The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

‘Morning, Annie,’ Elsie greeted as she dismounted. ‘Tea and a ham sandwich, please.’

  ‘Shocking morning, wasn’t it,’ Annie grumbled. ‘I thought I’d had it!’

  ‘I don’t think it’s over yet,’ Elsie warned. ‘Stay on the look-out.’

  ‘Oh, I will, don’t you worry,’ Annie said, leaning back and pointing to an aircraft identification poster. ‘Junkers 87s, Stukas and Bf109s—that’s what we had over here this morning.’

  Elsie nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sergeant Finch!’ a voice greeted.

  Elsie briefly closed her eyes, recognising the voice. William Smith. She turned to see his impish grin, just as he smacked her hard on the bottom. ‘Are you going to get your favourite pilot a cup of tea, then?’

  Elsie looked at him incredulously. He was most certainly not her favourite pilot; she had had little to do with him since his behaviour at the RAF dance in the village hall. Still, she hadn’t quite been able to tell him to clear off, as several of her WAAF comrades had successfully managed to do. ‘Another tea, please,’ she ordered.

  ‘Okay,’ Annie said, handing over Elsie’s tea and sandwich.

  Elsie turned to face William and asked in a disdain-laden voice, ‘Are you not flying today?’ It annoyed her that, while the skies were alive with dog-fights, here was William, swaggering around as though there weren’t a war on.

  ‘Got a twenty-four-hour pass from the MO,’ he grinned.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, then, that a doctor has signed you off?’ she demanded.

  William tapped the side of his nose and winked. ‘Don’t worry, though—it’s nothing life-threatening. Or contagious—if you know what I mean.’

  Elsie paid for the extra tea and handed the cup to William.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, walking away from the tea van beside Elsie. They sat together on the grass bank and he immediately leant in and whispered, ‘How do you fancy going somewhere quiet?’

  Elsie looked at him in horror. ‘Somewhere like a mortuary, you mean?’

  William snickered. ‘Whatever you fancy, Sergeant Finch. We’ve got a small mortuary in the aerodrome grounds—think we can squeeze in amongst the other guests.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’ He really was a vile man. She turned away, wishing that the tea had been cooler, so that she might have been able to finish it and get back to Cliff House. The more time that she spent with William Smith, the less she liked him.

  He placed his hand on her leg, making her flinch. She picked it off, dropping it down onto his own leg. ‘No, thank you.’

  He smirked and shuffled up closer to her side.

  Elsie had had enough. ‘Right, time I was leaving,’ she said, standing up and placing the nearly full cup back on the counter. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ William said. ‘Let’s go and get a drink somewhere.’

  ‘You’ve got a drink,’ Elsie replied, picking up her bicycle.

  Another smirk. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Suddenly, the air raid siren began to howl all around them.

  ‘Great,’ Elsie murmured. Just what she needed.

  William’s roguish grin fell to seriousness. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he shouted.

  ‘Where to?’ Elsie asked.

  ‘Shelter. Today’s not the day for taking chances—Jerry’s got it in for us.’

  He was right, of course. From recent raids, it seemed that the Luftwaffe were attempting to destroy all south coast radar installations and forward aerodromes. This was not a safe place to be right now.

  So, she reluctantly followed him through the aerodrome gates to the concrete shelter and propped her bicycle up beside the entrance. Inside was pitch black, cold and stank of dampness. Worse, it was empty. Worse still, she discovered, was that the only bench was situated right at the back of the shelter.

  She sat beside him and, for several seconds, the only sound was the air raid siren. She hoped that someone would join them and soon. Then, as he shunted along the bench towards her and she could feel his warm tea breath on her cheek, she had an idea. She stood up and began to move towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded, reaching out for her. He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back.

  ‘I’m going to get poor Annie—she can’t just stay out there,’ Elsie said, trying to shake off his grip. But he was too strong and pulled her back.

  ‘She’ll be okay, besides which, she’s only an old tea woman.’ He pulled her down onto his lap. ‘Don’t worry, there’s nobody around,’ he whispered.

