The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (36 page)

We got on to the main road again and Chumley directed us to The Crown in Weymouth. The road was fairly free of traffic and I gave the little car full rein for a while. It was dark and just in front of me there seemed to be an even darker but obscure sort of shape which I found difficulty in identifying for a moment. “For Christ’s sake, man,” Chumley shouted. Cocky’s large Humber had pulled up on the verge and its occupants were busy relieving themselves by the roadside, but one of them was standing in front of the rear light and obscuring it. We were travelling at not much less than seventy-five m.p.h. when Chumley shouted at me and the Humber was only about thirty yards from us when I recognised it. My slow-wittedness only now became evident but I felt quite confident and in complete control of my faculties as I faced the emergency. I pulled the wheel over to the right, not abruptly but absolutely surely and with a calculated pressure to allow me only inches, inches enough to guide the left mud-guard past the Humber’s off rear bumper. At the time I was in full control and thinking how fine and assured were my reactions, how much finer they were now than they ever were when I had had no drink. The sense of complete infallibility and the consequent denial of any risk had overtaken me and the feeling, if anything, became accentuated when the little car had passed Cocky’s large Humber, which it did by the barest fraction of an inch, to the accompanying shout of “Look out, 109’s behind” from those who were standing by the verge and otherwise engaged. “No road sense, those boys,” Chumley remarked.

The Crown was quite a different sort of place from The Sunray. From the outside it was distinctly unpretentious in appearance, just a flat-sided building flanking the back street down by the harbour. It had four windows, two top and bottom and a door in the middle. We went in, and as I had rather expected, it was an ordinary working-man’s pub. There were no furnishings to speak of, the floor was just plain wooden boards and the few tables were round with marble tops and the conventional china ash-trays advertising some type of lager or whisky. The bar occupied the whole one side of the room and the barman greeted us warmly as we arrived. Chumley ordered two pints of bitter. Apparently the squadron were well-known and held in high esteem.

The others arrived soon after we got there and the drinks were on me this time. There was a dart-board in the corner of the room and, not surprisingly, we threw badly. What did it matter how we played I thought, as long as we let off some steam.

When we left The Crown at closing time I was drunk, but we didn’t return to the aerodrome. Bottle had some friends in Bournemouth and it was to Bournemouth that he’d decided to go. I was too drunk to drive and so was Chumley, who had left The Crown before closing time and taken up his position in the passenger seat of my car where he was now fast asleep. Dimmy and I lifted him out, still asleep, into the back of Cocky’s Humber. Dimmy, who, so he claimed, was more sober than I, said he would drive my car. I made no protest. I relapsed into the passenger seat and fell asleep as the car gathered speed towards Bournemouth. I woke up as soon as the car came to a standstill, feeling a lot more sober. It was about half-past eleven when we went through the door of this quite large private house. Bottle’s and Cocky’s car had already arrived and the occupants had apparently gone inside. The door opened and a girl greeted us. “I’m Pam, come on in the others are here,” she said. Everyone was seated in or on some sort of chair or stool and all had a glass of some sort in their hand. There were two other girls there besides Pam.

I was beginning to feel rather tired about this time and I would have been glad to get back to camp, especially as I had to be on dawn readiness again. The atmosphere here didn’t seem conducive to any sort of rowdery like The Crown or The Compass and the girls didn’t somehow seem to fit into the picture. They weren’t on the same wave-length. It was about two-thirty in the morning when we finally left.

We arrived back at the mess just after four o’clock, having stopped at an all-night cafe for eggs and bacon and coffee. I had to be on readiness at five-thirty and it seemed hardly worth-while going to bed, so I decided to go straight down to dispersal, to find I was the only one there. I had just an hour and a half’s sleep before I was due to take-off on dawn patrol.

Hall was withdrawn from active service in September 1942, shortly afterwards suffering a mental breakdown. He made a full recovery.

SHALL I LIVE FOR A GHOST?

RICHARD HILLARY

A Spitfire pilot with No. 603 Squadron, Hillary was shot down on September 3 1940.

