God only knew what the place was like now – not British any more, that much he knew. And it was only small. Eighteen miles by nine, or something like that. It was bound to have changed beyond recognition. Almost a completely different place. But it was no good trying to wriggle out of it with such talk. He had to go, that was all there was to it, no matter what he found when he got there. And after Malta, Italy. Be methodical, he told himself again. One thing at a time.
So the very next day, the first of the new month, he drove himself into Wincanton and visited the travel agent there. Flights to Malta were more costly than he’d imagined, but there were good package deals. ‘How about this?’ said the girl. ‘You get your flights, seven nights in a four-star hotel and full board of dinner and breakfast.’ She circled the hotel in a brochure with her biro, then eyed him intently. ‘Actually, the Preluna’s lovely,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve been there. Got its own pool and everything, and right by the sea. I can ask them for a sea view for you.’
‘Where would I fly from?’
‘Gatwick.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. Motorways. The M25 – of course, it was unavoidable.
The girl eyed him again, saw him wavering. ‘I can hold it for you if you like,’ she said. She tapped into a computer, scanned the screen, then said, ‘Yes, if you book now, we can keep it open for you for forty-eight hours.’
‘All right,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll do that.’ He wondered whether there was a train from Brampton Cary to Gatwick, one that did not involve hundreds of changes and conflicting timetables.
As he stepped out of the travel agent onto the high street, he bumped into Mark Withers, one of his old colleagues from the school.
‘Edward!’ said Mark. ‘Going on holiday?’
Edward cursed to himself. None of your bloody business – and it’s hardly a holiday, anyway. ‘Um, possibly.’
‘Christ! That must be a first, isn’t it? Going before the end of the cricketing term?’
‘It’s raining so much. I won’t miss a thing.’
Mark laughed. ‘Fair point. Well, be seeing you.’
What did Mark know? Like everyone else at the school, they thought they knew Edward Enderby. They don’t know me at all, he thought, and suddenly rather resented it. He had only himself to blame. ‘It’s your own fault,’ he mumbled to himself.
Driving home again, Edward decided he would do as the travel agent suggested. As soon he was back, he would phone and confirm the booking. He wished Harry could be with him now. Wished Lucky or Laurie or Alex or even Michael Lindsay – any of his former comrades – could be with him, just as he’d wished he could have talked to some of those from the old days when he’d been in Cornwall. Just for one evening. He wished he’d made a note of the squadron associations listed in the Veterans’ Link at Hyde Park. If only I’d had that drink with Michael and Pete Summersby, he thought.
Back in the calm order of his small house, he made a pot of tea, then sat down to think about how he could track down details of his old Squadron Associations. It was Pete Summersby he needed. Pete would know everything, just as he’d seemed to know everything during their time together on Malta. Had Pete said where he lived? Edward closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. No – or if he had, he’d forgotten. Taking the notepad and biro from the table next to his chair, he glanced at Cynthia’s photograph, then lifted the telephone and asked directory enquiries for three numbers: the Imperial War Museum, the RAF Museum in Hendon, and the RAF Club. Only on the third call, to the RAF Club, did he get anywhere. At first the receptionist sounded blank, as though he were speaking a different language from a different age, but then she passed him on to one of her colleagues. The man at the end of the line didn’t have details of all the squadron associations, but he did know Pete Summersby. ‘Stays with us regularly,’ he said.
‘Do you think you could give me his address or number?’ Edward asked.
‘Well, we’re not supposed to,’ said the voice. ‘Um . . . let me see.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Yes, here it is. Lives in Norfolk.’ Another pause. ‘Look, I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s very friendly is Mr Summersby. Perhaps you could explain to him . . .?’
‘Of course – I’ll make sure you don’t get in trouble. Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
Edward had begun to write a letter to Pete, but having already booked his holiday, felt impatient: he was flying out in six days’ time and did not want to have to wait for correspondence. So having held off until after the six o’clock watershed, he dialled the number, his heart quickening as he did so. What are you scared of, you fool? The dialling tone rang, once, twice – more than a dozen times.
‘Hello?’ said a voice just as Edward was about to ring off, a female voice.
‘Um, hello, forgive me, it’s, er, Edward Enderby here. I’m after Pete Summersby. Is this the right number?’
‘Yes, hold on.’ Edward heard the receiver being put down, then the voice yelled, ‘Dad! For you.’ A television was blaring in the background. Edward heard mutterings: ‘Who is it?’ ‘Dunno, Edward somebody,’ and footsteps. A clunk as the receiver was lifted, then Pete’s voice. ‘Hello, yes, Pete Summersby speaking.’
‘Pete, it’s Edward Enderby here.’
‘Ah, Squadron Leader, sir!’
‘No need for all that – Edward, please.’
‘Well, good to hear from you – sorry we missed you at Hyde Park. Terrific do, though, didn’t you think?’
‘Ah, yes, well, and I’m sorry I missed you too – I’m afraid it was really my grandson’s day. We got waylaid at some stall or other. But it would be good to, ah, catch up soon. Talk about the old days and so on.’
‘You must come to one of our get-togethers. Join the Association. I’ll send you the details.’
