Bluebirds (64 page)

‘Perhaps it will be over by next year, sir – now that the Germans are in retreat in North Africa.'

He shook his head. ‘I wish I thought so, but I'm afraid we've got a long way to go yet – on all fronts. Still, there's some light at the end of the tunnel, and we must press on regardless, as they say. Keep our chins up. You have some leave due, isn't that right?'

‘Yes, sir. I'm going home next Thursday.'

‘Norfolk, isn't it? You'll be looking forward to that, I'm sure. Are you taking the train?'

‘Yes, sir. To London, and then on.'

He cleared his throat. ‘It so happens that I'm going to London myself by car on Thursday. My driver and I could give you a lift as far as there, if it would help. Rather more comfortable than the train. And more reliable these days.'

Train journeys had become a nightmare. Miserable hours could be spent waiting on icy platforms for trains that were either very late or never came at all. And, when and if they did arrive, they were invariably crowded and little warmer than the platform, and they crawled like snails across the countryside.

‘That's very kind of you, sir. If you're sure it's no trouble.'

He was moving some papers around on his desk, no longer looking at her. ‘None at all, Section Officer. None at all.'

Anne came across the two American pilots that she had met on the Mess steps in the bar of the Black Bull. She had gone to the pub with one of the Wimpey crews and during the evening a large group of American Air Force servicemen came in with the two pilots among them. She watched with interest as they ordered drinks in some confusion and pulled wads of notes and handfuls of change from their pockets, dumping it on the counter for the barmaid to sort out. There was a lot of talk and laughter.

‘Bloody Yanks!' the Wimpey navigator said. ‘They pay them the earth and they come over here and throw their money around like there was no tomorrow.'

There may not be, though, she thought. I don't blame them, or anyone, for living for today. For spending everything they've got. For seizing every chance. At that moment the one that she remembered was called Frank Wallace caught sight of her and she smiled and waved. After a while he wove his way through the crush to her side, beer in hand.

‘Say, this is great.' He looked down at her, pleased. ‘I've been wondering how the heck I could get to meet you again. I was planning another engine failure, if necessary.'

‘Did you find your way back all right?'

‘Yeah. We got back to base OK. We're kinda getting used to it all now. Getting to know our way round a lot better. Round the pubs too. Someone told us this was a good place to go and it sure seems popular. Is it always this crowded?'

‘Usually. It's our station local.'

‘I really like your English pubs. They're wonderful.'

‘How do you like our English beer?'

‘Let's just say I'm getting used to that as well.'

‘And our money?'

He groaned. ‘I'll never get used to
that
. I just can't seem to get the hang of it. Pounds, shillings, pence . . . that's sort of OK. But then you've got half-crowns,
sixpences, threepenny bits, halfpennies, farthings . . . it's darn complicated, you've got to admit. I've got pockets weighted down with the stuff because I keep handing over pound notes to save having to figure it all out. What the heck's a florin, by the way?'

‘Two shillings. Twenty shillings in a pound. Twelve pennies in a shilling. It's quite simple, really.'

‘Not to me it isn't.'

‘Have you come across guineas yet?'

‘Jeez . . . something else to worry about?'

‘A guinea is one pound and one shilling. It's a snobby way of charging for something. Three guineas for a Paris hat. That sort of thing.'

‘Well, I guess I won't be buying any of those, so I don't need to remember it. Smoke?' He was holding out a packet of cigarettes.

She looked at the brand. ‘Philip Morris? I've never tried American cigarettes before. Thanks.'

He lit it for her. ‘Look, keep the pack. I've got plenty more back at the base. I know you're short of everything.'

‘Thanks.'

That was another thing she'd heard about the Americans: that they were exceedingly generous. Especially with women. She looked at two of them leaning across the bar and chatting up the barmaid, who was clearly enjoying it. They were no longer the objects of intense curiosity that they had been when they had first appeared in the area, but they still drew attention and stood out from the rest. It wasn't only the louder voices and the strange accent, or even the different uniform – the leather jackets, the better quality and cut of the cloth – it was also the casual, easy way they moved and talked. The wise-cracking, gum chewing confidence, the appreciative way of looking the girls over, the surprisingly good manners . . . And they seemed so much better fed and healthier than us, she thought. So clean and groomed and full of energy. After three
years of war, we all look pale and pasty and shabby and tired.

