Sentimental Journey Read online

  One was on his tail. A Messerschmitt 109. Skip hauled back on the stick so hard he felt it in his belly. The Spit, bless her, climbed fast, and he could feel the G-force pressing his spine against the seat. His blood sped through his body like strong gin, burning at first, then making him high. Through the cockpit canopy he saw nothing ahead of him or over him but the clear blue sky.

  He turned hard to the right—God, but this sweet little fighter could turn—and headed for cloud cover.

  He burst through white cotton.

  Within seconds the sun cracked through the cover in a gold-and-yellow glow from overhead. He banked again, saw that the aileron angled down, nice and sweet and smooth, just like she should; then he was diving, down . . . down . . . diving deeply as the needle hit 400 mph, fast and at a perfect angle for attack with the sun above and behind him.

  Below and flying ahead he could see a group of bombers, Junkers, 88As with full bomb loads. They were in formation but bouncing in the air from antiaircraft guns that bellowed black bursts of flack into the sky from navy ships below. These Luftwaffe bombers would drop their bombs on his country, on ships, factories, and airfields.

  His jaw was tight, his hand gripping the stick so hard that it shook. He could see that same 109 below him, could see the black crosses on the wings, and watched the pilot’s head turning this way and that, looking for him.

  “Up here! In your blind spot and heading straight for your Nazi tail!”

  He pressed his thumb down on the gun trigger. Tracers shot through the air between the two planes in streaks of smoking light. He could feel the bullets fire, could feel the static vibrations of rapid repeating shots.

  The 109 pilot turned to escape.

  Skip turned with him, even tighter, came in from starboard, and let loose another long burst of fire. The 109 began to waltz from side to side, trying to evade a fixed sight. Skip caught the same rhythm, still firing and coming at the other plane so fast he could see the rivets on the hull.

  A second later the 109 pulled up.

  He followed it, climbing right with him. Don’t stall, don’t stall . . . He was on the 109, firing, his thumb never leaving the button until he saw the tail stream with smoke.

  “Got ’im!” Skip banked away, came back around, and saw the German pilot bail before the plane began to spiral in a smoky trail down towards the Channel, which was misty grey with smoke and haze from the battle in air and sea.

  Clean and done. His first hit. He backed off the throttle and slowed her down. He was panting hard, as if he’d run for miles. He took a couple of long breaths and leaned to his port side. He spotted the German’s parachute mushrooming beneath him; then he dove and flew past the lad, giving him a cocky wave as the German flyer floated down, where someone would pick him up from the Channel waters.

  Skip sent the Spit up to full speed and headed for the rear bomber.

  He could see the Junkers ahead, but he needed to come in on them from behind and from high up to blind the German gunner in the rear cockpit.

  He shot up, then turned, his belly rolling with the motion of the fighter. Two minutes, maybe three and he levelled out, then eased the throttle to reduce closing speed. Two miles ahead. Collision course.

  Get a bead on them . . .

  Not yet . . .

  Not yet . . .

  Tracers whipped past the cockpit.

  Skip jerked his head around, then swore.

  Two bandits were coming at him.

  He made a hard turn, tighter than both of them, then dove, because he knew he couldn’t outclimb them. He held on to the dive.

  From the corner of his eye he saw another Spit go after one of the bandits.

  Hemmings.

  There was still one on his own tail; he turned again and slid under the other plane so closely, for an instant he thought he’d had it. He came back around from behind at the 109, but missed getting a sight when the German looped back the way Skip had and tried to get onto his tail again. The same maneuver.

  They kept it up, one trying to outfly the other, turning, diving, climbing, and weaving.

  This flyer is good.

  Skip tried every trick, every turn. He came out of a cloud and saw the German bombers just ahead. He dove towards them, keeping with the dive until he got his bead, closer, closer . . . He fired.

