Searching for Pemberley

by Mary Lydon Simonsen

  On June 26, 1948, the Western Powers responded with the start of the Berlin Airlift. On that day, C-47 cargo planes, flown by the United States Air Force, carried eighty tons of food into Berlin, not nearly enough to provide the minimum daily requirements of Berlin's population, but it would soon be joined by the U. S. Navy and the Royal Air Force. In short order, the United States responded to the Soviet's blockade by making an open-ended commitment to the people of Berlin to supply them with calories and coal, as long as they were willing to stand up to Soviet bullying.

  In Britain, tensions that had eased in the three years since the end of the war immediately returned. While events in Berlin were being dissected in Whitehall, the British were having their own discussions in their homes, in the workplace, in pubs, and on the street. “Berlin Airlift,” two words that hadn't existed a week earlier, now summarized the greatest threat to peace in Europe since the end of hostilities in May 1945.

  In the States, reservists were being called up to augment active-duty personnel now being transferred to Germany. Events moved so quickly that older World War II C-47s that had been flown over the beaches of Normandy were pressed into service. The planes, bearing the white stripes on their wings, which had identified them as “friendly” aircraft during the invasion, were expected to hold down the fort until the larger C-54s could arrive from the States.

  One of the pilots in those early days was Greg McAllister, Rob's brother. Greg had received orders assigning him to Great Falls Air Force Base in Montana for retraining on the newer and larger C-54 cargo plane. The Air Force built training facilities that simulated flying conditions over Berlin and runways that replicated the air corridor approach paths into the city.

  On his way back to the States, Greg had a scheduled stop in England for refueling and had arranged to see his brother. Rob told me not to look for any great family resemblance. Rob took after his father's side of the family, which included a light-haired, blue-eyed, five-foot-ten Swedish grandmother, while Greg favored his mother's side: solid, muscular, dark hair, brown-eyed German farmers. It seemed the only part of Rob that was actually Scots-Irish was his name. We met Greg at a pub near the air base where his plane was being refueled. If Rob projected an air of being the laid-back cowboy, Greg reminded me of an overwound clock.

  “I've got only two hours before I have to fly out of here, but thanks for coming.” Looking at me, he said, “If I had a girlfriend as pretty as you, I'd let everyone know, but Rob always did play his cards close to his vest.”

  I felt as if I had just been slapped in the face. Apparently, no one in his family knew I existed. But I would have to think about that later, as it was clear that something was not right. Under the table, one of Greg's legs was constantly shaking, and he was lighting one cigarette with the burning end of another. Rob understood immediately what was wrong and asked his brother just how bad it was flying into Berlin.

  “Really, really bad.” Greg told him of the many problems the Allied pilots were facing each day. “We have these very short runways, and you can't make a mistake or you'll crash. You have only one chance to land. If you blow it, you have to return to base and get back in line. You can fly up to three missions a day, and it's hard to think straight.” Greg stubbed out his cigarette, but he quickly lit up another one.

  “We're flying in tons of coal every day, but it's a real problem. The coal dust gets into the control cables, which makes it difficult to control the airplane. We finally figured out that if we fly with our escape hatches open, the dust gets sucked out the back. But a lot of it still floats in the air, and when you sweat, it sticks to your skin.

  “We're flying at 5,000 feet, with the planes stacked five high, and landing every three minutes. The Ruskies jam our radio channels, and when we take off at night, they turn their searchlights on us so that we can't see. But that's not the worst of it. Lately, the YAK fighters have been flying straight at us. The bastards peel off only at the last second, or they sneak up behind you and fly over your wings. They're trying to push us off course so we won't be able to land.”

  Rob put his hand on his brother's arm to calm him down. The longer he talked, the more rattled he was becoming. “Greg, you've been doing this only for a couple of weeks, so everything's new to you. You're learning how to fly in a tight formation and landing with another plane right on your ass. It takes time to learn those things, and you will.” Looking straight into his brother's eyes, Rob said, “Those guys have years of combat experience. I know it's scary as hell to have fighters flying straight at you, but they're not there to kill you, just to scare the crap out of you.”

  “Well, they're doing a hell of a job.” Greg swallowed half of his beer in one go. “Did you ever think you would shit in your pants?” As far as Greg was concerned, I wasn't even there. He needed assurance from his brother that he could do this and that it was normal to be frightened.

  “Did I ever think I'd shit in my pants? Hell, yes! Just getting that plane into formation was nerve-wracking. After flying through flak and having German fighters open up on us, you're damn right I was scared. There were times when I couldn't walk I was shaking so badly. I used to think it was just me, but then I'd notice when we went into interrogation to be debriefed, the pilots would head straight for the guy who was handing out shots of whiskey.”

  “I think it'll be better once I'm trained on the C-54. It's a better plane and can carry more cargo. Some of the C-47s I've flown were shot up over Normandy and have been repaired over and over again. They should be junked.”

  Apparently, just talking to Rob had been enough to ease the tension, and Greg started to tell us stories about what was now being called “Operation Vittles” by the Americans and “Plain Fare” by the British.

