Authors: Mark Ellis
Jan swept the Hurricane round and set a course for Northolt. His first sortie over English soil and quite a successful one at that! The heat of the action had quickly cured his churning stomach and his heart now returned to its normal rhythm. He suddenly felt ravenously hungry. It was good to be alive!
* * *
“Three pints of bitter, please.” Jan tried to make himself heard above the raucous clamour of the room. The landlord leaned forward cupping his ear with his hand and Jan repeated his order. Shouting, excited Polish voices drowned his words again and Jan pointed at the beer of a nearby customer and held up three fingers. The landlord nodded his understanding and drew the foaming dark liquid into three tankards.
Jan pushed his way through to join Miro and Jerzy at the corner table, which some admiring locals had vacated for them. The inhabitants of Northolt had quickly got used to the boisterous but polite and charming Poles, who had suddenly arrived in their midst. News of the initial success of the Kosciuszko Squadron that week had quickly spread and the customers of the Orchard Inn were proud to make room for them.
He deposited the beers and Miro and Jerzy clinked their glasses with his and they drank. “Well, Jan, you are blooded in England now.” Miro Kubicki was a dark, stocky man with an unkempt head of thick, black hair. The most notable feature of his face was the thick pair of lips which detracted from what would otherwise have been very good looks. He grunted sardonically and lit a cigarette, which he left dangling from the left corner of his mouth. “Jasne. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to say that to you in person if I hadn’t saved your backside up there, eh?”
“Oh shut up, Miro. And you wouldn’t be able to say anything if I hadn’t come to your aid on Sunday. So don’t go on about it.” Jerzy Kowalski was the oldest of the three men at thirty-one, but looked as though he should still be in school. He was tall and slim with delicate almost feminine features. However, those who interpreted his looks as indicative of physical weakness were wrong. As a teenager he had been a champion boxer in his native Warsaw and he had proved himself capable of looking after himself many times, both on the ground and in the sky. A small scar under his right eye remained as a souvenir of one of his encounters.
Miro puckered his lips, then laughed. “Only teasing, Jerzy. So come on, Jan, how many kills are you claiming?”
Jan wiped some froth from his lips. “Three, I think. There was that bomber at the beginning. I know I hit it, but I didn’t see what happened to it after. Did you?”
Miro nodded. “It went down.”
“Unless, of course, you hit it too and you’re claiming it.”
“No, no. I went after another one when I saw you attack. I got that one and the 109 I saved you from.” Miro grinned at Jerzy. “I’m claiming two. I had a couple of near misses and one I’m not sure about. Maybe I should claim that one. I don’t know.”
Jan spilled some beer in his excitement. “Well then, I’ll claim the bomber, then there were two 109s, one that was on the Squadron Leader’s tail and then the one that broke off from the pack. So I’m claiming three. How about you, Jerzy?”
“Only two, I’m afraid. One bomber and one 109. I thought I’d get another, but I missed out. For some reason my Hurricane felt a little sluggish today. I’ve asked the ground crew to have a very close look at it. Anyway, that’s seven kills for the Yellow Section. Not so bad. And here’s to you, Jan, the winner for the day.” Jerzy raised his glass to Jan. “And what was the overall count, do you know?”
“Kellett told me that Red Section had six. So that’s thirteen in total for A Flight. And apparently B Flight had some action over the Thames Estuary and brought down five, so eighteen in total for the squadron.” Miro raised his right hand to his forehead and aimed a salute at the crowd of other Polish pilots mulling around near the bar.
Jerzy helped himself to one of Miro’s cigarettes from a packet on the table.
“Hey, Kowalski, I’ve only got a couple of packets of Polish cigarettes left. Go and get some Woodbines from the bar, will you?”
Jerzy winked at Jan. He lit up and blew a perfect circle of smoke into the air above his head before asking, “Any sign of Ziggy yet?”
Miro shrugged and shook his head. Jan sighed. “I can’t imagine what’s happened. I know he’s a bit of an odd character, but I can’t…”
A middle-aged officer with immaculately Brylcreemed dark hair and a bushy moustache arrived at the table, placed his pint on the table and banged his pipe against one of the table legs. “There you all are. Very well done, gentlemen. I think you all performed admirably today. Admirably. And you, Sieczko, you saved my bacon. I am most grateful. Most grateful.”
