‘There. Enjoy it, boy?’ Griffon approached across the grass from his own.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. But you just remember. It’s a job of work. If you don’t do it well, you’re dead.’
‘Sir.’
‘And even if you do make it to your next birthday, get yourself a Wingman, mess it up, then he dies. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Right then. I could use a beer. Coming?’
‘Be glad to.’
‘Good. You’re buying, boy… That was a blood-y close run thing between your propeller and my tail.’
On their walk back out from the aircraft, Quinn already felt lucky to have this man for a guide, such was the intensity, almost an attack, to his words and explanations. Quinn’s initial impression of him, however, had been of his size – or lack of it: At five foot, if that, Flying Officer Owen Griffon appeared in his late-twenties, possessing another British accent Quinn hadn’t heard before.
‘You fly aggressively, yet the risks you take are calculated. That someone has taught you healthy respect for your aircraft is clear to me. But you must know this… Your first mistake may be your last. Second chances in this business are as rare as hen’s-teeth.’
‘Yes. Cigarette, sir?’
‘Thank you, no, I am not a user of them. Bad for the chest and for my rugby.’
The man’s accent had the most unusual twang, Quinn thought. ‘You are English, aren’t you, sir?’
Griffon chuckled. ‘No, boy.’ It was pronounced with an unnerving precision: ‘I am Welsh.’
*
With the weather closing in and light fading, they’d agreed to change into service dress and meet in the Officers’ Mess. It now had a few items of furniture, Quinn noticed, including a makeshift bar.
On the subject of Quinn looming too close in Griffon’s windscreen mirror, Griffon advised that if you saw a German propeller nose in your mirror at all, let alone as large as he’d seen Quinn’s, you could relax.
You were already dead.
Delighted to discover Quinn a fellow rugby player, Owen Griffon took a sip of his beer. ‘It is no surprise to me that you have not heard the language of my countrymen before now, Daniel – indeed a shame and loss for the population of where you live in New South Wales, named as it is after a most beautiful region of my home.’
Quinn chuckled, considering the man’s face. ‘Owen, what is it you do in civvie street?’
Griffon finished a careful swig. ‘I was a teacher of History. Cardiff University.’
‘That’s where you played your rugby?’
‘Lived my rugby would be nearer to the truth of it… As a seasoned player yourself, Daniel, you would be aware that we Welsh have a proud tradition of playing the Lord’s game. As indeed we do in fighting for the British.’
‘Certainly – the Welsh Guards.’
‘Aye-aye. The cap badge of that proud regiment and symbol of my people having been worn, most famously, by the archers of one Henry the Fifth.’
‘Yes, the Welsh bowmen wore leeks in their hats, didn’t they? Agincourt…’
‘1415 it was… Yet you may not be aware that Mister Churchill’s “V for Victory” gesture of these last years was the invention of those same archers…’
‘It was?’
‘When Mister Churchill held the back of his hand to Mister Hitler,’ Griffon made the sign, ‘with his fingers in a “V” thus…’
‘Up Yours,’ Quinn followed.
‘…Pre-cisely, he was making the very sign the Welsh bowmen made across the field of battle to the French, who cut off their string-drawing fingers if captured.’
‘Up yours, I can still draw an arrow at you and we’re all about to.’
‘Cheers,’ Griffon concurred.
They clinked pints and sipped.
‘Our long tradition,’ concluded the tiny Welshman.
Quinn paused. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Owen… but isn’t all that ever seen as, well, a tradition of fighting other people’s wars?’
Griffon mused. ‘…I don’t know about that, boy. … Somebody has to show them how it’s done. …What has your country been doing since the Boer War?’
*
‘Pilot Officer Quinn, sir. ’Fraid the old man wants to see you, sir…’
‘Old man? What old man? What’re you talking about?’
‘The C.O., sir. Oldest pilot in the squadron. Commanding Officers usually are, sir…’
Hearing the order to enter the hut, Quinn did so, marched three paces forward, halted at the required spot before the desk, saluted, removed his cap, now held under-arm. Number 1 Service Dress. Rigid attention.