The American pilot, seeing the direction of her gaze said: ‘I guess you think we're a pretty loud-mouthed bunch.'

‘The RAF can be quite loud, too. When they get going.'

‘I don't know . . . you British are very reserved. I'm just beginning to learn about your famous understatements. When one of your guys says it was a bit tricky on a mission what he
really
means is that he ended up with half an engine, one wing and all the crew jumped out.'

She laughed. ‘It's true they won't often admit how bad it was . . . not in so many words. You have to drag it out of them. That's part of my job, as a matter of fact. Interrogating air crews after ops.'

He looked intrigued. ‘That so? Then you must know pretty much what goes on. What it's like?'

‘I doubt if anyone could really know what it's like without actually going on ops, do you? Have you yet?'

He drew on his cigarette. ‘Done a couple've missions over France. Nothing like the distance most of your guys are doing. How the heck they do it all in the dark, I'll never know. I sure admire them.'

‘I think they admire you for going in broad daylight when the Germans can't miss seeing you.'

‘Yeah, we're finding out about that the hard way,' he said. ‘On the other hand, it's a damn sight easier to hit a target when you can see it – weather permitting. I can tell you the weather's a real problem. Most of us learned to fly in clear skies back in the US. It's a whole new ballgame over here. It's all we can do to find our way there and back sometimes and not go ramming each other on the way.'

She changed the subject away from war. Most airmen from overseas, in her experience, wanted to talk about home: that faraway, beloved place that they all dreamed of going back to one day when it was over.

‘You said you came from Chicago?'

‘That's right. The windy city. Hog butcher to the world.'

‘Sorry?'

‘Windy because it's right on Lake Michigan and, boy, does it blow sometimes . . . Hog butcher because of the slaughter houses. It's where most of the cattle from the Great Plains end up.'

‘How about gangsters?'

He laughed. ‘You don't want to believe everything you see in the movies. Sure we have them – Al Capone, John Dillinger – but they have more in New York. I come from a nice quiet part on the north shore called Evanston. We're a pretty law-abiding lot.'

‘How did you get into the Air Force?'

‘Volunteered. We all did. I guess I've always liked the idea of learning to fly. I was at Northwestern, majoring in engineering, but that'll have to wait now 'til the war's over. Got sent to Georgia first for primary, then Texas for basic and California, out in the desert, for advanced. We formed into crews at Grand Island in Nebraska – that's where I met up with Scottie.'

She looked across at the co-pilot who had a rosy-cheeked Land Girl pinned against the wall. ‘He seems to be settling in all right.'

‘Yeah.' He grinned. ‘He'd settle in anywhere, so long as there were pretty girls.'

‘Did you fly over? It must be an awful long way.'

He shook his head. ‘We came over by ship. That was some voyage! Zig-zagging all the way and all the guys being sick as dogs.'

‘I like your uniform,' she told him, head on one side as she considered the dark olive shirt and pale tie, the brown leather jacket. ‘Specially the jacket.'

‘We call them A2s. They're pretty comfortable.'

She peered at the round patch on the front of his jacket. It showed a brightly painted bird carrying a bomb in its yellow beak. ‘What on earth's that?'

‘Squadron patch.'

‘We don't have those in the RAF.'

‘You're more conservative, I guess. You don't paint things on your airplanes either.'

‘What sort of things?'

He grinned again. ‘Girls, mostly. Not wearing too much. It kind've cheers the guys up.'

The leather jacket gave no clue to his rank. ‘I'm a Second Lieutenant,' he said when she asked him. He pronounced it oddly as lootenant and she giggled.

‘Sorry, but that sounds funny. We don't say it like that. We say
left
enant.'

