Pastoral (27 page)

They killed him with a smart blow, and knelt down together to examine what they had got. The full lines of the fish, the red spots, and the golden belly pleased them tremendously; it was the first fish Gervase had ever caught, and she was very excited about it. They left their sandwiches and began fishing in earnest.

In the course of the afternoon Gervase caught another and Marshall caught three; they discovered the benefit of wind in carrying the line out gently. Even so, they would not have done so well but for the fact that the little lake had not been fished for two years; the trout were unsophisticated and took anything that came their way. Instead of catching five they might well have gone home with fifteen, but that their interest in the trout was short-lived in comparison with their interest in each other. They sat together for a long time on the grass at the head of the lake, talking, and eating their sandwiches, and holding hands, and admiring their little row of fish laid out neatly in the shade.

In the evening, their sandwiches long finished, hunger drove them back to camp. “We’ll bring out some more food next time,” said Gervase. They walked up to the house and put their rods and tackle carefully away in the gun-room. They left a message of thanks with the old maid, put their fish into their bicycle-baskets, and rode back to camp.

Exultation over their catch quite swamped their ordinary discretion. They rode in past the guard together, and went together into the mess, carrying a bicycle-basket full of fish. They went to Mollie in the kitchen and got a dish and laid the fish out on it. The W.A.A.F. kitchen-maids came crowding around Gervase. “My, ma’am, aren’t they lovely! Did Mr. Marshall catch them?”

“Miss Robertson caught two,” said Marshall.

“
You
caught them, ma’am?” said Mollie. “Fancy that!”

They had a little discussion over when they should have them and how they should be cooked, then, bursting with pride, they carried them into the dining-room and put them on the table to admire. For the first time, in the kitchen, they heard that there was to be a dance that night.

They found Pat Johnson and Lines in the lounge. Marshall said: “Come and see our fish.”

“Not another like the last one, laddie?”

Lines said: “What do you mean,
our
fish?”

“I caught two,” said Gervase. “He got three.”

The two flight lieutenants followed them into the dining-room, and two or three young pilot officers followed. “They’re quite nice-looking fish,” said Mr. Johnson in surprise. “You’re coming on, laddie.” He turned and bowed to Gervase. “And lassie.”

One of the pilot officers said: “Where did you get them, sir?”

Marshall grinned. “I’m not letting that one out.”

“Last time he went fishing he brought back something that he caught in the main sewer,” said Mr. Johnson. He turned to Gervase. “I suppose he didn’t like to take you fishing there.”

The girl wrinkled up her nose. “I think you’re a pig. If you mean that pike, it was a very nice fish.”

“Nice fish my foot,” said Mr. Johnson. “It made a lot of trouble, that pike did. I’m not sure that we’ve heard the last of it, either.”

A young man behind them, seeing trout for the first time in his life, asked: “What are they?” They became thronged with interested young men; Dobbie, entering the vestibule, saw them pressing into the dining-room, and went in behind to see what was going on. He saw three of his best pilots and one of the W.A.A.F. officers laughing and talking over a plate of fish, surrounded by a crowd of unsure, pimply young men. He pressed forward through the crowd, thankful for the new diversion. “Who got these?” he asked.

Lines said: “Those two got them, sir. They won’t say where.”

Dobbie laughed and said to Marshall: “Be a sport.”

“I’m not a sport,” said Marshall, “and I’m not telling anybody. I’m keeping this fishing for my crew.” He grinned. “Of course if you like to come with us next Op, sir, you might qualify.”

Dobbie said: “Well, damn it, I will.” He scrutinised the fish. “Have you weighed them?”

“Five and a half pounds,” said Marshall. “Miss Robertson got two of them.”

“What did you get them on?”

“Butcher and Peter Ross.”

