Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  He used the towel, returned it to the rack, and switched off the lamp.

  Sitting down on the bed, he noticed the envelope on the table tray beside it. A letter from Matthew. He opened it.

  Dear Danny

  Well, it’s finally happened.

  I’m flying a horse and cart.

  I make Pilot and what do they do? Send me to Griffith. To pick grapes. I ask you.

  Having a beaut time regardless. It’s a picture out here and the blokes I’m with are a hoot. We’re working with this Czechoslovakian fellow by the name of Wolfe - His family had to flee Prague just before the war. An excellent type, the blokes and I are teaching him English. Says he learnt it back in Prague but he never knew how to swear properly until he met us.

  You should have seen what happened the other day. You’re not supposed to feed the horse grapes as it gives them the runs. So we tell Wolfe how much horses like them, grapes, that is, not the runs… You should have seen it. We all had to get out of the WAY! Laughed so hard I almost shat myself!

  So there it is: No further need for Aircrew, they say. Which I know you’ll be glad about, as will Mum and Dad. Guess I’ll never get that DFC after all. We don’t even have to wear uniforms anymore. I checked with the Senior Warrant Officer the other day. He said he couldn’t give a stuff what we did and neither did the airforce.

  Anyhow, hope all is well with you. Bloody hell I look forward to seeing you again.

  Hurry home, brother.

  Matt.

  As Quinn folded the letter and placed it back on the tray, there came a tiny knock at the door.

  ‘Enter.’

  The door opened.

  It was Jillian.

  Without a word, she entered, closing the door silently behind herself.

  Quinn stood as she took off her cap and placed it on a chair. As she crossed the small room towards him, he thought he saw the light catch a tear in her eye. Even as she stood close before his chest, still no words had crossed her lips.

  She put her arms around him, nestling her head against his neck.

  After his momentary shock at her embrace, he closed his own arms around her, only to be shocked anew: at how good her body felt locked lightly but surely against his. In the same moment, he knew he’d long wanted it to be. Though, he knew also, his was still a world of death. And there could be no place for her within it.

  After a few minutes, she spoke.

  ‘Daniel, I…’

  Yet nothing more came.

  Quinn whispered to her.

  ‘I need an early night.’

  Her arms, her body only squeezed him tighter.

  ‘I know.’

  June 5, 1944

  Speeding at zero altitude towards the enemy coast, Quinn peered upwards through the Typhoon’s canopy dome. Way above, he saw a mass of bombers – Lancasters, several squadrons – by the look of it, on the same course in to Normandy as he and Stoney. Quinn looked back to his controls. With the morning light increasing, the Germans on the coast would shortly see the huge formation, and very clearly. Nothing else for it – Take advantage of the situation: The German anti-aircraft gunners would soon be looking up, not low to the sea. He and Stoney would go in low. No need break radio silence to tell him; Stoney would be thinking identically.

  With the line of the enemy coast now silhouetted against the glow of dawn, Quinn put his goggles down. Checking back left, Stone in tight formation, Quinn pushed the throttle full forward, and kept them low over the breaking wave-tops.

  At the controls of the lead Lancaster, Tim McCarthy heard his bomb-aimer in the headphones.

  ‘Bombs gone.’

  McCarthy felt the Lanc lifting in the air as its tremendous tonnage of bombs fell away. Thank Christ, he thought. A ‘milk-run’ for once: the coast of France and no bloody further. Switching on his intercom, he transmitted to the crew: ‘ Stand by for hard left turn…’ – The rest of the bomber-stream would be dropping their bombs behind him now and would follow him out.

  In the perspex chin bubble of the Lancaster, the bomb-aimer was baffled: Hard left turn? No, that wasn’t right, that wasn’t right at all: They had to get their bombing accuracy photograph! Fly straight and level over the target area, wait until the bombs impacted way below, take the photo. Only then could they make the turn! Without the photo as proof of bombs on target, they’d have to come back and re-do the whole mission tomorrow! The bomb-aimer switched on his intercom again…

  ‘But, Skipper! What about the photo? ’

  McCarthy smiled to himself. If, as planned, the might of the Allied Invasion forces was going in down there tomorrow morning, his squadron sure as shit wouldn’t be coming back to bomb the place…

  ‘Fuck the photo,’ he yelled down the intercom as he banked the giant aircraft very firmly into the turn.

