Bomber, p.34
Bomber, page 34
Gerd borrowed a woman’s bicycle from Frau Klein behind the bar. The tiny slotted blue street-lights had been extinguished but the luminous paint on the trees and lamp-posts helped him find his way through the darkened town.
As he passed the Nazi Party HQ, he popped in to tell them there was a big raid tonight, but one glance told him that he needn’t have bothered. The NSV kitchens were bustling with voluntary workers in aprons and Party officials in their fine uniforms. Shrewdly it was a matter of policy that compensation, clothing, soup kitchens and emergency aid for the homeless were all provided by Nazi Party workers. Gerd picked his way past mountains of potatoes. The raw smell of the freshly peeled ones was strong. Gerd hated that smell. There were blue fantailed gas flames under the soup vats and more potatoes were being tipped into the peeling-machines.
‘Some coffee, Herr Böll?’ said Frau Grundel.
‘I mustn’t interrupt the good work,’ said Böll. The woman smiled. Many years ago they had held hands under the trees and on summer evenings like this had walked along the stream as far as the Kersten windmill, long since broken and demolished. Now she was nearly fifty, widowed with three grown-up daughters and a soldier son. She ran her baker’s shop and still volunteered long hours for the Frauenschaft. Frau Grundel reached for a chipped enamel mug from the shelf of mugs that stood ready by the stove. She poured the hot dark coffee and passed it to him.
‘For the Hilfzug?’ asked Gerd Böll.
‘That’s it,’ said the woman. ‘The lorries are waiting. It’s strange to think that within three hours poor bombed-out people in the Ruhr will be drinking our good hot potato soup.’ She smoothed the starched white apron of her uniform.
‘We’ve a lot to thank God for.’
‘God and the Führer, Gerd,’ said the woman.
‘There are flares dropping to the north,’ said Gerd. ‘And searchlights.’
‘You are the third one to tell us,’ said Frau Grundel. ‘But there’s no need to be alarmed about the Terrorflieger; our brave boys will be in the air after them.’
‘I must be getting along,’ said Gerd Böll. He swallowed his coffee and pursed his lips at the bitter after-taste. Frau Grundel noticed his grimace.
‘You’ve nothing to worry about; our anti-aircraft defences in the Ruhr are the most formidable in the world.’
‘Goodbye, Frau Grundel,’ said Gerd. She turned away and switched on the peeling-machine which made a noise like thunder.
Anna-Luisa was brushing her hair carefully, three hundred times as she did every night, when she heard the voice of little Hansl from the next room.
‘Fräulein, Fräulein.’
‘Yes, Hansl. But you must get back into bed.’ He had pulled back the curtains.
‘The pretty lights, Fräulein. Such pretty lights. Like Christmas trees in the sky.’
Anna-Luisa went to the window. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Exactly like Christmas trees, Hansl.’
‘Is Daddy doing it?’
‘No, Liebchen.’ The coloured lights were close; very close. She picked him up. ‘You’re a weight, Hansl. Soon you will be too heavy for me to lift.’
‘When I am a man I will lift you, Fräulein.’
‘That will be splendid,’ said Anna-Luisa and kissed the boy.
When the knock came at the door she went to it still carrying Hansl.
‘Herr Böll, is something wrong?’
‘Good, you are dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to take shelter this night.’
‘Shelter?’
‘Next door with Herr Voss. Last month he told August that he wanted you and the child to shelter there if the air raids came. His shelter is reinforced and has fans for air. Suffocation is the great danger, you see.’
‘Tonight?’
‘The flares are dropping already. They are target markers. You must hurry.’
‘But they will not bomb Altgarten.’
‘Please hurry.’
‘I must get my shoes and a coat for Hansl.’
‘I can’t wait, Fräulein,’ said Gerd. ‘Hurry, and knock loudly on Herr Voss’ door. I know he’s in because his blackout always has chinks in it, but he plays the gramophone and he may not hear you.’
‘It was kind of you, Herr Böll.’
‘I promised August,’ said Gerd coldly. He swung his leg over the saddle of Frau Klein’s bicycle and pedalled away towards the TENO camp.
When the first bombs fell it was a sound new to Anna-Luisa: a slippery, shuffling half-whistle, like a heavy parcel sliding down a metal chute. Each ended with a bang. Not the sort of bang that a firecracker or a pistol makes. This was as different from those bangs as a tuba is from a piccolo. These were big brassy bangs that slapped ears, shook the ground underfoot and kicked urgently at the windows.
‘We must hurry, my darling Hansl.’
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 with Warley’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?’
