Killing Ground (16 page)

Today he had been standing frustrated by a deserted taxi rank when the lance-corporal had offered him a lift. He had barely stopped talking since they had joined the Portsmouth Road and headed inland towards the village where Howard's father lived.

It had been over a year since Howard had been here on leave and he was still trying to come to terms with the undertones of war which had changed almost everything. Hotels, once so popular with holidaymakers visiting Southsea and the Isle of Wight, were now billets and stores for the military. There were checkpoints everywhere, barbed-wire barriers and protective banks of sandbags around some of the buildings. More sinister, he thought, were the little newspaper stalls and tourist information huts with their faded posters and shuttered windows. He had supposed they were shut “for the duration” until he had seen them close to, when his driver had been forced to slow down by a column of tanks crossing the road.

The huts were fake. Underneath their disguises they were solid concrete blockhouses from which machine-guns could cover the road with cross-fire. They were even here in the countryside, painted with camouflage or disguised as farm outbuildings. Like the tall poles poised in the fields to prevent aircraft or gliders from landing, they were a true reminder of the ever-present danger and threat of invasion, as was the fact that the nearest enemy airfield was less than ninety miles from this pleasant stretch of deserted road.

Howard thought of the grim newspaper headlines, the so-called strategic withdrawals in North Africa. What a familiar ring they had.
Would
the enemy ever come here?

He glanced at his companion, the crumpled khaki battle-dress, the youthful intentness on his face as he roared around a shallow bend and braked hard to avoid a marching squad of soldiers. A pleasant, homely youth, the sort you saw on the news-reels giving a hopeful thumbs-up before some disaster or other. What would he and his friends make of the battle-hardened Panzers and Wehrmacht, he wondered.

“Where are you from?”

He darted him a quick glance. “Bradford, sir—can't you tell?” He grinned broadly. “Th' Riviera of the North!”

“How long have you been in the Army?”

The grin remained. “Ah, sir, I can't tell thee that! Careless talk, you know!”

Howard smiled and thought of the one telephone call he had made to the ship. Marrack distant and self-assured, enjoying total power. “Nothing to bother about, sir. Just chaos, that's all. If you don't bolt everything down it vanishes. Poor old Gunner (T) even lost his spare dentures!”

Howard leaned forward and said, “Here it is, coming up on the left.” His mouth had gone quite dry, as if he was afraid of what he might find.

The lance-corporal looked doubtfully at the narrow lane which led off the main road. “Tight squeeze, sir!”

“This will do fine.” He glanced at two figures in battledress similar to the driver's; until they turned round. Each had a large coloured disc or diamond stitched to his clothing. “Who are they, for God's sake?”

The driver watched him curiously. “Eye-ties, sir. Prisoners of war left over from the desert, when we were chasing
them
for a change!” He took it for granted, and Howard was now the stranger here.

He explained, “The trusted ones work on the land, y'see, sir. Big shortage of proper farmhands. They're even after our lasses if they get half a chance. One of our lads found his missus in bed with one when he popped home unexpected!”

Howard tried to come to grips with it. “What happened?”

The huge grin reappeared like the Cheshire Cat's. “The Eye-tie's in hospital, our bloke is in th' glasshouse! Worth it though, I'll bet!”

Howard groped for his bag and heard the tins rattle together. He pulled out one of them and handed it to the soldier. “Duty-frees. Thanks for the lift.” He climbed down and walked into the lane, knowing that the unknown soldier was still staring after him. It seemed an age before the lorry's engine revved up again and left the lane in silence.

He stopped suddenly and stared at the house. Exactly as
he had remembered it; cherished it. Seventeenth century—well, some of it anyway, but all of it very old. As a child he had frightened himself in his bed when the wind had moaned around its eaves, picturing the press-gangs marching through the night, or some felon hanging from the gibbet which had given its name to the hill outside the village.

