‘Hm – I see. Is she pregnant?’
The question shocked Bill who snapped, ‘No. Certainly not.’
The older man shrugged. ‘You aren’t the first, and by God you won’t be the last to come through this office seeking to marry a pregnant popsy.’ He caught the flash of anger on Bill’s face. ‘No offence.’
He leant back in his chair. ‘What I’m trying to say is, whether you are in love or not – and half the men I get in here haven’t really thought it through, the CO will say No, believe me.’
Bill felt winded, his shoulders dropped. The adjutant didn’t like doing it, in fact he was a kindly man, and tried not to let a man’s hope and excitement ride for days before his dreams were shattered. He knew that Bill was due off on a mission, and was worried at the effect that it seemed to have on him.
‘I know I shouldn’t do this – but I think a medicinal brandy is called for.’
Whilst Bill slumped in his chair the adjutant got up, unlocked a cupboard and brought out a bottle and two tumblers. He splashed a measure into each glass and handed one to Bill.
‘Blame it on the Flight-Surgeon if anyone asks.’
Bill took the glass, held it in both hands. There was a determined edge to his voice.
‘I’m going to marry this girl, sir. I want to do it, and soon – in case anything happens …’ Frowning, he downed the brandy in one. The adjutant, sitting on the corner of his desk, slowly swinging his leg which ached abominably in this wet English climate, sipped his sedately.
‘Well, I’ll pass your application on – give it my best go, I promise, but I tell you now, the Old Man will say No.’
Bill looked up at him, lips set in a tight line. ‘But why?’
The adjutant took another sip. ‘Oh – something to do with the trouble they had after the First World War. Over ninety per cent of dough boys’ marriages failed.’
Bill set the glass down on the desk. ‘Well, I intend to proceed, sir. Do I need to put it in writing?’
The adjutant nodded. ‘I’ll get the typing-pool to do it now – you can sign it before you leave. Excuse me.’
He went to his intercom and buzzed. Almost immediately the corporal appeared.
‘Yes sir?’
What was wanted was explained. ‘Do it straight away.’ The adjutant checked his watch. ‘The lieutenant here is flying on this morning’s mission – he will sign it before he leaves.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They were alone again.
The adjutant put the bottle back, rinsed out the glasses in a little corner sink and dried them, eyeing up Bill.
‘Special, is she?’
Bill nodded. ‘I know you must have heard it all before, but, this is genuine. Both of us – well – hit it off. But that sounds too casual, too light. We’re made for each other.’
He chewed his lip. ‘I’m not a fool, sir – this war is not over yet – a lot of people aren’t going to make it through to the end – and then there’s Japan. I want to be married to her – her name’s Mary by the way, more than anything else in the world. I want her to have my name – in case anything … That’s why it’s so important – so urgent.’ His voice tailed away in embarrassment.
Before the adjutant could murmur something calming, reassuring, Bill suddenly looked up sharply. ‘What if I do it without the Old Man’s permission?’
The older man shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t even think of it, Bill. They might court-martial you, or ship you straight back home or to the Far East in disgrace – it would ruin your record after the war, close down a lot of career opportunities.’
Bill shrugged his indifference. Worried, the adjutant pressed on. ‘You wouldn’t see your young lady for years – maybe never again.’
There was a knock on the door. The adjutant opened it and spoke to someone outside. When he turned back to Bill the latter looked angrily back up at him. ‘I can’t see how anyone has the right—’
Frustrated with his lack of progress the adjutant chopped his open palm with the edge of his other hand. ‘You’re in the army, son. They have every right.’
Corporal Johnson knocked and entered, setting a typewritten sheet down on the desk. ‘There we are, sir.’
Bill stood up, scanned the simple request and signed it. He faced the adjutant.
‘I’m grateful for all your help.’ It was said without rancour.
‘That’s OK – I understand your feelings, believe me.’
‘When will I know, sir?’
The adjutant returned to his seat, steepled his hands and brought the tips of his fingers to his pursed lips. ‘He’s very busy – we’ve got quite a lot going on – but I’ll try and get an answer from him by – say six p.m.? He’s on today’s show as you know, despite this proposed move we’re working on.’
Bill saluted. ‘I’m obliged.’
The adjutant looked out of the window as Bill hurried away, feeling sorry for the guy. He felt for the young men to whom he had to be a sort of father figure, and for the fact that so many would never be going home again – not even in a body bag. That damned expression: ‘no known grave’ haunted him. The weather was good: killing weather.
Outside the sound of Merlin-Packard engines being kicked into life and run up concentrated Bill’s mind on the matter in hand. In the crew room he put on his flying-boots, slipped his Mae West over his leather jacket, picked up his helmet, oxygen mask and parachute and joined a bunch who were catching a ride on a six by six truck to the hardstands. Joking and punching and pulling at each other they exchanged farewells. ‘See you soon.’ ‘On a wing and a prayer’ came a rejoinder.
His crew chief was waiting and helped him into the cockpit, securing his oxygen and radio lines and tightening the webbing of the safety harness.
The familiar smell of oil, rubber, and gas assailed his nostrils.
