A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  But after the frustrations of the past few months, their good fortune returned. Their anxieties had been for nothing: both were assigned to fighters, both were sent to the same Operational Training Unit, and, four weeks later, their training complete, both were posted to the same squadron.

  For the fourth night in a row, Edward woke up sweating and shaking. Once his brain had recovered and he realised he was in his bedroom after all, he felt so upset he thought he might even cry. He couldn’t understand it. Why now? Why, after keeping it all consigned to the vaults of his mind for so long, was it flooding back, tormenting him and refusing to give him any peace? And yet, later, as he ate his breakfast and his eyes absently skimmed the front page of The Times, it occurred to him that looking back on some of those days, remembering the excitement and the funny times he had had with Harry, had been comforting in a way; cathartic even, for want of a better word.

  After breakfast he made himself a cup of coffee, then took himself into the sitting room and sat down on his usual chair. He glanced at the photograph of Cynthia. ‘All this was before I even knew you,’ he mumbled. For some time he sat staring out at some undefined spot, his newspaper folded on his lap. Several minutes later, he stood up suddenly, slammed his newspaper onto the chair and stomped upstairs. He took a pole from behind the spare-room door, hooked it into the hatch in the ceiling and pulled down the retracting aluminium steps. Somewhat shakily, he climbed up into the roof space. Even up there, where eyes seldom preyed, the impression was one of neatness. Cardboard packing boxes and old suitcases were piled carefully and clearly labelled. He knew exactly where to look: a black metal money tin, not much bigger than a large shoebox. It stood on top of a couple of boxes labelled, ‘Edward – Old Files etc.’ He had not kept many mementos from his life, and hardly any from the war. He lifted the tin. It was not heavy. Carefully he descended the ladder, one arm clutching the tin, the other steadying himself on the ladder. Then he hoisted the ladder again and shut the hatch. For a moment, he paused on the landing, then went into his bedroom. Downstairs, with its windows and glass doors leading into the small garden, was too exposed; he wanted privacy, complete privacy.

  Laying the tin on the bed, he undid the catch and opened the lid. A wave of mustiness leapt out from the long-sealed contents. He fingered the strip of ribbon that had denoted his medals – that had once been sewed to the breast of his RAF tunic. The tin contained a collection of other things he had forgotten about: his birth certificate, a small Bible given to him at his christening – ‘With love from John, 16th July, 1923’ inscribed on the inside. Who was John? He had no idea. A menu from a Christmas lunch in 1942, cuttings from the London Gazette with his citations. There were a few letters, too – letters he had found after his mother had died. They had been written during the early part of the war – the last was from June, 1942. He had wondered at the time why she had kept only those; he’d written regularly, whenever he had been able. One was stamped ‘10th September, 1940’, and he picked it out, carefully taking the paper from the envelope. ‘Dearest Mother, Sorry to make another request but could you send my cricket whites? It looks like we might be playing cricket every weekend that we’re here. I’m sharing a room with Harry Barclay, the sports writer of the Evening Standard. He’s a terrific fellow and a fine batsman. Dad and I saw him score a hundred for Kent a couple of years ago. Isn’t it funny to think we are now going to be flying together?’ Another was stamped ‘9th July, 1941’. It was to his father, written whilst at his Operational Training Unit at Debden. ‘We should finish here next Monday – have no idea where I’ll get posted, but I hope it’s still with Harry. It really is essential that we stick together as we get on very well indeed and that makes a lot of difference when going to a new station.’ Then he smiled. ‘As regards your last warning about liquor: apart from three or four shandies, I haven’t had any sort of alcohol at all since coming here. I never believe in drinking too much too often, but just occasionally when I’m not flying the next day.’

