Blue Smoke (10 page)

England, August 1940

Flight Lieutenant Duncan Murdoch awoke to the feel of someone shaking the hell out of his shoulder.

‘Sir?
Sir
! Time to wake up, sir!’

Duncan groaned and opened one eye, then snapped it shut again — the light of the hurricane lamp was too bright, his mouth was dry from sleeping with it open and his head pounded painfully, which was bloody irritating, as he hadn’t had a drop to drink last night.

The airman orderly had another go. ‘Wakey, wakey, sir. Time to get up and polish the Spitfire.’

Cheeky bugger, Duncan thought. ‘Yes, all right, I’m awake,’ he muttered and heaved himself upright with a monumental effort. It seemed that these days the only thing that had the power to wake him immediately from a deep sleep was the word ‘Scramble!’

He pulled his jacket on over his shirt — he’d not bothered
getting undressed at night for nearly three weeks now — shoved his feet into his flying boots and lit a cigarette.

‘How’s the weather looking?’

‘Probably fine, bit of high cloud,’ The orderly replied morosely.

‘Bugger.’

Today would therefore no doubt be a repeat of yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Duncan was averaging three sorties a day, and he was utterly exhausted. The Luftwaffe had been bombing the hell out of shipping convoys and coastal towns, airfields and radar stations relentlessly for almost six weeks now, and Fighter Command was starting to seriously feel the strain.

He went outside, stopped off at the latrine for a quick pee, then trudged across the wet grass to where his squadron’s aircraft were lined up along the edge of the concrete runway. He flicked his fag end away before he got too close — petrol fumes were everywhere. His Spitfire was second from the end, the rising orange sun reflected in the glass of the cockpit’s small windscreen. The fitter was just climbing out.

‘Morning, Tosh,’ Duncan said. ‘All ready?’

‘Aye. Chute’s sitting on the tail and the tank’s full.’

‘Good-oh.’

Duncan climbed into the tiny cockpit, easing his long legs into the cramped space under the instrument panel, and began to check that everything was functioning correctly and set for a quick getaway. A last look to ensure that the oxygen and R/T leads were fully connected to the mask hanging with his helmet, goggles and flying gloves, then he hauled himself out and headed back towards the hut for some breakfast.

Biggin Hill Airfield, just outside London, served fairly un-spectacular food, but there was plenty of it. Duncan ate as quickly as possible, had two cups of tea and another cigarette, then returned
to the latrine, hoping that the call to scramble wouldn’t come while he was there. More than once he’d seen pilots dashing out of the little wooden building, hurriedly doing up their flies and swearing all the way to their aircraft.

The sun was almost completely up now, which meant the call could come at any time. He returned to his cot and carried out his ablutions. After a quick shave in tepid water and a thorough brush of his teeth, he slicked his hair down with water, buttoned his jacket, buckled on his Mae West and checked that his service revolver was in his jacket pocket. It always was these days — he never went anywhere without it.

Outside the hut chaps were congregating in the deckchairs arranged around several low tables set on the grass. On wet or windy days they sat inside, but when it was fine they made the most of the sun. Besides, being outside gave them a head start when the call came. This morning, the cards were already being dealt for a round of poker. Some days lately, they hadn’t managed to finish even a single game.

Duncan flopped down in a chair next to Terry Finch, a pilot and good mate from Canterbury who had also trained with the RAF in England before the war. There weren’t many of them left now — every day ‘old’ hands disappeared to be replaced by new, fresh-faced and virtually untried pilots from the RAF training schools or the Empire Air Training Schemes in New Zealand and Canada. Duncan had lost so many acquaintances and friends that he’d given up bothering to make any new ones. It was a form of self-protection.

Terry, a short, solid man of twenty-six with a shock of blue-black hair that refused to be tamed, even after a day flattened in a sweaty flying helmet, said, ‘Did you hear about Gus Reidy? Bought it late yesterday afternoon.’

Duncan nodded and picked up his poker hand. Gus, a member
of 79 Squadron, also stationed at Biggin Hill, had been a decent bloke, a New Zealander with plenty of guts and a very skilled pilot. He’d gone down with his aircraft over Coulsdon and his death had been confirmed early this morning. Nothing more would be said about him now.

Duncan was losing badly — and struggling to stay awake — when the call came over the Tannoy to scramble. He could hear the orderly shouting, ‘Estimated fifty bandits coming in from southeast!’, and before the words really registered he was automatically on his feet.

