Time to Say Goodbye (21 page)

It was still cold in the tiny cockpit but Laurie knew from experience that heat would come when the action started. And here they came at last, black against the rising sun, perhaps heading for Liverpool or Barrow-in-Furness. Well, they would not get there, not if he and his fellow fighter pilots could help it. Quickly he rubbed both hands across his uniformed knees, to dry his sweaty palms, then grabbed the joystick and began to tilt it. He checked that there was no one in his path and dropped towards the nearest Dornier like a hawk to its prey. Beside him, perhaps no more than thirty yards away, he saw Dave in the same position but with a Heinkel in his sights. Laurie steadied his aircraft, which seemed very small and light compared with the heavy bombers, and raked the enemy with bullets from the eight Browning machine guns mounted in the wings. He saw the big plane stagger, then burst into flames as he attacked the fuselage, saw the port wing come up and the starboard one point to earth. He repeated the mantra he had taught himself for just such an occasion and had used now many times. ‘It’s just an aircraft violating our air space; I’m killing a plane not a person; if there are men aboard they’ll bale out . . . here comes another!’

He had a Messerschmitt correctly placed for an attack. He could even see the pilot crouching over his instruments, unaware of what was about to happen. Laurie’s finger was on the firing button and he was pouring a stream of lead into the Messerschmitt, then jigging violently to the right to evade retaliation, when he remembered what a friend had said to him. ‘My CO told us that the Huns are yellow, so when we confronted one in battle we should just drive straight at him, as though intending to ram, and he’d fall away and return to base.’ His pal thought it a foolish trick and was not surprised, upon returning to his airfield, to find that his CO had bought it. In fact, he said, all they found of him was his shirt buttons.

Laurie was grinning at the recollection of the story, which had doubtless circulated in every Mess in the country, when he saw that he must have hit a vital spot: the Messerschmitt was losing height rapidly, with smoke streaming out of its tail. Laurie killed the thought that there were men in there, men desperate to get out; men just like him, longing to live. Useless to dwell on it. He slid away from another encounter and began, once more, to gain height.

By this time dog fights were taking place wherever you looked; the German escort had arrived, though a little late, to protect their bombers. Laurie glanced at the fuel gauge, then nodded to himself. The big Heinkel had had enough and was returning the way it had come. He must go to Dave’s assistance, follow the bomber, down it if possible . . . He saw out of the corner of his eye another machine in a steep nosedive, flames roaring out of it. Sickly, he remembered stories he had heard in the Mess, stories which spoke of pilots who never flew without a pistol shoved in their waistband or flying boot, so that they could use it on themselves if the plane took fire, anything rather than the agony of burning to death. They had all seen the wrecks of men . . . he dragged his mind away from scenes which were too ghastly to consider; he had no pistol. If only one could slide back the Perspex hood . . . simply jump, pray your chute opened . . . but even if it did not it would be a quick, clean death, better than . . .

As though the thought had given birth to the fact, something bounced off the nose of his aircraft. It was a chunk of someone’s wing and the next moment he realised, with horror, that it had gone clean through the propeller. He would have to bale out, but first of all he must put the plane into a glide, try to get clear of the carnage which surrounded him. He knew pilots who had baled out too soon in the middle of a scrimmage only to find the sky full of obstacles, and had suffered for it. He would keep the plane on an even keel for as long as possible, and would not jump until the sky was relatively clear. It demanded an iron will and a degree of self-control which he was not at all sure he possessed, but he had infinite faith in his aircraft and told himself he would come off all right, provided he kept his head and didn’t jump too soon out of sheer funk.

At that very moment his sweaty hands slipped on the joystick, as though the Hurricane was trying to tell him that the moment had come. She was pulling towards earth now, but a quick glance all around him showed that the sky was relatively clear. He had slid back the hood as soon as he had seen the propeller go and now he looked earthwards. Where was he? He realised he had not the faintest idea, could not see anything but fields and woods . . . ah, there was a river below. At least he knew he had not crossed the sea; the ground beneath him was his native land. Laurie began to pull himself out of his seat and gave the Hurricane, whose nose had begun to point downwards as soon as his hand left the stick, a grateful pat. She had been a good little plane and he was sad to part from her, but part they must. His weight tipped her to one side, he saw the wing go down, poised himself, then jumped.

