Bombs Gone Read online

  It was all a bit raffish for a young man from a straitlaced family that didn’t approve of all the goings on of the Hitler Jugend and Hitler Mädchen, and such loose living left rather a nasty taste in his mouth. But if it made his darling Lotte happy he’d accept the hospitality and not feel like a gigolo.

  Rudel, standing by the door of his room, leaped to attention and flung the door open; followed him and helped him out of his dressing-gown.

  While the batman profferred him one garment after another, helped him to don his boots and tunic, Reinert chatted. He had not yet learned to be at his ease during such ministrations. His self-consciousness had to be covered by friendly loquacity.

  “Going to the music-hall tonight, Rudel ... that new comedian who’s been such a success on the wireless ... you know the fellow I mean ... and that marvellous-looking Swedish singer ... and there’s a glamourous new chorus-line, I hear ...”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be interested to hear what you think about it. I was thinking of going myself, on Saturday.”

  In a sudden access of confidentiality prompted by Rudel’s avuncular looks and manner, his own excitement about Lotte and reaction from the events of the morning — he had not been hit, but some of the bullets from the enemy air-gunners had only just scraped past his cockpit — he asked: “Did you meet your wife in the last war, Rudel?”

  “Well ... yes, sir ... as a matter of fact, I did. But of course I was away for long stretches without leave ... and I had a lady friend in France ... she lived in a small town not too far from our lines ... I used to pop over and see her when we were on rest and I could snatch a couple of hours.”

  Genially, master said to man: “That wasn’t all you snatched, eh? I never suspected you were such a rake, Rudel. You know, it often strikes me that it is almost a crime that it takes a war to make a man fall in love. Look at me, for instance. I’ve had lots of girls, but I’ve never felt anything deep ... nothing enduring, for any of them. Yet the moment I met Lotte, seven weeks ago, I knew she was the one for me.”

  Rudel sighed. He had been gratified by being described as a rake. He had only ever had four women in his life: his wife, his French mistress, a whore in a military brothel in Flanders and a niece of his who was a somewhat too-ardent practitioner of Hitler’s strength-through-joy paganism and practised on any male who happened to be convenient. She was 15 and had seduced him with the aplomb of a woman of 30 and it still shook him to the core to think about it.

  He said, “War heightens the emotions, Herr Leutnant.”

  “A philosopher too!” Reinert laughed.

  The poor young devil is subconsciously afraid of being killed and wants some sense of permanence and continuity to hang on to, the batman told himself. But I can’t mention that.

  “I’ve no doubt you would have felt the same about the young lady, war or no war, sir.”

  “I doubt it, Rudel. I expect I would have fallen in love with her, but I don’t think I’d have been ready to sacrifice my freedom. Perhaps war makes a man more mature ... more adult, eh?”

  Only marriage does that, Rudel was thinking: because the reality of marriage is not at all like the romantic rosy glow of the imagination. But he said, comfortably, “Am I allowed to congratulate you on an engagement, sir?”

  Reinert, standing at the mirror brushing his hair, turned and his eyes brightened. “That’s a damned good idea, Rudel. Bless you. Yes, that’s just what I must do: become officially engaged to her, before the Staffel is posted to Poland or somewhere — we’ll be in France, Belgium and Holland before long — and some other blighter tries to cut me out behind my back. I’ll do it this very evening.”

  “My good wishes, sir. If I may make so bold.”

  Three

  It rained all the rest of that afternoon and the crews of both squadrons sat around in their messes, with the exception of three or four who had been sent to practise bad-weather navigation. That is to say, the officers and sergeants sat around in the comfort of armchairs in their messes. The corporals and aircraftmen had only hard chairs to sit on in the N.A.A.F.I.; the junior N.C.O.s in their little clubroom, the erks in the large, gaunt canteen that was an extension of the airmen’s dining-hall and reeked permanently of grease and cooking: as an alternative, they could go and lie on their beds in the barrack-rooms where 15 beds lined each wall and some of them had four more down the middle. The corporals were theoretically entitled to a shared room, a “bunk” as it was called: but wartime expansion meant that the influx of senior N.C.O.s of the Regular and Volunteer Reserves had overcrowded their mess sleeping quarters and they had in turn driven most of the corporals out of theirs.

