My Enemy Came Nigh

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  'The clock's slow, Flight. And we all know your watch has its own ideas about time. Come on, Derek.' Outside the room, Courtney said 'Flight Jenkins is a good type. He got his gong on the Frontier for bombing and strafing a mob of tribesmen who were about to massacre a platoon of infantry. His Wapiti was riddled and a bullet cut his watch strap. The watch bounced about on the cockpit floor and it's been erratic ever since. He still wears it for luck; and carries a reliable fob watch in his pocket.'

  'What happened to the soldiers?'

  'Thanks to Jenkins, they hung on until a couple of Valentias with full two-thousand-pound bomb loads were able to turn up and really bomb the Wogs.'

  'That's my car. Shall I follow you? My kit's in it.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  Driving off, Alden asked, 'What's the station commander like?'

  'Groupie Jameson? A bit dour: spells his name "lain" and wears the kilt on every possible occasion. Good type, though. Ex-Royal Naval Air Service. Transferred when the R.A.F. was formed.' On 1st April 1918, amalgamating the R.N .A.S. and Royal Flying Corps. 'He was a roaring success in the last war, I gather: got a D.S.C. in the Navy and a D.F.C. in the Mob, and picked up a D.S.O. betweenwhiles. A bit keen on bullshit: he's never forgotten all that deck-scrubbing he was brought up to at Dartmouth and in ships, before he saw the light and became an intrepid aviator.'

  'I thought the C.O. looked rather harassed.'

  'He chases both the squadron commanders in no ordinary fashion. But he's damned effective, there's no denying that. To change the subject: Jack Hanbury gave me a summary of what you did after you chucked the Service. What does it feel like to be back, after being what Groucho Marx calls a legal eagle?'

  'Chastening!'

  Courtney was not slow in the uptake. 'Oh, you'll get your second ring almost straight away, I should think; when the balloon goes up.' He turned a grave look on Alden. 'It is going to be war, isn't it? I mean, we Service types never really know what the bloody politicians will be up to; especially a fuddy-duddy prick like Chamberlain. What are people saying in London?'

  'I don't know any more than you do. But my father was lunching with our Member at the House of Commons on Monday, and he says we can't possibly avoid it: Hitler will go into Poland, for sure.'

  'Good. Ever since that Munich farce I haven't felt as though any amount of soap and water has really scrubbed the muck off me. Appeasement! God, what a disgrace!' That was enough of a serious mood. Courtney looked mischievous and asked, 'You haven't found yourself a wife?'

  'Can't afford one, Bruce.'

  'Me neither. Don't want to, anyway, at the moment. Got rather a presentable pusher at the moment, though.'

  Alden raised his eyebrows. 'Pusher?'

  'Welsh term. Flight Sergeant Jenkins's fault: he always uses it and he's got the whole squadron doing it. He lives for rugger, beer and pushers. Frightful little lecher. Unless he shoots a terrible line, he's almost unfailingly successful, what's more.'

  'I don't know whether you're censorious or envious, Bruce.'

  'Plain jealous, old boy.'

  'Not of his rugger, surely?' Courtney was a county centre three-quarter and an England trialist. There was a mocking inflection in Alden's voice.

  'Of all the grumble the little blighter gets. He's about the wiliest serum half I ever saw and I'm sure he uses the same tactics with the women.'

  'Grumble is a new word to me.'

  'Cockney rhyming slang, Derek: grumble and grunt...'

  Alden laughed. He had not felt so amused and generally unbuttoned for five years. The atmosphere of the University Air Squadron had been cheerful; and on his two periods at training schools as a Reservist 'he had found the spirit and attitudes jolly and friendly. But there was nothing like being back on an operational squadron. He was with his own kind once again and suddenly those five years seemed to have been twice as long; and yet, paradoxically, they seemed also to have vanished in a flash now that he was back in the environment he had first chosen to spend his working life in.

  'Let's have a drink while one of the batmen unloads your gear and totes it to your room,' said Courtney. 'Glad to be back?'

  'So much that I'm sorry ever to have had to be away.'

  'Good. And this time it's going to be for more than four years, I should think.'

