Under the Radar

by James Hamilton-Paterson

‘You certainly talk it,’ his neighbour said soothingly. ‘Have a drink.’

  Now the Blue Nun began circulating in quantity, and any remaining reserve in people’s behaviour disappeared. Amos was sitting opposite someone he thought he recognised who identified himself as a Vulcan captain from RAF Blackstock named Simon. They soon discovered they had both taken part in a bomb comp in Nevada the year previously.

  ‘Skittish,’ Amos observed, gesturing with a laden fork at the assembled company.

  ‘It was always going to be,’ Simon said. ‘It’s probably not a bad idea to give everybody a chance to let their hair down once in a while. Gets the moans out of them.’

  ‘And God knows there’s plenty to moan about,’ another neighbour chipped in. ‘What’s that arsehole Chatterbox doing here? Who invited him?’ He pointed with a turkey drumstick at the top table.

  ‘I can’t place him,’ Amos said. ‘I must be too pissed. Is he an arsehole?’

  ‘Copper-plated. He’s the one who . . . you remember that Vulcan crash at Heathrow back in fifty-six? Returning from that world tour thing, showing our fabulous new bomber off to the natives around the world?’

  ‘Yes, but Catterpox wasn’t involved in that. I’m pretty sure it was Podge Howard in the left-hand seat with Harry Broadhurst as his co-pilot. C-in-C Bomber Command, no less.’

  ‘Ah, but Chatterbox’s role came later. You remember they were coming in to land and Howard undershot and they hit a field at a rate of knots and bounced into the air again. On the way up Howard discovered he had no more elevator control. They were terminally fucked and they knew it, so he and Broady punched out. They were still hanging under their chutes when the other poor sods touched bottom – four of them because the real co-pilot was sitting behind. He’d been bumped to sixth seat so Broady could be in the office for the final leg. They all went up in the fireball as Podge and Broady drifted to earth.’

  ‘There can’t be anyone on Vulcans who doesn’t know the story,’ said Amos through a mouthful of stuffing.

  ‘You’d think so wouldn’t you, but I’ve met those who don’t. It’s almost ten years ago now. Also, in our line of business we don’t much like talking about fireballs, do we? Incidentally, is that your private bottle you’re hogging there?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Amos pushed the Blue Nun across the table. ‘So where did Catterpox come in? Bloody silly name.’

  ‘Well, after the crash there was this terrific outcry in the press. How come pilots have bang seats while the workers in the coal-hole behind don’t? Is this the old British class system at work again? Chatterbox was the one they fielded to explain it to Fleet Street and he made a balls-up of it.’

  ‘I think I do remember it vaguely,’ said Amos. ‘I was more worried about O levels at the time.’

  ‘Too right he ballsed it up,’ interjected his other neighbour, who had been listening while gorging on roast potatoes and bread sauce. ‘He made out it had nothing to do with class and was just a matter of economics. Retrofitting bang seats in the aft compartment of all the V-bombers would mean massive structural re-engineering, de-dah, de-dah . . . Huge expense, aircraft being taken out of service, all that.’

  ‘To be fair there wasn’t much else he could say, really.’

  ‘True. But once the newspapers had made jokes about his name they asked how come the bombers had been designed like that in the first place. Not quite so easy to answer.’

  ‘Hangover from the war, perhaps?’ hazarded Simon. ‘They were designed in the forties, after all. Pilots cost more to train?’

  ‘Yes, and I expect they also thought the pilots were officers and gentlemen while the blokes in the back were most likely noncoms. But that wasn’t what got Chatterbox into trouble in the service. Crews didn’t like him telling the public that no-one in the back ever gives baling out a second thought because they’re far too busy with the job to worry about that chance in a million of things going blooey, and anyway they have total confidence in their mates up front.’

  ‘That was him?’ said Amos, glancing blearily at the top table. ‘I guess he was probably right. Frankly, if we thought about everything that might happen we’d never take off at all. But no-one who isn’t us should be allowed to say so, and especially not to save official face. So you’re right: the man’s an arsehole. I wonder what he last flew? Other than a mahogany bomber.’

  ‘He’s got gongs,’ said Simon, squinting at the object of their discussion on the top table. ‘I’d guess Ansons on nav training in 1944.’

  During this attempt at a proper conversation there had been plentiful signs that things elsewhere in the tent were hotting up. The level of din had increased so that most exchanges were now shouted. The bread-roll gunner was back in action, this time trying to pick off the coloured balls on the Christmas tree. A cheer greeted each one that burst into shards of glass. Dense missiles of moulded pudding were also sailing across the room accompanied by drunken cries of triumph and rage. By now several of the waitresses seemed the worse for wear and, evidently scorning to run from the scene, decided instead to take shelter beneath the tables where they disappeared behind the fall of white linen. Presumably they found succour since they gave no sign of re-emerging.d

  d See Appendix 4, p. 297.

  *

  Meanwhile, over in the sergeants’ mess Baldy Hodge stifled a belch and said, ‘Now this is what I call a proper Christmas dinner.’ Liberal portions of turkey, stuffing and chipolatas had just been served and a case of Blue Nun that had found its way over had been well broached. ‘You wouldn’t believe the crap we’ve had to put up with recently.’

  ‘The food’s usually bad, then?’ asked one of the bus drivers who, like his fellows, was employed by Eastern Counties and was getting double overtime for this special Saturday night job.

  ‘It bloody has been,’ said a scrawny corporal. He was recently back from Bristol where he had been doing a course on the Olympus 301 series of Vulcan engines. ‘And we all know why, don’t we?’

  ‘We don’t,’ said the driver.

  A sergeant caught Baldy’s look and said warningly, ‘Now, Mr Hodge, there’s no need for tales out of school. Let’s just say there have been problems here in the catering department recently, and leave it at that.’

  Baldy paid him no heed. ‘It’s hardly a state secret, though I bet they’d like it to be one. Anyway, this gentleman’s got a right to know how his taxes get spent. They’ve just uncovered a racket here,’ he told the driver. ‘Quartermaster and accomplices have been black-marketing our good quality supplies, buying cheap crap and pocketing the difference. Three-day-old bread and condemned meat.’

  ‘That’s not very kosher,’ the bus driver said. ‘I’d be a bit narked.’

  ‘Welcome to the RAF.’

  But after this contentious sally the Blue Nuns did their rounds and worked their magic, spreading an unbuttoned conviviality through the slightly staid atmosphere that normally prevailed when outsiders were present. On the other hand it might have been the quality and quantity of the food that gradually lulled the company into an amiable repletion. For the moment the men concentrated on doing the meal justice and even Baldy Hodge seemed content to forgo further bolshy comments as he intently squashed his roast potatoes so as to soak up the maximum amount of gravy.

  18

  Three hundred yards away in the tents behind the officers’ mess unabashed rowdiness continued to prevail. Then suddenly a spontaneous lull spread as the diners’ attention became focused on an unusual spectacle. Appearing from nowhere, a Barbary ape had loped to the centre of the marquee. The animal was wearing a neatly tailored uniform jacket whose sleeve rings identified it as an air commodore. In one hand it clutched a small bottle half full of ruby red liquid. It peered woozily about, clearly puzzled. A collective shout of laughter went up, some of it a little strained, as though certain diners were wondering whether they had finally begun seeing things and at any moment a troupe of pink elephants might enter this circus tent. The sudden no
ise obviously startled the animal. He made an impressive leap and lithely swung himself one-handedly up the lighting gantry to the top. There he perched beneath the marquee roof and took a long pull at the bottle which he then flung into the void below.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ said Simon. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘That’s Ponsonby,’ Amos explained. ‘He’s our station mascot. Strange: he always used to be a pilot officer. He seems to have been promoted.’

  ‘Blimey. An air commode monkey. I like it.’

  At that moment Group Captain Mewell reached again for the microphone and chose to address his errant pet.

  ‘I say, Ponsonby, can you hear me?’

  Predictably, a great shout of ‘Yes!’ went up from the diners.

  ‘No, shut up you lot,’ said Mewell. ‘That’s our station mascot and he outranks you all. He’s an air commodore and very ring-conscious. So please show some respect for his rank and for his state, which he can’t help because some bastard’s been feeding him Cherry Heering.’

  By rights this amiable address ought to have had a soothing effect; but drink and a general impatience with rank of any sort now seized the assembled company. It was evident from the violent billowings and rain of silver balls that revellers had penetrated behind the nylon bunting and were rampaging between it and the tent wall. A hand emerged to a cheer and draped some female underwear on one of the branches of the tree. The external canvas wall must have become unpegged from the ground because two old-fashioned, sit-up-and-beg service-issue bicycles were slid in and sounds of drunken bets being taken could be heard above the general din. A bike was hoisted onto each of the end tables and mounted by dishevelled airmen, their bow ties dangling and their hair tousled. A voice shouted: ‘Gennelmen! I give you tonight’s great contest! On my left here, for the honour of his station, Barney Haggerty, the Pride of Tapsley. And on my right, for the honour of East Wittenham, Godfrey Stebbing. Gennelmen, lay your bets . . . Thank you, thank you. A clean ride, please, gennelmen, and no gouging. First off the table the other end the winnah! On yer marks . . . Get set . . . Wait for it . . . Go!’

  The competitors were soon aware that track conditions made the going hazardous. Halfway along, and making speedy progress through glasses, plates and lumps of pudding, the Pride of Tapsley’s front wheel encountered a Blue Nun bottle on its side and he made an impressive exit from the race, taking with him quantities of food, crockery, and still-seated diners. On the other side Flying Officer Stebbing was going canny, avoiding the worst obstacles and apparently unaware that his rival was already out of the race. But in the last stretch he abandoned caution and, accelerating, plunged off the end of the tables to a shout of acclaim from his backers. For the moment he was unable to relish his victory since he had laid his head open on a corner of the dais and lay unconscious beneath his trusty steed. A cry went up for a nurse, and eventually a girl emerged from beneath a table dabbing at her lips with a napkin which she then folded and applied to F/O Stebbing’s forehead.

  ‘Give him the kiss of life, darling!’ shouted someone.

  By now the ranking officers on the top table had realised that all hope of maintaining some sort of order was lost. Nevertheless Air Vice-Marshal Catterpox got to his feet and reached for the microphone.

  ‘Now look, chaps,’ he began, ‘this is pretty disgraceful, you know. A joke’s a joke and all that, but . . .’

  In the hail of missiles and chorus of boos that greeted his remarks his lips could be seen still moving, but the booming tones had stopped. Someone had sabotaged the sound system. As if he recognised this as a definitive moment Group Captain Mewell also got to his feet and with a curious drunken dignity gave the rioters a salute so snappy he almost fell. The boos quickly changed to cheers. A ragged chorus of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ broke out as he ushered the rest of his guests down off the dais and back along the tunnel into the mess. Groupie had abandoned the field.

  A second bicycle race had meanwhile been organised and F/O Stebbing was dragged clear just as a flight lieutenant from RAF Blackstock soared off the table’s end, miraculously landed upright and, adroitly avoiding the dais that had undone his predecessor, plunged into the marquee wall which cushioned his fall.

  Like many others Amos was now on his feet. He needed air. Tipsy as he was, he felt no urge to continue. Also, he was wondering how the rest of his crew were faring and decided to see if he could find any of them. He now thought it was probably just as well the seating arrangements had split them up because it made ‘P’ Flight’s crews less open to resentful attack from their peers than if they had all been sitting together. His progress through the milling revellers was slow because he found somebody had been spreading liberal amounts of brandy butter over the floor. On all sides people were slipping and falling, clutching at others and pulling them down too. It was at this moment that the terrified Ponsonby, whose presence overhead had momentarily been forgotten, burned his hand on the back of one of the lamps and lost control of his bladder.

  Eventually Amos managed to win through, exiting beneath the marquee wall on hands and knees just as the Christmas tree inside was toppled with a great crash of decorations. The cool night air outside was remarkably reviving. There were others outside wandering about in dazed fashion. In their bedraggled mess kit they looked like survivors from a disaster at a state occasion. Off to one side was parked a London double-decker Routemaster bus in disguise. It was sprayed pink; its windows were curtained and there was an immense blue sausage painted on its side. From within came the sound of laughter and guitars being plucked. On the step at the back were several seated figures.

  ‘Are you lot the group?’ he asked as he approached.

  ‘Right, man,’ said a youth.

  ‘I don’t think you’re going to be needed, you know,’ said Amos. ‘Things have got a bit out of hand.’

  ‘A bit?’ said another. ‘It makes Tottenham Town Hall after one of our gigs look like Westminster bleeding Abbey. Anyway, your sound system’s buggered, isn’t it, and we’re not setting up our own just to have you lot bugger that too. You must be joking.’

