Cast the First Stone (23 page)

He decided he must concentrate on his career – for as long as it might last – in the RAF. He had very soon decided that he wanted to train as a navigator. He passed all the relevant tests and interviews, rising quickly through the ranks to AC1, corporal, then sergeant. He was eager to put his new-found knowledge and skills to the test, to be responsible for plotting routes and guiding aircraft to targets in Germany.

His second posting after his initial training was to a camp on the Lincolnshire plain, quite near to the city of Lincoln. He was to remain there for the duration of the war.

As a vital member of an aircrew he was doing the job for which he had been trained. But as the years went by – 1941, 1942, into 1943 – he, like his colleagues, some of whom were now close friends, wondered how much longer it could go on.

Simon found it hard to dismiss from his mind the horrific sights he had seen. A damaged plane sinking in the dark water of the North Sea with all the crew on board; a bomber and its occupants reduced to a ball of flame by high explosives. The worst of all, to him, was the sight of German cities burning below, knowing that he was, in part, responsible for their destruction.

Each operational tour consisted of thirty missions, then the men were granted a period of rest and recuperation before starting on the next tour. They were all relieved when flight number thirteen was safely over; a superstition, but one to which many of them would admit, insisting on carrying lucky mascots or charms, or St Christopher medals.

Simon had no such lucky charms. He was starting to believe that he must put his trust in a much higher power. His belief in the God and Jesus of his Sunday school days had waned over the years, and he had not said any prayers for a long time, but he was starting to do so quite regularly now as the war droned on with no end in sight.

One afternoon he had spent a while on his own in Lincoln cathedral. It was a place where he felt close to the God who was becoming more real to him day by day, month by month, as the war droned on relentlessly. Leaving the cathedral he stood for a while in contemplation, looking up at the west front where the honey-coloured limestone glowed with a golden light in the afternoon sun.

‘A penny for them,' said a voice next to him. He looked round to see one of the WAAFs from the camp standing near to him. He knew her by sight, as he knew many of the young women, but he had never been in her company before. She was an attractive dark-haired girl with rosy cheeks and a pleasant smile.

‘Oh, hello there,' he said. ‘Yes, I was miles away, wasn't I? I'm always awestruck by the beauty of this place. I've been inside for a little while. I find it helps to clear my mind . . . and try to make sense of it all.'

‘Yes, you sometimes wonder what it's all about, don't you?' said the young woman. ‘We haven't been introduced, but you're called Simon, aren't you?'

‘Yes, that's right, Simon Norwood. How did you know my name?'

‘I heard one of your pals address you,' she explained.

‘Oh, I see. And you are . . . ?'

‘I'm Yvonne, Yvonne Stevenson.'

By mutual consent, it seemed, they walked away from the cathedral precinct to the cobbled street that led to the town. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?' asked Simon. ‘There's a little cafe I've been to not far from here. They do a good pot of tea and nice cream cakes, too. Well, “mock” cream, I suppose, but it's as good as you can get.'

‘Yes, thank you,' said Yvonne. ‘Why not?'

They set off, chatting in a companionable manner. The tea shop was an old-fashioned sort of place, one of the town's quaint medieval buildings. The room was small and rather busy but they found an empty table for two at the back of the shop. The round table was covered with a pristine white cloth edged with lace, and the wheel-backed chairs held chintzy cushions. The polished floor was uneven in places, there was a delft rack which held blue and white pottery plates and pewter tankards, and on the walls were pictures of Lincoln in days gone by.

‘It's the sort of place that the Yanks think of as “little old England”,' Simon remarked as they squeezed themselves into the corner. ‘I've seen several GIs here from time to time.'

‘Old England indeed,' remarked Yvonne. She sighed. ‘It almost makes you believe everything is quite normal, doesn't it?'

‘Yes,' agreed Simon. ‘That's why I come here. A touch of normality in a world that's gone mad.' They looked at one another, nodding in agreement and understanding.

‘So how long have you been at this camp, Yvonne?' asked Simon.