  Elsie tried to get up, but he was too strong. She went to scream, just as his other hand clamped down over her mouth. He let go of her wrist and his hand began to fumble at her left breast—squeezing, hurting. She wriggled and writhed, but couldn’t free herself.

  ‘Everything okay?’ a voice suddenly called from outside.

  Elsie squirmed in silence, prising at the fingers braced around her mouth.

  ‘Yes, all good,’ William answered calmly.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Pilot Officer William Smith,’ he stated.

  ‘Just you in there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And the bicycle?’

  ‘I borrowed it,’ William replied without hesitation.

  Elsie cried out, but the words were trapped behind his fingers. The man—whoever he was—began to walk away, taking with him any hope of her being rescued.

  Daniel Winter strode purposefully across the aerodrome in his pilot’s uniform, oblivious to the air raid siren, oblivious to the Folkestone Auxiliary Fire Service tackling a mammoth blaze in one of the hangars, oblivious to the troops hurriedly refilling the giant bomb craters that scarred the runways.

  He was agitated, couldn’t settle. He reached the ‘B’ Flight dispersal huts and found the other pilots of 32 Squadron scattered about the place. He sat down in one of the basket-weave chairs, gazing up at the fine warm skies, his head resting back on his yellow Mae West life jacket. His usual nervous anticipation before a scramble was worsened today. He sat up, touched his bloodied lip and glanced across the airfield.

  Burying his face in his hands, he tried to remove the acute sense of guilt that he felt, to change his train of thought to something more positive. He thought about last summer. Larking with his friends, fishing, swimming and idling in the daytime and dancing and cavorting at Bobby’s in the night-time. The prospect of war was nothing more than a fleeting conversation carelessly banded about. To Daniel and his generation, it had had no meaning, no gravity.

  How naïve, he now thought, as he watched the graceful, skilled flight of a seagull as it arced across the sky, oblivious to the death and destruction that surrounded it. It flew low, then disappeared behind Reindene Wood in the distance, drawing into Daniel’s eye-line the columns of grey smoke on the other side of the aerodrome that disfigured the otherwise perfect sky.

  The other pilots milled around uneasily. Half of the men sat in the dispersal hut, playing cards. Perry flicked through the same magazines as yesterday, still not actually reading them. Kedwell and Barker smoked and chatted in subdued voices. Wheeler read a book but hadn’t actually turned the page in a long time. Jones paced, as he always did. All of them, though, were experiencing the same restless, nervous energy that came in the drawn-out moments before a scramble. The orderly had reported to control that ‘B’ Flight was at readiness. So now it was just a waiting game. A waiting game in which the aircraft also seemed to take an active part. Daniel’s Hurricane, engine still hot from the previous flight, had been refuelled and now stood, like a slender thoroughbred racehorse, with its nose raised haughtily into the air. Brooding. Eager. Anticipating.

  Daniel chewed his lower lip, then stood up from his chair and stared at the sky, wondering if they were going to be put back up again today. When he got up there, in flight, the prickling shroud of foreboding, that clung to him at dispersal, was always quickly discarded, like a superfluous l
ayer of clothing.

  He exhaled sharply, stretched, then walked into the dispersal hut. It was a simple wooden building with a few chairs and tables in the centre and a row of camp beds at one end. An orderly sat at one of the tables, waiting for the telephone to ring.

  Daniel ran his hands through his thick blond hair, trying to calm himself. He glanced casually around the walls—they contained the same juxtaposition of scantily-clad women and aircraft identification posters that were in every dispersal hut in every aerodrome in the southeast.

  He thought of all the pilots who had died—it should be their pictures on the walls of the dispersal huts not Rita Hayworth, Joan Fontaine, Betty Grable and the rest of them. It was like the Russian roulette of the skies: who would make it back and who wouldn’t. It was an unavoidable, yet largely undiscussed fear that they all had. Grief for another pilot who had failed to return was always necessarily private and short-lived. Perhaps after the war—if he survived—he would find the time to mourn them all. It sickened him to admit it, but the names of some of those who had failed to return were now ghosted in his mind, gradually losing the fabric of the person that they had once been. For others, he remembered their names but their faces were now gone, like smooth, uncarved statues. He hated himself for it but could neither explain nor help it.

