warm.
‘JACQUELINE!’ he yelled.
After silent moments there came a slow, dull tapping through the wooden ceiling rafters directly above him. Seeing the step-ladder just feet away in the shadows, he clambered up it to the attic.
There, in the meagre light through its shuttered windows, he saw her on the bed, a blanket over her. She was reaching out her hand from underneath it.
He rushed to her and gripped it, gripped her, held her – she was cold – held her tight, tried to warm her in her grubby night-dress and blanket. ‘Dieu merci,’ she released as he did.
Managing to sit her up a degree, an equally grubby pillow propped up behind her, he put his fleeced flying jacket around her and, sitting on the bed close beside her, held both her hands, smoothing them inside his. She looked older. Thinner. Her face, deathly pale. And though, upon it, her eyes seemed recessed in their sockets, still they were jewels; they were smiling.
‘Oh, Mick,’ she breathed. ‘…But you are crying.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, doing his smiling best to wipe his eyes, ‘it’s just so bloody good to see you again, I swear it is.’
‘And you, Mick… But, please, there is something, something that all this time I have been wondering…’
‘No more wondering,’ he said softly.
‘Mick… tell me, please… what it was… what it was that you said to me… before climbing into the airplane. That night in the field…’
‘I said “Come with me”, that’s what I said…’
‘I would like to.’ Her eyes seared into his. ‘I would like to now very much.’
‘Yeah, this time you will,’ he released.
‘I am sick, Mick.’
He stood. ‘We’re getting you dressed, you’re coming with me now, I’ll get us to England and you into hospital. This day, my girl. This day.’
Having helped her with every step and movement, he got her face washed, her old coat around her night-dress, and into her boots. Carrying her down the step-ladder and outside, the Sergeant helped him get her into the back of the Jeep, and put a US Army blanket around her as Mick got on the field telephone.
‘Abbeville? This is Wing Commander Michael O’Regan of the Royal Australian Air Force. I want an aircraft. And I want it now. What have you got for me? …No, but that’ll do fine.’
*
Back at Abbeville the Yanks pointed Mick directly to the hefty twin-engined transport he knew as the DC3, though they called her the C47 or ‘Gooney Bird’. With a nose like some faithful dog and painted olive-drab overall, she was emblazoned with their blue and white ‘stars and bars’ and giant gold serial lettering, black and white invasion stripes around her too; she’d been at Abbeville, they said, since the joint had been liberated, she’d just had a full mechanical service and – Naht a prahblem – the Wing Commander was now cleared to ferry her back to England. For Jacqueline they even scrounged a zip-up flying suit and a moth-eaten bomber jacket, Mick thanking them for their generosity.
The USAAF Corporal on duty consulted his clipboard, scratched his forehead: ‘I can getcha both parachutes, bud, if y’can wait 24 hours fer the paperwork; unscheduled flight ’n’all…’
‘No,’ frowned Mick, ‘no, the girl’s sick.’
The man shrugged supportively: ‘Here to Hawkinge, bud, it’s just a short hop an’ we gaht air superiority: Naht a prahblem.’
On the point of stepping up off the grass of the airfield into the rear fuselage entrance of the DC3, Mick looked up as a ‘vic-3’ of twin-engined Meteor jets tore directly overhead. He smiled, remembering Jules Bellingham-Pitt and his ‘bally tearing whistle and thunder that wouldn’t quit’ for that was the sound they made. He thought of Dave Matthews, quite possibly inside one of them, lucky bastard, as they disappeared on the inland horizon. But no, Mick said to himself; he was heading home.
He turned to Jacqueline. ‘Come on,’ he smiled at her, and helped her up into the DC3.
*
Though he had never driven a car before,
after flying the Mosquito for so long the stumpy DC3 felt to Mick like how he imagined it might be driving a bus. In any case, she seemed to him a decent aircraft and solidly predictable in her response to control.
On course for Hawkinge near Dover, climbing after take-off to cruising altitude and now levelling there, the white cliffs were already in view ahead across the Channel in the slightly misty afternoon light. He smiled at Jacqueline beside him in the co-pilot’s seat into which he’d secured her before take-off – as he’d clipped her up, her eyes a fusion of her love for his care of her, and of excitement. He’d made sure, too, that her seat’s intercom headphones fitted her and worked properly so they could talk to each other in flight over the DC3’s massive noise.
