Operation Thunderflash Read online

  We had all been looking forward to shooting out searchlights and strafing flak batteries. Perhaps we were to have an early chance to do so.

  Heavy machine gun posts abounded in the enemy-held areas, but were fully effective only up to 5,000 ft. They were very frightening, however, at any altitude where they could reach us, because they flung up such a thick stream of tracer and this appeared to fill the air in such a way that we had not an inch of space through which to squeeze unscathed. I reminded myself that down at 500 ft. the machinegunners would have scant time in which to traverse on us, because we made such a short path across their cone of fire. It didn’t comfort me much.

  We could see just that kind of shooting ahead of us, which meant that other Lancs. had chosen to adopt the same tactic as ourselves and return home hugging the ground instead of climbing above the heavy flak: which entailed a freezing trip and constant oxygen.

  There was no apparent way around it. A broad belt of flak positions lay across our course and deviating would only lead us into another.

  “Here’s your chance, gunners: I’ll go down a bit lower. Then you can’t miss!”

  It would give the men on the ground less time to hit us, too.

  At 200 ft. the treetops and hedgerows became a blur in the faint moonlight and the tracer rushing towards us became an almost solid clump.

  The recoil of the six guns in nose and tail began to shake the aircraft and a few seconds later Keith joined in, shooting from his mid-upper turret with the guns depressed as far as they would go.

  A searchlight lay dead ahead, holding us in its glare and making it impossible for me to see if I was about to fly into an obstacle. It faded abruptly, leaving a momentary red glow. Nice shooting, Bruce, I thought.

  A few bullets pattered against the Lanc. before, in a matter of seconds, we had left the danger behind.

  There were two more bad stretches before we reached the English Channel.

  We probably strutted a bit at debriefing, for we all felt pretty good about the sortie. The damage ‘to Uncle had given me a strange exultation that I could see the others shared, instead of intimidating us. Had we really run the gauntlet of such ferocious fire? And an aeroplane that could absorb so much punishment and bring us home without appearing to notice it filled us with confidence.

  Wg. Cdr. Leatham was dutifully there to meet his crews on their return.

  I was feeling elated enough to chance a rather cheeky remark. “You should have come along, sir: it wasn’t such a piece of cake after all, even though it was so short.”

  He looked grim for a moment and compressed his lips so tightly that a pale patch appeared at each corner of his mouth. Eventually he said, “We don’t encourage line-shooting on my squadron,” and walked away.

  “You’ve put your foot in it,” Nick said.

  Looking round, I noticed that Sqdn. Ldr. Moakes was standing near us and watching with an odd expression on his face. Catching his eye, I felt myself blush and when he came to have a word I blurted, “Didn’t mean to shoot a line...I thought the CO would be amused by the way our supposedly easy trip turned out.”

  Moakes nodded in an understanding way. “He’s probably a bit on edge: it’s quite hard on the nerves to stay up waiting for people to come back; particularly on a night like this.”

  He meant on a night when, between the two squadrons, we had lost seven aircraft out of twenty.

  Bruce said, “It’s probably been a piece of cake before, when there’s been a short trip into France.”

  Moakes appeared to hesitate for a moment. Then, with a look of anger and contempt in his eyes, although he didn’t let these emotions appear on his face or in his voice, he replied, “We’ve done a lot of ops. like that one”; and left us to make what we would of it.

  It had been in my thoughts the whole day before, and from the moment that we were safely over the Channel on our way back, that we would be released for the whole of the coming day: and I could spend some hours with Margaret.

  I had not been back since that first afternoon, but I had thought a lot about the hours we had spent together. She had her own sitting-room, with a dressing room and bathroom adjoining; and, I suspected, her own bedroom. Her suite overlooked one side of the house, with one of the sitting-room windows at the front.

  She had said, with a strange smile, “I can hear Tim’s car if I leave the window open.” It had no meaning for me, then.

  Why I thought she had a separate bedroom, I did not know; but there was something in the way that she and her husband treated each other that gave me this impression; and an incident during that afternoon, too, when she had said, “I’ll go and bring it; it’s in my bedroom.” It was a book she was reading, about which she had been telling me.

  I wondered whether to telephone and ask her if I could go round in the afternoon; or whether I should go over early in the morning: but I didn’t know what her medical routine was. Anyway, if a servant took the call it would be thought odd: members of the squadron drifted in and out at will. They used the billiards room, the library and a huge chamber which had been variously a playroom with a big conservatory attached, and a schoolroom for the Leatham children. They were at liberty to use any of the downstairs rooms but usually did not venture into the drawing-room or the morning room or dining room.

  There were always plenty of magazines, more than we had in the officers’ mess, and a barrel of beer in the playroom. There were also table tennis and darts, card tables, chess sets and dominoes. People behaved quietly there and it really was a haven.

  Probably there would be no one else there if I went early, and, in any event, I expected that I would go up to Margaret’s sitting-room and play records. So I cycled over soon after breakfast.

  She was in the rose garden below the windows of her suite, and heard my tyres on the gravel. She looked up and waved, and when I reached her she said, “I had a feeling you would come today.”

  “I hope it’s all right, Mrs Leatham...”