At his Spitfire he tugged his parachute on over his Mae West and accepted a leg up into the cockpit from one of the ground crew. The engine was already running. Once seated he swiftly strapped himself in, pulled on his gloves, helmet and goggles, and fixed the oxygen mask over his face. His stomach was churning and he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline flood through him as he taxied out onto the runway, then manoeuvred the Spitfire into the correct position in preparation for takeoff. By the time he’d switched on the R/T he was already in the air, watching the ground drop away and at the same time glancing around to make sure everyone was in formation.

Below him, the ground crew turned into ants scurrying in all directions and the barracks, huts and hangars became toy buildings. The end of the runway was cratered from an attack on the airfield four days ago, and littered with the husks of three Spitfires that had been destroyed and already scavenged for any retrievable parts.

Terry was positioned on his left and to his right was Jacko Ebbett, a pilot who’d only been with the squadron for a few weeks. Duncan waved to them both, a habit they’d developed only recently. None of them had been shot down since they’d started doing it and, being as superstitious as most service personnel, they didn’t dare stop the ritual in case it was the only thing keeping them safe.
They banked sharply, climbed and the squadron headed south-east for the coast.

Over the R/T, Duncan stated calmly, ‘Red Panda airborne.’

Through the crackle the female ground controller replied, ‘Okay, Panda leader, fifty plus bandits southeast of Ashford heading north-west. Vector 130, go get ’em, glamour boys!’

They flew for several minutes more, then suddenly they had a visual fix on a phalanx of bombers, escorted by fighters, moving towards them on their left.

Duncan said, ‘Here we go. Go for the Dorniers but watch the 109s, they’ll be coming out of the sun. Jacko, pull in a bit, you’re too far out.’

He was referring to the Messerschmitt Bf 109s, the scourge of the RAF. Checking that the setting on the gunsight mounted above his instrument panel was calibrated for the wingspan of the 109s, he then gave the order to climb higher to compensate for possible fire from above. In the tight confines of the cockpit he smelled his own sweat, and the involuntary tightening of his sphincter was an all too familiar sensation.

‘Panda Squadron, I repeat, aim for the bombers.’ His voice had risen a notch in the excitement of the impending battle. ‘Here they come!
Break, break
!’

He banked sharply and broke formation. Suddenly the sky around him shattered in a confusion of banking and swooping aircraft, some so close he could see the faces of the German pilots inside. He sensed someone on his tail and jinked, then dived and banked again, climbing at the same time so he came out above the mêlée. The R/T buzzed with snatches of commands, swearing, bellowed warnings, victory yells and cries of sheer terror.

He caught sight of Jacko Ebbett’s Spitfire beneath him, a 109 directly on his tail, and winced as a trail of bullets tore through a wing. Jacko jinked, rolled and recovered. Duncan squeezed his
trigger and sent a prolonged squirt at the 109, spraying the German aircraft with bullets the length of its fuselage. A thick stream of smoke began to pour from the Messerschmitt, and Duncan let out a loud, triumphant whoop.

‘Got ya, ya bastard!’ he bellowed and banked again, turning for a split second into the sun.

A voice shrieked from his R/T, ‘
Duncan
! Snapper at eleven!’

He barely had time to register the 109 coming at him directly out of the sun before the German fired. The Spitfire’s cockpit glass crazed, but did not shatter, and Duncan was flying semi-blind. He rolled quickly, but not quickly enough to dodge the bullets; a line of them tore into his fuel tank, positioned directly in front of the cockpit. The tank was armoured, but not invincible. The needle on his fuel gauge began to drop immediately, meaning one of two things — he could lose all of his fuel and plummet out of the sky, or another bullet could cause a spark that would blow him to kingdom come. He decided to turn back.

‘This is Panda leader; tank’s hit, I’m heading home.’

He acknowledged the squadron’s responses as he banked and headed back for the airfield, feeling frustrated and cheated. This had happened to him once before and it had pissed him off then, too. He would miss the rest of the fight, and not be there to guide his men.

The needle on the gauge was still falling, but he calculated he would make it back. Barely. He could see the airfield and was almost home any way.

