Under the Radar

by James Hamilton-Paterson

  ‘Thanks, Chiefie,’ said Amos as he reached the ground and viewed the dismal rain-swept expanse of concrete around the aircraft. ‘I’m afraid your wait was more miserable than ours.’

  ‘We get used to it, don’t we?’ came the morose response. ‘At least it’s not night and snowing. Anything on your 700?’

  ‘No – all up and running as per.’ He handed over the form he’d signed and went to board the Bedford coach that drove the crew off in a cloud of spray to the operational readiness huts and their much-delayed picnic lunch.

  *

  When Amos’s own posting to 319 Squadron at Wearsby had come through he treated it phlegmatically, as one always did. Being shunted around the country at a moment’s notice was all part of being in the service. The usual disruptions to private life ensued: the digs to be found if no married quarters were available on-station, as they never were; relations with new colleagues to be cautiously negotiated and, with luck, new friends to be made – all these were familiar enough. But on this occasion Amos had felt it was a definite plus that his old boss was the station commander. Amos both respected Mewell and liked him. Once at Wearsby he soon discovered that, unlike the commanders of certain other stations, Group Captain ‘Muffin’ Mewell was popular with the men he commanded. This was partly due to his war record, partly because he was easy-going, and also because he still flew whenever he could get the opportunity, which these days was seldom enough. When administrative affairs became too much for him he was more often seen driving his Allard J2 along Wearsby’s runway and perimeter at racetrack speeds, pipe clenched between his teeth. Occasionally he would do this with the station mascot, a Barbary ape from Gibraltar named Ponsonby, strapped in beside him. Ponsonby would wear his miniature blue uniform jacket with the single pilot officer’s rings on the sleeves. The animal, who was considerably addicted to gin, would stare fixedly from behind his half-moon windshield as the little green car sped about the landscape amid the gruff blare of its massive Cadillac engine.

  Now the group captain took Amos’s elbow as he was standing in the bar before going into the mess for dinner.

  ‘Word in your ear, Pins,’ said Muffin. The CO steered him away from the group he’d been with and set his beer mug down on a small table in a quiet corner. ‘Won’t take long. But time’s short and we don’t want too much formality.’ He produced a tobacco pouch from his pocket and busied himself as he spoke. ‘I’ve had a directive. Absolutely hush-hush, of course.’ He looked up and Amos gave him a tacit nod. ‘High Wycombe want me to form a special flight for what they describe as “under-the-radar missions” – although I don’t know if we need take that literally. But apparently there’s some unusual stuff they want done from time to time and I thought you might be the chap to help out. You and your crew have been classified Select Star, which as far as I’m concerned says it all. I’d ask you to nominate one other captain and crew and if I like your choice we’ll hive you off as a special two-ship flight for whatever it is they need you to do. Thoughts?’ Having lit his pipe Mewell stuck his nose into his beer mug but Amos noticed he kept his eyes turned towards him over the rim.

  ‘Well, sir, I . . . Thank you, sir. I think.’

  ‘Quite. Pig in a poke, eh? Exactly. And we all know the axiom that all service recruits learn on their first day.’

  ‘Never volunteer.’ Amos smiled. ‘You put it craftily, sir. I don’t know whether I’m volunteering or have already been chosen. Both, I suspect.’

  ‘Your wariness does you credit. Apart from the nature of the pig itself, you’re bothered the other crews will think you’re considered a cut above them, teacher’s pet sort of thing. I would be. I’d be worried about the jokes, let alone the hammering on the rugger pitch.’

  ‘That did cross my mind, sir,’ Amos admitted. A familiar weariness welled up. It sometimes seemed he had never left school. A headmasterly hierarchy had persisted into his adulthood, and the fight against nuclear war was to be entrusted to hand-picked prefects wearing their house colours. At such moments he glimpsed within himself an urge to blot his copybook definitively, to be caught doing something far more shameful than merely smoking behind the fives courts. His most calming inner vision had always been of the school well alight, every window a rectangle of orange flame as an immense cloud of greasy black smoke rolled away across Sussex.

  ‘Point is,’ Mewell was saying, ‘we’ll do all we can to minimise that. You will be privileged in one obvious sense, which is that if my informants are right you’ll be doing a lot fewer QRAs. Enough in itself to make the other crews envious. But to make up for that your life will become even less predictable. You won’t be on a roster so you’ll seldom know what to expect. You could be hauled out of bed at zero notice. Ditto your crews, of course. Pretty destructive of private life, it could be.’