‘I’d like that.’ Edward gave Pete his address, wondering, do I really?
‘It’ll be great to have you on board. There’s a number of people you’ll know.’ He went through a list of former pilots and ground crew as well as various sons and daughters who had joined the Association, telling Edward at length about where they were living, what they had done with their lives, and anecdotes from recent meetings. A stream of enthusiastic chatter, to which Edward interjected occasionally with ‘Really?’ and, ‘Gosh, how extraordinary!’ and, ‘Oh good,’ all the while thinking, this is his life now. Eventually he managed to say, ‘Actually, Pete, I’m going to Malta next week.’
‘Malta? It’s wonderful. I’ve been going back every April for the past six years. You know what, you should look up Lucky Santini while you’re there. You remember Lucky?’
‘Lucky? Of course!’ For a moment, Edward scarcely dared believe he had heard correctly. Lucky was alive? His mood soared, his heart sang. Lucky was alive! It hadn’t occurred to him that he could be. A real friend, someone with whom he had lived and fought throughout those months. Someone who was a link between the past and present.
‘Lives on Gozo – has done for years. Didn’t you know?’
‘No, no I didn’t. I haven’t seen or spoken to anyone from the squadron in years. Since the war, really.’
‘Well, you must definitely get in touch. He’s got a nice place – an old farmhouse. Easy to get to, really. You just catch a ferry from Marsamxett Harbour. He’s rather too fond of a drink, but . . . well, who isn’t? Let me dig out his details.’
Afterwards, Edward poured himself a Scotch. He was not a great drinker – a gin and tonic occasionally, or a sherry, and sometimes a glass of wine with his supper, but he felt overwrought suddenly, and the searing taste of whisky burning down his throat calmed him. So Lucky was alive! It really was the most marvellous news he’d heard in a long time. He wondered whether he had ever kept all the photographs he’d taken – Lucky always seemed to have a camera in his hand, although God only knew where he’d got the film from. A closely guarded secret, if Edward remembered rightly. I’d like to see some of those, he thought.
And yet he was afraid too;
afraid of what he would find there. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had the strength to cope. Physically, he was as fit as he could possibly hope for at seventy-two; but it wasn’t his body he was worried about. The circles of the whirlpool were tightening, and the closer he got to the centre, the harder it was going to be to drag himself back out again. These voices from the past, they were calling to him ever more strongly now. They filled him with both mounting excitement and dread.
Malta – February, 1942
Dawn, 21st February. Down dimly lit corridors, with their endless lines of grey pipes, through a hatchway, tramping up a metal staircase and into the dining room, with its smell of grease and bacon. HMS Furious suddenly rolled slightly and Edward clutched a chair to steady himself, muttering as he did so. None of them spoke as they lined up in front of the serving hatch. Plates of dry-looking scrambled eggs and fatty bacon were handed to each pilot in turn; then, still yawning, they made their way to the tables.
Furious rolled again as Edward sat down next to Harry. His stomach heaved. Shouts came from the kitchens, but the pilots were subdued. No-one spoke much.
‘All right?’ said Harry.
Edward nodded. ‘Didn’t sleep much. Did you?’
‘Er, no. Don’t think the hammock is much of a bed.’
‘I didn’t mind that so much – it was the noise. A bloody racket all night. Every single movement on the ship seemed to reverberate round the cabin.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t fall asleep on the flight.’ He smiled, then said, ‘Who’d want to be in the Navy?’
Edward felt another wave of nausea and looked down at his plate of rapidly cooling food. He’d never felt less like eating, but knew he should try and swallow something before the long journey. And it might be the last cooked breakfast they had in a while. Food was scarce on Malta. He sliced into a piece of bacon. It was salty and greasy on his tongue; he hoped he wouldn’t vomit in the cockpit.
Fifteen minutes later, all ten of them were up on the flight deck, making their way towards the operations room for a final briefing. A strong wind whipped over the sea and across the ship, and in his cotton tropical uniform, Edward shivered. First light streaked across the horizon, but it was going to be a grey, dull morning. He looked at the Hurricanes already brought up onto the flight deck, the wings visibly shaking in the wind. They looked menacing, spectral.
A Fleet Air Arm captain briefed them. The Furious would change course into the wind – reckoned to be just under thirty knots. One of his pilots would lead them in a Fulmar; he would take off first, then they would follow in turns. The Fulmar pilot would lead them as far as Bizerte on the Tunisian coast, then they would be on their own. Enemy fighters were stationed on the tiny island of Pantelleria – it was important to try and avoid them, and, they were told, to fly high over Tunisia in case there were any German or Vichy French aircraft about there. ‘So keep a good look-out at all times,’ he told them. Yes, yes, thought Edward. They would then fly over the Cap Bon peninsula, and out over the Mediterranean once more. ‘Also watch out for Italian planes on Lampedusa,’ he warned them. From there on, it was a simple stretch to Malta. Just over seven hundred miles; with an extra eighty-eight gallon drop tank, they should have fuel to spare. At a steady cruising speed, they were expected on the island by 9.30 – a journey of around three hours.
