Beneath Us the Stars (8 page)

Everything was OK, but he felt on edge. Had he been
subconsciously thinking about Mary, so that things he did routinely were not kicking in? It was sloppy, and there was no room for that in this business.

The weather was perfect, visibility unlimited. Long before they crossed the Dutch coast he could see the Rhine, curving back and forth on itself like a silver serpent, until it was lost in a far-distant haze.

It didn’t seem possible that there were Germans down there, or that away to the right the Allied Armies were engaged in a fierce battle.

It all looked so peaceful.

Mary showed her pass and walked up the main drive at Bletchley Park, before turning off to her hut situated at the back. On the way over, on the train, she had started on another letter to Bill.

It had soon dawned on her that she couldn’t fill it up all the time with protestations of love, that she had to include other things. Unfortunately she was unable to tell him about her war work, and frankly the university stuff was dull to anybody outside the field. She day-dreamed once again of their time together. In Bill she had found her kindred spirit, like Emily Brontë’s Cathy had done in
Wuthering Heights
, and with it came the realization that her existence now had real meaning.

As if in answer to her prayers for something to write about, she had been delayed at Bedford. A V1 flying bomb had dropped on the signalling system somewhere. They were told there would be an hour’s delay, so she had wandered towards the town centre.

Mary reached a river bridge and leant on the stone balustrade, gazing down at the wide river which curved gently away to a beautiful arched Victorian footbridge.

The river-bank was lined with public gardens and large trees. On one side was a bijou little cinema, and next door a boating yard with punts moored in rows outside. On the other side an old Georgian Inn: the Swan. It was all so
beautiful
– so England.

The road was quiet except for the odd van and doctor’s car, and the occasional convoy of trucks servicing the many airfields in the district.

On the town side of the bridge there was a square in which stood a church with a tall spire, and the Corn Exchange, from where the broadcast of Beethoven’s Fifth had come. She noticed a poster proclaiming that Dame Myra Hess was giving one of her recitals that she had made so famous at the National Gallery.

The High Street was, as in Cambridge, full of aimlessly wandering servicemen. Eventually she got a cup of tea and bun at the Lyons teashop.

She nearly missed her train – would have had it not been for a delay caused by crowds of soldiers at the WVS
caravan
in the St John’s station yard where mugs of tea were being served.

Mary entered her hut. Her supervisor, an old civil servant who had been knighted in 1935, looked up at her from above his half-moon spectacles.

‘Good afternoon, Doctor, so glad you could join us.’

Despite the sarcasm, he was an old dear really, and
looked after ‘his girls’ with vigour, so much so that he had endeared himself to them all as – behind his back of course – ‘
Pa-pa.
’

‘I’m sorry, Sir George, there was a doodlebug – did
something
to the signalling.’

He sniffed. ‘We’ve got a lot on, and it’s nasty.’

Mary took the file he handed her, eager to play her part in the victory over the forces that had once threatened to end a way of life that had taken a 1,000 years to evolve: the same length of time as the Third Reich was supposed to last.

When they crossed the coast the flak suddenly appeared, the deadly black puffs of smoke sliding by underneath. Bill observed one of the planes from the formation below
peeling
off for home, losing altitude and smoking a little.

Everyone spread out now, weaving and dipping their wings, searching the skies above, below, in front and behind. He was doing a lot of rubbernecking – it was the best way there was of staying alive.

They still had their long-range fuel tanks, so when the leader’s voice came over the R/T, ordering them to drop them, it was like a big load rolling off his back.

The flak died away and they flew on in peace. Still being vigilant, he occasionally thought of Mary, feeling somehow that she was with him. It gave him comfort.

Over half an hour later a huge bank of haze appeared up ahead, with hundreds of white contrails leading into it, alerting them to the fact that Berlin was near. Seconds later they saw the vast bomber fleets ahead and below.