‘Are you warm?’ he sided to her.
‘Oui. I am warm.’
‘That’s good,’ he said.
‘All that you are doing for me, Mick, it is beautiful.’
He searched for his words. ‘It’s only a tiny, tiny fraction of what you deserve… for what you did for me. And all I’ll ever be able to do for you… as far as I’m concerned it’ll never be enough.’
She smiled at him. ‘You are a beautiful man, Mick. This I know.’
He looked ahead. ‘You’re a beautiful girl.’
‘ C’est pas vrai,’ she stifled a grin.
‘Jacqueline,’ he said, watchfully tweaking a dial above them, ‘I’m going back to Australia. I want you to come with me.’
‘I think this I would love,’ she replied. ‘What is it like, en Australie?’
‘It’s hot and sunny and blue and the grass is all itchy and there are beaches.’
‘We will swim in the sea there?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘A lot. With all my family.’
When came the shattering bang out the back of the aircraft and its nose dropped. Mick wrenched back on his control wheel, and shot a look directly back between their cockpit seats…
Where the inside of the tail of the aircraft should have been, he saw misty blue sky and clouds. Back ahead again, the white cliffs rose up the windscreen and disappeared, now only blue ocean in front. Blue ocean towards which they were now headed almost straight down. Port then starboard he saw one engine wind down and die and then the other, the electrics dead now too.
Then, with all gone quiet except for the rushing wind on the windscreen and rattles of broken metal behind them, he heard Jacqueline’s voice very clearly beside him…
‘What is it, Mick?! What is wrong?!’
‘…Everything,’ he said, still squinting desperately at the instrument panel, his hands and feet still on their controls. ‘I can’t pull her out… We’re going down… I’m sorry.’
He felt her put her hand on his right arm. And squeeze it. Turning to her, he saw she was trying to smile.
‘No, Mick,’ she said. ‘All is well… We were together… And we were young.’
His eyes narrowed at her. ‘My God, you’re beautiful,’ he said.
EPILOGUE
Mick straightened the Tiger Moth towards the wondrous light.
The cumulus cloud massif from which it glowed seemed too vast ever to reach, and yet the prospect of perpetual approach filled Mick with the spirited contentment of a child; ahead was a palace of infinite, soft lookout perches, each with a subtle colour of its own. As he flew towards them he felt his eyes could take them in forever, these colours with no name, and each one haloed with the lustre of another.
From behind him though now he heard the sound of laughter like babbling water. He turned around: back towards the rear cockpit of the bi-plane…
And there they were.
There were the jewels.
Side by side, Jacqueline’s eyes in her smiling face. Smiling at him. Her face so calm, so happy. As they were together, and would remain.
Forever young.
The years would condemn only others.
* * *
TO THOSE WHO HAVE ENJOYED
GHOSTS OF THE EMPIRE
This book, though intended to stand on its own, is the sequel to Nor the Years Condemn by Justin Sheedy, his highly-acclaimed historical fiction telling the story of young Australian World War II fighter pilot, Daniel Quinn, as featured in Ghosts of the Empire along with selected characters from Nor the Years Condemn. Ghosts’ main character, Mick O’Regan, is introduced in Nor the Years Condemn which is currently orderable internationally via all bookstores, at Amazon and leading print-on-demand and ebook retailers, and in Australia at Dymocks bookstores, Gleebooks, Berkelouw Books, the Australian War Memorial and all good bookstores.
PRAISE FOR NOR THE YEARS CONDEMN…
Nor the Years Condemn – 5 Stars
by Michael High, Colorado Springs, USA
“Nor the Years Condemn”: Where to start? The writing. Excellent. Everything flowed and, from the first chapter to the end, was fluid. Hints here and there as to what may happen in the future were freely dropped along the way. This kept me engrossed, kept me reading. The story. Again, excellent. The history behind these young men (and women), the planes they used, the circumstances surrounding this time frame, et cetera – all well done. I thoroughly enjoyed the “story” of each character and how they interacted with each other. There were some shockers in there; war is hell, no? I also liked the hint of “espionage” involved. “Nor the Years Condemn”, to me, was a fantastic read. I can but recommend this book to others and impatiently await Justin’s next work.
