The Danger of Life

by Ken Lussey

  ‘I was on routine foot patrol, sir, over at the dispersal used by the photo reconnaissance squadron. It was about 1.30 a.m. and I thought I heard a noise coming from one of the parked aircraft. It was dark, of course, but the moon’s not far off full, so there was some light coming through gaps in the cloud. Then I caught a brief flash of torchlight and another sound, which I thought was the aircraft access hatch being opened.’

  ‘What did you do then?’ asked Flight Lieutenant Buchan. Bob was pleased that Buchan was keen to take over the interview.

  ‘I walked over towards the aircraft and then saw a movement underneath it. I shouted out a challenge and switched on my torch. I was about twenty yards from the aircraft and, in the light of the torch, saw a man in army uniform raising a pistol towards me. I threw down the torch to avoid giving him too much of a target and raised my Sten gun. He fired his pistol, and then I fired a short burst at the muzzle flash. Then I picked up my torch again and went over to him. It seems I had hit him twice, and the access hatch of the aircraft once.’

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Buchan.

  ‘The sound of the gunfire brought others to the scene very quickly. The Polish sergeant, as I’m told he was, was taken to the medical centre in an ambulance, but it seems he was already dead.’

  ‘Was there any indication as to what the intruder was trying to do?’ asked Bob. ‘Any sign of explosives or that sort of thing?’

  ‘No sir, though I’m told that a copy of the local one-inch to the mile Ordnance Survey map was found on him.’

  Buchan asked, ‘Did anyone else witness what happened?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, sir, but quite a few people heard the shots. I know why you are asking, of course. But you have to believe that I’d never have fired first. If I’m honest, I’d never have thought that I could shoot a man. Training on the range is one thing, but knowing that you are firing at a real living person is something totally different. In the heat of the moment, though, and after he’d fired at me, it was somehow easier than I expected.’

  Bob found he believed the young man. As a pilot Bob had been no stranger to death, or to killing, but it was only recently that he had been forced to confront the need to pull the trigger of a gun pointing at a man standing a few feet away from him. The corporal’s account brought back unpleasant memories, but the truth of what he said was compelling.

  Sergeant Bennett drove the borrowed staff car out of RAF Leuchars and through the neighbouring village. Bob sat in the back with Flight Lieutenant Buchan.

  In the village they turned right to pass the eastern end of a spectacularly decorated church. ‘You don’t see many like that,’ said Bob.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Sergeant Bennett. ‘That’s St Athernase Church. The blind arcading around the chancel and apse at this end dates back to before 1200. It’s said to be one of the two or three finest pieces of Norman stonework anywhere in Great Britain. It’s nice to see something that reminds us that the world wasn’t always at war.’

  Buchan saw the look of surprise on Bob’s face. ‘Peter was studying to be an architect before the war, sir. Travelling around the country with him is a real education.’

  Bennett said, ‘There’s not much call for architects in wartime, sir, as it seems possible to produce anything you want in concrete or corrugated iron. And I suppose that after the war the priority will be on minimising cost and maximising speed when we rebuild what’s been destroyed.’

  ‘I’m not sure I entirely agree, sergeant,’ said Bob. ‘I get the feeling that after years of austerity, people will want something different and better.’

  ‘I hope you are right, sir,’ said Bennett.

  ‘What did you make of Corporal Taylor’s account of what happened this morning, sir?’ asked Flight Lieutenant Buchan.

  ‘I believed him,’ said Bob. ‘It ought to be possible to confirm his story about who fired first by talking to those who heard the shots.’

  ‘Yes sir, that’s something Sergeant Bennett and I will look at when we get back to Leuchars. Anyone within earshot should have a clear idea of whether the burst from the Sten gun was before or after the shot from the pistol. Though, like you, I think we will find he was telling the truth.’

  Sergeant Bennett turned the car off the narrow road they had followed from the village onto a gravel track that led towards the edge of a forest. A few hundred yards into the forest they were flagged down by two men in khaki uniforms at a barrier across the road. Beyond was a large clearing which seemed to be full of corrugated iron-clad Nissen huts.

