Silent War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘I think you’re fantastic; the best.’

  ‘You could have told me that, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t try to contact me either.’

  ‘Your job.’

  ‘I didn’t have your parents’ telephone number.’

  ‘I worked that out eventually . . . as well.’

  This was like a duel.

  ‘Will saying sorry, and asking if we can start again, work?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve never done that before.’

  Most of the other unforgiving people I’d met before had been NCOs with parade-ground manners.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I upset you. It wasn’t my intention.’ That sounded stilted, even to me. ‘I didn’t mean to. Sometimes I’m clumsy with words. Now it’s your turn.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re sorry. I’m glad it wasn’t your intention, and I’m sorry that you’re clumsy with words.’ That was it. Somewhere along the line I’d ended up with the losing cards again. If this was Thermopylae, I was one of the six hundred Spartans waiting for the sword. I didn’t know what to say next because she was being too guarded to get close to.

  I asked her, ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘Pardon?’ At least that got a reaction.

  ‘Can you drive a car?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Daddy taught me.’

  ‘But you don’t have one?’

  ‘No. Where’s this leading us, Charlie?’

  ‘I can’t take my car to Cyprus, can I? If I leave it with you, you can have the use of it. I’ll get the insurance switched over, and it’s been taxed for a year.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to think of you driving it while I’m away.’

  ‘Try again. Another reason?’

  ‘Sitting unused for a year will do it no good at all.’

  ‘Better. Will you be away for a whole year then?’

  ‘I have no way of knowing. I’m the last person they’ll tell.’ At least that pulled a small grin from her. ‘So, will you look after my car for me?’

  She thought for a few seconds. She looked just as desirable in town-and-country civvies as in her Halton outfit, but this definitely wasn’t the time to say it. She had a flat brown spot, like a large freckle, in the small of her back, but this wasn’t the time to remember it, either.

  Then she said, ‘Yes; you can leave your car with me. But it doesn’t mean anything.’

  My turn to think. I ran the first few bars of Cole’s ‘Ev’ry time we say goodbye’ in my head. It seemed appropriate at the time.

  Then I said, ‘OK, I’ll show you how to start her. She can be a bit of a bitch – sorry – in cold weather. Then you can run me to the station.’

  What I couldn’t understand – even if I had been less than sensitive a few days earlier – is why she shied away from me so absolutely now. I was Charlie Bassett, not Albert Pierrepoint, the government’s hangman. I looked into her eyes, and there was nothing there for me at all. I wanted to shout, What was it, exactly, that I did so wrong? But all I could think was that I’d let Carlo down. That was interesting.

  She continued to look steadily at me from behind her desk. There was something else going on here that I didn’t understand: like a conversation that I wasn’t a part of. She held a brown card, and was turning it around in her hands as if she could read the words on it by touch. Braille.

  She suddenly said, ‘I’m not being deliberately cruel to you, Charlie; and whatever you think, I’m not getting my own back.’ When someone says that, they bloody well are, aren’t they? You can be sure of it.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ Then she sighed, and handed me the card. ‘You’d better read this. It was waiting for me at home when I got back.’

  Her family address was on one side, and the other was headed up with those friendly old words The War Office. Maybe she was being called up as well. No. It was a simple pre-printed postcard which told her that the International Red Cross had informed the Minister of the identity of a certain corporal from the Gloucesters presently in a prison camp in North Korea. He was slowly recovering from wounds, and his repatriation was being negotiated.

  It took a few seconds for the penny to drop, ‘This was the man you told me about?’

  ‘Yes. Anthony; he’s a good person.’ Being a good person trumped being a Charlie, I suppose. What do you say? I was too gutted to react with anything except the truth.

  ‘Good. I’m pleased for you.’ Then I offered, ‘. . . but a little sad for me.’

  She smiled a sad brief smile which matched my words, I guess.

  ‘That was a nice thing to say. What about your car now?’

  ‘The offer still stands. I’ve nothing else to do with it, if that’s all right?’

  ‘OK. Until you get back.’