Then, from nowhere, a 109 swooped in from his right and fired another barrage that raked his right wing heavily. There was a count of several seconds when Duncan thought he might have got away with it, then a great sheet of flame erupted in front of the cockpit and blew the glass in. Heat surrounded him instantly, the flames blasting directly over his face, hands and chest. He was on
fire and screaming. The ground controller heard it over the R/T and dispatched an ambulance immediately.

But Duncan didn’t know this — he was still inside the Spitfire spinning faster and faster as it sped towards the ground, a great trail of acrid, dirty smoke pouring from the fuselage. Following a drill that had been drummed into him time after time during training, he pulled the split-pin out of his sub-harness and ripped the oxygen and R/T leads out of his helmet. Then, shoving upwards with both blazing hands, he opened the hood of the cockpit and felt an almighty bang as an explosion hurled him up and out. He had just enough wits about him to tug frantically on his ripcord before he passed out.

A
t that very moment Liam was sitting nervously in the parlour at Kenmore waiting for Tamar to come downstairs. Next to him perched the girl he planned to marry. He was going to marry her no matter what, but he did want Tamar to meet her first. She had, after all, been more or less a mother to him while he was gowing up, even though she was really his gran.

‘You’ll like her,’ he said reassuringly. ‘She’s been marvellous to me. She’s probably been the most important person in my life. She raised me, you know.’

The girl did know. He’d told her the story more than once about how he’d been discovered under the beans in the kitchen garden after his father’s memorial service, and how there had been a note from his mother — whoever she was, because to this day still nobody knew — asking that he be looked after because she couldn’t do it.

‘Yes, sweetheart,’ she replied, laying a hand on his uniform sleeve. The nails were lacquered a very deep red. ‘You’ve told me several times now.’

Liam looked at her and laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose I have, really, haven’t I? I can’t wait for you to meet everyone. Duncan and Drew are away of course, but the girls are floating about. You’ll like them,
too, I know. They’re great fun. Especially the twins.’

The girl uncrossed her legs, rose to her feet and walked smoothly on three-inch heels across to the china cabinet where Tamar kept her best pieces.

‘This is all gorgeous stuff. Mind you, it goes with the house, doesn’t it? Your grandmother must be loaded,’ she said, bending down to look more closely.

Liam couldn’t keep his eyes off the taut, rounded globes of her bottom as it strained the fabric of her snugly fitting dress. He got an erection immediately, and moved his uniform hat onto his lap; she always had that effect on him, and it could be very embarrassing.

In fact, he’d been sporting bloody great stiffies at the very thought of her, and at the most inopportune times, ever since they’d met two months ago when he’d first arrived at Ohakea.

It had been at the end of the second week; he’d been absolutely knackered from the gruelling training regime, even though he’d been fit before he’d arrived and was intellectually very capable, and had at first declined his barrack mates’ offer of a ride into Palmerston North to sample the night life. But they’d given him such a hard time about it that in the end he’d decided to go, despite his fatigue.

They’d gone to a pub and had quite a few beers until closing time at six, had a feed of fish and chips then headed for a dance at the community hall where, it had been rumoured in the bar, there’d be plenty of girls just dying to be swept off their feet by dashing young airmen. There were, and Liam’s mates lost little time ‘bagsing’ The ones they fancied and whizzing them out onto the dance floor, ignoring the dirty looks from the sour-faced civilian blokes. Liam, who couldn’t dance to save himself, was left sitting on a wooden bench against the wall, wishing he’d taken more notice of the dance lessons he’d been forced to attend at Napier Boys’ High.

He was resigning himself to a night of bum-numbing boredom
interspersed with surreptitious dashes out to the car for a quick bottle of beer, when suddenly his view of the dance floor was blocked by a pair of very shapely calves and the outline of equally curvaceous thighs beneath a floaty floral skirt. He’d looked up and into the face of the most enchanting, vivacious girl he’d ever seen.

She bent over so her face was on the same level as his, at the same time giving him both a lovely view down the front of her blouse and a great waft of perfume. ‘Hello, love,’ she said loudly over the noise of the band. ‘Has she left you sitting here all by yourself?’

‘Who?’

‘Whichever girl has been silly enough to leave you alone and unguarded for five minutes. If I was her, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.’

Liam didn’t know what to say. Never in his life had a girl spoken to him like this.

‘Er, no, I’m here by myself. Well, those are my mates over there on the dance floor, but I don’t have a girl.’

The girl’s artfully pencilled eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that so? I don’t think I believe it, a big, good-looking young bloke like you.’

