“Out on the street, there were thousands of servicemen looking for the best show in town. I saw Sikhs wearing turbans, Aussies wearing bush hats, and West Indians, who were as black as the ace of spades, all mixed in with the local residents. The government encouraged the Brits to walk, so there would be more room on the buses for all the servicemen on leave in London.”
Rob could have been describing wartime Washington, D.C. Because the hotels were filled to capacity and then some, many of the men simply walked around all day long until they were so tired that they curled up on a bench in Union Station or fell asleep on the stairs leading to the different monuments. When they were awake, they were out looking for action and usually finding it. The newspapers reported that there were enough venereal disease cases in the city to overfill the 30,000-seat Griffith Stadium, and a few of my co-workers found themselves in a family way.
Rob informed me with a straight face that Air Corps officers usually got the best looking girls. “I'm not kidding. We were envied or hated, depending on your point of view, because we were the glamour boys. There was more than one fight between a groundpounder and a flyboy. Because we had triangles on our faces, we were easy to pick out. Above 10,000 feet, you have to go on oxygen, and you might have to stay on it for several hours. Because of the cold air and the sweating, and believe me you can break out into a sweat, even at 25,000 feet, the mask leaves chafe marks around your nose and mouth, making us look like raccoons.
“The British girls figured out pretty quickly that officers had more money to spend, and they'd get to go to nicer places. Remember, the Brits had been at war since '39, and for some girls, this was the best way to get a decent meal. Pat Monaghan, a bombardier and crew mate, and I went into London and hooked up with two swell girls, and we took them to see the play, The Man Who Came to Dinner, and then to the Savoy Grill for dinner. The Savoy Hotel was a hangout for American reporters, and one of them interviewed us for the hometown papers. The Savoy had been hit several times during the Blitz, but even so, it was a real classy place.
“Here I was, a guy from Flagstaff, a town of about 20,000 people. Even when the Air Corps was training me, I was stationed in rural areas. Except for a weekend pass in Chicago, I had never been to a big city with clubs, the theater, and girls falling all over you. It was a very strange existence. One day you were dancing at Covent Garden, and the next day you were dropping bombs on Germany.”
The cab driver dropped us off in front of Rob's building. His flat was on the top floor of a four-story walk-up, and Ken and he shared a hallway bathroom with the two men living in the opposite flat. Their co-workers had warned them that it was in a dodgy neighborhood, but that was all they could get for the time being. Despite the drawbacks, rooms in London were so scarce that Rob was glad to have it even if it meant spending every spare minute he could out of it.
As soon as we stepped inside the door of the building, Rob informed me that Ken had moved out and that we had the flat all to ourselves. We stood in the foyer facing each other and holding hands. It was understood that if we started going up the stairs, we would make love. What I had to decide was did I love this man, and, more importantly, did he love me. He had never said so.
Rob was trying to help me along because he had unbuttoned my coat and had put his arms around me. If he started kissing me now, it was a done deal. We started kissing.
I was so inexperienced that I didn't know what to do. I was just starting to think I might not be ready for this when I saw that Rob had placed a single red rose on the pillow. There was something so sweet in that gesture that I decided I did want to be with this man. We made love until the early hours of the morning when I had to go back to Mrs. Dawkins's house or risk my “good girl” status. Standing outside my front door, Rob said, “You do know that I love you, don't you?” I hadn't been sure, but now I was. And all was right with the world.
Chapter 9
LETTERS FROM THE CROWELLS came at regular intervals all through the dark of my second Northern European winter. London is located at a latitude that is even farther north than Newfoundland in Canada. It was dark when I went to the office and dark when I left. The combined mixture of fog and coal smoke created an atmosphere right out of a Dickens novel, and the leaden skies and the cold, dreary days were something you had to get used to, or you could find yourself checking sailing dates back to the States.
