VII

Six months ago, almost to the day. That was the longest night of the year, and felt like it. Tomorrow would be the shortest.

Mason decided he wouldn’t go any higher than eight thousand feet tonight. With a sky as light as it would be tonight it would be wise to keep the horizon as high as possible. Might even come lower but that depended on the flak. Keep the fighters above you. They would want him above the horizon, silhouetted against the sky with themselves against the dark ground, lower down. The fighters would rely on the fear of flak to keep the enemy high. It all depended on the flak. Eight thousand wasn’t very high for Düsseldorf – pretty hot place. The whole of the Ruhr was. ‘Happy Valley’, they called it.

If he’d had anything to do with the raid planning, he’d say that tonight was not the night to raid the Ruhr. But perhaps there was some particular reason for it. The target was an oil refinery on the banks of the Rhine.

Mason wondered if there were many people who realised how heavy and effective the German defences were compared with this country’s. The night when he went over London by accident on his way back had been an eye-opener. It was true some of the flak had been fairly close, and one of the lights caught them for a moment, but it hadn’t worried him. He remembered wondering vaguely if there was a raid on, but thought it more likely they had strayed into a practice area. It didn’t once occur to him that they were being fired at. It had been a great surprise to hear the next day that they’d been caught in a London barrage. It was amusing to hear some of the fighter chaps speaking like that. The time, for instance, when Bill and the rest of the crowd were in The Unicorn and heard one of these night-fighter fellows give a talk on the wireless about how he had been caught in this famous ‘London barrage’. They hadn’t known whether to be amused or angry. No doubt the bloke had been quite sincere, but he obviously hadn’t seen a real barrage. He’d finished off by saying he was not allowed, for security reasons, to tell what method he’d adopted to get himself away from the flak. A great howl had gone up then, jeers and laughter mixed, because they all knew what the method was – they used it every night – stick the nose down and go like the clappers. While they were all laughing, Bill just sat there, his eyes blazing, repeating the words ‘Line-shooting bastard’.

That wireless talk became quite a joke on the squadron and had lasted a long time; but there didn’t seem to be anybody left now who remembered it. None of that crowd in The Unicorn were left – Bailey and Ward posted, and Trewsom and the rest gone.

It was that sort of thing Mason didn’t like; there was nobody he could say ‘Do you remember?’ to.

Funny things didn’t seem to happen now, things that became squadron jokes, like the time that chap with a name something like Pinkleton fell asleep and dropped off his chair during a Security Officer’s lecture. It made Mason want to laugh even now to remember this great hulk of a fellow grovelling about on the floor, his eyes popping with amazement. But there was nobody left now he could laugh with about it.

This chap Pinkleton or Bumblefoot, or whatever his name was, had been the first of the crowd to go. Nobody had been surprised, though; in fact it was difficult to understand how he ever got through his exams. None of them had known him well because he’d suddenly turned up as one of their party, the day they joined the squadron. Or did he arrive a few days later?

Damn shame, really – the man was just plain stupid and quite unfit to accept the responsibility of taking an aeroplane and four other people into the air, let alone on a raid. That was the awful part: there were four others, all probably high-class men in their particular jobs.

Mason reached the living quarters and looked at his watch. Nearly nine o’clock – one hour to go. Nothing to do now but go to the mess.

His route would take him past Ken’s room. He hadn’t been that way for a long time. The last time had been when Dwyer had offered to lend him a clean shirt, and had asked him to go along to his room with him to fetch it. When Mason got there he found it was Ken’s room, and it had come as a peculiar kind of shock to realise that someone else was living there. The room looked different too. There weren’t the same things on the table, and jackets and trousers were hanging in the wrong places. Some things were the same, though: the broken window-catch caused when Ken came back late one night without a key, and high up on the wall there were still signs of the rude but clever ditty written by Trewsom one night when they had a party. But even so everything was quite different. Mason couldn’t lounge across the bed with his head against the wall and his feet on a chair as he would have done had Ken been there. It had been difficult to realise then that Ken had actually gone, and would never again be seen in that room. Not under any circumstances, not even if the war suddenly finished. But it was still a case of Dwyer being in Ken’s room.