Squadron Leader Kellett patted Jan on the back. Although the Kosciuszko Squadron was made up of Polish pilots, the RAF had insisted that the squadron be under the overall command of a British Officer. Stanley Kellett, a career Air Force Officer, was that man. There had been some difficult moments, but the Poles had grown rapidly to respect Kellett and Kellett in turn was learning rapidly to respect his pilots’ flying skills.
Kellett’s pilots reverted to English. “We were just wondering about Ziggy, sir. Any news?”
“No, Kubicki. I haven’t heard anything. I can’t believe he’s gone AWOL, but if I don’t hear anything by tomorrow, I’m going to have to list him as such. It’s very worrying. Remind me, Sieczko, you were with him at the weekend, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. We went sightseeing in London on Sunday. In the evening, after dinner, he went off to meet someone. I went back to my sister’s place. He was meant to meet up with me on Monday morning, but as you know didn’t show.”
“Hmm.” Kellett stroked his moustache thoughtfully.
“Well, you know, if there’s no sign of him tomorrow, I suppose it’s a matter for the police. Doesn’t look that good though, does it? We’re just getting going here with you chaps and we have to report a Polish desertion. Won’t do a lot for our image, will it?”
Jan finished his beer. “Sir, I have… or rather my sister has a good friend in the police, at Scotland Yard in fact. Perhaps he would be able to look into it discreetly. I can’t believe Ziggy has deserted. Something must have happened to him.”
“Good idea. If we don’t find Pilot Officer Kilinski back with us tomorrow, you get your policeman on the case, Sieczko. And now, gentlemen, I haven’t got your stamina you know, I’m off to bed. I think we’re going to have another busy day tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Friday, September 6
It seemed to Merlin that the air-raid sirens had been going off constantly for the past twenty-four hours. He had stayed put in his flat, but had been up and down all night. Having finished his Spanish history book, he couldn’t decide on a new book to read. Perhaps he’d managed an hour of sleep all told. He’d pulled back the black-out curtain from time to time and watched the dancing searchlights playing back and forth in the sky. He’d heard the almost constant drone of planes in the distance, but still central London, or at least his part of it, seemed to be unscathed. The anti-aircraft guns had pounded away, but again they were muffled and far off. At about 3am he’d put his mac over his pyjamas and wandered down to the Embankment. Judging by the glow he had seen in the east and south, he had guessed that the docks and the southern suburbs were taking the brunt of the attack again.
The early morning news bulletin on the Home Programme confirmed this. The damage was substantial but confined to a small number of dock installations. There was limited residential damage. In his usual cut-glass tones Alvar Lidell described the events of the evening, modified a little as Merlin knew for morale purposes, but fundamentally accurate.
Was this the beginning of the end? All sorts of scaremongering had arisen about the likely impact of an all-out German bombing attack. If the worst were to be believed, London’s entire population would be wiped out by Christmas. Merlin didn’t think it would be that bad, but he knew that it would be bad.
* * *
Peter Johnson was waiting outside his door when Merlin got to the Yard. “Come on in, Peter. Take a seat.”
Detective Inspector Johnson was a well turned out young man in his late twenties. He had dark, heavily oiled hair and a narrow, angular face. He had for a while affected a small moustache whose unfortunate resemblance to that of the German Fuhrer had brought down the A.C.’s wrath and its ordered removal. Johnson still regularly stroked his upper lip in fond remembrance. His slightly nervous and self-effacing manner masked a sharp, incisive brain and a courageous heart. Johnson withdrew a small notebook and pencil from inside his suit jacket and looked expectantly at Merlin.
“I’ve read your report on the forgers. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. There is still more work to be done though.” Johnson spoke in a soft Geordie accent which Merlin found mellifluous.
“Yes, I know, but you’ve broken the back of the job and I’d like you to pass it over to Verey now.”
Johnson twiddled his pencil and raised a concerned eyebrow. “Very well, sir.”
“I’ve got something else for you. A ‘Gatehouse’ special, shall we call it?”
Johnson winced.
“No, I shouldn’t joke about it, I suppose. It’s important work and I think you’re well suited to it.”
A siren wailed from somewhere on the other side of the river. Both men looked briefly out of the window. “Things are about to get very unpleasant, Peter. Very unpleasant.”
Johnson frowned. “I sent Dora up to Newcastle last week. She complained, but I thought she’d be safer with my parents.” Johnson had got married in June to his childhood sweetheart.
