Valors way, p.13
Valor's Way, page 13
"I just watched one pilot die. I didn’t think we wanted to lose another one," Talbot snapped.
"I'm sorry. I had to ask."
Talbot got up from the table, walked outside and finished the mug.
#
The rest of the day was quiet. Swanson returned close to stand-down.
"Well, I'm back. Did you keep dinner warm for me?"
"Have a nice swim?" Talbot asked.
"I think you said it best, there's no such thing as a nice swim in the Estuary. I was lining up a shot on a 109, when one of the bastards came up from behind and put one in my engine. I dog-paddled around for almost two hours, and then the launch that picked me up had its engine pack up. It was towed to Harwich. Where is everyone?"
"Miller’s leg was shot up, but he made it into Rochford. McClain is missing, and Brice's gone for a Burton."
Swanson fell back into a chair. "My God, we got the crap kicked out of us today. How did you do?"
"Three 109s. And you?"
"A 110 damaged or a probable—I’m not sure. I’ll let Intelligence tell me."
"He also talked Miller through the trip back to Rochford and helped him land," Redding added from his chair nearby.
"Damn John, that’s ten now and maybe a medal to boot. Shame about Brice, he was a good bloke. I saw McClain going after a 109, then I lost sight of him. I have to go see Intelligence and then get cleaned up. I don’t think there’s anything worse than wet knickers," Swanson said, getting up and walking into the hut.
"Not being alive to know they're wet," Talbot said softly to himself.
Rewards and replacements
Tradition and routine. Routine and tradition. Since the war began, it was a tradition for the squadron to fly a routine dawn patrol several times a week. Radar was good, but not perfect or infallible. It was still possible to fly across Albion's wide moat under the electronic detection beams.
It was a time to leave the ground and watch the sun change from red to yellow as the horizon released it. Of listening to the Merlin's steady, reassuring drone, the hiss of static in the earpieces, and the taste of the oxygen mask.
A quiet morning ended when the squadron was scrambled to intercept a raid in the Estuary, only to be recalled shortly after crossing the coast.
The pilots went back to their chairs, newspapers, magazines, and naps.
Ramsey returned to his office and paperwork. Fifteen minutes later, Corporal Gilmore stuck his head in the doorway. "Air Vice-Marshall Kemp is on the telephone for you, sir."
Ramsey picked up the handset and leaned back in his chair. "Good morning Air Vice-Marshal, Squadron Leader Ramsey here."
"Good morning, Oliver. How are you doing today?"
"Well, sir, I’m short four pilots. There are only eight of us left. Plus we've just returned from a wild goose chase. Other than that, we’re holding our own."
"You should be getting some replacement pilots today. I wish there was a way to avoid the recalled scrambles, but at the moment there isn’t."
"We were never at our full compliment before the war, sir. Will we be brought up to full strength?"
"I'm sorry, Oliver, we're sending what pilots we can."
"I understand, sir." Ramsey's voice remained calm as he threw his hat across the room.
"Oliver, the reason I've called is the request from you that I have in front of me."
"Sergeant Talbot, sir?"
"Yes. You believe he's ready for promotion?"
"Yes, I do, sir. He's already shown leadership abilities. He’s leading the squadron with ten confirmed kills, and with what he did for Pilot Officer Miller, he deserves it. I’ve also put him in for a Distinguished Flying Medal."
"How about one or the other?"
"He deserves both, sir."
"Hmmm—all right, I'm approving his promotion as of now. We've known each other for quite a few years and I trust your judgment. I don’t see a problem with the DFM either, but let me see the paperwork first. If anyone at the Air Ministry complains about the promotion, I’ll handle it. Don’t be surprised if reporters show up. I believe I’ve just created the youngest officer in Flying Corps history. Well, I need to go. It was good talking to you, Oliver. Now go tell Mr. Talbot the good news."
Ramsey smiled as he put down the handset and called Redding into his office.
