Beneath Us the Stars (7 page)

Bill got back to the squadron after dark. Even before he dumped his bag in his room he went straight to the
adjutant’s
office in one of the Quonset huts clustered all around the field.

A corporal stood up when he entered.

‘Is the adjutant in?’

‘No sir. He’s gone into Ipswich with the CO – some sort of civic reception. They won’t be back till quite late, sir.’

Disappointed, Bill frowned. ‘I guess it can wait till
morning
.’

The corporal hesitated. ‘I don’t think he’ll have time, Lieutenant. There is a big flap on tomorrow – max effort – and you’re on the list.’

He picked up a sheet of typed paper and held it out. Bill took it, noted his name and handed it back.

‘Grapevine say where we’re going?’

‘No sir. Nothing down from Group yet.’

Frustrated, Bill returned the non-com’s salute. Outside there was rain in the wind. He wondered what the Met report was. He shared his room in an old RAF wooden hut
that had seen better days. As soon as he stepped into the narrow corridor he could smell the damp.

Kelleher was stretched out on his bunk, reading a cheap paperback with a lurid cover.

‘Hi there. Have a good time?’

Bill chucked his bag on to his bed. ‘Yep.’

‘What did you do? Any chicks?’

Bill didn’t want to talk about Mary, especially to Kelleher. He said something non-committal.

After the train journey he felt dirty and took a quick shower, letting the hot water pour on to the top of his head, keeping his eyes closed. He wondered what she was doing right then.

At the officers’ club he was greeted by the crowd. He told no one about Mary – he wanted to see the adjutant first. The gossip was that they might be moved to mainland Europe to give tactical support to the armies very soon.

Apparently the black-and-white recognition stripes of the tactical air force were already being painted on the wings and fuselages of some of the planes.

Moodily he munched on his supper, a beefburger and fries, and sipped a coke. People drifted away, getting an early night.

He finished his cigarette and then went to see his crew chief, checking that his ship had completed the overhaul that had been promised.

That night he stretched out in bed, imagining Mary was with him, holding one of her silk scarves with her perfume in his hand.

When he eventually drifted off to sleep it was quite late.

She spent the afternoon in the college library, staring unseen into the winter’s gloom. She kept imagining that first meeting, Bill standing near the books, the sun falling in dusty rays through the window on to his face.

Mentally she had to keep pinching herself that it had happened – though her body occasionally told her it was no dream.

She tore a sheet of paper from one of the pads supplied by the War Office for her work, and began her first letter to a man whom she loved dearly, more than life itself, and who she knew loved her. Yet only a week encompassed their entire knowledge of the existence of each other. Unbelievable.

Tomorrow and the next few days she was at Bletchley Park. There, amongst the quiet but intense activity – at least in her hut – she guessed that some form of normality would return. And the communications she was being asked to assess for their vernacular meaning were
becoming
increasingly horrendous – things were happening all over eastern Europe in camps, not for prisoners of war, but civilians. They had known of them for some time, but now increased rail activity into them was being monitored.

She finished her first letter, apologized for its being so brief, but others, she swore, would be longer.

That evening she packed the few things she needed to take with her to her digs in Bletchley. Her train tomorrow, going via Bedford, was an early one.

When she eventually got into her bed it seemed so lonely
– so cold. A big sob suddenly came from nowhere.

A hand shook him by the shoulder. Bill groaned, tried to free himself, kept his eyes closed.

The hand shook him again, roughly.

‘Sir, time to rise and shine.’

He slept on. It happened again, this time the shaking continued until his eyes opened.

He growled, ‘All right, Melanic, put a sock in it.’

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, then swung his feet to the floor, holding his sleep-befuddled head in his hands, dog tags swinging like pendulums.

‘You really awake, sir?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Melanic, I’m not sleep-walking.’

Melanic shoved a cup of hot sweet coffee on the floor before him, between his bare legs.

‘Breakfast starts in half an hour, sir.’

Bill grunted and took the mug. His dog tags clinked against the china and dropped into the coffee. He snatched them out, hot drips of liquid splashing his bare chest.

‘Oh shit.’