  Ah yes! thought Edward. He remembered he had shown both his father’s letter and his reply to Harry – they’d thought it hilarious. A few days later they had been told they were both going to 57 Squadron to fly Spitfires. To celebrate, they’d all taken the train into London – he and Harry and most of the pilots from the course – and had headed first to the White Horse pub in Mayfair and then to a string of clubs. And every time they’d bought another round, Harry had said, ‘Of course, Eddie only drinks shandies and only when he’s not flying the next day.’ It had seemed more and more funny as the night wore on. My God, but they had been drunk that night; and if not quite the Perfect Day of their imaginations, it had certainly been a very memorable – and happy – one nonetheless.

  They had all drunk a lot back then. More than he ever would again. Even when they’d joined 57 Squadron in Cornwall – they’d gone to the pub most nights. Edward had thought nothing of waking up still half drunk. A blast of oxygen soon cleared the head.

  He placed the letters next to the medals and other bits of paper, then took out the blue silk scarf folded there. His heart was quickening, a shot of nausea rose from his stomach, and he felt his throat tighten. Hastily, he put it down again. Not now, and for a moment he had to look away completely. He sighed heavily, shuddering as he breathed out again, closed his eyes briefly, then turned back to the box. At the bottom of the tin lay what he was after. The blue cloth binding of his logbook was faded and stained, and the paper yellowed with ageing. Putting it to one side, he placed everything else back, shut the lid and carefully lodged the tin in the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers, next to his folded pullovers; there was plenty of space there now that it housed only his clothes.

  He noticed his hands were shaking slightly as he opened it and began flicking through. People from the past leapt from the pages: commanding officers and flight commanders, signing off his monthly tallies of flights. His own handwriting, scrawled in the fountain pen his father had given him when he’d been sent off to school – he’d kept it with him for much of the war. Some people used their logbooks as a record of flying only, but Edward, like others, liked to add comments and small notes along the way. Here and there were the details of various dogfights: ‘had a squirt, but he disappeared into cloud’ and occasionally a swastika when he had shot an aircraft down. ‘We were the second English course to be trained under the Joint Air Training Programme in Canada – the flying discipline was very strict, but the flying was most enjoyable,’ he had written at the end of his time in Ontario, then added, ‘We hope the Canadians will be coming to England with us – gee, they’re swell guys (to put it in Canadian).’

  How young he seemed then. He felt suddenly overwhelmed by sadness, and his throat tightened once more. He ran his hand across his eyes. The loss of youth, the loss of innocence; it was so tragic. But most of all he felt a sense of despair for what he knew now faced this young man; a young man so full of exuberance and striking vitality.

  He was being drawn back, and he felt powerless to do anything about it. He hadn’t asked for the fiftieth anniversary; he hadn’t wanted to go to London. But he recognised that opening that tin box from his past had been his choice. It was something he had sworn he would never do. A line had been crossed; a point of no return. The broken nights would continue, the daydreams too. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rubbed his forehead, his anger rising. He didn’t want this; he wanted to be left alone – to watch his cricket, to potter about, to finish his life with some kind of peace of mind.

  Edward stood up, sighed, then retrieved a small suitcase from the cupboard in the spare room. He had thought the past had been swept away by the life he had created at Myddleton College: the school and his family had ensured his great deception had worked for nearly fifty years. But now the game was up. There was nothing else for it: he had to continue what he had already unwittingly begun. If the past was erupting like a dormant volcano, then he had to let it run its course. A journey faced him; a journey int
o his past. He would be methodical about it. Cornwall first, then he supposed, Malta; and then, and only then, Italy. It was, he now realised, something he simply had to do. Only then would he rediscover the peace of mind he so badly craved. But my God, he thought, I hope I have the strength for this.

  Cornwall – August, 1941

  Edward glanced around, checking the clear blue sky for what seemed like the hundredth time. Once again there was nothing: no black specks on the horizon, just the other three Spitfires of Blue Section, Jimmy Farrell ahead of him, and behind and several thousand feet below, Eric Norton and Harry. Jimmy banked and turned, and Edward followed, weaving back in a wide sweep, the sun crossing over his wings and glinting blindingly as it glanced over the Perspex canopy of Jimmy’s aircraft.