Liam blushed and hoped the lights were dim enough for her not to notice.

‘No, I’m by myself,’ he said, then surprised himself by seizing the initiative. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a glass of punch?’

The girl sat down next to him. ‘I’d love one, thanks. What’s your name, love?’

‘Liam. Liam Murdoch.’

She stuck her hand out with a clatter of bangles. ‘And I’m Evelyn, Evie to my friends. Lovely to meet you.’

Liam smiled, dashed over to the canteen and came back with two glasses of punch. Evie took hers and put it beside her on the bench. Then she opened her purse and withdrew a small flask and unscrewed the lid.

‘Gin. Want some?’

‘I don’t think we’re allowed alcohol in here.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud. Here, give us your glass.’ She poured a decent measure into Liam’s punch, then topped up her own and swallowed a third of it in one go. ‘That’s better. Shall we dance?’

Liam felt embarrassed again — he was bound to make a fool of himself. ‘Well, I don’t dance, really.’

Evie stood up, took his glass out of his hand, and pulled him to his feet. ‘Of course you do, it’s easy. I’ll show you.’

And it was. He stood on her toes twice — it must have hurt because she was wearing open-toed shoes, though she didn’t say anything — but after that he found the rhythm and started to feel more comfortable. She was a good dancer, if rather a close one, and the pressure of her thighs against his and her hand on his back helped him to work out which way he should be going. He relaxed and was starting to think he was actually doing quite well when someone jabbed him hard from behind. He looked around ready to apologise, and encountered not an irate dancer but the smirking face of Dick Curtis, one of his mates.

‘Doing well,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘She’s a real looker. I’d hang on to that one if I were you!’

Liam couldn’t help it — he smirked back and whirled Evie around in a burst of confidence and enthusiasm.

‘That’s the ticket!’ she said, laughing up at him. ‘You’re really getting the hang of it!’

The song ended then and the band segued into a slower number, the woman vocalist dropping her voice from the rather strident pitch she’d been using to a semi-seductive croon that seemed to encourage the dancers on the crowded floor to move even closer together.

Evie’s hand slid down to the small of Liam’s back and her hips
pressed against his groin. He felt the stirrings of a very healthy erection and hastily sucked in his middle in an attempt to avoid poking her in the stomach. But it was too late — she’d already noticed.

She laughed again and said teasingly, ‘I see you’re enjoying yourself.’

He was mortified. ‘I do beg your pardon.’

Her hand came up and she laid a finger gently on his lips. ‘Ssshh. It’s all right, love. You can beg anything you like from me.’

This did absolutely nothing to minimise the lump in Liam’s trousers, and he gave up trying to hold himself away from her. He didn’t dare let his hand slide any further down her back than her waist, though he was itching to run his palm over her round bottom under the silky material of her dress. Her breasts pressed against his chest and he imagined he could feel their heat even through his uniform jacket. Dipping his head to her bright blonde hair, he smelt Palmolive soap and her perfume — strong, but heady and provocative.

As they danced slowly among the other swaying couples, her body against his and the smell of her in his nostrils, he marvelled at the fact that he very nearly hadn’t ventured out at all tonight. If he hadn’t let himself be persuaded, he would at this very minute be lying on his bunk in his service pyjamas reading something exceptionally turgid about how to master topographical maps and recognise heavily camouflaged German ammunition factories. This was infinitely more alluring.

And then she did something that tipped him right over the edge.

Their hands had been intertwined and resting against the front of his shoulder. Now she leaned back slightly and slid her hand out of his. Then, very slowly — lightly scratching his skin with her long nails as she went — she encircled his wrist with her fingers and thumb and held him in a grip so strong he could barely move
his hand. He didn’t even want to; he felt caught, overpowered, and deliciously
trapped
. Then she lowered her head and licked the inside of his wrist, bit him gently there, then slid his thumb into her warm, soft mouth. It was so incredibly erotic that he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning.

He wondered desperately if he could convince her to come outside with him to the car. Or even for a wander in the paddock behind the hall. If he missed his ride back to Ohakea, too bad — she would be worth having to stick his thumb out for.

In the end he didn’t need to convince her at all. When she suggested they go outside for a breath of fresh air, he agreed willingly.

‘We could sit in the car,’ he said hopefully. ‘There should be a few bottles of DB left.’