  Courtney was counting the two years at Cranwell, which had certainly been happy ones. But R.A.F. life only really began when one joined a squadron, and Alden went up the mess steps relishing the fact that that was just what he had done; and revelling in it.

  Two

  There were three other recalled Reserve pilots on the station, one of whom was on Tregear's squadron. All were more out of practice than Alden. This did not lessen his anxiety when he took off for the first time from East Crondal. He knew that if they were not flying, their eyes would be on him as well as those of other pilots and ground crew.

  The wireless operator/air gunner detailed to accompany him was a red-faced, button-nosed West Countryman who looked cheerful and adolescent but was, Courtney informed him, a mature twenty. Leading Aircraftman Fussell had entered the Service as a 16-year-old apprentice and passed out of the training school at Cranwell three years later, a wireless operator mechanic, a Worn. He had volunteered to be an air gunner and was duly paid an extra shilling a day flying pay and, when he qualified, another sixpence a day for his aircrew trade. He also wore a winged brass bullet on his left sleeve. When not flying he did not sit around in the pilots' room. He worked in the Signals section or on the wireless equipment in the squadron's aeroplanes.

  He was standing by their aircraft waiting for his pilot. He gave Alden a smart salute and said, 'Good afternoon, sir. L.A.C. Fussell.'

  'Good afternoon Fussell. This is going to be a bit of a bind, I'm afraid: just a sector recce.'

  'Suits me, sir. Give me a chance to make sure the set's on the top line. It was off tune when I D.I.'d it this morning.' A D.I. was a daily inspection.

  An hour's flying to familiarise himself with landmarks and generally enjoy himself suited Alden very well too. Fussell obtained some bearings and fixes for him which he did not need but were good practice for them both. They had a set procedure to go through and time passed quickly. Flying had never bored Alden and he was sorry when Fussell's voice on the-intercom announced, 'Base has sent P.U.F.O., sir.'

  Alden recalled with amusement the first time he had heard the message, years ago. The four Morse letters that signalled the end of an exercise and return to base stood for 'Pack up and fuck off': a terminology and abbreviation originated by some wireless operator, somewhere, at some early date in the Service's history. Alden duly did so and was relieved when he made a smooth landing. The last thing he wanted was to give his Wop/A.G. such a jolt that he would report the new pilot to be ham fisted, to his mates.

  Three more days spent with various Wop/A.G.s on navigation exercises, bombing practice and, for the Wop/A.G.s, air-to-air firing at a drogue towed by a Fairey Gordon superannuated bomber, had a sense of urgency and stern purpose. Germany had invaded Poland on the day after Alden's arrival at East Crondal. The R.A.F. was ordered to the alert and from that evening civilian clothes were not permitted when off duty. Alden found it difficult to register the full gravity of the situation until he went down from his bedroom to the ante-room for a pint of beer before dinner and found the place thronged with his comrades all in their best blue. Nobody was allowed off camp.

  Neville Chamberlain's uninspiring drone announcing the outbreak of war, broadcast by the B.B.C. at 11.15 a.m. on 3rd September, seemed an anticlimax. The whole station had been psychologically prepared to fight. But now that the moment had come, its two squadrons were impotent. They were resigned to the disappointment that they would not be called upon until their obsolescent Vildebeests had been replaced by Beauforts.

  It was the conversion to twin-engined types that held the pilots' interest while the war passed them by. Few on either squadron were qualified on twins. Group Captain
Jameson, displaying the effectiveness which Courtney had acknowledged, arranged for an Airspeed Oxford twin-engined advanced trainer to be detached to each squadron; with an instructor from Cranwell. Alden became so absorbed in learning to handle two engines - taxiing was different, let alone flying- that he ceased for a while to chafe at being left out of the fighting.

  In fact, there was not a great deal to fret about. Few squadrons were taking much active part in the war. The fighter squadrons that had gone to France were patrolling, the bomber squadrons posted there were carrying out exercises. From British bases, fighters were doing convoy patrols and both they and aircraft of Coastal Command flew anti-U-boat patrols: the former, from shortness of range, only coastwise.