  From sixteen thousand feet, Edward could see the whole of Cornwall and beyond stretching away from him, its familiar elongated shape and jagged coastline dozing peacefully in the late afternoon sun. Despite the beauty of such a sight, Edward was bored. Three days they’d been escorting the little convoy below – three days, and it was only now rounding Land’s End! He had already discovered how tedious convoy patrols could be – most of the enemy fighter stations were further north in the Pas de Calais – but escorting a floating dry dock from Avonmouth on its way to Southampton was proving excruciating; since the tugs towing this cumbersome piece of equipment could manage no more than two knots, the Spitfires were forced to constantly weave back and forth, and at pitifully slow speeds. They’d taken it in turns, one section at a time, but even so, Edward had flown once already that morning, once the previous day, and twice the day before that. And the same every time: weaving back and forth, the Merlin engine barely ticking over and not even the faintest whiff of the enemy.

  He looked at his fuel gauge: it was getting low. Come on, Jimmy, he thought, let’s head for home. After two more sweeps back and forth, his earphones crackled and Jimmy’s voice came through his headset. ‘All right, let’s go,’ said Jimmy. At last, thought Edward, as they turned north-east, back towards Perranporth.

  A little over ten minutes later, Edward landed and taxied his aircraft into one of the many blast pens hastily built along the station perimeter.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked Hewitson, as Edward jumped down from the wing root.

  ‘Perfectly, thanks,’ he said stroking the wing with one hand. The engine was clicking noisily as it began to cool.

  ‘See anything?’ said Parker.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I take it that’s a “no” then, sir.’

  ‘Not a bloody thing.’

  ‘Same old, same old,’ said Parker.

  ‘You said it.’ Thanking them, he began walking back to the crew room, a large khaki marquee pegged in besides a number of small wooden huts scattered around the edge of the airfield. The last of the flight had landed and was closing in to one of the blast pens just ahead of him. Edward waved and seeing Harry wave back, hurried over.

  ‘I can’t believe we’ve got another two days of this,’ said Edward, as Harry leapt off the wing to join him.

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever see any enemy planes? I’m beginning to think they don’t exist – that it’s really just a figment of our imagination that the Luftwaffe’s out there.’

  Harry laughed. ‘I could think of worse ways of spending my time, though.’ He put an arm on Edward’s shoulder. ‘After all, we’re alive and improving our flying hours. That’s got to be a good thing. And it’s another beautiful day. I’m very happy to be alive right now.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his tunic, gave one to Edward, then paused to light both. Now that ‘B’ Flight was in, the airfield had become quiet, as though it were dozing gently in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Twenty past five,’ said Harry aloud, glancing at his watch. He squinted and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Still warm,’ he said. ‘This weather’s amazing.’ Only the slightest of breezes was blowing off the sea. Gulls were calling from the cliffs.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Edward, ‘this is pretty good. I shall never complain again.’

  Most of the other pilots from ‘A’ Flight were sitting outside the crew room on an assortment of striped deckchairs and old armchairs dragged out of the hut. The rest of ‘B’ Flight had already taken off to continue the escort work, while Jimmy and Eric were smoking and talking to Scotty, the Intelligence Officer. Edward and Harry joined them. Scotty raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, but otherwise continued stroking his moustache and nodding earnestly at Jimmy.

  ‘Oh, hullo, you two,’ said Jimmy. ‘Anyway, Scotty, I’m going to bloody well talk to Sam about this as it’s a total waste of our time. Our poor Spits are dying flying at that speed. It’s an insult to them. I tell you, they should send us to Warmwell and get us skipping over the Channel. Much better use of our time and our aircraft.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Scotty. ‘I think it’s no secret that some of the bigwigs are pretty clueless, Jimmy. But ours not to reason why.’

  ‘Balls,’ said Jimmy. ‘Someone needs to stick their neck out. Perhaps I should call on them – in fact, I’d love to.’

