Whisper on the Wind. Elizabeth Elgin
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hoped Roz didn’t get too deeply involved. Rumour had it that Peddlesbury had lost three bombers in as many weeks. Roz never did things by half. When she fell in love it would be deeply and completely and her grief would be terrible – if she’d fallen for one of the aircrew – if one night he didn’t come back.
There had been a lessening of Luftwaffe raids over England, he brooded, yet Bomber Command had doubled its raids over Germany. Stood to reason there’d be heavy losses.
Take care, Roz – don’t get hurt, love.
Roz swept into Ridings kitchen like a small whirlwind, scooped up her coat then placed a kiss on her grandmother’s cheek. ‘Bye. Got to rush. Don’t wait up for me,’ and was gone before Hester could even begin to warn her not to be too late back.
She made for the gap in the hedge, walking carefully through the orchard to the small, straight lane that led to the Black Horse inn at the top end of Alderby village. She and Paul often met at the back of the pub, though never inside it; she had no wish for her grandmother to learn about him by way of village gossip. Truth known, she admitted reluctantly, she wanted to keep their affair a secret for as long as she could, knowing as she did that this was not the time to take Paul home or even admit she was ‘going out with aircrew’ as Alderby gossip succinctly put it.
It was best, she was sure, that for just a little while longer their love should remain their own, if only to save herself from Gran’s gentle reminders of her lack of years and the folly of loving too deeply in time of war.
He was waiting beside the back entrance. She was able to pick him out in the faint glow from a starry sky and loving him as she did, the tallness of him, the slimness of his build, his very outline was as familiar to her as her own right hand.
‘Paul!’ She went straight to his arms, closing her eyes, lifting her face to his. ‘I’ve missed you.’ She always said that, but she did miss him. An hour apart was a day, and a day without him dragged into an agonized eternity. ‘Kiss me,’ she demanded.
His mouth came down hard on her own and the fierceness of it startled her.
‘Darling, what is it?’
‘Nothing. Everything.’ His voice was rough. ‘God, I love you. You know that, don’t you, Roz?’
‘I know,’ she whispered, her lips on his. ‘I know, Paul. But something is wrong. What happened last night? Let’s walk, shall we?’ She linked her arm in his, guiding him toward the lane. ‘Tell me.’
‘Sorry, darling. It’s – it’s Jock.’
Jock Ferguson, air-gunner. The tail-end Charlie who flew with Paul.
‘Where did you go last night?’
‘Stuttgart. It should have been a milk run, a piece of cake, but they were waiting for us: fighters, flack, the lot. We went in with the first wave and that’s why we got away with it, but the second wave really copped it.’
‘And Jock?’ Her mouth was dry. Paul’s tension was hers now.
‘A searchlight picked us up and Jock yelled over the intercom that there was a fighter on to us. Then he said something like, “Christ! It’s jammed. The bloody thing’s jammed!” Then nothing.’
‘Yes?’ She squeezed his hand tightly.
‘Skip told me to go to the tail and find out what was up – see if I could sort it.’
‘Jock was hurt?’ She pulled him to her, holding him tightly, feeling the jerking of his shoulders and the bitter dragging out of each word.
‘The turret was smashed – a great, gaping hole and Jock – hell, Roz, his face was – he was – Jock’s dead.’
‘Ssssh.’ She covered his mouth with her own, stilling his anger and grief. ‘I love you. I love you, Paul.’ It was all she could think of to say.
‘His gun must’ve jammed. He certainly didn’t fire it. He wasn’t eighteen, Roz. Not till next week. We were planning a booze-up for him. A kid, that’s all he was. A kid on his thirteenth op. It makes you want to jack it all in. He hadn’t lived, poor sod.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry.’ Not yet eighteen. Younger, even, than herself. ‘His mother?’ It was important to think of her, too.
‘She’s a widow, I believe, but they’ll give her a pension, I shouldn’t wonder. And they’ll have sent her a telegram by now then follow it up with the usual letter – full of platitudes it’ll be, and bloody cant. They’ve already packed his kit and stripped his bed. In a couple of days’ time there’ll be someone else in it and hoo-bloody-ray for Jock Ferguson.’
‘Was there a lot of damage?’
‘The rear turret’s gone for a burton; they’ll have to fit a new one, that’s for sure. Don’t know what other damage there was. We were last crew home and how Skip managed to get the thing down I’ll never know. We were all frozen. The heating was shot-up and the wind was coming in through – through where Jock was. We just climbed out and walked away from it when we realized we’d made it and left them to get Jock out. The CO was there, but he never said a word; had the sense to keep his mouth shut, thank God. They put rum in our tea, at debriefing – a lot of it, but it did nothing for me. Couldn’t sleep afterwards. Just kept seeing that turret. I’m a coward, Roz. I threw up, when we got out.’
‘No, Paul! You’re not a coward! Night after night over Germany; of course you threw up. What do they think you’re all made of – stone?’
‘That’s it. Stone. That’s what they’d like.’
‘Well, you’re not. You’re all of you flesh and blood. You should go to sick bay tonight and ask for something to help you sleep –’
‘Sick bay? Oh, no. One word, just one whimper, and that’ll be it. Rennie’s cracking up. Rennie’s got a yellow streak. LMF, that’s what his trouble is …’
‘Stop it! I won’t listen! You’re not a coward and you’re not lacking moral fibre!’
‘You try telling that to those bastards. You try telling them that for every steel-nerved hero in Bomber Command, there are ordinary blokes like me and Jock; blokes who are afraid sometimes, and afraid to admit they’re afraid.
‘Try telling the big brass that, Roz. They’d strip us of our rank. We’d be erks again. They’d send us some place where we couldn’t contaminate decent airmen and they’d stamp LMF on our papers. In bloody red ink!’
‘You’re shaking, Paul. You’re cold.’
She wanted to hold him, comfort him; tell him to give it time. She needed him to know that she loved him no less for admitting fear; needed him to realize that she understood the terror of take-off, of sitting dry-mouthed till that overloaded, overfuelled Lancaster was safely airborne.
She remembered that eleventh aircraft. It had been Paul’s, though she hadn’t known it, hadn’t realized they’d been fighting for height and praying the undercarriage hydraulics were all right, knowing that below them, down there in the smug safeness of the control tower, they’d already ordered out the crash crew, the fire engine and the ambulances.
‘Come with me, Paul?’ She saw the haystack ahead. Not that it looked like a stack – just a darker mass, the size of a small cottage. But only this morning she and Kath had cut hay from it to carry out to the far field and she had been happy and relieved because all the Peddlesbury bombers were back. Why hadn’t she felt Paul’s fear? Why hadn’t she been with that eleventh bomber every second of the time it took to land? Why hadn’t she known he’d been in need of her love? ‘We can shelter behind the stack – it’ll be warmer, out of the wind …’
She was coaxing him, speaking to him softly as she would speak to a child awakened from a nightmare. But a child could weep away its fears in its