‘Only Sleeping’.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Britain may look a little shop-worn and grimy
to you. The British people are anxious to have you
know that you are not seeing their country at its best’
—‘Over There’ – Instructions for
American servicemen in Britain
Spencer 1943
They called the birds ‘she’, and the P–51 was the Betty Grable of them all. Spencer named his ‘Crazy Horse’ and engineer Mo di Angeli, the nose artist, did him proud. Though not without putting up a fight.
‘You don’t want a girl?’ he asked incredulously, spreading out his portfolio on the bed. ‘I do girls like angels, ‘s how I got my name, you understand. Looka this . . . and this . . . huh? Make you wanna fire bullets with your prick, yeah? Howbout a cowgirl, kinda get the two ideas together?’
The girls were certainly sensational, with gravity-defying bosoms and buttocks, nipples that could poke your eye out, occasionally but not always holding in place an exiguous wisp of gauze, cascades of luxuriant hair and satiny legs of improbable length, generally ending in peep-toe shoes with seven-inch heels. It was a joke on the base that Mo had no problem clambering over the planes to do his work because he had an extra leg. Decades later when Hannah dragged Spencer along to see the movie Who Killed Roger Rabbit? (he hadn’t cared for it, too much slick brutality), the film’s only redeeming feature had been Jessica Rabbit, with her hourglass figure and Veronica Lake hair, who would have looked right at home on the fuselage of a P–51.
Mo had done his best, he was nothing if not a salesman. ‘These are American girls, right? You won’t see these around Church Norton, I’m tellin’ ya. No, sir, these are all-American broads.’
They weren’t, of course, they were girls from no country that ever existed outside a man’s imagination, though there was something in their cheery come-hither smiles that reminded Spencer of Trudel. A little. Or Trudel as she had been, before she went away. Very briefly he’d thought along the lines of something like ‘Apple Pie’, a big down-home sort of girl . . . But all that had been such a long time ago and they’d both of them changed.
No, he knew what he wanted and once Mo stopped trying to change his mind he did just about the greatest picture in the Group: a bucking wild horse, arched at the very apex of its wicked, whiplash jump. A horse, fantastic as the girls were fantastic, a horse that had never thundered over any real plain, anywhere in the world. This was a mustang of the mind, with muscles like a weight-lifter, a coat of molten metal, a mane and tail that flew from its body like fire, crimson nostrils and mad cobalt blue eyes, in each of which was reflected, tiny and perfect in every detail, a naked girl.
‘Okay, okay,’ protested Mo, ‘perks of the job. Indulge me. Who’s gonna know it’s there but you and me?’
Soon there were two crosses under the crazy horse, like kisses on the end of a letter. Two crosses for two kills, not that Spencer really knew what it was to kill. With some of the pilots their swagger was as phoney as a three-dollar bill, but his was for real. For the whole of that summer he was in heaven. Or paradise, maybe, because he was young and still waiting for something, though what he didn’t know.
That plane got a hold on his senses that kept him on a permanent high. As an old man, when he couldn’t remember why he’d come into the room or where he’d left his glasses, there were certain things he could always remember, that were imprinted on his senses.
The smell of the store in Moose Draw . . . his mother’s delicate English scent . . . the sound of the bronco exploding in its stall . . . the feel of being inside Trudel for the first time . . . And flying the Mustang.
He had never ridden a wild horse, but he guessed this was what it must feel like. Alone in the cockpit of the P–51 you were astride the thundering Merlin engine like a cowboy. The plane was the most manoeuvrable at altitude of any in the skies over Europe but its power made every flight an act of faith. A faith which in his case had never been tested. There was that hot stink of farmland and fuel, the smell of the earth and of the sky. The moment when after a ragged, thumping start all the cylinders fired and you and the ship shuddered with the distinctive snarl of the Merlin and the propeller went from whirling blades to a grey circular blur like a kid’s fairground windmill. And then the bumpy, lurching taxi-ing out from the hardstands, around the perimeter road and on to the runway, zig-zagging to compensate for the obscured view. This was when it began to feel good. You could see people watching, not airforce personnel but locals lined up on the airfield road to see the show ...
