Authors: Alan Judd
Patrick broke radio silence sharply. ‘Cut it, Dodger! Stow it! Get back in formation.’
The Dodger’s port wing dipped and he re-aligned himself.
They were very soon on the run-in to Rouen. Surprisingly, there were no fighters but the flak was as expected over a railway town, tracer curving in graceful
overlapping arcs like ribbons of welcome. The escorting Spitfires moved up and back, leaving the bombers
to the flak and their task. There was little cloud, so they had a perfect view of what happened. The
marshalling yards were on the far bank of the winding Seine, spreading wide and clear to the north in the morning sun. Before them, on the near side
of the river and well to the south, the reddish roofs of the town clustered around the cathedral spire. The Fortresses were in the final minute
of their run-in, lined up in perfect bombing formation. As they closed, the flak intensified, though no worse
than usual. No planes went down, no engines plumed black smoke, no wings lit up. Then the lead bombardier lost his nerve; at least, that
was the only explanation they could all agree on afterwards.
At his command, 130 Fortresses unloaded over the town, still well south of the marshalling yards and on the wrong side of the river.
Within seconds the crowded little red roofs were peppered by flashes and flame. Within a few more they were
obscured by smoke billowing upwards, great tumbling black clouds punctured by ever more flashes and spurts of flame from below. For one
moment, as Frank wheeled in disbelief, he glimpsed the cathedral spire standing alone amidst the conflagration. The empty
bombers turned over the untouched marshalling yards, reforming.
At first, all the close escort Spitfires wheeled, like Frank, in shocked disbelief, eyes on the carnage below rather than scanning the
skies for the Luftwaffe. Radio silence was broken by the Dodger.
‘The bastards! The murdering bastards!’ he shouted. ‘Murdering bloody Yanks!’
Others joined in, a cacophony of invective. Frank said nothing. He could only wheel and watch, stunned into
silence. The Dodger and another had already turned their planes towards the re-forming Fortresses when Patrick called them
to order, the only calm voice amidst the outrage. ‘Button it everybody. Save your ammo for the Luftwaffe. Re-form close
escort.’
They returned without incident. There was much talk afterwards about how it could have happened and how, if a Fortress had
let off a single mistaken round at the escort, they would have brought it down. The outrage quickly spread across the entire base, transmuting itself into a rowdy
mess night during which someone put planks up to the windows and rode a motorbike in and along the horseshoe of tables. The
wing commander’s dinner ended up in his lap, along with bits of broken plate, and the motorcyclist broke his leg when a table toppled and
he came off. This was followed by British Bulldog. They all knew that the cost of replacing mess furniture would appear on their mess bills.
‘Only if we live long enough to get them,’ said the Dodger.
He was uncharacteristically quiet that night, avoiding the rumpus and not even doing a turn on the piano. He sat
drinking with Frank and a few other refugees in armchairs in the bar, trying to ignore the shouting, laughter and
occasional sounds of breaking glass.
‘Bet they deduct it from the pay they owe you before it goes to next of kin,’ the Dodger continued. He took a
swig of his beer and turned to Frank. ‘You’ve left everything to your folks back home, I suppose?’
‘What there is.’ They’d all had to make wills.
‘Quite. You don’t make much out of this man’s war, that’s for sure. Unless you’re a Yank.’
There was no point in going to bed early because the revellers would wake everyone when they returned to the huts. There was some desultory
talk of life after the war, a recurring subject when there was nothing else that anyone wanted
to talk about and which, being safely remote, didn’t involve any commitment. Anything seemed possible, nothing
likely.
‘Of course, the problem’s going to be the population,’ said the Dodger.
‘Which population?’
‘Everyone’s, all of it, the world’s. Too many people, that’s going to be the problem.’
‘Guess we need the war to go on, then.’
The Dodger laughed and raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
There was no flying the next day, with fog and low cloud grounding everything. Despite this, they weren’t released from standby until the afternoon. Frank
decided to go fishing, although there were likely to be as few fish rising as planes flying. He didn’t tell anyone he was going.