I felt comfortable enough with the Crowells to share with them that I had fallen in love with a young man from Arizona. I gave them all the particulars: six feet, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, even tempered, intelligent, and a better conversationalist than Mr. Darcy.
On a rare sunny Saturday morning, Rob and I were sitting in Trafalgar Square feeding the pigeons when he told me about growing up in Flagstaff in Arizona's High Country. If you were heading to the Grand Canyon or traveling the Lincoln Highway between Chicago and Los Angeles, you probably drove by his uncle's Sinclair gas station on Route 66 where he had a part-time job. At home, Rob wore dungarees, boots, and a Stetson, and he could ride a horse and rope a calf. He considered his childhood of growing up in the big-sky country of the American West to be idyllic, with its clean air and mountain backdrops, especially in light of what he had seen and experienced in Europe.
When the war broke out, Rob had joined the Army where his high scores qualified him for the Air Corps. Unlike most other airmen, Rob did not want to be a pilot, and when I asked him why, he said, “The most important factor in the success of a mission, at least the things you can control, is the skill of the pilot and co-pilot. If they screw up, you're dead. Formation flying, when you have hundreds of planes going up at the same time, is an exact science, and there isn't any room for error. I didn't want the responsibility for the lives of nine other guys. I felt the best position for me was as a navigator, and the Army agreed.”
In December 1943, Rob was sent to Kearney, Nebraska, to pick up the B-17 he and his crewmates were to fly to England. Stationed at an airfield in Hertfordshire, Rob had flown nineteen missions when his plane was hit by flak over Stuttgart killing the bombardier, his friend, Pat Monaghan. With the navigator's position right behind the bombardier's, metal and plastic fragments from the shattered Plexiglas nose of the plane had torn through Rob's right arm, with pieces of shrapnel flying into his face and shoulder. Tiny bits of metal had to be removed from his eye by a specialist in Oxford, but it healed well enough for him to resume combat status.
“After I got out of the hospital, I figured I'd be assigned to a new crew, but when I reported, the squadron commander told me I had been promoted to captain and that he had cut orders for me to become a lead navigator for the squadron. If that wasn't bad enough, while I was in the hospital, the Air Corps raised the required missions to thirty. So instead of owing Uncle Sam six missions, I owed him eleven. The major said that too many men had completed twenty-five missions and were going home. Losing so many experienced crew members was compromising the effectiveness of the group, and so they had to raise the number of missions to keep experienced airmen flying. Also, because of better fighter support, we weren't as likely to get shot down even though planes from the 91st Bomb Group were getting shot down on a regular basis.
“Flying lead meant it would take a hell of a lot longer for me to finish the last eleven missions because you don't fly as often and because it's so god-damned dangerous. The German fighters often zeroed in on the lead plane trying to kill the pilots, so that it would mess up the whole formation. On one of my early missions, a Messerschmitt didn't pull up soon enough and flew right into the lead ship. I saw the fire, heard the explosion, and then it was gone. Just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers, “ten guys were dead—ten guys from my squadron.
“On my next to last mission, I was assigned to a plane flying 'tail-end Charlie,' which is the rear of the low squadron and is as bad, if not worse, than flying lead. That's where the fighters pick you off. Our target was a factory in the Ruhr Valley where we encountered so many fighte
rs that it was like flying through a swarm of bees. We were shot up so badly that we nearly had to bail out in the Channel. Instead, we limped into Kent and made a very rough landing in a turnip field, with a wounded tail gunner and a flight engineer with a broken leg.”
For a few minutes, we sat side by side in complete silence. It wouldn't have helped to tell Rob that, before he had even reached England, my cousin, Pat Faherty, had died when his ship was sunk off the East Coast, or to talk about the twenty-five men from Minooka and South Scranton who were killed in Europe and the Pacific. Sharing that information would not have lessened the pain of losing Pat Monaghan and those ten men from his squadron.