  Streams of ammo spit towards the bombers. He flew between them, right through their formation—an evasive maneuver so fine he was grinning. The JU gunners pivoted their machine guns around, but too late. All they could do was pelt his wings with bullets. The 109 pulled off his bum. The German had to or he’d shoot his own planes.

  The Spit was faster in a dive. Skip pushed the stick downwards, then levelled and flew beneath them, out of gunner range. He took a few deep breaths. Sweat poured off his head and down his face. He turned and shot up through them in a fast climb, looped, and came back close, firing on the last bomber, closer and closer, never taking his thumb from the trigger, almost trancelike, until he was so close to the Junkers he could see the gunner’s face staring at him through his sight as they both fired.

  Skip was on him. He had him! He had him . . .

  Flames and smoke burst from the bomber. Skip pushed the stick forward. The Spit shot downward in a steep dive. Dust and muck flew up from the cockpit floor. His head cracked up into the canopy with a thud, and his stomach jumped into his throat under the force of negative G.

  Then he levelled off again, slowly. His belly was still somewhere near his throat; his heart pounded against his chest.

  Below him, the crew of the JU 88 was bailing out.

  Where was the bandit?

  Skip looked about him.

  Nothing.

  The next thing he knew the 109 shot up from beneath his line of vision, levelled off. For just one brief instant the two pilots looked at each other. Then the German looped up and back and began to fire on him.

  Skip turned.

  The 109 turned.

  Skip dove.

  The German stayed with him.

  He took a hit in the tail and swore, felt the control stick loosen.

  Don’t let him get me . . . God, don’t let him get me.

  By sheer instinct he let off the throttle, an evasive maneuver that rapidly slowed the Spit down.

  The Messerschmitt shot past him. Too late.

  Skip fired.

  Smoke burst from the tail of the 109, and the plane rocked. He could see the pilot trying to get the canopy open.

  “Jump, man, jump!”

  Skip realised then that the canopy wouldn’t open. In a moment that hung there like a year, he saw the pilot—not as an inanimate object he only viewed through his sight—but a man just like himself. The pilot pressed his hands to the glass that trapped him.

  When you’ve fired the shot that kills, there isn’t a bloody damn thing you can do to change it.

  He looked at Skip.

  A second later flames engulfed the cockpit.

  He watched in sick horror as the plane spun out of control; it smoked with fire, then twisted downwards, burning one last streak of grey life into the sky.

  The plane crashed into the water and disappeared.

  He sat frozen in the seat. Bile rose to his throat. He started to gag, then coughed and forced it back down.

  He’d killed a man.

  Until that very moment the whole battle had been like some sport—rugby at the Academy. They had talked a good game of war, of flying, of shooting, of showing the Germans who was better.

  The truth was, in war, you killed people. He killed people.

  In that minute of morality, he questioned what he was. Somehow shooting at the planes had been acceptable when the enemy had parachuted out.

  But the best pilot of the lot hadn’t bailed. He was dead.

  Skip’s squadron leader came on his wing, looked over, and gave him a thumbs-up, then signalled him back to base. He nodded but felt numb and concentrated on flying the plane. After a moment he g
lanced around, cold to the point of shivering, his hands and knees shaking as he looked left, then right, then overhead, watching for some enemy to dart out from behind him and shoot him down. Death was no longer just a five-letter word.

  He felt an insanely panicked need to get back to the base. He was scared. He looked about him. There was nothing but his own squadron there in a loose formation behind their leader. He hadn’t even realised that the Germans had turned back.

  He returned to base, flying on nothing but instinct. He could see some of the others, perhaps a dozen with him, and watched them landing before him, one after another like black insects lighting on the grass field below. Then it was his turn, he made for the green grass. His wheels hit the ground. Dust and grass flew up as he slowed, then taxied in. He hit the brakes too hard and the nose dipped but tilted back when he let off.

  The ground crews ran out of the hangars like swarming ants to meet the incoming No. 77 Squadron.

  Goggles up. He tore at the seat buckle. He couldn’t get out of that plane fast enough.

