Valors way, p.17
Valor's Way, page 17
The morning patrol was quiet and did nothing but add time in his logbook. Another hour spent flying a Hurricane. How many was it now? He was too tired to think or care. He collapsed into a deck chair and waited.
He woke with a start, heart pounding. Seeing the other pilots still sitting he calmed down.
"Sorry, John. Excuse my big feet," Swanson said.
Glancing at the sun overhead, Talbot stared at his watch. What? I've been sleeping for almost four hours. The fog was starting to recede. Seeing a sandwich in Swanson's hand, he asked, "What's for lunch?"
"Bully beef."
Talbot walked over to the cook's van, where the sandwiches were set up. The food and chai helped him feel better.
Ramsey walked out of the hut and looked around at his pilots. He walked over to Talbot, handing him a small, dark blue rectangular box hinged at one end. "I prefer to do this one in private. It's your Wound Badge."
"Thank you, sir." Talbot set his plate down and opened the box. Inside was a small shield-shaped piece of fabric, white with a single diagonal purple stripe, a round medallion hung from it. 'In the service of your country' was inscribed on it. The box also contained a small rectangular ribbon for his uniform jacket.
Ramsey looked around at the sky. "Nice day. I guess the Huns have gone on holiday."
"Package for you, Mr. Talbot." Gilmore walked over and handed him a thick envelope.
He looked to see who sent it. What could Lynette have sent me? He opened it and removed a paisley-print silk scarf and a note.
Talbot unfolded the note and read it. John, I've heard that pilots like a silk scarf around their necks to protect it from chafing. I thought you might need one. Lynette
"It does match your eyes." Swanson laughed.
Talbot smiled and put it in his pocket. "I'll wear it tomorrow with a shirt. It would look ridiculous with a roll-neck pullover."
After stand down, he found a telephone and called Lynette.
"Well—hello, stranger," she said.
"I'm really sorry. I've just been a little busy lately, if you know what I mean. I don't think I would've been able to hold an intelligent conversation anyway."
"Are you all right, Darling?"
"Yes, just tired."
"Today was quiet."
"True, I slept through most of it." He chuckled. "I do miss you, Lynette."
"I miss you, too, John. I think we need another night of dinner and dancing."
"I'm too tired to dance, right now I'd settle for fish n' chips on a park bench, as long as it was with you."
"I'll hold you to that." She laughed. "Look, I may be in your area in a day or two. We can meet then."
"Sounds good. I received your package today, it's very nice. It will definitely help my neck."
"I'm glad you like it."
Pender stood next to Talbot pointing to his watch and making a sign of drinking something.
"I really hate to say this, but I have to go. My presence is required elsewhere."
"All right. I'll see you in a few days then."
"I'm already counting the minutes. Bye." Talbot hung up the telephone and looked at Pender.
"The pub awaits."
#
"Pigeon Leader to Barnstorm Control, squadron airborne."
"Hello Pigeon Leader, vector one–two–zero. Bandits eighty-plus—angels fifteen."
It was quiet yesterday and this morning. I guess it's time to pay for it.
Reaching fifteen thousand feet, Talbot looked for signs of the enemy formation.
"Blue Three to Pigeon Leader. Bandits twelve o'clock low." Talbot said over the R/T. A large formation approached from the south.
"Pigeon Leader to flock, Red and Yellow Flight hold off the fighters, Blue go after the bombers."
Talbot picked out a Do17 on the port side of the lead element. He waited until he could clearly see the figures in the glassed cockpit. Pressing the gun-button, he watched his tracers rip into the bomber. He dove beneath the formation and built up speed before climbing back up. With Swanson still in position behind him, they attacked again from below and behind. The enemy bomber seemed to stagger as his bullets tore into the gunner's position on the bomber's underside. It rolled onto its left wingtip, falling out of formation. Talbot watched for only a moment. Just long enough to see floatfalls drop from it.