I was falling. Falling slowly through a dark pit. I was dead. My body, headless, circled in front of me. I saw it with my mind, my mind that was the redness in front of the eye, the dull scream in the ear, the grinning of the mouth, the skin crawling on the skull. It was death and resurrection. Terror, moving with me, touched my cheek with hers and I felt the flesh wince. Faster, faster. . . . I was hot now, hot, again one with my body, on fire and screaming soundlessly. Dear God, no! No! Not that, not again. The sickly smell of death was in my nostrils and a confused roar of sound. Then all was quiet. I was back.

Someone was holding my arms.

“Quiet now. There’s a good boy. You’re going to be all right. You’ve been very ill and you mustn’t talk.”

I tried to reach up my hand but could not.

“Is that you, nurse? What have they done to me?”

“Well, they’ve put something on your face and hands to stop them hurting and you won’t be able to see for a little while. But you mustn’t talk: you’re not strong enough yet.”

Gradually I realized what had happened. My face and hands had been scrubbed and then sprayed with tannic acid. The acid had formed into a hard black cement. My eyes alone had received different treatment: they were coated with a thick layer of gentian violet. My arms were propped up in front of me, the fingers extended like witches’ claws, and my body was hung loosely on straps just clear of the bed.

I can recollect no moments of acute agony in the four days which I spent in that hospital; only a great sea of pain in which I floated almost with comfort. Every three hours I was injected with morphia, so while imagining myself quite coherent, I was for the most part in a semi-stupor. The memory of it has remained a confused blur.

Two days without eating, and then periodic doses of liquid food taken through a tube. An appalling thirst, and hundreds of bottles of ginger beer. Being blind, and not really feeling strong enough to care. Imagining myself back in my plane, unable to get out, and waking to find myself shouting and bathed in sweat. My parents coming down to see me and their wonderful self-control.

They arrived in the late afternoon of my second day in bed, having with admirable restraint done nothing the first day. On the morning of the crash my mother had been on her way to the Red Cross, when she felt a premonition that she must go home. She told the taxi-driver to turn about and arrived at the flat to hear the telephone ringing. It was our Squadron Adjutant, trying to reach my father. Embarrassed by finding himself talking to my mother, he started in on a glamorized history of my exploits in the air and was bewildered by my mother cutting him short to ask where I was. He managed somehow after about five minutes of incoherent stuttering to get over his news.

They arrived in the afternoon and were met by Matron. Outside my ward a twittery nurse explained that they must not expect to find me looking quite normal, and they were ushered in. The room was in darkness; I just a dim shape in one corner. Then the blinds were shot up, all the lights switched on, and there I was. As my mother remarked later, the performance lacked only the rolling of drums and a spotlight. For the sake of decorum my face had been covered with white gauze, with a slit in the middle through which protruded my lips.

We spoke little, my only coherent remark being that I had no wish to go on living if I were to look like Alice. Alice was a large country girl who had once been our maid. As a child she had been burned and disfigured by a Primus stove. I was not aware that she had made any impression on me, but now I was unable to get her out of my mind. It was not so much her looks as her smell I had continually in my nostrils and which I couldn’t disassociate from the disfigurement.

They sat quietly and listened to me rambling for an hour. Then it was time for my dressings and they took their leave.

The smell of ether. Matron once doing my dressing with three orderlies holding my arms; a nurse weeping quietly at the head of the bed, and no remembered sign of a doctor. A visit from the lifeboat crew that had picked me up, and a terrible longing to make sense when talking to them. Their inarticulate sympathy and assurance of quick recovery. Their discovery that an ancestor of mine had founded the lifeboats, and my pompous and unsolicited promise of a subscription. The expectation of an American ambulance to drive me up to the Masonic Hospital (for Margate was used only as a clearing station). Believing that I was already in it and on my way, and waking to the disappointment that I had not been moved. A dream that I was fighting to open my eyes and could not: waking in a sweat to realize it was a dream and then finding it to be true. A sensation of time slowing down, of words and actions, all in slow motion. Sweat, pain, smells, cheering messages from the Squadron, and an overriding apathy.