  ‘Why don’t we go down to the station now? We can talk in the car.’ I just wanted to get away.

  I think we had made peace, but now I was left standing on a railway platform in my old flying jacket, propping up a kitbag containing nearly all I owned, while she drove away in my lovely old car. I felt like a sucker. Why was everyone else better at this sort of thing than me? The train to Abingdon was freezing, and zigzagged all over Oxfordshire before it found it. I turned up at the RAF station guardhouse at nightfall, tired and dispirited. Even a posting to the Arctic Circle would have been a better idea than this.

  The guard commander was an elderly flight lieutenant. We called them ‘French Letters’ when I had been a sergeant, but I was too weary to be disrespectful – that’s how they get the discipline to you eventually. I put my heels together, pulled in my stomach and reported, thinking but not saying, Sieg Heil!

  He looked vaguely amused, and said, ‘Wait a mo’. I think you’ll find you’re booked into the guest quarter.’ He went back inside, and came out with a thin, grey, card-covered file with my name, rank and number on it. If we were waging our wars with files and paperclips these days it was OK by me.

  ‘I haven’t had a fresh uniform issue yet. I’m a bit short of kit,’ I explained. Understatement of the bloody week.

  ‘I think you’ll find there are several large boxes up in your room already. I remember them arriving yesterday: someone will have organized them for you. Anything else you need you can get from the Stores Officer in the morning, OK? And welcome back, by the way.’ When I didn’t respond immediately he asked, ‘Do you want me to organize a lift up to the Mess, chum? You look just about all in.’

  He was so far from what I’d expected that I nearly cried.

  Chapter Six

  Jack o’ Diamonds

  The guest block wasn’t big. From the outside it looked like a larger version of the brick air-raid shelters they built in some school playgrounds in 1939, but with windows. A long, low, narrow affair, but there were double doors at each end, like an airlock – so the first thing you noticed was that it was warm, and it smelled of fresh paint. One corridor, six rooms on either side, followed by a large washroom and toilet area on either side, followed by another twelve bedrooms. You didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to work out that they could accommodate twenty-four officers. Each residential room door had a paper-card nameplate on it. I wandered along until I found my name neatly typed: Bassett C DFM, 22602108, Pilot Officer. Leaving the door open I dumped my kitbag alongside the narrow bed, and stretched out for a moment. I could hear music playing from a radio at the other end of the corridor. Fuck it, I was back!

  When I opened my eyes it was dark. Someone knocked on the open door again, and then switched on the light. I rolled away from it, and then sat up, shielding my eyes. A small dark-haired WRAF stood at my door with a tray. She had a plate of sandwiches, and a steaming mug of something.

  ‘Aircraftwoman Lorenzo, sir. I let you sleep, but you missed the evening meal. I took the liberty of having these made up for you. Aircraftwoman Francis and I look after these quarters. If you want anything there’s a bell above your desk.’ There was, too – a small electri
c bell push on the wall, above a desk just about big enough to write a letter on. She put the tray on it.

  I ran my hands through my hair and said, ‘Thank you,’ then asked awkwardly, ‘What am I supposed to call you? I’ve been away a long time.’

  ‘Lorenzo will be fine, sir, or Aircraftwoman . . . but sometimes that’s a bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘I’m Charlie.’ I helped myself to a sandwich, suddenly starving hungry. The mug smelled like strong tea.

  ‘You’re Pilot Officer, or Mr, Bassett, sir.’

  I smiled and shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Do you have a first name, Lorenzo?’

  Silence, then, ‘Amanda . . . Mandy.’ She could smile politely when she wanted to.

  ‘Well, thank you for the sandwiches and tea, Lorenzo. They’re going to save my life.’ Cheese and tomato, and corned beef and tomato – Officers’ Mess style: no crusts.

  ‘Hardly, sir. Have you anything in the kitbag that needs washing?’

  ‘Most of it, probably.’

  ‘I’ll take it with me; if you have time to try on your new issue tonight, I’ll get the alterations you need done before you leave. You’ll know that your flight was put back, and you are booked in here for four days. They’ll want you to sign in to the Mess.’