It gave him a lift to see so many planes, some olive-green, others bright silver. The great battle formation was
exhilarating
, invincible-looking. But he knew better.

Flak started murderously to assault the B17s and Liberators; he could see the bursts, hundreds of them, sprouting all around. Such was his height that to Bill it looked as though the massed formations were standing still, while the black puffs were floating through them on an invisible stream. It was a phenomenon of high-altitude flying that never failed to fascinate him.

There was a sudden flash down in the lead box, and where there had once been a Liberator – and its crew – there was just a bigger mass of smoke drifting back. The others didn’t waiver, just ploughed steadily on towards the target. Bill admired the courage, knew he couldn’t do it.

The group’s timing was, for once, perfect. On the outskirts of Berlin they took over from the penetration squadrons, as was supposed to happen.

As the bombers started their final run to the target, Bill and his wing were weaving above them. They were just drawing ahead when he saw green flares coming up from the lead Fortresses, requesting help as twenty to thirty Messerschmitt 109s prepared for a head-on attack.

The low squadron turned in to cut them off, as over the R/T a young voice yelled in panic: ‘Above – Jesus – above.’ Bill snatched his head up, saw FW 190s barreling down on them, the leading edges of their wings winking and
flashing
as they fired their cannons.

He rammed the throttle against the stop and held it there as they turned to meet them.

Several of the first 190s had too much speed for them to be intercepted, and they swept past. The next were caught in one big dogfight.

Somehow he found himself on the tail of one. He got off a deflection burst and watched the Focke-Wulf turn into his line of fire.

There were flashes and something came tumbling past that made him duck and yell out with fright. The 190 flipped over and fell away like a flaming meteor to earth.

Bill swung back – to be confronted by a head-on view of the bombers.

Screaming in terror, he slid under the huge shape of the first Fortress.

Then ship after ship, section after section, some with bombs spilling out of their open doors, flashed past. Finally, miraculously, he was clear.

Soaked in sweat, he thumbed his radio-transmitter. ‘Blue leader here, anyone around?’

The response seemed right beside him, made his
over-tense
body jump.

‘Yeah, I’m behind you.’

He slewed his ship and saw him.

Unbelievably his wingman had followed him through the entire episode. Both of them had come out without a scratch.

They caught up with the bomber stream, following the contrails and climbing up through them just as three more 190s flew head-on into the formation. At the last moment the enemy rolled on to their backs and, still firing, flashed down through the bombers. The last one left it a split
second too late. He started to roll away, but the Fortress was already on him. His wing hit the bomber in number three engine. The tangled blazing mass went tumbling down through the formation. Bill felt sick at what could so easily have been his fate.

His wingman spotted a straggler, a lone Liberator with smoke pouring from one engine. It was falling behind and losing altitude and the Krauts were buzzing around him like flies. He was dishing it out as well, all turrets twinkling and tracer flying out at the 109s.

But by the time they got there it was too late to do much.

The bomber had started into a shallow dive and two white ’chutes had blossomed out, but the tail-gunner was still in there fighting.

The tracer kept on coming until the Liberator spun into woods. There was a flash, and a tall column of black smoke.

Bill closed with one of the circling Messerschmitts, whose pilot seemed not to have noticed them: he was probably a rookie barely out of training. The Germans were getting desperate. Bill was so near when he opened fire that the 109 just blew apart, its wings whirling away in a grotesque flight of their own. His radio exploded in his ears.

‘Break left, break left.’

Bill yanked the stick over, his vision dimming with the G force.

Suddenly there was a ‘thump’ as if the plane had been kicked by a giant, and the smell of cordite filled the cockpit.

The 109 was so close behind he could see a large yellow spinner and flashes from the cannons in its nose. Almost immediately the wingman’s exultant shout rang in his
earphones. ‘I got him.’

The grey fuselage with its cross was suddenly covered in flames. It flicked over and dived down, going into a field on its back, leaving a trail of burning fuel along the ground.

