The man smiled encouragingly. ‘Of course. When were you here?’
‘Nineteen forty-one.’
The man nodded. ‘At the beginning, then.’
‘Well, not long after.’
‘One of our members flew Typhoons here, but that was later in the war.’ He shuffled a few pieces of paper on the desk, as though looking for something. ‘It’s a shame he’s not here today. Anyway, yes, feel free to look around all you want. There’s quite a lot left, actually. In fact, it’s one of the best-preserved Fighter Command airfields in the country. You must have been flying Spits?’
Edward nodded. ‘324 Squadron.’
Brian nodded. ‘Of course. Are you happy going round on your own, or would you like me to show you about?’
‘No, no, please don’t trouble yourself. Very kind of you, but I’ll just wander round on my own. And try to keep out of the way of any planes.’
‘Well if you’re sure –’
‘Quite sure, honestly.’
‘Most of the blast pens are the far side. But you can walk along the edge of the old perimeter track. You’ll be quite safe there.’
Edward thanked him and went back out again. It was another warm, bright day, the mid-afternoon sun still high in the sky. A light breeze wafted across the airfield. Rabbits scurried across the thick, tufty grass at the edge of the field. Edward looked around. Unmistakably the same place, but an air of desolation seemed to have fallen upon it. The tarmac along the perimeter track was veined with thick cracks and splattered with round coppery circles of lichen. He paused by the beginning of the old main runway and looked down it – at the huge dip and rise, and wondered again how they could ever have landed there. Beyond, he saw the old blast pens rising out of the ground, now covered in long, dense grass. He wondered whether they still checked for mine shafts every morning, and smiled to himself. Had they really strapped their Spitfires to the ground? They had; his memory had not been lying.
A Cessna landed as he ambled around the edge of the airfield. Several bunkers and more blast pens. He walked up to one with a double berth, stretched down and felt the grass. It was dry, so he sat down for a moment, trying to picture himself taxiing his Spitfire in at the end of a sortie. Faces from the past stirred in his mind. Hewitson, stocky with a flat nose that had been broken more than once; Parker, taller, thin as a rake and with his thick local accent. Yes, he remembered Parker had been from round these parts. He could hear their voices, quite distinctly, from over the years, could see Parker buffing the Perspex of the windscreen and saying, ‘Clean and clear as day, sir,’ while Hewitson, whistling tunelessly, fussed underneath the wing.
Edward stood up and walked towards the cliffs. Gulls were crying and swirling, while above him skylarks sang busily. The sound of summer, he thought. There had been plenty of skylarks in 1941, too. He breathed in deeply; the air was thick with the scent of prickly gorse and wild grass. Smell and sound: the most evocative of senses, and for a brief moment the passage of time seemed to have closed. Below him, some three hundred feet, the breakers crashed against the jagged cliff face. It must have been here, he thought. About halfway between the crew room and the first blast pen. The night after his first encounter with the enemy. The Humber had been beyond repair after Jimmy’s brush with the wall, and although it had got them back to the hotel and even staggered to the airfield the following morning, the clanging had worsened and steam was hissing from the radiator. Jimmy had been over to the repair tents, but the senior mechanic had taken one look at it and told him what they’d all already known.
Over lunch, Jimmy had told the ‘B’ Flight pilots his plan. ‘Now I need absolute secrecy, all right? Not a word to anyone.’ They had all nodded. ‘Good. Tonight we’re going to push it over the cliff. We’re going to say the wind got it.’ He grinned at them sheepishly. ‘Later tonight, when I give you the nod, we’ll all walk over from the hotel. I’ve already parked it up in such a way that it’s pointing towards the cliff. A few heaves and it’ll be just another casualty of war.’
And that was precisely what they had done: stealing out of the hotel some time after ten o’clock that night, sniggering conspiratorially and walking the mile across country to the airfield. There had been a three-quarter moon, with clouds racing dramatically across the sky, so that after just a few minutes they could see their way clearly; could see the dark noses of the Spitfires pointing imperiously skywards, could see the tents and buildings of the airfield, and the vast, wide openness of the sea.
