Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  He hadn’t expected it, but it felt oddly comforting, too, to be back in uniform. As he waited for their second pints to be drawn, Quinn caught sight of its dark fabric in the mirror behind the bar. In the close-fitting cut of battle-dress – essential for a cramped cockpit – the figure staring back at him might never have been shot down. Whether the trousers he’d bailed out in had been blood-stained, he’d never been told, ripped by the shell splinters most likely – The Squadron had sent down his spare pair in a brown paper parcel, plus a shirt, tie, shoes. Quinn had heard McInroe encouraged his patients to put kit back on. Maybe McInroe was on to something; it did feel good. As did the new peaked cap – Eastwood’s cap – which happened to fit Quinn very well.

  He carried the cold pints back to their table though, placing them side by side before Jillian seated, he noticed his fingers felt odd. Perhaps the condensation on the glasses had affected them – the pub interior was warm. Sitting down, and smoothing one hand carefully over the other, he was sure of it: Certain of the fingers, left and right, and the palm of his left hand most noticeably, were completely numb. They felt no cold from his glass. They felt nothing, and in sharp contrast to the ones that did.

  His brand-new fingers – only half of them with finger prints…

  ‘Are they alright, Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks. …Cheers,’ he offered, raising the pint with his right hand.

  As Jillian sipped, her face moved from concern to a smile back at him, and he heard laughter from across the pub behind her. Mid-swallow, he peered with a happy grin over her shoulder and saw three men by the cosy room’s farthest wall. They were in uniform, grey-blue, RAF he knew at a glance.

  They were drinking, smoking – another burst of laughter. One of the trio had his back to the wall, wings badge on his tunic. Peering at his face – strange – Quinn couldn’t make out whether he was young… or old… Then he saw the face properly.

  Or where it used to be.

  Though there was a wide smile, Quinn wasn’t quite certain if its owner was looking back at him or not – one eye seemed lifeless. The flesh across his mirthful cheeks was somehow shiny, stretched. Quinn then noticed the hoods of skin, minutely over-sized for eyelids, little tents pulled slightly too tight at one corner.

  These were the boys from Ward Three.

  *

  Walking in silence down the curve of the London Road and along the town’s narrow High Street, Jillian provided a steadying arm for Quinn once again.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked as they went. ‘That must have been a bit of a shock for you.’

  ‘S’pose so,’ he said, looking straight ahead. ‘ Shit – Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it. Y’feel so completely bloody sorry for yourself, then you realise just how bloody lucky you’ve been. That could have been me.’

  The buildings they passed had white fronts framed in dark wood, a style Quinn thought he recognised as Tudor. That, and much older, Jillian advised when he asked about them – She didn’t mention the religious martyrs she knew had once burned at the stake nearby.

  Turning north, they stopped by the banks of a pond, the leaves on the trees beside it red with autumn. A cold breeze lifted off the pond, chilling the grafted skin on his left cheek. There was blue sky between the afternoon clouds, though the days were now clearly shortening.

  The light and the sudden chill in the afternoon reminded Quinn of another afternoon, one back in Wagga, and his wander with Bob. Over a year ago now, it seemed so very much longer. He remembered the wattle of the Victory Gardens, the shadow of the Memorial Arch – all those names.

  But most of all he remembered the teacher from Western Australia – as he sipped a beer up on the verandah of the old hotel. His ginger hair, those contemplative eyes of his…

  Smiling as he peered into the distance of the country town.

  *

  From a tattered armchair of the hospital’s recreation room, Richard Hailey appraised Quinn.

  ‘So. How’re things?’

  ‘On the mend, I think, sir.’

  ‘I see your 9th Division chaps are in the thick of it at Alamein,’ Hailey smiled. ‘Giving a very good account of themselves by all reports…’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been reading about it.’

  Hailey allowed Quinn sufficient time in which to elaborate. When he did not, Hailey’s gaze sharpened behind his spectacles, his tone supportive. ‘Look, Daniel… No doubt you expect I’m fishing for your thoughts on your returning to flying again, but I’m not going to today… This is just a chat. Just to see how you’re coming along, after all you’ve been through. …Alright?’

