Tuesday's War, page 23
‘Good. The quicker the trips come on, the sooner they’re over. Roll on the end of the tour.’
She said that she wished Conny would stop flying, and then she asked me where the others were, and I told her that they weren’t due until later.
When a woman has made her mind up, I found out then, she’s like a B-17 with two engines out: she’s going to go down on you, however hard you try to keep her flying. As a consequence of that . . . how would Jane Austen, or one of the Brontë women have written it – reader, I took her? Don’t knock it. We’d mashed my bed up between us, and she remade it before she left. That was a nice domestic touch, I thought. She fucked me from underneath, her skirt around her waist again, with a keen, noisy abandon, and hated herself for it afterwards just the way I wanted. I thought I could go back for more of that. She shed a couple of tears – just the one on each cheek. I was interested to note that it didn’t move me at all. I licked them off: they weren’t even salty to the taste.
We were sitting around the big oval table in the pub at Eltisley, the name of which always escapes me these days.
‘You get your end away then, young Charlie?’ Grease asked me. I had to be careful because a straight yes would lead to a guessing game around the table, trying to flush the fox from his den.
I settled for a half-truth instead, and said, ‘I ended up in an American club in Bedford. Do you remember those nurses we met in London? There were loads of them there.’
‘Jammy little bugger,’ the Toff told me.
Everyone had got in early enough for an end-of-leave binge. Grease had been first home, but I hadn’t wasted drinking time bringing him up to date, except to tell him about the state’s new interest in our Pole.
‘No point in asking you, Pete. When didn’t you get your end away?’ Grease said.
‘Not before I was eleven years old.’
‘So tell us why these secret policemen have been snooping around asking questions about you? Are you in trouble?’
‘No,’ Piotr said, and when no one else said anything, sighed and filled the space with, ‘You will have heard of Sikorsky?’
‘Yes,’ Marty said, but Grease shot him the shut-up glance; he wanted Pete to go on talking. Pete did.
‘My General; Wladyslaw Sikorsky. Poland’s torch. He died in a plane at Gib. More than a year ago. It blew up just after takeoff, and fell into the sea. Such a small bomb: so discreet, so British. Four people drowned, and two people survived: the pilot and another passenger: your friend Piotr was the passenger: his survival was unexpected and they don’t like witnesses. Witnesses worry them sometimes.’
‘OK,’ said Grease.
‘Also the Government in Exile is rich in luxury goods, through the good offices of our American allies, but kept deliberately short of real spending money – also because of the influence of our allies. They keep us dependent. I convert one product into the other for them. I know how to buy and sell. I balance supply and demand. I know who gets what, who sells it, who buys it, and how much for. I know whose fingers are in the honey pot, and how far down. Because I do it with them. That will worry them . . . sometimes.’
‘OK,’ said Grease.
‘Also before the Germans came, 95 per cent of the land in Poland was owned by 4 per cent of the population. When I was a student I wrote a small book saying that that was wrong; that things would have to change. You see, I am that unusual Pole who hates Germans more than I hate the Russians. Most Poles hate the Russians more than they hate the Kraut. That worries them sometimes too.’
‘OK,’ said Grease.
‘And also I know which pretend countess is fucking which pretend duke, or which minister in the Government in Exile, because I am fucking her also.’
‘OK,’ said Grease, ‘you can stop now; we get the picture.’
‘There is something else. When your honourable RAF officers painted Poland’s flags on Harriet’s tits, my people think that is political too. I think that also worries them.’
‘Are you saying that the authorities are investigating you for all of these reasons, Pete?’ I asked.
‘No. Only one of them probably: difficulty is deciding which one.’
‘Just so long as we know that you’re not a rapist or a murderer,’ Grease said.
‘I am not a rapist,’ Piotr said very firmly.
It was then that I remembered the voice of the woman who had answered the telephone when I had called Pete to warn him. Her name was Jean Shore: Abbot’s girlfriend. Pete had said that she was really Abbot’s wife, and that he was going to buy the Singer from her.