  Ridley’s crew, like all the others, had shared equal risk of death that morning, but they did not share equal facilities for relaxation during their hours of ease.

  Ridley himself was asleep in his room, lying on top of his bed in shirt and slacks with a single blanket over him. Clive was reading “Punch”, “Country Life” and “Picture Post” in the anteroom preparatory to half an hour’s squash in the court behind the mess.

  Cpl Pyne was enjoying the sodality of the corporal’s club, playing whist and marking time until a certain aircraftwoman, second class (but first-class in the performance of those functions which were the bold corporal’s only concern), came off duty in the Equipment section at five-o’clock. Sometime between now and then he’d adjourn to his bunk for an hour’s kip. Being a senior holder of his rank, and privileged by his flying badge, he had not been turned out of his bunk. And his aircraft captain, flight-commander and squadron-commander would all combine to make sure that no sergeant did dispossess him of it.

  A/CI Noakes, notwithstanding the weather, was out on the station rugger pitch, practising place-kicks. He had suborned another off-duty member of the station XV into joining him, so that they could also practise running and passing. He planned to spend his evening with a pint of beer in one of the village pubs as soon as they opened, accompanied by one of his mates, followed by a visit to the station cinema.

  LAC Redfern, with a waterproof cape over his greatcoat, was tramping across fields and through woods with his dog at his side. Stan Redfern’s dog was a cross between a smooth-haired terrier and a nobody quite knew what. The sire had pounced on one of his parents’ terrier bitches unseen and she had produced a litter of well-shaped and intelligent-looking mongrels: well-shaped all except for their paws and tails, which were excessively large and gave them a lurching and dissipated kind of gait. The one Redfern had brought with him from his native farm had a black patch over one eye, another on its back and ribs, and a good nose for rabbits. Redfern had got his feet under the table of a local farmer’s family and was a frequent guest at abundant meals. In return, he gave a hand about the place in some of his spare time. During the last harvest the farmer had insisted on paying him and thus set a pattern: whenever Redfern put in a particularly long stint in a week, the farmer slipped him ten bob; and, on his pay, he could certainly use it. In addition to this pecuniary perquisite and the excellent, rich food, he was conducting a hearty bucolic courtship or flirtation or just a plain attempt at carrying-on with one of the farmer’s rubicund and muscular daughters who was 17 and ripe for matrimony.

  Redfern had what the R.A.F. had taught him to call “a dummy run” in mind rather than a trip up the aisle. He was ready enough to marry the gurrl, look, but where he came from there was a well-established tradition of putting a maid’s fertility to the test before leading her to the altar. It took many hands to run a farm and there wor no point in marrying a maid as turned out to be barren, wor there?

  Ridley was roused from sleep by his batman, who shook him politely and said, “Brought you a cuppa tea, sir. I expect you’d like to get up and have a proper tea, but I thought you might be glad of a cup up ’ere first.”

  Ridley yawned and stretched. “Thank you, Overton.” He looked at his watch. “Ten past four. Nice timing.”

  “I’ve pressed your best blue, sir. And done your ot
her shoes.”

  “Good man. What’s the weather doing?”

  “Still raining, sir.” Overton had a way of stating such facts as though he were announcing Armageddon. He could infuse gloom into the simple statement that the sun was shining. Officers’ messes in the peacetime Air Force employed civilian batmen, most of whom were ex-servicemen. Overton, who had the build of a jockey, had been an air mechanic in the Royal Flying Corps in the Great War and served on to rise to the rank of sergeant. He had finished his time on the Reserve and was too old now to be called up. The three junior officers to whom he ministered each rewarded him with a monthly ten shillings and another at Christmas. His wife ran a little haberdashery in the village. Altogether, Overton was quite a plutocrat among his immediate circle. Since the advent of rationing, he had worked out a satisfactory scheme with one of the mess chefs for the disposal of butter, sugar and jam: and was set fair to prosper even more.