Another strong wind was blowing. Jimmy had released the handbrake and then called out, ‘Push!’ Heaving and groaning, they managed to get the Humber rolling, gently at first, then as the gradient suddenly sharpened it had run away from them, bouncing over the thick clumps of grass before finally disappearing over the edge. The noise at the bottom had been terrific.
Everyone had known, of course, although the conspirators had all kept up the charade. If Sam had been at all bothered by the loss of the Humber, he never once showed it, and a few days later another had arrived. The station commander at Portreath had apparently been demanding a new one for a while; 324 Squadron had simply inherited his old one.
Edward gingerly crept towards the edge of the cliff and peered down at the swirling white spray crashing against the shiny rocks. It must be down there somewhere, he thought. And it was on these cliffs that he and Harry and the others would go hunting for seagulls’ eggs. It had been something to do; something to eat: jackets off, sleeves rolled up, carefully clambering down the steep slopes. My God, but it’s high up, he thought. Three hundred feet! What a place for an airfield.
Later he drove to Droskyn Castle. Before he left Somerset, he had already discovered it was no longer a hotel, but he was anxious to see it all the same. Turning the corner, there it was – unmistakable, with its grey walls and castellated roof. Perched high on the cliff, overlooking the long, golden beach of Perranporth, he marvelled at its setting. Had they appreciated it then? Not really. To begin with, he had been quite put out that they were been expected to share their living quarters with paying guests. They’d appreciated the beach more. It had been strewn with wire back then, but that hadn’t stopped them. There were many occasions when he and Harry and the others had gone swimming. Being pummelled by the icy breakers had been invigorating.
Droskyn Castle was still lived in, it seemed. The gardens looked trim, the paint on the walls and windows fresh. Edward walked around it, trying to remember which of the windows belonged to the room he had shared with Harry. It had been at the side of the house, overlooking the beach, and in their time was always open; both had hated to sleep without a draught. They were shut now, with little sign of life. Edward felt suddenly lonely, and for the first time in a very long while, wished he had the company of one or other of his old squadron fellows. His time with the squadron had been frustrating in many ways, but the camaraderie – well, it could not have been faulted. Standing alone on the driveway, gazing up at the place that had once been so bursting with life and vitality, he wondered who was still alive. Scotty had died – he’d read his obituary recently; he’d gone on to be a well-known architect after the war. Sam had been moved up before he and Harry had left. Perhaps he was still alive. Jean-Hilaire had later taken over command of a Typhoon squadron, but had been killed over Normandy; Jimmy had survived the war, but had been decapitated in a flying accident a few years later – that had seemed particularly cruel. Eric had presumably returned to New Zealand. Harry – well, that was another matter. He had no idea what had happened to any of the others or what had become of Hewitson and Parker. Perhaps Parker was still living in the area. He almost wished he’d put his name on the squadron notice board at Hyde Park.
Returning to his car, he looked briefly at the map then set off once more, glancing up into his rear-view mirror as Droskyn Castle disappeared behind a bend in the drive.
It was early evening by the time he reached St Ives, and he was beginning to feel tired. Still, he was pl
eased he’d made the effort: the town was a small distance beyond Portreath, but when he’d discovered that the Tregenna Castle Hotel was still going strong, he had been determined that he should stay there.
During the war, it had been a typical English country hotel: wood panelling, open fires, faded prints and wallpaper on the walls. But it had been a big place even then; regular dances had been held every weekend with jazz bands and enough drink to keep everyone going. With the shortening days of winter, there had been even less flying and more time off duty. Saturday nights at the Tregenna Castle were looked forward to all week. There was no shortage of girls to dance with. As well as the locals, the area was awash with Land Girls and numerous WAAFs from the nearby fighter stations.