And then that moment that defied belief, the biggest act of faith of all, when the speed reached a point of no return, like sex, and the plane lifted off the ground to where speed meant something different again, and the Cadillac of the air was cruising, in its element. The landmarks that had streamed, shuddering, past as the plane accelerated on the ground now floated serenely below: the twin churches, the lattice of narrow streets, the posies of woodland, the small fields and child-size barns. On a combat mission the whole sky seemed full of planes, a flock of aircraft hanging over the English countryside like migrating birds.
Spencer and Frank Steyner and a hothead nineteen-year-old, Si Santucci from Albuquerque, were in the same flight. Their wingman was a guy named Eammon ‘Amen’ Ford. Mo was their crew chief. They were about as mixed a bag as you could imagine. In the no-man’s-land of waiting – and there was a lot of it – they fell unfailingly into type. Spencer would have a book in his hand but couldn’t concentrate enough to see the print; Frank also had one, but read it, turning pages with metronomic regularity; Si was antsy and fired up, wanting to talk, or go outside and play ball, something he occasionally prevailed upon Spencer to do – but it wasn’t much of a deal. Si was a star sportsman and they were poorly matched. He had some crazy ideas, too, shouted one to Spencer one day as he shied the ball at him.
‘You know, you could catch a ball with one of these birds!’
Spencer grunted as the ball smacked into his cupped palms. ‘Sure, how?’
‘Under the belly! In the exhaust – bet you could!’
‘Thinking of trying it?’
‘Will do one day. Will you be pitcher?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Eammon Ford was religious, the only one who didn’t chain smoke. He was more overtly godly even than the chaplain, who liked to be seen as one of the boys. Eammon was older than most of them too, mid-thirtyish and quiet, with a wife and daughter at home and another child on the way. He didn’t ram the Lord down anyone’s throat, though, and even if he wasn’t someone you could tear up the town with they respected him. Before each mission he wrote in a little book. He had very small handwriting, all the letters distinct and separate like hieroglyphs.
Si had the biggest pin-up collection on the base. He was eaten up with curiosity about Eammon and his little book, so it was only a matter of time before he got right in there and asked.
‘Say, Amen, you feel closer to God up there?’
‘No.’
‘C’mon, up there above the clouds . . .“Closer my God to thee”?’
‘That’s not where God is,’ said Eammon patiently. Spencer felt for him, he was being put on the spot and there was no mistaking the fact that other guys’ ears were pricking up. It may have looked like they were playing chess or reading the funnies or writing letters home, but they knew when a bit of entertainment was being laid on.
‘God’s in your heart,’ Eamonn added, perhaps hoping that’d see to it. But Si was aware of his audience now.
‘Not in mine he ain’t.’ There was a murmur of laughter.
‘You don’t think so, but he’s there.’
‘You telling me I gotta have faith?’
Eammon lowered his voice still further. ‘I’m not saying you gotta do anything – say, shall we drop this?’
‘Sure.’ Eammon continued to write, and Si to watch. ‘May I ask you something?’
Eammon looked up. ‘What do you write in there?’
‘Oh it’s private.’
‘Hell, no, I don’t want to read it. I mean, what kind of thing? Is that a diary or what?’
‘It’s not a diary.’
‘Okay.’ Si nodded sagely. His mischievousness was bordering on cruelty, but this waiting before missions was so strange and separate a time that normal rules didn’t apply.
‘You writing a book?’
There was a split-second pause and Eammon coloured slightly before replying: ‘I’m writing for my own satisfaction.’
Si turned to the room. ‘Say, hear that? We got a real-life writer in our midst!’
In a way, the moment had passed, because Si had exacted the information. There were a few mumbles, some more polite than others, and that was that. Frank was the only one who hadn’t looked up once. But of course the seed was sown – everyone now knew that Eammon Ford was writing a book, and he could never do so again without people wondering what went into it.
