Storm at Sunset Read online

  Right at that moment treetops appeared below, and Costain seized what might be their only chance. He wrenched the old Dak round on its ear, ripping it down into this convenient valley, desperate not to lose sight of the ground.

  And they came out of the bottom of the storm right on the deck. Rain was still lashing down, and on either side the pilots could see hills reaching threateningly into the overcast. The nav’s head appeared over their shoulders. They hadn’t seen him throughout the event – he’d been too busy hanging on – and in any case wouldn’t have been any use in helping to recover from their spins.

  “Climb, Ted. Look at those hills! You’ll kill us all.”

  “Listen, sunshine, if we’ve lived through that, we’ll live through anything. Just get your map up here and find out where the hell we are. Then give me a course to fly that will get us back to base and keep us clear of cloud and mountains.”

  The nav craned to see out through the windscreens, frantically reading from ground to map. A series of grunts told them he was having extreme difficulty establishing their position. At last came a “whoop”.

  “Okay, got it. We’re over the Baronga Isles. Set course south and that will take us over the sea. Then we’ll work our way around to Ramree from that direction.”

  “Good man.” Ted was grateful for anything that eased the pressure a little.

  Behind them, a clattering from a Morse key told them that their WOp was back on the job, trying to raise base and establish if the weather had blown through and if conditions would permit their approach and landing.

  “How’s Bill?” enquired the skipper. “He hasn’t damaged my aircraft too much, crashing around back there, I hope?”

  The nav glanced back to the WOp’s position. A dirty thumb went up.

  “He’s all right,” said the nav. “A bit dented and bruised, but he’ll live.”

  Keith looked across at the skipper. Incredibly, the pipe was still clenched between his teeth, and he was grinning and humming to himself.

  ****

  Like automatons, they completed their post-flight routine, debriefing the mission with the squadron’s army liaison officer as usual.

  The man was oblivious of their distraction and insistent in completing his routine report. “Enemy opposition?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anything special to note?”

  “Nope. Flew out there. Dropped the loads on the DZ. Flew back.”

  Content with his report, the ALO scuttled off to file it. But, rather than going back to the domestic area for a beer and a rest as would usually have been the case, the sight of his ‘George’ standing on the flight-line drew the skipper back outside. He sat down on a box and filled his pipe. The rain still poured down, but he didn’t stir. He passed a weary hand through his hair, lost in his thoughts.

  The flight commander came by, wondering at one of his pilots sitting, dripping, in the rain.

  “What are you doing, you bloody idiot? You’re getting soaked.”

  Ted pointed to the remains of what had once been his Dakota. Perspex was missing from windows. Holes were showing all over the fuselage where rivets had popped out. Strips of metal skin had been ripped away from the fuselage and wings. The tail-plane was sitting awkwardly, twisted at an unlikely angle. Wing fillets were missing at the junction of wing and fuselage. Groundcrew were poking around the sorry article, bemused.

  “Good grief, man. What the hell happened?”

  Costain recounted the story.

  The flight commander listened intently. He sensed that Ted, for all his outward appearance of calmness, had been thoroughly shocked.

  “The weather’s worse than the enemy out here.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The flight commander knew that it had been the co-pilot’s first operational flight. “How did Smith cope?”

  “Fine. He was fine.”

  “Good. Anyway, we’ll see what the techies have to say.”

  Keith and the nav were hovering. They had discreetly followed the exchange between the skipper and the flight commander. Keith had noted all of them, before the flight, as wizened. Now he could see that none could be much over twenty-two years old. He was beginning to understand the compressed lifetime of flying experience accumulated in the lines that creased their faces.

  CHAPTER 6

  By noon on the following day the squadron was well into its preparation for the move to its new location off to the south west. Flight operations had temporarily been taken over by other units, and all ranks were buckling down to the job of striking camp. Individually, they had few possessions to pack up, but the volume of the squadron’s equipment would still fill all their aircraft and more. Technicians were packing their tools and servicing manuals in stout crates. Storemen were bundling up their supplies. Cooks were dousing their fires and assembling their pots and pans so that they would be ready for instant action at the new base.

  They’d left all their bashas – their self-built, native-style huts – standing. For long experience had taught the men that anything that might come in useful in the future shouldn’t be destroyed. A resigned cynicism told them that the staffs who had directed them to leave Ramree could just as easily return them there next week, so the bashas could stay.

  But they also knew that the jungle would reclaim its own before too long. The feet of the legs holding up the walls of their improvised accommodation had stood, as a protective measure, in cans filled with paraffin, but even that had never been proof against the determined termites for very long. Accidents had occurred regularly, and even their last evening in camp was punctuated by the cries and roars of one group of airmen caught under a collapsing roof. They were used to such hazards and not seriously hurt. Dismissively, and lubricated by stocks of beer that the quartermaster had hoarded for just such a celebratory occasion, they extricated themselves from the rubble and continued with the closing party.

