A Song At Twilight

by Lilian Harry

  ‘And I,’ Stefan said, ‘don’t even know if I have a home to go to.’

  Robin gave him a quick look. ‘No. Sorry, mate. I forget that sometimes. Maybe Andy does too.’

  ‘There’s no need for him to remember,’ Stefan said. ‘Everyone sees their own problems. There’s no reason why mine should be more important to him than his own.’

  Robin pushed back his chair, rather more quietly than Andrew had done. ‘Well, I’m going to get a bit of shut-eye. I’ve no doubt we’ll be flying again pretty soon. You’d better do the same.’ He walked out and after a moment or two Stefan followed him.

  The grey, dismal weather of D-Day and the few days after it, had cleared. The moon was waning now and the stars shone brightly. In the bays, bunkers and blister hangars, aircraft engines grumbled as the mechanics tested them, but nothing could be seen apart from their silhouettes against the dark blue sky. Yet to Stefan, it seemed as if all his senses were sharpened, as if he could hear and see more clearly than ever before; as if the darkness of the night meant nothing. He felt that he could have made his way across the darkened airfield without stumbling, knowing exactly where his feet were taking him, and that when he sat in the cockpit of his plane he would be more bird than man.

  He was aware of a strange light-headness, hardly knowing whether he would rather fly or walk. We’re all treading on the edge, he thought. Any one of us could tip over at any time.

  He walked slowly between the darkened huts and buildings, past the hangars and workshops, past the inspection pits and the parachute packing shed. He walked past the ammunition store and past the air-raid shelters, past the anti-aircraft guns and the searchlight mountings. Every now and then, he would encounter someone else strolling in the dark – a couple of pilots, a mechanic or two, a group of WAAFs. For a brief space, the skies were quiet. It was as if the world were waiting.

  But we’ve finished with the waiting, he thought. The war is more furious now than it has ever been. In a few months, perhaps it will be over. And what then?

  What of his family – his parents, his brothers and sisters? Where were they now, and what had been happening to them all this time? And his home: did it still exist, or had it been destroyed?

  He leaned against the wall of a hut and gazed into the sky, thinking of the people he had loved so much. Would they ever be able to come together again? Would they ever be able to take up their lives, as they had been before this terrible nightmare began?

  Andrew walked all the way round the perimeter fence.

  It was like being in prison, he thought. Looking out at the world through barbed wire, watched by sentries, deprived of your liberty and freedom. Out there, only yards away, was the world you were fighting for, yet you weren’t allowed any part of it. A prisoner who had committed no crime.

  He wasn’t really looking for a way out. For one thing, he knew that the fence was patrolled regularly and maintained, so there would be no holes or even weak points. But if there had been, he would have been strongly tempted to use it. The frustration that had been simmering within him for weeks now had reached boiling point and he didn’t know how much longer he would be able to keep it from erupting. His only release was when he was in the sky, watching the bombers rain destruction on the enemy, or engaging in deadly battle himself with the Luftwaffe. Then he could use all his fury in the way he had been trained to do, taking a dark pleasure in sending each Heinkel or Messerschmitt spiralling into the sea or exploding on the ground. He ignored the risks he took, wanting only to achieve as many kills as possible, wanting only to get this bloody war over so that he could go back to Alison and his children, wanting only to see the baby whose early days he had already lost for ever.

  It made no difference that he was certain to see her before long, that this ban on leave must be over soon. It made no difference that thousands of men – soldiers, sailors and other airmen now in France or Italy, Africa or the Far East – were away for even longer and were missing years of their children’s lives. Andrew was consumed by his own pain and misery. It was like a thick fog in his brain, blinding him to everything else but the need to kill, for only when enough aircraft had been shot out of the sky could he return to a normal life.

  He came back to the mess and went straight to his room, without speaking to anyone, and flung himself on his bed. Perhaps he could sleep until it was time to go on duty again. Until it was time to kill …

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The restriction on local leave was lifted next morning.

  It was announced as the squadron was at breakfast. The attacks on France were just as intensive and duties would be round the clock, but during off-duty time the airmen and women would be allowed to leave the station. Liberty had been restored.

  ‘Why couldn’t they have said so yesterday?’ Andrew demanded in frustration. ‘I could have dashed over to see Alison before going on duty. There isn’t time now, dammit.’

  ‘You can go this evening,’ Robin said. ‘Not long to go now. You just need to kill a few more Jerries first.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Andrew growled. ‘Bloody Hun has kept me away from my wife and kids long enough. Anyone unfortunate enough to get into my sights today has a very nasty shock coming to him.’

  He got up and marched out. The others looked after him, and Stefan said, ‘It will be a good thing when he has seen his wife and baby. He is in a dangerous condition.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ Robin said sombrely. ‘But at least we’re driving ’em back. If they’re not on the run now, they soon will be. Maybe this time, it really will be all over by Christmas.’

  ‘They’ve been saying that since the whole bloody shambles started,’ someone else chipped in. ‘I suppose it has to be right eventually. And at least we can go out and have a few beers this evening. I’m for the Leg o’ Mutton myself – anyone joining me?’