‘Just a few weeks,' she replied. ‘I was transferred from a camp near to Norwich. I joined up last year when it became compulsory for women of my age . . . I don't mean that I didn't want to enlist,' she added. ‘I'd been thinking of it for a while, but my parents and my boyfriend were not all that keen. Anyway, when they brought in conscription for women I was twenty, so I had no choice.'

‘I see,' said Simon. He guessed she would be twenty-one by now, the same age as himself. ‘And I guess you're a northerner like me,' said Simon. ‘I'm from Bradford, Baildon, to be exact.'

Yvonne told him she came from Manchester. ‘You're part of an aircrew, aren't you?' she asked.

‘Yes, I'm a navigator,' he replied. ‘It's what I wanted to do when I joined up, and I was proud of myself when I got my stripes. But now I find myself hating what we're doing. I guess that a lot of us do really, but we don't talk about it very much. What about you, Yvonne? What job are you doing?'

She told him she was doing clerical work, as she had done back home. She was a shorthand typist, now in charge of her office since her transfer to Lincolnshire.

‘Good for you,' said Simon. He had noticed that she had two stripes on her arm.

They stopped talking for a while to concentrate on eating the cream cakes. The cream tasted almost like the fresh variety with melt-in-the-mouth sponge and pastry.

‘We'd better be making tracks, hadn't we?' said Simon when they had finished.

‘Yes . . . thank you, Simon' said Yvonne. ‘That was delicious. I shall tell my friends about this place.'

‘Maybe we could come again . . . sometime?' he asked tentatively. He had enjoyed being with her very much; it was a refreshing change to have some feminine company after the time he had spent almost solely with his male companions.

‘Yes, I'd like that,' Yvonne agreed, smiling at him in a friendly way.

They made their way down the steep hill that led to the main part of the town. Buses ran from the square to just outside the camp.

‘I'm so pleased to have met you,' Simon told her as they sat side by side on the bone-shaking bus. ‘I'm glad you stopped to speak to me instead of walking past.'

‘You didn't think it was too forward of me?' she asked a little teasingly.

‘No, not at all. As I said before; do you think we could meet up again? No strings attached,' he added. ‘You said you have a boyfriend, didn't you? I mean just to spend some time together . . . as friends?'

‘Yes, I have a boyfriend,' she replied. ‘He's in the Merchant Navy, so I don't see him very often. We've been going out together for a year or so, but we haven't got engaged or anything. We decided to wait until this lot comes to an end. What about you, Simon? Do you have a girlfriend?'

‘No, not me.' He smiled. ‘I don't really think it's the right time to be making commitments, although I know lots of couples are doing so . . . Would you like us to meet again, then?'

‘Yes, I would, Simon,' she agreed. ‘I've made some good friends since I came here, like I did at the last camp. The girls in the hut with me, we all get on well together. But it'll be nice to have a change of company now and again.'

They alighted from the bus and he said goodbye to her just inside the main gates. Their huts were on different sides of the camp. They agreed to meet in the NAAFI in a few days time.

Simon whistled as he made his way to his hut, feeling more cheerful than he had for ages. What a very nice girl she was, like a breath of fresh air. He told himself, though, that he must make his head rule his heart and not get involved in a romantic entanglement. Yvonne knew the score, though; he guessed she was not the sort of girl to play around when she already had a boyfriend.

As Simon's friendship with Yvonne continued he began to look forward to seeing her more and more. During their times together he was able to forget, if only for a short time, the fears he still encountered with every flight, and the gruesome memories that haunted him in the night when he was unable to sleep.

Yvonne was a good listener, and he was able to talk to her about anything and everything. They met in the NAAFI, and went to dances in the sergeants' mess. Sometimes they walked the mile or so along the country lane to the pub in the village or went into Lincoln to the cinema. Sometimes they were on their own, and other times with a small group of friends.

As the weeks went by, however, Simon began to realize that it was difficult to have a purely platonic relationship with a member of the opposite sex, especially one as attractive and friendly as Yvonne; but he knew it was what he must try to do. He did hold her hand, though, when they walked back from the village late at night. The darkness was a little scary when owls hooted, bats flittered to and fro and small creatures of the night scampered into the bushes.

