Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  Then came the mechanical problems with the Typhoons…

  Their Napier-Sabre engines were not only super-powered but also intensely temperamental. On some mornings, certain aircraft in the squadron simply refused to start. Stone, appointed by Quinn as Squadron Maintenance Officer, narrowed it down to fluctuations in outside air temperature and devised the solution of getting the ground crews, rostered around the clock, to start up each fighter’s engine at regular intervals between midnight and dawn.

  It worked, aircraft reliability being almost entirely restored. Towards the end of the month, though, a letter arrived from the local residents of Lympne.

  They were being kept awake by the noise.

  Quinn had dictated the reply late one night. Jillian Brown scribed and sent it.

  To: The Lord Mayor

  C/- The Town Hall

  The High Street

  Lympne

  Kent CT21

  Dear Sir

  I have the honour to refer to your letter dated 25th of August regarding your residents’ recent complaints about the nightly engine noise emitted by my Squadron.

  I respectfully request you advise your residents that I have reviewed their petition of signatures, understand their disturbance, and that they have a choice.

  They can be disturbed by Typhoons.

  Or by Focke-Wulfs.

  Which do they want.

  I remain your humble servant

  Squadron Leader Daniel F. Quinn DFC

  Commanding Officer, 609 Squadron.

  There were no further complaints.

  The ‘P.S. FUCK OFF’ suggested by Stoney was never included.

  Toiling one night even longer than usual, Quinn let his pen drop, peered at the clock, sat slowly back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. ‘Jesus Mary and Joseph. …I’m turning in.’

  ‘You should have hours ago, Squadron Leader,’ offered Jillian Brown from the desk lamp opposite his. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

  ‘Why not,’ he sighed. ‘This paperwork’ll kill me first.’

  She took one of her own, manoeuvred the packet between columns of files on the desk, and they lit up in silence.

  Brown broke it after a while.

  ‘So. How’s it all going?’

  Quinn exhaled. ‘Very badly, if you ask me… Very badly indeed.’ He lent slowly forward to ash the smoke in a tray. ‘We lost another pilot today. Stoney took them chasing some 190s back to France.’

  ‘Yes. Sergeant Piper. He was a lovely kid.’

  ‘Yes… Piper.’

  ‘It was no one’s fault, Daniel. Certainly not Stone’s or Maddox’s. They’re superb leaders, better pilots, and an excellent reflection on your ability to command. …He was hit by ground fire, apparently. And they got those 190s…’

  Quinn stubbed the cigarette out half-finished. ‘I have to write the letter to Piper’s mother. Before I turn in.’

  ‘Yes, there is that. Do it tomorrow morning. You’ll think better.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he resigned. ‘It’s just sometimes I think I’m not cut out for this. …Command, and everything that goes with it.’

  She leant forward and softly reassured. ‘Daniel, since you’ve been leading it, losses have come down and the whole squadron has been running more efficiently than a lot of people can remember. Bumph and all.’

  ‘I owe you a great deal, Jillian.’

  ‘No you don’t. Bumph is bumph and won’t do itself.’

  ‘No, I meant about the DFC and everything; I wouldn’t have got it without you. I’ve been lobbying Group for your promotion to Section Lieutenant. No luck yet, I’m afraid.’

  An idea seemed to steel in her eyes.

  ‘Look, Daniel… Come to London with me. Tomorrow night. A rest’ll do you good.’

  ‘What’s today?’

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jillian, I’d love to. But the Squadron…’

  ‘It will survive without you for one day. And besides,’ she grinned, ‘you’re the Squadron Leader.’

  ‘But that’d mean a 12-hour pass. Who issues those things?’

  ‘You do.’

  Quinn conceded a smile. Seeing her return it in the light of the desk lamps, Quinn was almost taken aback: In the moment, she seemed somehow more attractive than he remembered. That pinned-back fringe of hers, had she grown her hair slightly longer than before? Darker eyebrows? – he’d never noticed makeup on her before – he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the light. Maybe he was just tired.