Squadron Leader Hammond stood up. ‘R/T silence, all right? We’re lined by enemy coastlines all the way, so it’s essential we don’t give them anything to get excited about. As we get nearer we’ll tune in to the Malta frequency and let them lead us in. We’ll be flying at around 20,000 feet, and let’s spread ourselves out a bit – we don’t want to waste energy flying close formation. Clear enough?’ ‘Butch’ Hammond, as he was known, late twenties, a veteran of France and the Battle of Britain, and square-jawed with curly hair tightly oiled to his scalp. He looked like a leader, Edward thought; as though he’d been the rugger captain at school. He’d been struck by that from the moment they had all met.
Afterwards, they trooped outside again back onto the flight deck, and made for their Hurricanes. The maps and notes in Edward’s hand flapped noisily in the wind, and gusts of salty spray washed over the deck. His parachute clunked against the back of his legs. He wished there had been an opportunity to practise flying off the aircraft carrier. So it had been done before – Furious had already made four such trips, they’d been told. Well, terrific, but that’s small comfort. The flight deck still looked uncomfortably short, and he wished someone had taken out the old biplane ramp still sticking up two-thirds the way down. The deck was busy with seamen and naval ground crew. Men shouted and hurried between aircraft as the Furious and her escort of destroyers surged forward, giving an air of urgency, as though something important were about to happen. Then Edward remembered that he was about to play a central part in that.
Edward clambered onto the wing, feeling the Hurricane shudder in the wind as he did so. Inside, the cockpit was even more cramped than he remembered from his days at OTU. Each pilot had been allowed just thirty pounds of kit, most of which he had wedged either side of the seat the previous evening: one change of clothes, a peaked cap, a couple of novels, shaving kit and toothbrush; notebook and logbook. That was all, really. Nor were the planes armed: the eight machine guns were considered too heavy. In their place had been jammed as many packets of cigarettes as the gun ports would allow. ‘They’re short of cigarettes on Malta,’ Hammond had explained. ‘But what if we’re attacked?’ Edward had asked him. Butch had shrugged. ‘Let’s hope we’re not.’
Edward struggled to get comfortable. He felt hemmed in, while underneath his backside was a packed inflatable dinghy; he was already sitting on his parachute and his head almost touched the top of the canopy. Three hours of this. He prayed the switch on his overload tank would work – he’d checked it twice the day before and it had seemed to be working fine, but if anything went wrong . . . He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
The ship suddenly turned, tilting as it did so. Edward looked up in alarm. And the Furious was building up speed too, scything into the wind, with great sheets of spray showering the deck. The five aircraft in front of Edward began starting up, one by one, licks of flame and smoke briefly flickering from the exhaust stubs. Having primed the engine, Edward set the throttle, flicked on the magneto switches, then pressed the starter button. Please start. The propeller jerked, stopped, jerked again, then the engine erupted into life, the airscrew now just a whirr in front of him. Thank you. Throttling back to warm the engine, he waited. The deck officer, his flag aloft, was now standing in front of Butch Hammond, the first in line. Edward could see the leading Hurricane shaking with the force of the revs. The flag dropped and the aircraft hurtled down the deck, lifted off the ramp, dropped again, then slowly rose into the air once more.
Harry was third off. Edward watched breathlessly as his friend disappeared over the end of the aircraft carrier, only to reappear moments later. Another sigh of relief. The fourth and fifth followed, and then Edward was being motioned to taxi to the end of the deck and to line himself up on the white central line. With both arms raised, the flight-deck officer looked at him. Edward opened the throttle, felt the airframe rattle and shake and gave a wave. His mouth felt dry, his stomach dull. His heart drummed in his chest. Here goes. The flight-deck officer dropped his flag, Edward released the brakes, and the Hurricane sped down the flight deck, Edward jolting and shaking in his seat. Come on, come on, he thought. The Hurricane hit the ramp, flew into the air, Edward pulled back on the stick, and then, as he willed the plane to take to the sky, it lifted off past the end of the flight deck. Glancing behind him, he saw the Furious shrink. Breathing out heavily, he grinned to himself – thank God that’s over – and then climbed up to join the others, now circling over the convoy below.
All ten of them took off successfully, and having formed up on the Fulmar, began the climb high into an unfamiliar sky. For a while Edward continued to twist and tu
rn his head, constantly checking the sky, but as the minutes passed, so he began to feel calmer. He’d been so anxious about simply getting into the air that the danger from enemy aircraft seemed far less in comparison. And the sky was so vast, so utterly empty, and with fellow Hurricanes either side of him, his thoughts began to wander.
It was, he thought, incredible to think that so little had happened for months on end, and then within two weeks he was flying over the Mediterranean on his way to Malta. It was Scotty who’d started the ball rolling. Another morning sat in the crew room at Portreath; another morning when there had been little flying. And then Scotty had wandered in and asked if anyone fancied a posting to Burma. They were aware of what was going on in the Far East – the Japanese had rampaged down through Malaya and were threatening Singapore. In the Philippines, the Americans had not fared much better. The prospect of joining Air Command, India, seemed fraught with risk. No-one had put their hand up. Scotty had shrugged – I don’t blame you – and wandered back to his office.
A Pair of Silver Wings Page 12