It was smarter now than he remembered: he couldn’t recall there being a golf course then, nor a row of flagpoles near the main entrance; and ivy now covered the front where once it had been simply bare brick. But having taken his case to his room, he decided to have a quick explore before dinner. The place stirred his memory. Once again, things he had not thought about for decades were propelled to the forefront of his mind. Faces from the past, snippets of conversation. Fighter pilots had still been highly regarded in Britain in 1941 – it was why they were able to get away with things that others could not, such as swimming on beaches protected by barbed wire, or pushing damaged cars over cliffs. The silver wings above the breast pocket and the top button undone on their tunic singled them out, giving them a cachet unique amongst the services. It had counted less for someone like Harry, who could talk the hind legs off anyone, with or without his uniform; but for an essentially introverted person like himself, the pride he had felt when wearing his uniform in public, combined with the solidarity of his fellow pilots, had given him added confidence, even swagger. Even so, chatting up girls had not come naturally. ‘Always say their name as much as possible and ask them questions about themselves,’ Harry had suggested, but however sound this advice may have been, Edward knew his efforts at easy charm sounded unconvincing.
But he had not needed to display much charm with Betty. She was a Land Girl on a nearby farm and latched onto Edward, suggesting he might like to dance with her. She was small but pretty, with bright lipstick and hair curled up onto her head. From Croydon – or somewhere like that. Edward had danced with her most of the night, and had bought her drinks, and then she had suggested they go outside. ‘It’s very hot in here. Come on, let’s get some air,’ and she had taken his hand and led him through the smoke and heaving throng of people.
They’d walked out of the front of the hotel and down some steps to the terrace.
‘Cigarette?’ said Edward, flicking open his new case with élan.
‘Thanks,’ she said, one arm clutched around his. And then they talked, mostly, he realised later, about flying and the escapades he and the other pilots had got up to, until she said, ‘Look, you’ll probably think I’m terribly forward, but there’s something I’ve just got to do.’ Lifting a hand to his face, she’d leant up and kissed him, first on the lips, and then, to his utter astonishment, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.
Edward found the terrace and sat down on a bench. St Ives Bay was bathed in evening sunlight. Of course, back then it had been both cold and pitch dark. Had there been a bench? In his mind’s eye, they had sat on a stone wall; at any rate, he’d enjoyed kissing Betty, particularly after he’d got over his initial surprise. For at least a week he had been sure he was madly in love, and then he had been posted away. He’d taken her out one afternoon and eaten fish and chips in St Ives, and they’d met up at the dance the following week, but then they’d been separated forever. Such a brief time together! He chuckled to himself. But it had been just as well. In his mind, she had remained as she’d been then: young, vivacious, pretty and determined to step out with a pilot. The first person he had ever properly kissed.
By that time he had been itching to be posted – and despite his youthful passion for Betty, she had not been a good enough reason to stay with 324 Squadron. After his dinner in the hotel dining room, Edward had gone back up to his room and had taken out his logbook, which had been carefully wrapped and packed in his case. No wonder he’d been bored. Day after day, it had been the same, relentlessly all through August, September and on into the winter: ‘Sector recco, 1.20; convoy patrol, 2.05; formation flying, .40; convoy patrol, 1.25; local flying, .25; dogfight, .50’. During reconnaissance flights they had rarely found anything. By one entry he had written, ‘Had a squirt at a Ju 88, but lost it in cloud’, but that had been an exception. Dogfighting was merely practising, invariably with Harry; local flying could have been anything: testing a change on the Spitfire, navigation practice, once even a display over Truro during a presentation to the Spitfire Fund. Short flights all – except one. On 13th December, 1941, he had written ‘local flying’ then had marked one hour forty minutes alongside. Ah, yes, Edward laughed to himself, I remember that one.
Cornwall – December, 1941
At the beginning of December, Sam was moved away from 324 Squadron. At thirty, he was already older than most fighter pilots, and with his promotion came a staff job at group headquarters. Command of the squadron was handed over to Jimmy. The other pilots were happy with this arrangement, but despite his combat record and despite his considerable experience, Jimmy was still only twenty-one.