  ****

  Far from either Ramree Island or Tilda, Aircraftman John Haley sat on his meagre bed in the billet at RAF Jodhpur, in north-west India, which he’d shared with eleven others since his arrival there eighteen months previously. His arms clasped around his knees, he once again stared at the draft notice, as though a new look at it might change the message it bore. But no; the scribbled words were still the same. He was posted to number 31 Squadron, whose whereabouts had been left blank on the form. The clerk had told him that they were “somewhere in eastern India or Burma …” and had added, unhelpfully, that they “… seemed to be rather elusive, just now, what with the general chaos over in that direction.” Still, the man had pointed out more optimistically, the movement instruction actually showed Haley reporting initially to Number 5 Personnel Documentation Centre in Calcutta, who would “certainly have a better idea of where the squadron is than I have!” He’d finished by presenting Haley with a rail warrant to Calcutta, before wishing him a cheery “good luck” and ushering him out of the door.

  Tomorrow morning, then, John Haley would be taken by lorry to the rail station and shovelled on board a train heading south-eastwards. The exact opposite from what he’d envisaged those few short weeks ago when they’d all stood and cheered at the news of the end of the war in Europe. Their commanding officer had been at pains to emphasise that there was still fighting in the Far East to be done, and that they shouldn’t automatically assume that they’d all be on their way home soon. But although Haley and his fellow airframe fitters in the aircraft engineering hangar at Jodhpur had heard their CO’s words, they had nevertheless drawn the conclusions they’d wished to draw. That those in the Far East would continue fighting ‘their’ war and that, God willing, the finger of fate wouldn’t single out any Jodhpur people as reinforcements. And each man’s imagined cocoon of invulnerability to unwanted drafts had been strengthened by the glassful as they’d celebrated – in their foreign field – long into their own personal VE night. The fate they dreaded couldn’t happen to them, could it? They’d soon be home i
n the comforting company of their own families, wouldn’t they …?

  And, by and large, the Indian station seemed to escape the worst the staffs could have done. Initially, there was little movement, which was to be expected given that operations in their own area remained much as before. But after a few weeks word began to filter through of occasional early repatriations, and the men’s optimism even began, if anything, to increase. John, in particular, was hopeful that he’d be singled out for good news, for he was now past the half-way point of his nominally three year and four month overseas tour. And, more than that, he’d had a word with his sergeant about a problem which had seemed, over recent time, to have been developing on his personal home front.

  John Haley had been an insurance clerk before the war and had drifted into marriage with a girl in his office. Well, he told himself, maybe not actually drifted. But it had somehow seemed to have been more of a convenient relationship than one with any genuine passion. They weren’t, he had to admit, totally suited. He was grey and steady. She was lively and extrovert. On the odd occasions when he was totally honest with himself he wondered what she’d actually seen in him. And deep down he was pretty sure that she’d not have accepted his proposal had it not been for his overseas posting.

  But accept it she had, and they’d wed hurriedly before he’d left for India. At first her letters, which in wartime conditions were always likely to be intermittent, were warm. But of late he was certain he’d detected a change in their tone, a gradual switch to a more matter-of-fact listing of events in her life at home. And he was dead sure, from noting the number of letters his comrades were getting, that her frequency of writing was reducing too. But he was nothing if not determined, and was clear in his own mind that he needed to get home and do what he could to rekindle the relationship.

  His sergeant had appeared sympathetic, if non-committal. But the man had had no real power to countermand the posting – or even, in the light of the many other cases for early repatriation that were put to him every day, any particularly pressing reason for trying to do so.

  And so it was that John had no option but to make a start on packing his few possessions into his kitbag in preparation for the trip further east. Now he stirred himself from his gloomy stillness and got on with the job. The previous day at this time he’d been sitting quietly watching the sun go down over the barren landscape, enjoying a moment’s peace after his shift and planning his next steps towards marital harmony. Now all that had been taken out of his hands and he was to be transported thousands of miles in the wrong direction. He sighed … and pressed on.

  The following morning saw Haley crammed uncomfortably into a third-class carriage with dozens of other servicemen in a wartime Indian train. It came equipped with wooden ‘toast-rack’ seats and screens in the windows rather than glass. There was lurching discomfort; unplanned and irregular stops; and unbearable heat. After his first visit to the train’s toilet he’d opted to limit his future intake of food and water in order to minimise the subsequent necessity. It had been truly frightful. First, the awkward excuse-me’s as he’d levered himself out of his cramped space and past the sprawled, sleeping or otherwise comatose forms of his fellow travellers. Then the interminable queue for the facility, shuffling occasionally forward but with little discernible progress. Overtaken, occasionally, by desperate individuals who couldn’t wait. On eventually reaching the head of the line he’d almost regretted having achieved the privilege of entering the stinking compartment. Mess everywhere; two foot rests and a grab rail; and a hole in the floor with the track rushing by below. The experience had been thoroughly dreadful.

  The awful train continued its intermittent progress across the plains of central India for what seemed like an eternity, with its helpless passengers eventually achieving a state of cowed submission. On the morning of the fifth day, almost against any remaining expectations they might have had, the train steamed slowly into Calcutta station and ground, with a final jerk and sigh, to a halt. The numbed passengers painstakingly gathered together their meagre bundles and milled helplessly onto the station concourse, meekly waiting to be pushed into whatever direction the system might have in mind for them. Haley, along with what seemed like several thousand others, was herded in the direction of the personnel unit, there to join the inevitable queue.