Bill, soaked with sweat and urine heard himself thanking his wingman as if it was somebody else speaking. He was shaking like a leaf, glad that he couldn’t be seen. He jerked his head in all directions.

The sky was empty.

Bill checked his fuel and Ts & Ps. He was worried about the hit, but all seemed in order.

‘Come on, time to go home.’

That evening Mary went with two other girls to the pictures, queuing for ten minutes to get in.

They sat through a good ‘B’ film. When the lights came up for the interval, a crowd of young soldiers started
flirting
with them. The others played along, but Mary was just polite.

She just couldn’t stop thinking about Bill: where was he, what was he doing, above all – was he safe?

She had found relief at work, where the atmosphere was always intense, sometimes exhilarating, sometimes
soul-destroying
, always involving, though the work in different huts was never spoken about. But everyone knew it was very special.

But, once away, she’d felt miserable, so when a couple of the girls from another hut who shared her digs said they were going to the flicks she’d readily agreed.

The lights dimmed, a spotlight shone down, and out of the bowels of the orchestra-pit an organ rose; the organist, dressed in a dinner jacket, beamed and bounced on his stool as he played a vigorous fast number.

For the next ten minutes they were treated to tunes from the shows –
The Desert Song
, The Girl Friend
and others, and ending with the popular theme of the night’s feature film. Then the organ started to descend, still being played, the man still beaming and acknowledging the applause.

The spotlight shrank until only his grinning face with his glasses reflecting the light showed, with the last notes, it was extinguished and there was blackness.

The house lights came back up and the soldiers started talking to them again. One of her friends whispered in her ear: ‘I think I might be finding my own way home. Why don’t you join in, Mary? That young man there is very nice – he’s educated, you know. Something to do with radar – whatever that is.’

Should she tell them about Bill? Mary was a very private person. She was worried about what they would say, what anyone would say, and the thought of the teasing she would get – the remarks of ‘You a Yankee Basher’ was too appalling to seriously consider saying anything. Only her parents need know. She frowned. That wouldn’t be easy – not as regarded her father.

Mercifully, further thought was cut off as simultaneously the house lights dimmed and with a click the curtains started to open; the projector was already showing the crowing cockerel of the Pathé News on the still
rippling-material
, accompanied by stirring music and rousing commentary. Pictures of the Queen visiting soldiers injured in battle since D-Day followed, then an item about a dog show.

After the news came the trailer for next week. There was
a rustle of anticipation when it ended, and the house lights stayed down. It was time for the big feature.

Love Story
filled the screen, starring Margaret Lockwood, Stewart Granger, and her favourite: Patricia Roc. The
popular
theme music,
Cornish Rhapsody
swelled from the soundtrack – violins and woodwind, and a piano – not like the organ.

As soon as he’d finished debriefing Bill took a shower. Then, dressed in fresh kit, he made his way to see the
adjutant
.

When he came out of his hut it was dusk and bitterly cold, the wind coming across the airfield from the
north-east
. He pulled his collar up and held it with his fist, under his chin.

The squadron office was in darkness. Cursing, he
stumbled
over a bicycle in the gloom.

Once inside, with the blackout curtain redrawn, he released his collar and pulled it down.

The sergeant behind a desk stood up and saluted.

‘How may I help you, sir?’

Bill returned the salute.

‘My name is Anderson. I wish to see the adjutant, he’ll be expecting me.’

Something in the sergeant’s look when he heard his name made his heart sink.

‘Yes, sir. Just a moment.’

He tapped at the door behind him and put his head around the edge.

‘Lieutenant Anderson to see you, sir.’

Bill didn’t hear any reply, but the sergeant pushed the door further open and stood aside.

‘Please go in, sir.’

The adjutant’s face confirmed his suspicions.

Without saying anything the major fished a sheet of
typewritten
paper out of a folder, and with two fingers pushed it across the desk at him, turning it around as he did so.

Only then did he speak.