He remembered saying to Dwyer, ‘A friend of mine used to have this room’.

‘Oh?’ Dwyer answered, rummaging in a drawer. ‘What happened to him?’

‘The big chop.’

Dwyer laughed. ‘What are you trying to do, scare me?’

‘Well, you know what they say about dead men’s shoes.’

It had been a joke and they both laughed. Now Dwyer had gone and there’d be somebody else in Ken’s room.

A pathway took Mason along the side of the living quarters, and wireless sounds were coming from most of the rooms because the windows were open. Here and there he saw fellows he knew. Some were reading, some writing, others just moving about. He nodded to one or two who happened to glance up.

In the old days he would have known the occupants of most of the rooms well enough to have stopped and talked, or to have just walked in. He wouldn’t have had to spend a couple of hours wondering how to kill time.

As he passed Pepper’s room, and began thinking of Pepper, Mason felt an extra – and distinct – feeling of sadness. More than sadness, it was a sort of chilly tremor, rather like driving through a mist-filled dip on a warm night. Pepper had been such a nice fellow, so honest and pleasant, so genuine and well-mannered.

There it was again – good fellows, bad fellows, rich or poor, clever or dull, they all went.

Turning right at the end of the block, Mason made for the mess. He couldn’t hear any music so the dance couldn’t have started. This rather angered him. If they were going to have a dance, why the hell didn’t they get on with it? What right anyway had these ground wallahs to organise a dance on a raid night? To make it worse they didn’t start it early enough. Not early enough for people like him, people who were trying to kill time on what might be their last evening on earth. It might be their last dance, their last glimpse of gaiety.

By the time he got to the door of the mess his sudden anger had gone, and he thought how unreasonable he was being. Nobody could foretell a raid night – nobody on the station, anyway. If they waited to find out, there would never be a dance, or a cricket match, or a football match, or anything that needed organising. No, theirs was the correct way. Everything must carry on smoothly. Dances must be held, and cricket or football matches, tennis, swimming, squash – everything which tended to camouflage the real purpose of the station. Because an aircraft or two might not return from a raid was no reason why entertainment or sport should be banned, or even discouraged. If an aircraft did fail to return, or two, three, or the whole lot, it didn’t mean the station was finished. It had to go on until the war finished. Replacements for the cricket or football teams would be found, if necessary. New people would wander into the dances, none of them knowing anything of those they’d replaced, nor of those who would replace them. The aircraft would be replaced too, very quietly, as though they had really been there all the time.

It was funny when he came to think of it – except for the time he and Barry had gone to fetch that new aircraft, Mason had never seen a replacement aircraft delivered, nor heard of one. Nobody spoke of a new or an old aircraft. They all seemed new to him. In fact they were new, always.

It was a bit thick, though, not starting the dance yet. Entering the mess, Mason hung up his cap and made for the bar. It was fairly crowded, and as usual there seemed to be more females than males. Everybody was standing around in small groups, drinking, chatting, laughing. He gathered by odd snatches of conversation and the mopping of a brow here and there that the dancing had actually started, but things hadn’t properly warmed up. He could see into the dining-hall, which was used for the dancing, and the band, as usual at the far end, was preparing to strike up again.

Mason glanced round the groups as he wormed his way to the bar. Nobody asked him to have a drink, and although he didn’t expect it, he was conscious of it. They probably assumed, if they thought of it at all, that he was making his way to his own particular party – not realising, of course, that none of his party was left.

When he reached the bar he had to wait, because the steward was talking to a group at the other end, and the man brought in to help him for the evening was doing something with a lot of crates. The steward caught Mason’s eye and indicated with a look that he would be along as soon as possible. When the steward could politely break away he moved along the bar and leant forward, lowering his voice: ‘I was hoping ops would be scrubbed tonight.’ He was a good chap, a 1918 veteran, and was trying to show that he thought it a little unfair that things were so unevenly balanced tonight.

‘No chance of a scrubbing in this weather, Jim. Beer, please.’