‘Sir. Pilot Officer Quinn reporting.’
The ‘Old Man’ looked about twenty-five. He was English, one Squadron Leader Moore.
‘At ease, Quinn,’ he directed listlessly.
That this bloke was a veteran of the Battle of Britain was all Quinn had been told. Beneath his wings was a thin diagonally striped patch, purple on white, ribbon colours of the Distinguished Flying Cross.
‘Griffon says you’re okay,’ he breathed.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Moore’s tone remained flat. ‘You’d better be.’
*
May 1942
High over the open water of the Firth of Forth, Quinn made a last check, the sky empty in front – air discipline even so, follow procedure. On top of the ring-shaped hand grip of the joystick was a smaller ring. Quinn now turned this from ‘Safety’ setting to ‘Fire’.
In the centre of the ring was a button. He placed his thumb over it.
And pressed…
The Spitfire’s eight wing machine-guns flash-chattered into life, over the engine noise a rapid-fire thudding he felt up through the seat and the controls. Thumb off again, he saw the ‘tracer’ bullets speckle ahead of the aircraft like a line of fireworks, dropping gradually into the distance, the smell of Cordite from the firing rich and acrid in his nostrils. Almost stimulating, like church incense.
For a moment he was quite stunned.
The extra horse-power of the Spitfire had been startling enough. Now such awesome fire-power out front.
*
If Scotland had a single, defining feature, it was the drizzle. Though when the rain really poured on the iron arch of the hut it drowned out the wireless. Then, Quinn read the newspapers, or just lay back on his stretcher and mulled over all he’d read and heard. It was all happening in the Pacific, and depressingly so: Back in February, the Americans, all-conquering saviours that they’d been touted, had lost the Battle of the Java Sea to the Japs, also an aircraft carrier and a battleship, so rumour had it. In March their General MacArthur had evacuated the Philippines: Now he was Supreme Commander, South-West Pacific Theatre, only from Melbourne. The whole U.S. Army had followed him there, so it seemed, at least, those who hadn’t surrendered at Bataan, poor blokes, a huge lot taken prisoner by the Japs. The single piece of good news of late – about the Yanks’ first since the war began – had been their famous aviator Doolittle bombing Tokyo just a week ago. Revenge for Pearl Harbour said the Yanks, he’d led a squadron of medium bombers off an aircraft carrier, bombed the Japanese capital, then landed in China. An amazing feat, Quinn had to admit.
But even this was hard for him to focus on for too long, as were other events so distant, so remote from the all-consuming job at hand. He’d get back there, yes, but when?
When he was ready. When he was fully-trained. When he could hit back. Until then, he resigned, little point in thinking about it; for the moment, his whole world was a cockpit high over Scotland.
*
Most of the pilots at 58 OTU were Polish, a cheerful lot and a solid smile here and there for Quinn, though not many of them seemed to have much English. The afternoon off had come as a surprise to Quinn – It wasn’t even raining. Language classes for the Poles, Quinn took the walk in to Kinross, the first time the sun had warmed his face in weeks.
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A hotel called ‘The Green’ faced the pine trees of a golf course by the loch. There, the Commando Sergeant had advised Quinn, he should ask for a pint of ‘Heavy’, as termed by the locals. With its white-washed walls and bay windows, the place had a welcoming look. As the publican pulled the dark brew, Quinn enquired as to where the ‘Defiance Bar’ in which he now stood had got its name.
Possibly from the name of the mail coach that had used the place to change horses, the man said, though local tradition had put it down to the region’s long struggle against the English. His eyes on the white lettering of Quinn’s tunic shoulders, the publican nudged the pint towards him across the counter.
‘Only one and six to you, laddy.’
Politely passing on the offer of ‘haggis’, opting for a cheese and pickled onion sandwich instead, Quinn took his plate and pint over to a table with a newspaper on it, an old man on one side of the room, a young RAF airman on the other. As neither said anything, Quinn settled himself at the table, glancing at the front page of the paper…
The Luftwaffe had just bombed a series of English cathedral cities, in the past days, Exeter, Canterbury, Bath, York, and Norwich.