  He shook the feeling, double-checking the only thing on the walls worth bothering with: the Order of Battle. Daniel found his name and call sign. Red 2.

  Then his blood turned to ice as the phone rang behind him. One little ring before the orderly answered. Daniel dared not turn around.

  The call could have been about anything. Earlier, it had rung to inform them that Annie’s tea van had broken down in Folkestone and was running late. Two minutes later, it had rung again when someone had wanted to speak to Wheeler. If the people calling had known what the blasted ringing did to the pilots’ already strung-out nerves, then they wouldn’t have bothered calling with such trivial matters.

  But Daniel could sense the purpose of this call.

  ‘Squadron scramble base angels twelve!’ the orderly shouted, sounding the alarm.

  Suddenly, under the jangling of the warning bell, the sedate warm afternoon erupted into what would appear to outsiders as pure and utter chaos; pilots and ground crew running at full pelt towards the waiting Hurricanes. Each man knew his role intimately, and within seconds starter leads were being attached to every plane.

  Hauling on his parachute pack that he had left on the wing root, Daniel dropped down into the cramped cockpit, took his helmet from the stick and placed it on his head, then plugged in the radiotelephone lead and oxygen tube. With the assistance of his ground crew, he drew together the Sutton harness straps from his waist, legs and shoulders.

  He was in.

  Looking across to his right, he saw Smith make a bolt for his aircraft, holding his left hand to his chest, seemingly in pain.

  Daniel pushed the starter button, just as the green Very Light flare punched high into the air, announcing that they were clear for take-off.

  Daniel’s rigger removed the starter plug and whipped the trolley clear.

  One by one, the pulsating, guttural Merlin engines came alive, firing to just over one thousand revs. Propellers began to turn. The machines began to hum, as though they were alive. Blueish grey smoke billowed from the exhaust stubs.

  Daniel ran through the starter checks, then, along with the other Hurricanes in full harmony, began to taxi to his position in the standard ‘V’ formation on the airfield. It was like a carefully choreographed dance, he always thought, taking his place immediately to Wheeler’s left. He stopped and watched as the other aircraft drew into position.

  Time slackened and his thoughts consolidated.

  The only thing that mattered now, was getting this machine into the air, taking out some of the enemy, then getting the thing safely back to land.

  He watched Wheeler’s plane, waiting for movement.

  Over the radiotelephone, came Wheeler’s voice, using the squadron call sign, ‘Okay, Jacko, we’re off.’

  The waiting game was over.

  Wheeler’s Hurricane began to surge forward. Daniel released the brakes, eased open the throttle and pushed forward.

  The eleven Hurricanes, as if locked together, began to speed along the runway.

  Daniel increased the power to match Wheeler’s, receiving a throaty grunt of agreement from the engine.

  Halfway across the field, one by one, the machines’ wheels began to lift from the grass below; all eyes were fixed on Wheeler.

  The plane climbed and rocked gently at nearly three thousand revs, as Daniel pumped the undercarriage up.

  ‘Jacko Squadron airborne,’ came Wheeler’s voice over the R/T, as they flew over the perimeter of the aerodrome, leaving it largely defenceless.

  As the Hurricanes passed through a narrow band of cloud, Daniel looked down through the small cockpit window and, in his peripheral vision, caught a glimpse of Cliff House, precariously straddling the border of land and sea. He knew the house well. Hated it. Hated what went on there. What had started life in the fun and frolicking of last summer had ended in a dark, serious place full of false accusations. He shuddered, turning his thoughts and attention back to the task in hand and flying the aircraft.

  ‘Jacko leader, this is Sapper,’ a voice over the radiotelephone system said. ‘Twenty bandits heading towards sector ‘E’ at angels twelve. Over.’

  ‘Sapper, this is Jacko. Message received and understood.’

  Daniel breathed deeply, holding his position to Wheeler’s left. He looked down at his altimeter: 9,500 feet. Switching his oxygen dial to fifteen, he felt the first puffs against his cheek and breathed it in, deeply.