A week into his new command, the squadron was moved further west to Portreath. None of the pilots were happy about this. It was regarded as a demotion and a further slap in the face. ‘Jesus!’ Jimmy had riled. ‘Who the hell do they think we are? 324’s only one of the bloody top-scoring squadrons in the Battle of Britain and now we’re kicked even further away from the action. Those fucking bigwigs want their heads examining.’ It wasn’t just the move; the bad weather and short days did little to help, and to make matters worse, the squadron had been re-equipped with long-range Spitfires, with a permanent auxiliary fuel tank slung across the port wing. Now they could fly even longer convoy patrols, but with less speed and with something of the Spitfire’s natural agility shaved away. A gloom had settled over the squadron.
12th December. Another grey, cold day. Even Cornwall had looked drab: the hedgerows and dark skeletal trees sodden and dripping after a night of heavy rain. The patchwork of fields had turned a brackish green, while the sea spreading away from the coast had turned deep and menacing and grey. Edward and Harry had practised dogfighting for half an hour, but otherwise there had been no flying. For much of the day, they had hung about the dispersal drinking mugs of tea, playing cards, and reading magazines.
‘Let’s go out tonight,’ said Harry over dinner at the mess. ‘I want to get out of here for a few hours.’
Edward nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Eric, who was sitting with them, said, ‘We can take my car if you like.’
They drove towards St Ives, the houses, villages, and towns of Cornwall shrouded by the black winter night. Not a single light pierced the dark – not one prick of brightness – only the faint beam from Eric’s headlights. They said little, the three of them, sitting hunched in their Irvins, collars raised up against the cold.
The Tregenna Castle was quiet. Midweek, and the young holidaymakers of the summer had gone. Even local people seemed to have shut up shop, preferring to stay in, conserving every penny for the long haul. In the bar, the small fire, with its green tiled surround, glowed gently.
‘Well, cheers,’ said Harry as he brought over the drinks. ‘And here’s hoping things will pick up soon.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Edward.
‘Actually, I’m hoping they will sooner rather than later,’ said Eric. ‘I’ve applied for a transfer.’
Edward and Harry looked at him incredulously. ‘To what?’ asked Harry.
‘Photo reconnaissance.’
‘PR?’ said Edward. ‘Why? Why would you want to do that?’
‘I’ll most probably still be flying Spits, but I won’t have to kill any
one. That appeals, actually.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, running his hands through his hair. ‘Well, well. Good for you, Eric.’
‘When d’you think you’ll hear?’ Edward asked.
Eric shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Might never happen. But fairly soon, I should think. They’ll either want me or they won’t.’
‘Does Jimmy know about it?’
‘No. You two are the first people I’ve told. Didn’t think there was any point saying anything until I knew for sure. But I hope it does happen – I think it’ll be exciting work.’
‘Dangerous, Eric,’ said Harry. ‘No guns.’
‘But a faster Spitfire. Anyway, all flying’s dangerous. Landing among the mineshafts of Perranporth was dangerous.’ He grinned. ‘And anyway, the PR Spits operate at pretty high altitude, you know. I really hope I get accepted. It’s got to be better than this.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Edward. ‘I’m so fed up with convoy patrols. I just don’t see the point of them. I mean, further up the Channel, in the Pas de Calais, fair enough. But down here – it’s a waste of bloody time. When was the last time we intercepted anything?’
‘We saw that Heinkel the other day,’ said Harry.
‘Yes, but we didn’t get near it, did we? When did we actually see any Jerries attacking any ships? Never. They’re not interested in attacking that far from France. I tell you, we’re completely wasted here. They should send us back to 11 Group.’
‘Perhaps they think our presence is preventative,’ suggested Eric. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I agree with you, Eddie. But there must be a reason for it, and a reason for sending us to Portreath and another squadron to Perranporth.’
Harry said, ‘We’ll get some action eventually. They can’t keep us here forever.’
‘But Eric’s not prepared to wait,’ said Edward. They were silent for a moment, each staring into their beer.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 10
