Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

‘Though if any little birds are likely to stop England fallin’ on ’er arse right now, I’ll wager it won’t be due to my lot stayin’ put. No… I’d put this island’s survival down to a lot of little birds flyin’ in. …From very far away.’

  The warder saluted. Quinn returned it. And the man strolled off once again to his rounds.

  June 1943

  ‘At-ten - SHUN.’

  122 Squadron stood as Huxley walked down the aisle of the briefing room and up onto the dais, a curtain being drawn back from the kind of operational map Quinn could by now digest at a glance: Lines of red wool, aircraft headings, timings, waypoints, a target. From behind the rostrum, Huxley ordered them be seated.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, I’ll keep this brief. For many years now, the Ford and General Motors Companies have had factories in Antwerp, Belgium. But since Belgium is currently occupied by the Germans, these factories, somewhat inconveniently for the Allies, are now being operated by the Germans in their war effort against us.

  ‘Today, gentlemen, B17 Flying Fortresses of the U.S. 8th Air Force will be bombing these factories from 20-thousand feet, supported by top-cover of their own Thunderbolt fighters. Eighty miles from their target, the Americans’ track takes them over the Belgian town of Ostend,’ he pointed to it on the map with a billiard cue, ‘which contains a heavy concentration of German flak batteries. These – according to one of Section Officer Brown’s parting reports – feature their latest radar-ranging 88mm guns, highly deadly to our bombers, gentlemen. This is where you come in. Today 122 Squadron will attack these anti-aircraft batteries from ultra low level. That’s all, really… All relevant information up on the board behind me… As usual, stick to your Section Commanders, keep it tight, and let’s see the living shit bombed out of Ford and General Motors. That is all. Good luck, gentlemen. Dismiss them please, Flight Lieutenant Quinn.’

  ‘At-ten - SHUN.’

  *

  The Leutnant of the German anti-aircraft battery slammed down the phone. The Radar Control Centre had confirmed it: Twenty thousand feet, the height at which his shells would be exploding, was correct. And not a moment too soon as the guns now blasted out all sound, the battery thundering, as were other batteries nearby. Directly above him, the American bombers were mere specks, hardly visible at all, except for the lines of black smoke several of them were trailing, one already diving in flames.

  The battery had been doing well. Of late, the ones that Minister Goebbels had called the “American Air Pirates” were being shot out of the sky. Though the Leutnant knew he’d never have been awarded his Iron Cross without the expertise of his Sergeant, a born artilleryman. Indeed, the Leutnant had come a long way since the Hitler Youth…

  He lowered his eyes to the firing 88s, yes, there was the Sergeant issuing his orders to the crew like a demon, beyond them, the rooftops of Ostend. Yet something above the rooftops caught the Leutnant’s eye: Something hung above the familiar horizon, something that didn’t fit… Specks. Growing. Were they aircraft? Fighters? They couldn’t be – not that low… He certainly hadn’t heard them – all noise was drowned out by the guns.

  The last thing the Leutnant ever saw was the Sergeant’s intestines flying out his back.

  Quinn edged back on the stick, subtly lifting Green Section over the structures of Ostend, full throttle.

  ‘Green 2, Green Leader. Damage to target, Stephen?’

  ‘Hard to say with the 88, Daniel. Crew, definitely. Mincemeat. About ten of them.’

  ‘Good enough. Green Section, Green Leader. Stay with me.’

  July 1943

  ‘Sir. Flight Lieutenant Quinn reporting.’

  ‘At ease, Daniel.’

  Huxley’s head remained lowered in a thick file.

  ‘I’m transferring you to 609 Squadron.’

  Quinn swallowed. ‘Have I done something wrong, sir?’

  Huxley only continued reading, turned a page, reading halfway down the next before replying.

  ‘On the contrary. You’ve done everything right… Unless there’s something you’re not telling me… 609’s just moved to Matlaske. Near Norwich. County of Norfolk.’

  ‘I know it,’ returned Quinn softly.

  ‘609 fly Typhoons.’

  ‘I hear they’re a powerful aircraft, sir.’

  ‘Only the most powerful fighter in the Air Force. Not a pretty aircraft. More of a flying engine. They’re being used as low-level interceptors and in ground attack primarily, so you should do rather well, given your flair with the Spit in that role… Your promotion should come through by the time you arrive at your new squadron.’

