Close Quarters

by Thomas Wood

  The billowing clouds kept on coming, like a spewing volcano, while I put the aircraft into a shallow dive, levelling off for a few seconds so that I could take in the pure, brilliant white of the latest cloud’s internal organs.

  The light began to stutter and waiver as I left one cloud and entered another, allowing me just a quick glimpse at my fuel gauge. It was lingering somewhere just over halfway, which meant that it was time to head for home, unless I wanted a very angry Flight Sergeant barking at me, while also trying not to end up on an insubordination charge.

  I edged the paddle forward and within half a second, I was below the clouds once again. It had done nothing but rain for the past few days, but I had been graced with a fleeting break in the poor weather, that meant I had been able to fly solo for the first time.

  Everything below me though was slightly subdued, a darker colour to the fields and trees that stood guard on the earth below. Nothing seemed to move, just a damp, dark world trying to dry itself out in the last few minutes of fading sunshine.

  There was a chill as I got closer to the surface of the earth, one that I hadn’t experienced in the half an hour or so that I had spent above the clouds. The hairs that had stood upright through pure joy and elation now did so to catch any kind of warmth that they could, and the pimples of my skin rose up as a shiver shot through my body.

  The world seemed impossibly darker here, as if the sun had been staying awake just long enough for me to enjoy myself, but had now retired to bed.

  Shadows slowly rolled over the fields below, plunging everything into a sweeping darkness.

  “It’s going to rain again,” I said into my mask, trying to comfort myself as one does when convinced there are monsters under the bed. “Best get back soon.”

  I began circling over the landscape, taking in everything that I could use as some sort of waypoint, pulling my map onto my lap.

  This was the very purpose that I had been sent up, to ensure that I could still navigate having been disorientated by being above the clouds, but it was harder than I thought it would have been.

  I kept my wings level and throttled down slightly, so that I didn’t accidentally find myself somewhere over France in the blink of an eye.

  I looked down at my lap, my gloved finger tracing where it was I thought I could have been, before sliding it over to the airfield where all my fun had started.

  Adjusting my mask over my face, allowing a blast of cool air to relieve the perspiration that had formed up on the inside, I saw something dance fantastically over my right shoulder.

  I craned my neck to see if I could see anything, but there was nothing there. Instead, I looked dead ahead once again, just as I caught something zip over my left wing.

  As soon as I had realised what it was, the bullets had found their target, and the soft thump as rounds ripped into the flesh of the Hurricane soon filled my ears.

  I dived, harder than I perhaps should have done, trying to remember everything that I had learned in the classroom about what to do when a 109 appeared on your tail.

  Full throttle. Fine pitch. Full left rudder. Full left and full forward stick.

  I held it for a few seconds as I barrelled into a horrific spin.

  My eyes felt as though they were about to push through the back of my skull, and I could feel blood rushing to try and fill them as I was blinded by the sheer weight of the force that pushed down on my head.

  I began to panic as I heard the rounds continue to flitter on the wings of the Hurricane, ripping huge chunks out of my precious machine.

  “Why are you still on me? How are you still there?!” I screamed at the top of my lungs; my limbs now so heavy that I was finding it difficult to pull the Hurricane from the negative spin.

  Blindly, I fumbled around, trying to go through the motions of pulling myself out of the spin before I collided with the ground. As I did so, my eyesight returned, the dampened yellow of a freshly threshed, recently rained upon field filled my vision.

  I braced for impact.

  “Johnny.”

  I took the glass that was pushed under my nose, drank, and grimaced, forcing it down.

  It shocked my body for a moment, before allowing it to warm my blood once again and bring me back to my senses.

  “Same dream?” Mike asked as he backed away from me cautiously, as I shuffled around in the chair. My clothes were sodden.

  They clung to every inch of my skin as if they had somehow become fused together in the short time that I had been asleep.

  “Yeah,” I whispered back to him, my throat hoarse either from the fear of the dream or the strong drink that Jules had managed to find from somewhere.

  I noticed quite quickly that a plethora of faces stared back at me, wary of the ticking time bomb that I had become. I tried to pull myself together for them, but especially for one face in particular.

  Georges pootled up towards me and sat at my feet, clearly understanding the warning signs that I, as a mad man, was giving off.

  “I have nightmares too,” he said, unfazed by my spasming body, as he pushed a small four-wheeled toy around the floor.

  “I know,” I growled, far more viciously than I ought. “You’ve told me before,” I tried to force out something that resembled a smile but could only muster a slight twitch of my lips.

  Mike called Georges to him, to engage with him some more and get him away from me. It was becoming impossible for me to hide my emotions, I could even see it in the wide, awe-filled eyes of young Georges as he was dragged across the floor.

  He could tell, despite his young years, that I had dismissed him forcefully. It was not because I did not believe him that I had done so, but because I thought mine were more affecting than his, more important, which, in his world at least, was not the case.

  I closed my eyes as I tried to bring everything back down to its normal levels. My ears continued to thump methodically as the sounds of the rounds continued to hit my wingtips, until they grew louder and longer, like a percussion instrument.