Quinn looked up. He recognised the airman now, a young aircraft mechanic around Balado Bridge. Face down, his lip was visibly quivering.
‘You alright, mate?’ Quinn offered.
‘No. No I’m not, sir,’ managed the young man with great effort. He seemed about to cry.
‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Quinn.
‘There, sir.’ The airman motioned towards Quinn’s paper. ‘Canterbury, sir. …Me dad…’
‘He was –’ Quinn cut himself short. He could see the airman’s eyes now welling with tears, not of grief, but of rage.
‘Bustards,’ the young man spat. ‘ Busstards…’ Then, half looking up at Quinn, ‘Sorry, sir…’
‘It’s alright, mate,’ replied Quinn. ‘Say anything you like as far as I’m concerned. Anything you like.’
‘…Thank y’sir. You’re a gent.’
‘Well I know I would,’ followed Quinn.
The airman was silent for long minutes. A silence Quinn respected. Finally the airman spoke up again, but with a new fire in his voice, and in his eyes.
‘You’ll make them suffer, won’t you, sir. You hurt them. For me. …Make ’em fucking bleed…’
*
Dear Danny
We don’t know where you are.
It’s February already and I know you promised you’d write no matter what, but nothing’s arrived since you left. The man at the post office said this was to be expected, what with the delay in the post via the convoys, and now with Singapore fallen - you must have heard all about that. So no doubt this letter will take ages to reach you, (wherever you are).
Dad wrote a letter to the Minister for the Air Force, the upshot of which is that either the Air Force don’t know or they’re not telling us. (I suspect the former.) So I’m taking a punt on England. The post office said if that’s where you happen to be, I should address it to your name and serial number c/o the AUSPO Kodak House thing on the envelope. The post office say then it goes to the RAAF in London and they redirect it to wherever you are at the time.
If indeed you are there, you must have your own Spitfire by now. Can’t wait to get my own. My final year of school has just started. Then it’s the Leaving Certificate and the Empire Air Training Scheme for yours truly.
Dad told me not to write this, but Mum hasn’t been too good of late. All I can tell you is I know she’s terribly worried about you. We do all we can to reassure her but, well, in all honesty we don’t know how you are, do we. I know she’ll pick up when we get a letter from you, but please, Dan, write as soon as you can. I’m sure you already have. (Who knows, maybe your letter was lost with one of those convoys that got torpedoed…)
Mum and Dad, Kathleen and Angie send their love. Mister Reiser too.
Getting closer on your tail with each passing day. Take care, brother.
Yours sincerely
Matt.
(Just hope this letter finds you.)
*
Quinn marched, halted, saluted, removed his cap.
‘Sir. Pilot Officer Quinn reporting.’
Moore leaned back in his chair. ‘At ease, Daniel.’
As they settled steadily on him, it wasn’t for the first time Quinn had seen eyes like that round Balado Bridge. Older than the rest of the body.
‘How are things progressing?’ breathed Moore.
‘Very well thank you, sir.’
The Squadron Leader took his time. He looked back down to a sea of papers and files. When he continued, his voice was subdued. ‘Yes. You’ve come far and you’re getting close.’ He paused to read some other item. ‘You have evidently gained the respect of the Other Ranks – at least, the Signals Corporal says so – and you fly the Spit rather competently.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘This augurs well.’ Moore looked up. ‘Yet all is secondary to one thing and one thing only. Something you must get under your skin immediately. Your beloved Spitfire is nothing but a gun-platform. From now on, your reason for being is to become a killer of the enemy. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m so glad. And even if you do find time to become one, the only important thing to us is that you remain one.’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Keep your head on a bloody swivel.’
‘Sir.’
‘Send in the next chap, would you?’
*
Oh, darling, I simply can’t wait – London! But six weeks away, you’re driving me crazy, you gorgeous man!