The steward leant a little closer, casting a look around. ‘It would do some of these others good to take your place tonight.’

It was difficult to tell to whom the steward was referring, the civilians or the ground staff, but that sort of conversation had to be discouraged. Mason always found it rather embarrassing. It was assuming too much.

Fortunately there was no time to answer because a mixed group came noisily to the bar, and the steward, with a ‘see what I mean’ look, overloaded with significance, moved along to serve them.

Looking from this group round at other groups, Mason noticed how gay and very much at ease everybody seemed to be. It was so stupid that he should feel like a stranger and they should look so much at home. He could tell them all a thing or two, about the mess, the station – about the war.

He took his drink and wandered over to a vacant chair against the far wall. It was six minutes past nine.

Mason wished Saville hadn’t gone off this morning. It had been a pleasant surprise to find old Saville sitting in the mess last night. He had forgotten all about him, and in any case it had never occurred to him that Saville would be coming back to the station, even though it was only to get his clearance papers.

It was the first time Mason had heard the full story of Ken’s crash, of how Saville and Ken had somehow got out of the wreckage just before the main tanks blew up; of the young fitter who had been badly burned about the hands and arms trying to beat out Ken’s blazing Irving jacket. ‘Ken Minty was delirious all the time in hospital’, Saville said. ‘We were in the same room and he kept shouting and waking me up. He kept mentioning you – as though he was talking to you.’

‘Oh, what sort of things did he say?’

‘You know, silly things, like offering you a cigarette. Then once’, Saville smiled slightly at the recollection, ‘he called your name, a couple of times as though you hadn’t heard the first time, and said something about “passing him a book”, then he roared with laughter.’ There was no point in telling Saville the long story about Fatal Friday, but it was pretty certain that was the incident in Ken’s mind.

Saville hadn’t been expected to live either, but though limping and scarred, there he was. It was a pity he only spent one night on the station, but after all those months in hospital it was only natural he should want to get cleared up and off home for his sick-leave as soon as possible. He must have gone very early this morning because he wasn’t there at the normal breakfast time.

Saville was one of the lucky ones. He wouldn’t be allowed to fly again, and would be given a ground job somewhere. He’d get through the war now, having done what he could to the best of his ability, and for the rest of his life his conscience would be clear, his pride intact. The point really being, he’d be alive to know. That was the great thing – to be alive at the end of the war with a conscience that was clear and open to inspection and criticism. It had nothing to do with patriotism. It is doubtful if anybody is ever willing to die for his country, or its king, its people, its mountains or its fields, its valleys or its beaches, its industries or its politicians. But many people would be willing to risk dying for the sake of their pride and their conscience. It might be just a question of what the neighbours would say. Was there any difference between pride and conscience, and what other people would say? Mason wondered.

The band was playing now, and couples began wandering off to dance, smiling, chatting and squeezing their partners’ arms as they went. It was just like any other social gathering. If any of them were worrying about anything it was only the thought of getting up in the morning. If they were late for work or duty, as the case may be, their boss or commanding officer might become unpleasant. That was all. What a little thing to worry about. Mason knew the feeling – he used to get it. Not now, though. People in authority being unpleasant didn’t worry him any more. It was a pity he couldn’t tell all these people they had nothing really to worry about – their lives were protected by law.

Mason got up and walked towards the Gents and knew that from now until they took off he would have to keep on going. He used to get the same feeling at school, standing outside the Head’s study waiting for punishment. Didn’t know whether it was fear or excitement. He remembered asking one of the masters about it once, one he liked, Mr Chappell, the geography master.

Mr Chappell had looked down at him from his great height and roared with laughter. Still laughing, he had boomed, ‘I don’t know the exact cause of it, Mason, but unless your behaviour and work improve next term, you will have to have a special one all to yourself’. He and Roger had thought this the greatest of all jokes, and giggled throughout the day until caught by Mr Roughborough during maths, and were sent to the Head.

The door of the Gents swung open and somebody came in. Looking round, Mason saw it was Temple.

‘Hello’, said Temple. ‘Damn shame having to leave this dance, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Quite a crowd here tonight.’

