Sam was pleased that his section was performing perfectly. The bombers flew out as darkness fell to destroy Germany and each morning there were fewer returning, which meant dozens of brave young aircrew were lost. The Luftwaffe stayed away and after a week of inactivity he decided to run a night drill to keep his men on their toes.
Those not on general duties didn’t man the guns until the alarms sounded – there was no need as they could be in position in minutes. When the bombs had been dropping constantly, it would have been different, but now only the cities were being attacked and even those not every night. In fact, folk were beginning to behave as if they’d nothing to fear.
He waited until he was sure everybody would be heavily asleep before sounding the alarms. This was for his section alone, the others had been told to remain in bed. As the camp came alive, it occurred to him that he’d neglected to tell Lieutenant Simpson and as the officer was ostensibly in charge, he really should have run it by him. Too late to worry about it now.
The men had to be in place, the guns loaded, those working the predictor at the ready, the man on the range finder standing by and the one with the binoculars staring into the night sky. All this had to be accomplished in absolute silence and without any lights.
‘Well done, two minutes thirty seconds – that’s a record,’ he said. ‘There’s cocoa and a wad in the mess for anyone who wants it before they turn in again.’
Sam had organised this, knowing it would make the men less garrulous about having their beauty sleep disturbed. In good spirits, happy they’d broken their own record, his section carefully stowed their equipment and then headed for the mess.
Obviously, Ronnie had known about the drill and should have been looking happy when he came over, but he wasn’t.
‘Where’s our bloody officer? Should have been out here first – I’m going to roust him out. You coming?’
‘I forgot to tell him. But he should still have turned out with the men.’ This was going to be an interesting encounter. ‘Too bloody right I am. He was quick enough to reprimand me and I’d like to see what excuse he’s got.’
The lieutenant had his own billet – a wooden structure little more than a shed but probably more comfortable and warmer than a metal hut.
‘Not even a bleeding sound, lazy bugger,’ Ronnie said as he banged loudly on the door.
They stood to attention, waiting for their officer to emerge, but the hut remained silent. Slightly worried that the young man had been taken ill and was unable to respond, Sam tried the door.
‘It’s locked. Now what the hell do we do? Do you think he’s in there unconscious? Should we break in?’
‘Shut your gob for a minute and let me listen.’ Ronnie put his ear against the door and shook his head. ‘I don’t reckon there’s anyone in there. But we don’t have a choice – if he’s kicked the bucket and we do nothing, we’ll be for the high jump.’
One of the gunners had seen them and wandered over to see what was going on. ‘You looking for our officer, Sarge?’ This gunner was well spoken and could have been an officer himself but for some reason had refused any promotion offered.
‘We are, Chalky, can you elucidate?’ Sam asked him.
‘He’s AWOL, Sarge, he was picked up by a luscious young lady in a red sports car a couple of hours ago.’
‘Sod me! Now what do we do?’ Sam hadn’t expected to be faced with such a dilemma so early in his new position. Ronnie was senior to him as he’d been a sergeant for several months so it was up to him to make the decision – whatever that might be.
‘Buggered if I know. There ain’t nobody to report him to.’
‘Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen, but might I make a suggestion?’ Gunner Jeremy White – known as Chalky – said politely.
‘Go ahead, we’re stumped. If we report him, we’ll be unpopular and if we don’t, we’ll still be unpopular,’ Sam said with a shrug.
‘We’re the only ones who know about his night-time excursions. Yes, this isn’t the first time. It might well come in useful at some point to have this knowledge.’
Sam immediately got his drift. ‘Right, let’s get an official report down, date and stamp it, but not file it, that way we’ve got him over a barrel if needs be.’
‘I can type reasonably well, so would you like me to do it?’
‘Yes, ta, that would be just the ticket,’ Ronnie said and the three conspirators shook hands.
‘I’ll bring the report to your billet, Sarge, and slip it under the door. Then I’ll join you and the boys for a scrumptious mug of army cocoa.’
The cocoa was made with water and even adding sugar didn’t make it a pleasant drink.
* * *
The following morning, their officer was marching about just after reveille as if he’d been there all night. Sam wondered how long it would be before someone mentioned the drill. He didn’t have long to wait. He was checking a piece of equipment when Simpson beckoned him over.
‘Sergeant Johnson, you failed to inform me that you were holding a night drill.’ The bloke drew breath to continue to complain but Sam forestalled him.
‘And you, sir, failed to mention you were AWOL last night.’ He nodded. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘No, dismissed.’ Simpson stalked away and Sam knew the officer was angry at being caught out.
Sam hid his smile and returned to the task he’d been doing before the interruption. None of the men mentioned the absence of the section CO and by the end of the day, Sam believed no one had noticed. After all, it had been dark, and they were concentrating on the drill. Officers didn’t join the men for cocoa either. Better that way as he didn’t want Simpson to be court martialled. Hopefully he’d learned his lesson and there’d be no further excursions unless the man was criminally stupid.