  “31 Squadron,” he announced to the harassed clerk on eventually reaching the desk. “Aircraftman Haley, J.” He handed over the crumpled memo that served as his posting instruction. The man sorted his way through huge bundles of paper before coming up with a page which, apparently, gave him the answer he was seeking.

  “Yes, 31 Squadron. Not sure exactly where they are right now. Fluid situation. I’m afraid we can’t guarantee to join you up with them immediately, so you’ll be billeted in tented accommodation here for the time being. Here’s the address, and you’ll find a truck in the transport park round the corner which will take you there. Get yourself a bed space, and report daily to the duty sergeant for further instructions. We’ll move you onwards once we have a better idea of where you’re headed for.”

  And with that, John’s ‘welcome’ to Calcutta was over. Wearily, he shouldered his kitbag, and set off in search for his transport.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Bloody hell!”

  A terrifying shriek in their ears and a blur of black feathers. Bodies ducking and flailing from the terrors that had attacked in a maelstrom of talons and wings. Once the creatures had made off, the site of the brief battle was marked by the remains of two slices of bread, their margarine-covered sides down in the dust.

  “Bugger it!” The airman licked a livid scratch on the back of his arm, bemoaning the loss of his breakfast. The kite-hawk, triumphant, had retreated to a nearby treetop to eat the greasy fried egg it had stolen from the owner’s sandwich. Noisy argument continued as it flapped, hopped and dodged, struggling to protect its prize from the remainder of the flock. Its friends and relatives circled aggressively, darting in and out. Scraps fell, individual birds wheeling down to retrieve them before they hit the ground. Once they had finished the airman’s breakfast, the hawk squadron members resumed their watching positions, individuals preening their feathers and spying on the newly-erected canteen from the twisted branches of a copse of scrubby trees. The resident predators in this small corner of Tilda airfield couldn’t believe their luck at the sudden availability of this new and welcome source of sustenance.

  “Bloody shite hawks,” hissed Nobby. “Look at my arm.”

  “You’ll live,” consoled Ray. “You old woman; don’t make such a fuss. Just go back to the kitchen; I’m sure cookie will let you have another egg banjo. And this time, look after it.”

  The field kitchen had been hastily but expertly set up, and within minutes of their arrival had been serving the men their favourite char – tea as brown and thick as varnish. Hot food had been ready soon after, and from that moment the men had been running the gauntlet, plate in one hand, teacup and dessert bowl in the other, as they negotiated the duck-boards from kitchen to mess hall. As soon as the working parties could get down to it, the walkway would sprout a thatched roof with woven bamboo sides and all would be well. For now the boys would have to learn to make themselves less easy prey.

  And they were quick learners. The map on the wall of the squadron operations tent was heavy with the pins which marked the unit’s many locations throughout the war. Primitive and improvised bases, most of them, and the regular moves had taught the airmen how to make themselves quickly comfortable in camp. The men also knew how to survive when disaster struck; cyclones at a Burmese base which had blown down much of their accommodation had been dealt with in short order. Doubling up in bashas, they’d had the place up and running again within a day.

  So kite hawks wouldn’t stop them for long, and the more enterprising amongst them were already experimenting with ways to control the population of airborne scavengers around the camp. Fishing rods and lines with meat-baited ho
oks which seemed to snare birds as easily as fish were already proving effective, and would also provide amusement for airmen always on the lookout for new sport to occupy them.

  Following the reduction in pace from the squadron’s former high tempo of operations, the boys were anxious for pastimes to fill their off-duty hours. They’d already ventured out to the local villages in search of entertainment and additional treats to supplement their rations. There, they’d watched the local blacksmith fashioning kukri knives out of old truck leaf springs and had bought souvenirs. They’d enjoyed duck egg omelettes at roadside stalls and had found the atmosphere generally friendly. But they’d been wary of straying far from the camp area after dark, and had also instantly become suspicious of local traders selling melons, after one or two locals had been seen injecting them with syringes filled with ditch water to increase the weight of the fruit.

  They looked forward to their beer ration, which was issued once or twice a month, but the Canadians and Australians amongst their complement were less keen on the warm British offering. They particularly envied the American squadrons in the east who, rumour had it, were well supplied with cold beer and ice cream, and they did what they could to improve their lot. One popular move, as explained by Ken, was to take their beer bottles flying to cool them.

  “What are you doing, skip?” Nobby Clark was watching intently as the Canadian wrapped the bottles carefully in a couple of empty jute bags which had previously held mule feed. Ken was soaking the package liberally with water and securing it to the outside of the cockpit window.

  “Evaporation, my boy. Didn’t they teach you anything at that English school of yours? The beer will cool quite well in the airstream anyway, but the evaporation of the water will double the effect. When it’s cold, even your British muck tastes almost reasonable, and after we land I’m going to enjoy a lovely cool pint while the rest of you are choking on your usual warm rubbish. Ain’t that the way to do it, Ray?” Ken looked for confirmation towards his Aussie co-pilot.