  ‘I’m sure that would go down well,’ said Dougie from the comfort of his armchair.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Jimmy, flicking his cigarette away. ‘I hardly think they’re going to sack an experienced fighter pilot for speaking his mind.’

  Dougie grinned. Scotty said, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  Edward looked up as Sam stepped out of his hut and strode over.

  ‘Jimmy wants to politely express his views about convoy patrols to the bigwigs,’ said Dougie.

  ‘Really?’ said Sam. ‘Excellent idea.’

  ‘Sorry, Sam,’ said Jimmy, ‘but this is beyond a joke. If I have to weave back and forth over that bloody barge one more time I think I’ll go mad.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Edward.

  The CO turned sharply and eyed him, an amused expression on his face. ‘Well, here’s something a bit more exciting for you. It seems Naval Intelligence are getting fed up with seeing German reconnaissance planes far out into the Atlantic. They’re sending their Condors out from Brest and feeding information back to the U-boats. They want us to try and pick them off. Apparently, they usually swing by the Scillies at first light.’ He turned to Jimmy. ‘You can take Eddie here with you since you’re both so keen for something different.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jimmy. ‘You’re up for that, aren’t you, Eddie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sam clapped Edward on the arm. ‘Good. And as soon as Green Section come back, “B” Flight can stand down.’

  Edward was woken at 3.30 the following morning by an orderly shaking him. ‘Sir, sir. Time to get up, sir.’

  Edward opened his eyes immediately. It was still dark, but the door was open and light from the corridor was pouring into the room.

  ‘All right, thanks,’ he said, squinting sleepily. Across the room, Harry continued sleeping, his breathing heavy. Edward cursed his eagerness of the day before. He’d sworn to Harry that he was going straight to bed after dinner, but Harry had said, ‘You can’t possibly go to bed just yet,’ and so Harry had agreed to have just one beer. But while they had been drinking their first pint, two girls had joined them. On holiday from London, they had arrived that afternoon; the RAF may have requisitioned the top floor, but the rest of the Droskyn Castle Hotel was still open to paying guests. Most were retired couples, but from time to time – increasingly it seemed – younger, female holidaymakers appeared, as anxious to find some male company as the pilots were to drool over them. And so Edward had stayed: they had been good-looking and flirtatious; he’d not wanted to miss out, especially as Harry seemed to be making good progress with the one called Dorothy. Occasionally, he had joined in the conversation too. Conversation with strangers – especially girls – did not come as easily to him as it did Harry, whose abundance of charm
he had recognised the moment they had met at Liverpool Street station, but he had still felt a sense of excitement – a frisson of sexuality – as they’d sat there regaling Dorothy with their stories and listening to her ready laughter.

  Ten minutes later, after a perfunctory wash and shave, (in which he managed to nick himself in three places), Edward stumbled downstairs and out of the front door of the hotel. His head throbbed and his mouth felt acidic and dry. A wind was blowing – it cut across him and he nearly lost his cap. He could hear the rollers crashing into the foot of the cliffs below. Patting his sides with his hands to keep warm, he wondered where Jimmy was. Clouds were racing across the sky, but it was impossible to tell what kind of day it would become; perhaps not as golden and warm as the previous few days, but it often blew along the north Cornish coast. To his amazement, they had even strapped their Spitfires to the ground on occasion, using guy ropes and large corkscrew pieces of metal. On one of his first flights, he had been greeted at the end of the runway by his fitter and rigger, who had signalled to him frantically to stop, then had jumped on either side of the tail fin. Edward had wondered what the hell was going on. ‘The wind, sir,’ Parker had explained once they had finally pulled into the blast pen. ‘You’re all right when you’re landing into a headwind, but when it crosses you, the Spit’s liable to tip over. We’ve discovered sitting on the elevators makes all the difference.’ The blast pens, Edward quickly discovered, were more use in protecting the precious machines from the wind than they were against bombs. St Eval, up the road, had been targeted repeatedly by the enemy bombers, but so far little windswept, Perranporth had been spared.