  ‘Besides,’ she pressed, ‘I know someone who’d like to meet you…’

  Quinn having shut and locked the office, they walked down the corridor on the way to their separate buildings. On his way behind her, Quinn noticed her figure – only a glimpse, but he noticed it: No, she wasn’t curvy – like the fashion. Her frame was petite, her narrow hips shifting from side to side minutely as she walked.

  Another place, another time, Quinn sighed to himself.

  ‘Night, Daniel,’ she said at the end of the corridor. ‘Here’s to tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he found himself smiling.

  With that, she went right, he went left.

  *

  Peering through its entrance, to Quinn the low-lit bar of the Savoy Hotel was a picture of comfortable elegance. Having left their caps in the care of the immaculate cloak-room attendant, Quinn realised he still held the retrieval chit in his hand, hurriedly transferring it to a pocket of his Number One Service Dress.

  ‘Come on,’ Jillian grinned up at him. Putting her arm inside his, she led him inside.

  Making their way towards the bar, Quinn saw that almost every one of its patrons was in uniform, from all three services, various countries, and of worryingly elevated rank. He was just considering the result of a Luftwaffe night-bomber scoring a direct hit on the place when a face by the bar turned towards them, and smiled warmly at Jillian.

  ‘My girl,’ beamed the senior RAF officer – to Quinn’s surprise, with an Australian accent. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

  To Quinn’s further surprise, they touched cheeks. Jillian did the introductions, face aglow.

  ‘Squadron Leader Quinn, I’d like you to meet a fellow countryman, Air Vice-Marshal Ronald Kennett. Leader of the Pathfinders.’

  Quinn saw the extra pair of wings on his tunic.

  *

  After initial conversations, Jillian had been button-holed by an older officer, Quinn having heard her address him as ‘Admiral’ before she disappeared. Kennett had ordered cognacs for Quinn and himself. He must have been in his mid-thirties, had a finely cultured face, and spoke with quiet intensity.

  ‘How are you finding command, Daniel?’

  ‘Well, sir, the men seem not to mind me too much…’

  Kennett lit a cigarette. ‘It’s not a popularity contest, Daniel. Being liked by your men is not in your job description. Being respected by them is. If you become too close to them, you will think twice before sending many of them to lay down their lives. For that is precisely what command entails.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘The Typhoon is a magnificent weapon. You’re currently preparing the squadron for rocket firing?’

  ‘Security, sir.’

  ‘Correct answer. What you must now do, Daniel, is lead your young men by example. You must go in harder than any of them. For, the world over, what young men most hate is other young men performing – or being seen to perform – better than they are. You must use this understanding: Go in vitally hard against the enemy, and very soon your men will be doing the same.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Very soon your squadron will cease to be a collection of individuals, and become an effective striking unit. The two other squadrons in the Wing will begin to envy 609’s success, then rise to emulate it. Then the Wing will be a reaper.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You must hit the enemy hard, Daniel… Then hit them harder. Have you played much sport?’

  �
�Yes, sir, rugby.’

  ‘Position?’

  ‘Wing.’

  ‘What’s the first thing you try to do to your opposite number?’

  ‘Well, I s’pose… knock the wind out of him…’

  ‘Precisely. It may sound simplistic, Daniel, but your opposite number right now is just as he always was: You must knock the wind out of him at the first opportunity, just as you did back on the field. Then he will not be able to continue at his best, at his full potential. You must hammer him. You must rain down upon him until he expects you to. Only then will a young German start to watch his own back rather than what he’s supposed to be doing. Only then will many young Germans start to think about home instead of fighting as well as they can. Only then will we begin to bring this whole shitty mess to its swiftest possible conclusion.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You must become Death, Daniel.’

  *

  Brown had offered Quinn the use of a spare bed at her parents’ home. It would save him the bill at the Strand Palace, and Notting Hill was an easy trip via the Underground, she assured. Feeling a little the worse for wear after the drinks, Quinn agreed: It seemed a better idea than stumbling through London in the blackout. Yet, as she led him along the darkened street towards the Tube station, Quinn was struck with a thought.

  ‘Jill… There’s one thing I don’t understand. Kennett’s a Bomber Group Leader, right?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Well, how on earth did you know when a bloke like him would be on Leave?’

  Quinn almost tripped over some object unseen, Brown tightening her arm inside his. ‘Careful,’ she said. ‘Here’s the Tube entrance now…’ Very quickly, she kissed him on the cheek, just a peck – to distract him from further questions, she said to herself in the moment. Because she wanted to, she reflected in the next. In any case, her action seemed to have the desired effect.

  On their way down the long escalator, Jillian felt the arm of the slightly drunk young man beside her, and stared straight ahead. She had almost escaped Daniel Quinn… Yet Fate had played its hand: Daniel had drawn her back to him. On her last visit to the Whitehall offices of the London Controlling Section, Jillian had been perfectly plain with her boss regarding her predicament – the way she had begun to feel for Daniel, the conflict of interest it spelt for her – only to find the man couldn’t stop smiling. He then went on to be just as plain with her…

  The mission of the LCS over the coming months, he said he didn’t have to remind her, was to deceive German Intelligence regarding the geographical site of the already much-vaunted ‘Invasion’. Now what, he put to her, would she identify – in this pre-invasion phase – as the key element of Allied military activity regularly observed and interpreted by German Intelligence? Exactly: the highly visible air activity over them of squadrons led by young men like Daniel Quinn. If such air activity could at all be influenced by the LCS through subtle manipulation of squadron commanders like young Quinn, then German Intelligence might in turn be manipulated. Indeed, it might be led a merry dance…

  Hence, her boss set out, Jillian had two options. One: She could feel free to obtain an abrupt discharge from her current higher duties, and from the LCS. Two: She could put aside a little personal heartache in the context of playing her part to ensure the success of the single most important military operation in modern history. And what a part she could play, he enthused, given the position in which she currently found herself: Such sentimental feelings as she harboured for Quinn could provide her with no better cover in her secret work, such cover being rendered all the more effective if the operative believed it. The benefit to her own career was neither here nor there. Personal heartache, the older man assured her, would pass with time. By contrast, her peace of mind, having done her bit to ensure the success of the Invasion – and so of the War – would stay with her for the rest of her life. Conversely, if the Invasion failed, existence under a victorious Germany would haunt her until her dying day which, he assured her, would come for anyone ever in the pay of British Intelligence with brutal quickness. In a nutshell, the professional fork in the road at which Jillian presently found herself might be negotiated more easily if she viewed her present reality as a fight for her own simple survival…

  In any case, Jillian resigned to herself, tonight her boss had confirmed it. A potential asset for cultivation had been his exact words. From across the room, he’d liked the look of Quinn. Indeed, he’d said sipping his drink, Jillian would do well to be on the lookout for other young men just like the Squadron Leader. The more the merrier.

  As they stepped off the escalator, Jillian kept her hold of Quinn’s arm.

  How she longed to kiss him again.

  September 1943

  609 Squadron skimmed the waves.

  Quinn checked left, there, Stone and Blue Section. Close around himself, Red Section. To the right stretched Maddox and Green. Underwing, the Typhoons carried rockets, eight high-explosive warheads per aircraft.

  The morning was a glary overcast and blustery, white caps on the water speeding narrowly beneath. The turbulent air made holding ‘zero altitude’ a nightmare task, yet while they held it, the twelve would remain invisible to German radar – Only at the last moment would they be caught by a thousand binoculared eyes.

  Quinn glanced at his knee-map, then ahead. Through the droplets of spray that hit the windscreen, land should become visible any second.

  Maddox had never failed them.

  ‘Reaper Leader, Green Leader. Enemy coast in sight.’

  Quinn pushed full throttle and pulled back on the stick, drawing his eleven pilots with him into the climb.

