Mosquito Squadron (12 page)

She leaned across and nibbled his ear, quite oblivious of the fact that the small boy, having overcome his fear of being massacred by Polish troops, had returned and was once again watching them, thumb in position.

‘Are you going to seduce me tonight, darling?’ she asked softly.

‘Actually,’ he replied unromantically, ‘what I had more in mind was rape. You know my animal instincts. We’ll have to preserve a bit of decorum, though, and put you in the spare bedroom, because Father’s a bit of an old-fashioned type. The spare bedroom, however, happens to be right next to mine, Father is a very heavy sleeper and the floorboards on the landing don’t creak.’

He looked at his watch and then took her hand, rising from the bench. ‘Time we were on our way,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘I’m suddenly very hungry, and some of Dad’s cold roast beef and pickles would be just the ticket. That’s one advantage of living in the country; not many people go hungry.’

They went back into the inn for a moment, to say goodbye to the others, and then drove off on the last lap of their journey. Julia let her hand rest lightly on Yeoman’s knee and gave it a little squeeze from time to time, half absent-mindedly. They spoke little, each being busy with private thoughts.

Yeoman, roused by the proximity of Julia’s body, anticipating their lovemaking, nevertheless felt a strange sadness. The sight of the Poles had brought back many memories of those savage, glorious days of three years ago, a span of time that seemed like an eternity now, when men from every corner of Occupied Europe, the Americas and the Commonwealth had fought and died over the harvest-fields of Kent and elsewhere in the embattled island; men who had fought for an ideal, because they had loved flying and adventure and because they were young, or because — like many of the Poles — they had bitter personal scores to settle.

The names came flooding back into his mind. Adamek … Bronsky, killed in his exploding Hurricane on the edge of the stratosphere … young Hamilton, shot down on his first operation … Fred Kirby, falling in flames, trapped in his cockpit … Simon Wynne-Williams, also spinning down in flames, to survive with terrible bums … Jim Callender, the born survivor, who had become Yeoman’s close friend; an American, he had later transferred to the USAAF and was now commanding a group of P-47 Thunderbolts in Suffolk … Mervyn Kendal, who had commanded the Polish squadron to which Yeoman had belonged; they had fought together again, in the Western Desert and Crete, and Kendal was now commanding a fighter tactics school up in Northumberland … the list was endless, the names marching across his mind in endless procession. There had been others, too, good friends who had given their lives in the terrible cauldron over Malta: Gerry Powell … Kearney … McCallum … he closed his mind with an effort, knowing that he would never forget them, but that now was not the time to remember them. One day, if he lived, his pen would capture them all, expanding the scribbled words in the crumpled, tea-stained notebooks he always carried with him, telling a future world, a world in which small children with ragged trousers were grown into men, of the lost generation and the sacrifices it had made.

Beside him, Julia’s face was turned away, and he could not see that her eyes were filled with tears. Mistily, she watched the greens and golds of the English landscape flow past, looking quickly back from time to time as she caught sight of cows, grazing placidly beyond some gap in the hedge-rows. It was as though she wished to capture every tranquil scene as it flicked past, like an individual frame from a film, and lock it in her mind forever.

And much later, in John Yeoman’s house, long after the old man had gone to bed and she lay beside his son, who slept a sleep of exhausted contentment, she buried her face in her pillow and wept, quietly so that her sobs would not waken him. She wept because there was so little time, and because despite all her avowals, she knew that she might never see him again; her luck could not last much longer.

For within a week, unknown to all except herself and a handful of people within a very clandestine organization known as Special Operations Executive, Julia Connors, alias Madeleine Lefevre, would parachute into Occupied France for the second time in six months.

Chapter Seven

One morning in September, with a thunderclap of engines, the twelve Mosquitos of No. 373 Squadron, the unit which was to share Burningham with No. 380, arrived overhead and broke into the circuit, landing to the accompaniment of comments from the few observers who had bothered to turn out and watch the new arrivals.