The two POWs were inside the garden discussing things with his father. Of course, he spoke fluent Italian; or had once. Another picture formed in Howard's mind like an old photograph, he and his brother on holiday in Venice, his father in a white suit and panama hat. The locals had admired the Englishman with the one eye and single arm.
Capitano,
they had called him. Howard felt the bitterness again. But the Italians had been their allies in the war which had done that to his father.

At the moment the Guvnor looked up, his eye squinting in the bright sunshine. He hurried towards him, his arm outstretched. “Good to see you, David!” He hugged him warmly. “So
bloody
good!”

Howard looked across at the two Italians. “What are they doing here?”

“Helping
me,
of course.” He sounded surprised. Like the lance-corporal. “But never mind that, my boy, come inside and tell me all about it.” The bright gaze moved over him, missing nothing. The strain, the tightness around the mouth. The youth which had gone forever.

He seemed to notice a bicycle beside the front door for the first time. “Almost forgot. Something quite extraordinary has happened today. Better come in and be introduced.”

It seemed fresh and cool after the lorry and the dust. The furniture was a bit more battered, the pictures on the walls not as straight as they might be. But the living room with its oak beams, and fresh flowers in the great fireplace where they had sat as children with their dreams, were as welcoming as ever.

Howard realised with a start that there was a young woman beside a window, her features lost in shadow behind the sun's
probing rays.

She came to meet him and held out her hand. He thought about it afterwards. She had met him halfway. On equal terms. “I'm very sorry to do this to you, Commander Howard. I didn't know it was your first day home.”

He released her hand and watched her as she turned towards his father. Younger than he had first thought; in her early twenties, with short brown hair, and eyes which might be green if he could see them properly. She was dressed in an old tweed hacking jacket and corduroy trousers. A green headscarf which she must have been wearing on the road lay across the sofa. He also noticed the RAF brooch, like a pilot's wings, on one lapel, and that she wore a wedding ring.

The Guvnor murmured, “I'll lay on some tea, unless—” He fixed Howard with his eye. “Something stronger perhaps?”

Howard felt lost. “Stronger for me.” He faced the girl again. “What about you?”

She smiled, but only briefly. “I shouldn't be here. No—I think I
will
have a drink.” She looked at his father. “A sherry perhaps?”

What could she want? How could she possibly know when he was due here? He thought of the soldier's quip about careless talk. Somebody must be doing quite a bit of that.

He waited for her to sit on the sofa, then pulled out his pipe and pouch. Like those times on the bridge. Faced with the unanswerable question. Needing the time to fashion his observations. She looked up at him and in the cooler light he saw the tiredness in her eyes. Someone who had been and still was under pressure. She was very withdrawn, wanting only to accomplish her mission and leave.

She took the glass from his father and Howard saw that her hand shook slightly. It made her apparent composure a lie.

His father stared at him. “I've got to tell the chaps what I want digging.” He did not wink, but he might easily have done so. “I'll leave you to some privacy.” Then he was gone and they heard the excited chatter of Italian from the garden.

“A lovely man.” She sipped her sherry. “You see, I thought my letter had gone astray, or that you might not wish to see me.”

He frowned. “What letter?”

She took a deep breath. “I'm Celia Kirke. My home is over in Chichester.”

“And you cycled all this way?”

“Hardly. I borrowed the bike from an oppo in Pompey.” She watched him as he crossed to the table where his father kept letters ready for forwarding to his two sons. No wonder he had kept this one. It was stamped with some official-looking numbers and dates, and had been signed for.

She said abruptly, “I'll tell you, now that you're here.” She sounded less confident. Troubled. “I was in the Wrens.” She stared at her glass. “I was stationed at HMS
Daedalus,
the naval air station at Lee-on-Solent. Where I first met Jamie.”

Howard nodded. It explained her familiarity with things naval; her casual use of Pompey, slang for Portsmouth.

She was gripping the stem of her glass with both hands, and a lock of hair fell across her forehead unheeded.

She said in the same contained voice, “He was a squadron-leader in the RAF. He was attached to the Fleet Air Arm as an instructor.” Her chin lifted as if with pride. “He had been a fighter pilot in the Battle of Britain.”