That night he wrote to Ruth, knowing she’d enjoy hearing his news, especially about the officer. He’d had only had a short note from her since they’d said goodbye but it was sufficient to tell him she was happy, settled and hadn’t changed her mind about him. There was no mention of Jill or Arthur, and the time they’d spent in London, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a deliberate evasion on Ruth’s part.
It was his evening off and he decided to walk into Lincoln and treat himself to a decent coffee. If he was lucky, he might also be able to buy shampoo, toothpaste, shoe polish and razor blades – all of which he could do with.
A bus ran past the entrance to the site and then stopped again at the RAF gate. He might be in luck and be able to catch one and save himself a three-mile walk.
He was approaching the entrance to the RAF base when a red sports car hurtled towards him on the wrong side of the road, hugging the hedge, leaving him no room. He threw himself into the prickles to avoid being mowed down. Despite being embedded in the greenery, the car still clipped his ankle, sending a wave of agony up his leg.
The driver didn’t react. She must have seen him but just raced past. The car didn’t stop.
He was turning the air blue. His foot was bloody painful and it took him several excruciating minutes to extricate himself from the hawthorn bushes. His hands and face were bleeding and he couldn’t put weight on his injury. When he eventually emerged, dishevelled and furious, he was determined to bring the manic driver to justice.
He knew who the culprit was and where she was heading. His problem was that he would have to hop back to his base, and she would probably have already departed by the time he got there.
The welcome sound of boots pounding on the road alerted him to the arrival of assistance. Three RAF boys arrived.
‘Are you all right? We saw what happened from the other side of the hedge. Have you broken anything? Bloody stupid woman,’ a flying officer said as he offered his shoulder for Sam to lean on.
‘How the hell did you see through this bloody hedge?’ Sam had meant to say thank you but had to know how these friendly blokes had come to his rescue.
‘It’s higher on the other side, we were playing cards outside our billet. It’s too far for you to get back to your site so we’re going to take you back to our medics.’ The red-haired flying officer grinned. ‘I’m Ginger, obviously, that’s Beaker and that chap over there is a disgrace.’
Only then did Sam notice that the one called a disgrace had come with a wheelbarrow. God knows where he’d found that.
‘Your chariot awaits, Sarge. Hop in, there’s a good fellow, and we’ll wheel you back in fine style.’
The three waited to see if he’d refuse but he laughed. ‘Why not? I’m too heavy for you three puny specimens to carry and I can’t walk.’
The wheelbarrow had been used for some sort of building work and was liberally coated with brick dust – at least it wasn’t something worse. He needed the support of Ginger and Beaker to fold himself into the makeshift wheelchair.
‘Right, you chaps, better to pull than to push, don’t you think?’ Beaker said.
‘Good show, I’ll hold the poor fellow in place, you two do the pulling,’ Disgrace said cheerfully.
‘Tally ho!’ Ginger yelled as he grabbed one metal arm and Beaker took the other. This battle cry was used by fighter pilots before going into a dogfight. Sam braced himself and clung onto the sharp metal edges of the barrow, praying this wouldn’t end as an even worse disaster.
They set off at the double and without the third bloke pressing on his shoulders, Sam would have been flung out. They were all drunk, he’d realised a little too late, and he was more likely to be killed in this ridiculous escapade than saved.
The racket the three of them were making attracted the attention of the two guards at the gate. Instead of stopping them, they laughed and waved them through. God knows what a senior officer would make of this spectacle. An army sergeant sitting in a wheelbarrow liberally covered with greenery being raced along by three very drunk airmen.
He was being bounced and rattled and his injured ankle was being flung around, which did it no good at all. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and doubted that he was going to arrive at the medical centre with only an injured ankle to worry about.
* * *
Ruth was proud to be a gunner and being part of a mixed artillery section was even better. She was kept busy with her new responsibilities as a bombardier and scarcely had time to think about Sam that first week. She’d dashed off a quick note and posted it but wasn’t counting the days until his reply arrived – at least she thought she wasn’t.
Being on general duties was not enjoyable. They hadn’t been told they would be peeling vegetables, digging holes and scrubbing the ablutions when they’d been doing their training. The men wore sensible overalls but the girls had to wear khaki denim dungarees which were too short in the leg and body and meant you had to almost undress to use the WC.
Every day there was PT, it wasn’t the actual exercise Ruth objected to, but the brown divided skirt and orange, short-sleeved flimsy top and black plimsoles they had to wear. Soldiers had to be in peak mental and physical fitness at all times. Thank goodness ATS wore the same battledress as the men: steel helmets, boots, gaiters and respirators in a satchel when on the gun park. This made sense but Ruth thought all the marching, parading and unnecessary duties were just to keep them from complaining. Things were supposed to be equal, but they weren’t really.
The food was adequate, but the men enjoyed it more than most of the girls. Often a half-finished dinner was scraped onto the plates of the men on the same table. Breakfast was usually porridge, this filled you up nicely, or egg and fried bread or bacon and fried bread – never both at the same time.
Dinner, at midday, was stew with unrecognisable but edible meat in it somewhere and pudding was often a dismal sort of affair. Tea, however, was her favourite, corned beef fritters or cheese dreams alternated with bread, cheese, jam and a slab of cake.
