Bluebirds (34 page)

‘I've heard some of the RAF pilots talk about them –'

‘The RAF!' Kit said bitterly. ‘We never even
saw
the bloody RAF.'

‘They must have been there, Kit. They were sent over. They were there all right.'

‘Well, I did see a couple of Spitfires –
once
, at Dunkirk, but they were buggering off fast in the direction of home. The Huns had a pretty free field to paste us when they felt like it. Still, I don't blame your chaps. Jolly sensible of them to keep out of it all, really.'

‘They
didn
't keep out of it. They were there.'

‘The Invisible Men!'

‘That's not fair, Kit. They couldn't stay long because of the fuel . . .'

‘Well, don't let's argue about it. It doesn't matter much anyway. We'd more or less had it, with or without them. What the hell's that!'

Kit had swung round sharply towards the end of the terrace.

‘It's only Barley.'

The spaniel padded towards them and lay down at Kit's feet.

‘Sorry, I get pretty jumpy still.'

‘Go on with what you were telling me.'

He drew a long breath. ‘We managed to break out of
the wood at night, under cover of darkness – those of us that were still left alive, that is. We went in small groups. Villiers was with me and about ten of the men. We went along the bed of a stream and got away somehow. After that we kept heading north towards the coast, hiding in ditches and barns, and so on. We hadn't any rations left and the French wouldn't help. Before they'd been giving us wine and throwing flowers, now they wouldn't give us anything – not even water. You'd go through some village and they'd stand in the doorways and spit on you . . . Couldn't blame them either. I felt ashamed we were leaving them to face the Huns.'

‘It was their country, after all.'

‘I know, but I felt rotten about it. Anyway, we came to this farm. It was miles from anywhere. A filthy sort of place with tumbledown buildings and a yard full of muck. Flies everywhere. There were some loose animals about – pigs and chickens, and so forth, but nobody looking after them. It was deserted. Whoever lived there must have gone off in a hell of a rush. They'd left the door open and everything had been left just as it was. There was a loaf of bread on the table, I remember – half eaten. And a black cat wandering about. It kept following me and rubbing itself against my legs.

‘At first we thought it might be a trap so we were bloody careful, but it turned out to be OK. Some French farmer had just vamoosed. We were in clover, really. Killed a couple of chickens and cooked them over a fire – we gave some to the cat and it purred like anything. It was our first decent meal for ages – its, too, I suppose – and there was even some wine in the cellar, Pretty rough, home-made stuff, but it tasted like nectar to us.' Kit lit another cigarette. ‘We knew the Germans couldn't be far off but we decided to stay there a few hours and rest up . . . get some kip. Two of the men had been wounded and were in pretty poor shape, and the rest of us were so damned tired that I don't think we could have gone a step further.'

Kit stopped. There was a long silence.

‘What happened then?'

His voice was strained. ‘We arranged watches, of course. There was an attic in the roof of the farmhouse. You had to dimb up through a trap door in the ceiling to get to it, but it had a couple of small windows – one on each side, so there was a fairly good view of the surrounding country. And there was a bright moon so you could see quite clearly. Villiers and one of the others took the first watch and then Corporal Watson and I took over near dawn, while the rest of them kipped down in the cellar.

‘We never even saw the Huns 'til they'd surrounded us. Christ knows how they managed it – they must have come up under cover of the trees. I suppose I might have dropped off, though I'd swear I didn't. The first thing I knew was that they'd burst into the house downstairs and caught the others asleep in the cellar. Watson and I could hear them shouting and stamping about. They came upstairs, of course, but they didn't come up into the attic. Maybe they didn't notice the trap door – it was in a dark corner. There – there was silence for a bit and we waited . . . I didn't know what the hell to do next. Then they marched our chaps out into the yard. It was below one of the attic windows so we had a grandstand view, you might say. We could see it all. The Huns were an SS division.'

Kit had turned his head away. His voice was low and she kept very still.

‘They ordered them to stand against the wall and then they shot them – machine-gunned them down and then finished them off with pistols and bayonets.'