  ‘No ruddy fear. I won’t go near the place. I never asked to be an officer in the first place. I still think it was a joke that they played on someone else.’ She laughed. A little whinnying sound. ‘We can look at the clothes in the morning, if you like.’

  ‘Fine, sir. It’s our job to see that you’re properly turned out, if you understand?’

  ‘You mean that you get a bollocking if I look a shambles?’ I remembered Lucy’s description of me.

  ‘I might, sir.’

  ‘I’d better pull my socks up then.’

  I still had that Communist Party card in my pocket. It was mine, although it wasn’t in my real name. I wondered how many other Commies had a servant as pretty as mine. I read a Nigel Balchin novel for a couple of hours: his hero was an awkward cuss like me. Then I slept until breakfast, to be awoken by Lorenzo with a cup of tea. Someone must have spirited the tray of empties away during the night, but I hadn’t heard a thing. It was a brand-new world.

  Even the bath and shower rooms were centrally heated. After I washed, I opened my hanging cupboard, and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. I actually counted the clothes, like a schoolboy counting up his collection of Dinky Toys: formal mess kit, a full set of walking-out blues, two working blues and a greatcoat . . . and everything to go with them. Shoes, and boots (flying) . . . and two sets of KDs, including shorts that fell below my knees. I’d need a lorry to move my bloody wardrobe around with.

  ‘What will they expect me to wear today?’ I asked Lorenzo.

  ‘A working set; just like when you were a sergeant. It hasn’t changed that much.’

  It hadn’t taken her long to find that out. ‘Both jackets will need to be taken in, and the greatcoat’s too long. I’ll get them done.’

  ‘I tried on the shorts – I look like something from a Beau Geste film. Could you get someone to turn them up an inch or two?’

  ‘Yes, but not too much. You won’t want your new station commander getting upset. Have you had any breakfast yet, sir?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t meet her eye.

  ‘Why don’t you come along to the galley? Frances and I usually have a fry-up and a smoke around this time, after we’ve got our officers away . . . unless the SAC is around.’

  ‘Frances?’

  ‘Aircraftwoman Francis, sir. Frances Francis. She still can’t work out if that’s amusing or cruel.’

  ‘Lead on Macduff.’

  As I followed her trim figure along the corridor to a small kitchen, she looked back over her shoulder and asked me, ‘Did you know that’s a common misquotation, sir?’

  ‘I don’t even know where it comes from.’

  ‘Macbeth. It’s actually “lay on, Macduff” . . .’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘It was to Macbeth. It was the last thing he said before Macduff killed him!’ Then we were at the galley. The woman already sitting in it was plain and lanky. She had a wide mouth and a great embarrassed smile, and tried to get up.

  Lorenzo pushed her back into her chair, saying, ‘Frances this is Charlie.’ To me she said, ‘This is our place. You can be Charlie here if you like, but not outside.’

  Bacon sarnies, of course: the service ran on them. Fresh doorsteps of bread, a bucket of butter, and bacon salty enough to preserve your tongue while it was still wriggling. On the radio they played a record of Billie Holiday singing along to Lester Young with the Count Basie Orchestra. Time rolled back: I remembered the RAF girls I had known at Bawne during the war, and wondered if I would do better with women if I simply kept to my own kind. Within minutes I felt at home, relaxed and happy.

  What had I told Elaine weeks ago? I could cope with that.

  I couldn’t get away with it for ever.

  ‘Mr Bassett, is it?’ This was after a rap on my door. A rather neat but otherwise unmemorable warrant officer stood there. I was lying on my bed reading a rather horny Hank Janson paperback I’d filched from one of the empty rooms. I stood up – reluctantly.

  ‘Yes, WO. Can I help you?’

  ‘Thought it might be the other way round, sir. I’m the SWO. New arrivals usually look me up for a bit of a brief.’ Ah. He’d called me sir, but it was obvious which of us was really in command, and it wasn’t me. In his heart, even the commanding officer of a RAF station knows that the station warrant officer is the person really in charge.