He gave a thumbs up, and the 1,590 horse power of the Merlin-Packard coughed and snorted into life.
Immediately the whole ship became a living shuddering entity. The chocks were pulled away.
Bill gave a salute to the crew chief and eased the throttle forward. He joined the line making their way around the peritrack, their propwash blowing the grass flat. The waves rippled away across the field, the boundary fence bushes waved wildly like a crowd saying goodbye: the dawn chorus of 1944. The birds of war were waking.
At the runway, the CO took off first, with his wingman in formation, the others following.
When it came to his turn, Bill watched the two before him begin their roll, then eased forward and lined up into the wind, gave a quick three-count and with a thumbs-up to his wingman, gave it the gas.
Breaking ground he pulled up the gear and started milking up the flaps, catching up with those before him within a mile of the strip.
They settled into tactical combat formation and linked up with other squadrons in the group, all the time climbing. At 5,000 feet Bill suddenly remembered to do his visual post-take-off check of the cockpit which he had, unusually, forgotten.
Everything was OK, but he felt on edge. Had he been subconsciously thinking about Mary, so that things he did routinely were not kicking in? It was sloppy, and there was no room for that in this business.
The weather was perfect, visibility unlimited. Long before they crossed the Dutch coast he could see the Rhine, curving back and forth on itself like a silver serpent, until it was lost in a far-distant haze.
It didn’t seem possible that there were Germans down there, or that away to the right the Allied Armies were engaged in a fierce battle.
It all looked so peaceful.
Mary showed her pass and walked up the main drive at Bletchley Park, before turning off to her hut situated at the back. On the way over, on the train, she had started on another letter to Bill.
It had soon dawned on her that she couldn’t fill it up all the time with protestations of love, that she had to include other things. Unfortunately she was unable to tell him about her war work, and fra
nkly the university stuff was dull to anybody outside the field. She day-dreamed once again of their time together. In Bill she had found her kindred spirit, like Emily Brontë’s Cathy had done in Wuthering Heights, and with it came the realization that her existence now had real meaning.
As if in answer to her prayers for something to write about, she had been delayed at Bedford. A V1 flying bomb had dropped on the signalling system somewhere. They were told there would be an hour’s delay, so she had wandered towards the town centre.
Mary reached a river bridge and leant on the stone balustrade, gazing down at the wide river which curved gently away to a beautiful arched Victorian footbridge.
The river-bank was lined with public gardens and large trees. On one side was a bijou little cinema, and next door a boating yard with punts moored in rows outside. On the other side an old Georgian Inn: the Swan. It was all so beautiful – so England.
The road was quiet except for the odd van and doctor’s car, and the occasional convoy of trucks servicing the many airfields in the district.
On the town side of the bridge there was a square in which stood a church with a tall spire, and the Corn Exchange, from where the broadcast of Beethoven’s Fifth had come. She noticed a poster proclaiming that Dame Myra Hess was giving one of her recitals that she had made so famous at the National Gallery.
The High Street was, as in Cambridge, full of aimlessly wandering servicemen. Eventually she got a cup of tea and bun at the Lyons teashop.
She nearly missed her train – would have had it not been for a delay caused by crowds of soldiers at the WVS caravan in the St John’s station yard where mugs of tea were being served.
Mary entered her hut. Her supervisor, an old civil servant who had been knighted in 1935, looked up at her from above his half-moon spectacles.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor, so glad you could join us.’
Despite the sarcasm, he was an old dear really, and looked after ‘his girls’ with vigour, so much so that he had endeared himself to them all as – behind his back of course – ‘Pa-pa.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir George, there was a doodlebug – did something to the signalling.’
He sniffed. ‘We’ve got a lot on, and it’s nasty.’
Mary took the file he handed her, eager to play her part in the victory over the forces that had once threatened to end a way of life that had taken a 1,000 years to evolve: the same length of time as the Third Reich was supposed to last.
When they crossed the coast the flak suddenly appeared, the deadly black puffs of smoke sliding by underneath. Bill observed one of the planes from the formation below peeling off for home, losing altitude and smoking a little.
Everyone spread out now, weaving and dipping their wings, searching the skies above, below, in front and behind. He was doing a lot of rubbernecking – it was the best way there was of staying alive.
They still had their long-range fuel tanks, so when the leader’s voice came over the R/T, ordering them to drop them, it was like a big load rolling off his back.
The flak died away and they flew on in peace. Still being vigilant, he occasionally thought of Mary, feeling somehow that she was with him. It gave him comfort.
Over half an hour later a huge bank of haze appeared up ahead, with hundreds of white contrails leading into it, alerting them to the fact that Berlin was near. Seconds later they saw the vast bomber fleets ahead and below.
It gave him a lift to see so many planes, some olive-green, others bright silver. The great battle formation was exhilarating, invincible-looking. But he knew better.
Flak started murderously to assault the B17s and Liberators; he could see the bursts, hundreds of them, sprouting all around. Such was his height that to Bill it looked as though the massed formations were standing still, while the black puffs were floating through them on an invisible stream. It was a phenomenon of high-altitude flying that never failed to fascinate him.