A Hurricane passed in front of him with an Me110 in its tail. A quick left bank and he lined up behind the twin-engined enemy fighter. Tracers and the bright bursts of his incendiary bullets raked the starboard wing.
Swanson fired into the fighter as Talbot banked away. With both engines trailing gray streamers of coolant, the Hun fighter disappeared into a cloudbank.
With empty guns he pushed the Hurricane's nose down and turned for Stapleford.
Smoke rose in the distance, a black curtain stretched higher and higher.
Loss
Talbot throttled back the Hurricane and slowly circled, taking in the destruction below him. Only a few buildings appeared undamaged and fires were widespread. A solitary stream of tracer groped for him then stopped as abruptly as it started. Landing was a cautious exercise on the pockmarked field. He carefully taxied over to the partially standing dispersal hut. The side with Ramsey's office lay collapsed on a crater's edge.
He unbuckled himself from the seat and climbed down to stare at his surroundings. The smoke burned his eyes and throat, and he smelled the faint odor of gas. The crackling of the flames and the sound of voices barking orders were unreal. His mind reeled from the assault on his senses, then just as quickly snapped back. The once immaculate grounds were torn up and blackened. There was no panic. Everyone went about their duties with a quiet resolve.
Swanson walked up beside him. "My God, is this what hell looks like?"
"I believe so."
"We should've been here defending our own airfield, not someone else's."
"I'm sure you're right, but I don't think now's the time to discuss it."
"Now ISN'T the time?"
"No, it isn't. There are more pressing matters at the moment."
"You're right. Like walking over to the north side of the station and boxing the ears of that bloody gunner."
"I'm sure someone has already beat you to it."
The aircraft shelters were gone. The three large buildings looked as if a giant hand squashed them flat before scrambling the pieces. The wing of a destroyed Hurricane stuck out from the wreckage making a defiant gesture.
Nearby was a line of blanket-covered bodies. Midge knelt by one of them. Talbot and Swanson hurried over.
She didn't say a word. She just stared at a blanket-covered corpse.
Swanson crouched down. "Midge, are you all right?"
"She's dead," she said softly, almost silently. The words spilled out. "She was next to me in the slit trench. A bomb went off nearby and I could hear the splinters whizz past us. She just slumped against me. I thought she was kidding around. Colleen's dead." Midge bowed her head sobbing.
Swanson stood up and pulled Midge to her feet. "Let's go find your section officer." He walked away with his arm around her shoulders.
Talbot crouched down where Midge had been and slowly pulled the blanket from Colleen's face.
"All right Colleen, now's the time to sit up and yell, 'Surprise!' and laugh at me. And then tell me how you put one over on me again, all the while giggling. But, you not going to do it are you? Not now or ever again."
Her face was the color of faded parchment. The freckled cheeks that stood out when she laughed where dull. A breeze softly moved her red hair.
"Excuse us, sir. We need to move them."
He looked up at a group of airmen holding stretchers.
"Where are you taking her—I mean, them?"
"Over by the Infirmary, sir. After that I would imagine the local mortuary, then burial," a short, dark-haired corporal answered.
"Yes—yes, of course. Carry on then." Talbot stood up. For the first time he could remember, he felt helpless. All of this was completely foreign to him. This was nothing like the funerals when he was younger. The person lying in a coffin, dressed in their Sunday best, and the flowers. This was a friend who was alive when he took-off. Someone he caught a glimpse of when he pulled away from the dispersal area.
Swanson walked up as two airmen placed Colleen on a stretcher.
"I found Midge's section officer. Are you all right, John?"
"Ask me again in a week. I'll miss her pranks. I thought this was one of them, at first." He felt an anger within that scared him. He wanted to find everyone who helped drop the bomb that killed Colleen and beat them to death with his bare hands.
They walked the short distance to the dispersal hut and found Ramsey talking to Gilmore.
"Where the hell have you two been?" Ramsey scowled at them.
"Seeing after a dead friend, sir." Anger coursed through Talbot. He wanted to scream.