  ‘I didn’t think it worth it, WO. I expected to ship out today.’

  ‘But you’re stuck here for a few days instead – I take it that someone’s told you? Mind if I come in and sit down, sir?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ He shut the door behind him, and sat at the desk. I sat on the bed and picked up my pipe. I said, ‘Smoke, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ It got us through the next minute. He offered me a fag from a packet of Black Cat, but I shook my head and lit my pipe. ‘Will you be going off-station, sir?’

  ‘No. I saw Abingdon from the taxi I took from the railway station. I didn’t like any of it.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, sir. The older part is quite picturesque: historic. So you won’t want a brief on which bars to avoid, and which are definitely out of bounds?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘. . . and you haven’t signed in with P2, or visited the Mess either?’ Ah again: so that was it. Someone from Admin had sent him to see what I was up to. P2 was the pay and admin branch . . . I’d thought that signing on here would have been the equivalent of opening a new bank account for less than a week. What the hell for?

  ‘Has someone said something about me?’

  ‘The PMC’s staff mentioned something. If you haven’t been issued with your Mess number yet they can’t account for your keep. I know that it seems inconsequential, but little things like that keep the cogs turning. Why don’t you wander over with me now, and I’ll show you what’s where.’ And the next most important person on a RAF station is the President of the Mess Committee.

  I couldn’t help smiling, ‘You’re bloody well telling me to, aren’t you, WO?’

  ‘Pierce, sir. SWO Pierce . . . and no, I would never presume, sir.’

  Two things had changed since my Bawne and Tempsford days. The WOs had been taught exquisite manners, and they could use words as long as inconsequential. I wasn’t sure I liked it. Ten years earlier a flight lieutenant would have probably battered his way in and pinned me to the wall with righteous blasphemy, but at least then you knew where you were.

  I pulled on my greatcoat and my fore-and-after, and followed him into the cold light of day . . . and for once that phrase is factually accurate. As we walked up to the Admin Block and Mess Building, behind its curved approach road, I tried to make conversation.

  ‘When
did you get concrete runways? This was all grass when I was in training.’

  ‘Did you fly from here then, sir?’

  ‘No, but I flew over it a few times.’

  ‘I believe they started to put the concrete down in 1944, sir. It was an OTU, and a Gunnery School. Then the Parachute School came along of course.’

  That reminded me of the jump I’d just done. I didn’t thank him for that.

  He left me in an office that reminded me of a bank. Decent counter, desks, a mixture of uniforms and civvies, and an overall air of quiet efficiency. I had to ask myself, with staff as calm, courteous and obviously as bright as these, why the Brass had made the god-awful decisions that littered my service history. A keen civvy type produced a file of papers, each marked with pencilled Xs where he wanted my signature. Dozens of the bloody things.

  He smiled and observed, ‘You can read them if you like, sir, but no one else does.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Bumf – what else? But with them you promise to repay anything over the odds we spend on you, and you’re indemnifying the Crown if you happen to kill yourself while you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks for that!’

  ‘My pleasure, sir. We aim to please.’ I glanced around; several of the men and women were smiling as they earwigged the chat. They seemed a cheerful bunch.

  ‘Frightful, isn’t it?’ This was from a man who had moved up behind me so silently I hadn’t heard him. When I turned it was the officer of the watch from the night before. He yawned, apologized for it, and held out a hand for the ritual touch. ‘Alec Holden.’

  ‘Charlie Bassett. You passed me in last night.’

  ‘I know. Not my usual spot, but I was filling in for some bod on leave. I like to do that now and again – get to know more people. You’re a reservist, right – recalled for Queen and Country? We’ve seen a few of you lately.’

  ‘I wasn’t all that keen to return, to tell the truth, sir.’

  ‘Don’t blame you son; nor am I. I even hate coming back from leave these days. I sometimes think it was more fun when Jerry was shooting at us.’ You were younger then, I thought. I had kept my pipe in my hand throughout the ceremony of the hundred signatures. He asked, ‘Pipe man?’ I nodded. ‘Why don’t we sit outside in the sun, and have a jaw?’