‘About bloody time, too. Took their time getting here … Jesus, that was a ropey landing …’ A Mosquito bounced high as its wheels hit the tarmac and went round again, both engines roaring. ‘Bloody amateur … weird-looking bastards, aren’t they?’

The new Mosquitos — Mk XIIs, as the watchers from 380 Squadron later learned — were certainly sinister in appearance. They were painted black all over, and the white had been removed from the roundels and the fin flashes. Peering closely at them as they taxied past, the 380 Squadron men observed that the new arrivals had no machine-guns, and guessed that the space normally occupied by the latter must now house some form of airborne interception radar. The four cannon under the nose, however, were retained. There were also some odd-looking aerials sticking out of the wings, which no one could identify.

The black-painted Mosquitos trundled off across the airfield to their dispersals on the far side, and a coach set out to pick up their crews. There were no operations that day, so those crews of 380 Squadron who were not flying or engaged on some other duty gathered in their respective messes to meet the newcomers.

The commanding officer of No. 373 Squadron, Squadron Leader Clive Bowen, was a big, soft-spoken Welshman who had been well on his way towards playing Rugby at international level before the war intervened. Although Yeoman had never met him, he learned that Bowen had also been in Malta at the same time as himself, flying Beaufighter night fighters from the bomb-torn island. He and his radar observer, Flying Officer Alan Wells, had eight kills to their credit while working as a team, all of them scored at night.

Yeoman and Bowen commandeered a corner of the bar in the officers’ mess and fell to reminiscing. Yeoman did not normally drink before lunch, but this was a special occasion and, in any case, the dice were absent. If operations were on, a pair of dice would be placed on the mantlepiece, conspicuous for all to see. It was an old custom dating back to the days of the Royal Flying Corps, and it had given rise to the RAF slang expressions ‘We’re dicing tonight’ and ‘It looks a bit dicey’.

After lunch, Bowen took Yeoman out to have a look at one of 373 Squadron’s Mosquitos, explaining its electronic equipment. He told Yeoman that the delay in bringing the squadron to full operational status had been caused by a sudden change in the airborne interception equipment; the Mosquitos had originally been fitted with Mk VIII AI, but then someone in Air Ministry had decided that this was too secret to be used on operations over enemy territory and so it had been replaced by the earlier Mk IV set. The Mosquitos were also fitted with another piece of equipment, code-named ‘Serrate’. This device permitted the radar observer to home on to enemy night fighter transmissions from as much as a hundred miles away and the information received was displayed on the AI cathode ray tubes, the observer switching from one set to the other as required. Since ‘Serrate’ only gave a target’s bearing, and not its range, AI was used as the fighter closed in to the attack.

Yeoman learned that the combination of Mk IV AI and ‘Serrate’ had already been used experimentally by the Beaufighters of No. 141 Squadron, which had carried out a series of intruder and bomber support operations between the middle of June and the first days of September, destroying thirteen enemy aircraft.

‘Well,’ said Yeoman, as they drove back towards the airfield buildings, ‘it looks as though we’ll really be able to get stuck into them now.’

‘Yes,’ Bowen agreed, ‘but it’s a matter of keeping one step ahead, especially in this radar business. The Beaufighter boys reported that, towards the end of their trial “Serrate” operations, their Mk IV AI was being jammed in a fairly limited way, so it seems that the Germans are catching on to our weaknesses. We don’t yet know how effective the Hun jamming is now, but I’ve no doubt we will in a few days’ time after we’ve carried out our first “Mahmoud” operation.’

‘“Mahmoud”?’ Yeoman looked at his companion questioningly.

‘That’s the code-name they’ve allocated to our night bomber support operations,’ Bowen explained. ‘We’ll either be flying alongside the bomber stream, out on the flanks, or hanging around over the German night fighter assembly beacons to see if we can find a bit of trade.’

‘Rather you than us,’ Yeoman grinned. ‘It doesn’t sound too healthy to me.’