One night as he said goodbye to her near to her hut he plucked up courage and kissed her gently on the lips. To his surprise she put up her hand and drew his face down to hers. ‘Kiss me properly, Simon,' she whispered. He did so, feeling her warmth and eagerness as she responded to him.

‘There,' she said. ‘There's no harm in that, is there?'

‘No, none at all,' he agreed. ‘Thanks for tonight, Yvonne. It was just what I needed – the film, I mean – to take my mind off everything.' They had been to see a light-hearted musical starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. ‘I'll see you in a day or two. There's a big op coming up, so I'd better catch up on my beauty sleep,' he grinned.

She smiled at him, very fondly, he thought. ‘Yes, see you soon, Simon. I'll be thinking of you; I'll say a little prayer for you. TTFN!' She waved cheerily as she left him.

He knew it would be very easy to fall in love with Yvonne. That kiss had certainly made the earth move for him, but they had agreed ‘no strings', and he knew he must try to keep to that.

The next time he saw Yvonne it was a couple of days after the next op – one that had turned out to be the most disastrous yet, for Simon. On returning to base after a raid on Germany the damaged plane had burst into flames and their pilot had been killed.

‘What a waste of life! He was such a bloody good skipper,' Simon told her. ‘I don't think I shall ever make sense of it all.'

He found it helped, if only a little, to go over the happenings of that dreadful night, and Yvonne was always ready to listen. There had been assistance at the scene almost immediately. An ambulance and fire engine had soon arrived, whilst several of his colleagues were trying to beat back the flames engulfing their pilot, but his burns had been too severe and he had died in hospital the following day. The plane, of course, was completely destroyed. The mid gunner was still in hospital, following concussion, but was expected to make a good recovery.

‘Were you very close to your pilot?' asked Yvonne. ‘You hadn't known him long, had you?'

‘No, it was only our fourth op together. No, we weren't close mates with him. He was a commissioned officer, and the rest of us are just sergeants.' The wastage amongst commissioned officers was so great that many of the non-commissioned men were promoted to what were known as sergeant pilots. ‘But he was so calm and level-headed, you couldn't imagine him making a mistake. He must have let his guard slip for a moment. It had all been going so well, then the enemy plane appeared out of the blue. I couldn't believe it when I heard that bloody great bang . . .'

Dusk was falling as they walked round the airfield arm in arm. ‘Shall we go down to the pub and have a drink?' asked Yvonne. ‘Or do you want to keep a clear head?'

‘The next op isn't for a few more days,' he replied, ‘unless there's an emergency. Yes, maybe that's a good idea. And I'll try to talk about something else. No amount of talking can make any difference.'

They met a few friends in the village pub and Simon managed to join in the banter and not to let his sadness and anger show. On the way back to the camp he felt more relaxed than ever in Yvonne's company.

‘Feeling better now?' she asked.

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘A little better . . . I must admit I'm scared, though, Yvonne. I can't say that to the others, but I can tell you, can't I? The thought of boarding that plane again scares the pants off me. Not the same plane, of course, nor with the same skipper . . .'

‘How many more ops have you to do this time?'

‘Oh, four or five, I'm not sure. I've lost count. Then I'll be grounded for a while, thank God.'

‘It'll pass,' Yvonne said gently. ‘All things pass. Who knows; one big push and then it might be all over?'

‘Let's hope so,' said Simon. ‘I don't think I can stand much more.'

Neither of them spoke for the next few moments, but as if by mutual agreement they walked towards the shrubbery at the edge of the camp, near to the perimeter fence. They had exchanged a few kisses since that first time, and Simon knew that Yvonne was feeling the same as he did. They were falling in love. He knew now that he could hold back no longer.

They stopped by an oak tree. Yvonne leaned back against it and opened her arms to him. ‘Come along, Simon,' she said gently. ‘I think you're in need of a spot of comfort, don't you?'