The sun was warm, almost hot, on Talbot's back as he played draughts with Swanson.
"Squadron Leader Ramsey wants to see you, Sergeant Talbot," Gilmore said.
"They’re on to you now, John. They’ve found out you’ve been bribing the Huns to pretend to be shot down," Swanson said, as he jumped one of Talbot's pieces.
"You’re just jealous I thought of it first," Talbot shot back as he got up and walked into the hut. Now what? Did Colleen file a complaint about me? It was just a stupid kiss. If anything, she assaulted me. Bugger, are they charging me with desertion for leaving the convoy to help Miller? It can't be that. I haven't seen any military police.
Redding closed the door and Ramsey motioned for him to sit down.
Ramsey leaned forward in his chair. "First off, you’re not in any trouble, so you can take that worried look off your face. I spent quite a bit of time on the telephone yesterday with some people you made an impression on. There was the station commander and a warrant officer at Rochford. I was told by the surgeon who operated on Bob Miller that Bob refused to be put under until he told everyone what you did. Sector Control heard every word between you and Bob as well. The duty controller said everyone in the plotting room talked in hushed tones as they listened. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He also said several of the WAAF plotters were in tears. They all telephoned me about what transpired. You’ve been mentioned in Despatches for what you did yesterday and I’ve put you in for a DFM.
"Also, as of a few minutes ago, you're now Pilot Officer John Talbot. Congratulations, John."
Talbot shook Ramsey's and Redding’s hand as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. This is a dream. I've fallen asleep in a chair and I'm dreaming all this. All I did was my duty.
"Air Vice-Marshall Kemp verbally approved your promotion. I’ll call administration to inform them. Now let’s spread the good news."
"Sir, all I did was my duty," Talbot said, still confused.
"True, but it was how you did it. In the Flying Corps, when someone does what you did, they receive a gong or a promotion," Ramsey explained.
"You're getting both," Redding added, "You're also moving to the number three spot and getting a wingman."
"Sir—I have a request?"
"All right, what is it, Mr. Talbot?" Ramsey asked with a smile.
"Could I have Sergeant Swanson as my number two? That is, if it's all right with Flight Lieutenant Redding and yourself?"
Redding nodded his agreement.
"Swanson's now your headache, John. We're supposed to have some new pilots arriving today, so I'll be moving people around," Ramsey said.
The three of them walked outside and Ramsey announced, "Everyone listen up. I have some news. As of now, our young mister Talbot is a pilot officer. And I must say that it's well deserved."
Everyone crowded around to congratulate him.
"I suppose you’re going to make me call you ‘Sir’ now?" Swanson asked, with a wide grin.
"Of course—absolutely. You're also being moved to Blue Flight as my number two. Sometime today, I believe."
"Thanks, John. Now hopefully I won’t be so scared of messing up. Flying as the squadron leader's number two was playing hell with my nerves."
"You think I’ll be any easier?" Talbot chuckled.
"You best go and take care of the paperwork and uniform stores," Redding said. "You really deserved this promotion, John. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Ian. That means a lot."
Talbot walked over to the administration building, all the while expecting to wake from a dream. I'm only seventeen and I'm now an officer. It's the fifth day of eighth month, a few days over a month since the Huns attacked. This must be a dream.
A small mound of paperwork awaited, and he soon lost count of how many times he signed his name.
The short, tired-looking clerk placed a small stack of items on the counter. "Here you go, Mr. Talbot. You'll need to sign for these, of course. New paybook, Identity card, and ration book. I'll need your old ones back. You'll need to read up on the King's Regs where it pertains to officers. If you don't have a copy, let me know, and I'll get you one. The next thing is for you to go to uniform stores. May I be one of the many to say congratulations, sir? One other thing, you'll need to see Flight Lieutenant Mayfield to receive your new billet."
Uniform stores was a squat brick building, not small, but not large, either. The interior consisted of row after row of freestanding shelves. Each one made up of numerous smaller sections for the different sizes of clothing, a man-made honeycomb smelling of mothballs. In front of all this, a waist-high counter ran the width of the building.