Piotr was looking at my face as this memory jelled. Maybe he saw something there. He spoke directly to me. ‘That is right Charlie; I am not a rapist, but if God provides me with an opportunity, he expects me to take it. You will understand: isn’t it the same for you too?’
I probably blushed as I said, ‘Yes. It’s the same for everyone these days.’
For once Grease didn’t know what we were talking about, and I enjoyed his brief frown. It was time for a change of course.
‘What about you, Skipper?’ I asked Grease, ‘Did your brother line you up a big, bouncy bed wearing a Wren’s uniform?’
‘One day, Charlie, I’ll tell you all about Portsmouth girls.’
Yeah. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we fly. That was always our excuse.
Just before we all turned in I went over and sat on the edge of Grease’s bed because I didn’t want any of the others to hear.
‘That kid in the mess is back, with her arm in a sling. She smiles, but nearly jumps out of her skin every time anyone looks at her. The fat bastard must still be knocking her about,’ I said.
Pete had overheard: in truth, he missed very little. ‘Perhaps some women like it that way,’ he said.
Sometimes you became aware that Pete lived on a different fucking planet to the rest of us.
‘Don’t be so bloody soft,’ I said, ‘she’s English,’ and spoke loud enough for the others to stop what they were doing, and look up. Pete bastard-smiled at me. I’ve told you before that I never liked it when Pete smiled his bastard smile at anyone like that.
‘Put it in the can,’ Grease said. ‘Hit the sheets everyone, and no farting. Air test tomorrow.’
The weather front swept over us in the middle of the night, and then stopped dead – just as if God had targeted Cambridgeshire for a taste of eternal wrath. One of the things that Cambridgeshire taught me about God is that he is inordinately fond of rain. Like old man Heinz, he has at least fifty-seven varieties of it.
I was woken by the water drumming on the Grease Pit’s curved iron walls. I got up to bank the stove, and went back to bed. I thought of Tuesday standing out there in the rain, and hoped it wouldn’t get under her skin as easily as it did mine.
Grease came back from his run soaked to the skin, and with news. ‘No flying. Probably for two days: there’s a lot more of this shit out in the Atlantic waiting to wash over us.’
In the red brick palace the New Order Board bore an Order of the Day which said that the discipline officer would conduct PE for all ranks. The DO stood alongside it in his small kit. Then he ran away after Quelch ate the notice and tried to kiss him.
‘No flying today I guess,’ Quelch said.
‘We could have a dance tonight,’ I said.
‘Why Charlie, how nice: I didn’t think you cared.’
‘No. I mean all of us.’
‘Better and better,’ said Quelchy.
Grease said, ‘Leave Charlie alone; he’s ours. You’d better scram. I can see the DO on his way back with a couple of coppers.’
Alex in his police uniform, complete with glossy white battle bowler, had brought his smallest provo with him. They looked like that Victorian print of the two dogs, Dignity and Impudence, which always hung in your front room. They were as rainswept as the DO: the water streamed off them.
Alex, tense, asked Grease, ‘Where’s this bloody OOD, Sergeant?’
‘Dunno,’ said Grease. ‘Never seen one. One was never here.’
‘Where’s that fairy Quelch?’
‘Dunno. Who’s Quelch? Don’t believe in fairies sergeant.’
‘You’re fucking well under arrest,’ snarled Alex.
‘What about me?’ the Toff asked him. ‘I don’t believe in fairies either.’
‘And you.’
‘And me,’ I said. It had been a calculated gamble, but about another thirty voices began to chime in, and chairs began to hit the deck as aircrew got to their feet.
‘Goodo,’ Grease told Alex, ‘if I’m under arrest, perhaps they’ll let you fly our kite to Berlin tomorrow instead of me.’
‘Fuck the lot of you,’ Bluto said. I think that was the end of the mutiny. If he had in fact arrested us, in a legal sense, then I guess that I’m still a fugitive from justice, because I was never unarrested. I don’t know why, but eventually we were the only crew left in the mess.
We were only mildly concerned when Alex and buddy came bursting back into the room.