  “Bill!” She looked reproving. “I told you to call me Margaret; all the others do.” I had noticed that several of the others did not, but didn’t argue. “Are you shy because I’m so much older than you are?”

  “But you’re not.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you feel that. Come on, let’s go and have a quick cup of coffee, and then I must be off. Can you stay?”

  “It looks as though I’m going to have a few days to carry on with my musical education.”

  Her cheerful expression changed at once to one of concern. “Oh, dear: did you catch it very badly last night?” She knew that if I were on the ground for a few days it meant that my aircraft was under repair.

  “Good heavens, no; nothing much. It’s just routine.”

  “Is it?” She gave me a disbelieving look. “Well, the longer the better: it’ll give me time to introduce you to what I think are the best of some very under-rated composers.”

  I felt a kind of excitement that was new to me. Leatham habitually lunched in the mess, unless he was on stand-down. I could look forward to a long, uninterrupted time with his wife.

  Margaret had calls to make, so I biked the mile to Belton and passed the time in the bookshop, and bought a few odds and ends such as toothpaste, and sent picture postcards to my parents and brothers, before cycling back to The Grange.

  She had returned before me and the first thing she said was, “Tim’s got to go to a conference at Bomber Command. He’s just telephoned. He’ll be away overnight: I’m going to pack a few things and take them over for him.” She was a little breathless.

  “When are you going?”

  “He’s leaving at four.”

  “Oh, no hurry, then.”

  She sighed. “Not really.” Her hand moved towards me and for a few seconds while my heart raced I thought she was about to link her fingers with mine. But she dropped her hand to her side and, almost curtly, turned away from me and said, “Let’s go and have lunch.”

  We ate in the br
eakfast room, where there was some cold food on a sideboard, so that we could help ourselves and there was no need for the ancient monument of a butler or any of the maids to interrupt us.

  There was half a bottle of white wine in a bucket of ice. I had seldom drunk wine, and since I had reached an age at which I could begin to appreciate it the war had caused a lack of it. I wished I could make some sophisticated comment on it, but Margaret just said, “I always like Muscadet” and I merely nodded. It was pleasant not to have to make a fuss about it.

  Afterwards, glowing pleasantly from the wine, I went with her to her sitting-room, where we played records and chatted and the afternoon passed in an enchanted drowsiness in which my senses were more acute than they had ever been. I understood at last the meaning of that suggestive word “sensual” as distinct from “sensuous”.

  At half-past three Margaret said, with another sigh, “Time for me to go.” She reached out and put a hand on mine. “Are you staying?”

  I had a second of panic. “I can’t stay here...I could go and sit in the playroom...or walk around the grounds.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you go back and have a zizz? You look tired...after last night. Come back this evening.” She tightened her grip on my hand and I began to experience a whole spectrum of new sensations; she was looking me straight in the eye, and her tone held the suggestion of conspiracy. “There’ll be lots of the others here, I’m sure; some of them, anyway: there always are. Nobody’ll notice you particularly.” She hesitated. “Unless you had something else on?”

  “N-no...no...nothing...if it’s really all right...”

  She released my hand, stood up briskly and said, “Go and get some rest, and come back after dinner.”

  Nick was lying on top of his bed, sound asleep, when I went into our room. I took off my outer garments and was asleep myself in a few moments.

  We both woke at about six-o’clock and he said, muzzily, “Where did you get to?”

  “Went to Belton...and The Grange.”

  “I was thinking of looking in there after dinner. So’s Bruce. Dan’s cramming Eddie and Keith into his car and they’re off to Lincoln; Dan doesn’t seem to have got himself organised with anything permanent yet. Ron’s found a couple of old mates from his erk days, and they’re going on a pub crawl.”

  “I thought I’d spend the evening at The Grange myself.”

  “Good. Let’s see what the transport situation is.”

  The mess bar was lively and the catering officer had done some expert buying, so dinner was excellent even by the high standards he, as a pre-war restaurateur, maintained. Everything augured well for an enjoyable evening. But I wondered how on earth Margaret intended to arrange for us to disappear and listen to her private radiogram.

  The answer was that she didn’t.

  There were about thirty of the squadron there, half a dozen of them in the big drawing-room; where she was playing a selection of records which subtly became less and less of the more popular sort. We heard “In The Mood” when we arrived, and presently she had gone on to Ravel’s “Bolero”, from which she progressed to La Traviata. At which point two chaps yawned and left the room. Nick went off to play bridge in the playroom. By the time Margaret had got to her first Grieg record we were on our own.

  She watched the last intruder depart, giggled, and asked, “How did you get here?”

  “In the adj’s car.”

  “Oh, Bill!”

  I wondered at the note of reproof. “What did I do wrong?”

  “I wish you’d cycled.”

  “I’ve already ridden ten miles today.”

  She went bright pink and giggled again, nervously I thought. “Are you very tired?”

  “No.” I was nonplussed.

  She came very close to me, but we didn’t touch. Very softly, she said, “Get a lift home as soon as you can. Then come back...to the gate lodge. But...Bill...do be very...careful...discreet...all right?”