There was nothing left to say, somehow, but Temple didn’t seem to mind. He just stood there whistling, and Mason left him standing there.

Back at the bar it was easier to get a drink. Just one more and that would be the lot. He didn’t really want that. Nobody had warned them about drinking before an op, but it seemed so natural not to, although before he had ever done an op he always thought that a couple of quick whiskies before take-off would be a good thing. But when it came to it, it was the last thing he thought of. Even the heaviest mess drinkers seemed to be affected the same way. There was only one chap Mason knew who had got into trouble for being drunk on an op night, and he, poor fellow, wasn’t really to blame, because he thought ops had been scrubbed. It was an accident. All the same, they’d demoted him for six months, which meant he was off flying for that time. It was a very good party they gave him the evening of the day he was court-martialled. Simpson lost his cap again and somebody else broke a finger.

The dance was in full swing now, although there were still people arriving. Mason thought he could do with something to eat. There should be some snacks around somewhere. He strolled through the dance hall into the kitchen, but was told by a couple of waiters he found in there, that they were very sorry, but the Mess President had given orders that no food was to be served until they got the say-so. It would probably be sometime after ten, they told him helpfully.

‘Thanks’, he said, moving off. Sort of thing the Mess President would do, the old bastard.

Mason stood watching the dancing and smoked. There was a girl in green he had noticed when she came in, and he looked for her. She had nice hair, not too wavy, and short. Then he saw her, not far from him, dancing with the Transport Flight Sergeant; she would come past him if they kept on the same course. She had really nice hair. Nice skin too, and carried herself well.

As they swung past him she was turned so that they came almost face to face. It could only have been for a split second, and he didn’t know which had averted their eyes first, but in that moment Mason felt he had learnt far more about her than was possible by watching her from a distance for a whole evening. Her eyes were tender, but gay, and had a depth of affection that was almost breathtaking. He took a sly look in the direction in which they had gone but they had now spun away to the far corner and her back was to him.

What was the use, anyway? He’d have to go off soon, and in any case she was with somebody. Probably never see her again. And even if he did, how could he compete with blokes who only had normal worries to cope with, and could behave naturally, planning ahead?

All the same, Mason was thinking as he walked off the dance floor, he wished she was with him instead of with that Flight Sergeant. Then he began to think of Alice, and wondered what had happened to her. It would be rather nice if she walked in now. It was a pity that affair had to break up like that, so suddenly. She was a nice girl and he liked her a lot. It could easily have developed. Bill Bailey was partly to blame for that break-up.

Thinking it over, though, that evening had had its amusing points. It was just a pity he’d overlooked his date with Alice. It had been on Mason’s mind as they walked into The Barley Mow and he’d mentioned it to Bill.

‘Oh, plenty of time’, Bill had said. ‘We’ll get there in about twenty minutes on the old bike.’ He jerked his thumb towards his frail-looking motorbike leaning against a wall, a pool of hot oil already forming underneath it.

They had needed a drink after that lecture. The ‘old man’ had been at his most garrulous and had prattled on for hours. ‘Got verbal diarrhoea’, Bill had muttered at one point. The old man had a habit of dragging an entire squadron of aircrews over to headquarters every so often for these lectures.

Bill’s idea had been all right to start with – that they should do the twelve-mile journey on his motorbike instead of going with the rest in the squadron bus. ‘We can stop off at The Barley Mow for a couple on the way back’, Bill had said, and that clinched the matter. But unfortunately that couple had led to others, and because they had got into one of their arguments – something very deep, like religion or politics – time had flown, and it was five past eight when they next looked at the time. Mason had arranged to pick up Alice at eight, twenty minutes’ journey away.

Rushing to a phone, realising his voice was thick, he blurted, ‘Sorry. Forgot, coming right away.’

She’d said something about there being no need to bother if he had something more interesting to do, and he said something even sillier, and after a few more angry remarks on both sides, she’d hung up.

Back at the bar he told Bill, and Bill had got just as angry.