  The only aggressive actions were attacks by 29 Wellingtons and Blenheims against enemy naval vessels in Schillig Roads. This did aggravate the Vildebeest crews' frustration at being left out of the fighting. Two Wellingtons and five Blenheims were lost: a chilling indication of the casualties to be expected when their own turn came. Other bombers flew over Germany every night to drop leaflets defaming the Nazi Party and urging the population to surrender. Even this activity would have been preferable to none. At least those crews were flying over enemy territory and encountering flak and fighters, taking the risks they had been trained, and were being paid, to take. They were getting a taste of the real thing, not still preparing for it.

  Squadron Leader Hanbury was prominent in instructing the squadron's pilots, not only those in his own flight, in the technique of flying twins. Daily contact had not lessened Alden's instinctive wariness of him. The prospect of his first flight in an Oxford with Hanbury was unattractive. He hoped that he would have enough time with the squadron's borrowed instructor to acquire some polish before the ordeal. The Oxford was easy enough to fly and it was a step towards the really big bombers to which he hoped one day to progress. He liked the feel of two throttle levers against the palm of his right hand. He like harmonising the engines to a powerful and rhythmical duet. He liked the spaciousness of the cockpit.

  He did not like his first and only sortie with his flight commander.

  Hanbury settled into the second pilot's seat. 'Right, you take her off, Alden.'

  The port throttle lever stuck fractionally as Alden released the brakes and accelerated. The Oxford swung briefly to port. From the corner of his right eye he saw Hanbury turn his head to look at him. He could not see Hanbury's expression: he was staring straight ahead. He did not want to see Hanbury's expression. He was sure it held surprise and reproof.

  He had corrected the swing at once but the humiliation lingered, even though it had not been his fault. He waited a trifle longer than necessary to ensure that he had enough speed before drawing the control column back to lift the aeroplane off the ground. He brought his wheels up while he climbed the boundary fence.

  The intercom crackled. 'You can bring your undercart up sooner, you know, and hold her right down on the deck to build up speed.'

  Yes, and then zoom away in a split-arse climbing turn. But I hardly thought that appropriate, in the circumstances. The unspoken retort smouldered in Alden like heart-burn after too hot a curry.

  He left the circuit and set course for the coast, where he had to orbit for some minutes to give an anti-aircraft battery practice in using its instruments to gauge the Oxford's height and predict its course, for aiming its guns. The short exercise was plainly tedious for Hanbury. For Alden it was a chance to display the smoothness and accuracy of his Rate One turns in both directions and he hoped that his excellence would expunge the awkward moment when a throttle had stuck.

  P.U.F.O. he thought to himself when the gun site fired a green Verey light and he levelled off to turn away.

  Hanbury woke up. 'Right, I have control. You can do some quite amusing things with these, you know.'

  It depended on one's definition of amusement and Alden was not at all sure that his and his flight commander's would coincide.

  Hanbury began climbing out to sea. At ten thousand feet he said, as though there had been no break since his last contribution to their sparse conversation, 'Such as a roll off the top.'

  The next instant, Alden was clutching for support as he found the aircraft in a dive. When the speed had built up to Hanbury's satisfaction he gently pulled it into a steep climb and Alden was soon hanging head-down in his straps. His senses suffered a mild disorientation as the aircraft half-rolled from the inverted attitude to level flight: in the opposite direction.

  The cockpit was full of dust that made both its occupants sneeze. Scraps of paper, small stones, a couple of spanners and a screwdriver, an airman's forage cap and an old black gym shoe had rattled about as Hanbury turned the aircraft upside down. When he had finished sneezing he said 'That's the way I always find out if the erks are keeping an aeroplane properly swept. They aren't.'

  He put the Oxford into a barrel roll which was a marvel of symmetry and firmness. There was not an inch of slip at any stage of the manoeuvre.

  'Right, Derek, you have control.' Hanbury took his hands off the stick and throttles at once. The aircraft was not trimmed to fly itself. Alden grabbed for them; but gently. Hanbury sounded in a good humour. He must be, Alden concluded: Derek, forsooth! He felt that he had passed through an initiation, although exactly what it was he could not quite decide. Perhaps his remaining totally unruffled had done the trick.