Finally I was moved. The ambulance appeared with a cargo of two somewhat nervous A.T.S. women who were to drive me to London, and, with my nurse in attendance, and wrapped in an old grandmother’s shawl, I was carried aboard and we were off. For the first few miles I felt quite well, dictated letters to my nurse, drank bottle after bottle of ginger beer, and gossiped with the drivers. They described the countryside for me, told me they were new to the job, expressed satisfaction at having me for a consignment, asked me if I felt fine. Yes, I said, I felt fine; asked my nurse if the drivers were pretty, heard her answer yes, heard them simpering, and we were all very matey. But after about half an hour my arms began to throb from the rhythmical jolting of the road. I stopped dictating, drank no more ginger beer, and didn’t care whether they were pretty or not. Then they lost their way. Wasn’t it awful and shouldn’t they stop and ask? No, they certainly shouldn’t: they could call out the names of the streets and I would tell them where to go. By the time we arrived at Ravenscourt Park I was pretty much all-in. I was carried into the hospital and once again felt the warm September sun burning my face. I was put in a private ward and had the impression of a hundred excited ants buzzing around me. My nurse said good-bye and started to sob. For no earthly reason I found myself in tears. It had been a lousy hospital, I had never seen the nurse anyway, and I was now in very good hands; but I suppose I was in a fairly exhausted state. So there we all were, snivelling about the place and getting nowhere. Then the charge nurse came up and took my arm and asked me what my name was.

“Dick,” I said.

“Ah,” she said brightly. “We must call you Richard the Lion Heart.”

I made an attempt at a polite laugh but all that came out was a dismal groan and I fainted away. The house surgeon took the opportunity to give me an anaesthetic and removed all the tannic acid from my left hand.

At this time tannic acid was the recognized treatment for burns. The theory was that in forming a hard cement it protected the skin from the air, and encouraged it to heal up underneath. As the tannic started to crack, it was to be chipped off gradually with a scalpel, but after a few months of experience, it was discovered that nearly all pilots with third-degree burns so treated developed secondary infection and septicaemia. This caused its use to be discontinued and gave us the dubious satisfaction of knowing that we were suffering in the cause of science. Both my hands were suppurating, and the fingers were already contracting under the tannic and curling down into the palms. The risk of shock was considered too great for them to do both hands. I must have been under the anaesthetic for about fifteen minutes and in that time I saw Peter Pease killed.

He was after another machine, a tall figure leaning slightly forward with a smile at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly from nowhere a Messerschmitt was on his tail about 150 yards away. For two seconds nothing happened. I had a terrible feeling of futility. Then at the top of my voice I shouted, “Peter, for God’s sake look out behind!”

I saw the Messerschmitt open up and a burst of fire hit Peter’s machine. His expression did not change, and for a moment his machine hung motionless. Then it turned slowly on its back and dived to the ground. I came-to, screaming his name, with two nurses and the doctor holding me down on the bed.

“All right now. Take it easy, you’re not dead yet. That must have been a very bad dream.”

I said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. Two days later I had a letter from Colin. My nurse read it to me. It was very short, hoping that I was getting better and telling me that Peter was dead.

Slowly I came back to life. My morphia injections were less frequent and my mind began to clear. Though I began to feel and think again coherently I still could not see. Two V.A.D.s fainted while helping with my dressings, the first during the day and the other at night. The second time I could not sleep and was calling out for someone to stop the beetles running down my face, when I heard my nurse say fiercely, “Get outside quick: don’t make a fool of yourself here!” and the sound or footsteps moving towards the door. I remember cursing the unfortunate girl and telling her to put her head between her knees. I was told later that for my first three weeks I did little but curse and blaspheme, but I remember nothing of it. The nurses were wonderfully patient and never complained. Then one day I found that I could see. My nurse was bending over me doing my dressings, and she seemed to me very beautiful. She was. I watched her for a long time, grateful that my first glimpse of the world should be of anything so perfect. Finally I said: