“Where shall I begin? Let’s see…Well, I was born in Szczecinek. Nice place, huge forests, glittering streams. Lots of pretty girls. A little bit like Scotland, just much nicer. The most beautiful place in the world. My father was both a Cavalry officer and diplomat. Still is, as it happens.”
He pulled out a cheroot, lit it with a silver cigarette lighter.
Puffing heavily he tossed the lighter to Rose. Engraved on it was an owl inside a triangle, and beneath written ‘113 Eskadra-1 Pulk Lotniczy.’
Rose handed it back. “113 Eskadra…113 squadron. Your squadron?”
Cynk took a long drag from the cheroot. The evil odour of it made Rose’s eyes water. It was even more overpowering than the cologne that the Pole seemed to douse himself with. He tried not to choke and Cynk grinned at Rose’s expression.
“Yes.” He thumped his chest, and Rose winced. “We belonged to the Brygada Poscigowa. The air defence Brigade for Warsaw.”
“And you were the squadron commander?”
Cynk thrust out his chin pugnaciously, nodded. “Absolutely. I shot down five Nazi planes in my PZL P11c. we knocked down a fair number of the bastards before the government capitulated.” His eyes clouded, “We should have kept right on fighting.”
“In a PZL p.11c?” Rose spoke with new-found respect, seeing Cynk in a new light. He had already downed five Nazi planes in an obsolete aircraft!
The P.11c was a light, gull-winged aircraft with an open cockpit and fixed undercarriage. Once a cutting-edge design, by 1940, it was outclassed by the aircraft in the Luftwaffe’s stable of aircraft.
“Three Heinkels and a pair of Stukas. Then, on the third day a Messerscmitt raid strafed my squadron, blew up my P11c on the ground.” He spat a glistening glob onto the grass. “Ghwovvno.”
He took another long drag, and then rolled back his left shirt sleeve, to expose a smooth patch of shiny pink skin. “Missed me, the devils.” Getting down on one knee, he pulled up his left trouser leg. There was a pink, dimpled area, where a bullet or piece of shrapnel had obviously passed through the soft part of his calf. “See?”
He stood up again, jammed the cheroot back into his month. Rose tried hard not to cough, wiped his eyes.
“Next time we meet, I’ll kill more of the bastards.”
Rose held out his hand. “We’ll kill them together, Major.”
Cynk grinned widely, his metal crowns gleaming dully, and took Rose’s hand. “I look forward to it.”
Rose sighed, looked towards their Hurricanes. “I wish we could start now.”
“Your beautiful lady, Molly, tell me, is she OK?”
The mention of Molly made his heart clench painfully inside his ribcage. God help me, I do love you so much. Molly, how I wish you really were mine.
“Yes, Thank you, sir. I believe everything will be alright. She was hurt badly, but they said she’ll make it. It’ll all be alright in the end.”
How I wish that were truly so, thought Rose.
“God willing.” Strangely, an expression of sadness flooded across Cynk’s face. “I had a very beautiful lady, too, once. Her name was Helena.”
Carefully, Rose placed his hand on Cynk’s shoulder. “Tell me about her. If you’d like?”
“Yes. I’d like to, very much. She took my heart.” He reached under his Mae West. “We met in Cracow. When she was at medical school. Young and very, very beautiful. We were married the year she graduated.”
He sighed, a long wistful sigh, “The most beautiful thing I saw in my life. She took my heart.”
He pulled out his wallet, a battered brown leather thing, with the emblem of the Polish Air Force on it, and took out a photograph.
Rose took it from him. It was well thumbed, a little faded, but it showed a girl in her mid-twenties, high cheekbones, dark eyes and wavy fair hair piled high, one raised eyebrow and a faint smile. Cool and elegant.
He handed it back. “She’s very beautiful, major. A real beauty. You are a very lucky man.”
Cynk smiled sadly, looked down at the picture. “I was. Once. Not anymore. She died.” He slid it carefully, lovingly, back into his wallet.
Silently, Rose cursed himself. Idiot! Wasn’t thinking. “I’m sorry. I am such a fool. Forgive me, please?”
Cynk sniffed, spat again. “They killed her when they bombed Warsaw. Fucking shits. I think they don’t care what they bomb or who they kill, the bastards. She was caring for the first casualties in her hospital when they bombed Warsaw. Mother was helping her.” A long, drawn out sigh, “Both gone, now. That’s why I won’t stop until they’re all dead...” He sighed again, patted his pocket gently.
“She took my heart,” he said it again, almost as if he were speaking to himself, deep sadness darkening his voice.
“I’m very sorry, Major. Truly sorry.” Rose felt uncomfortable. What could he say that could help? Rose was the lucky one. His girl was not dead.
“We’ll make them pay, won’t we, old chap?”
“We will.” Cynk looked around, “Don’t tell them, Harry. Let me stay with you chaps. I need to avenge them. I can’t do it if they give me a squadron to train. Please keep my secret. I need to fight, more than anything, that’s what I need.”
Rose was ashamed. Even though she may love someone else, at least Molly was still alive. It was he who was lucky. It may hurt that she did not care for him, but at least he had not had to witness or experience the pain of her death.
He had not had to suffer that, like poor Cynk. Nevertheless, the thought of what he had lost still hurt him. She was not dead, yet she was lost to him nonetheless.
But she was alive.
The thought of operating from Keeleigh had made Rose feel dismal, he had missed Foxton, but now the satellite airfield did not seem so bad. At least he was still at home, still in England, not kicked out, like this poor devil. Cynk truly was far from home. Flying from a foreign land, whilst his own country lay beneath the heel of a brutal conqueror.
Cynk had real reason to feel despair, yet he fought on regardless, determined to get revenge on those who had hurt him so cruelly. No wonder the man lived to kill. He had a lot of revenge to take. It was all the Germans had left him with.
Rose was grateful to the man.
Cynk had made him realise that things were not as awful as they could be. He thought of her sweet face, and the sadness washed over him again. It still hurt. But with men like Cynk with him, he would never be alone.
And those were the things that really mattered.
He grabbed the Polish Sergeant’s sleeve, indicated the mess tent.
“Come on, Major, let’s go and have a nice, hot cup of tea.”
“Yes. I’d prefer something a bit stronger, but tea will do nicely. My mouth’s as dry as a bear’s arse.”
There was some desultory conversation between the pilots, and now Corporal Fricker had appeared and was waiting beside the urn of steaming tea, from which he deftly poured two mugs, passed one to each of them.
Cynk patted Rose’s back, and made his way over to Donald.
As Cynk sat down, Fricker leaned closer to Rose. “Saw the sergeant get down on one knee, sir. Thought he was asking you to wed him. Seems a funny sorta bloke.”
“Actually, Fricker, he’s had a rough time of it, but he’s a good fellow. Might seem a bit peculiar, but his heart’s in the right place.” He sipped carefully from the steaming mug, eyes on the Pole.
Fricker looked doubtful. “If you say so, Mr Rose, sir.” He looked at Cynk again. The other pilots were trying to convince him not to sing one of the terribly sad, dirge-like songs of his homeland.
He watched Rose wander off curiously.
Bit peculiar? Bloody strange, more like. Fricker sniffed. Still, Sergeant Cynk was an overseas gentleman. That explained everything. They were different.
Not his fault, really. He sniffed.
He was foreign, after all, couldn’t help that, could he?
He stirred a mug of tea for himself, with extra sugar,
just as he liked it. What was it Mr Rose had called the sergeant? Major? What was that all about?
Wait until he told the lads. They’d be gobsmacked!
He sipped his tea moodily, and burnt his tongue.
Bloody war.
CHAPTER 36
Rose sat down on the camp bed gingerly, and although it creaked slightly, it did not collapse as he had feared it would.
No tent for him. The fears he had of living in a tent had proven groundless. There would be no experience like that awful childhood trip to the Isle of Wight and that field of cows.
The first morning he had awoken on the island to the sight of a cow looking down on him through the flap of the tent, and he had run in terror, clutching dew-filled shoes in one hand, cold wet cow turds squelching beneath his bare feet.
Instead, the pilots would be sharing rooms with each other in the main clubhouse. Rose was to share his room with Cynk. No distinction between officers and other ranks here. The pilots all flew and fought together, and now they messed together.
Their room, once the flying club’s stockroom, was whitewashed, with plain walls and a neat wooden floor. They were at the end of the corridor, so the washroom was just opposite.
Cynk was trying to clean the little square window, but the dirt was impossible to shift. Tiring of his cleaning efforts, Cynk popped it open. He turned to Rose with a grin. “See?”
Rose gave him a thumbs up. “Lovely. Nice fresh air.”
Thank goodness the window could be opened. The mustiness of years of misuse could not compete with the powerful scent the Pole wore. And if he lit one of those blessed cheroots in here, Rose would definitely need to don his respirator.
Either that, or suffer death from asphyxiation.
He smiled to himself. He could still joke about it, despite the pain that gnawed at his very soul.
Life goes on.
The sparseness of their furnishings somehow firmed Rose’s resolve. No more comfort. Now it was time to concentrate on fighting, and killing.
The Germans were fighting a single-minded war. No quarter for women or children. Bombs could so easily have fallen on the married accommodation at Foxton. It looked as if the rules had been thrown out of the window for the duration.
They were fighting for centuries of tradition and culture, for so much that had gone before. And for what was yet to come.
The sight of so much, the things that had become his new home and new family smashed into shattered ruin had been like a cleansing fire, scouring and burning him with its pain. But it was a fire that did not destroy, instead it made him stronger, had hardened his mettle even further, burned away softness.
He knew now that it was likely that his death would be soon, and it would not be an easy or peaceful one. He knew it, and accepted it.
Cynk turned towards him. “Harry, shall I sing us a song? A good song?”
Bloody hell. That’s all I need. “Er, no. Thank you, Major.”
“Ah! Don’t worry, I’ll pick you a nice one.” Cynk bowed. “And forget the Major nonsense; I’m still a Sergeant officially. My name is Stanislaw.”
Rose stood and held out his hand. “How do you do, Stanislaw. As you know, they call me Flash. May I call you Stan, if that’s not too cheeky?”
“Please do.” Instead of taking the proffered hand, he crushed Rose into a crushing bear hug, and kissed him wetly on both cheeks. It was rather like being attacked by an enormous, scented, hairy dog. “Might as well do it the proper way. How d’you do?”
Something heavy banged against the door, and it swung open.
Granny stood there, red and sweating. “Which one of you hounds has nicked my blinkin’ bed?”
He noticed Rose and Cynk in their embrace, eyed them warily. “I’m not disturbing anything, am I?”
Rose backed away from Cynk hurriedly. “Granny, thank God you’re here! Didn’t hear you fly in!”
Granny sniffed. “Christ! Have you had a tart or something in here?” he looked under the nearest camp-bed. “Smells like a bordello in Paris I used to visit!” he lifted the coarse blanket, “Are you in there. Natalie?”
Cynk looked confused, “Tart?”
Granny stamped across the wooden boards and threw himself onto Rose’s bed. Amazingly, it did not collapse.
He sighed contentedly. “Bloody hell! I’ve just traipsed about fifty miles with my parachute. The petrol wallahs at Brooklands hadn’t filled up our new kites properly, so we had to make a landing in a flippin’ field somewhere over there.” Granny waved vaguely towards the open window.
“Terrible place. Cows shitting all over the place. Farmer’s wife looked about eighty, ugly as bollocks.” He took off his Mae West. “What a benighted dump this is! Flash, my old son, I’m pooped. Think I’ll snatch forty winks. Would you tell me when the bowsers get here? Have to collect my Hurribag later.”
“Certainly, Granny.” He hesitated. “That’s my bed, you know, Granny.”
“RHIP, chum.”
“RHIP?”
“Rank hath its’ privileges. It just so happens that the powers that be have made me up into a Flying Officer, and the Old Man has just asked me to take over as acting A-Flight commander. Just until Dingo re-joins us, though. Means I’m an acting Flight-Lieutenant, as well, I suppose. So a little bowing and scraping wouldn’t come amiss, doncha’ know.”
He broke wind and sighed. “Apparently, they’ve also decided to make old Nosferatu here a Pilot Officer.” He glared at Cynk and then shook his head sadly.