They talked fishing for a while with the young men round them; then Dobbie went off to the billiard-table to play snooker with whomever he could find. He was pleased, although he knew that he would get no fishing in the way he had suggested. On the next operation he would fly to Germany with some diffident, enthusiastic, and unsafe young man, who would be impressed and honoured at having the Wing Commander in the aircraft with him, and who would be steadied by the experience. He saw no point in flying with a good pilot.

Later that evening he stood with Chesterton in the canteen watching the dance. The atmosphere was noticeably lighter than it had been a few days before; the crews were more spontaneous, there was more healthy noise, more laughter. Chesterton said presently: “See Marshall?”

Dobbie nodded. “They were out all day together, fishing.”

The Squadron Leader said: “And now they’re dancing all night.” He laughed. “More trouble. You’ll have to find another signals officer.”

The Wing Commander said: “I don’t mind about that. He can get every section officer in camp in trouble for all I care. The camp’s a different place with that chap in it.”

Gunnar Franck did not get many letters, and the ones he got were seldom from old ladies. He had great difficulty in deciphering the words of the letter that he found waiting for him when he returned from leave, and more difficulty still with the meaning. It read:

He turned it over and over, his big red face wrinkled in perplexity. He understood that it was about fishing, and that was all he did understand. He took it to Sergeant Phillips to interpret, only to find that the rear-gunner had received one just like it.

“I dunno,” said Phillips. He scratched his head. “The only Miss Robertson I know of is that Section Officer of the Cap’s. Do you know any other?”

Gunnar said: “One of the girls in the airmen’s mess is Robertson.”

“You mean the fat one with a face like a cow? She’s Mrs.
Roberts.” He paused. “I dunno any other Robertson but that Section Officer.”

Gunnar folded up the letter and put it in his wallet. “I will ask her. She is a nice young lady, and she will say if I am wrong.”

“It must be her.” There was a pause, and then the rear-gunner said slowly: “Come to think, we was talking about fishing just before I went on leave. I wonder if the Cap’s had one like this?”

“Do you think that the Section Officer is now friends with the Cap?”

“I dunno—looks rather like it. If so, we’ll all be a bloody sight safer.”

They laughed together, and later in the day Gunnar Franck went into the signals office diffidently. “Please,” he said, “I have here a letter that I do not understand. I think perhaps it is to do with you?”

Gervase took the note and glanced at it. “That’s right, Gunnar,” she said. She explained to him the arrangement she had made about the fishing. “Flight Lieutenant Marshall knows where all the things are kept—he can show you. We went out there yesterday and got five lovely ones.”

He took back the letter. “It is ver’ kind of this old lady,” he said. He hesitated. “You are friends now with the Cap?” he enquired, grinning.

She laughed. “Yes, we’re friends again for the time being.”

The Dane said: “He is ver’ good man. Over a year I have been flying with him, and I know.”

There was a little pause. “Thank you, Gunnar,” Gervase said at last. “I know that, but it’s nice to be told.”

He had to wait for his introduction to fly-fishing, because next day they flew to Whitsand to collect R for Robert, now repaired and in flying condition with a new wing and a new port engine and propeller. They flew up as passengers in S for Sammy, piloted by Flight Lieutenant Johnson, taking off with the first light of dawn and arriving in time for breakfast in the mess. They did a flight test of Robert in the forenoon and found it satisfactory, and flew back in company with Sammy after lunch.

Before taking off they received a final word of advice. “Don’t go and stick the wrong course on the compass this time, laddie,” said Mr. Johnson. “There’s no future in that.” But he laughs longest who laughs last; Mr. Johnson, exercising
his rear-gunner at the navigator’s table, made a deviation on the way home due to the reciprocal of wind, and landed back at Hartley twenty minutes after Robert.

At the dispersal point the ground crew received Robert critically, unwilling to believe that a good job could have been carried out upon a Wellington at any Lancaster station. The air crew gathered with the ground crew to examine the repair; the machine was flying left wing down, the port engine was running rich, and the rear turret and the D/F set were still unserviceable. “We’ll have a crack at her to-morrow morning,” said the pilot. “If we can clear off the port engine and the ailerons with a flight test, we can go fishing in the afternoon while the armourers get busy with the turret.”