Initially, she’d been a bit of a celebrity in her hut because of helping Rose but after a couple of days, no one mentioned it any more. Jill behaved as she had at training, no mention of what had happened in London, and this was fine by Ruth.
She was sitting at the table in their hut with some of the other girls a week after she’d arrived, chatting about this and that.
‘Goodness,’ one of them said, ‘I’d no idea actual guns are so loud. I’m going to be deaf by the time I leave the army.’
‘At least we’re safe enough here. I counted the bombers out last night and was on my way back from the ablutions this morning as they returned,’ Ruth said sadly. ‘Five didn’t make it. That’s thirty young men possibly dead in one night on just this base.’
The happy smiles and chatter faded as the girls digested this awful information.
‘If you think how many RAF bomber bases there are just in Lincolnshire,’ Jill said, ‘that’s a staggeringly horrible death toll.’
‘Soldiers die too,’ Ellen, a tall, fair girl said as she wiped her eyes. ‘My brother died at Dunkirk and my boyfriend is somewhere overseas and doesn’t reply to my letters any more. I don’t even know if he’s dead or just changed his mind.’
‘Well, I’ll try and find out for you,’ Ruth said. ‘Give me his name, rank and number and I’ll set things in motion.’
‘Would you? Thanks, it’s the not knowing that’s so hard.’
Ruth was sympathetic and knew she was lucky to have Sam so close.
* * *
Every morning after breakfast parade at 7.30 a.m. there was the hut inspection. This was carried out by the orderly officer, accompanied by an NCO. Ruth stood to attention like the other girls at the end of her bed. The officer checked everything and if even a corner of a banket was out of place, the stack was dismantled and the unfortunate girl had to redo it. No one could leave until all beds were passed. Today everything was tickety-boo and the inspection was over quickly.
After the obligatory PT – luckily the men and women exercised separately – they had half an hour to change, wash and get off to whatever duty they had been allocated.
Ruth’s first job was to collect the mail and take it to the various huts. It didn’t take long to deliver them to the huts in her section. This was the first time she’d had to go into the men’s quarters. She marched across and walked in, head high, not looking right or left. She nodded and put the pile of letters on the table by the door and marched out, not wanting to hear any of the possible derogatory comments that might be made about having a girl doing a man’s job.
Her heart was pounding, her palms wet, but she’d acquitted herself well. Her girls would be thrilled to get so much correspondence. Ruth pointed to the pile of envelopes when she’d dropped them on the table. ‘Lots of mail for us today.’
There were plenty of smiling faces as the girls were hastily scrambling into their uniform. There was just time to glance at letters before rushing off.
Ruth opened her letter and Jill did the same with hers. Ruth’s was from Clara and she was pleased to now have another friend. However, a letter from Sam would have been better.
‘Oh dear, this is not good, not good at all,’ Jill said under her breath.
‘What’s wrong? Can I help?’
‘These are both from Arthur. I’ve only read one and in it he asks if I can lend him money as he’s overspent his allowance. He also says he has urgent debts to pay that won’t wait.’ Jill collapsed on the nearest bed. ‘After what happened in London, he promised me he’d stop gambling so if Sam did report him there’d be nothing for anyone to see.’
‘By debts he means gambling debts, I assume?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Jill looked up with tear-filled eyes. ‘I didn’t dare ask if Sam had reported him. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.’
‘He hasn’t so far. Jill, I think you’d better open the second letter.’
Jill quickly scanned the contents and then looked up with a smile of relief. ‘It’s all right, a friend has stepped in and helped him out; also he’s been promoted and is being posted to Cairo.’ Her eyes were moist and she held the letter to her chest. ‘He doesn’t go until next month and said he’ll try to come and see me before he leaves.’
Ruth was horrified. Jill clearly didn’t know that Cairo was a hotbed of intrigue and spies. The very worst place in the world someone like Arthur should be sent. Should she tell Jill that this was bad news or pretend that him being sent to Egypt would make his problems vanish?
‘Does he say who the friend was who paid off his gambling debts?’ Ruth wasn’t sure why she’d asked this question but had to say something.
Jill scanned the letter again. ‘Yes, it was a friend of his father’s – not somebody I know. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just wondering how he was going to pay the loan back if he was abroad but if it’s a family friend then there’s no urgency, I suppose.’
‘To be honest, Ruth, I try and stay out of his financial woes,’ Jill said with a smile.
‘I think that’s an error on your part. It’s none of my business but are you really sure that being married to a gambler, and not one that wins either, is something you want to do? However much he says he won’t gamble, he obviously can’t help himself. You could spend your entire married life being in constant fear of losing everything. Is that a sensible way to live?’
Jill stood up abruptly, snatched her letters from the table, rushed to her locker and put them in. Then she left without another word. Ruth didn’t regret telling Jill the truth but was sorry she might well have lost her friendship. Nobody likes to be told their decisions are questionable.
She needed to write to Sam and tell him that he couldn’t postpone reporting Arthur any longer. But there wasn’t time now, she had to report for guard duty. And that was more important.