  From far down the perimeter track towards the fire dump there came the sound of engines and a crashing noise. Some of the lads doing a demolition derby? Amos began making his way homewards, surprised in a muddled sort of way that he was both drunker than he’d thought and also depressed or something. Maudlin? Was that the word? Or was that his father’s college at Oxford? Ahead of him there were two figures in an odd posture. No – as he came closer he could see it was one figure kneeling by a fire hydrant, being sick. ‘Oh Gawd,’ he heard the figure say weakly. ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘I blame the nuns,’ Amos said as he came up. The figure made an effort to stand and he recognised his AEO, Gavin Rickards. ‘Oh, it’s you, Gavin. Ill met by moonlight. Need a hand?’

  ‘Boss?’ said Rickards uncertainly, blinking in the sodium glare of a street light.

  ‘That’s me. Where are you going?’

  There was a pause. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Dunno. Why?’

  ‘Because they may be organising a demolition derby and you don’t want them to take your Sprite.’

  ‘Shit, no.’ The thought seemed to sober the boy up a little. ‘No, it’s in the garage over there –’ he waved a hand. ‘Miles away. Where I live. Oh God.’ He leaned across the hydrant and put his head in his hands. ‘I wish . . . I think I drank too much. Just a bit. I wish I was in bed. Or dead.’

  ‘Come on,’ Amos said, putting an arm around him with great protectiveness. ‘Come back to my place. It’s quite close and you can sleep it off there. It’s Sunday tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  Together they set off a little totteringly, their arms about each other. Presently they came to the little net of roads where the married officers lived in suburban exclusivity.

  ‘This where you live?’ asked Rickards. Then, like a ten-year-old, ‘Are we nearly there?�
�

  ‘What does that sign say?’

  ‘Brabazon Close, it looks like.’

  ‘Good, that sounds right.’

  With Rickards propped in the flimsy porch Amos searched his mess jacket for the key and, to his surprise, found it. ‘OK, sshhh. My wife’ll be asleep.’ He let Rickards in and guided him into the lounge without turning on the light. The street lamp a few doors up shed a feeble bilious glow into the room. ‘You sleep on the sofa. I’ll get some water. We’d both better tank up. It’ll help tomorrow.’

  Amos felt his way to the kitchen, rebounding a little off unexpected doorframes, and returned with a jug of cold water. He found his AEO sprawled on the sofa, sound asleep. With a vague feeling of disappointment Amos drank deeply from the jug, kicked off his shoes and lay on the floor with a cushion under his head and the rancid candlewick hearthrug over him. He gave himself up to the room’s steady circular motion. After a while it lulled him into unconsciousness.

  Sometime during the night he was awakened by something soft and warm pressed against his face. ‘That you, Gavin?’ he murmured, suddenly almost sober and filled with a piercing tenderness. He reached an arm across and with a shock found Vulcan the rabbit. Half paralysed with cold, Amos went for a piss, came back with an armful of coats and lit the gas fire, leaving it on low. It did little to warm the room but the increasing glow of the perforated fireclay mantles and occasional soft popping sounds were comforting. The rabbit moved close to it, its bulging eyes reflecting orange dots. With almost maternal care Amos threw a couple of coats over the faintly snoring Rickards. Then, as though he had reached an irrevocable decision, he too crawled beneath them, putting an arm around his sleeping crewman. To his surprise and pleasure Rickards did the same to him, although it might have been no more than a dopey recognition that the sofa was barely big enough for both of them.

  Sometimes in drunkenness a few things can become clearer. Feelings swim up from where they have long been pressed down and stand there, suddenly blatant, making it impossible to deny their familiarity. (Of course it’s that. It has always been that, and you know it . . .) Amos experienced just such a recognition as he listened to Gavin’s heart through the vomit-stained mess jacket. It filled him with profound relief as well as tenderness. This was something that went back to childhood and had been thrust into the shadows, there to remain inchoate and unfinished. Now, belatedly, it was able to put on adult shape and clothing. He ran a hand through the boy’s springy hair and was amazed to feel the arm around him tighten. Instantly and from nowhere came an inner view, as clear as a photograph, of the row of plane trees outside his study window at school, the blond patches on their trunks marking where they had shed their scabs of bark. Just one of those baffling but pin-sharp images that have no meaning, he thought. Even so, much as he had disliked his school, he could well recall the depression that had marked his final days there. He had been haunted by the sense of dispersion: of old friendships and alliances about to be broken up and scattered even as people swore they would see each other again at university, at reunions, at Old Boys’ dinners. They would keep in touch; of course they would. Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale. Catullus’s words by his brother’s grave. They sounded like any school’s – or squadron’s – true motto.