  “Shush. Listen in,” Andrew said, as I realised that the bullets had become a drum, thumping out the start of the Messages Personnels.

  Everyone stood upright as the man, crackled and weak, began to speak.

  “Ici Londres! Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français…”

  He continued to speak, above the racket that had started to sound as the Germans tried their utmost to jam the signal, almost always failing. That night was no different.

  “…avant de commencer, veuillez écouter quelques messages personnels…”

  The defiant voice continued unperturbed, as he began to spew all kinds of obscure statements and humorous anecdotes. It was clear to everyone that these were coded messages but, without the context and the necessary codes, the Germans had no hope in deciphering them, or understanding what they meant.

  I was convinced that well over half of them were meant for no one other than the newsreader, who must have taken great enjoyment in broadcasting statements like ‘ta mère a pris une baignoire sale à l'église.’

  Your mother took a dirty bathtub to church.

  I let the others listen in, knowing full well that they would not miss the message, even if I did. I kept an ear out, catching phrases here and there, as the whine of a failing jammer continued to scream out into the room.

  “Sylvie est grande mais parfois non.”

  That was what they had been waiting for.

  I sat in the chair, biting my knuckle hard as I tried to ignore the sopping clothes that I sat in, fearful that consciously thinking about it would make me perspire even more.

  “Well, that’s that then,” Mike announced slapping his thigh.

  “Tomorrow night,” Andrew said with a smile on his face, lurching towards Mike and shaking hands.

  “Just as well. Your four-week time limit runs out tomorrow,” Jules said, with a sobering effect on the two congratulating each other.

  “Nothing will go wrong. We’ve p
repared well,” Mike said, rising from his chair and pacing the floor, ruffling Georges’ hair as he did so. “Don’t worry Jules. After tomorrow night, you won’t have to worry about any more raids. This is going to start a new war. One where there aren’t as many innocent casualties.”

  Jules turned away violently and scampered through the door.

  “What’s got into him?” Mike asked the room, shrugging.

  “Shush!” Christopher mumbled, waving at everyone to take their seats. He scooted in closer to the wireless set and practically cradled the thing towards his ear as he sat on the floor.

  “What?”

  “Shush!”

  Mike did as he was told, with a bemused look on his face as everyone around him told him to keep his mouth shut.

  “La porte du jardin est peinte en rose.”

  “Ah! Aha!” he suddenly exclaimed, as the broadcaster slowly came to the end of his evening session. “Rose! Rose!”

  He began to screech, standing unsteadily on his feet, his wide thighs threatening to buckle under the weight of his top half. He stretched to the ceiling, which was still a long way off for him, before linking his fingers behind his head.

  “The garden gate is painted pink. What’s that got to do with us?”

  “It has nothing to do with you!” he babbled. “It has everything to do with me!”

  “Spit it out, man. What are you going on about?”

  “It is painted pink! I am a father! To a little girl!”

  I snorted audibly, as my stomach lurched from one side to the other, my mind having a battle with itself over whether to feel happy for the man, or a burning jealously.

  I settled with the happiness, as my jealousy was borne from a nightmare which I could not wish upon anyone.

  19

  Mike had never been one for needing an excuse to have any kind of celebration, and so, by the time I was able to garner enough energy to lift my weary and burdensome limbs up the stairs to bed, a small party was gathering pace below.

  There was a little bit of music, that filtered through the floorboards occasionally, just above the din of the three remaining men downstairs as they basked in one another’s happiness.

  That was the thing about people who were always looking over their shoulder, worried about what the next day might bring, if someone around you had a smile on their face, then it did you no harm to wear one back. As you didn’t quite know if you would still be able to do the same tomorrow.

  It was a feeling that I had often shared, but the message that we had received had not filled me with the hope of changing the war, in the way that it had for everyone else.

  I was worried, petrified even, and it was in no small part down to the looming shadow of the dream that I had lingering over me.

  It was not the end of the world I told myself as, if I was to die tomorrow, then there would be no other soul who would ever experience one my nightmares ever again. I took an ounce of hope from the fact that that had been the last one that would ever race through my mind.

  My aching brain and weary eyes were so affected by the exhausting dream, that I almost clattered into the back of Jules as he edged his way out of Georges bedroom. Gently, he closed the door, before jumping as he saw me standing directly behind him like some sort of silent assassin.

  “Jean. Ah, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry, Jules. I-I didn’t mean to. Goodnight,” I said, taking in the sight of the floorboards as I traipsed towards my room at the back of the house.

  “Erm, Jean,” he whispered loudly, as if trying to call me back. “Georges. I know you care for him. But when he says he has the nightmares too…”

  “I know. I’m sorry Jules. I will talk to him about it in the morning. I just couldn’t stomach it tonight.”

  “He means it, Jean. He has the nightmares. Because he…he saw them first. It is why it is so remarkable that he is the way he is. He was the one to find…”

  “Jules?” I said, stepping closer to him and catching the first tears as they fell to the floor with a soft plink.