‘Old bit of junk, did she say?’ he shouted. ‘Perhaps it is, but it could do that journey in twenty minutes, easily.’ There was fury in his slightly glazed eyes.

‘Quarter of n’hour, Bill, if necessary.’

‘Yes. Quar-ter nour’, Bill blazed.

‘Ten minutes’, said a voice, and when they looked round there was a bumptious little man they hadn’t noticed before, leaning against a corner of the bar, smirking round at the other people in the room, his gaze finally resting on Bill. Bill sent him a look like a flamethrower and the little man withered, and they forgot him. They then agreed hotly on the lack of reason in a woman’s mental make-up and decided that a girl who nagged a chap just because he had a few beers wasn’t worth bothering about, and settled down for the evening.

He’d never seen Alice again, although next day he wanted to phone but something happened and he couldn’t, and the same the next day. Then when he did phone she was frosty because he hadn’t phoned before, and it started all over again. After that came more ops, and the crash, and the whole thing petered out. What people like Alice didn’t realise was that things moved so quickly these days.

Back at the bar, Mason looked at his watch. It was 9.20, and he wanted to go to the Gents again.

There were some civilians in there, and judging by their high spirits they were enjoying the dance. It made him think of the injustice one came across in wartime. The airmen who would have to sit around until the aircraft returned in the early hours of the morning weren’t allowed in the officers’ mess, dance or no dance, but these civilians were. When they in turn joined up they would be barred themselves. It was obviously unjust, but nobody had been able to think of a solution. Unless it was ‘Don’t join up without a rank of some sort’.

Coming out of there, Mason stood for a moment in the bar being jostled by the crowd coming off the dance floor, a little uncertain where to go now. In an attempt to move out of the crowded area his shoulder came into contact with somebody and he turned to apologise – and for the second time that evening came face to face with the girl in green. Looking into those eyes he felt the same momentary breathtaking sensation.

‘I’m sorry’, he said.

She was smiling now, a nice friendly smile. ‘It was my fault’, she answered, ‘for standing right in the way.’

He looked round instinctively for the Flight Sergeant but couldn’t see him. ‘Didn’t I see you with our Transport King?’

She laughed easily, mouth slightly open, and her eyes twinkled as she laughed. ‘Is that what you call him? He’s over in that crowd getting drinks.’

Having actually met her, Mason didn’t want to leave her before it was necessary. He felt not the slightest trace of shyness towards her, and she seemed so natural and at ease. ‘Why don’t you wait over there where it’s less crowded? He’ll find you more easily there anyway.’

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Yes, I think I will.’ She turned with a smile that in no way dismissed him and he followed her, noticing the smooth lightness of her walk as she threaded her way towards some armchairs pushed up against the far wall. Reaching them, she didn’t sit but turned to him, apparently not worried or annoyed by his presence.

‘Yes, he’ll find you here all right’, Mason said, more for something to say.

‘He won’t worry a great deal if he doesn’t. In fact, I’m probably being a nuisance to him.’

She wasn’t being serious, of course, and he looked at her to make sure.

‘He’s the husband of a friend of mine’, she explained, ‘an old school friend, and I’m staying with them. They couldn’t both come because of the baby. I offered to stay but my friend insisted that I came.’

The Flight Sergeant came over to them with her drink. ‘Sorry to be so long’, he said. Then realising she wasn’t alone, went on, ‘Do you mind if I leave you for a bit? Just met a fellow I haven’t seen since we first joined. He’s only visiting.’ The Flight Sergeant turned to Mason with a grin and said, ‘Do you mind looking after her for a while?’

‘Not at all. But I’ll have to go soon.’

‘Thanks.’ The Flight Sergeant turned back to the girl. ‘I won’t be long anyway.’

When he had gone there was a moment’s silence before the girl spoke. ‘How soon will you have to go?’ Was there a note of disappointment in her voice? Well, there probably was, because she would be left alone. Mason looked at his watch. 9.30. ‘In about fifteen minutes.’

‘Rather late to go anywhere, isn’t it? Or shouldn’t I pry?’

He returned her smile. ‘No, it’s not too late – not where I’m going. And you shouldn’t pry.’