After a string of phonecalls, the Signals Corporal, in fear for his life of the Sergeant, was by now begging Quinn to marry Victoria Haimes.
‘She sounds nice, sir,’ smiled the Corporal, replacing the field phone receiver.
‘Yes,’ Quinn smiled back. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘Lovely. Couldn’t help overhearin’, sir, but you’ve got a bit of Leave due…’
‘At the end of this course, she reckons. Seems we’ll be spending it together.’
‘You’ll look forward to that, sir.’
‘That I will, Corp.’
How many times had Quinn held the wallet photo she’d posted, and longed to have that beautiful face close in front of him, her body so eagerly his… Yet most thrilling of all to Quinn was the fact this sparkling soul seemed to crave him also. It had been only a white lie, the lie he’d told her: He’d never had a sweetheart before… Let alone a lover…
‘Nice t’have something t’look forward to,’ nodded the Corporal. ‘I’m glad for you, sir.’
‘Thanks, Corp. And you know you don’t have to keep calling me “sir”. My first name’ll do.’
‘It’s difficult, y’know, sir – There I go again,’ chuckled the Corporal. ‘Call one of our officers by his first name, he’d have y’balls for earings.’
June
Griffon, Quinn and two Sergeant-Pilots flew narrowly above a layer of bright cloud, somewhere below it, the Firth of Forth.
They said the enemy aircraft that killed you would be the one you never saw. From behind and beneath you. Enemy aircraft were called out over the radio according to the ‘clock’ system: Watch your Six… 6 O’clock Low. Only you couldn’t see your own, so you checked wingman’s, and he checked yours.
To stop his craning neck from chafing red raw against the serge material of his battle-dress collar, Quinn had secured a pale woollen roll-neck sweater through the station’s ‘Q-Store’. Some blokes wore silk scarves for it, though the Quartermaster Corporal had advised that the wool of the garment afforded extra protection against fire. Which was good enough for Quinn. Besides, if you came down in the sea, RAF shirt collars were said to contract and strangle you in the water.
Through the static in Quinn’s headphones issued an English voice calmly measured in tone, as if an elocution teacher in pleasant m
iddle age.
‘Red Leader, this is Windmill Control. Are you receiving me? Over.’
Griffon responded: ‘Windmill Control, Red Leader. Roger, over.’
‘Red Leader, Windmill Control. Your target should be to your right, now three miles east of you, Angels Fifteen, heading east. Your vector, Zero - Nine - a Zero… Over.’
‘Roger, Windmill Control. Roger. Out.’ Griffon now addressed his charges. ‘Red Section, Red Leader. Fifteen thousand feet, that puts him just below us. Follow me down. Sharp lookout.’
The four aircraft sank subtly into the cloud, precise separation line abreast, each man now blind.
Out under the cloud, greyness, yet at least they could see each other again, the waters of the Firth blackly below. Formation maintained, they levelled flat with Griffon.
‘There he is, 3 o’clock low,’ announced the Welshman. ‘Follow me in, four-way-split attack. Attacking now…’
As hard as he tried, Quinn couldn’t see anything, only Griffon peeling right, down and away, Turnbull after him, then Brooke. Tipping the stick right and pulling it, Quinn banked after Brooke, shocked at how quickly it all seemed to unfold: Don’t lose him, don’t lose him, don’t let me fuck up…
Flattening out of the bank, Quinn saw their target, flying straight and steady: They were closing on it from behind at hellish speed. Dropping slightly, ahead he saw Turnbull curve in above left – spitting tracers, Brooke from the right – more tracers.
Up and under. Up and under him… Quinn’s thumb pressed. His own tracers flew, he flick-rolled inverted, wrenched down and away.
Rolling upright again, he pulled out of the dive as quickly as he dared – He hadn’t blacked out, hadn’t ripped the wings off. The dark ocean still far below, Quinn scanned in all directions – nothing – got on the radio, and tried to sound as calm as he could.
Nor the Years Condemn Page 11