  They made their way out of the mess, beginning a discussion on the merits of the local pubs as they did so. There was a feeling of jubilation at the prospect of joining normal life outside the wire once more. But there was still a day’s work to get through before freedom was granted; in less than half an hour they would be on readiness, and soon after that in the air. The holiday atmosphere was tempered with the grim determination that gripped them all once they were in the cockpit.

  Andrew was trembling as he got into his plane. The fury that had been boiling up inside him had not been lessened at all by that morning’s news; instead, he felt a bitter rage for the time he had lost. When he took off, it was with a burning determination to kill.

  The Channel was massed with shipping. Troops were still being taken over, and the injured brought home. The air too was full of traffic as the bombers and fighters flocked to the coast of France and more wounded were brought back in Dakotas. And through them all, like angry wasps disturbed at their nests, buzzed the enemy aircraft, piloted by men as determined as Andrew, fighting as he was for their country and their way of life.

  Off the shores of Normandy, he could see the Mulberry harbours, created by concrete caissons that had been towed across. Andrew himself had seen these being built on the South Coast of England months ago, and wondered what was going on. They had looked like huge buildings then, rearing high on the shingle of beaches like Stokes Bay and Southsea, and none of the pilots had been able to imagine what they were for. Now, looking down, he could only marvel at the vision of the men who had thought of such an idea and been able to persuade those in command to carry it out.

  The beaches themselves were more crowded than they had been since the very different days of Dunkirk, exactly four years earlier. Andrew was still haunted sometimes by the vivid, sickening memory of thousands of soldiers, stranded amongst the dunes, driven to the very edge by the Germans and waiting for the little ships which were their only means of escape. He had been flying a Spitfire then and had fought desperately to prevent the strafing and bombing coming from the Luftwaffe. It was at Dunkirk that he had first understood th
e horror of war. Four years ago, he thought with a grinding sense of hopelessness. Four long, hellish years, and still the world seemed bent on destruction.

  Death and destruction were still to be seen, down there on the beaches and in the fields, the villages and towns beyond. He could see craters where bombs had fallen, ruined vehicles, buildings ravaged by fire, some still burning. He could see the shreds of parachutes caught in trees and, once or twice, the parachutist himself, still dangling from the branches. And he could see the Army itself, making its purposeful way through the countryside, with every man equally determined to bring an end to this nightmare that had gripped the world for so long.

  A voice yelled in his ear and he jerked his head round to see a Junker approaching fast from the sun. Immediately, he hauled on the joystick and the Typhoon’s nose lifted like a rearing horse, so abruptly that it almost stood on its tail. He missed the German plane by a hair’s breadth, passing directly above it and firing as he went, and when he looked down, he saw a ball of flame spiralling earthwards.

  That’s one, he thought with savage delight, and turned to search the sky for more. Alison and the children, the reason for his rage, were thrust to the back of his mind, but the fury itself remained and drove him into the attack. He forgot that he was on escort duty, with bombers to defend, and broke away from the formation to search for his own prey. For the next half-hour he hunted through the sky, firing at everything that flew, not even bothering to count his kills. He felt like a fox, let loose in a coop of chickens; nothing mattered but the frenzy of killing, nothing mattered but to leave no enemy aircraft flying, no enemy pilot alive.

  There was nobody to see when he was finally shot down. Nobody to see whether he lived or died.

  Three fighter pilots failed to return to Harrowbeer that afternoon: Robin Fairbanks, a Canadian by the name of Nick Petrie – and Andrew Knight.

  ‘They still might come back,’ Brian Summers said as those who had returned gathered in the mess. There was always a period when pilots who had ditched and been rescued, or forced to land somewhere else, might phone in to report. But as time went on, no telephone calls came and they knew that the three men had been lost or, at best, taken prisoner. They looked at each other and knew that someone must go and tell Alison.

  ‘It had better be you, Stefan,’ Brian said awkwardly. ‘You know her pretty well, don’t you?’

  ‘We are friends, yes.’ The Pole nodded slowly. ‘I will go. I’ll go tonight. She’ll know that we’re allowed out on local leave again; she’ll be expecting him. We can’t leave her worrying all night.’

  He went back to his room and bathed and shaved. He dressed with care in his best uniform; it seemed important to treat this occasion with respect, not to go in flying jacket with open collar and crumpled shirt. Then, with a heavy heart, he walked out of the gate and along the country lane towards Milton Combe.

  Alison was waiting in the front bedroom, sitting in the window to watch the road. She knew that Andrew would be with her at the first possible moment. For quite a while, she had kept Hughie up to see his father, but as it grew later she saw his eyelids drooping and put him to bed. At any moment, she expected to hear the ring of Andrew’s bicycle bell and the click of the door as he opened it. Her heart beat fast with excitement and she felt as if she were a young girl again, ready for her first date.