  ‘Prom…’

  ‘You’ll be commanding it. So, I suppose, congratulations are in order.’ Huxley extracted a bottle and two small glasses from the usual drawer.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Quinn sat on a bench outside the door of the Station Commander, RAF Matlaske, current home to Number 609 as well as two other Typhoon squadrons. On the other side of it, an argument was very vividly in progress.

  ‘I DON’T GIVE A FLYING FUCK IF HE IS MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. PUT ME ON A CHARGE, COURT-MARTIAL ME, FIRING SQUAD. IF YOU DON’T GET THAT USELESS PRICK TRANSFERED OFF THIS BASE IMMEDIATELY, YOU’RE GUNNA HAVE ME AND TEN NEW BLOKES DEAD IN A WEEK. You - mark - my - words.’

  There was a pause at the end of which Quinn caught steps smartly approaching the door. Expecting someone to storm out, he watched on as a tall young officer exited quietly, his face still flushed with anger, yet focused, resolute. Quinn saw the AUSTRALIA lettering on his tunic shoulders, also just the hint of a grin as he passed. He wore the twin rank bands of a Flight Lieutenant. And medal ribbons. At a glance Quinn saw he had the DFC plus a few others.

  Quinn stood, knocked, heard the call to enter, and went in. He closed the door behind him, marched forward, saluted, removed his cap, remained at attention.

  ‘Sir. Squadron Leader Quinn reporting.’

  Quinn’s new batman had altered his tunic cuffs the night before: Each now bore a new band, a thin one between his existing two.

  The man seated behind the desk was a Group Captain, fiftyish, bald, though with what appeared the remnants of a kindly face.

  ‘At ease, Squadron Leader.’ The man kept reading from a file. ‘Quinn. Another Australian, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The English Station Commander tried in vain not to wince.

  ‘Yes… Yes, we’ve been expecting you. Have a seat, my name’s Carruthers.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Quinn pulled up a nearby chair and sat. Carruthers continued reading.

  ‘Let’s see now… Rated ‘Above Average’ in Sydney, graduated second in your class in training, somewhere called Wagga Wagga… Won a commission, in due course selected for Spitfires. Yes, I see you’ve done well with 122… Took command of a section in a tight spot, got your first kill, a photo-reconnaissance Jerry on the eve of Dieppe. Fortunate one that: Seems he was snapping our Operation Jubilee build-up at Manston. …Promoted to Flying Officer. Effective over Dieppe, certainly, downed a Dornier and half another. Kept the victories coming until shot down… Hospitalised, recovered from burns, reapplied for General Duties – more flying when you didn’t have to, more kills – including another very fortunate one… Promoted to Flight Lieutenant, given your first command. …Awarded Distinguished Flying Cross, nine air kills so far, ground kills, hard to be precise. …Your last C.O. reports you’re respected by your ground crews and by the pilots in the section you lead.’

  Carruthers closed the file and looked gravely at Quinn.

  ‘In a nutshell, you’re a good pilot, you’re a leader who doesn’t mind going out on a limb, and you’ve been lucky. Right now, Squadron Leader, you’ll need to be all three. And in spades. You’re about to lead a squadron flying an aircraft on which you have no experience. You’d better be a fast learner; twenty-two hundred horse-power, the Hawker Typhoon is a killer. “Seven Ton Brute” they call it – If you’re not ultra careful it will k
ill you.’ Carruthers pushed a thick booklet across the desk.

  Quinn read the title.

  PILOT’S NOTES FOR TYPHOON MARK IB – SABRE IIC ENGINE.

  ‘If I were you,’ pronounced Carruthers, ‘I’d get every single word of that between your ears; you had twelve cylinders on the Spit, now you’ve twenty-four. Oh, and you’ll need a new Section Commander. We’re soon to be minus one.’

  Quinn looked up from the manual. ‘You mean the officer I saw on his way out, sir?’

  ‘What, Stone? Oh, good gracious, no…’ The Group Captain verged on a chortle. ‘No, I’ll be getting rid of the chap he wants gone.’ His face became pained once again. ‘…You see, Stone has one thing in his favour that vexes us.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘That he’s right. Usually is… If this were peacetime, Stone would be in a military prison for that outburst, and for others like it… Luckily for him, this isn’t. And luckily for us, he’s ours. Yours, actually. He’s your other Section Commander.’ Siding the file to his out-tray, Carruthers breathed, ‘ Also the best pilot I’ve ever seen… ’ and turned back to Quinn. ‘In any case, you’ll need a new chap to replace the one we’re losing. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Yes, sir. One Stephen Maddox from 122 Squadron.’