‘I’m sorry, Bill, the Old Man has turned down your
application
. Request for permission to marry – denied.’

To Bill, it felt as if a cold hand had suddenly squeezed his heart.

He looked up. ‘I have to see the CO. I
must
see him.’

The adjutant shook his head.

‘Pointless, and in any case impossible. In the next couple of weeks this squadron is being transferred to France, we’re joining Nineteenth Tactical Air Command to support the troops. The CO has already left – there is a lot to sort out.’

His world fell apart. Not only was he not being allowed to marry Mary, but he wouldn’t even be able to see her regularly – might never see her again.

Whether it was the exhaustion of the day or what, but he almost did a bunk, back to Mary, perhaps to the cottage, maybe somewhere else. But being AWOL? It would only be a matter of time before the MPs came a-knocking. And where would that leave Mary? Humiliated.

Devastated, he wandered out into the night. He had no conscious thought of what to do next, but the severity of the cold drove him to the officers club. Mechanically he ordered a beer. He hadn’t touched it when a guy climbed
on to a stool beside him.

‘You OK, Bill, you look pretty beat?’

He grunted, eventually managed: ‘They’ve refused me permission to marry.’

‘Who has?’

He explained what had happened.

The other first lieutenant frowned. ‘I should check it out. Go and see somebody in the judge advocate’s office at Wing HQ.’

Bill looked at him, hardly daring to have his hopes raised. ‘On what grounds?’

The man spread his hands on the bar top. ‘Hell, I’m no lawyer, but I heard of a guy at Kimbolton who had similar trouble, and he ended up marrying.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Unfortunately he bought the farm the day after he came back from his honeymoon.’

‘You say at Wing HQ?’

‘Yes. Hey, aren’t you going to finish your beer?’

But Bill was already outside the hut that housed the club and grabbing one of the many base bikes from its concrete slot. Despite the gloom he pedalled like hell in the direction of Wing, dark shapes yelling at him as he brushed past, then he was out of the main gate, wobbling around the barrier, down the road to some brick buildings on the outskirts of a village.

He threw away the machine and entered the main door, throwing a quick salute to a startled major who was just leaving.

A snowdrop and a corporal were talking by the reception desk. Both looked up in surprise as he burst in.

He returned their salutes.

‘The judge advocate’s office – is anybody there? It’s important.’

‘Just a moment, sir.’

The corporal plugged in a lead on the switchboard.

Waiting, Bill could hardly contain himself. Eventually the connection must have been made as the corporal spoke into his handset. ‘Desk here, is there anyone who can see….’

He looked up. ‘Sorry Sir – your name?’

Bill told him.

‘… a First Lieutenant Anderson, sir.’

There was a pause as the corporal listened, then he turned to Bill. ‘Major Jenner has left, sir, there is only a Lieutenant Riley. He’s new, came in from Stateside less than forty-eight hours ago, says he may not be able to help you if it’s anything to do with English civil law.’

‘It’s not, and I must see him.’

The corporal spoke briefly into the telephone, then replaced the receiver.

‘The lieutenant says go right on in, sir – room eleven.’

He strode down the corridor, checking the numbers,
feeling
almost light-headed. He gave number eleven a perfunctory knock and entered.

The man had his back to him, leaning forward, hands on a desk. When he turned, Bill saw that he had been studying a large textbook. He was bright-eyed behind his rimless glasses, tall and thin.

They shook hands. ‘Good of you to see me,’ Bill said. ‘I guess you were about to knock off?’

‘That’s OK, I was just boning up a little on local law. I gather it’s busy around here, what with poaching, to say nothing of the ladies and booze. We have a lot of liaison work to do with the courts. Now – what’s the problem?’

Bill explained. Riley listened, then held up his hand.

‘Your friend is correct – in
theory
. The CO has no right to ban you from marrying anybody – you’re an officer, it’s different for enlisted men.’

