CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The lights of the final Lancaster disappeared over the hedge of Warley Fen airfield. The sound of that last one became fainter until it too was gone. For a few minutes there always remained an unnatural quiet that made even insensitive people speak in whispers. The Group Captain was not an insensitive person. He stopped signing papers and turned out the desk lamp before drawing the blackout curtains and opening the window. A cold wind made the papers on his desk flap noisily. The flare path was switched off and except for the shielded lights on the corners of each building and a careless blackout in the Operations Block the night was dark and still.

It was always the same for him when the aeroplanes had gone; the Group Captain felt remote. He had a secret fear that one night none of them would come back and he would sit alone on the airfield for ever after. This was the twelfth raid this month. It was too many. His men were tired and so was he. He’d pulled every string he knew to be used as a pathfinder squadron, but if he faced the truth they weren’t up to it. They were very ordinary airmen and he was an unexceptional commander.

He wished he could manage on four hours’ sleep a night like so many of the young ones could, but missing sleep made him tired, forgetful and easily irritated. In spite of that he always waited until the planes returned. It would be unthinkable to go back to the house and try to sleep. He hated the place; it was far too large and empty for one man. Warley’s previous Station commander had a wife and three children and so much furniture that he’d been pleased to leave half of it behind when he’d heard that Jarman had no furniture of his own to bring.

He wished Helen had lived long enough to see him get his scrambled egg and a station of his own. Some of his comrades and their wives felt sorry for him in that there had been no children. Laurie and Daphne had even said so. That was because they had no idea of the relationship between a commander and his men on a proper combat station. An operational station: how often they had dreamed of it and joked of it when he was a young acting Flight Lieutenant in the tiny peacetime Air Force. Then it had seemed that promotion would never come. ‘Roll on death, promotion is too slow,’ they used to joke in the Mess. Now, my God, it was sometimes too fast. They had kids of air commodores throwing their weight about; kids!

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see as far as B Flight dispersal. In the tin huts, where men would keep vigil through the cold night, tiny temperamental stoves were being coaxed into flame. The Group Captain sniffed the wood smoke and remembered his seven days in the front line in the spring of 1917; it was his whole leave. Those brave gods had thought him crazy but they had no idea what it did to a young infantry officer to incarcerate him in a supply depot for the entire war. And at a time when at the front the average life of a subaltern was three weeks!

His aircrews were even more stringently selected than Haig’s young officers and yet in this month alone he’d lost three crews on their first trip. One crew had been here only eight days. They had the courage of a thousand lions and no one would be allowed to mar the honour he felt at being in the front line with them. He sniffed loudly, closed the blackout curtains and turned on the desk light again. The adjutant had left a pile of papers for signing and he continued through them mechanically without reading the contents. It was like being the mayor of a little town. Nowadays he scarcely saw his aeroplanes.

Again he picked up the note from Laurie at Besteridge.

Dear Jar,

What price Saturday now? Still no matter, I never said, ‘Sports results are the acid test of skilled command.’ But you might be able to convert me to your point of view over a pint.

LAURIE

Attached to the hastily scrawled note there was a newspaper clipping showing a famous cricketer in Air Force uniform with a Wellington bomber behind him and Laurie grinning alongside. The caption said that the batsman was now knocking bombs into German boundaries and was proud to be a member of the finest team of all—the RAF.

Group Captain Jarman grunted. He’d never regretted anything more than the much-quoted remark he’d made after his cricket side had won the cup, but that was years before the war, when he was a young kid, commanding a small unit for the first time.

It was only since Laurie had got this damned professional posted there that he’d suddenly taken an interest in cricket and started to borrow good players from all over the Command. The AOC loved it, of course. He and Laurie were as thick as thieves lately. Laurie had a devastating memory for indiscretions. Not his own of course, but his rivals’. God knows what else he’d be saying in the Mess on Saturday after they’d wiped the floor withWarley’s keen but amateurish eleven. Sweet had taken over as captain this season and had done a pretty good job with them, except that this slow bowler—he looked down at his notebook—Lambert hadn’t even put in an appearance for the last few games. The Group Captain filled his pipe carefully and lit it.

There was a knock at the door and his clerk came in.

‘Corporal Taylor,’ she announced. She was just going off duty.

‘Hello, Corporal Taylor. That’s all right, stand at ease. I don’t think we’ve met before.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ve probably seen me about. You’re in Safety Equipment, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And now you are probably wondering why I sent for you.’

Corporal Taylor said nothing.

‘Sit down, Corporal. As perhaps you know we have a tradition in the RAF that on certain occasions officers and men talk what we call “man to man”. You probably know what I mean by that.’

Corporal Taylor still didn’t speak.

‘It means that what we say to each other is informal. It means that you no longer have to weigh each word you say in case it might be what we call “conduct to the prejudice of good order”.’ He smiled paternally. ‘At times I’ve had fellows cut up frightfully rough when I’ve let them do that. Of course they’ve regretted it afterwards, I’ve made sure of that but meanwhile I’ve been able to get to the bottom of something that’s troubled them. Smoke, Corporal?’