Anne put her hand over her mouth. ‘My God, Kit . . . how horrible!'

‘I'll never get it out of my mind.'

‘But it wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself for what the Germans did.'

‘Of course it was my fault! Don't you see? I should have
spotted the Huns in the first place. I was on watch. I could have warned them. And I could have opened fire when they were in the yard – killed some of the SS, given our lot a chance . . . But I didn't. And I ordered Watson to hold his fire. I was afraid, you see. Afraid we'd be shot, too, if they discovered that we were there. I was a bloody coward.'

‘But Kit, what could you have done? Two of you against them all?'

‘I've thought about it a thousand times. Been over and over it in my mind. We could have got some of the Huns from where we were. Taken them by surprise. There would have been confusion and some of our chaps might have been able to get away. At least they wouldn't have been shot in cold blood without us lifting a finger to try and save them. All I thought about was saving my own skin and I'll never forgive myself for that.'

She felt a cold horror. It was far worse than anything she had imagined. For a moment she did not know what to say.

‘When you're better and stronger, Kit, you'll see things differently. You'll realize that you couldn't really have done anything to help them. What would be the point of getting yourself killed? And Watson too?'

‘What I see,' he said sadly, ‘is Villiers and those men lying in that stinking farmyard . . . And what I know is that I should have done something. The Germans moved off soon after and Watson and I went down. Our chaps were all dead. Except for Villiers. He was lying in a corner against the wall. They'd shot him in the chest and someone had stuck a bayonet in him but he was just alive. I don't know how. And conscious. I got down and held him and said his name . . . Do you know, twin, he opened his eyes and smiled at me. I felt like Judas. He smiled and told me not to worry about him. To leave him and get out. I held his hand for a bit and kept the flies off him. I could see he was dying . . . The funny thing was he didn't seem to be feeling any pain. He – he talked quite a lot – mostly about
school. He kept rambling on about all sorts of things . . . like that time we won the sculls together. Remember?'

She had cheered herself hoarse on the river bank on that sunny summer afternoon. Kit had been flushed and triumphant, Villiers whooping like a Red Indian.

‘At least you were with him when he died, Kit,' she said quietly. ‘It must have comforted him.'

He seemed to shudder. ‘That's the very worst of it, twin – I wasn't. I could tell he was going fast. There was blood coming out of his mouth and he was sort of choking . . . nothing I could do for him. Then I heard the Huns coming back. I could see them coming down the road. And I ran away. I ran away and left him to die there all alone, lying in all that filth, covered with flies.
All alone
.'

Kit's voice broke and he covered his face with his hands. ‘
Now
can you imagine how I feel? How I'll never be able to forgive myself? Never have any respect for myself again?'

After a moment he took his hands away and somehow got his voice under control. ‘Well, we made it to Dunkirk, Watson and myself. I didn't care whether we did or not, but Watson kept me going. We got on one of the ships at the beach – some old paddle steamer. She was so overloaded that she was half sinking. Then the Jerries dive-bombed us offshore and finished the job. That's when I got hit in the arm. Next thing I knew I was in the water. I never saw Watson again . . . I still don't know what happened to him. Somebody fished me out and I found myself on another ship. We crawled back to Dover with Jerries attacking all the way. I kept on hoping they'd kill me so I wouldn't have to go on living with myself.'

‘Don't, Kit. You mustn't feel like that. Things like this must happen all the time in war. You've got to try and forget about it.'

‘I'll never do that. Never. Nor would you – you know that. I've just got to learn to live with it, somehow. I can't tell the parents. I don't want them to have to know that
their brave and wonderful soldier son is just a miserable, bloody coward.'

‘That's not so, Kit. You're seeing it all wrong. Being much too hard on yourself.'

But he was sobbing almost soundlessly into his hands. Anne went to put her arms around him and to hug him close. She felt utterly wretched for him, and frightened. Poor, poor Kit who had always been so strong. So sure. So marvellous. For whom everything had always gone so right, and now, suddenly, had all gone so hideously wrong.