But it helped to wake him up. He padded to the john in his shorts, then pulled them off and took a towel to the shower block.

Half a dozen men were already occupying the steaming row. The water was at first bitterly cold when he pulled the chain, but soon it was streaming down over his head and body, making him tingle with heat.

Showered, shaved and dressed in flying coveralls and his leather jacket, he grabbed his cap and stepped outside. He
took his first lungful of fresh air. For the next few hours he would be flying at altitude on oxygen, mouth parched and lips cracking from the dry gas.

So he looked upon this moment as his morning drink of the sea-moist, air of England.

Bill joined the throng eating early-morning breakfast of powdered eggs – they gave you less gas at altitude. The briefing took place in the squadron dispersal hut. The CO with officers from wing and group were present.

Bill found that they were going to provide the bomber force with top cover over the target and for the withdrawal; the target being Berlin, as it had been with increasing frequency since D-Day. German fighters often waited for the great bomber armadas to turn for home, when their fighter escorts would be low on fuel, before attacking.

So their group would use drop-tanks for extra gas and arrive over Berlin ready to relieve the fighters who had done the insertion cover. The CO wished them all good luck and good hunting, then left with the briefing officers. There was no way Bill could say anything to him, and in any case there were proper channels to go through. It was two hours before take-off. He went to the squadron office, where he struck lucky.

The adjutant, an elderly major in his forties, saw him immediately. He rose from behind his desk as Bill saluted. He acknowledged, then held his hand out.

‘Get a good leave?’

The corporal who had followed Bill into the room put some papers before the adjutant, who picked up his pen, indicating for Bill to sit down.

‘Excuse me a moment.’

The pen scratched as the papers were scanned and signed, then picked up one at a time by the corporal. When the signing was finished, the NCO left, closing the door behind him.

‘Now, what can I do for you?’

Bill ran his hand nervously through his hair. ‘I want to get married – an English girl in Cambridge. I’ve come for the boss’s approval.’

‘Hm – I see. Is she pregnant?’

The question shocked Bill who snapped, ‘No. Certainly not.’

The older man shrugged. ‘You aren’t the first, and by God you won’t be the last to come through this office
seeking
to marry a pregnant popsy.’ He caught the flash of anger on Bill’s face. ‘No offence.’

He leant back in his chair. ‘What I’m trying to say is, whether you are in love or not – and half the men I get in here haven’t really thought it through, the CO will say
No
, believe me.’

Bill felt winded, his shoulders dropped. The adjutant didn’t like doing it, in fact he was a kindly man, and tried not to let a man’s hope and excitement ride for days before his dreams were shattered. He knew that Bill was due off on a mission, and was worried at the effect that it seemed to have on him.

‘I know I shouldn’t do this – but I think a medicinal brandy is called for.’

Whilst Bill slumped in his chair the adjutant got up, unlocked a cupboard and brought out a bottle and two
tumblers. He splashed a measure into each glass and handed one to Bill.

‘Blame it on the Flight-Surgeon if anyone asks.’

Bill took the glass, held it in both hands. There was a determined edge to his voice.

‘I’m going to marry this girl, sir. I want to do it, and
soon
– in case anything happens …’ Frowning, he downed the brandy in one. The adjutant, sitting on the corner of his desk, slowly swinging his leg which ached abominably in this wet English climate, sipped his sedately.

‘Well, I’ll pass your application on – give it my best go, I promise, but I tell you now, the Old Man will say
No
.’

Bill looked up at him, lips set in a tight line. ‘But why?’

The adjutant took another sip. ‘Oh – something to do with the trouble they had after the First World War. Over ninety per cent of dough boys’ marriages failed.’

Bill set the glass down on the desk. ‘Well, I intend to proceed, sir. Do I need to put it in writing?’

The adjutant nodded. ‘I’ll get the typing-pool to do it now – you can sign it before you leave. Excuse me.’

He went to his intercom and buzzed. Almost
immediately
the corporal appeared.

‘Yes sir?’

What was wanted was explained. ‘Do it straight away.’ The adjutant checked his watch. ‘The lieutenant here is flying on this morning’s mission – he will sign it before he leaves.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They were alone again.