Behind the counter, standing like a king before his realm, was the station quartermaster. Broad-shouldered and thick-necked, he played on the station's Rugby team.
Talbot had dealt with him before and was not looking forward to a repeat. Replacing his uniform after he was shot down ranked as one of his life's least pleasant episodes.
"And what can I do for you, Sergeant?" the quartermaster asked condescendingly.
"I need to pick up some items. I've been promoted to pilot officer."
"Now you just let me see the paperwork, sir, and I'll try not to get the magic pixie dust on me," the quartermaster said, winking to his underlings. As he read the order, his face changed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Talbot. I was just havin' a bit o' fun. We'll have your items straight away.
"Nobbie, don't just stand there! I need an officer's kit! Might I add congratulations on the promotion, sir?" A small pile of his new items soon appeared in front of him; the Flying Corps uniform was basically identical between officers and enlisted ranks.
"If you'll give me your jacket, sir. We'll remove the stripes and put the rings on the cuffs," the quartermaster said.
Talbot signed his name a few more times to paperwork, before his jacket was returned.
When the sergeant handed it back, Talbot stared at it for a moment before putting it on. On each cuff were the two thin rings of black lace separated by a quarter-inch wide pale-blue ring.
"Just bring over your other jacket and we'll take care of it also, sir," the quartermaster offered.
"Thank you, sergeant." Talbot placed his new officer's peaked hat on his head, gathered his items, and left.
This is all a dream—that's all, just a dream. I'll wake up any minute now back home in Farnham. Except this couldn't be a dream. A bloody nightmare is more likely.
He dropped the items on his bed in the Sergeant's Quarters and was about to leave, when he remembered something. The common room was empty as he picked up the telephone handset.
"Uxbridge, please." After a minute, he heard the requested operator. "Air Intelligence Section, please. Section Officer Lynette Seymour." Again, the wait went on forever before he heard another voice.
"Air Intelligence Section. Leading Aircraftwoman Green speaking."
"Pilot Officer John Talbot for Section Officer Lynette Seymour, please."
"Just a minute, please."
It seemed like an hour. Please let me have read her signals right. Don't make me look like a complete fool. What if she already has a boyfriend? What if she's married and was just having a bit of fun with me? Why didn't you look at her left hand, you blithering idiot? What if she laughs and hangs up? Why did I even call?
"Hello? Is this Pilot Officer John Talbot? I’m afraid I'm only acquainted with a Sergeant John Talbot."
He could see her smile through the telephone line.
"It’s the same John Talbot, Section Officer Seymour. I’ve been promoted."
"Well, congratulations. I see you remembered to call me.”
"Yes. You did ask me to ring you up when I became an officer. So would it be presumptuous of me if I asked you to dinner sometime?"
"Dinner sounds just fine. I'd like that very much. We could meet in Londinium."
"I’ll ring you up when I can give you a date and time, if that’s all right."
"That will be fine. I’m in the WAAC Officer's Quarters, room forty-three."
"I’m not sure what my room number is. I haven’t received my new billet yet."
"I see you didn't wait long to call me." She laughed. "Well, I’ll be talking to you soon then. Sorry, but I have to go."
"I understand. Bye, Lynette."
"Good-bye, John."
#
Later that day, new Pilot Officer John Talbot climbed down from the wing and looked around at the other Hurricanes. The propellers had barely stopped turning when the bowsers pulled up to refill the fuel tanks. He turned and looked at the figure leaning into the cockpit.
"Thomas. Didn't I ask you to keep calling me John?"
"Sorry, Mr. Talbot, but I can't do that anymore."
"All right, whichever you prefer." And that's the first thing I dislike about being an officer. A wall's just been erected between other people and me.
"Nothing like a boring, uneventful patrol is there, sir?" Swanson asked as he approached.
"It's John, not sir," he shot back.