He turned to his crew. “We’ve got some trout fishing offered to us,” he said. “Rods and all thrown in.”

Sergeant Phillips said: “We all got letters about it, Cap. Where is it, anyway?”

“Out by Chipping Hinton. I’ll show you, if you’re interested.”

The rear-gunner rubbed his chin. “I never fished with fly. I’d not know how.”

Sergeant Cobbett said unexpectedly: “I have. I’ll put you in the way of it.”

They turned to him in surprise. “Where did you pick that up, Flight?”

He said: “My mother’s people got a farm in Wales. I got a rod and all back home.”

Sergeant Phillips said, still doubtful: “Maybe I’ll bring some gentles, anyway.”

“Okay,” said Marshall. He was no purist, and they weren’t his fish.

He took them out next afternoon; Gervase was on duty and could not come. He caught one fish and saw Gunnar Franck catch another, but his mind was not upon the job, and presently he left them to ride back to Hartley for tea in the mess, where he would find Gervase.

In the evening light he took her for a walk around the country lanes; with no more than a fortnight of their month left to go, they deemed a day wasted if they did not meet. As they went they talked about the work. “We’re all ready to go again now,” said Marshall. “They passed the turret out this afternoon. That was the last thing.”

Gervase said: “I believe the station has been give a week’s
rest—if so, that’s up to-morrow night. Charwick and Wittinton were out on Saturday, and again last night.” She glanced up at him. “How are you feeling now, Peter?”

He glanced down at her. “I feel fine,” he said. “I’d rather like to do another one.”

They turned aside presently behind a spinney and exchanged a token of mutual goodwill; presently they came out again a little dishevelled and sat upon a stile and smoked a cigarette together before turning back to camp. They were sitting on the stile when the crew found them, Gunnar and Phillips and Cobbett all riding back to camp upon their bicycles from Kingslake House.

Marshall slipped down from the stile and stopped them; the sergeants got off and Gervase came up to them. “Do any good?” asked Marshall.

Sergeant Cobbett said: “We got seven beauties—the one Gunnar caught while you was there and then six others. They come on fine just after you left, sir.”

They gathered round, examining the fish and talking about flies. Phillips had caught one on a gentle and had then been shamed by Gunnar Franck to the use of fly, and had caught another on a Butcher. Cobbett, who was unexpectedly expert, had caught four; Gunnar had caught one.

“Pity old Leech wasn’t with us,” said the gunner. “He wouldn’t half have had some fun.”

“He’ll be back before long,” said Marshall. “He’s leaving hospital and going off on leave to-morrow.”

“It won’t seem right,” said Phillips, “going with a stranger in the crew.”

That day was Wednesday. They did their next operation upon Friday night to Cassel, loaded with incendiaries. It went without incident in R for Robert; the long hours of watchful peering through the darkness from the pilot’s seat passed pleasantly enough for Marshall because he had arranged to take Gervase to the pictures the following afternoon to see a film with Dorothy Lamour in it, and he liked Dorothy Lamour, and he liked Gervase better, and altogether it was something to look forward to while swinging his head mechanically from side to side, looking for trouble, from the port engine, over the twin pencils of the forward guns, to the starboard. They landed back a little before dawn, and he slept quietly and happily and well till lunch time.

Gervase did not do so well. She spent the night in the
control office, a night of secret worry and anxiety until the “Mission completed” signal came from Robert. For the next two and a half hours she went through her duties mechanically, still anxious, till the machines began to arrive back, and there was the little light that was in Robert winking in the sky over to the south-west, signalling for permission to land. She went out to the balcony and watched the aircraft land and taxi to dispersal, then she went back to her work sick with relief. She did not see any of them that night. A couple of hours later she went to bed, but she had been too strained and anxious for the last few hours to sleep very well. This operation made fifty-six. There were only four more to be done before he would be safe.