Bowen grinned back to him. ‘About as healthy as low-level attacks on enemy airfields in daylight,’ he said. ‘Still, I suppose it’s a matter of what you’re used to. Personally, I’ve done so much night flying that I just don’t feel right unless there’s someone beside me, telling me where to go all the time.’

They pulled up outside the mess and made for the entrance, intending to read the newspapers until teatime, but Yeoman’s anticipation of a tranquil afternoon was rudely shattered by the adjutant, who came trotting along the corridor and took him urgently by the arm.

‘There you are,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Bad news, I’m atraid. flying Officer O’Grady has just tried to kill himself.’

‘Christ!’ Yeoman exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

‘Well,’ Rees told him, ‘it was all a bit strange. A few of us, including O’Grady, were sitting in the anteroom after lunch, reading the papers, when suddenly this navigator burst in and made straight for where O’Grady was sitting.’ The adjutant looked at Bowen. ‘The navigator was one of your chaps, sir, Flying Officer Cooper.

‘Anyway, Cooper stood over O’Grady, who turned as white as a sheet when he saw him and started to get up. That was when Cooper hit him and knocked him clean over the back of the chair. Then Cooper said, in a very loud voice so that we could all hear: “You stinking yellow bastard. I knew I’d catch up with you one day. That was for —” and he mentioned a name I didn’t get. A man’s name, I think.’

‘Go on,’ Yeoman prompted. ‘What then? What did O’Grady do?’

‘He just lay on the floor for a while — it must only have been a second or two, in reality, because the rest of us hardly had time to get on our feet — and then he scrambled up and dashed out of the room. Cooper just looked a bit sheepish, apologized to us, then sat down and hid himself behind a magazine.’

‘Who saw Cooper hit O’Grady?’ Yeoman wanted to know. Rees listed four or five people. ‘Most of the officers had drifted off,’ he said, ‘and none of the mess staff were present, fortunately.’

Yeoman nodded. ‘Right. And what next?’

‘I asked Terry Saint if he would go and see if O’Grady was all right. After all, the man looked pretty shaken. He hadn’t been gone more than a few seconds when we heard a shot, and then Saint came running back shouting to us to fetch the MO, because O’Grady was lying in his room with his head in a pool of blood. He had apparently tried to put a bullet through his brain, but messed things up and only grazed his skull. He’s in sick quarters now.’

‘I’d better get over there right away, then,’ Yeoman said, then turned to Bowen. ‘Clive, would you mind getting hold of this Cooper chap and finding out his side of the story? He seems to have precipitated something that’s going to take a bit of sorting out.’ Bowen nodded and turned away, then asked the adjutant if he had informed anyone else about the incident.

‘Not yet,’ Rees admitted. ‘There hasn’t really been time.’

‘Then do me a favour and don’t,’ Yeoman said, ‘at least not for the time being. I want to talk to O’Grady first, and get to the bottom of all this. It’s not as if the chap is badly hurt, or as if someone tried to murder him. Maybe we can smooth it all over.’

The adjutant smiled thinly. ‘I’m all in favour of that, sir,’ he said, and gave the pilot a knowing look. ‘I don’t want to spend the next few days writing reports, either.’ Yeoman gazed at him for a couple of seconds, then nodded. They understood one another.

*

‘Don’t stay too long, George. He’s still a bit shaken up.’ Squadron Leader Fraser, the Medical Officer, closed the door behind Yeoman and the latter heard his footsteps receding down the corridor.

O’Grady was lying full length on the bed. Apart from his jacket, collar and tie, he was still fully clothed. There was a bandage around his head. As Yeoman walked towards him, he turned his face to the wall.

‘Look at me, O’Grady,’ Yeoman said quietly. Reluctantly, O’Grady’s head moved around, although he avoided his squadron commander’s eyes. He looked pale and miserable.

Yeoman pulled up a chair and sat astride it, his arms resting on the back, looking down at the man on the bed.