Ramsey looked at each of them in turn before continuing. "We're still an operational squadron on an operational station. Help the ground crew with the Hurricanes. We may have to go up again. I'm going to find the station commander. Mr. Talbot's in charge until I return."
Ramsey walked away from the damaged building and disappeared into the organized chaos.
"How bad is it?" Talbot asked.
Gilmore adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, before replying. "They hit the gas and electrical mains. The telephones and water are still working, somehow. All the quarters and messes are gone. The aircraft shelters were also hit. The bastards did a good one on us."
"Let's find some people and get the Hurricanes taken care of, Terry."
"Oh, I did manage to save this, Mr. Talbot." Gilmore held out a letter. "When the hut was hit a lot of the mail blew away."
"Thank you." Talbot stuffed the letter into his pocket without a glance.
Talbot and Swanson searched for an undamaged bowser. Swanson drove one around and they went about the task of refilling the fuel tanks. His make-work chores from when he was grounded after being wounded were paying off. The ground crew showed up in small groups as a few other Hurricanes made their way in.
No one said a word unless it was necessary. While they waited for the tanks to fill or went about rearming the aircraft, they kept looking at the devastation surrounding them.
Fires still burned leaving an ever-present gray fog. The local Fire Brigade showed up to help. Hoses worked the few larger fires and numerous bucket brigades put out the remaining small ones.
As stand-down neared, Talbot walked to where the Officer's Quarters once stood. There was nothing left. High explosives and incendiaries reduced the building to cinders and a few charred beams. Everything I own is now on my back or in my pockets. He reached up and touched Lynette's scarf. Lucky for me I didn't want to wear a tie today.
A Salvation Army van arrived near the destroyed aircraft shelters, and the driver handed out soup and sandwiches. Talbot sat down and leaned against the shattered stump of what was once a fifty-year-old Oak. As he started to eat, he stopped, shook his head and laughed.
People stopped eating to watch him.
"Private joke, John? Or are you going to let the rest of us in on it?" asked Swanson, a concerned look on his face.
Holding up his hands in the dim evening light, he replied, "If my mum saw me eating with hands like these, she'd put a knot on my head the size of a melon."
The unanimous chuckle his comment produced eased the night's tension a little.
He was finishing the meal, when Flight Sergeant Sloane's voice cut through the evening air. "All pilots report to the dispersal hut. Repeat, all pilots to dispersal."
Talbot and Swanson made their way to the hut and stood with the three other pilots who made it in. The remainder of the squadron was scattered around the nearby airfields.
"I've been on the telephone with Group," Ramsey began, "Stapleford will be out of service for several days. At first light we're moving to Redhill in the Kenley Sector. We're relieving the squadron there. Our ground personnel will go by road. As soon as it's light enough to see tomorrow morning, I want Talbot and Swanson to mark a path for us through the craters. Sleep where you can. I want all of you to get your heads down. You've done enough for tonight. I'm sorry to say that McGill has been posted missing."
With tarps covering the damaged walls, a single oil lamp lit the interior of the dispersal hut. The chairs were now beds.
Talbot was rummaging through his pockets and pulled out the letter Gilmore gave him hours before.
"Letter from Smithfield," he said to Swanson.
"Really, let me know what he has to say."
Talbot started reading and felt the floor fall away.
"So what's the news? Any choice bits to tell me?" Swanson asked.
He felt the stinging pressure building in his eyes. He wanted to be alone. He needed a few minutes to sort through it all.
"Brian was shot down and killed over Tunbridge Wells two days ago."
"What? How?"
"Smithfield says he saw Brian on the tail of a 109 with another one following him." Talbot dropped the letter on the table and left the building.
A smoke-shrouded moon lit his path. He found his Hurricane and crawled under the wing. Leaning back against the landing strut, he gave in. The tears flowed for two lost friends and their memories. For what was and what could have been, for conversations spoken and listened to and never to take place.
A figure approached, then walked away for a short while before returning.