  Ridley heaved himself off the bed and began to put on his collar and tie.

  “Run me a bath at half past five, will you, Overton.”

  “ Sir.”

  Overton, behind Ridley’s back, tidying the bed, shook his head. Mr Ridley had had his bath as usual that morning. Always bathing, were the officers. Wash all the natural oils out of their skins, they would. And then where would they be? Wide open to colds and influenza, that’s where. It was the same in France in ’14-’18: for ever splashin’ about in portable canvas tubs, they was. Not ’ealthy. Saturday was the right and proper night for a bath: all nice and clean for Sunday and church parade; or, in civvy street, best suit and a stroll to the parish church with the wife on your arm and the kids neat and tidy in front. He wondered if the vicar could do with a spot of extra butter ... sugar ... all those vicarage tea-parties ... should be a useful bob or two going there.

  Ridley went down to the anteroom, where hot buttered toast, strawberry and raspberry jams and fruitcake reposed on gleaming white tablecloths, the tables pushed back against a wall. He poured tea, helped himself to toast and jam and found an empty green leather armchair. From the neighbouring armchair someone looked up and quoted a clue from The Times crossword at him, for help.

  “Don’t ask me,” Ridley said. “Hate crosswords: all compiled by types with warped minds who ought to be in strait-jackets.”

  “Thought you were one of those literary types, from the way you’re always writing in the suggestions book about the mess library.”

  “That’s why I don’t do crossword puzzles. Waste of good reading time.”

  “Superior sod.” It was said without rancour.

  “I’ll help you with the words you can’t spell.”

  “Can’t think of any words, yet: that’s the trouble.”

  “Come and play snooker,” someone else suggested and the frustrated crossword-solver leaped up and followed him out of the room, carrying his tea and slice of cake with him.

  It was little different from half past four on a winter afternoon in peacetime; except that nobody was in civilian clothes. The room was no more crowded than in the old days, Ridley caught himself thinking unhealthily, because casualties more than kept pace with expansion.

  He got up hurriedly at this unwelcome thought and went to fetch himself some cake and another cup of tea. His consumption of tea had leaped up since 3rd September. They were always drinking it out at dispersals: the N.A.A.F.I. van came round twice a day and the cookhouse sent buckets of the stuff over as well. They poured it down their throats when they came back from a sortie, whether an op or a training flight. The odd thing was that he had never particularly liked tea. People were smoking more, too. He didn’t like the taste or smell of tobacco, so it was no temptation to him. But he did object to having to breathe so much smoke-laden air these days. His jeep and two gunners couldn’t wait to light up as soon as they got out of the aircraft. And they kept puffing until it was time to go aboard. For himself, a decent pint of bitter was the best way of steadying the nerves.

  He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. There was a bit of a squadron bash tonight. Two other types were going into Norwich with Ronnie and him, and so were several other parties. Both squadrons would be on the thrash. He hoped Göring wasn’t going to be temperamental: it had been a bit unreliable lately. Göring was the 1930 Morris Oxford he shared with Clive. The two of them had joined the squadron in the same week and had started flying regularly together. They had jointly spent £15 on the old car. Rust showed through its dark blue paint, so they had declared it to be ready-camouflaged. Göring seemed a suitably ribald name for it. Göring had seen some interesting action in the back seat during mess dances and cocktail parties. He and Clive took a good view of the ample vehicle. Not that he, nor, he suspected, Ronnie Clive, had got further than first base with any of the girls whom they had invited to test the upholstery. The sort of girls one invited to, or met at, mess functions were inviolable; for the most part. There were three or four who turned up to every party who, it was believed, were always ready for a sticky weekend in London or Skegness, but they didn’t seem to have much truck with anyone but flight-lieutenants and the more senior of the flying officers. Now and again one of them would marry some local civvy and fade out, to be replaced by some other piece of talent. He had heard that these jaunty pieces had been handed on through the mess from time immemorial: they were probably the daughters of the mess hangers-on of an earlier generation! A bit out of the reach of junior P.O.s, though.