  As the beaches passed below, the squadron had reached 2000 feet and levelled out with Quinn. Streams of anti-aircraft tracers flew up to meet them, though no one was hit – The climb had put them just above the range of this so-called ‘light’ flak. Now they were in range of ‘heavy’ flak. Yet nothing came up at them, Quinn breathing a sigh of relief. Brown’s intelligence report had been correct: No 88mm Guns in Sector. They’d have known all about it and instantly if there had been…

  Moments later, a few miles inland past the coastal defences, Quinn transmitted. ‘Reaper Leader to Reaper Squadron. Down we go.’

  He’d already drummed into them that Maddox’s section would be looking out for enemy fighters. All Red and Blue Sections had to look out for was ‘targets of opportunity’ on the ground… Stay tight with your section. Wingmen, stay with your Number 1, Number 1s with your section leaders. If you get separated, remember, find yourself alone, head home. If you do get a bandit on your tail, YOU can turn inside him and kill him. If you’re bounced from above, remember, he has to come down to get you, and your Typhoon has it all over a Focke-Wulf down low. So stay low, stay cool, stay aggressive, and HE will be the one that dies, not you. HAMMER him.

  Roving over the hinterland at less than 200 feet, rising and falling with its undulations, it was Maddox who first saw the dull gleam… then its twin: a railway line, and a well-used one by the look of it. He called it out to Quinn, who banked the squadron as one into line with it snaking course. With no further word, the Typhoons followed the stream of metal, sweeping left, then right, then straight along it.

  Maddox focused hard.

  Until, in the far distance ahead, his eyes picked up the plume of steam.

  ‘Reaper Leader, Green Leader. We have a train.’

  BINGO, thought Quinn. Then transmitted. ‘What’s he carrying, Stephen?’

  ‘Tanks, I think. On flat-bed trucks.’

  ‘What? Petrol tanks?’

  ‘No, the mobile, armoured kind. At full steam, by the look of it. Doing about 40 or 50 miles an hour.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘About 5 miles. Dead ahead.’

  He will be, Quinn hissed to himself. And transmitted again. ‘Reaper Leader to Squadron. Stand by for Attack Plan Number 1… Execute.’

  As rehearsed until they dreamt it, Maddox lift
ed Green Section a hundred feet, dropping them behind Red and Blue. Quinn curved Red Section to the right, Stone, Blue to the left. Each section would come in low at the target, simultaneously from opposite sides, splitting the fire from the anti-aircraft guns the train would doubtless be bristling with. Unless he’d sighted bandits, Maddox would then dive Green Section on the train from behind.

  Quinn combed the treetops, left-banking Red Section back in towards the target now, lifting them here and there over a rise. With the train below their line of sight – only Maddox had seen it as yet – the plume of steam fast approaching was their point of aim.

  Over one last ridge, down into a valley and there it was – the train track again!

  Yet no train…

  Only wafting steam.

  Red and Blue Sections flashed past each other almost head-on as Quinn saw the tunnel entrance whipping beneath, steam and smoke issuing from it. He swore as Stone transmitted.

  ‘Skipper, Blue Leader. I know this one: Tunnel’s about a half a mile long. Driver’ll probably slam on the brakes an’ hide in it till we’re gone.’

  Quinn seethed. Still it came to him: At 50 miles per hour, the engine driver must have seen them and pulled out all the stops for the tunnel… Quinn transmitted. ‘That’s if he can slow down before he comes out the other end… Stone, with me. Red and Blue Sections shadow behind. Green, wide orbit round us. Out.’

  As Quinn right-banked back to the direction of the train line and straightened, he saw Stone closing up, and raced through it in his mind: Could a train moving at full steam carrying armoured tanks stop its sheer momentum in half a mile? The next few seconds would tell… Now to use Stone’s incredible skill…

  ‘Stoney, get in front. I’ll follow you line astern. Blast the rail line at the other end of the tunnel.’

  ‘Right-you-are, Skip. Look and learn, children… Look and learn.’