  He threw back the canopy before a crewman could get to him, jumped onto the wing, and down to the ground, where he stumbled on rubber knees and hollow legs. He knelt there in the grass, seeing nothing but that flyer on fire—an image so real he could almost smell it.

  Then he vomited his belly dry.

  “I’M GONNA SIT RIGHT DOWN AND WRITE MYSELF A LETTER”

  Wellingham Airfield, Essex

  25 July, 1940

  My dearest Greer,

  It seems as if I have not seen you for years. I miss you every hour of every day. Has it been barely three weeks since I left? I do receive your letters. Although you write them every day, mostly I receive them in bundles. The Post is having as much trouble as we are getting information through with everything happening—the air raids, bombings, and the Channel battles.

  As I told you when I rang you up the other day, Goering’s Luftwaffe is certainly keeping us busy. We have as many as six sorties a day, remember those are missions not night parties as you thought when I first used the word. I am smiling, my love, at the memory of that. You delight me.

  Things have been heating up here since the first week. No one can call this a phony war any longer. The war is real now.

  I hope that what you say is true, and that you are well most of the time despite your morning illnesses. And yes, I like the name Phillip. Regardingmy mother and her opinion on the baby’s name, I don’t care if Uncle Archie is earl and my mother’s favorite cousin, put Archibald off the list. As a note, in the future, do not listen to my mother, dear.

  Your loving husband,

  Skip

  * * *

  27 Berkeley Court, London

  7 August, 1940

  My dear Skip,

  Your mother found your last letter sitting open on my desk. She is not pleased with you. Watch for a letter from her. It might have smoke trailing from it. She felt quite hard done by it. So, my love, on your behalf I pretended to faint. It was rather well done of me, I must say. I wobbled slightly, braced myself on the end table—the one with the charming French legs?—pulled out my lace handkerchief and lifted it to my mouth.

  Since I do this every morning at the first sight of food, it is a gesture with which your dear mother is vastly familiar. With a suitably weak moan, I pressed the back of my hand to my brow and sank divinely into that lovely chintz-covered chaise in our bedroom. Your mother has not since brought up the name Archibald.

  We are going to Knightsbridge this afternoon to work with the Red Cross. Last week we handed out sewing kits, cartons of cigarettes, hot tea, and fresh biscuits to the boys of the infantry who were off to man the batteries on the south coast. Some of them looked so young, as if they ought to still play with tin soldiers instead of being one. One boy named Johnny was a charmer. I could not imagine him firing a huge antiaircraft gun. I am twenty-two and yet I felt like his mother.

  Perhaps that is because motherhood is so very much on my mind. I must end this all too soon. With every breath I take I miss you, my darling. Keep safe and come home to us.

  Until I am in your arms,

  Greer

  P.S. I have put the eggs in the icebox to save them for your return. I ate the tomatoes. Did you know your mother snores?

  * * *

  Wellingham Airfield, Essex

  10 August, 1940

  Greer, my love,

  These days somehow get away from me. No telephone calls allowed. We have been up three times today and had two rousing air battles. It is barely noon. I’m holding up on strong tea and a bit of cherry cake brought us by the ladies of the village of Brookings.

  If you think Mother snores, my dearest, you should be here. We sleep in snatches, an hour or two here and there, in the dispersal hut on an iron cot or in a folding chair waiting for the call to scramble. Some lads sleep so loudly that if you weren’t so tired yourself you’d think to smother them. One chap walked over and had a wickedly long conversation with the flight lieutenant. No one realised he was sleepwalking until he called lieutenant “Mum.”

  I received my mother’s letter—hallo, Mother—and she claims that you are pale. She blames me for not marrying you before “that horrid little man Hitler became such a world nuisance.” Had I married you sooner, she reasoned, you would have had a child or two by now and been used to the rigors of motherhood. I have written to her. Perhaps she will share the letter with you, love. It should make you smile.