  He thought he’d better go and see if Göring was willing to start without a lot of swinging, while there was still time to get one of the ground crew over to fix him up if he wouldn’t fire willingly.

  At six he was in the anteroom, freshly bathed and in his best blue, sinking a pint while he waited for Ronnie, Ginger and Dusty. At a quarter past six they were on their way and at seven they had four pints lined up in front of them on the bar counter of their favourite pub.

  At eight they walked into the dining room of the city’s best hotel; and Ridley immediately lost all interest in the rest of the evening as planned.

  Seated at a table in a corner was a girl who raised her head at the moment when he was looking in her direction. Their eyes met, she smiled and he knew it was involuntary. Then she quickly lowered her gaze, pink-cheeked, and turned her head to say something to the woman opposite her. But a moment later, while Ridley was still watching, she looked up again, her lips gave another little quirk and she looked away but not so hastily.

  The man seated between the girl and her mother was a group-captain whom Ridley did not recognise. The girl was fair-haired and ravishingly pretty.

  Clive said, “Wake up, Derek.”

  “What?” Startled, Ridley came down to earth and followed his companions to a table: not, damn it, near hers. But, when he adroitly seated himself where he could see her and looked across at her again, she was watching him and this time there was no mistaking that her smile was for him and quite deliberate.

  “Who’s the groupie over there?” Ridley asked generally.

  Clive grinned. “Is that what made you so absentminded? Wizard job, isn’t she?”

  Ginger said, “Super, but I don’t know her old man.”

  Dusty said, “Wizard bint ... never seen the groupie before.”

  A senile waiter creaked up to take their orders and Ridley asked him if he knew the group-captain’s identity. “I beg pardon, sir?”

  Hand behind ear, the dotard bent over him.

  Ridley repeated his question.

  “Wha’ say, sir? The group-captain, sir?”

  The waiter swivelled round, then turned back to Ridley. “That’s Group-Captain Ward, sir. He’s a very old guest of ours, sir.”

  “Don’t look now,” Clive said with a look of glee, “but you aren’t very popular. The groupie heard all that ...”

  Ridley looked embarrassed. “Not surprised ... that foghorn voice.” He glowered at the waiter, who was beaming complacently, unaware of criticism he could not hear.

&nb
sp; Ridley risked a look towards the corner table. The group-captain wore a frown, his wife and daughter were laughing as they talked across him.

  “You’ve put up a black,” Clive told him.

  “I don’t want her ... him ... anyone ...” Ridley looked confused, “to think I’m downright ill-mannered.” He got up and walked over to the group-captain’s table.

  *

  The restaurant was large and crowded, the band noisy, the dancers energetic and sweaty. The environment beloved of the Herrenvolk.

  They felt uneasy unless they were part of a group. Hence the ease with which their political leaders manipulated them. Germans liked to be told what to do rather than think for themselves. They relished discipline and mass displays of obedience. Being one of a crowd all doing the same thing reassured them.

  Their aircraft-designers knew this and accordingly designed their military aircraft, apart of course from single-seaters, in such a way that the whole crew was bunched together. Rear gunners were not relegated to the aircraft’s tail, under the fin, but placed well forward: either back-to-back with the pilot or in a gondola under the flight deck.

  The Krauts liked to be able to get their big square heads together and give and receive orders as well as being able to see each others’ fleshy bodies and know that they had moral and physical support.

  Hence Leutnant Werner Reinert did his courting to the oom-pah-pah of a Bavarian band, sweaty waiters bearing trays burdened with steins of beer, and holding the feather-light Lotte in his hot grasp while he whirled her round the dance floor.