‘Good morning.’
It was a girl’s voice. I turned. Marion Sheldon was standing there, looking very slim and boyish.
‘Don’t we know each other any more?’ she said, smiling.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked a little vaguely. The truth is, I was wondering what this activity portended and trying rather unsuccessfully to quieten the fluttering of my stomach.
‘Why, you walked right past me and cut me dead.’ She laughed. ‘What were you thinking about so intensely?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I replied. ‘How’s things? Finished those fatigues yet?’
‘Not quite. Two more days.’ She came forward so that she was quite close to me. I remember thinking how beautifully clear the whites of her eyes were and how ridiculously tip-tilted and saucy her nose looked. ‘What happened last night?’ she asked. ‘I was so worried about you.’
I told her briefly. When I had finished she said: ‘I’m glad it wasn’t altogether wasted. Did you by any chance find out his Christian name?’
I thought for a moment, trying to recall it from the letters I had glanced through. ‘Joshua, I think,’ I said. ‘Yes, Joshua.’
Lightly her feet moved in a little wardance. ‘It all fits in,’ she said. ‘Elaine was talking in her sleep last night.
I’ve got the next bed to hers. I woke up to hear her saying, “I won’t stay, Joshua, I won’t stay. You must get me out.” Then there was a lot of gibberish I couldn’t make any sense out of. Then: “You must get me away, Joshua. You must. They’ll hit the hangars.” What’s that suggest to you? I should add that she got up this morning looking positively haggard and was as jumpy as anything.’
The chill in my stomach told me what it suggested to me. But I didn’t see any point in frightening her unnecessarily. ‘Did she say anything else?’
‘Oh, quite a lot, but just a jumble of words. She kept on talking about her birthday and Cold Harbour Farm — that’s the name of a book, isn’t it?’
‘No, Cold Comfort Farm,’ I told her, and we laughed.
‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘Anyway, there was nothing else of interest, only what I’ve told you.’
At that moment the sirens began to go in the distance. I glanced round the square. A soldier on a bike with tin hat on and gas mask at the alert came pedalling down the roadway from our orderly room. ‘Here it is!’ I said. ‘Take post! I thought we shouldn’t have long to wait.’ It was Mason on the bike. I waved to him to acknowledge that I had received the summons. ‘You’re not on Ops. today, are you?’ I asked Marion.
‘No, I’ve just come off,’ she said. ‘Why?’
Thank God!’ I exclaimed. ‘See that you get into a shelter when there are alarms on. I must go now. Cheerio.’ I waved my hand to her. As I broke into a run, the Tannoy announced Preliminary Air-Raid Warning. ‘All personnel not servicing aircraft or on ground defence to take cover.’ Everyone began running — the guards to their posts, the rest to the dug-out shelters.
Just as I reached the edge of the flying field itself, Micky came up with me, riding Langdon’s bicycle. ‘All go, ain’t it, mate,’ he said. But his cheerfulness was very forced. His eyes looked wildly bright in the pallor of his face. As he rode on I thought that probably there were bombees, just as there were murderees. And if ever there was a bombee, I thought Micky must be one.
Most of the detachment were already in the pit by the time I got there. There’s a big raid crossing the coast,’ I heard someone say. I put my tin hat on and my gas mask at the alert. ‘You’d better look after that ‘phone,’ Langdon told me. There was the usual scramble for cotton-wool. That was before everyone was issued with proper ear-plugs. On a three-inch it is absolutely essential to have something in your ears. The trouble is that the gun is an old naval weapon converted for anti-aircraft work, and in order to get the necessary degree of elevation the recoil had been reduced from two feet to eleven inches with a consequent big increase in the noise of the charge.
‘Attention, please! Attention, please! Swallowtail Squadron scramble! Scramble!’
A car swept by carrying pilot officers from the mess to the dispersal points. Several more of them came running down the roadway. They were in full kit. Among them I recognised John Nightingale. He was running with that easy, shambling gait of his. As he passed our pit he waved his hand to me. I acknowledged the salute.
‘That’s Nightingale, isn’t it?’ asked Kan.
‘Yes, we were at school together,’ I said. I couldn’t help it. I glanced first at Hood, then at Chetwood. In view of their recent attitude, I felt it was almost a claim to respectability to know the ace leader of the new squadron.
Nightingale had disappeared into the dispersal point just past our pit. The sound of engines revving was shatteringly loud. A moment later his ‘plane came out of it. He had the hood of the cockpit thrown back, and I saw him wave to his crew. The ‘plane’s number was TZ05. He slid the hood over his head and the ‘plane taxied at a tremendous rate over to the start of the runway, where aircraft from the dispersal’s point were already gathering.
The ‘phone went as the squadron began to take off. I picked up the receiver. Tour,’ I said as our number was called out. ‘Hold on a minute,’ came the voice of Gun Ops. There’s a plot coming through.’ I waited. Then: There’s a formation of about two hundred ‘planes twenty-five miles away to the southeast flying north-west. Height, twenty thousand feet.’
I passed on the information to Langdon. The pit received the news in silence. We were accustomed by now to big formations. But I knew what everyone was thinking. I was thinking it too. Was Thorby their objective?
‘Attention, please. Attention, please!’ The Tannoy again. ‘Attack alarm! Attack alarm! All personnel to take cover immediately. Take cover immediately. Attack alarm! Off.’
We waited, tense, watching the sky. It was very blue, except for little wisps of cloud high up. Swallowtail Squadron disappeared, tiny specks, climbing south-eastwards. Langdon had the glasses. Every now and then he searched the sky in an arc south and east. Though it was only a little after ten, it was very hot in the pit. The glare of the sun was terrific, so that one’s eyes felt hot and tired trying to see little specks that would only show when the sun glinted on them high up in the azure bowl of the sky.
‘They’ll be coming right out of the sun,’ said Helson.
‘Yes, it’s just right for them,’ added Blah. ‘We won’t be able to see a thing.’ He was nicknamed Blah because he had a rather exaggeratedly aristocratic voice and was fond of words.
‘Cor, you’re just the kiddy for ‘em if they land,’ said Micky. ‘You better lose that identity disc of yours, I tell you — that is, if you’ve got your religion down as Yiddish.’
We laughed. It was a relief to laugh at something. Blah laughed too. ‘I’ve already lost it,’ he said. ‘The trouble is I can’t lose my nose.’
‘You could cut it off,’ suggested somebody.
‘Spoil my beauty! Kan wouldn’t give me a part after the war if I did.’
‘Listen!’ said Bombardier Hood.
Faintly came the sound of distant engine, flying high.
‘Sounds like them,’ Chetwood said.
‘Christ! And not a single fighter of our own in sight,’ said Kan.
The throb grew louder. ‘Did that Jerry really say we were to be bombed today?’ Micky asked me.
I nodded.
There was silence.
‘Cor, I’d like to git at ‘em wiv a baynet. Come down, you bastards! Come down!’ Micky’s face was strained as he muttered his challenge to the sky. He turned to Langdon. ‘Wot d’you think, John. Is it our turn today?’
‘Oh, give it a rest,’ said Bombardier Hood.
‘Look! Up there!’ Chetwood was pointing high up to the north-west. ‘It glinted in the sun just for a second.’
We strained our eyes. But none of us could see anything, though we could hear the throb of the engines very plainly now. The sound seemed to come from the direction in which he was pointing.
‘There it is again,’ Chetwood said. ‘I can see them all now.’ He began to count. ‘Twenty-one, I make it.’