A slight look of distaste came to her face at the turn the conversation had taken, and he hastened to correct the impression he must have given. She obviously didn’t realise there were ops on tonight.

‘Not what you’re thinking. I’m working. Won’t you sit down?’

‘Oh, sorry’, she laughed, sinking into a chair. ‘I didn’t think of that. Are you on night duty then?’

‘Yes, yes I am.’

She noticed he hadn’t got a drink. ‘Is that why you’re not drinking?’

‘Mm.’

‘I thought there must be some reason. I’ve always understood that aircrew fellows …’ She broke off, hesitated a moment before turning fully to him, her eyes on his face, then down to the wings above his breast pocket, and back to his face again. He felt embarrassed before her gaze and turned away. ‘So that’s where you’re going’, she said.

‘How stupid of me’, she went on, quietly, looking round the room. There was a moment of silence before she turned to him again, smiling. ‘You know’, she said, ‘you’re the first bomber pilot I’ve met. Oh, I’ve read about them in the papers, of course, but somehow you never think of people you read about as being real until you meet them.’

He still felt slightly embarrassed and couldn’t think of an answer.

‘How often do you go on these raids?’ She was showing a new interest now and somehow Mason didn’t mind talking to her about it.

‘It depends mainly on the weather. In good weather we might go three or four nights running, then we might go weeks doing nothing except routine flights over this country. Tonight will be the third night running.’

He was actually enjoying talking to her about it. She said nothing for a moment while she looked around at the people in the room. Then she said, ‘What time will you get back tonight?’

That was an awkward question, and Mason had said too much already really. He glanced automatically at the slogans – ‘Be like Dad, keep Mum’ – which here and there adorned the walls, and shifted a little uncomfortably before answering. ‘I don’t want to sound melodramatic or mysterious but we’re not supposed to talk about operations.’

To his relief she didn’t laugh or do anything to suggest that he was being over-conscientious or making a drama out of nothing.

‘Of course.’ She was quite serious. ‘Silly of me. I’m sorry.’

The conversation became easy again after that. She told him she lived in London, and that she was waiting to hear the result of her application to join the WAAF. One subject led into another easily and naturally, and all the while the hands of Mason’s watch moved nearer to the time when he would have to go. At a quarter to ten he said, ‘I’m afraid I must go now’, and watched to see what effect this would have on her. The result caused a thrill of pleasure to run through him, as she turned to him, frankly disappointed. She smiled slightly as she said, with that openness that he liked so much, ‘I’m sorry you’ve got to go’.

Mason got up and stood a little awkwardly in front of her, reluctant to go. It was on the point of his tongue to ask if he could meet her again, but something stopped him. It was nothing to do with her manner – he was sure she would agree. But it was planning ahead, tempting fate, a thing he never did these days. Suddenly, he had become sad and depressed.

‘Goodbye’, she said. ‘Perhaps we will meet again some day, when I’m in the Air Force.’

He had taken a step back and was half turned to move off when that remark stopped him. As she looked at him her expression caused in him a wild, foolish desire to go to her and bury his face in her lap and tell her he didn’t want to go tonight. She would understand.

‘Good night’, he smiled at her and turning on his heel walked quickly towards the door. On the way he decided he wouldn’t look round at her again, but at the door, on an impulse, he turned. She was looking in his direction and at first her expression was serious. Then she smiled and waved a hand, and with that smile Mason felt the same surge of happiness and pleasure that she had aroused before, except that now there was a certain relief mixed up somewhere in his emotions. At first he couldn’t identify the sensation, although he knew it was not entirely unfamiliar, but suddenly he remembered. It was like catching a glimpse of sun and blue sky while climbing through black thunderclouds, or the first sight of the ground when descending through fog.

He waved his hand in return and went through the door onto the porch. The sun was sinking behind the skyline of the station buildings, a small part of the great red ball still visible, and he stood on the top step watching it until it had disappeared.

‘This is what is known as a lovely evening’, Mason thought to himself as he descended the steps and walked slowly towards the hangars. He didn’t even know her name. And that’s how it should be.