  ‘We all signed up, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Do I take it that’s a yes?’

  ‘Can we all be sure of keeping up our currency, sir? I don’t want to get suspended for a month because I haven’t done enough night landings.’

  ‘Oh God, chinagraph and perspex!’ It was apparent the group captain had strong feelings on the subject. ‘How those bloody wall boards rule our lives with their ghastly little boxes of blue ticks and red crosses! Never used to be like that. If you needed to fly, you got in and flew. These days everything has to be done in triplicate. Personally I blame Old Iron Pants LeMay and our SAC cousins over the ditch for all this manic time-and-motion, super-efficiency bollocks. Not that you ever heard me say that. I suppose preventing nuclear war should demand super-efficiency . . . Yes, of course it should. Quite right. Still . . .’ Mewell once more stuck his nose in his mug, clearly nostalgic for the relaxed practices of his own earlier years in the RAF. ‘We’ll do our best to keep you all current. That’s a promise. So, any thoughts yet about a second crew?’

  ‘Terry Meeres is a good captain, sir.’

  ‘So he is. But . . . wait a bit. Who’s his AEO?’

  ‘Ken Pilcher.’

  ‘Thought so. H’m. Pilcher’s our best scrum-half. Can’t see how we can put Waddo in their place if he’s at fifty thousand feet.’ Wearsby’s rivalry with Waddington was particularly keen on the rugby pitch. ‘So it may be a toss-up between the trophy back on its shelf in our mess and possibly – only possibly, mind – helping to avoid World War Three. What I believe our Yankee friends would refer to as a tough call. They’re a Select crew, aren’t they, Meeres’s lot? Can’t ignore that, I suppose. All right. Consider the bullet bitten. That’s that, then. Another pint before we go in?’

  The drinkers in impeccable mess kit parted to let their commanding officer through to the bar where he inserted himself next to Wheezing Jesus, the padre. Whatever elation Amos might have felt was held in check by a wary foreboding. Never mind not volunteering: it was never entirely good news in the services to be selected for anything. It could well have unguessable repercussions for one’s career. Which yet again led him to slightly dismal speculation about the direction his private life was taking.

  4

  With wifely insouciance Jo had appropriated Amos’s car for one of her visits to her old friend Avril O’Shea. Avril wasn’t on the phone and Jo realised she was taking a chance; but it was a beautiful late summer’s day and the more miles she put between herself and Wearsby the more her spirits had lifted. Avril now led the way into the garden where her two children were playing in a sandpit. A battered Dansette transistor radio was making tinny noises on an upturned fruit crate. She turned it off. Looking at the cherry tree and the elm in one corner Jo said, ‘It’s a really nice house and garden. You are lucky, Rilly,’ thinking of the lawn in front of the married quarters block at Wearsby, an unloved expanse of grass shaved to the bone whose main function seemed to be to display a prominent fire hydrant.

  ‘Only rented, and I don’t know how much longer we can afford to stay here. I told you how wonderful the squadron was after Marty crashed, didn’t I? You know the normal treatment
of anyone who no longer qualifies for quarters – instant order of the boot. They’re all heart, those bastards. Can you believe the barrack warden actually paid me a call the day after the funeral? I realise they’ve got a waiting list, but even so. Then our friends rallied round and Wingco Admin stalled things in our favour. The Benevolent Fund paid most of the rent and then a really nice bloke helped me find this place and the Fund’s still helping, God bless them. But who knows how long it will last? We’re living on borrowed time here, and that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘I suppose you could still go home?’

  ‘I couldn’t face it, Jo. Mum and Dad and Katy. You remember how it is there. Dad at home all day, moaning. And Grantham. Too much like going backwards, you know? Besides, there wouldn’t be room, not with these two,’ she nodded towards the sandpit. ‘Spalding’s a good compromise. Not too far from my friends in the squadron and close enough to Grantham. Still, I won’t pretend money isn’t bloody tight.’

  Jo knew that Avril’s widow’s pension would be exactly half what Marty would have got had he left the RAF, which itself wouldn’t have been much for a man with only six or so years in. ‘And if you ever do remarry, that little pension of yours stops at once.’