That was another act of faith. In the air you had to trust the other pilots – especially in your flight and especially the wingman – because they had to trust you. When you were in a steep dive with the altimeter needles spinning crazily and the flak popping all around, you wanted men around you who were halfway sane. Which was why Si’s little exhibition hadn’t endeared him to anyone much, even if they did laugh.
* * * * *
So that was the waiting. And then there was the war.
And then again there was England – what Frank called ‘familiarisation with our culture and history’, and Mo called ‘getting friendly with the natives’, and Si called ‘chasing tail’. Every man on the base was issued with a pushbike to help in these leisure enterprises. As a matter of fact, Frank was genuinely more interested in old churches and picture galleries than in other kinds of fun. From time to time he’d come along to a dance in the mess and stand looking on with a slightly mocking smile, quite relaxed but not joining in.
Mo was the one with the systematic ladies’-man approach, the chin like a chemist’s shop, the sweet talk and the little parcels of nylons and candy, and it did seem to work. For a man with all the svelte looks of a pug dog and the elegant conversation of a Damon Runyon sidekick, he had astonishing success with the opposite sex. They queued for him at the main gate, he had to work hard at being scrupulously fair, and the most astonishing thing of all was that in spite of the competition which he made no attempt to hide they all thought he was the sweetest thing. They brought him eggs, and tomatoes, and little fairings they’d made, and invitations – more than he could handle. Spencer had to ask him how in hell’s name he did it.
‘Tough one, huh? Its like they can’t all be after my godlike body, so what can it be?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Sure you didn’t. Listen, Spence, I like women. I tell ’em all the time that I do, show an interest, know what I mean? Put them first is di Angeli’s rule of ladykillin’.’ He put his hand over his heart as if pledging the Oath of Allegiance. ‘Ladies first, every time.’
It was a philosophy of such blinding simplicity there had to be a hitch. ‘But, Mo, how do you keep them all happy, how come they’re not jealous?’
‘Of me?’ Mo held his arms out to the side, wiggled the area where had he been two stone lighter his hips would have been. ‘Joking apart, they trust me. Trouble with you good-looking guys is the broads feel insecure. Me they feel they gotta be kind to. And like I say, I tell ’em they’re beautiful, give ’em presents, make ’em feel like princesses . . .’ He leaned forward. ‘And another thing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t push my luck, know what I mean?’ He raised his eyebrows so high each one was crowned with a series of semicircular furrows. ‘Don’t make like the sack’s the one thing on my mind.’
‘Really?’ Coming from the man with the infamous ‘third leg’, the man who’d sent literally hundreds of improbably curvy cuties to flash their charms in the skies over Europe, Spencer found this pretty hard to take, and Mo read his expression.
‘Okay, I confess, it is the one thing on my mind. Like you, like everyone – surprise, surprise – I admit it. But you let them see that, you scare ’em off. Soft and nice, every time, Spence, remember that.’
Spencer bore this advice in mind, and though he didn’t stack up the same number of conquests as Mo, he had a terrific time in the local pubs, at the officers’ club dances and village hall hops, in the bars and restaurants of Cambridge and (when he could afford it) the fleshpots of London where he got lucky a few times – most notably with a girl from the Windmill Theatre and (on a separate occasion) with an older woman who turned out to be married to a civil servant in the War Office. Both of these conquests were memorable, the first because she had the body of a goddess and got plenty of practice, and the second because she was smart, with a lively imagination, and had been getting no practice at all. What’s more, London and war being what they were, it was easy to look either or both of them up when he happened to be in town, no strings, no problem.
Around the base at Church Norton it was mainly good clean fun. There was no shortage of girls and contrary to first impressions the natives were far from hostile. The men, though civil, were understandably wary, but the women and children thought the Yanks were just great. They worked at it, of course. The regulation issue booklet was full of well-meant tips some of which were sound, most of which they ignored, all of which were designed to keep their hosts happy (in the case of the girls not so happy that it would all end in tears) and them out of the clap clinic.