  ‘Your favourite sort of architecture, sergeant,’ said Bob as he wound down his window to talk to the nearest soldier, who looked miserable in the rain. ‘Hello, Group Captain Sutherland and colleagues to see Major Kaminski. We are expected.’

  Bob was vividly reminded of the last time he had been confronted by a man in a Polish army uniform carrying a rifle and found himself wondering what Lady Alice Gough was doing now. At least these men were actually Polish and not German.

  ‘Yes, sir. You need to take the first left, over there, and follow the track for a couple of hundred metres until you see a brick-built building on your left. The wooden hut next to it is the camp H.Q. You will find Major Kaminski there. There’s a parking area on the right, opposite.’ The Polish soldier stepped back and waved to his colleague to raise the barrier.

  ‘Major Bartek Kaminski of the 2nd Polish Rifle Battalion at your service, sir.’ The major was a wiry man in his late thirties who gave the impression of having considerable pent-up energy.

  Bob returned the major’s salute, then introduced himself and his colleagues. ‘I’m sorry our meeting couldn’t have been under slightly better circumstances, Major. I understand you know what happened at Leuchars earlier this morning?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Group Captain More telephoned me this morning. Very regrettable. Look, we don’t get many visitors here, could I offer you some real coffee?’ The major left the three of them in the small meeting room into which they’d been shown while he went out to organise refreshments.

  Once they were all sitting round the table, there was a slight pause while Major Kaminski passed round cigarettes. ‘No thanks, Major, I’m a pipe man myself.’ Bob rarely smoked his pipe, but it was a convenient deflection on occasions like this.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask a question, Group Captain?’ said the major.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Are you quite certain that Sierzant Winograd was, as you might call it, up to no good?’

  ‘It does very much look that way, Major. Flight Lieutenant Buchan and Sergeant Bennett will be talking to anyone they can find who heard the shots, but it does seem very likely that Sergeant Winograd fired at the RAF Police corporal first, before being shot by him.’

  ‘Then it is a matter of great sadness to me that we should end our time in this part of Fife under a cloud. We have been on very good terms with our RAF neighbours since we established the camp here.’

  ‘I understand you are on the move, Major?’ asked Bob.

  ‘Yes, indeed. My unit has been based here at Tents Muir for some time now. But times change and the Polish army in Scotland is reorganising as our equipment improves and as we change away from a defensive stance and towards preparation for the liberation of our homeland. Like most of my men I am a refugee twice over. You may be aware that in early 1940 the governments of Poland and France agreed to form a Polish army in France. There were over 80,000 of us in France when the Germans arrived there. Those of us who could, escaped from Dunkirk in May and June 1940 with men of your own army and French troops. For most of the last two years we have been stationed in Scotland, mainly helping defend the east coast.’

  ‘What will become of your camp here?’ asked Bob.

  ‘In the short term, part of the camp is being used to accommodate men from the Polish parachute battalions that are training up
to operational readiness in Fife, but that’s only a temporary measure. I expect the last of my men to have left by the end of next month, and I can’t see the paratroops staying far into next year. I imagine the camp here will then begin to return to nature, unless some other use can be found for it. But I don’t know what that might be. It’s much too close to the coast, and to RAF Leuchars, to be used as a prisoner of war camp.’

  ‘What are you able to tell us about Sergeant Winograd, sir?’ asked Buchan.

  ‘Ah, yes, down to business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I have been able to find out very little so far. He was a new arrival here, being a member of the 4th Polish Parachute Battalion who are based on the south coast of Fife at Elie. I’ve spoken to his porucznik, or lieutenant, and it seems that Winograd was quite a new member of the battalion who no-one seems to have known very well. The lieutenant has gone to their battalion headquarters to see what records they hold about him. And I have alerted the security people at our divisional headquarters about what has happened, with a request that they, too, see what can be found out about Sierzant Winograd.’