Howard sat down opposite her and wished the sun was not so strong in his eyes. So her husband, Jamie, was dead.
Bought it,
as they said in all three services. Casually uttered to keep up the pretence and hold back the fear you might be the next one.

She looked at him with sudden despair. “I'm not making any sense, am I?”

Howard stared at his unlit pipe. “Where exactly do I come in, Mrs Kirke?”

“My husband was a fine pilot; everyone looked up to him, until—” She hesitated. “They told him he was grounded for good, that he would stay as an instructor, but not in the air.”

“He must have hated that.”

She did not hear him. “Then there was this signal. Asking for volunteers. Pilots, anyone who could stay airborne and was mad enough to do it.”

“How old was your husband?”

She eyed him steadily. “Thirty-one. Older than most. Flying was his
life.
Perhaps I didn't realise it before—” She broke off and gave a small shrug. “Catapult aircraft merchant ships, CAM for short.” She saw his instant response and added, “Yes, Jamie was the Hurricane pilot aboard the CAM ship on your convoy to Russia.”

Howard stared at her. “How did you discover all this?”

“Jamie's mechanic came to see me afterwards …”

The picture thrust into his mind. The Hurricane rising and dipping, pouring smoke as it headed towards them.
Tail-end Charlie.

She said, “He explained that it was your ship Jamie was making for—you know, how they're taught to do. I just wanted to see you, to find out.” She wiped her cheek with her knuckles as if angry that she might break down. “You see, we'd had a row. The last time we were together.” She spoke faster now. “I didn't want it to end like that.”

Howard moved across and sat beside her without looking at her. He could feel her tension, her sudden guard as if she expected him … “Yes, I saw him go, Mrs Kirke. He was trying to reach us, although I think he must have been dead already when the plane hit the sea.” Then he did turn his head to look at her. “I'm very sorry, but there's little more I can tell you. The Hurricane blew up. There was nothing.”

“Thank you. I had to speak to the man who might have saved him, had there been a chance.” She gazed at him for several seconds. “Now I've met you, I know there
was
no chance for him.”

The Guvnor entered with a tray of plates but she stood up and shook her head. “No, I must go now. But thank you.” She faced Howard again. “Both of you.”

He followed her out of the house and waited while she put
some clips around her corduroy trousers. Even the old and shabby clothing could not hide her attraction—perhaps it too was another sort of defence. He wondered what that last argument had been about.

She began to push the bicycle towards the gate. The two POWs were careful to avert their eyes but were probably watching all the same.

“What will you do now?”

She glanced at the clear sky. Looking, remembering, perhaps, when it had been filled with criss-crossing vapour trails, and schoolboys had shot each other down until luck deserted them. Like Jamie's.

“I shall go back in the Wrens.” There was no sort of doubt there, but Howard had seen her resistance almost break in the quiet, cool room. It was another side to the war. He had written to the parents of men who had been lost at sea, killed in action. He had even attended a couple of funerals because there had been nobody else. But this seemed more personal because he had shared it, and because of some unknown RAF mechanic he was a part of it.

“Perhaps we shall meet again some time?”

She looked at him. Her eyes
were
green, keeping him at a distance.

“Well, you know the Navy. Maybe we will.” She mounted the bicycle and tightened the headscarf under her chin.

She added, “Take care of yourself, Commander Howard.”

He was taken aback by the old-fashioned way she said it. More like a mother speaking to her son than a young girl.

He called after her, “If ever you need …” But she was already out of earshot.

The Guvnor had joined him in the sunlight and said quietly, “Poor kid. She thinks she killed him, you see.”

Howard stared at him. “He didn't stand a chance!”

“I've known men go like that. A letter, a rumour maybe, and you see death on his face. Mister Mills will tell you. It was the
same in the trenches.” He put his arm round him and added, “Try to forget it. I want to hear all about
Gladiator
and the bloody Russians!”