For a long time he stood in the wet grass, casting and re-casting between the willows. The river was sluggish and no fish were tempted by his wet fly. He didn’t much
mind. It was soothing to fish without serious intent, hidden by the dripping fog of a darkening afternoon while the slow
waters gently smothered memories of burning houses and ballooning black smoke. It was becoming easier not to
think about the French families burned alive. Fish or no fish, he would call on the colonel and Vanessa.
The only reminder of the world he had left on the base was the sonorous drone, ominously magnified in the foggy silence, of
a V1 flying bomb. It was passing way over, aimed at London, although increasing numbers
were falling short in the woods and fields of Kent and Sussex. Some were brought down by Spitfires, though rather more by the bigger and faster Tempests which could fly alongside and tip them off course.
Only when the drone had long faded, and the thick white trance was restored, did he pack up his kit
and return to his bike by the bridge.
The fog thickened as he approached the village and in following the verge he missed the turning off the lane, realising when he came to an
unfamiliar farm entrance. He cycled slowly back, followed by the echoing bark of farm dogs until he came to the gravel of the manor
drive.
The only answer to his pull on the bell was a bark, single and muffled. He rang again, surprised by unexpected disappointment. Although there was nothing he had
planned to say and he had no fish to offer, he had come to rely on seeing them both. Even if
Vanessa was to become Patrick’s, as he feared was inevitable, he would still want to see her. He pulled the bell again, in
obstinate refusal to concede.
This time there were footsteps on the drive behind him. Vanessa walking briskly out of the fog, her hands in the pockets of a long gaberdine raincoat. A floppy brown hat
covered her ears and hair.
‘Hallo, stranger. They been keeping you busy?’
He smiled with relief. ‘Could say that, I guess.’
She stood close as she
opened the door, which was not locked. ‘Time for tea, I hope?’
‘Thank-you, ma’am.’ She smiled a small smile, like a shared intimacy. He much preferred it to what he thought of as her wider
social smile, the one she switched on and off. ‘The colonel out?’ he continued. He felt disloyal for hoping so.
‘Upstairs asleep. He often sleeps in the afternoons. He’s not really very well, I’m afraid.’ She crossed the hall, taking off her hat and
unbuttoning her coat, leaving him to shut the door. ‘I grabbed the chance to go to the post office and stretch my
legs.’
He followed her into the kitchen. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove, took a large brown tea-pot from the shelf
above and said, over her shoulder, ‘Could you get cups and saucers from the dresser? Get three, I’ll take one up to him.’
They sat at the table while the kettle boiled. The classified ads pages of the local paper were open between them.
‘We’re thinking of a replacement for Tinker, I’m afraid. He’s not got long to go, poor old thing.’
Tinker lay by the stove. He had not got up when they entered, content with lifting his tail and letting it fall.
‘Not before he goes, of course. A puppy would probably finish him off. But there are plenty of temptations advertised. Fatal
to go and see any before we’re ready, though. You can’t say no once you see them.’
‘What would you get, another spaniel?’
They talked dog breeds while he tortured himself again by imagining her with Patrick. She sat slightly hunched, her hands in her coat pockets folded
on her lap, talking naturally and matter-of-factly, while he tried to decide whether this was good because she was
relaxed with him or bad because she was indifferent.
She got up to fill the tea-pot. ‘You look exhausted,’ she said, without looking round. ‘Has it been bad?’
Pleased with her attention, he told her about
Rouen. He wasn’t sure he should – in fact, he was pretty sure he shouldn’t – but went on anyway.
‘I’m afraid that’s the Americans for you,’ she said. ‘Some of them, anyway. Nice enough individually, very generous, but no night navigation, poor recognition, poor
fire discipline, inaccurate bombing. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last.’
It was strange to hear a woman speak with such authority. ‘You know about them, then?’
‘I’ve heard. And met one or two.’ She took off her coat and sat again while the tea brewed. She wore a dark jersey and skirt. ‘Is it
cold in here or is it just me?’
‘Seems warm enough to me. You must’ve got cold while you were out.’ There was a pause. ‘You’ve known
other pilots, then, not just me and Patrick?’
She nodded, gazing past him at the kitchen sink with its high old-fashioned brass taps and crockery drying on the draining-board. ‘There’s a lot of air force
round here. Lot of Army now, too.’