  ‘Another Antipodean, I presume.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘More Australians…’ sighed Carruthers. ‘Rank?’

  ‘He’s a Flying Officer.’

  Carruthers lifted the receiver from the red of the colour-coded telephones on his desk. ‘Well, young Stephen is about to become Fighter Command’s newest Flight Lieutenant.’

  *

  Quinn’s next impression of Colin Stone was of a lanky fellow, his face tanned and leathery-looking. Quinn encountered him combing his shock of brylcreemed brown hair in the Officers’ lavatory, a place that Quinn, after his meeting with Carruthers, felt no small need to visit. Stone didn’t face him at first, merely continuing to sculpt his locks in the mirror.

  ‘’Ow’s it goin’?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ replied Quinn, seeing, to his chagrin, that the lavatory’s single cubicle was occupied.

  The Flight Lieutenant turned and offered a slightly greasy hand, Quinn felt as he shook it. A ready smile faced Quinn – Stone seemed relaxed – yet Quinn felt something unsettling in the eyes now appraising him: In his whole life, he had never conversed with a madman – he might not be now – but Colin Stone’s eyes were big, grey and arresting. And one seemed rather bigger than the other.

  ‘You’re Flight Lieutenant Stone, aren’t you.’

  ‘Stoney. Nice t’meet ya, Skipper.’

  In the seeming eternity before the flush came and the cubical’s user vacated, Quinn gleaned from their chat that Stone hailed from Melbourne – St. Kilda, where he’d been a garage attendant. With the toilet finally free and the door shut behind Quinn, he learnt also that Stone was the kind of bloke to keep talking to you quite naturally while you were in the middle of taking a crap.

  ‘So. Got an MG, ’ave ya?’

  ‘Certainly do.’

  ‘What series?’

  ‘J… Look, um, you’ll have to excuse me for a moment, Flight Lieutenant.’

  ‘Nah, that’s alright, I don’t mind,’ flowed Stone. ‘J-Series, eh? Beautiful car… 847cc. That crankshaft’s a problem though…’

  Tearing some toilet paper off the roll, Quinn thought back to his long hours under the MG’s bonnet. He had to admit, this odd-ball knew his stuff: ‘…Precisely. The crankshaft.’

  ‘Yeah, bad arrangement y’see, problem with the basic design: Two-bearing job. Fixed it on the K-Series. ’Course, the ol’ Typhoon had its teething problems too… Tail used t’break off in flight for no reason… Engine’s so bloody powerful it vibrated the seat so much they had t’put springs under it so blokes wouldn’t go sterile! …Motor still catches fire on starting sometimes, but y’get used t’that. Oh, and it leaks carbon-monoxide into the cockpit, so y’have t’put on your oxygen mask as soon as y’climb in. Still… If it didn’t I might never ’ave found me miracle cure…’

  ‘Cure for what?’

  ‘Hang-overs.’

  Quinn pulled the chain to flush, readjusted his uniform, and exited the cubicle, the Flight Lieutenant continuing to him as he washed his hands.

  ‘Yeah, breathing the oxygen supply, instant cure. Bringing anyone from your old squadron then?’

  ‘Yes, actually. A bloke I’d like as the other Section Commander.’

  ‘Any good?’

  Quinn dried his hands, turned to Stone and nodded silently.

  The Flight Lieutenant’s larger eye got larger. ‘I see.’

  *

  Carruthers, it became apparent to Quinn that same morning, was a man of his word.

  If the Spitfire had been a thoroughbred, the Typhoon was a war-horse.

  Standing before it in his flying kit, Quinn saw it looked every bit the three tons’ extra weight it had over the Spit. Walking around it, the Typhoon must have been a full third longer, wider, higher. Up on its great, broad undercarriage, fat black and white stripes under its wings, the thing was aggression itself: Beneath the propeller spinner, its giant ‘chin’ radiator seemed to Quinn like some gaping bully’s mouth frozen mid-taunt, each propeller blade surely seven foot long.

  Yet only when the engine boomed, revving it up, letting the brakes off and hurtling down the runway did Quinn feel anything approaching the truth of Carruthers’ warning: The Typhoon’s raw power was breath-taking. With the massive torque effect of its engine, Quinn had to fight for dear life not to career off the runway to the right and fiery disaster.

  Narrowly getting airborne, wheels up, speed 300 and climbing, he pulled its teardrop-shaped canopy forward, locking it shut just as a drawl came through the headphones.