  “You should see these Germans go at it. In the time it takes to grab a sandwich and a cup of coffee, they've unloaded the plane and are ready to move on to the next one. And then there are dozens of kids, with their faces pressed up against a chain link fence, watching the show. They're our cheerleading section. They're also in our pockets for candy. One kid told me he doesn't eat the chocolate but uses the Hershey bars for trade. He was about ten years old, and he was smoking!”

  After a few more stories, Greg tapped his watch to let us know he had run out of time. He was flying the plane that night to Iceland and then on to Labrador and finally to a base in Nebraska that he hoped would be its final resting place.

  After retraining on a C-54 in Montana, Greg, along with other squadrons from bases around the world, returned to Germany. Originally, all of the planes flew out of Tempelhof in the American Sector and Gatow in the British Sector, but with additional supplies needed for the upcoming winter, a third airfield was critical. Working around the clock, 20,000 German men, women, and children, under the direction of the Western powers, cleared and built the airfield at Tegel in the French Sector in only sixty days. With the completion of the French runway, the Russians realized the Airlift would continue indefinitely, and on May 12, 1949, the Soviets reopened the land routes into the city.

  With assistance from the Air Forces of Australia, South Africa, and New Zealand, and with volunteers from Canada, flights continued through September in order to ensure adequate supplies for the Germans of a free Berlin. This was an incredible achievement for all concerned, but for the British, who were still clearing debris caused by German bombs, it was nothing short of remarkable.

  On the train to London following our visit with Greg, I asked Rob why he had never mentioned me to his family. I wasn't thrilled with the answer because I learned that Rob had yet another girlfriend in his past. It was beginning to look as if I was just the latest of a string of women who lasted as long as Rob stayed in town.

  “When I lived in Atlanta, I dated a girl named Arlene,” Rob explained. “I made the mistake of mentioning her in a letter home. The next thing I know, I get a letter from Mom, and it's twenty questions time. I decided that I'd tell them about you when I had something definite to say
.”

  “Do you expect that at any time in the near future you will have something definite to say to them?” I was so hurt, and I could hear it in my voice.

  “Maggie, right now everything's up in the air. I'm going hiking in Wales next week with Jake from the office. I'll use the time to plan my next step. Remember, I'm from out West; things move a little slower out there.” Taking my hand in his, he said, “Please don't read anything into this business about Arlene. It was never serious.”

  But I had to know if Rob was serious about me because now there was a deadline. He had been officially notified that his assignment in England would terminate on 30 August 1948, which was only ten weeks away. With the way things were going, it seemed as if Rob would return to Atlanta in September, and I wondered if our relationship would end when we said good-bye on a Liverpool pier.

  It all came to a head in Mrs. Dawkins's parlor. After five days of hiking in the mountains of Snowdonia, Rob's big decision was that he was going to pursue an advanced degree in engineering. He would have to move quickly, as all of the schools were overcrowded because of hundreds of thousands of servicemen going to college on the GI Bill of Rights. Nothing was said about our relationship.

  I sat perfectly still. I knew if I said anything, I would start crying. As deeply hurt as I was, I was not surprised. I didn't know what Rob McAllister had been like before the war, but his war experiences had left him with a reluctance to make any decision that affected anyone other than himself. Although he had leadership qualities and the intelligence to lead, he abdicated those responsibilities to others. In that way, no one would be hurt, or in the extreme, die because of a decision he had made. It also extended to his personal life in his unwillingness to commit to me.

  When I finally found my voice, I told Rob that whatever his plans were, they obviously didn't include me, and there was no point in continuing a relationship because he would be returning to the States in a few weeks. I asked him to show himself out, and I went upstairs. I heard him call out, “What's that supposed to mean?” but I continued up to my room.

  From the third floor, I could hear Mrs. Dawkins asking Rob what all the ruckus was about, and then I heard them go into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, Rob was knocking on my door. If I hadn't been so depressed, I would have been in a panic because Rob was above stairs.

  Whispering through the door, he said Mrs. Dawkins had said it was okay to come up, but I truly didn't want to talk to him. I came from a hard-drinking town and saw more than my share of unhappy marriages, including my parents'. Early on, I had made a decision that I didn't want to be in a relationship that was anything less than ideal. In this case, the hard truth was that Rob's feelings did not equal mine.

  After work on Monday, Rob was waiting for me outside the AES offices, and he asked if I would walk with him to the park. Sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, I looked at the ground littered with fallen petals of some unidentified flower. In another week, they would be replaced by the blooms of midsummer. Rob sat next to me in silence. If he was hoping I would be the first one to speak, he was going to be disappointed. But then I realized he was trying to figure out a way to say what was on his mind. After several minutes, he finally spoke.

  “When I returned to the States in March '45, I went to Boca Raton, and a bunch of us would go to the clubs in Miami Beach. As far as the people in Miami were concerned, and the same thing later when I went to Los Angeles, the war was over. Patton was across the Rhine, 300,000 German troops had surrendered, the air war over Germany was winding down, so it was party time. It's true the worst of the fighting was over in Europe, but what about the Pacific? Everyone's dancing while Marines and sailors were dying by the thousands in the battle for Okinawa.