The thought that she might have had – still have – numbers of pilot boyfriends was fresh torture. There was a call from upstairs. She stood and poured the third cup. ‘He’s awake. I’ll take
him his tea. He needs help sometimes.’
Frank stood. ‘My I use your bathroom?’
‘Follow me.’ At the kitchen door she paused. ‘It’s his heart, you see. There’s nothing to be done.
He’s fine most of the time so long as he takes it easy and has regular rest. But it’s aged him and he’s often a bit confused
when he gets up, so don’t mind anything he says.’
He followed her up the stairs, keeping three steps behind for decency’s sake. There was a wide landing with four doors opening
off and a corridor. She pointed along the corridor. ‘Down there.’ She knocked on one of the doors and went in, closing
it behind her.
It was still closed when he returned to the landing, pausing and listening to her voice. Her tone was soft and encouraging, unlike her usual
confident clarity, as if she were talking to a child. One of the other doors was half open, showing what looked like a study with
bookshelves and a desk and chair. With a glance at the colonel’s door, he stepped in. Beside the desk was a side table with the gramophone on it and, on the lower shelf, a
stack of records. Immediately above the desk were four photographs on the wall. One was of a helmeted pilot standing by his Spitfire, another a studio
photo of a uniformed flight lieutenant with curly dark hair, broad shoulders and a medal ribbon. The third was the same man in an
Aran sweater, sitting on a gate and smiling; the fourth was him in uniform again, posing in a church porch with
his bride, Vanessa, on his arm.
‘You’ve penetrated my sanctum.’ She was standing in the doorway, her arms folded. The colonel’s door was open across the landing behind
her.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I just saw the photo of the Spit—’
‘It was Johnny’s, my husband’s. My late husband’s.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’
‘No reason you should.’ She came into the room, smiling, and put her hand on his arm. ‘It’s all right, Frank, don’t worry.
Not your fault.’
The colonel was on the landing. He was wearing corduroys and his tweed jacket, his hair was tousled and his jacket collar turned up. He pointed down the corridor
and said to Frank, ‘Just going – won’t be a minute.’
Vanessa stepped smartly across to him and straightened his collar. ‘We’ll be in the kitchen. Come and join us.’
Frank came out onto the landing but the colonel stood staring at him, blinking. ‘Got some leave, then?’
‘Well, a few hours. No fish, though. Better get back soon.’
The colonel continued to stare, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good boy, good boy, stick at it. One day at a time,
don’t think ahead, don’t worry how far there is to go, just keep going. That’s how you get
through.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The colonel headed uncertainly down the corridor. Vanessa touched Frank’s arm and he followed her down the stairs.
‘See what I mean?’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think he was quite sure who you were. He’ll be fine when he comes down and he’s a bit more
awake.’
‘I’m sorry about your husband.’
She turned her head towards the hall table. ‘He was killed just over a year ago. Over Rouen, funnily enough. His squadron was at Detling.
That night you came to dinner, the first time, with those two fish, that was the anniversary of his death.
I think the colonel thought it would do us both good to have some company, some distraction, but I just wasn’t up to it,
I’m afraid. That’s why I hid myself away and played those records. They were the numbers Johnny and I used to dance to.’
‘I’m so very sorry, if I’d known—’
‘You didn’t and you shouldn’t be.’ She looked at him again, this time with the switched-on
smile. ‘Anyway, if you hadn’t come we wouldn’t have met, would we?’
‘Last time, when you were dancing with Patrick, were they the same records?’
‘Some of them. One has to go on. Better pick up your burden and shoulder it than let it drag behind and hold you
back. I thought it would be good to dance with you both. I hadn’t danced with anyone since Johnny.’
He knew what he wanted to say but not how to say it. It came out anyway. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to dance. I thought
maybe you and Patrick—’
She shook her head, no longer smiling. ‘No, Frank, not another pilot. Patrick’s very charming, but no. I know what happens to
pilots.’
The colonel came downstairs, looking better, his tread firmer. ‘Frank, good to see you. Staying for
dinner, I hope?’
‘Afraid not, sir. Got to get back. There’ll be a briefing for tomorrow.’