"All right." Swanson raised a hand and took a step back. "May I ask a question?"
"No jokes—a serious one."
Swanson motioned him over by the Hurricane's tail, then looked around for anyone within hearing. "Yes, it is serious. Since we won't have a room together anymore, I need to ask you something."
Swanson looked around once more. "When you bailed out—were you scared?"
"I was too busy worrying about getting out of the cockpit and not killing myself doing it. Why?"
"After that."
"Yes. What's this all about, Terry?"
"I need to know if what I felt was normal—or if it makes me a coward."
"Who wouldn't be scared jumping from a dead kite a few thousand feet up?"
"I've never been so scared in my life. And floating in the water for a couple of hours didn't help matters either."
"You're not a coward, Terry. Don't even think about yourself like that. Did you have any problems taking off for patrol, knowing you could be in a furball and shot down again?"
Swanson shook his head.
"Do you want to talk to the vicar?"
"No—you've answered my question. I was just wondering, that's all."
"I was just wondering? You can't lie worth a damn, Terry. C'mon, I need some chai."
The pilots returned to the various chairs outside the hut and waited for the next inevitable telephone call.
Talbot sipped at the hot liquid and wrote a short letter to his parents telling them the good news. He also thought about finally spending time with Lynette.
Voices caused him to look up from his writing. Flight Lieutenant Mayfield approached with a flying officer and a navy sub-lieutenant. Everyone's attention was focused on the naval officer, as the three entered the dispersal hut.
After a short time, Ramsey emerged with the other three. "We have two replacements, Flying Officer Alan Dale from Air Transport Command and Sub-Lieutenant Geoffrey Pender, formerly of HMS Ark Royal."
My God, even the navy's being scoured for pilots to ease the shortage.
"Isn't this a bit out of the way for you, sub? All this dry land and no salt-water anywhere about," asked Yellow Flight Leader, Ivor Hammond.
"No, not really. I thought I'd try my hand at landing on a stationary runway for once."
Even Talbot found himself chuckling at the small joke. He took the opportunity to study Pender. Roughly the same height and build as himself. Light brown hair topped an oval face that carried an easy-going smile.
Dale struck him as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn't put a finger on it, but something about the older-looking pilot struck him as not belonging in a fighter. Nothing in his appearance gave it away, his looks were what one would call normal. Yet something stood out as not being right. After a minute it dawned on him—the eyes. Instead of bright and alert, they looked tired and dull.
The new arrivals left with Mayfield to continue their tour.
#
Talbot found dinner in the Officer’s Mess quite different from the Sergeant's Mess. There were no long tables or benches. The dining room was furnished with four-person tables, each one covered by a linen tablecloth. A Mess Attendant brought the meal. One thing, however, remained the same between Messes, the quality of the cooking.
After dinner, he moved into the Officer's Quarters. Pender greeted him as he entered the room.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name this afternoon. I'm Geoffrey Pender."
"John Talbot." He dropped his kit on the available bed, then shook the offered hand. His new room was not much different than the last one, except for being larger and the furnishings were of higher quality.
"How long have you been with the squadron?" Pender asked.
"Just about a month now."
"You must receive a lot of ribbing about how young you look. I don’t mean to be rude, but you don't look a day over eighteen."
"Actually, I’m seventeen. I was an Air Explorer and volunteered. And how—"
Redding took that moment to arrive at their door. "No more talking. Grab your hats and let's be off. We have two new arrivals and a promotion to celebrate."
The entire group of pilots descended on the squadron's usual pub. The small, comfortable room looked the same as every other serving room. The same oak beams and whitewashed plaster walls as other pubs in Albion. The only difference being the memories and lives of the patrons that soaked into the room. Soon, those walls were filled with countless voices and a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The owner handed Talbot his usual pint. "This one's on the house, John. Congratulations on the promotion. You'll be needing a stick to beat away all the young ladies now. Good looking and an officer to boot."
Talbot thanked him for his hospitality.