6 Stars from Me
by Chris Wheeler, Melbourne, Australia
“Nor The Years Condemn” is a book that I was unable to put down. There are funny moments, and sad moments too. I was able to soak in the atmosphere of the places that Quinn and others visited, as well as feeling that I was in the cockpit with him. Well researched and well written, I commend it to anybody with even a passing interest in World War ll or flying. 6 Stars from me.
Should Be a Movie
by Rochelle Lancaster, Melbourne, Australia
Nor the Years Condemn is a must-have for any history buff. Not only for an insight into what it was like at the start of the war, but also an insight into Sydney at the time. Not only for the boys, everyone will take something away from this. Could definitely see this made into a mini-series or movie. The author sucks you in from the start, it is very hard to put down. You can tell that the author did a lot of research when writing this book and is passionate about the story and characters. Hoping there will be a sequel.
In Appreciation of Nor the Years Condemn
by Martin Zitek, Sydney, Australia
Nor the Years Condemn recounts the horrors of war as seen by one elite and effective unit of WWII. The author puts us there, in that time, by depicting: language, description of locations, the attitudes of the people and the spirit of the nation that would see it prevail through its darkest period of history. The reader is shown in clear, flowing narrative how war can touch us all, from the other side of the world, to the heights of the clouds. The characters feel so real, we are sure they must have existed. The flying is portrayed so brilliantly, we feel an ace fighter pilot must have possessed Justin’s head while he wrote this. The planes themselves become characters, even though mere machines, they became tools of victory and a symbol of ingenuity, technology and bloody determination. This is a testament to the research undertaken by the author and his wordsmithing we see as the end result. We should count ourselves lucky today that the whole world has not since been embroiled in such a conflict and we hope it never will be again. Recounting the bravery of these men, and the staggering odds against their surviving, should make us never forget. We will remember them.
An Unusual WW2 Aviator’s Story, a Terrific Read!!
by Celia Byrnes, Iowa, USA
This book follows the life of an Australian pilot from volunteering, training, shipping out to England, until the wind down of the war. Meticulously researched, our fictional character’s story is wholly believable, from descriptions of military training, learning
to fly, airborne dog fights, war-torn London, relationships formed and lost. A gripping story of war, love, loss and survival. As a Brit I found it an unusual perspective which is frequently overlooked, try not to let it make you late for work – it did me.
A Novel That Feels Like A Biography
by Denise Boneham of Bury St Edmunds, England
Having watched this novel by Justin Sheedy for some time on Facebook I was predisposed to like it even before I read it. I was not disappointed one iota. It has the feel of a biography because it reads so authentically. The characters are developed well and things happen to them that, having read books by veterans of the era, could well have happened. Good research, Justin! I laughed and cried through the novel and was really glad of the ending. Read it in one sitting…. Looking forward to seeing your next novel, Justin, but can you make it a Bomber Command one (pretty please). And maybe the ABC will make it into a mini-series?
(Thank you, Denise. And I’m delighted to have delivered on your plea with Ghosts of the Empire. — Justin Sheedy.)
From Andrew Landström, Sweden…
I think a lot of social aspects go missing in a lot of novels about war… like family, love and the main characters’ own feelings… Some authors seem not to be able to get the balance right. I think you did… I laughed out loud in some parts of the book as well as being moved almost to tears. In short your book gives a very living picture of what went on behind ‘the stiff upper lips’.
From Justin Osborne, USA…
This was an excellent book and shows what the young men went through during World War 2 while flying the latest fighters of the day and the sacrifices they made to protect the free world from Nazi Germany and the imperialist Japan. I strongly recommend this book for anyone that is a WW2 buff. I give this book 10 stars.
From Stephen Horsman, Australia…
“Nor the Years Condemn”. What a captivating read. Justin tells the story in such a way that one feels like one has become a character in the story. The reader feels the ultimate glory of becoming a fighter pilot – the wish of all who volunteered – but only a very few actually achieved this dream. We see the reality of what those poor boys (and they were boys) had to endure when faced with the reality of a dogfight. I would recommend this book to all who have a love of history or aircraft of the era.
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