As we walked toward the Underground station, Rob took my hand and put it in his overcoat pocket. “Since I'm in such a good mood, and you have asked about my girlfriend in Flagstaff, I'll tell you about Alice.” Rob found it amusing that girls always seemed to want to know about old flames, but guys never. As far as men were concerned, once a relationship was over, you were ancient history and about as interesting.
Rob had dated Alice, a waitress who worked in a café near the college, during his last year in school. Before he left for basic training, Alice had started talking about getting married, but Rob had made it clear that marriage was out of the question because just too many things could go wrong, especially when your future included flying bombers over Germany. During his training, he had witnessed a crash where the pilot had just barely gotten off the ground when something went wrong, and the fully-fueled Fortress exploded on impact killing everyone on board. While Rob was in the hospital in England, Alice had written to tell him she was marrying someone else. If their break-up had distressed him in any way, he was hiding it admirably.
While waiting for my train in the Underground station, I asked Rob if he had met anyone while he was in England, and that's when I found out about Millie. The two met at a dance at the airfield sponsored by the Red Cross, and they hit it off right away. Rob told Millie about Alice, and Millie told Rob about her boyfriend, who was in the Royal Navy. They agreed to enjoy each other's company until her boyfriend returned to England. Millie might explain why Rob was not more upset when he got his Dear John letter. He had been stepping out on Alice.
I asked, if Millie had not had a boyfriend, would he have married her, and he said, “No way. Millie was a great girl. She lived in Royston, which was only four miles from the base. I'd ride over on my bike to see her, but that was the extent of it.”
What Millie provided more than anything, more than the sex, was female companionship. Rob had tired of listening to men bullshit about their flying experiences. If all the claimed kills of German fighters were true, then there wouldn't have been any Focke Wulfs or Messerschmitts left in the Luftwaffe, and since there was no shortage of fighters when Rob flew, he didn't want to hear it anymore. So a pleasant evening spent with a pretty, young English girl was preferable to a night of pub hopping with guys who drank to mask the fear everyone felt who flew bombers over Germany.
After learning about Alice and Millie, I was left with the impression that Rob liked relationships that didn't require a commitment on his part, which was going to put him at odds with me.
Chapter 10
ROB WAS AMUSED BY my “Pride and Prejudice Project,” as he called it. As a show of support, he read the novel for the first time. He liked Elizabeth Bennet's character but didn't understand what she saw in Darcy, other than his money and big house. Rob considered Darcy to be a “stiff.”
“I have to be honest here because 'disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,'” he said, quoting Mr. Darcy. “Did people actually talk like that?”
Jack and Beth suggested I go to Desmet Park in Kent, the Rosings Park of Pride and Prejudice, or if that was not possible, to Bennets End, the village that was the model for Meryton. Because of its easy distance from London, we could see it in a day trip. The next weekend, following Jack's directions, Rob and I set out for Meryton in a car borrowed from one of Rob's co-workers.
When we arrived in Bennets End, my idea was to ask the local postmaster if he knew the Edwards family, but Rob had a better idea and headed straight for the pub. We were directed to the lounge, where they had booths, and ordered two beers. The man taking our order shouted, “That'll be two beers for the Yanks.” And with that, Rob saw his opening and told him that he had been a member of a B-17 crew flying from an airfield right here in Hertfordshire. Other men drifted over to our table and joined in the conversation. From then on, it was like old-home week. Nearly everyone in the pub had seen groups of bombers forming up before heading out on a mission, and if they hadn't seen them, they had heard them or felt the vibrations, which shook buildings to their foundations.
After a few war stories, Rob asked if anyone knew the Edwards family. Joe Carlton was the first and loudest to say he remembered the family from when he was a boy and offered to take us out to the farm. During the ride, Joe said, “It's too bad you didn't come last year when the house was still standing. It survived the war but not the peace.”