  Bob said, ‘One thing it would be helpful to know is whether he had ever had any pilot training. It’s too early to say, but it’s possible that he was trying to steal an aircraft rather than damage or examine one.’

  ‘Most of our men with pilot training found their way into the Polish squadrons of the RAF, sir,’ said the major. Then he gestured at the medals and wings on Bob’s uniform jacket. ‘But I’m sure you knew that already.’

  Flight Lieutenant Buchan stood up. ‘We’re really grateful for your time, sir’ he said to Major Kaminski. ‘I think that Sergeant Bennett and I will be at Leuchars until tomorrow. If you come up with anything about Sergeant Winograd’s background, would it be possible to let me know? I will be contactable via Flight Lieutenant Rutherford’s office there. After that, you can reach me on this telephone number.’ He handed over a card. ‘In the meantime, is there someone here who at least knew the sergeant well enough to come down to Leuchars this afternoon and identify his body? It will be a step in the right direction if we can establish that the man carrying Sergeant Winograd’s papers was actually Sergeant Winograd.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the major.

  As the car approached the village of Leuchars, Bob turned to Buchan. ‘I get the sense that you’d prefer to take this on from here, Flight Lieutenant?’

  ‘If I’m honest, sir, I’m not sure how much more there is for us to do. The Polish security people might or might not come up with something on Winograd that explains what he was doing and why, but we are very much in their hands for that. We have some checking to do on Corporal Taylor’s account of events, but that’s really a case of tying up loose ends rather than looking for any great revelations. We will also pay a visit to 540 Squadron to see if it’s physically possible for someone to start up and take off in a Mosquito without external assistance. Do you by any chance know, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, though it’s a good question. How will you get back to Craigiehall when you are done?’

  ‘I’ll get one of the drivers to come up in a car and collect us, sir. I’m assuming you’ll be flying back to Turnhouse this afternoon?’

  ‘That’s the plan, Flight Lieutenant.’

  Chapter Two

  As it turned out, things didn’t quite go to plan. On returning to the station headquarters, Flight Lieutenant Rutherford passed on an invitation from the station commander for Bob to lunch with him. Bob was directed up to Group Captain More’s office on the first floor.

  ‘A belated welcome to Leuchars, Sutherland,’ said More. ‘I’m sorry I was elsewhere when you arrived.’ The well-built man in his forties pulled on his service raincoat in his outer office. He then turned to his secretary, sitting behind her desk. ‘Marjorie, if anyone wants me, I am showing an important visitor around the station and will get back to them later. I take it you fancy a bite to eat, Sutherland?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Group Captain.’

  ‘Call me Andrew, please. Do I call you Robert?’

  ‘Bob would be better.’

  Group Captain More led the way out of the main entrance. ‘It’s only a short walk to the mess and the rain’s eased off. I’ve asked Wing Commander Eric Gill to meet us there. Since the beginning of the week he’s been the officer commanding 540 Squadron, though before that he was in charge of the two flights we had based here that became his squadron, so it’s business as usual really.’

  Wing Commander Gill turned out to be a lightly-built man of above average height in his early thirties. Bob had a slightly unsettling sense of having met him before but couldn’t quite remember where.

  As the mess steward showed them to their table, the wing commander said, ‘I wondered if it was you, Group Captain. You commanded 605 Squadron at Croydon during the Battle of Britain, didn’t you?’

  Bob found himself trying to place the face. ‘Yes, I did, but I’m sorry: though you look familiar, I can’t quite remember why.’

  ‘They were busy times, sir, and I flew for the competition, so you’d probably not have noticed me.’

  At last it clicked. Bob said, ‘You were a flight commander on 111 Squadron at Croydon Aerodrome at the same time, weren’t you? Call me Bob, by the way. I was a wing commander myself until the beginning of the week and I’m still getting used to the idea I’m being addressed if someone says, “group captain”.’