  As they continued to rise, the shreds of silver and white cloud dissipated, parting like curtains before a stage play, revealing the coastline below. It was perfection. He took a mental snapshot, yearning to preserve the exquisite beauty before him. How desperately he wanted to say to the other pilots over the R/T, ‘Isn’t that just stunning?’ It was at moments like this that he always felt deeply sorry for the situation in which they found themselves: about to blast into oblivion similar young men, in similar machines, enjoying a similar view.

  They continued to follow the coastline around towards Essex until Control said, ‘Jacko, this is Sapper. You’re very close.’

  Wheeler responded, ‘Sapper, this is Jacko. I can see them now.’

  ‘Thank you, Jacko—good luck,’ Control said, their job over.

  Daniel held his breath, glancing out of the cockpit window.

  Droplets of sweat began to erupt all over his body.

  He suddenly felt all alone.

  In front of them, like an annoying plague of wasps, was the enemy. Twenty or so Messerschmitt 109s. Getting closer.

  Then, Wheeler’s voice in his ear. ‘Okay, chaps, in we go. Give them what for,’ he said calmly, before peeling away from their formation.

  Daniel picked a target—a Messerschmitt that had dipped slightly to the left of the rest of the swarm. He was gaining on it, fast. He backed off the throttle and held his thumb over the gun button.

  The Messerschmitt grew large in Daniel’s target. In his peripheral vision, he saw Smith’s aircraft peeling to the right, away from the mêlée of activity.

  Daniel pressed his thumb down, the pulsating judder shaking his entire arm as the bullets tore into the target.

  The Messerschmitt veered away sharply, but Daniel was certain that he had hit him.

  His heart thundered in his chest and he breathed quickly.

  All at once, there was a panicked cry over the R/T system, but the deafening crack of crossfire stopped Daniel from hearing what had been said.

  The return fire was close.

  Daniel scanned around him for the Messerschmitt that he had targeted. He found it, pushing into a dive, leaving the aggravated swarm of Messerschmitts buzzing above. Smoke was billowing from the cannons on its left wi
ng. Daniel had hit it, but the damage inflicted had not been lethal.

  Above him, one of the other Hurricanes was struggling. Barker. He’d been hit. Flames were spilling from the engine. Behind him, a Messerschmitt was lining up, seconds from another attack. There was nothing Daniel could do, being a good thousand feet below.

  ‘Green 1—watch out behind you!’ Daniel screamed into the R/T, as he continued to tail the Messerschmitt. To one side, someone else in a parachute casually fell by. Good luck to you, Daniel thought, whatever your nationality.

  He looked up again, just as Barker’s Hurricane took another blast from the Messerschmitt behind him. ‘Get out, Green 1—get out! Barker!’

  But it was too late.

  In the time that it took for Daniel to blink away the sweat that weighed heavily on his eyelashes, his friend Barker and his aircraft had been macerated in a burning ball of angry phosphorous colours: bright red and deep black. The plane momentarily held its morbid trajectory then suddenly plummeted, disappearing almost instantly from Daniel’s view.

  Barker’s demise had prompted the R/T system to ring with angry shouts, orders and warnings. Then, there was more heavy firing from above.

  Daniel’s grieving period for Barker was over and he turned his attention back to the Messerschmitt, still taking evasive manoeuvres to shake off the pursuit.

  Another Messerschmitt, with its starboard wing dismembered, dived vertically and perfectly out-of-control through the small gap between Daniel’s Hurricane and the machine that he was targeting. Just a few seconds earlier and it would have severed through the other Messerschmitt, a few seconds later and Daniel’s number would have been up.

  The Russian roulette of the skies.

  Daniel’s thumb returned to the gun button, poised.

  Thick blasts of iron-grey smoke poured from the Messerschmitt’s exhaust, as its pilot pushed the engine harder. He banked sharply, continuing to thrust.

  But Daniel mimicked his every move, pushing open the throttle and holding on the enemy’s port side.

  The Messerschmitt danced gaily in Daniel’s gun sight. The pilot was good.

  Come on!