  She also tells me that you lost your ration book on the way to the Red Cross station in Knightsbridge. Fortunately, she does not blame me for that. Enclosed is my ration book, which I had meant to leave behind. Use it, dearest. We do not want for much here.

  I carry your picture in the pocket of my jumpsuit for luck. It is the one with you standing in the barge on the Thames. Remember? I bought you violets. I wish there were violets nearby so I could pick one and put it under my pillow and feel closer to you. Until then I have your photograph as close to my heart as I can.

  I love you,

  Skip

  * * *

  27 Berkeley Court, London

  14 August, 1940

  My darling husband,

  I wish I could feel your arms about me. Your mother is good company, but every time I look at her I see your wonderful blue eyes in her face and I want to cry because I miss you so terribly. We rolled bandages this week at the Red Cross station. Oh, my darling, but that was so difficult, sitting there knowing those bandages could be used on you. I worry that you are not sleeping enough to fight well. Can they not relieve your squadron soon?

  I came into the library one afternoon and found your mother sitting at your desk, holding our wedding photograph and crying. She is frightened, too, my darling. We held each other—we do that so often now—and pray for you, for everyone, for the country. She told me that when she traveled to town, there were wire towers situated on the outskirts of small towns and people had driven their automobiles into fields and parked them in lines so invasion planes could not land.

  The BBC predicts the fighting will only get worse. In the last few days they have put up barrage balloons in the parks and squares all through town.

  I must take this to the Post. I love your letters, my dearest darling man. They are my strength. I have enclosed a small gift for you. Put it under your pillow and think of me. I have taken to sleeping in your shirt.

  You are in my dreams,

  Your loving wife

  * * *

  Wellingham Airfield, Essex

  23 August, 1940

  Dearest Wife,

  Firstly I must thank you for the dried violets. I had not known that you pressed them in your journal. You may trust that they are quite happy in their new home beneath my pillow. Sleep in any item of my clothing, but make certain you write to me about it in great detail. The image of you in nothing but my shirt was certainly a welcome one.

  We had heard from HQ that the target date for a German invasion w
as 15 August. But the day has come and gone. I suspect the BBC, as they did before the war, is trying its best to provide information to the people in the hope that they will save lives.

  All the squadrons from Fighter Command have had much success of late. We are holding our own against wave after wave of attacks. New aeroplanes are coming every week, thanks to Lord Beaverbrook’s efforts. Remember the day when you gathered our aluminum cookware and took it to the salvage trucks for the war effort? The Spitfire I am flying could be made from our very own pots and pans.

  Now, please read this carefully, my dearest one. You asked if it was not dangerous for us, so many missions per day, every single day. A fighter pilot would never fall asleep in the cockpit. You can be so fagged you feel as if you cannot bear to stand. Then the call comes and you’re out the door, fastening gear as you run for the plane. There is no time to think. No time to be tired. There is little time for anything but doing your job.

  I cannot tell you when we’ll be relieved. But the moment we are, I shall come straight to you, love. You owe me a cheese omelet in lieu of my fine cigars. I love you, Greer.

  Until then, yours forever,

  Skip

  * * *

  27 Berkeley Court, London

  8 September, 1940

  My darling husband,

  They bombed London yesterday. It seemed to go on forever. By evening the sky towards the east was nothing but a glow from the fires at the docks and warehouses there. You are not to worry because we went down to the room in the cellar. All was fine. The small wireless you settled down there works wonderfully, and the candles lit the place rather well. Rest assured that we did not come up until the sirens sounded the all clear. I think that now that both your mother and I have been through a bombing raid we are less frightened than before.

  This morning Mrs. Lindsay came by to bring your mother an invitation to a luncheon for the war fund, and she said they were in a shelter near St Paul’s last evening and the incendiaries were raining down as if it were the end of the world.

  Your mother is very put out by this whole incident. When we were in the cellar room, all bundled up, sipping tea and listening to the bombs whistle, then explode, she declared, quite indignantly, that she will never again see another Marlene Dietrich film.