“Get on alright, do they, Dora and your parents?”
“Yes, sir. Dora’s family lived in the same street as us when we were kids. Her parents died young and mine have always been very close to her, so that’s alright. She didn’t want to leave me, but I insisted.”
“I’m sure you did the right thing.” Merlin had already suggested on more than one occasion to Sonia that he try and get her employment somewhere outside London, but she had laughed at him. “What could I do in the country, Frank? You want me to be a milkmaid or something. No, I’ll take my chances here, with you.”
Merlin drew himself back to the present. “What we’re concerned about now is the subject of looting. Since the German bombing campaign began in August, there has been a much greater incidence of looting reported than was anticipated. Quite naturally the powers that be are worried that if looting is rife in places like Croydon and Bromley, what will the impact be in central London as the bombing attacks accelerate? If there’s an epidemic of looting in London, in other words, how do we manage it?”
“And how do we, sir?”
“I don’t yet know. But sitting as we are in the centre of Whitehall, you can perhaps guess the first stage of how we work out how to manage the problem.”
Johnson nodded his head slowly. “Well, sir, let me see – would that be to establish a committee?” His Geordie origins betrayed themselves distinctly in his slow and unsympathetic enunciation of the last word.
“Bueno, Peter. A committee. And, yes, I would like you to represent the Yard on this committee.”
Johnson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m not really cut out for administrative work, sir. Is there no one else you can—”
“Inspector, you are my best officer. We may view the workings of Whitehall with distaste and frankly I cannot understand why the civil defence people have not planned more actively for this problem, but there it is. This is an important issue and we are on the front line with the various other authorities. We need to cooperate closely with them and combat the problem very effectively. If it’s any comfort, Peter, I think this will be a lot more than paper-pushing. We need to establish an efficient unit to act against looters and you can be in the driving seat in doing that. That means there could be plenty of action for you.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You know I’ll do anything you want and in the proper spirit. If I have to sit on a committee, so be it. I suppose my lack of enthusiasm reflects the problem itself – who’d have thought that in the dire circumstances we are in, we’d have British people behaving in this disgusting way.”
“Disgusting it certainly is. Let’s hope that things don’t get as bad as these initial figures indicate.”
“Yes, sir. Well, what’s next?”
“I’ll have to make a few phone calls and speak to the A.C. again. Come and see me this afternoon – and thanks.”
Johnson rose and put his pencil and notebook away. With a smile he reached over the desk to shake Merlin’s extended hand.
* * *
Jack Stewart plunged his hand into the bucket and splashed his face. He pulled a shabby handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, dunked it in the water and wiped some of the black soot from his eyes. The acrid smell of burning chemicals mingled with the stink of his own sweat and he raised an arm to cover his nostrils. He had been on duty for over twenty-four hours and was on his last legs. He looked over at the rest of his squad. Some men were stretched horizontal on a small patch of scrub ground and the others were leaning exhausted against the pump. They had managed to get the main fire under control by mid-morning, but had been kept busy by small isolated outbreaks, which had continued to occur with annoying regularity. It had been an hour, though, since they had had to deal with one of these incidents and Stewart had decided that they had finished the job.
He sat down carefully between two puddles and rummaged in his pockets for a cigarette. The thick, black smoke, which had swirled around them for hours, had finally dispersed and he could look up at the bright morning sky. In the distance, on the other side of the river in Rotherhithe, he saw a couple of small fires blazing away. He looked up again and watched a single fighter, flying at great altitude, creep slowly across his line of vision. British or German, he didn’t care. He felt his eyelids drooping and, with a supreme effort, shook his head and climbed to his feet. “Alright, you lazy buggers. Rise and shine. Let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ve done enough for today.”
Despite his argumentative and recalcitrant nature, acquired as a matter of course during a poverty-stricken Gorbals childhood, Stewart had achieved rapid promotion in the Fire Service and was the senior officer in charge of the Chelsea station. His membership of the Communist Party had been held against him when he’d attempted to enlist and all three forces had rejected him. None had given him a good reason, but he knew that his politics must be to blame. At least he’d been sure that that was the case until he’d been accepted by the AFS. Perhaps they were just less choosy in the AFS, though whether the armed forces had any right to be choosy in current circumstances was highly debatable.