  “It was the same thing when I went home on leave. I met guys who had been discharged from the Army, and they had never seen one minute of overseas service. The Army decided it was a waste of money to deploy them even though there were tens of thousands of guys who had seen plenty of combat, who didn't have enough points to go home. Did that make sense?

  “I couldn't relax. Everyone was pissing me off. My neighbor tells me he's going crazy because of all the overtime he's putting in for the railroad. I flew three missions in six days, and he's complaining about making overtime. My dad keeps asking, 'What are you going to do with your college education?' I hadn't even been discharged at that point.

  “It was worse in Atlanta. By then the war was over in the Pacific, and the newspapers and radio ads were all saying, 'We're looking to the future.' Great. Fine. But what about the guys in the VA hospitals or the families of flyers who were getting letters from the War Department informing them that their son's body had finally been located in a cemetery in Germany, and what did they want to do with the remains? I was angry ninety percent of the time.

  “And then I met you,” Rob said, turning to face me. “You're living in that tiny attic apartment, sitting in front of a space heater trying to keep from freezing, and sharing rationed food with your landlady. The very first time I saw you, you told me you were wearing the same skirt you had worn for the last four years, but what did I think about your new red blouse? What I thought was, I'm going to take this girl back to my flat and make love to her all night long. I was falling for you even before we got to Mrs. Dawkins's house.”

  I slid along the bench and sat next to him, taking his hand in mine. I understood why Rob wanted to live in England. The British were still confronted with daily reminders, not only of what had been won, but also what had been lost. Rob wanted people to remember just how much had been sacrificed.

  “Maggie, how can I plan a future with you when I seem incapable of putting together a plan for the next year, no less for a lifetime?”

  I could see how unhappy he was, but I had to tell him what was on my mind. “You are hurting because you think the world has moved on when so many people are still suffering. But, Rob, people are not designed to be noble. Our basic instincts are to survive, and part of surviving is standing up, dusting yourself off, and getting on with it. Although I can't stand in your shoes, I understand what you are feeling. I've visited seriously wounded friends at Walter Reed Hospital, and I've been to too many funerals of friends and relatives.” Taking a deep breath, I continued, “I love you. But if you are expecting me to wait until all of the hurt has passed, I can't do that, and I won't let you shut me out.” Because he was staring at his hands, I couldn't gauge the effect my words were having on him. “What I'm trying to say is, we are in this together or we're not. Either we start a life together, or we say good-bye. That's not a threat. It's just the way it has to be.”

  I asked him to walk me to the Underground but not to see me home. I told him I loved him and kissed him good-bye, and then I went down into the station alone.

  Chapter 25

  THE NEXT DAY AFTER work, Mrs. Dawkins knocked on my door, and I was certain she was going to tell me that fights between lovers were not allowed in her house. Instead, she asked if she could have a word with me.

  “You and your fellow have had a bit of a dust-up, haven't you?”

  “It's not a dust-up, Mrs. Dawkins. It's a breakup. It didn't work out.” I was really depressed, and I didn't want to have this conversation.

  “Rob's a good man,” she told me. “You don't let the good ones get away. There aren't enough of them around.”

  Because I saw so little of Mr. Dawkins, I couldn't even guess what their marriage was like. I did know that she ate dinner with him every weekday night at 11:00 when he came home from his shift, and because of his hearing loss, she always kept a notepad in her apron pocket to write things down so she wouldn't have to shout at him. Sitting down on the bed, she said, “I'd like to tell you something if you're of a mind to hear it.” This was a side of Mrs. Dawkins I hadn't seen, and I couldn't imagine not listening to her.

  “Even though my dad had a good job, my mother always rented out this room, your room, for what she called pin money. In 1934, Mr. Dawkins mov
ed in. His wife had died, and he didn't want to live alone. His hearing's quite bad because he was an artilleryman in the First War. He can't tell how loud he's talking, so we always kept paper in the kitchen for us to write each other notes. After he'd been here about a year, he writes me a note, which I'm thinking is how he wants his eggs cooked. But on it says, 'Will you marry me?'” Snapping her fingers, she said, “Just like that. I didn't even know he was interested in me.

  “Now, deaf as he is, Mr. Dawkins is not a bad-looking man. He had a decent job, didn't drink, went to church every Sunday, and paid his rent on time. But, I'm thinking, he's twelve years older than me. I was twenty-seven at the time, a very plain girl to be sure, but I hadn't given up all hope of falling in love. But I said 'yes' anyway. Do you know why?” I shook my head. “Because he's a good man, and that's a rare bird for sure. I've never had any regrets, and you've seen how the children run to him when he comes downstairs. I can't give Rob a higher compliment than saying, 'He's a good man,' and you are a kind, sweet girl, and you deserve him. I've seen the way he looks at you. Don't give up on him.”

  Mrs. Dawkins was not given to displays of emotion, but when she kissed me on the top of my head, it opened a floodgate. She didn't say another word but continued to hand me one Kleenex after another until I could finally stop crying. After that, I went to the nearest pay phone and called Beth. I told her what had happened with Rob, and she asked, “Do you want to come here, or shall I come to London?” I told her that I would prefer to get out of the city.