‘No thank you, sir.’

‘Now how long have you been married to Flight Sergeant Lambert?’

‘Three months, sir.’

‘Are you happy here, Corporal?’

‘Why aren’t you happy there, my girl? What’s so different about that aerodrome?’ The Group Captain was so like her father.

How could anyone describe it? Low-power bulbs at dead of night, iron beds, dirty linen, damp walls, and a door banging desolately. Behind it some bereaved girl is taking an unendurably hot bath and drinking gin. ‘It’s the war, Dad.’

‘I’m near to my husband.’

‘Exactly, and meanwhile you’ve continued to use your single name for WAAF records.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve been meaning to do something about it but…’

‘But Section Officer Holroyd hasn’t chased you up about it and you’re frightened that you’ll be posted elsewhere if Records hear.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, I’ve spoken to Miss Holroyd about you and she tells me you’re a conscientious worker and she feels that on an operational station efficiency is the main thing.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes, there’s nothing more important than efficiency in this day and age. There’s nothing more important than killing Huns. The RAF has no Colonel Blimps. It’s a young Service with young ideas and it’s not hidebound by rules and regulations, but there must be a matter of give and take. You know what I mean.’

‘Perhaps I will have a cigarette, sir.’

‘Here we are, matches on the desk. But give and take means that the Air Force expects people to have a similar goodwill in return, Mrs Lambert, and that’s what I want to talk to you about.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ruth.

‘Your husband, Mrs Lambert, is one of my most experienced captains. There are not many people on this station who were flying in 1937: myself of course, Wing Commander Munro…’ The Group Captain felt that it was not a good line to pursue. ‘Anyway, when we’ve got a chap—a regular RAF aircrew bod—painting Communist slogans across his aircraft what will people think, eh?’

‘Communist slogans?’

‘Communist slogans, Mrs Lambert. “Joe Stalin for King.” You would call that a Communist slogan, I take it?’

‘I would call it a joke, sir. When people say that, they don’t intend it to be taken literally. I mean everyone is saying it. I’ve even heard it on the wireless.’

‘And that’s exactly what we’ve got to be careful about.’

‘But that’s not painted on my husband’s aircraft. That’s painted on Sergeant Carter’s L for Love.’

‘Allow me to know my own aeroplanes, Mrs Lambert. You’ll have to allow me that.’ He smiled, pitying her feminine limitations.

‘Is that what you wanted me for, sir?’

‘No, it isn’t, Corporal. I’ve sent for you to see if we can’t get to the bottom of what’s troubling your husband. Mrs Lambert, he seems determined to challenge authority. And on this aerodrome’—he smiled—‘well, I’m authority.’

‘Challenged you, sir?’

He leaned back in his chair, not sure of how to continue. When he began to speak again it was with a new tone of voice as though he had decided to reveal everything to her in a sudden attempt at reason. ‘As you might know, Mrs Lambert, I’m a committee man. Can’t help it, always have been, always will be. You get a reputation for helping with one set of chaps and each of them will be off trying to get you on some other committee. But if there’s one darned committee I’m pleased to be on it’s the cricket committee. It was my idea to appeal to the public for used cricket gear. Last year we staged parades, we flew a Lancaster over Peterborough dropping leaflets about it and had collections at the local cinemas whenever there was a flying film running. Got a trainload of cricket gear too. Well, that’s good stuff, Mrs Lambert. Keeps the chaps fit and amused. Cricket’s a little like flying in combat, I always say: long leisurely time in the pavilion followed by brief moments when a chap faces some fast bowling. Damned like cricket, saving your presence, Mrs Lambert. Understand?’

‘I don’t think I do, sir.’

‘The cricket match on Saturday, RAF Warley Fen versus RAF Little Besteridge. I want Warley to win, Mrs Lambert. That’s natural enough, isn’t it?’

Ruth smiled. It seemed so childish to go to all this trouble about a game. ‘And you want my husband in the team?’

‘Well, of course. We all know he’s the finest slow bowler in the Group. With him we’ll knock spots off them but without him we’ve got no bowler worth the name.’

‘And this match is special? I mean, you haven’t minded that he hasn’t played much recently.’

‘Trust you to see right through me, Mrs Lambert. As my mother once said, there’s not a woman in the world who can’t see right through me. Yes, the Station commander at Little Besteridge is a chap I’ve known for years. He once played for 3 Group. If his dotty little Maintenance Unit at Besteridge beats us he’s going to make life hell for me on every committee meeting afterwards.’ He laughed and puffed at his pipe.

‘You flatter me by suggesting that I can influence my husband, sir. And even if I could, I’m not sure that it would be wise.’