She returned to Colston at the end of her leave in time for yet another mock air raid.

‘If they carry on like this,' Pearl complained tiredly, ‘we won't have time for the real thing.'

In spite of everything, there was an invitation to a party. Someone had decided that a little distraction was needed. One of the Ops Room penguins gave Anne a lift to the rented house a few miles away from the station. The first room she went into was so crowded she could hardly move, and so smoky she could scarcely breathe. She squeezed through the crush of uniforms to another room where there was more air. There she discovered Squadron Leader Robinson who had established himself in a quiet corner, glass in one hand, pipe in the other.

‘I'm getting too old for this sort of thing,' he told her. ‘Too much noise and too many people. It's all very well for you young ones.'

Anne smiled politely. Everyone liked Robbie Robinson, but he
was
rather old for parties. She looked about her for others she might know and, as she did so, the circle of people nearby shifted so that she was able to see past them across to the far side of the room. A group of RAF officers standing there caught her attention. They were all wearing wings, but had some other emblem that she could not make out pinned to their tunics as well. Something else set them apart, too. They looked older than most of
the other pilots, and a lot smoother. More sophisticated. Almost elegant. Men, not boys.

‘Who are those pilots over there?' she asked Robbie Robinson curiously. ‘They're not ordinary RAF, are they?'

He followed her gaze. ‘They're Poles. Poor devils, they've lost everything – country, home, probably family . . . the lot. Amazing chaps, really. Brave as lions. Well, more like tigers in a way. Or wolves. Damned good pilots. They've been in the thick of it a lot longer than us. Those ones there fought with the French Air Force after they had to get out of Poland. Then, when France fell, they showed up here. Real gluttons for punishment. Mind you, they loathe the Germans. Simply loathe them. I'm jolly glad they're on
our
side, not the other one. Frightfully aggressive in the air. They go tearing off if they get even a whiff of a Hun, and nothing will stop them. You can't blame them, I suppose, after what the Germans did to their country.'

She looked, intrigued, at the four Poles – owners of the voices she had heard gabbling incomprehensibly over the R/T, and the ones who did all that swearing and singing as they flew. She stared at one of them in particular, in the middle of the group. He had dark hair, combed smoothly straight back from his forehead, without any parting, and high cheek-bones. It was a brooding, sensitive sort of face. Fascinating. He was lighting a cigarette and as he looked up his eyes met hers across the room. He smiled.

Robbie Robinson murmured beside her: ‘I'll introduce you to them, if you like, but beware! Polskis have a terrible reputation with women.'

He conducted her gallantly towards them, but when it came to the point, he had forgotten their names.

‘Couldn't pronounce them anyway, my dear. Quite impossible. Anne, these are four unpronounceable Polish gentlemen. Gentlemen, this is Aircraftwoman Anne Cunningham.'

He left her with them. England had gone to war over
their country and yet these were the first Poles she had ever laid eyes on. They bowed to her from the waist, clicked their heels and smiled at her charmingly. The dark-haired one with the cigarette made the introductions.

‘Permit me to present Stefan Szulkowski, Henryk Topolnicki, Tadeusz Iranek . . . and my name is Michal Racyñski.'

They shook her hand in turn and bowed again. The names had all sounded gibberish to her – except for the last one. She had listened specially hard to hear it. Now, looking at the four of them, she could see the Poland shoulder flashes and that the emblems that she had noticed from a distance were silver eagles with outstretched, drooping wings, holding some kind of wreath in their beaks. Michal Racyñski offered her one of his cigarettes and another of them stepped in quickly to light it. She was enchanted by their beautiful manners. And they were all looking at her with open admiration, which was rather nice. The tallest – fair and very handsome – addressed her in slow, heavily accented English.

‘Good morning. How are you? Very well, thank you. Good night.'

He beamed at her, showing a glint of gold tooth. Anne laughed uncertainly.

Michal Racyñski said: ‘That is all the English that Stefan knows.'