  Group Captain More laughed. ‘You had the Luftwaffe turning up in large numbers to bomb the hell out of out of London all day and every day, and 605 and 111 Squadrons still regarded one another as “the competition”?’

  ‘We did,’ said Bob. ‘Though come to think of it, not nearly as much as we both tried to get one-up on 72 Squadron, who were also at Croydon for the first couple of weeks of September 1940. They flew Spitfires, you see, and the Hurricane squadrons always felt the Spitfires got more than their fair share of the glory.’

  ‘I can see that’s an argument that must have been had in many messes,’ said More. ‘I’ve spent the last few years in Coastal Command so can’t really comment with any authority. But as I’ve got the benefit of the company of two ex-fighter men, which do you both think is better, the Spitfire or the Hurricane?’

  Lunch had been served. Bob’s ham, egg and chips looked as if it should see him through until evening with little difficulty. Bob looked across the table at Gill. ‘Have you any thoughts on that, Eric?’

  ‘I think I’m probably biased as, of the two, I only flew the Hurricane in air-to-air combat. The photo reconnaissance Spitfires are wonderful aircraft but not comparable. But didn’t you fly Spitfires as well, Bob, or have I got that wrong?’

  ‘Yes, I did, with 602 Squadron at Grangemouth and Drem, before I was posted onto Hurricanes with 605 Squadron. I’m not sure that the early Spitfires were representative of what has followed since, but both types of aircraft have their plus points in combat. Overall the Spitfire seems likely to outlast the Hurricane, which has already been moved in large numbers to training or ground attack roles. I’d imagine that the photo reconnaissance version of the Spitfire is a pretty special aircraft?’

  ‘They can fly high and fast, certainly,’ said Gill, ‘but there’s something about the idea of being in a single seat fighter that doesn’t have guns that is a little disconcerting.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Bob. ‘I find that even if I’m only flying a Hurricane down to RAF Northolt for a meeting in London, I want it fully armed. You never know who you might meet.’

  Group Captain More said, ‘I heard you put that into practice on a Junkers Ju 88 up at Wick a few weeks ago, Bob. That must have been unexpected.’

  Bob thought back to his encounter with the German bomber over the sea off Wick. ‘That’s true, and it also upset a Spitfire pilot from RAF Castletown who thought the kill was going to be his. A successful day
all round.’

  ‘But now you’ve moved on to very different pastures,’ said Group Captain More. ‘Or is that something you can’t talk about?’

  ‘No, I see no problem with that. I’ve taken up the offer of a job as deputy head of MI11, or Military Intelligence Section 11, in Edinburgh. I started on Monday and spent Tuesday and part of yesterday in London, so I’m very much the new boy. I’m here with one of my teams to get a feel for the sort of work we do.’

  ‘Is it what you expected?’ asked Gill.

  ‘I’m not certain what I expected, if I’m honest, but I can see there’s a fair amount of work to be done to establish a distinct role for ourselves. At present we sit in a slightly grey area with large overlaps with a number of other agencies.’ Bob was going to go on to describe the extent to which that seemed to have caused a lack of focus within MI11 but decided that might be a revelation too far.

  ‘Are you based at Turnhouse?’ asked More.

  ‘No, I’m living in the officers’ mess there, having fought off invitations from my parents to move back in with them. They live in Cramond, only a couple of miles up the road, but I take the view that 30 is just a little old to be returning to live under the parental roof. MI11 has offices at Craigiehall, an old country house quite close to Turnhouse. It’s home to several army units, so security isn’t a problem. The proximity to RAF Turnhouse has one real bonus as far as I’m concerned. MI11 has set up an arrangement with the officer commanding 289 Squadron that allows me to borrow one of his aircraft when the need arises. That means I can keep my hand in on the Hurricane or use an Airspeed Oxford if I need more seats. The Oxford isn’t my favourite aeroplane, I must admit.’

  They were enjoying a cup of tea to round off the meal and the other two men were smoking. Gill sat back in his chair and said, ‘Did you have any plans for this afternoon, Bob?’