‘Come, come, Mrs Lambert, I’m not that naïve, and neither are you. Give and take, take and give. That’s the Air Force. You are living unofficially with your husband in the village when it’s strictly against regulations, but your Section Officer and I don’t want to be unreasonable…’

Ruth looked round the room as if seeking a way of escape. It was dark and inhospitable and the air was charged with the herbal scent of the CO’s tobacco. Over his desk lamp there was a fly-paper, its gum shiny in the yellow glare. There were a dozen flies on it and not all of them were dead. She knew she’d not been brought here to be consulted or even commanded. Nor did his intimate confessions of frailty convince her that he was anything but devious. She had been brought to bear witness that the CO was a man of infinite compassion and wisdom, a man devoid of personal ambition or prejudice, reluctant to see her husband punished for his intractable behaviour. Ruth’s father was like this. She remembered the way in which he’d humiliated her very first boyfriend and afterwards pretended to be unaware of having done so.

Ruth put one of her fingernails into the back of her hand until it almost bled; she wanted to be oblivious of everything except that little pain and she knew that if she were stoical about it this frightening old man and his clever questions would disappear. When she looked up he had not disappeared. ‘I don’t know what you want of me,’ she said. She hoped he would reply, ‘Nothing.’

‘All I’m asking of you, Corporal, is to convey an unofficial message to your husband.’ He tapped his pipe into the ashtray. ‘I’m even thinking of taking him off flying duties.’ He watched Ruth during this slow and studied declaration but he saw no change in her calm face. He was growing impatient of this foolish girl. A loyal wife would have immediately perceived the trouble that was in store for her husband. Her silliness was almost funny and he permitted himself a trace of a smile. ‘You know what being taken off flying duties will involve, Mrs Lambert?’

Ruth had been frightened that the Group Captain would see her hands trembling, so nervous was she, but his smile changed all that. It was the brief smile that some men kept ready for women, babies and respectful beggars. Both patronizing and complacent, it triggered in her a righteous wrath. She tried to keep her voice low and calm as she replied but the anger in her voice could not be concealed. ‘I know what it will involve, sir. That’s the ultimate punishment in the Air Force. But it doesn’t frighten me. How do you think I feel when I watch his plane take off at night? I’m lying awake full of sleeping pills that have no effect, waiting for a ring at the bell instead of the sound of his key in the lock. When they are diverted because of bad weather it’s worse. I stay near a phone all the time waiting in case one of the girls from Flying Control might have heard something about the casualties. Take him off flying, if that’s your decision, and then I’ll have a husband who will live to see the war over.’

He pretended to concern himself with the papers on his desk. ‘I don’t think you understand the disgrace that will go with him being grounded. Have you?…’

She was determined not to raise her voice again. ‘Disgrace is only for men. Save talk of that for your schools and your clubs and your old comrades’ dinners. Save talk of disgrace until you lose your cricket match, or for the next hesitant hero.’

He looked up. ‘Is that the way you will bring up your children, Mrs Lambert, without pride and without honour?’ He said it as though he thought it most likely.

‘Ask the widows of your dead aircrews how they explain honour to their fatherless children. Or to the rent collector.’

She twisted her wedding-ring nervously and looked into the old man’s eyes to see what effect her words were having. Like her father, he refused to reveal his discomposure even when, as now, she was promising to stop. Oh well, she would continue: ‘If you really want to know what I mean by disgrace, it’s to hear you talking about killing Huns as though it was a manly duel instead of blowing people and their homes to pieces.’ How could this old man ever understand, she thought, he has no wife, no children, no home?

‘Just make sure your husband knows what’s involved, Corporal.’

‘Don’t worry, sir, everyone on this station knows what’s involved. We are all playing in your cricket match, aren’t we? I wonder what your team will score over Krefeld tonight. And I wonder if my husband will be run out.’

The Group Captain said, ‘I think that will be all, Corporal. We shall be rectifying your present position vis-à-vis your marriage.’

‘You can decide between making my husband very unhappy or me very unhappy. But one of us will be quite content.’

‘You are dismissed, Corporal.’ She stood up slowly and gave a salute of insolent perfection. Level with her eyes a fly buzzed frantically but could not escape from the sticky paper.

One had these hysterical women to deal with and yet there was a limit to the disciplinary action possible. If an airman had even thought those things he would have stripped him of his rank and put him into the glasshouse, but these women couldn’t be treated like that. They were just uniformed civilians really and in any case they’d always think of some womanly ailment to excuse themselves. Or else they’d go off and get themselves pregnant. What’s the use?

He’d been a damned fool to speak to her in these circumstances, especially at night. A Groupie in Coastal had reprimanded aWAAF sergeant for losing some stores whereupon she’d cried her eyes out and practically yelled rape. It had finished up with the Groupie apologizing. Apologizing!

When she’d gone he rang the buzzer on his desk. ‘In the morning I shall want to speak to Section Officer Holroyd.’

‘Shall I pencil in the subject?’ said his clerk.

‘No, I shan’t forget what I’m going to talk to her about.’

He could, of course, be elsewhere when Laurie brought his damned cricket team here on Saturday. It was damned disgraceful: that hysterical girl going on like that at the very moment when his lads were risking their brave young bodies.