  ‘Alright, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Well then. Tell me,’ Hailey cocked his head at a slight angle, ‘tell me about Daniel Quinn.’

  ‘What about me, sir?’

  ‘What manner of things does Daniel Quinn like? Penny for your thoughts.’

  ‘What do I like, sir…’

  ‘Yes,’ Hailey smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Well, sir… I suppose I like Resches Dinner Ale.’

  Hailey paused, his face simmering to a chuckle. ‘Well, yes, but I was thinking more along the lines of what you, well, admire…’

  Quinn’s expression remained businesslike. ‘…A good teacher.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘They lift you.’

  ‘Perhaps you could give me some examples.’

  ‘Alright…’ Quinn pondered a moment, deciding not to speak his first choice. ‘…There was a priest at school… When I first started, I had this terrible stutter. I used to get bullied for it. But Father O’Donnellan, well, he had this way of talking to you… a look in his eyes… as if you were someone important. Even though you were just a kid. He told me not to worry about bullies. Because their problem was a far worse one than stuttering. We talked many times, we did… and it went away, bless his cotton socks.’

  ‘Sounds like an inspirational man… What about your parents?’

  ‘My mother’s a darling,’ Quinn smiled. ‘It’s all in the little things with her…’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, ever since I can remember, the things she arranged for you, it was always unmistakable how carefully she’d thought about you.’

  ‘A woman for others…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about your father?’

  ‘I was lucky there.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, he never told me what I shouldn’t do… He told me what he did wrong along the way.’

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Yes, two little sisters – they’re hilarious – and Matthew’s six years below me.’

  ‘I expect he wants to be a fighter pilot like big brother?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Naturally… Do you want him to become a fighter pilot?’

  ‘No.’

  Hailey raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’

  ‘I want him to become an Instructor.’

  It lowered. ‘Quite… Are you close?’

  ‘Yes, we are; he’s a great kid.’

  ‘You must miss him.’

  ‘I miss our Saturday afternoons together.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Well, during winter, he’d come and watch me play rugby. I’d be there for his game in the morning, if I could. But in summer it was beers and prawns. Bondi, or down the Shore. Did you ever go there?’

  ‘Milson’s Point? Certainly. Lovely view, and now with the Bridge too. They used to have a brass band playing on Friday evenings, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Quinn smiled. ‘But it was Saturdays for me and Matt… All the yachts sailing past, and the ferries. When he was little, he used to ask me why they were called “fairies”. …Funny little guy.’

  ‘He was very lucky to have you as an older brother.’ Hailey shifted in his chair. ‘I mean, is lucky. He must look up to you.’

  ‘Like any younger brother, I suppose… It
was great just talking, and laughing the way we always did.’

  ‘Who do you have, Daniel?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘To look up to, you being the eldest.’

  ‘Well, my parents. And Mister Reiser.’

  ‘A family friend?’

  ‘Yes, an old one. Goes way back with Dad, no relation but sort of my “uncle”. …We have a sort of special chat at the end of occasions he comes over for.’

  ‘What would you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, about the world. …About his life. About mine. And the war he saw was coming… He’d always finish with a special blessing, this Jewish thing…’

  ‘What was it?’

  Quinn paused in thought.

  ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord cause his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and grant you peace.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ followed Hailey after a few moments.

  ‘I was named after him, actually.’

  ‘Daniel?’ Hailey raised both eyebrows now and smiled. ‘And I always thought old Danny Boy was a good Irish name. Yet Daniel in the Lion’s Den indeed. …Well…’ Hailey patted the arms of his chair. ‘Thank you for sharing all this with me, Daniel.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, depending on many things, of course, I’m not sure when we’ll be meeting again… So, until then, m’boy, anything you’d like to ask me?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Well, as I said… until then.’

  ‘Sir.’