  ‘You needn’t remind me. Generous buggers, aren’t they? As for remarrying . . . Well, I suppose if the Aga Khan or the Shah of Persia made me an offer I’d have at least to consider. Even Lord Docker would do. For the children’s sake, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ They both laughed. Jo glanced at the book on the grass beside her friend’s chair. It was evident her surprise visit had interrupted Avril while reading something called (Jo squinted sideways) Orang-utans Are not the Only Apes by Dr Prudence Summertown. Avril followed her friend’s inquisitive gaze.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind being her,’ she said, indicating the book. ‘Well, sort of. Do you know about her? She spent years in Borneo just living with orang-utans.’

  ‘What, those great hairy monkeys?’

  ‘They’re apes, not monkeys.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a difference. Is it like Gerald Durrell? My Family and Other Animals – I loved that.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I hoped it’d be like. After all, the Readers’ Union adopted it as their book of the month. But really it’s more sort of scientific than funny. This Dr Summertown’s definitely a scientist. She goes into amazing detail about her apes’ habits. Her own, too. It’s, well it’s actually a bit shocking in places.’ Avril giggled a little. Both women watched the two children packing old condensed milk tins with sand.

  ‘Go on,’ Jo insisted.

  ‘It turns out they’re often,’ Avril dropped her voice, ‘you know, lesbians’ (this word being mouthed rather than spoken, with much labial exaggeration).

  ‘Heavens, Avril . . . You mean, women scientists?’

  ‘No, silly, these orang-utans. Even when there were males around. In fact, one of the males tried it on with poor Prudence and she had to fight it off. But there’s one place where she and her favourite female . . . But perhaps it’s just my dirty mind.’ Another nervous laugh. ‘Obviously she doesn’t spell it out. How could she? But she did live very close to the troop, I think it’s called. Of course, she’s a proper scientist from Cambridge so I suppose it’s all part of the job to get intimate with the animals you’re studying. Even so . . . Yeeuchh! – all that ginger fur. Not this girl’s idea of a night out.’

  Both friends fell silent as though musing on the quirkiness of other people’s professions.

  ‘What do you think she meant by her title?’ Jo asked. ‘It’s not exactly catchy.’

  ‘I suppose that maybe human beings are also apes? Dunno. She hasn’t explained that yet.’

  ‘It could be she meant her own behaviour was, well, a bit ape-like.’

  ‘Mm. But she doesn’t seem interested in morality. She just watches and notes down what she thinks she sees. Actually, she’s not really very much like Gerald Durrell at all. To be honest, she often seems more interested in Prudence Summertown than in her apes. There’s a lot of stuff about her childhood in Acton, much drearier than Gerald Durrell’s on Corfu. Still, she’s quite sympathetic about when she eventually flew home from Singapore. Apparently she spent a lot of the flight in the lav, drenching herself in the free cologne.’

  ‘To get rid of the ape smell? I don’t blame her.’

  ‘No, I think it was more because after months and months of jungle living she suddenly found herself desperately longing for all the nice feminine things of civilisation.’

  ‘I can guess what scent it was,’ said Jo. ‘Bet you anything it was Elizabeth Arden’s “Blue Grass”. It always is on those long flights. They say BOAC buys it by the gallon.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it was,’ said her friend with an admiring glance. ‘She says so. She has this sort of swooning fit in the lav because it suddenly smells so wonderful and it’s all free.’

  ‘I always imagined Elizabeth Arden as a fat Frenchman sitting in a darkened room surrounded by bottles and those strips of filter paper. There was an article in Reader’s Digest the other month about the people who dream up new perfumes. Apparently they call the top ones “big noses” and they’re not allowed to eat strongly flavoured food.’

  ‘I’d have thought that would rule out the French. All that garlic.’

  ‘And those awful cigarettes. They’re a niffy lot. Don’t forget Amos and I had our honeymoon in France. And as for their lavatories! I’m amazed they haven’t all evolved very small noses out of national self-defence. But some of them do have huge conks.’

  ‘And you know what they say . . .’

  ‘Now, now, girl: keep it clean.’

  ‘It’s not easy,’ admitted Avril with a little chirp of a sigh. ‘Poor Marty’s been gone, God, do you realise it’s six months last week? And, well, biology makes one restless, doesn’t it?’