‘Now then, O’Grady,’ he said, ‘the Doc assures me that you are going to be all right, so I am not going to treat you like some sort of invalid. I want to know what connection there is between you and Flying Officer Cooper, and why you tried to do away with yourself. Now I’m no bloody psychiatrist and I haven’t got all day. All I know is that at this moment I am looking at a pilot in my squadron who is in some sort of trouble, and I want to know why. So start talking.’

‘What will happen to me, sir?’ The voice was pitiful, almost whining. O’Grady seemed on the verge of tears. Yeoman felt a sudden wave of sympathy for the man, sensing his inner torment, then brushed aside the sentiment and said brusquely: ‘I’ll be better placed to tell you that when I’ve heard your story. So come on, man, pull yourself together.’ O’Grady brushed a trembling hand across his eyes. Then, staring up at the ceiling, he murmured, so quietly that Yeoman had to lean forward to hear him:

‘It’s been a nightmare. Day and night, for nearly two years now. You see, sir, I killed a man.’

There was a pause, and Yeoman said, ‘Well, most of us have done that. What’s so different about your case?’

‘It happened just after I’d gone on to Whirlwinds,’ O’Grady continued, almost as though he were talking to himself. ‘I was flying number two to my flight commander on a ranger over France. There were just the two of us. Our brief was to shoot up trains in the Pas de Calais area.’ He fell silent for a few moments, and Yeoman prompted him to go on.

‘We found a train and attacked it. It must have been pretty important, because it was stiff with light flak. I was scared stiff — it was the First time anyone had shot at me. I mean, I was literally frozen with terror.’

The words were coming more easily now, tumbling over themselves as O’Grady strove to unburden himself. ‘The flight commander called for a second attack, and he went in first. It was then I saw the fighters, coming down hard from above.’

For the first time, his eyes fixed directly on Yeoman. ‘I tried to warn the flight commander, sir, honestly I did,’ he said pathetically, ‘but I was so terrified I couldn’t speak. I don’t know what made me do it, but I … I just turned the Whirlwind round and headed for the Channel flat out, away from the Messerschmitts.

‘I got back to base, told them the flight commander had been shot down, as I was pretty certain he must have been, and that I had got away by the skin of my teeth. Then I waited around in agony for the next hour, waiting to see if he came back after all.’ O’Grady’s voice choked, and his hand went to his eyes again.

‘Oh, God,’ he whispered, ‘I prayed for him not to come back. I was overjoyed when he didn’t. The day we heard via the usual channels that he had in fact been shot down and killed, I went out and got drunk. And I thought that was the end of the matter, that no one would ever know what a coward I’d been.’

A stifled sob broke from him. ‘I was wrong,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Oh, Christ, how wrong I was! The guilt came after that, you see. It would hit me suddenly, at all times of the day and night. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. The other chaps on the squadron began to notice it and make comments … I began to avoid them as much as possible. On operations, I started taking all sorts of stupid risks, half hoping that I’d be killed too.’

He gave a sudden, strange laugh. ‘I was even recommended for a DFC, once,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine that? Anyway, I didn’t get it.’

He reached out for a glass of water on the bedside cabinet and took a long drink before going on with his story.

‘Things went from bad to worse. I started having nightmares, horrible dreams in which I saw the flight commander’s face, torn and burnt, grinning at me. I started drinking more, too.’

Yeoman made no comment. Privately, he wondered why O’Grady had not been taken off operations a long time ago. The signs of an impending mental breakdown were all too apparent.

‘There was a party one night,’ O’Grady went on dully. ‘I got tight, confided in someone, another Air Force type who was a complete stranger. He was very sympathetic. What I didn’t know at the time was that he was a friend of my flight commander’s brother.’

‘Who, I would guess, was Flying Officer Cooper,’ Yeoman interjected The other nodded miserably.

‘That’s right. He was overseas at the time, but this other chap must have written to him, because after a while the letters started arriving. Cooper swore to expose me for what I really was, a coward. Someone who had turned tail and left another man to die. I can imagine how he gloated,’ O’Grady said bitterly, ‘when he found out I was here. He must have asked someone to point me out.’