Evie said, ‘Well, only for a minute. We don’t want to miss the supper.’ Then she burst into laughter at the sight of his crestfallen face. ‘Don’t worry,’ she giggled, linking her arm through his, ‘I’m only joking. I can think of much more interesting things to do than scoffing scones. Come on, Mr Airman, let’s go!’

They threaded their way through the crowd of unattached men congregating around the door, then down the wide concrete steps and out onto the road. Dick’s battered Austin Seven was parked a short distance away under a tree; they walked towards it hand in hand, their shoes scrunching loudly on the gravel of the road.

Liam opened the passenger door, took two bottles out of the almost empty crate on the floor, then stood there dithering about whether Evie would be offended if he opened the door to the back seat for her. But she opened it herself and climbed in, moving across so there was plenty of room for him. He clambered in beside her.

Swivelling on the leather seat she turned to face him. ‘Well,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said back, wondering what to do next.

He considered opening his bottle with his teeth, but decided that such a show-off gesture could pose a needless risk and result in an enforced visit to the base’s somewhat cavalier dentist. Instead he took his penknife out of his pocket and prised the lid off with that, then did the same for her.

But she put her bottle on the floor, where it promptly fell over and emptied its foaming contents everywhere. She reached for him and began to kiss him, and not chaste kisses either. Deep, tongue-probing, passionate kisses that smeared lipstick all over his mouth and set his trousers bulging again, while shivers of excitement raced up his spine and across his buttocks.

And she just didn’t stop. Within minutes she had his flies open and her cool hand burrowed into his trousers, skilfully caressing his penis in a manner that made him suspect he wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer. She unbuttoned her blouse and opened it wide, positioning one of his hands encouragingly. He fumbled for a few moments, not altogether inexpertly, until she lost patience, removed her blouse completely and unhooked her best Berlei bra so he had full access to her heavy, satin-skinned breasts.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of them — their whiteness seemed to reflect the moonlight — and he moaned involuntarily as his damp hands felt their smooth, inviting warmth and weight.

She moaned, too, and nuzzled his neck and nipped his ear. She had his penis out now in the cool, silky air and he knew it would only be a matter of seconds.

So did she.

‘Ready?’ she asked huskily.

He didn’t trust his voice and could only nod.

She leaned back then, along the seat, and slithered her skirt up to her waist. Tucking her thumbs into the waistband, she wriggled her knickers down and kicked them off, revealing a suspender
belt attached to gleaming silk stockings and a dark, lush triangle between pale thighs.

In the semi-darkness of the moonlight, Liam thought her lips and eyes looked like black shadows.

She reached for him, and he came to her, pushing his trousers down to his knees and settling himself between her welcoming legs. Two tentative pushes then a deeper thrust and he was inside her. Her feet, still in their high-heeled shoes, settled across his back and the car began to rock gently on its springs. He could smell the leather of the car seat, her perfume and the scent of their sexes mixing together, and lost himself completely.

And that had only been the beginning. He saw her as often as he could after that, borrowing Dick’s car or thumbing a lift into town whenever he could get away from the base. Sometimes they had sex in the car, or under trees in paddocks, getting grass in their hair. Once they did it in a haystack, and on two memorable occasions they went to the house of Evie’s married sister, while she and her husband were out.

They had sex in every position they could think of: she straddled him and smothered his face with her breasts; he sat her on his lap or held her up against a wall. She sucked him and bit him and held him down; he licked her and stroked her and left small bruises on her thighs. They groaned and giggled and cried out in their lust, and Liam, realising he would be going over seas in a matter of weeks, came to a decision.

Which was why they were now sitting in the parlour at Kenmore waiting for Tamar.

When she did appear, Liam leapt to his feet, smiling broadly. Tamar crossed the floor and kissed his cheek.

‘Liam, darling, what a lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting you for at least another fortnight. Your embarkation date hasn’t been brought forward, has it?’

‘No, but I managed to wangle a weekend pass, and there’s something I need to tell you,’ he said, holding his hand out to Evie who was standing in silence by the china cabinet. ‘Gran, this is Evie Jones. She’s from Palmerston North, and we’re getting married.’

Tamar took one look at the girl, who was now holding Liam’s hand and smiling broadly herself, and her heart sank. The girl’s smile conveyed a hint of something that Tamar didn’t like at all. Ownership, certainly. Triumph? Quite possibly.