The rush of air should not have been a surprise, but somehow it was; somehow he was not prepared to be seized by the slipstream and forced to do a double somersault. Beneath him the fields, the river and the woods whirled and suddenly, for no apparent reason, he thought of Jill: sweet, generous, and beautiful in a calm and steadying way.

As though seeing a picture of her was an omen, he seemed to hear her voice at the same moment, cool, comforting, yet urgent. ‘Pull the ripcord!’ Jill’s voice said. ‘Pull the bloody ripcord!’

Before she had finished giving the command Laurie had obeyed. To his relief the canopy unfolded, though the jerk it gave him was frighteningly hard and abrupt. Then it took him a moment or two to gather his senses and look around him. The sky was almost clear except for one other parachute drifting down towards earth, probably several miles off, and a plane on fire hurtling downwards and clearly out of control. Laurie stared, but could not tell whether it was British or German. He was low enough now to see that he would come to earth on farmland, and he thought, thankfully, that once he had got rid of the chute he should be able to walk to the farmhouse and telephone to the airfield to give his position.

But the ground was coming up awfully fast; he remembered lectures on how to steer a parachute but could not remember any helpful details. At least he would not be descending into enemy country . . . and suddenly he realised that there were people below him: a couple of kids, a man with a pitchfork, a fat woman in an apron and a girl in the practical clothing of the Women’s Land Army. He waved to them and the Land Girl waved back, but the old man with the pitchfork made jabbing motions and Laurie grinned to himself. Britain was dangerously short of armaments, but this was the first time he had considered a pitchfork as a weapon of war.

Now he could see the river Waveney and the outline of Oulton Broad, which meant that the town on the horizon would be Lowestoft. He landed with a crash amidst the reeds on the edge of the river and took a hasty step, trying to avoid being enfolded in the falling canopy, but as he put his right foot to the ground his boot turned sideways and he heard a crack and felt a sudden sharp stab of pain. Unable to stop himself, he gave a gasp and a yelp and fell heavily sideways, giggling helplessly despite the pain as the silken folds of the canopy enveloped him. He was crawling out of the muddy reeds on to the bank, still wrapped in the canopy, when he felt a thump followed by a sharp pain in his shoulder, felt blood begin to trickle down. He realised he had not buttoned up his flying jacket and that whatever had hit him had inflicted quite a lot of damage, though he heard a voice – he presumed it was the Land Girl’s – expostulating. ‘Have you a care, Mr Grundy. You can’t see nothin’ through that there silk; he might be as English as you or I.’

This advice was ignored as a voice cried triumphantly: ‘Come you here, my fine feller! I’m a Home Guard I am, and we’s a force to be reckoned with. See how you like life in Britain behind bars.’ There followed a wheezy chuckle. ‘I’ve heared tell you Nazis allus say “For you the war is over.” Well in’t that the truth?’

The pitchfork jabbed again and Laurie gave an indignant shout. ‘Stop that!’ he commanded. ‘I’m as English as you are. Get me out of this perishing parachute, but go carefully; I think I’ve broken my ankle.’

They disentangled him from the parachute and the Land Girl and the old man helped him to the farmhouse, for he could not put any weight on his right leg, and his shoulder needed to be cleaned and dressed. Mr Grundy, told he must apologise for his attack, was unrepentant. ‘Us can’t take no risks; for all I know you could ha’ been Herr Hitler hisself,’ the old man said. ‘I were only doin’ me duty; you should ha’ hollered out the moment you reached land. I only did what were right and proper.’

The Land Girl, slim and blonde, shook a chiding finger at the old man. ‘You never give him a chance to say so much as one word before you jabbed him with that there pitchfork,’ she said reproachfully. ‘I dare say it’s the first time in your life that you’ve ever apologised to anyone for anything, but that’ll larn you! Come along, own up that you were mistaken.’

As they helped him towards the farmhouse Mr Grundy stuck out his lower lip and mumbled something which Laurie could not catch, but the Land Girl must have heard, because she gave a stifled giggle and as they helped him into the farmhouse kitchen and into a chair she rounded on the old man once more.

‘Everyone make mistakes, Mr Grundy; you in’t the only one,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Now you can just eat humble pie. That’s a dish you’ve never tasted before, so make the most of it.’