There was a sudden flash down in the lead box, and where there had once been a Liberator – and its crew – there was just a bigger mass of smoke drifting back. The others didn’t waiver, just ploughed steadily on towards the target. Bill admired the courage, knew he couldn’t do it.
The group’s timing was, for once, perfect. On the outskirts of Berlin they took over from the penetration squadrons, as was supposed to happen.
As the bombers started their final run to the target, Bill and his wing were weaving above them. They were just drawing ahead when he saw green flares coming up from the lead Fortresses, requesting help as twenty to thirty Messerschmitt 109s prepared for a head-on attack.
The low squadron turned in to cut them off, as over the R/T a young voice yelled in panic: ‘Above – Jesus – above.’ Bill snatched his head up, saw FW 190s barreling down on them, the leading edges of their wings winking and flashing as they fired their cannons.
He rammed the throttle against the stop and held it there as they turned to meet them.
Several of the first 190s had too much speed for them to be intercepted, and they swept past. The next were caught in one big dogfight.
Somehow he found himself on the tail of one. He got off a deflection burst and watched the Focke-Wulf turn into his line of fire.
There were flashes and something came tumbling past that made him duck and yell out with fright. The 190 flipped over and fell away like a flaming meteor to earth.
Bill swung back – to be confronted by a head-on view of the bombers.
Screaming in terror, he slid under the huge shape of the first Fortress.
Then ship after ship, section after section, some with bombs spilling out of their open doors, flashed past. Finally, miraculously, he was clear.
Soaked in sweat, he thumbed his radio-transmitter. ‘Blue leader here, anyone around?’
The response seemed right beside him, made his over-tense body jump.
‘Yeah, I’m behind you.’
He slewed his ship and saw him.
Unbelievably his wingman had followed him through the entire episode. Both of them had come out without a scratch.
They caught up with the bomber stream, following the contrails and climbing up through them just as three more 190s flew head-on into the formation. At the last moment the enemy rolled on to their backs and, still firing, flashed down through the bombers. The last one left it a split second too late. He started to roll away, but the Fortress was already on him. His wing hit the bomber in number three engine. The tangled blazing mass went tumbling down through the formation. Bill felt sick at what could so easily have been his fate.
His wingman spotted a straggler, a lone Liberator with smoke pouring from one engine. It was falling behind and losing altitude and the Krauts were buzzing around him like flies. He was dishing it out as well, all turrets twinkling and tracer flying out at the 109s.
But by the time they got there it was too late to do much.
The bomber had started into a shallow dive and two white ’chutes had blossomed out, but the tail-gunner was still in there fighting.
The tracer kept on coming until the Liberator spun into woods. There was a flash, and a tall column of black smoke.
Bill closed with one of the circling Messerschmitts, whose pilot seemed not to have noticed them: he was probably a rookie barely out of training. The Germans were getting desperate. Bill was so near when he opened fire that the 109 just blew apart, its wings whirling away in a grotesque flight of their own. His radio exploded in his ears.
‘Break left, break left.’
Bill yanked the stick over, his vision dimming with the G force.
Suddenly there was a ‘thump’ as if the plane had been kicked by a giant, and the smell of cordite filled the cockpit.
The 109 was so close behind he could see a large yellow spinner and flashes from the cannons in its nose. Almost immediately the wingman’s exultant shout rang in his earphones. ‘I got him.’
The grey fuselage with its cross was suddenly covered in flames. It
flicked over and dived down, going into a field on its back, leaving a trail of burning fuel along the ground.
Bill, soaked with sweat and urine heard himself thanking his wingman as if it was somebody else speaking. He was shaking like a leaf, glad that he couldn’t be seen. He jerked his head in all directions.
The sky was empty.
Bill checked his fuel and Ts & Ps. He was worried about the hit, but all seemed in order.
‘Come on, time to go home.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
That evening Mary went with two other girls to the pictures, queuing for ten minutes to get in.
They sat through a good ‘B’ film. When the lights came up for the interval, a crowd of young soldiers started flirting with them. The others played along, but Mary was just polite.
She just couldn’t stop thinking about Bill: where was he, what was he doing, above all – was he safe?
She had found relief at work, where the atmosphere was always intense, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes soul-destroying, always involving, though the work in different huts was never spoken about. But everyone knew it was very special.
But, once away, she’d felt miserable, so when a couple of the girls from another hut who shared her digs said they were going to the flicks she’d readily agreed.
The lights dimmed, a spotlight shone down, and out of the bowels of the orchestra-pit an organ rose; the organist, dressed in a dinner jacket, beamed and bounced on his stool as he played a vigorous fast number.
For the next ten minutes they were treated to tunes from the shows – The Desert Song, The Girl Friend and others, and ending with the popular theme of the night’s feature film. Then the organ started to descend, still being played, the man still beaming and acknowledging the applause.
The spotlight shrank until only his grinning face with his glasses reflecting the light showed, with the last notes, it was extinguished and there was blackness.
The house lights came back up and the soldiers started talking to them again. One of her friends whispered in her ear: ‘I think I might be finding my own way home. Why don’t you join in, Mary? That young man there is very nice – he’s educated, you know. Something to do with radar – whatever that is.’
Beneath Us the Stars Page 9