  “You promise that these air raids will stop? If you succeed tomorrow?”

  “I can almost guarantee it,” I said boldly, with a hint of deception rumbling somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I did not like lying, but especially to a man like Jules, who had done nothing more than help us.

  “Georges he-he…When the bombers came over…We found him in the rubble the next morning. He was still holding Céleste’s hand.”

  “Who is Céleste?” I asked tentatively, craning my head to try and find his eyes under his bowed head.

  “She was my wife. Georges’ mother. He held her hand through it all. She must have died hours before. He saw it all.”

  I suddenly felt quite sick, and overwhelmingly guilty. I had loved the child but had equally been quick to dismiss him as fast as I could on account of the fact that I could not see past my own situation and sorrow. The boy had lost his mother which, at such a young age, was a travesty beyond words.

  “Jules,” I said, resting both hands on his shoulders, the sweat lifting from my body and the strength returning to my muscles. “I will make sure that we see this through. For you, and for Georges. With any luck, it’ll mean that the rest of Georges’ experience of this war will be limited to just the rationing.”

  I smiled warily, as he sucked up the final few tears that were already out of the ducts.

  “I know you will. I know. I trust you. Thank you.”

  I squeezed his shoulders tightly and patted his arms as I let him stand on his own two feet again.

  “Goodnight, Jean.”

  “Goodnight, Jules.”

  I turned and headed for bed, the incredible pressure that was already resting on my shoulders now taking on the form of a weight that was three times as heavy.

  I could feel sorry for Georges all I liked on that night. But, as soon as morning rolled round, it would be time to push his innocent little face from my mind, and make sure the Germans paid for what they did to his mother.

  20

  The long, drawn-out shadows that flickered along the courtyard floor were mesmerising, as the men that cast them moved away, the darkness dancing like a flame. The walls that surrounded the courtyard allowed little of the late afternoon sun to conquer its perimeter and, as I stood in a newly-formed shadow in one of the corners, smoking, a chill passed over me that pricked at the hairs on my arms.

  I rolled the sleeves of my boiler suit down to my wrists, resisting the urge to shiver and rub my limbs, instead occupying myself with the faces of the men who were passing me by without a second glance.

  All around faces came and went, a few that I recognised, the majority that I had never before seen. Soon though, I watched as faces that I knew well began to form from the shadows, featureless to begin with, but more rounded and defined as we got closer to each other.

  It was a comfort to know that I wasn’t alone, and that I would have someone to both rely on, as well as avoid letting down. I had always found that more of a driving force than anything else, the fear of knowing that someone else wasn’t able to do their job, simply because you had failed to do yours. It was something that I was petrified of, as I padded across the courtyard, like a prisoner, taking his exercise out in the yard.

  My footsteps were silent as I glided across the ground, the plimsoles on my feet cushioning the noise that was so emanant on all the other workers’ feet.

  My toes twitched around inside as I excitedly tried to get some sort of feeling back into them, the narrow, constricting nature of the plimsoles rubbing at my skin and making them raw. All the same, the electricity that pulsated through the tips of my toes was apparent around the whole of my body, as my thoughts turned to my evening’s work.

  There was an ecstasy, that was only kept in check by the almost paralytic fear that something was going to go horribly wrong, the two balancing each other out nicely so that I remained in possession of a calm mind.

  It was wha
t was stopping the erraticism of my thoughts, as I coolly made my way through the steps that we had planned to take, and any eventuality that I could think of. By visualising everything, from being compromised by some Germans to stitched up by another factory worker, I had a simmering confidence that we were going to succeed.

  I flicked my cigarette away with a large exhale of breath, as I attempted to ground myself once more. Dogfights had only ever been lost because of the sheer arrogance of the loser, as my CO had once reminded us all.

  I wasn’t in the air now, or in possession of a rapid weapon of war, but the principles applied all the same. I had to keep myself in check.

  There was a lot riding on this, I found myself muttering internally, far too much to allow arrogance to be our stumbling block.

  A whole town, just the other side of the wall that was now forcing its shadow upon me, relied on what was in the hands of just a few men on the inside. If only they had known, if only I could just have been able to tell them to hold on a little bit more, and someone would do something about all the bombs. They deserved it.

  They had been battered and bruised, decimated and destroyed, hundreds of bombers dropping thousands of pounds worth of explosives. All those endless nights of terror, hoping to be ended by a handful of men and a couple of pounds of explosives.

  On paper, none of it seemed quite right. But we had done our research.

  They would know soon enough, I told myself, as the urge to scream and shout to all of the inhabitants of Besançon grew stronger once more. They would hear the explosions and the confusion of the Germans and know that someone was fighting back for them. I had to wipe the smile from my face, as some of the departing workers were starting to give me odd looks.

  I twisted and turned as I slithered in and out the tidal wave of workers that were now pouring from every door that I could see. I battled against the tide as I made it to the centre, where we had all agreed to meet before heading back inside.