  ‘Well, Skipper. That wasn’t too bad, I s’pose.’

  The Flight Lieutenant’s tone could have been over a game of snooker and a beer.

  ‘Where are you, Stoney?’

  ‘Just off ya left wing.’

  Quinn craned left. With his whole concentration spent on merely surviving the take-off, he’d clean forgotten about Stone. But there he was, mere feet away. Carruthers clearly hadn’t been exaggerating about Stone either: He’d stuck tight to Quinn right the way through the whole ordeal.

  ‘What are the under-wing stripes for, Stoney?’ Quinn thought to ask as he eyed the gauges for altitude, heading, speed. They read 500 feet, South-East, 380 miles per hour and rising.

  ‘Aw, the war paint? Protection. Been losing blokes to our own side.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems the Typhoon is easily mistaken for a Focke-Wulf – wing shape or something. Can’t see the resemblance, m’self… Fucken Yanks…’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘Nah, fair dinkum. Bloke who’s job you’ve got now… Shot down by some Yank Thunderbolts. Orton-Green, good bloke for a Pommie… Right-o. Caister-on-Sea… You wanna follow me or what?’

  ‘No, that’s alright,’ transmitted Quinn. ‘I know the way…’

  In minutes the seaside village loomed and they were banking over it, a wide left out over the water. Straightening nor-nor-east, they sped in direct line with the sand dunes Quinn had once wandered. He checked the airspeed dial again to see he was moving at about 100 miles an hour faster than normal.

  ‘Okay, Stoney. On me, inland and home.’

  ‘Right-you-are, Skip.’

  Coming back into Matlaske, Quinn touched the Typhoon down very carefully indeed.

  *

  Stephen Maddox arrived two days later, a rather surprised Flight Lieutenant. Quinn introduced him to Stone and was relieved to find that, despite their radical difference in demeanour, the pair had a common religion: utter practicality. Clearly, neither had time for anything else; neither could afford it. They were now Quinn’s left and right-hand men, Quinn – Red Section, Stone – Blue Section, Maddox – Green.

 
What he would have done without Stone to show Maddox the ropes on the Typhoon, Quinn couldn’t imagine, yet he observed Stone’s patent respect for Maddox’s flying ability. Maddox would need to dig up every ounce of it in order to master the new fighter, as would Quinn – He didn’t blame the squadron’s nine other pilots for grumbling how they’d sooner go back to Spitfires: At least on the Spit their most likely cause of death would be the enemy.

  On their first morning together, Quinn looked up as Stone and Maddox took off over him. To Quinn’s ears, whereas the Spitfire zoomed over sweet and heavy, the Typhoon’s sound was pure growl.

  *

  The Group Captain poured Quinn a cup of tea.

  ‘Anything else you need?’

  ‘Yes. A young Waaf, sir.’

  ‘Well who doesn’t? But I’m a married man, worse luck.’

  Quinn smiled; Carruthers was alright. ‘No, sir. An intelligence officer. Highly capable, name of Section Officer Jillian Brown. She was with us at 122 Squadron, transferred out, I don’t know where she is now… But her reconnaissance reports always proved highly accurate.’

  ‘Never did hold with women in the Service,’ huffed Carruthers. ‘In my day they used to make the tea.’ He picked up a telephone receiver. ‘Another Australian, I expect?’

  ‘No, sir, she’s English.’

  ‘Well, thank the Good Lord for that.’

  August 1943

  A highly unpleasant surprise for Quinn was the staggering amount of paperwork a Squadron Leader was expected to get through each night. ‘Bumph’, they called it. At least Section Officer Brown was now on hand to assist him with it. She worked with him most evenings instead of sleeping – the gen said she never did – and still there seemed no end to it.

  609 Squadron were now engaged in low-level patrol sweeps of the Channel coast between Dungeness and North Foreland: Flights of Focke-Wulfs had been making hit-and-run raids on the local area and, though Quinn seemed to spend more time under red tape than in the cockpit, 609 were knocking them down.

  As Commanding Officer, he had to approve and sign off on every single item of squadron business. On top of operational orders, intelligence and meteorological reports, there were personnel and duty rosters, toilet rolls, toothpaste and laundry. There were the Form 700s to be signed every single time the form’s associated aircraft underwent its 30, 60, then 240-hour check. On top of all that, he’d had to co-ordinate and supervise the entire squadron’s move south from RAF Matlaske to Lympne in Kent.