  From her open window, she could see across the fields towards the Cornish moors. The chimneys of the old mines stood out in sharp relief against the deepening apricot glow of the setting sun, and the air seemed to echo with birdsong. The airfield was quiet and she felt as if the world were momentarily at rest. This is what it’ll be like when it’s all over, she thought. Quiet and peaceful, with women waiting for their men to come home from a day’s work and the children fast asleep in bed, safe from all the fighting. In a few months, perhaps, this is what it will be like …

  The sound of footsteps caught her ear and her heartbeat quickened. She could not yet see who was walking along the road, but the steps were firm, although slower than she would have expected from a man hurrying home to see his wife and child and new baby. When they stopped at the front gate, she leaned forwards to look down from the window.

  It was Stefan.

  As he laid his hand on the gate, he glanced up and saw her. Their eyes met and Alison felt a numbness spread over her body. She heard a roaring in her ears and felt sick and dizzy; as it cleared she found her hands clinging to the windowsill so tightly that she had almost to prise them away. She stared down at him, wanting him to smile at her, to reassure her, to tell her that Andrew was coming – he had work to do, he’d sent Stefan on ahead, anything – but his face was as frozen as hers. Dumbly, she turned away from the window and went with heavy steps down the stairs to let him in.

  He was at the door when she opened it. They looked wordlessly at each other and then he stepped inside and took her in his arms.

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Please no …’

  ‘He didn’t come back,’ he said, holding her close. ‘Nobody saw what happened – he went off on his own after some Junkers. We were over France … He may be quite all right, Alison. He may be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Over France,’ she repeated dully. ‘He crashed, over France.’

  ‘Nobody knows for certain. We have to wait.’ He steered her gently towards the front room and sat her on the sofa, then placed himself beside her, holding both her hands. ‘We mustn’t lose hope.’

  ‘He crashed over France. Over France.’

  ‘It’s different now,’ he said. ‘There are thousands of Allies there. If he went down close to a camp … They have field hospitals – he could have been helped at once. He may not even be injured. You mustn’t give up, Alison. He’ll be back, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Yes, of course he will,’ she said without conviction, and then, her eyes suddenly bright with anger: ‘It’s so unfair! All this time he’s been safe only a mile or so away and not allowed to come and see his own baby, and the very day he could come, he goes down! Why? Why do these things have to happen? It’s as if someone hates us, and wants us to suffer! What have we done to deserve it? What have we ever done?’

  She burst into tears and he pulled her into his arms again and held her head against his chest. He could feel her slim body shaking and realised that this was the first time he had seen her since the night Caroline had been born. The cruel irony of it struck him yet again; that he was the one who had been with Andrew’s wife that night, he the first to see the baby, and now here he was, comforting her at the worst moment of her life.

  He sighed and rested his head against her hair, feeling its silkiness on his cheek, feeling his love for her warm his heart and body. It was a forbidden love, he knew that. He could never take advantage of it, even though he had believed once or twice that Alison was close to returning it. But always, Andrew had stood in the way. Stefan had no doubt that Alison loved her husband and would never betray him. And even now, if Andrew were indeed lost and never came home, he would still stand in the way. It would be a very long time before Alison could open her heart to another man.

  He felt a sudden anger with himself for even allowing these thoughts into his mind at such a moment. They must be forgotten, thrust into some darkened recess and locked away. He must never, never allow Alison to know what he felt about her; he must be a friend to her and nothing more.

  Alison’s sobs subsided at last and she drew back a little, wiping her face with the handkerchief Stefan held out to her and drawing in deep, shuddering breaths. Her mouth twisted in an attempt at a smile and she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve made your jacket all wet.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, still holding her. ‘It doesn’t matter about the jacket. It doesn’t matter about anything else at all. I just want to be here to help you. Cry again if you want to.’

  ‘I probably will,’ she said with the ghost of a smile. ‘I’ll probably cry a lot. But I’ve got to think of the
children too. He never even saw Caroline. He never even had a glimpse.’

  ‘I know. But I’m sure he will see her, you know. I don’t think Andrew will be so easy to kill. He’s alive somewhere in France, I feel certain of it, and he’ll come back to you. You must believe that, Alison.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She took in another breath and looked at him. His heart twisted a little. In her grief, she had never looked more lovely to him; he longed to comfort her but knew that he was already doing all he dared. She asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but I’ll make it. And I’ve brought something to put in it – something to help with your shock.’ He took a small bottle of brandy from his pocket and set it on the small table. ‘It will do you good.’

  Alison smiled faintly. ‘All right. But I mustn’t have too much.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s almost time for Caroline’s feed.’

  ‘Perhaps I should go.’ He hesitated in the doorway. ‘I’ll make your tea and then leave.’

  ‘No!’ The sharpness in her voice startled them both and she gasped and then went on more quietly, ‘No, please don’t go. Stay with me, Stefan. I – I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.’ Her eyes were enormous as she stared at him, and he hesitated again, then went back to her and laid his hands on her cheeks. For a moment, their eyes met, and then he let her go.

  ‘I won’t leave you alone,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I will stay, as long as you want me to.’ There was another moment of silence and then he went out to the kitchen to make the tea.

  Alison sat very still. She gazed out of the window at the gathering twilight. It was time to draw the curtains and turn on the lamps.

  She knew she would not hear Andrew’s footsteps coming down the road now. Perhaps she would never hear them again.