‘You don't say a lot of things like us, and I'm having a hard time learning them all. There's a whole bunch of different words – petrol for gas, lift for elevator, trousers for pants, bill for check, windscreen for windshield, bonnet for hood, boot for trunk . . .'

‘Still, we more or less understand each other.'

‘I sure hope so,' he said, smiling slowly. ‘Would you come out with me some place, some time, Anne? Let me take you to dinner, or the movies, or wherever you'd like to go?'

She looked down at her glass.

‘The thing is I made up my mind not to go out with one person any more – to stick to going with groups, like this evening. I'm here with one of the crews.'

Don't get involved any more, she'd told herself – not even just as good friends like with Jimmy, and Latimer and Digger . . . she was practically a chop girl. Anyone she got friendly with bought it.

‘Are those the guys right behind you who keep looking at me like they'd like to drop me over Germany on their next trip?'

She laughed. ‘Some of them resent Americans a bit. They think you're overpaid, overfed and taking all their women. We've been warned about you, you know. The Queen Bee delivered a lecture.'

‘Queen Bee?'

‘The head WAAF at the station.'

‘What did she say?'

‘She said: “Americans have a big country and they have big mouths. They also have lots of money and they're going to think you WAAFS are there for their entertainment, so do be careful.” Her very words.'

‘Ouch!' He ducked his head. ‘So, you won't come out with me then?'

‘It's better not. Honestly.'

‘It's not because of what your Queen Bee said, though, is it?' He met her eyes. ‘You're afraid of getting to know someone who might get himself killed, isn't that so?'

‘My fiancé was killed in action in 1940. And I've had a lot of friends who've been lost. I don't seem to be able to get used to it.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘Real sorry. Me and my big American mouth. Let me buy you another drink to make up – your glass is empty and it's not nearly Time yet.'

‘That's jolly nice of you. I'll have half a bitter, please.'

‘Coming right up.' The American dug into his pocket and produced a handful of coins that would have added up to nearly a week of her pay. He held them out helplessly. ‘But first you'll have to tell me what the hell to give them.'

She laughed and bent her head over his palm.

‘Warm enough, Section Officer?'

‘Yes, thank you, sir.'

This was certainly better, Felicity thought, than waiting around on a cold platform. The staff car was warm and comfortable and the WAAF driver was steering it smoothly and swiftly towards London. Nonetheless, she found it hard to relax, sitting beside Group Captain Palmer.

‘Appalling weather,' he said. ‘All this rain . . .'

She watched the sodden fields flashing past. At home there would probably be floods and the Rectory would be damp and freezing. She was still longing to be there. It was already getting dark – in fact, the winter day had never
been properly light – and the second half of the journey, by train from London, was going to be depressing, sitting in a blacked-out compartment under a weak, blue light, stopping and starting . . .

‘Liverpool Street, isn't it?'

He had turned his head away from his own window towards her; the goldtrimmed peak of his cap shaded his face.

‘Yes, sir. If you could drop me at any tube station . . .'

‘We'll take you there.'

‘There's no need, sir,' she said, embarrassed.

‘I'm not due at the Ministry until first thing in the morning, so it makes no odds.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

In the close confines of the back seat, the bulky sleeve of his greatcoat was touching hers; she moved her arm away.

At Liverpool Street he sent the driver away and insisted on carrying her suitcase to the platform, which embarrassed her even more. The station was crowded, as all stations seemed to be in wartime. Service people with heavy kitbags slung over their shoulders and civilians hurrying home from work formed an ever-changing kaleidoscope. There were long queues everywhere – at the ticket counters, the kiosks, the canteens, the left luggage. People were sitting in rows on the benches or on their luggage, some asleep. They passed a soldier with his girl locked in his arms: the girl was crying.

At the barrier she was told that the train had been cancelled. An unexploded bomb had been discovered somewhere on the line and there would be no more trains reaching Norwich that night. The ticket collector seemed almost triumphant about it. Feebly, she felt close to tears. Every day, every hour of her leave was precious.