‘Charlie, I need you quick – I need aircrew; anybody,’ he gasped, then turned and ran out of the door again. Grease looked at us and shrugged, but led the discreet stampede in pursuit. The rain had eased, but only just, and there was a Thorneycroft lorry outside. Alex was in the back buckling on a side arm, and making a mess of it. His nervous sidekick was cocking and uncocking a small machine gun, which was either a Sten or a Stirling: I never did learn the difference. We piled in alongside them: I fixed Alex’s holster belt for him as the lorry careered away in the rain.
‘What’s the problem?’ the Toff shouted.
Alex’s dwarf said, ‘I think we been invaded, Sarge.’
‘Fuck that,’ murmured Grease. ‘I want to get out again.’
He was too late. The lorry was already pulling up after less than half a mile. We were at one end of the cross runway. So was an aeroplane, which we approached gingerly: that is to say that we all stayed behind Alex. The kite was painted in a light grey wash and decorated with hundreds of dark green squiggles. That was new to us, but the big black crosses on its sides, and the swastika on its tail were a dead giveaway. Visitors. As we closed in on it, trying to avoid the standing water, we could see brown-clad occupants moving about behind the perspex.
‘If any of those bloody machine guns move, just hit the deck and stay there,’ Alex muttered.
Grease ignored him. He walked past to stand looking up at the cockpit, and waved up at it. The pilot slid back a small square window, and shouted a spiky improbable something in weary German. Getting no response from anyone below, he tried again in French, and then accented but clear English.
‘Yes? What is it that you want?’
‘We surrender,’ Grease said.
‘No we surrender.’
‘I said it first. You must take us to Germany. It rains too much in England.’
‘This year it rains too much in Germany also. Is this England?’
‘Definitely.’
‘This is a pity. I thought it might be Holland.’
‘Holland is 250 miles in that direction.’ Grease pointed roughly to the south-east, and added helpfully, ‘We think that it’s raining there too.’
‘That also is a pity,’ the German said, ‘perhaps you could spare me some gas?’
‘I’m afraid not. We need ours for bombing Germany.’
‘That also is a pity. We are German, you see.’
‘I had guessed that.’
‘Do you think that I should shoot my navigator? He is an offizier, you know.’
‘That would waste a perfectly useless officer. We could exchange him for one of ours if you liked? Fair swap.’
‘I think not. I suppose that your offiziers are stupid also?’ It figured: a lot of German pilot types were sergeants, like Grease.
‘You got it, Fritz. You keep yours: Lufthansa will need him after the war.’
‘For what? Flying passengers to the wrong countries? I think not.’ Then he said, ‘I was not trained for this. Probably the war is over for me. I still think perhaps I should shoot the navigator.’
‘Why don’t you come to breakfast instead, and think about it?’
‘OK.’
He slid the perspex shut again. Germans are good decision makers. The crew of five dropped down through a trapdoor under the nose of the aircraft, on to the wet tarmac of Old England. Except for a gunner of forty or so they all looked like scared children. So did we. Alex’s pal’s hands were shaking, and the automatic he held was shaking with them: I gently pushed down the barrel until it was pointing at the ground.
Grease shook the pilot’s hand and said, ‘Welcome to England, and thank you for the aeroplane.’
‘Think nothing of it, Sergeant. Consider it recompense for those you leave in Germany every night.’
Who said the Kraut doesn’t have a sense of humour? Although I don’t know why Grease didn’t thump him for that one. One of the crew had a big black eye already; it was closing up on him. I think that he was the nav. Conroy moved forward to look after him.
At this point Alex decided he was able to speak again. ‘Well, fuck me gently,’ he said.
‘No, that’s Quelch’s job,’ I reminded him, and when he gave me the look, added, ‘Cheer up, Alex. You’ve just captured a Junkers 88. Bound to get a medal for that.’
We didn’t get to keep the Jerries for long: the officers came and invited them to breakfast in their mess. Which was more than they’d ever done for us.
Then some serious gentlemen from London spirited them away to the aircrew interrogation centre. We hung around the main gatehouse to see them go, but the lorry they were transported in had its tilt laced tightly shut. I threw the departing lorry an exaggerated Nazi salute, which annoyed our cops, and said, ‘Silly sods.’