  I nodded because I couldn’t speak; I thought I would choke, for my heart was in my mouth.

  “There’s a door in the wall a hundred yards down the road, in the opposite direction from the camp. It’s unlocked. Come through there and there’s a path to the back of the lodge: leave your bike in the trees behind the lodge.” She uttered a short, nervous laugh. “Don’t put a light on when you come in...the back door will be open.”

  We stood looking at each other for a moment and I knew I was trembling. Again I didn’t trust my voice.

  Of all people, the station padre was leaving as I crossed the hall, and I begged a ride in his utility van. I felt uneasy and guilty all the way to camp, sitting in the man-of-God’s van; but, thank goodness, not next to him: I had a premonition about forthcoming events that filled me with fear, excitement, longing and guilt. Longing won out by a longish chalk.

  What would Nick think? Well, I didn’t care. I wouldn’t tell him where I had been. It was only ten-o’clock when I left The Grange, and it was tacitly understood that no one stayed after midnight. I’d tell him I had gone walking in the woods, looking for owls and nocturnal animals. He knew I was quite keen on natural history and it might appear plausible. If not, I could always say I had picked up with a willing Waaf about whom I had been keeping quiet.

  I rode back to The Grange with my forage cap in my pocket, instead of my SD cap on my head, in the hope that if any cars passed me on their way to camp I might look like a civilian; although no doubt the brass on my best blue would shine if a stray ray of light from a masked headlamp touched it: but car lights were so heavily masked that I thought it little risk.

  I pedalled like hell to get back to Margaret.

  Twice I saw vehicles coming towards me and guessed that they could only be from The Grange; so I dismounted under the shadow of roadside trees until each had passed.

  Instead of feeling furtive I felt adventurous. I was a fine swashbuckling man of the world, who performed death-defying deeds in the teeth of the enemy one night and, the next, reaped the reward of his lady’s favour for his gallantry: in both meanings. Words like “sordid” and “adultery”, I rejected. Anyway, what did adultery mean if not behaving like an adult?

  I passed the gates, rounded a curve and found the wooden door in the high wall; opened and closed it without sound; wheeled my machine along a narrow path between the trees; leaned it against one near the lodge, but hidden from view.

  The back door was ajar and in the darkness Margaret was waiting for me. Her scent drifted to my nostrils as soon as I crossed the threshold.

  We said nothing. We almost ran into each other’s arms and kissed, and when at last we paused for breath she laughed shakily, “Oh...Bill...my dear...”

  My voice was just as shaky. “Margaret...you’re wonderful...I can’t really believe...”

  The back door led into a small kitchen, and that adjoined a surprisingly large room where there were a desk and cabinets, as I could discern in the thin light of the moon and stars through the windows with curtains undrawn.

  Against one wall was a couch and my fevered mind seized on the fact that it was a bit narrow, and rather high, and altogether clinical looking...hardly a lovers’ couch.

  Margaret said, speaking in a low voice, “This is my...sort of surgery. I sometimes see patients here, and I come here to swot sometimes. I had two rooms knocked into one.” We were gripping hands fiercely, fingers interlaced. She gave me a gentle tug. “Come upstairs.” She led the way up the narrow staircase, still holding my hand behind her.

  There was an aroma of linseed oil and other unfamiliar fragrances. We entered another big room.

  She paused and released my hand and we slipped our arms around each other’s waists. Her flesh was firm under her light dress and my head reeled and my masculinity became rampant, as it had been when she kissed me with such open-mouthed frantic compulsion.

  “This is my studio...I come here to paint...or try to...I’ve been struggling for years...I haven’t any illusions
about painting professionally...why be a bad painter when I can be a moderately good doctor? But it’s a marvellous escape and relaxation...like music...an escape, my darling Bill...”

  She turned and put both arms around my neck and I put both of mine about her waist and we kissed deeply and hungrily and in sheer madness.

  She forced herself free and went to the two big windows that had been specially let in and were out of keeping with the rest of the modest little building. While she pulled the heavy, black-lined curtains, I took in the two easels, the table with a neat array of painting materials, the carefully stacked canvases, the pictures on the walls which were barely discernible.

  When she had drawn the curtains and the room was in pitch blackness, Margaret whispered, “Stay there while I switch on a light.”

  A moment later a dull glow from a gold-shaded table lamp showed me that a broad divan stood at one end of the studio.

  Margaret came back to my arms, and when we had kissed again she said, “Put your clothes here,” and gestured at a small armchair. She moved into the shadows beyond the feeble range of the bedside lamp, towards another similar chair, and with the blood pounding at my temples I heard the silken rustle of her undressing.

  She had the firm figure of a girl of eighteen and her skin glowed with a golden silky sheen in the golden lamplight which complemented the honey colour of her suntan. She obviously sun-bathed in some secluded nook, perhaps on a rooftop, for there was only a small triangle of milk-white skin at her loins and the rest of her, breasts and all, were the same even shade of clover honey.

  The divan was broad and its resilient springs were silent. Under the gaily patterned rug that Margaret had impetuously flung to the carpeted floor, the sheet and pillow-case were silk; I had never lain on silk before...Margaret was silkier herself to lie on than any silken cloth.