  It was a rare event for a mischievous impulse to prompt him to an escapade. The last few austere years had tended to deaden any youthful wildness he had ever possessed.

  I am not without my own means of initiation and my own standards for whether I accept a man or not, he told himself.

  With a calmness that astonished even himself, he throttled back and stalled the aircraft, then let it spin five complete revolutions before correcting. He forced himself not to look at his companion. After a few seconds of level flight and still with adequate altitude, he carried out a slow roll. Once again the cockpit was filled with disturbed dust and small objects shot around all over the place. When he was flying straight and level once more, he still resisted the temptation to glance at Hanbury.

  They flew on in silence until they joined the circuit; when Hanbury said, 'How about side-slipping her in?'

  It was an uncharitable suggestion, timed with expert awkwardness. Alden's gullet experienced the sensation commonly described as 'my heart came into my mouth'. In his anger, he made a perfectly judged side-slip over the end of the runway and set the Oxford down as lightly as a sparrow alighting on a twig.

  Walking to the pilots' room, Hanbury said off­handedly 'Piece of cake, the Beaufort, for you.'

  Which was all very well, but where the devil was the war?

  It was there, all right: just around the corner. And it overtook East Crondal as suddenly as a tidal wave roaring up a peaceful waterway in an earthquake.

  It was two hours after midnight when the Tannoy loudspeakers recently positioned about the camp crepitated into life and the Duty Officer's voice roused every sleeper and galvanised everyone who was already on duty.

  'All pilots report to the Operations Room immediately. All wireless operator/air gunners report to their squadron Signals sections immediately. All ground crews report to squadron hangars, and armourers to squadron Armament sections, immediately.'

  The door of Alden's room opened as he sat up in bed and one of the night duty batmen came in, 'Oh, you're awake, sir. Just checking to make sure all the officers heard the Tannoy.'

  Alden swung his feet out of bed. 'Any tea going?'

  'Coming up soon, sir. As soon as we've done running round all the rooms.' The batman vanished excitedly.

  Alden felt guilty for wasting time as he brushed his teeth, but he did not wash except to dip a flannel in cold water and rub it over his face. He pulled on his stores issue white sweater to save time instead of putting on a collar and tie, and ran downstairs. The tea had not appeared. The hall was ajostle with officers hurrying out to the wait
ing lorries. As soon as the squadron's was loaded, it sped off, its passengers swaying, holding onto the metal frame of the canvas tilt for support. There had been a constant hum of speculation from the moment when Alden had met other pilots hastening down the mess stairs.

  Courtney was sitting next to the driver, by virtue of his seniority. The C.O. and flight commanders all lived in married quarters and would be picked up by the C.O.'s staff car, kept overnight in the M.T. section . The station commander was presumably at Ops already. Alden would have liked to ask Courtney if he had a clue to what the flap was about. He spoke instead to the pilot next to him, whose shoulder kept bumping his. 'Perhaps the Jerry Fleet has sailed to bombard the east coast, as they did in the last show.'

  'They can get on with it, as far as I'm concerned... until I've had a decent breakfast.' It was a grumpy display of British phlegm.

  All sense of dramatic urgency thus dismissed, Alden also began to feel disgruntled by loss of sleep and a stomach that would soon begin to rumble.

  The Operations Room was adjacent to the station Signals section. The crews who manned it worked in three watches, which allowed for 48 hours' duty in periods of five to eight hours, followed by 24 hours' stand-down. Each crew comprised a controller and two assistants, one an officer, the other an N.C.O. At this early stage of the war manning varied from station to station. At East Crondal there was a squadron leader in command of each watch. They were all recalled Reservists, either pilots or navigators. Group Captain Jameson had used his considerable influence to ensure this. With a brother in the House of Commons and holding a Ministerial position in Defence, a cousin who was an air vice marshal at the Air Ministry and another, an air commodore, at H.Q. Coastal Command, he was seldom frustrated. The junior Ops Room officers were also former aircrew who had been grounded and shunted to administrative duties. The N.C.O.s were Regular sergeants. All this was important. Some stations were compelled to run their Ops Room haphazard.