“The poor old duffers at the Air Ministry have finally gone completely bananas. So, you should be honoured to give me the bed. If I’m feeling well-disposed to you, I may let you put the new stripes onto my shoulder straps, so behave yourself.”
Rose turned to Cynk, “Stan, this calls for a celebration. Granny just loves old songs, perhaps you could sing one for him, when I’m gone?”
“Yes!” Cynk bowed again. “How you do, Mr Smith. Welcome!”
Granny stared at him as if he had just fallen from the sky.
“Lord help us. What have you done to the mad bugger?” he breathed.
“You and I are going to teach Stan some English, Granny.” Rose winked at Cynk.
Granny rolled his eyes. “God Almighty!” He reached down, and felt around in the small bag he had brought, finally producing a dark-green shot-glass bottle. “Nicked this from the admin office at Brooklands. Thought we could drink to the new place. I don’t suppose you drink, then, do you?” the last question was addressed to Cynk.
Cynk nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes! Give me!”
“Thank goodness for small mercies,” Granny glared at Rose, “At least I shan’t have to spend my hours sharing a room with a weedy youth who can only sup milk.”
The effort hurt, but Rose forced a grin onto his face, and he stuck up two fingers at Granny.
With a struggle, Smith sat up. “We’ll drink to the Stationmaster, too. I heard that he died this morning. Poor old sod. Grand old chap he was.”
He threw the bottle to Cynk, who caught it deftly, removed the cork and took a mouthful of the clear fluid in one smooth unbroken action.
Rose put his head in his hands, groaned to himself. If the contents in the bottle were what he thought it was, they were in for a lot of trouble and serious earache.
He thought longingly of his revolver. How does one prevent an inebriated Pole from singing songs of his homeland?
CHAPTER 37
It had been another fruitless day of patrols and missed opportunities, and to cap it all, miscalculation by a replacement controller had placed A-Flight into a position where they had ended up in a long stern-chase of a very fleet group of Junkers 88 bombers.
Just as they had been about to move into a favourable position, they had been bounced by a small tight formation of Bf109s, and the new pilot officer, Bracknell, had been shot down into the sea.
There had been no parachute.
Just one swift firing pass, swooping down on the
little group of RAF fighters, and then the Germans had continued on to dive away, not even staying to tough it out, leaving behind them four surviving Hurricanes in disarray, and yet another dead RAF flyer.
Another young man dead, with nothing to show for it, nothing to redress the balance for that death.
Rose stared at the dented tin plate before him, the lump of corned beef before him sat sullenly in a cold and greasy gravy, surrounded by an entourage of hard peas and sliced tinned potatoes.
In the dim yellow light of the storm lanterns, it seemed defiant. Go on, it seemed to say, try and eat me. I promise you I shan’t stay down. Once I get down there, I’ll be coming straight back up.
He put down his fork, and looked up. In this battle of wills, the corned beef would win.
Even just looking at it made his stomach roil, filling his mouth with bitterness. It would not take much to make him vomit, even though there was so little in his stomach anyway.
I must have some more of those liver salts, he resolved, but even their efficacy seemed to have lessened against the liquid fire that burned at his innards.
Opposite him, Granny was stabbing at his meal unenthusiastically, fatigued.
Each time he poked his piece of corned beef, his fork would make a thin screak against the metal plate, like nails scraping offensively against a blackboard. Another spatter of gravy joined its contemporaries on Granny's tunic. Even he had lost his usual meal-time gusto. He would normally greet any food with enthusiasm, but this meal time was more of a battle, as their tiredness threatened to render them powerless against the tough meat served up by the Field kitchen.
Screak, screak.
Ffellowes opened one eye. "Must you make so much noise, old man? I’m trying to sleep."
"God!" blustered Granny gloomily, “this bloody thing must be older and tougher than me. I bet old Stuffy got the army to disinter their Boer war supplies." Rose tried to grin, but it seemed too much effort. Granny didn't even look up.
Screak, screak, went his fork, but the lump on his plate just slid around the plate in its puddle of gravy. The damned corned beef was hard.
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