  Virginie had been woken by the heavy knocking on the front door. With Maman sick in bed, Virginie put on her nightgown, went to the door, unlocked and opened it.

  Standing on the front step were two men.

  The leather-coated ones. The ones who’d taken Monsieur Bonnemain away.

  One of them was smiling.

  ‘You are Jews… You are Jews here. Excuse me, please,’ he shook his head slightly, ‘but why did you not inform us of this? Do you not know how much time and trouble we have wasted to locate you?’

  At that moment, Virginie saw both men flinch as the Typhoons roared low overhead – one, then another. The house rattled with their tearing thunder, in an instant, gone inland.

  The German who had spoken looked back over his shoulder towards the coast.

  To see the troop truck already leaving.

  He could hear the coastal air-raid warning sirens winding up now – Nacqueville – then Querqueville – Maupertus, one after the other. Just as he heard the one at Cherbourg rising to a wail, he turned back to the girl.

  ‘We know where you live now,’ he said down to her. ‘We’ll be back for you, make no mistake about it… Make no mistake about that. Just… just don’t leave the vicinity. Or you’ll regret it…’

  With that, Virginie watched as he and the other man turned on their heels and walked a little too quickly back to the Citroën. No sooner had the doors shut than its wheels were raking the gravel.

  Virginie stepped down from the doorway. And looked up.

  Aircraft!

  More than she could count! A great, long blanket of them coming in from the sea. The leading edge of it curving right, she could hear them now, such a deep and lovely drone…

  Virginie tightened the cord of her nightgown around her waist. In bare feet, she ran out into the garden, through the gate, across the path, and into the field.

  ‘Mes amis. Mes amis,’ she squealed. ‘Mes Para-chutists!’ Yes! She could see them coming down now, just little dots as yet, but here they came…

  Virginie stopped, and looked back low towards the beaches now. From there they would soon be coming now also! The Americans, the British, the Canadians, her Free-French countrymen too… But what was that?

  Virginie didn’t hear them. She only saw the explosions galloping towards her.

  And the early morning around her turn suddenly to brightest day.

  As Quinn maintained 50 feet and 400 miles per hour, the countryside of Normandy that planed beneath was feathered with gold. With the sun breaking the horizon, he snaked them smoothly left. Smoothly right. Then left again.

  He’d listened hard to Kennett.

  He’d listened hard to Rosewall.

  Hopefully they’d see nothing this morning, and no decision would have to be made. He held very, very tightly to that hope.

  Just as Stone’s voice came through his headphones…

  ‘Got us a target, Skipper. ’Bout a mile off at 10 o’clock. Looks like a line of tanks and other vehicles. Over.’

  Quinn hesitated. Then transmitted. ‘Colin…’

  Yet his wingman came back immediately.

  ‘Don’t say it, Skip. I got t
he talk as well. No names over the radio. I’m going in.’

  ‘…Alright, Stoney. I see them. Attack Plan Number 2. …Execute.’

  ‘Right-you-are, Skipper.’

  By his voice in Quinn’s headphones, Stone could have been out walking his dog.

  Seeing him curve out left, Quinn curved right, and a little wider.

  Standard procedure, they’d each curve back in, rocket the target from right-angles, Stone crossing in front and slightly ahead of Quinn – one pass only, curve away in opposite directions, reform, head back towards the coast, and escape.

  Only as he bore back in towards the target did Quinn see the Wirbelwind – and Stone, a stream of anti-aircraft tracers blazing in his direction.

  Quinn saw the smoke-trails of Stone’s rockets flying side-on, now impacting right down the line of German tanks ahead. Quinn fired his own, all eight, their exhausts whooshing out in front, warheads dead on target, Swastika’d armour pierced and shattered.

  Then the burning aircraft crossed in front.

