Howard was familiar with the sombre preoccupied look on the face of a Frenchman or Pole, a Belgian, a Dutchman or Norwegian when he sat apart in a corner of a dispersal but or reclined on the grass outside it on a sunny day.
He knew also that, particularly when worn by a French or Polish pilot, that abstracted air and courteous, quiet manner masked a hatred for the enemy that drove these men to fury and recklessness in action, a compulsion to kill with complete disregard for their own lives. They fought as though drugged or hypnotised, in a frenzy. They ignored orders or warnings given by radio; probably they did not hear them, numbed to every sensation but blood lust.
Michel Jannier and Oddy Odchodski stood, subdued and watchful, on the fringe of the group which listened to his exchange with Group Captain Northam when he landed from the sortie on which Payne had been killed. Going to the crew but with Kennard and Lambert, he noticed them drift away on their own, talking, their gestures and the obvious vehemence of their discussion suggesting an indignation and bewilderment that he found disturbing.
There was much to disturb him about these two. Although he could see that they were comfortably integrated with the rest of the squadron, there was an aura of apartness in the way that they seemed constantly to keep together. They conversed in rapid colloquial French: upper class Polish families learned the language from childhood and in earlier times had even used it among themselves to air their culture, education and exclusiveness.
Jannier’s Christian name was easy for everyone to use, but nobody could remember or pronounce Odchodski’s; hence Oddy. That was not the only disparity. Jannier was tallish and lean, with dark hair and handsome features, wearing the dark blue of l’Armée de l’Air. Odchodski came up to his shoulder, was ponderously built, with a pale flat face and fair hair. On his R.A.F. tunic he wore the stooping silver eagle pilot’s badge of his country; with, since the war, a symbolic chain dangling from its fettered legs. Jannier smoked heavily, Odchodski was a formidable drinker. Both were much sought after by young women, Service and civilian. In those days of little travel by the middle and lower classes, all foreigners were exciting, all Frenchmen were romantic and Poles were mysterious: few of the girls whom Oddy swived had the slightest idea of the whereabouts of Poland on a map.
Lambert noticed the direction of Howard’s interest when, presently, the N.A.A.F.I. mobile canteen drove up and people bought cups of tea and coffee.
“They’re quite mad, of course,” Lambert said.
“What are your two like?” The squadron’s other Pole and Frenchman had joined Howard’s pair.
“All four of them are as thick as thieves. There’d be no holding them if they were all on the same flight.”
“Always trying to nip off on their own, as usual?”
“That’s right. As usual, they come back with their gun covers blown off, after they’ve been ‘accidentally’ separated from the rest of us; and it’s always the same story of having met One-Ninetys or One-O-Nines.”
“When they’ve actually been shooting up some ground target.”
“That’s it.”
“What about film?” Cameras were fitted and synchronised with the guns.
“The first squirt is about two seconds and of course the film’s blank because the target jinked or the film was faulty! The E.As always beat it, of course, and that’s why they follow them down, can’t catch them, and use their ammo to knock off as many Huns as they can on the deck.”
When the enemy aircraft was alleged to be a FW190 or a ME109F, the excuse was plausible if unconvincing. “Do they ever prang anything worthwhile?”
“Sometimes. My two blew up a gasometer the other day; and nearly got caught in the explosion. It started a hell of a fire over at least a square mile.”
“I never met a French pilot yet who didn’t think Rhubarbs were specifically invented to give him the chance to go and prang whatever he likes.”
“Can’t blame them. Unfortunately, the Poles have cottoned on; or, at least, ours have.”
“I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling that they were impressed in the wrong way by what happened this afternoon. I’m going to keep an eye on my two: if we don’t watch out, they’ll be nipping across to the other side to play the same game with Jerry: with only one of them to do the ambushing, instead of four.”
Lambert looked mildly pained. “My God! Boost. Can’t have that. They’re probably hatching something now, some way of my two getting in on the act with them.”
“I’m only guessing ...”
“No, no: damn shrewd bit of deduction. Your rest at O.T.U. must have sharpened up the grey matter.”
“What rest?”
“Come on, no line-shooting.”
“It’s not a line. You’ve been on O.T.U.; you know what it’s like: pupils straying out of formation in every direction ... leaving their break too late in a dummy attack ... not looking where they’re going when they join the circuit ... I even had one chap going round the wrong way ... missed me by a whisker when I was on my cross-wind leg.”
“That’s what I mean, old boy: kept you on your toes, sharpened you up: you’re alert.”
Howard laughed. There was scant amusement in it. “I’m always alert when Gus Northam’s around.”
The armourer sergeant appeared at the door. “Flight Lieutenant Howard, sir. We’ve found the stoppage.”
“What was it?”
There was silence in the hut. Jannier and Odchodsky evinced an interest that did not escape their flight commander.
“The wiring, sir: cross-connections. I’ve put the armourer and the electrician on a charge. Downright criminal carelessness, sir.”
Howard did not like any maintenance technician to be brought before the squadron commander for punishment. They were as devoted to their work as they were skilled at it. Mistakes were rare and invariably, he had found, caused by an unbearable work load. During the Battle of Britain and in many other periods of high stress, at home and overseas, ground crews toiled day and night with only a couple of hours’ sleep in twenty-four. Their squadron spirit was as strong as the pilots’.
But Payne had died because of someone’s poor workmanship and the charge would have to go ahead.
He saw the look that passed between Jannier and Odchodski. It seemed to say: Well, that’s all right, the new flight commander isn’t yellow. Resentment rose quickly in him.
“Michel ... Oddy ... formation aerobatics and dog-fighting. Take off in ten minutes.” He went to the telephone to clear it with the C.O., and the controller in the sector Operations Room; making sure that B Flight would not be called to 30 minutes, Readiness or Standby: they were at present on 60 minutes, which allowed time for practice flying.
Broad grins appeared on the faces of Jannier and Odchodski; grins of pure delight. They chafed when on the ground. Even a training flight offered the chance of being suddenly diverted to intercept a bogey or bandit. Also, as Howard was aware, they were eager to take him on in the rivalry of mock fighting and to demonstrate that they were his equals in aerobatics. He doubted it. Jannier had shot down four enemy aircraft and Odchodski, who had a D.F.C., had six kills. They had both fought over their own countries and, since the autumn of 1940, with the R.A.F. Neither had reached England in time for the Battle of Britain. Jannier had had to make his way to Spain across the Pyrenees and thence to Gibraltar. Odchodski had reached England via Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria and Greece, then by sea to Egypt and on to Gibraltar in a series of stages by R.A.F. aircraft. They were both good pilots - they would not have been tolerated on an operational squadron were they not - but lacked their flight commander’s battle experience.
The three Spitfires took off in V formation and climbed steeply. Howard led them back over the airfield and ordered them to do upward rolls independently. He performed three, the others two.
That’s sorted out the man from the boys, for a start, he thought. Chastened the beggars. They rejoined him and he took them away inland. A formation loop was follo
wed by another with a roll off the top, then a formation roll: the last did not go well. They did three more.
“All right, when we break, you two attack and try to get at least one of you on my tail.”
It would be interesting to see how well they co-ordinated and co-operated. Air combat was essentially a matter of team work. Both were highly egocentric and would want to impress him. The following twenty minutes were instructive to all three of them. Howard consistently evaded their blazing attacks, their flying becoming increasingly heavy-handed as the exercise continued. From time to time he got one or the other in his sights and could have shot him down. In evasion, he pulled every trick he had learned; including the masterful use of throttle and flaps to decelerate when it was totally unexpected. Twice he made what would have been killing attacks while inverted. There would be no argument when they landed. The camera guns would give the proof of what he would tell them.
They landed abreast after the circuit had been cleared for a final dive and formation loop over the centre of the airfield. Howard was tired and soaked in sweat. The others, when they came grinning to join him, were wiping their faces. Odchodski comically gave an imitation of a man staggering from exhaustion. Jannier gave Howard a pat on the back. “Quelle finesse, mon capitaine. Thank you.”