Bill’s heart leapt – then he remembered that the CO was not going to be available for days – maybe a week or two, and somehow, knowing the Old Man, he knew that there would be no changing his mind on the say-so of some junior officer – even from the judge advocate’s branch.

Glumly he explained to Riley, showed him the typed answer. The legal officer stroked his chin as he thought, then he said: ‘What you need to do, therefore, is petition a higher authority, right up through the chain of command, if necessary to the very top.’

Eagerly Bill said: ‘Can we do that? Will
you
do that?’

Riley grinned roguishly. ‘You bet. Is she worth it?’

‘
Yes
.’

‘That’s good, because it might be marked on your record, and blight your career prospects in this man’s army.’

At that they both laughed.

After four days there was still no letter from Bill. Disappointed, Mary left Bletchley for Cambridge. There was no letter at her lodgings. Unable to rest unless she was absolutely sure, she hurried across a foggy Backs and into the college and the porter’s lodge.

The porter, in his maroon waistcoat and striped
shirt-sleeves
, was coincidentally just giving a letter to somebody.

‘Good evening, Doctor Rice. Did you have a good
journey
?’

She nodded and tried to be as casual as possible. ‘Yes, thank you, Sam, and you – how is your wife?’

He grimaced. ‘This cold and dampness don’t suit her arthritis one bit.’

He grumbled on for a while, until she could wait no longer.

‘Any letters for me?’

Dobson turned to his oak pigeon-holes and came back with three. ‘There we are, Doctor. Will you be dining in tonight?’

It took all her self-control not to snatch them, and say as casually as possible, ‘Yes – yes of course.’

As she hurried away across the foggy courtyard, he shook his head and wondered aloud: ‘Who’d have thought that a serious well-bred girl like that would be so obviously besotted – and with a Yank of all people.’

Mary looked down at the letters when she was safely round the corner.

Disappointingly, two were obviously not from him – but the third
was
.

She tore it open, her eyes devouring the words. It was so short.

Mary held it to her lips, kissed it where he had marked his kisses with crosses. Tears were streaming down her face.

Tense, and on the edge of his seat, Bill had been flying in atrocious conditions for hours. A huge fog bank had descended over Northern Europe which rose up from the ground to 20,000 feet. They were supposed to be
escorting
home a large raid on Augsburg, but now the bombers were scattered all over the place, as were their fighter escorts. The Luftwaffe were fortunately in similar
trouble
.

They were ordered to turn for home.

Time seemed to pass agonizingly slowly, and his cramped tense frame and sore eyes from watching the instruments was beginning to tell on him. They flew at a few hundred feet over the North Sea, the fog seeming to get even thicker by the minute. When suddenly all forward view disappeared, Bill panicked. Seconds later his fear turned to soaring relief as he came out of the smoke clouds of a convoy that had been the cause of the sudden complete
loss of visibility. Ahead he could just make out the coast of England.

Passing inland he recognized the huge emergency
landing
-strip located between Lowestoft and Leiston. He was sorely tempted to land, but the urge to get back, to get news about his application to Wing was too much.

He set course for base, conscious of others going down to get the hell out of the murderous weather.

When he landed some half an hour later, he was one of only four in the squadron to do so. The rest, and other squadrons, had landed all over the east of England. Miraculously no one was lost, but it was to be two days before they could all be reassembled for further combat duties.

Down on the ground, Bill had to be helped from the cockpit by the crew chief and his number one. As he was unable to stand they massaged his cramped limbs as he lay on the soaking wet grass.

As soon as he could he checked with operations – there would be no flying for at least twenty-four hours, probably longer.

After waiting in turn, he called Mary’s college – the porter’s lodge – and asked for a message to be delivered to Doctor Rice.

Mary was in the senior common room, sipping a cup of tea beside the fire, when the boy from the porter’s office came in with a silver salver.

She looked up as he came towards her, her heart already beating faster even before he said: ‘Doctor Rice – telephone message.’