The Toff whispered, ‘Bye-bye, Krauts,’ but because we were inside, they wouldn’t have heard him anyway.
Later someone told us that our bold Bushes was so pleased that he went into the small washroom alongside his office, and shaved his moustache off. Bush-free and as mad as a fucking daisy.
Back in the Grease Pit, relating the story to Marty and Pete, Fergal pointed out that we would need a new nickname for Bushes.
Pete shrugged and said, ‘Try Bushless.’ Then he asked me, ‘You still fancy his wife, Charlie?’
I can’t remember what I answered. I hope that I didn’t let her down and blush.
At 0730 I shook them awake individually – except Marty: I realized that there was no point. Grease was surprisingly good at weather for someone who wasn’t a native: he sniffed the drizzle while my head was in the fire bucket, and as I emerged said, ‘It’ll clear: we’ll get an air test in today. Loosen everyone up and be ready for ops tomorrow.’
‘I’ll get things moving. When do you want to fly?’
‘We’ll have half an hour on the ground at 1000; find out what the Chiefy has been doing to her since we’ve been away. Take-off at 1030 unless the Old Man says no: I’ll ask him: I want to see what he looks like with naked lips.’
Breakfast.
‘This is no bloody way to run a hotel,’ Fergal said. He was referring to a breakfast of spam fritters, bread and marge, and jam so old it was impossible to identify which fruit it was made from.
‘How is it that mine host here grows fatter and fatter, like Winston, while we’re eating this shite and growing thinner?’ Grease asked.
‘Obvious,’ said the Toff. ‘He’s eating something else, isn’t he? I’ll bet he never sits down to powdered egg and mashed potatoes.’
‘I thought you were going to do something about him, Skipper.’
‘Would you shut up if I came across with enough bacon, eggs, fresh vegetables and enough of a variety of meats to last us a month?’
‘Can you Skip?’
‘Depends. What have we got for barter, Pete?’
‘Mainly spirits. A load of vodka, some Portuguese brandy that came from a blockade runner, thirty of those white wool sweaters the underwater Blue Jobs wear . . . some parachute silk – not made up. Some car tyres. Give me a few days, and I’ll see what else Glasgow and Edinburgh can come up with. Will that do?’
Grease asked, ‘What’s it got to do with Glasgow and Edinburgh?’
‘When they say Polish Government in Exile they bloddy mean it! They exile us to Scotland. Didn’t you know that? Half Poland lives in Scotland this year.’
Air test. Tuesday was damp. Like all good whores, she was a bit clammy on the inside, and would be until the heater had been run full throttle for twenty minutes. That was a problem for me, because the heater fed from one of the Merlin engines, and its port into the aircraft interior was alongside my radios. I was going to have to cook inside my flying clothes, until we had the old girl dried out. I did have the option of wearing less, of course, but then what would happen if I had to bale out over the North Sea?
There was a click on the RT, and Piotr asked me, ‘Can you turn the heater right up when we get going, please, Charlie? There’s as much water inside the turret as there is outside: I can’t see a focking yard.’
‘OK, Pete – I’ve already set it to max.’
With my spare ear I heard Grease tell Fergal, ‘A rookie called Whittaker took Tuesday to Merseburg – never heard of it before. Apparently the Yanks are stonking hell out of it by daylight, whilst we stoke the ovens for them at night. We lost Porterman’s crew there.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Hey, Pete. Where’s Merseburg?’ Grease asked.
‘South of Berlin, Skipper, and not as far as Dresden: popular with the Yanks. There are a lot of guns at Merseburg. I think that they make things there. Better we go some other place.’
We heard Fergal and Grease reciting the prayer. As they ran the engines up Fergal clicked and said, ‘Starboard outer throttle, Skip: it feels a bit odd. As if it’s moving through the gate fractionally slower than the rest. It doesn’t feel smooth.’
‘OK. Watch it.’
The leave must have done him good, because he was calling for gear up before we crossed the boundary fence: a really flashy take-off. Then I was free to unplug, and climb up to the front office, and stand behind Grease. I felt happier these days, being able to see where we were going. I bent down and asked him where we were cleared for.