  Quinn craned to the fireball that tumbled down into the forest on the right.

  He saw the tracers from the Wirbelwind that now tracked his own aircraft, chains of fire that flashed close by and overtook. Yet he was already out of there, and fleeing down low amongst the trees.

  Banking round toward the coast again, far out to the left Quinn saw the pyre of flame and black smoke that until moments ago had been Colin Stone…

  The soul from the gutter who’d risen to the top, from where he’d seen a world only worth leaving. He’d spied the Wirbelwind amongst the tanks from afar – He’d seen it alright, and headed straight for it.

  In Quinn’s flight to the coast, his friend’s voice surrounded him.

  ‘Maybe somewhere my mother is… ’

  Behind his googles, Quinn’s eyes welled with tears. Whether or not Stone had consciously planned to draw the Wirbelwind’s fire off him by drawing it onto himself, he would never know. But, even as he wept for his friend, Quinn knew that – for the rest of his life now – he would be giving Colin Stone the benefit of the doubt.

  July 1944

  Quinn stared hard at the telephone on the left of his desk, tapping his fingers before it. With his right hand he drew the cigarette to his mouth, extracted its final drag, and stubbed it out in the already crowded ashtray. In front of him on the desk lay the large pistol.

  His Webley and Scott point 455 Mark 6 revolver. He’d never fired it – not since an afternoon long ago when an old soldier showed him how. He’d only ever threatened someone with it down a phone line one time: the young anti-aircraft officer who’d shot down Quinn’s first fighter leader by mistake. The very officer on whose return phonecall Quinn now sweated.

  The telephone pealed.

  Quinn scooped it to his left ear.

  ‘Hello, RAF Manston? Yes, I’ve asked to be put through to the Anti-Aircraft Battery… Officer Commanding… Oh, that’s you? Good. Look, my name’s Daniel Quinn, I had words with you some time back… No, no hold on a sec, please hear me out… Look, I’m calling to say sorry to you for that. I truly am… It was rotten behaviour on my part, and something I deeply regret… Yes… Do you think you could accept my apology? I do wish you would… So very much…

  …Thank you. I’m deeply grateful to you… Very kind of you…

  So… How are things with you? …Yes, I hear you’re shooting down buzz-bombs these days… Doing very well at it too, I hear… What’s that? …Over Normandy? No, I didn’t take part in the invasion… Just flew a Spit over for a bit of a look… a few days after they’d landed… Yes, it was an amazing sight alright – thousands of ships, thousands. …No, I’m with Training Command these days. …Yes, teaching a lot of young blokes how not to kill themselves – pretty bloody dicey sometimes. …Still, not so many of them coming through these days, and nice stooging about on the old Moth… Flew a new lad over Cambridge the other day… Yes, it’s beautiful…

  Well anyway, I’d just like to say thank you to you again, and wish you all best… You’ve been very kind…’

  With his right hand, Quinn drew his cigarette packet from the breast pocket of his battle-dress, flicked it open. Yet stopped. Considered it. Scrunched it in his hand. And dropped it into the waste-paper bin on the floor. He then very carefully lifted the pistol, and placed it in his out-tray.

  ‘…Yes, Maclean, that was the name… Well… at least he went quickly… No, I know… We were too high. You couldn’t see what you were doing. …None of us could…’

  EPILOGUE

  Sydney, 2005

  The old man tightened the cashmere scarf beneath his black mackintosh. The young woman’s arm inside his warmed him as they strolled along the Quay.

  ‘Alright then, Pa?’

  ‘Fine, Jill. Fortune of War okay with you?’

  ‘’Course it is, Pa.’ She smiled up at him and squeezed his arm tighter. ‘ You and your funny old pub. You go there all the time, don’t you.’

  He nodded silently as its warm light approached.

  ‘Thanks for dinner, Pa. That was lovely.’

  ‘Thanks for joining me. School of Law next week. I know you’re a busy young lady.’

  ‘I’d go anywhere with my favourite retired Queen’s Counsel.’

  He smiled, still looking straight ahead. ‘I see you’re wearing Gran’s pearls.’