"Private party or can anyone join?" Swanson asked as he sat down.
"We—uh." Talbot's voice trembled. "We joined the Air Explorers on the same day. We always seemed to push each other a little bit. He was one hell of a pilot. Until we came here, I didn't know of a better one."
"I know. I have to admit I was impressed with his flying. Especially that last flight over Grangemouth."
"Friends aren't supposed to die, Terry. You're not supposed to lose two friends in one day. It's supposed to happen to the other guy."
"Outside of yourself, John—we're all the other guy."
"Philosophy according to Terry Swanson?"
"No. I just know we're going to lose more of our friends. We don't have a choice in the matter."
"I guess this is one of those times when you're actually right."
"Law of averages finally caught up with me," Swanson said, with a slight smile.
The two friends slowly walked back to the dispersal hut.
"Do you think Midge is going to be all right, John?"
"It's probably just shock from the attack. A good night's sleep and she'll be her old self in a day or two."
"Yes—a good night's sleep. That's all she needs."
The sound of snoring came from several occupied chairs in the small room. Talbot pulled a floatation vest from a wall peg and inflated it. Putting it on, he noticed Swanson looking at him.
"Don't worry, I haven't gone 'round the bend. It's a pillow so my neck doesn't hurt in the morning." Spotting a packet of Dunhills on the table, he lit one and sat in a chair.
He watched the exhaled smoke rise into the rafters before disappearing. When it was finished, he stubbed it out and fell into a dream-deprived sleep.
#
The eastern horizon was a full-fledged pink as Talbot pressed the starter button. The Merlin whined, then caught with a low roar.
The markers stood out in plain view across the shell-torn grass.
He watched Ramsey roll down the field and climb into the air. Brakes released and throttle forward. His Hurricane started rolling and built up speed. Gentle back pressure on the control column lifted C for Charlie free of the ground.
Forming up behind Ramsey, he looked at the airfield's damage in the dawn's light. Smoke rose from several still-smoldering fires, giving the impression of patchy ground fog. The rest was hidden in the blues and grays of dawn.
Will anyone who knew Colleen be at the burial or will we all be elsewhere?
The squadron headed south-southwest and passed over Londinium's East End. Numerous barrage balloons floated over areas of the city, the morning sun highlighting their fat, sausage-shaped sides. Once clear of the capital, the scenery returned to fields, narrow lanes, and small villages.
Arriving over Redhill, he inspected the squadron's new home. Except for a few buildings in different spots it looks basically the same as Stapleford.
Taxiing to a stop in the dispersal area, Talbot climbed down from his Hurricane and looked around.
A bit larger than Stapleford's brick and corrugated-metal roofed dispersal hut, this one was a dark-painted, board-and-batten wooden structure with a shingled roof. A smaller version stood nearby.
The pilots walked as a group toward the hut with Ramsey in the lead.
"So, Terry, what are you doing about the Popular?" Talbot asked.
"Midge is driving it here. She's part of the ground crew convoy."
"Midge drives?"
"Yes, now all we need to do is teach you."
"After all this is over. When we have some time."
A tall, thin, serious-looking group captain stood outside the hut's door. "Squadron Leader Ramsey? I'm Group Captain Aymes, the station commander."
Ramsey shook the offered hand. "Good to meet you, sir."
"I'll show you to your office so we can talk." Aymes looked over at Talbot and Swanson. "I see you have some Air Explorers in your squadron."
"They've been with us since the first day. I don't think of them as being different from any other pilot."
The two officers entered the hut and headed for an office at the far end of it. Talbot overheard Aymes ask Ramsey.
"I wasn't aware any of the explorers were officers?"
"He's the only one I know of, sir," Ramsey replied before closing the office door.
A short, slightly overweight aircraftman second-class greeted the pilots as they walked into the hut. "I'm Williams, I'll be answering the telephone until your people arrive. Chai's up, if any of you, gentlemen, would like a cuppa?"