“If you’ve learned a lesson, you’ll both get on my tail next time; and you won’t need to work in pairs to do it.”
“We work better as pair on Rhubarb.” There was a note of hopefulness in Odchodski’s voice and an appeal in the look he cast at Howard.
“O.K., we’ll see what we can lay on tomorrow.” Howard’s Canadian deputy had sauntered out to meet them. Howard turned to him. “What about it, Meg? Shall I ask The Boss to get Group to give us a target for a couple of pairs at first light?”
“Hell, Boost, there’ll be a bit of a thrash tonight to welcome you. You’re invited to the sergeants’ mess too, aren’t you? We’ll all be hungover to hell and gone. Nuts to first light, fella.”
It was Howard’s turn to grin broadly. “You’ve got a point, Meg. Right, let’s leave it till last light: then we can have a bit of darkness to cover our return.”
The other two had been looking as eager as gun dogs out with their masters. Odchodsky said “No need for ask for target. Michel and I have plenty target.”
Howard looked at the Frenchman. “What have you in mind, Michel?”
“I have spotted a new airstrip. I think it is being used by night fighters.”
“Where?”
“In Normandy.”
“Where?”
Jannier said airily “It is a little inland, but my home is not far from there, so I know the district very well. I can show you a good route in and out.”
“How far inland?” Howard asked with suspicion.
“I will show you.” Jannier was still being very cavalier about it. He drew a map from his right flying boot and opened it. He pointed at a cross he had marked on it.
The new enemy airstrip was challengingly situated well inland, between Caen and Bayeux. Howard showed no emotion. Deliberately casual, he glanced at his deputy flight commander. “That should be a piece of cake. What d’you think, Meg?”
Megson took his cue. “Sure, why not?”
When they were back inside the hut, Megson drew Howard aside. “They’re crazy, Boost, I know that; but I didn’t know you were.”
“Don’t get all bitter and twisted, old boy. This should teach them a lesson.”
“I don’t wanna learn any lessons, thanks all the same.”
“I think it might be salutary for Groupie, too.”
Megson looked surprised; then a calculating look came into his eyes. “No-Balls Gus? Really?”
“Yes, really. Take it from me.”
“O.K., if you say so.” Megson added hopefully “Mebbe The Boss will shoot the idea down.”
“Not the way I intend to put it to him,” Howard told him cheerfully.
“Oh God! Why haven’t I led a better life!”
“Stay in and say your prayers this evening: we’ll drink for you.”
“I guess it’s too late to repent, chum.”
The drinking would be in unspoken memory of Flying Officer Payne, Agger to his friends, as well as a civility to a new flight commander. For that reason alone, Megson would not forego it.
The squadron was released and Megson and his fellow sinners made their various ways to their messes content to have lived through another day and without any thought for the next. Squadron Leader Kennard crammed his two flight commanders and their deputies into his staff car. The camp roads were busy. The Operations Room crews were changing watches and the on-going one was being marched in two squads, troops from their barrack block, W.A.A.Fs from the now vacated other ranks’ married quarters, by their sergeants. Airmen and airwomen singly, in pairs or small groups, walked towards the camp gates, wearing best blue, to the bus stop. Others were on their way to or from the N.A.A.F.I. and the Salvation Army Canteen. A few married men living off camp were homebound on bicycles. A couple of keen athletes were trotting past the Guard Room in P.T. kit, to run round the airfield.
It was the pleasant domestic underside of wartime Service life. But the roar of Merlin engines being run up after repair carried clearly through the car’s open windows from the dispersals along three sides of the aerodrome. Later there would be night flying for the most recently joined pilots straight from O.T.U. And later still there was always the chance of a sneak raider nipping in to unload its bombs on R.A.F. Monkston and strike its blow for the Fatherland by killing and maiming a few non-combatant men and women in their beds; or civilians in the village, if the bomb aimer’s aim was bad.
Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, which today included the death of a popular pilot. The trouble was that the word “sufficient” was apparently in abeyance for the duration.
***
There was no bar in a pre-war officers’ mess. Gentlemen summoned a mess waiter to the ante-room, ladies’ room or billiards room by pressing a bell-push and gave their orders. The greater number of mess members and the comparative lack of mess servants occasioned by the war had changed the lifestyle. There was also the factor that most of those who were given temporary commissions were accustomed to do their drinking in pubs rather than West End gentlemen’s clubs. Air Ministry reluctantly conceded that bars would have to be sanctioned. Evenings in wartime tended to be much noisier than in peace. The establishment of a bar left the ante-room a quiet haven for those who wanted it.
The bar at Monkston was packed before dinner with pilots, Medical, Intelligence, Engineering and Armament officers, Signals officers, Administrative officers, Controllers, Equipment officers and the station Dental officer, known as Tusky. They were making a lot of noise, but the decibels were as yet the register only of conversation and mild hilarity. Beer was the traditional drink: a weakish wartime brew, warm, flat and not over pleasant to taste. One had to sink a lot of it to approach intoxication. They were in the process of sinking a lot of it. Here and there an elderly (forty qualified in that company) officer sipped a glass of whisky or gin.
Lambert held out a pint tankard to Howard as soon as he saw him come in. “There you are, Boost. But take it easy: don’t make your breath too boozey.”
“Why not?”
“Michel’s just reminded me there’s an all-ranks hop in the Naafi: the squadron’s getting organised for a spot of poodle-faking. We’ll have to get in there early before those rapists on the other two squadrons nab all the presentable popsies.”
“I was planning on putting in a spot of uninterrupted drinking time. We’ve promised to look in on the sergeants, don’t forget.”
“They’re the worst of the lot; ours especially: they’ll be wanting to make a grab too.”
“Force majeur,” said Jannier. You are out-voted, Boost.” He had a deep voice and used it to conscious effect on women.
“What’s the talent like? Usual Ops Room beauty chorus,
I suppose; and what else?”
“Standard is high,” Odchodski informed him. “Also resistance.” He laughed a hearty Polish laugh and Howard caught the whiff of rum on his breath: Oddy liked to tip a tot of genuine Jamaica into his beer. “Ops Room girl very middle class ... very ...” He muttered sotto voce: “Czysto ...” He looked at Jannier. “Pudique?”
“Chaste,” Jannier supplied.
“Of course they’re chased, Oddy,” said Howard. “But what d’you mean by very middle class?”
Odchodski, however, was not listening. With furrowed brow, he appealed again to Jannier; who explained the pun. Odchodski chuckled. “Better dance with girl from cookhouse or Equipment ... or medical orderly ... not middle class ... or, best, upper class ... aristocrat in Poland very good for sex ... servant girl also ... in the middle, no.”
“I think we’re a bit short of aristos at Monkston at the moment, Oddy,” Lambert said.
“There is a new Waaf,” Jannier announced, “whose father is a baronet: that is a kind of lord, non?”
“Non.” Howard shook his head. “One step down from the peerage ...”
“Peerage?” Jannier and Odchodski spoke together.
“Leave it for now. Bisto’ll explain to you later. He knows all about it.” This was a dig at the origin of Bisto’s nickname and he held his tankard menacingly over Howard’s head. “Pax!” Howard pleaded. “So you agree with Oddy about the lax morals of the aristocracy, do you, Michel?”
“Oddy is the nephew of a count; he ought to know. I see no harm in taking his advice. She is a very attractive girl.”
“And the best of British luck to you, you horrible Gallic seducer. When I feel randy I make a beeline for the camp bicycle: I haven’t got the fluence over the girls that you handsome types have. I go for easy certs. Who is the camp bike, by the way?”
“I’ll point ‘em out to you,” Megson volunteered. “There’s more than one indiscriminately obliging popsie on the station.”
Fighters Up Page 11