  ‘I love them just as much as the day you gave them to me, Pa.’

  ‘They suit you. You’re the spitting image of her you know.’

  She looked up at him again. ‘You must miss her very much.’

  ‘Very much. We had a wonderful life together.’

  The interior of the pub was warm against the winter night. As the girl took a call on her mobile phone, the old man ordered a cognac and his granddaughter’s favourite. He just hoped he’d got it right…

  Seated on stools by the long bar, she now folded the phone shut, her eyes sparkling at the man before her.

  ‘Cheers, Pa.’

  ‘Cheers, darling. What is that again?’

  They sipped.

  ‘A Lychee Martini. …Love you, Pa.’

  ‘Love you, Jillian.’

  She noticed he hadn’t removed the mackintosh – She hoped the air wasn’t hitting him from outside. ‘You’re not cold, are you, Pa?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine now.’

  He still looked damn good for his years. What was he now, eighty-six? Never a day without dressing immaculately: Burberry mac, black Armani suit, nice tie – white polka-dots on dark blue silk.

  ‘…Good, Pa.’

  She took in the pub around them: It was an old place, though the crowd seemed a young one. She hoped he wouldn’t feel out of it; there was a bit of a noise coming from somewhere behind her, down the back of the bar. But no, he always came here, didn’t he.

  As he took a sip of his cognac, she noticed his gaze seemed distracted over her shoulder.

  Now a roar of laughter came from the far end of the room. She turned back round on her stool towards it.

  In a dimmer light at the end of the narrow pub, she could make out a group of young men standing round a high table. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw their suits seemed all one colour. Yes, they were matching – all dark blue, some sort of insignia on them – a uniform of some kind. There were peaked caps beside glasses of beer on their table – policemen or something… Must have had a good day too, they were an animated bunch…

  Just as she noticed one of them had only one arm, another caught her eye and raised a glass of beer, smiling widely to her. She turned back to her grandfather; maybe he couldn’t see that far…

  ‘Look, Pa, they’re raising their glasses to us, come on now…’

  She saw his face was shaking very slightly, his look still fixed past her shoulder. What could be the matter? ‘…Are you alright, Pa?’

  His mind had seemed as sharp as a tack these past few years – She hoped he wasn’t losing it. Her face full of concern, she
placed her arm on his.

  ‘No. No, I’m fine,’ he said very softly.

  She could tell his words came only with great effort, as if he was short of breath. ‘ Well,’ she grinned at him. ‘ They seem to have been in here all day now, don’t they.’

  She pretended not to notice the tear in his eye as he whispered back to her.

  ‘They’re always there.’

  ***

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Justin Sheedy has recently completed writing the sequel to Nor the Years Condemn. Entitled Ghosts of the Empire, it is now available through all bookstores and online. Justin lives in Sydney, where he hopes, one day soon, to meet Jillian Brown, except a nice version of her. Sort of someone who is what she seems. In fact, come to think of it, someone completely different to Jillian Brown. Maybe she has a totally excellent sister. (?) Justin’s passions, besides writing and reading, include classic TV, comedy & music, aviation, historical documentaries & history in general, cooking (Mediterranean & rustic regional cuisines, Jamie Oliver), also walking, skiing, mountains and snow. He loves his mum and believes ‘a little silliness is the relish of the wisest of men’.

  OTHER WRITINGS BY JUSTIN SHEEDY

  Ghosts of the Empire, the highly-anticipated sequel to Nor the Years Condemn, is now available through all bookstores and online. Justin had his first book, Goodbye Crackernight, published in 2009, a comic memoir of growing up in 1970s Australia, back in a long-lost era when a child’s proudest possession was not a Playstation but a second-hand bike. Goodbye Crackernight was so warmly received by Australian readers that it secured Justin a place on the program of the prestigious Byron Bay Writers’ Festival 2010 and is currently orderable through all bookstores and online. For details and to read excerpts and rave reviews of Goodbye Crackernight, visit Crackernight.com. There you’ll also find Justin’s many short stories and articles, all free to read and enjoy.