  On his way back out to the Humber sedan, Hailey barely registered the Waaf driver opening its door for him.

  ‘Back to Hornchurch, Doctor?’

  ‘Hm? Yes, thank you, Patricia.’

  His mind was still fixed on Quinn.

  On the young man who’d never got as far as Hailey’s first name. Only ever ‘sir’. This boy who, if Hailey gave him a clean bill of health, would most likely never see his dear brother, nor his darling mother again.

  November 1942

  The air and sea were dead calm.

  Standing with Jillian Brown on the cliff-top high above it, the near perfect stillness of the Channel was surprising to Quinn. Also surprising to him was that the nearby village of Peacehaven, according to Jillian, had once been called New Anzac On Sea: There’d been a public competition to name the new village in 1915, the winning entry, she said, being in honour of and gratitude to the young men of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, at the time defending the Empire against the Turk at a place called Gallipoli. As the campaign there melted to utter failure, a second competition was launched, the village hastily renamed.

  Quinn turned to her. ‘Jillian, I really have to thank you.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ she smiled at him.

  ‘Well, your visits have got me through this better than I might’ve done… And besides, they’ve been,’ he looked out to sea, ‘… something to look forward to.’

  She looked out to sea herself. ‘It’s been my pleasure… …So what now? What do you think you might do?’ She peered sideways for a moment at Quinn’s face, at the paler skin of the scar. ‘Back to ops?’

  ‘I’m really not sure.’ A cold day, he wore his roll-neck sweater under battle-dress, eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘The Maestro doesn’t seem too keen on it…’

  He didn’t see her eyes narrow at him.

  ‘McInroe told you that?’

  ‘He just suggested I think carefully about one or two things.’ Quinn paused. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really be telling you that…’

  ‘No…’ Brown replied. ‘I suppose you oughtn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, loose lips, I s’pose… Hey, you heard about Alamein?’

  ‘In detail…’ She looked out to the Channel again. ‘The Australians have done splendidly. Rommel’s in full retreat, a turning point in the war, so they’re saying…’

  Quinn angled to her. ‘You’re in Intelligence… What d’you see on the cards?’

  ‘Well… Unless Rommel can pull off some sort of miracle – which, between you and me, is what he excels at – the Germans will end up losing in North Africa, what with the Americans landed in force there now…’

  ‘They’ll quit Africa?’ squinted Quinn.

  ‘Yes. It’ll take time, and terrible struggle most likely, but with the Yanks driving in from the west, and us from the east, Rommel will have to withdraw to Sicily in the end… That’ll mean a landing there by the Allies, and a fighting campaign up the length of Italy… It stands to reason: Either the Allies go under or prosecute the war thus.’

  ‘Always wanted to see Italy,’ Quinn mused.

  ‘You well might now. Of course, any major invasion of Western Europe will have to come in France, Norway at the outside, probably at the same time as an Italian campaign… For all I know they haven’t even drawn up the plans yet but, logically, it has to happen.’

  ‘When do you think it will?’

  ‘Well, with the American build-up going on here as it is, I’d say an Allied invasion force could be ready by, what, this time next year? …Then, of course, they’ll have to wait for summer weather to cross the Channel, so that’ll put it for half way through ’44… The crucial thing then will be where they invade – Calais being the shortest distance across, maybe Cherbourg, even Brittany. But wherever they end up doing it, the whole thing will be to deceive the Germans as soundly as possible as to the invasion site on the day.’

  ‘Counter-Intelligence?’ put Quinn.

  ‘Yes. It’s always the way.’

  ‘Well, Miss Brown, you’ll have your work cut out for you then.’

  ‘Maybe. But you could be flying in it. And all while the Russians attack from the east. It’s their sheer weight of numbers – God only knows how many’ll die in the process but they’ll win in the end, it’s just a matter of time. Just as we’ll win in the west, due to the overwhelming manpower and resources of the Americans.’