Rob had driven about a mile from the pub when Joe told him to pull over. Making a wide sweep with his hand, he indicated that all the acreage before us had once belonged to the Edwards family. According to Joe, there had been a large house on the property, so it seemed reasonable to assume that, at one time, the farm had been profitable and had provided a nice living for the family.
“During the war,” Joe explained, “this whole area was one big Yank car park: jeeps, armored vehicles, artillery pieces, and trucks as far as the eye could see. Every country road was lined on both sides with steel bays holding artillery shells. Getting ready for the invasion, they were. Even then, the Edwards farmhouse was in terrible shape from years of neglect, but it was good enough for some of the officers, what with our English weather. The rest of the Yanks were living in those freezing Nissen huts, and they were the lucky ones. The ones who come last had to make due living in tents.
“What I remember is that there were two old-maid sisters and their brother living there in the 1930s. The brother had been shot in the head in Flanders. He could do the odd job, but not much more. When he died, they sold out and moved to Bournemouth, I think.”
Lighting up the cigarette Rob had offered him, as well as putting one behind his ear, Joe told us we were not the first ones to think this particular town might be Meryton. Maybe, I thought, because the farm was located in Bennets End. That might have been a clue.
Looking off into the distance, Joe said, “The government has bought up 5,000 acres around here, including the Edwards farm and my dad's farm. They're going to build houses for those poor bastards what was bombed out of their homes in London.” Joe started to laugh. “When the bigwigs come 'round to let us know what was going to happen, some of the meetings got pretty rough. The farmers don't think it's right for someone from London to tell us they're going to turn our farmland into a town, and there's sod all that can be done about it.”
Joe went quiet for a few minutes and then said, “Well, it was bound to happen, us being so close to London. Once people from the city start moving in, it's all over. They come out to the country because it's so beautiful. Everything's terrific until the winds blow the smell of cow shit their way. It's a big surprise to city folk that farms stink.” Shaking his head, he added, “Then you have all them soldiers and sailors coming home from the war and getting married. Now, their wives are having babies, and they need a place to live. They've got to live somewhere.” Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “So why not here, is what I say. We can use the jobs.”
On the ride back to the village, Joe suggested that we “have a look at the graveyard up to the church. If this is Meryton, then some of them might be buried up there.” After Joe “bummed another fag,” we dropped him off at the pub.
The cemetery, with its heaving graves and tilted headstones, reminded me of the one in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations where Magwitch was hiding when he met Pip. When we saw the size of the
graveyard, we were a little discouraged, and our mood was matched by the rain that was just starting to come down. Walking the uneven ground, we quickly glanced at the names on the headstones, some so faded that they looked more like fingerprints than letters.
“I'm going to break a heel,” I yelled to Rob, who was on the other side of the cemetery. “That's if I don't sink into the ground first.” With the rain getting heavier, I was just about to give up when I saw it.
Henry W. Garrison
1775—1787
Francine Garrison
1750—1810
Thomas H. Garrison
1746—1815
I gave out a whoop, and Rob ran over to see what I had found. He showed the proper enthusiasm for my discovery before pointing out that we were getting drenched and that I was shivering. With my teeth chattering, I told Rob that this backed up a lot of what the Crowells had told me. Holding his coat over my head, he said, “Joe gave me the names of some towns that are better preserved and are probably closer to what people have in mind when they read about Meryton.” But with the rain coming down in sheets, we decided to put visiting other villages on the back burner. Instead, we would go to Kent. It seemed unlikely that Rosings Park could have met with the same fate as Longbourn.
Rob and I again borrowed a car from a co-worker at TRC and drove into Kent in search of the home of Jane Austen's Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Kent was still quite rural even though it had been at the heart of Britain's defense against the Luftwaffe. RAF pilots flew from airfields in Kent to intercept and destroy the bombers targeting Britain's industrial cities, ports, and airfields, and concrete bases for the anti-aircraft guns could be seen jutting out of green pastures.
Searching for Pemberley Page 7