By now Laurie felt so ill and weak that he had little interest in the old man’s humiliation, but he was forced to intervene because he could see that getting an apology out of Mr Grundy would be like extracting teeth. ‘It’s all right, Mr Grundy; only don’t go being so free with your pitchfork again,’ he said wearily. ‘Do you realise you could have got me in the face? You might have blinded me; killed me even.’

Mr Grundy snorted, had begun to say what a fuss to make over a little scratch, when the fat woman in the apron, who was Mrs Threadgold, the farmer’s wife, interrupted. ‘Yes, that’s typical of you, my man,’ she said briskly. ‘Off you go and get on with your work.’ She turned to Laurie. ‘Ginny will telephone to your CO if you’ll give her the number, and you can drink the cup of tea I’m making whilst I find some dry clothes for you to change into. My son Bob’s in the air force . . .’ she cast a quick glance at him, ‘and he’s about the same size as you, so you can borrow his togs.’ She smiled and shook her head as Laurie began feebly to say he was quite all right. ‘That you in’t,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t see yourself, but where you in’t covered with blood, you’re covered with mud. So we’ll clean up that wound in your shoulder and I’ll lend you Bob’s stuff so long as you promise to return it as soon as you can. Don’t worry, we won’t take off your trousers, ’cos of that there ankle. I reckon they’ll send an ambulance from the nearest airfield, which may take an hour or two. No point in you sitting around waiting in them wet clothes.’

Laurie accepted the tea eagerly and drained the cup, but found he could not fancy the shortbread biscuits which were offered. He was suddenly terribly tired, and when the Land Girl, Ginny, had made the telephone call and told him he would be picked up in a couple of hours, he was grateful for his hostess’s suggestion that she should take some bedding through to the front parlour and let him sleep on the sofa until the RAF team arrived.

‘Where did the old chap go?’ Laurie asked as Ginny and the farmer’s wife helped him through into the parlour. He gave a feeble chuckle. ‘Home Guard, is he? Well, if another flier arrives on your land, tell him to keep his pitchfork to himself. So far as I can recall we are supposed to treat the enemy who fall into our hands as prisoners of war, not lumps of manure!’

Mrs Threadgold laughed, but nodded. ‘He’s a proud man, our Mr Grundy. He won’t risk having to apologise twice in one lifetime.’ She turned back the blankets she had spread on an old-fashioned plush sofa. ‘In you get. I put in a hot water bottle wrapped in a couple of meal sacks, so you won’t soak the sofa or get that all muddy. Now you just go off to sleep and I’ll give you a call when your transport arrives.’

Laurie was glad to obey, but for some time sleep refused to come. Over and over he slid back the Perspex hood, steadied the Hurricane on an even course and waited for the right moment to jump. Once, in a dream, he landed on the spire of St Nicholas’s church in Lowestoft, and Mr Grundy came along and hooked him down with his pitchfork. Several times he avoided the town but landed in the middle of Oulton Broad, and when he would have swum to shore a man in Home Guard uniform prevented him, saying he would have to swim back to his airfield because no Germans were allowed here.

When at last the transport arrived the young MO grinned at the neat dressing on Laurie’s shoulder. But when he tried to take off his right flying boot Laurie’s left leg kicked out so suddenly and unexpectedly that the MO could not dodge. ‘You’ve got me right in the courting tackle,’ he said reproachfully. ‘Bang go my chances of fathering a large family.’

Laurie apologised, but warned the MO that his foot and his boot seemed to have become inextricably attached. ‘Oh well, the boot’s as good as any temporary cast for holding the bone in position,’ the MO said as two hefty airmen began to load Laurie on to a stretcher, despite his protests. ‘Best keep it as still as possible until we can get you hospitalised. Have you thanked these good people for taking care of you? By the way, what’s under the shoulder dressing? The blood’s seeped through, so I suppose you got tangled up in the canopy and jabbed yourself with your knife when trying to cut yourself free.’

Laurie, who had completely forgotten the penknife everyone carried in order to cut themselves free of the parachute should they land in enemy territory, or become entangled and be unable to use the release, muttered something appropriate; he did not intend to admit that he had been apprehended and mistaken for a Nazi by an extremely elderly member of the Home Guard.