The kid Spencer had met on his first morning was called David Ransom, Dave to his friends, Davey to the Americans – it made the kids proud to have a nickname from the Yanks and they were happy to oblige. He was up at the airfield every second he could be, cycling up in break during schooltime and spending most of the day hanging around there at weekends, watching and listening, running errands with his ‘I’ll go, mister!’ It was like having a big friendly dog who worshipped you, who’d do anything you asked, who you knew would go to hell and back for you – heady stuff for a young man like Spencer who’d never experienced the charms of hero-worship before.
Davey was always on at Spencer to come and have tea at his house with his mother and auntie. They lived way down Church Norton’s main drag, the last in a terraced row called Craft Cottages. Spencer was doubtful because he didn’t know whether the oft-repeated invitation had any endorsement from Davey’s mother – if not, she might not be too pleased with some flashy stranger that her son talked about non-stop turning up expecting hospitality. Cautiously, he asked Davey about his dad.
‘He’s a POW in Germany.’
‘Poor guy. And that must be hard on your mother.’
‘She’s all right. She says chin up, chest out, shoulders back.’
From this and other remarks concerning Mrs Ransom’s bulldog spirit Spencer formed a slightly intimidating picture of her and her sister, Davey’s aunt, which more or less convinced him that it would be unwise to accept any invitations except those that came, as it were, from HQ.
And then one Sunday afternoon in early July when a group of them were cycling unsteadily back from a pub crawl he heard his name being yelled, and looked over his shoulder to see Davey about a hundred yards behind, standing up on his pedals. The others joshed him about it. Davey was a funny kid, nice enough and willing, but intense.
‘You got company, Spence!’
‘Set a good example now!’ ‘I’d catch you up.’ ‘I doubt it!’ Spencer pushed his bike on to the verge and sat down next to it as Davey toiled up the slope. It was hot. He lay back. Not hot like at home, but you felt the heat more here because it was less usual. The grass was uncut, warm and fragrant and full of spindly wild flowers and buzzing, hovering, creeping life. The sky was a sweet, soft blue, not a plane to be seen, but somewhere up there a lark was twittering its heart out. His eyelids drooped. Th
is was it, he thought: peace. What they were fighting for.
The unoiled squeak of the bike and sterterous breathing announced Davey before he flopped down next to him.
‘Hi, Spence!’
Spencer rolled his head, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Hallo, yourself.’
‘I got something for you. Here.’ He thrust an envelope at Spencer. ‘It’s from my mum.’
‘Okay, so what do we have here . . .’ Spencer propped himself on his elbow and opened the envelope, aware of being watched, that an effect was expected. It was a note from Mrs Ransom, written on mauve notepaper with a picture of a violet at the top, and all properly headed with the address and date.
Dear Lt McColl,
David has been asking for some time if you could come round, but I have not wanted to bother you with it, knowing that you have many more important matters on your mind. But it would mean a lot to him, I know, so this is to ask if you would come and have tea at the above address next Sunday at four o’clock? There is no need to reply formally, just let David know.
Yours sincerely,
Janet Ransom
Something about the rather stiff tone of the note persuaded him that he’d been right not to put himself forward. Although Mrs Ransom was polite enough to make it sound like an imposition on his precious time, this was obviously an invitation extended under pressure.
‘That’s real kind of your mom,’ he said. ‘Will you tell her yes, and I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Yup.’ Davey was nearly speechless with delight, his face red and shiny from the pedalling uphill and his hair sticking up in spikes.
‘So will I meet everyone?’ asked Spencer. ‘The whole family?’
‘Yes. My mum and my auntie and my little sister.’
‘Great. I’ll bring along a few things as a present, naturally, but tell your mom if there’s anything she specially wants that I can help out with . . .’
‘No, there won’t be nothing.’
Even without the triple negative Davey’s tone was emphatic enough to suggest that his mother was wary of Yanks bearing gifts and that even kids like him had caught wind of an implied tradeoff that was in some incomprehensible way unacceptable.
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