The adjutant put the bottle back, rinsed out the glasses in
a little corner sink and dried them, eyeing up Bill.

‘Special, is she?’

Bill nodded. ‘I know you must have heard it all before, but, this is genuine. Both of us – well – hit it off. But that sounds too casual, too light. We’re made for each other.’

He chewed his lip. ‘I’m not a fool, sir – this war is not over yet – a lot of people aren’t going to make it through to the end – and then there’s Japan. I want to be married to her – her name’s Mary by the way, more than anything else in the world. I want her to have my name – in case anything … That’s why it’s so important – so urgent.’ His voice tailed away in embarrassment.

Before the adjutant could murmur something calming, reassuring, Bill suddenly looked up sharply. ‘What if I do it without the Old Man’s permission?’

The older man shook his head firmly. ‘Don’t even think of it, Bill. They might court-martial you, or ship you straight back home or to the Far East in disgrace – it would ruin your record after the war, close down a lot of career opportunities.’

Bill shrugged his indifference. Worried, the adjutant pressed on. ‘You wouldn’t see your young lady for years – maybe never again.’

There was a knock on the door. The adjutant opened it and spoke to someone outside. When he turned back to Bill the latter looked angrily back up at him. ‘I can’t see how anyone has the right—’

Frustrated with his lack of progress the adjutant chopped his open palm with the edge of his other hand. ‘You’re in the army, son. They have
every
right.’

Corporal Johnson knocked and entered, setting a
typewritten
sheet down on the desk. ‘There we are, sir.’

Bill stood up, scanned the simple request and signed it. He faced the adjutant.

‘I’m grateful for all your help.’ It was said without rancour.

‘That’s OK – I understand your feelings, believe me.’

‘When will I know, sir?’

The adjutant returned to his seat, steepled his hands and brought the tips of his fingers to his pursed lips. ‘He’s very busy – we’ve got quite a lot going on – but I’ll try and get an answer from him by – say six p.m.? He’s on today’s show as you know, despite this proposed move we’re working on.’

Bill saluted. ‘I’m obliged.’

The adjutant looked out of the window as Bill hurried away, feeling sorry for the guy. He felt for the young men to whom he had to be a sort of father figure, and for the fact that so many would never be going home again – not even in a body bag. That damned expression: ‘
no known grave
’ haunted him. The weather was good: killing weather.

Outside the sound of Merlin-Packard engines being kicked into life and run up concentrated Bill’s mind on the matter in hand. In the crew room he put on his flying-boots, slipped his Mae West over his leather jacket, picked up his helmet, oxygen mask and parachute and joined a bunch who were catching a ride on a six by six truck to the
hardstands
. Joking and punching and pulling at each other they exchanged farewells. ‘See you soon.’ ‘On a wing and a prayer’ came a rejoinder.

His crew chief was waiting and helped him into the
cockpit
, securing his oxygen and radio lines and tightening the webbing of the safety harness.

The familiar smell of oil, rubber, and gas assailed his nostrils.

He gave a thumbs up, and the 1,590 horse power of the Merlin-Packard coughed and snorted into life.

Immediately the whole ship became a living shuddering entity. The chocks were pulled away.

Bill gave a salute to the crew chief and eased the throttle forward. He joined the line making their way around the peritrack, their propwash blowing the grass flat. The waves rippled away across the field, the boundary fence bushes waved wildly like a crowd saying goodbye: the dawn chorus of 1944. The birds of war were waking.

At the runway, the CO took off first, with his wingman in formation, the others following.

When it came to his turn, Bill watched the two before him begin their roll, then eased forward and lined up into the wind, gave a quick three-count and with a thumbs-up to his wingman, gave it the gas.

Breaking ground he pulled up the gear and started
milking
up the flaps, catching up with those before him within a mile of the strip.

They settled into tactical combat formation and linked up with other squadrons in the group, all the time
climbing
. At 5,000 feet Bill suddenly remembered to do his visual post-take-off check of the cockpit which he had, unusually, forgotten.