  Far off in a corner of the sky an invisible thunderous banner was being towed up into the heavens by a diminishing white triangle Jo found and followed with her eyes until it was out of sight.

  ‘One of yours?’ Avril asked, watching her.

  ‘Could well be. Where are we?’ she looked round at the sun. ‘Heading south-east. Waddington and Scampton are too far north. Ditto Coningsby. I’d bet Wearsby. Might well be Amos himself. I can’t remember what he said he’d be doing today. Not that I really believe it when he tells me things. He’s far too security-conscious to give anything away. At least you didn’t have that to contend with all the time, Rilly. Nothing very top secret about helicopters.’

  The girl in the sandpit burst into loud wails. It appeared that her brother had just stamped on her sandcastle.

  ‘Boys,’ sighed their mother, getting up. ‘They’re just naturally destructive, aren’t they? Poor old Fuzzy,’ she gathered up her howling daughter. ‘That was mean, Petey,’ she added aside. Admonished, the little boy glowered and smacked at the sand with his wooden spoon. Once peace had broken out again Avril returned and refilled her friend’s glass with lime squash. ‘Little sod. I know Dr Spock says you must never hit a child, but by golly one’s tempted at times. I think he’s better with other boys, actually. They just seem to spend the time quite happily fighting and falling off things. I told you, didn’t I, that from the moment he learned to walk Petey was trying to run up trees? I spent my time in the station clinic explaining that no, Marty and I hadn’t given him the black eye and the thick lip, he’d done it all by himself. My brilliant son was convinced that the faster he ran at a tree, the higher up it he’d get. Marty thinks he’d been watching the cat. Thought, I mean.’ A laugh. ‘Brains of peahens, boys, if you ask me, although I really shouldn’t say that about Petey because he’s already reading a bit, which isn’t bad for his age. Still . . .’ A silence, broken only by squeaks from the sandpit.

  ‘I know what you mean about biology,’ said Jo.

  Her friend studied a midge caught in the surface tension of her drink. ‘Things still iffy in th
at department, then?’

  ‘Iffy and whenny. Ever since he got back from OCU and was made a captain Amos has been a perpetual absentee. Even on the rare occasions he’s home, if you know what I mean. I told you it was OK at the beginning when we kept trying for a child, but after a while he sort of gave it up as a bad job. Or else he had so much flying to do and stuff to learn he just came home and slept like a log. A waterlogged log when he’d been in the mess with the crews. Especially with that young AEO of his, Gavin Rickards.’

  Avril dabbed the midge from her lime juice with a fingertip. ‘Rickards. Rickards. Is that the one you said looks like a schoolboy and drives an Austin-Healey Sprite his father gave him?’

  ‘That’s him. When you see him you think, God, that kid ought to be in class studying for his bloody A levels. Instead of which he’s an air electronics officer aboard a Vulcan bomber, jointly responsible for delivering their basket of sunshine to the Russians. That’s what they call it, you know. Amos is only a couple of years older but all the work and responsibility have aged him. He feels older than twenty-seven suddenly.’

  ‘It’s obviously official policy to get these crews really close-knit,’ said Avril. ‘Each relying on each, like the Three Musketeers. Dear old Marty was really fond of Amos, of course, but sometimes he could be a bit satirical about the mystique surrounding your V-bomber crews. He used to call them “finely meshed cogs in an intricate machine”, something like that, in a funny voice. He was quoting some publicity he’d read. He’d give one of those great mocking laughs of his and say, “Not as frigging intricate as the machines I fly. Anyone could fly a Vulcan with a bloody great wing like that. Those things can practically land and take off by themselves. I’d like to see those wonder-boys hold a helicopter in a motionless hover six feet off the ground in a gale.” Did I tell you he was about to go on a twin-rotors course? He wanted to upgrade to Belvederes. What he was really hoping for was a posting to the Far East. You know, the Confrontation. He had his heart set on a bit of jungle action in Borneo, did Marty – though not Dr Summertown’s kind.’ A wan smile. ‘He told me we’re using Belvederes out there to supply the forces on the ground – air drops and evacs in the most inaccessible places. When you think about it, he might just as easily have been killed doing a supply drop in the jungle as ferrying a stupid little Sycamore fifty miles to get some minor part replaced.’