From the day he had started his service he had questioned everything. The lack of action during the first months of the war had allowed Stewart plenty of time to think and to pick holes in the system. He’d got up the noses of his superiors in his first station, not only because of his bolshy nature, but also because of his conspicuous success with the female sex, whom he pursued vigorously in the many idle hours. He’d been transferred to the Chelsea station where he was initially just as unpopular. In June, however, a new head of station had come in and he was a Scot of a very different pedigree to Stewart. Archibald Steele had recently inherited a Highland baronetcy, fifty thousand acres and a substantial banking fortune. Nevertheless, he regarded Stewart’s foibles with tolerance and some amusement. He recognised that Stewart was ferociously intelligent and clear thinking. As the service was increasingly called into action during the summer months to assist other forces in the suburbs, he realised also that Stewart was fearless and a leader. So when Sir Archibald Steele was asked to take up a more senior role in the AFS hierarchy, he spent little time thinking about his replacement. Eyebrows were raised as rumours of Stewart’s awkwardness had circulated beyond his stations, but Steele was insistent. And so Stewart had been in charge of his station for one week when the Blitz on London really seemed to have begun in earnest.
“Come on. Let’s do a quick roll-call before we get home. Line up here, men.” Stewart cast an eye down the line. And then looked again. “Where the hell is Evans? Cooper, you were with him last time I looked.”
Cooper, a grizzled veteran of the regular Fire Brigade who’d come into the service from retirement, wiped a smear of dirt from his cheek. “He came out safely with me from the warehouse. I think he wandered off down to the wharf. Maybe he’s gone for a swim!”
Stewart laughed half-heartedly. “Yes. Very funny. Alright. Let’s get all our equipment together. I’ll just have a quick look for him over there. Cooper, you supervise please.”
Stewart stepped gingerly over some smouldering timber embers and walked towards the river. He spotted Evans sitting on the edge of the deck with his legs dangling over the water. “Oi. Evans. What the hell are you doing?”
Evans, a serious-looking man in his thirties, turned to see Stewart approaching him and hurriedly jumped to his feet. He ran a hand through his sparse hair then put his helmet back on. “I’m sorry, Mr Stewart. I was in a bit of a daze after getting out of the warehouse. I suppose I came over here because I’d get a little cooler. Is there more firefighting to be done?”
“No, no. It’s just that we’re finished here now and we need to pack up and get back to Chelsea. I was worried that we might have lost you.”
“I’m afraid I lost myself for a moment. I was thinking about Charles Dickens.
Our Mutual Friend
to be precise. This area of London features significantly in that book. Have you read it?”
Stewart had compensated in part for the deficiencies of his Glasgow education by becoming extremely well read. He had read all of Dickens. “Aye, I’ve read it. Gaffer Hexam and Roger Riderhood. They were in business fishing out dead bodies in these reaches of the Thames, were they not? Have you seen any dead bodies to fish out?”
“Thankfully not, Mr Stewart. Plenty of dead wood, but no dead people, although I daresay that there’ll be an abundance of those shortly.”
“Now, now, Mr Evans. Let’s not get defeatist.”
“I’m not being defeatist, Mr Stewart. I’m being a realist.”
Stewart nodded back towards the smouldering building and the rest of their squad.“Come on, let’s go.”
As they walked back Evans hummed a tune which seemed vaguely familiar to Stewart.
“Handel?”
“Yes, well done, Mr Stewart. From the music for the Royal Fireworks. Appropriate for our task, I think. You know, there is a strange beauty to all this.”
Stewart jumped over a large slick of oily water. Evans directed his path around it. “Beauty, you say, Mr Evans. How so?”
“Well, when the inferno was at its height last night, I was just wondering what Turner would have made of it. He loved those fiery colours. ‘The Fighting Temeraire’ and all that. Do you know that painting?”
Stewart’s latterday self-education had not yet embraced much of the visual arts. Evans, he knew, was or had been some sort of art historian from whom he would be happy to learn. “Can’t say I do.”
“It’s a wonderful painting of an old ship-of-the line being burned at sea. You must see it, except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, you won’t be able to see it for the duration. It’s gone off for safety to the country with the rest of the Tate collection. I have several books on Turner. I’d be happy to bring them into the station if you are interested?”
“I would, yes. Perhaps tomorrow. But for now let’s concentrate on getting back to Chelsea. Go over there and help the others, please.”