  ‘They’re piling in, alright…’ Quinn paused. ‘Invasion, eh? Command said they were testing the waters at Dieppe…’

  ‘Exactly. It’s never been a secret: Where and when, that’ll be the secret… It’ll be a long war leading up to it, possibly after it too, but when it does happen, it’ll be nothing less than the greatest invasion in the history of the world.’ She peered intensely at him now. ‘I mean that literally, Daniel. And you’ll be flying over it. Not only seeing the whole thing better than anyone else, but playing a direct role in pushing it forward. …Frankly, I wish I was you.’

  The sound of fighter aircraft welled from behind them. They turned. It became a howling directly overhead, now tearing out over the Channel. Hands in pockets, Quinn peered upwards and followed their flight, a whole squadron, in a moment merely specks. By Christ, were they quick.

  Heading for France.

  Typhoons.

  To: Acting Squadron Leader Roland E.W. Huxley, DFC, DFM

  Commanding Officer

  122 Squadron

  RAF Hornchurch

  Essex RM12

  Sir

  I have the honour to refer to your memorandum dated October 31st in which you requested the necessary physical and mental report regarding recently injured 122 Squadron pilot, Flying Officer Quinn, D., Serial Number 254920.

  It is my medical opinion that Quinn, D. has made a complete recovery from wounds sustained in the course of his operational duties this last September. My assessment of his mental condition is that this young man appears in excellent shape. The greatest single factor leading me to this conclusion is the healthy faculty of memory which he displays in the course of my interviewing him, such a faculty all too often impaired by depression following traumatic physical injury – in burns cases particularly.

  As with similar cases at East Grinstead on which I have been requested to report, it is my opinion that Dr Alisdair McInroe’s methods in encouraging positive mental outlook in the treatment of burns victims hav
e been highly successful in the case of Quinn, D.

  I recommend him without reservation for General Duties (Flying).

  I remain, as ever, your humble servant

  Flight Lieutenant Hailey, Dr R.J.

  Medical Officer

  122 Squadron

  Hailey signed it. Blotted the ink.

  And cursed the day he’d become a doctor.

  TO: BANDLEADER c/- FCHQ

  TOP SECRET

  YOUR SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED. STOP. HAVE REASON TO

  BELIEVE MAESTRO SUGGESTING PLAYERS QUIT BAND. STOP.

  RECOMMEND YOU OPEN FILE AND CONTINUE SURVEILLANCE.

  STOP. ASSIGNMENT CONCLUDED AWAITING FURTHER ORDERS 122. STOP.

  MUSIC LOVER.

  Jillian Brown surprised herself.

  She found herself pondering.

  Pondering how it might have been if she’d met Daniel Quinn in different times. Such a nice looking boy. Nice mind too.

  Yes, she concluded, they might have got along very well. If things were different.

  But they weren’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  April 1943

  Quinn had been stunned by the intensity of the explosion.

  Though its shockwave fully thumped the airframe, his senses only registered its fury as he narrowly surmounted it, pushed the control column forward, then drew it back, to skim the flat of the earth once again. Speed, 375.

  He’d fired his cannon on a train.

  He must have hit a fuel tanker.

  *

  Quinn had found Roland Huxley to be a squadron commander of few words. Sent to take command of 122 after Eastwood had gone missing, the squadron’s pilots had learnt, however, that the little Huxley did say, you obeyed. For, over the months since his arrival, the Englishman’s clipped instructions had been keeping more and more of them in one piece.

  The twenty-six-year-old Squadron Leader never socialised with his pilots, rarely a drink in the Mess, yet was known for one thing most Squadron Leaders never did: Squadron Leaders almost always picked highly experienced pilots to cover their tails, a practice accepted as part of the reason they’d lived long enough to become Squadron Leaders. Huxley, by contrast, took each new pilot up at least once as his wingman, their so-called ‘check flight’. The gen said Huxley liked to know personally what each new man was made of, also, just quietly, that he preferred pilots who’d been shot down, then reapplied for flying duty as his Section Commanders.