The FitzOsbornes at War (22 page)

15th August, 1940

Dear Soph and Veronica,

Don’t worry, it wasn’t our aerodrome that got bombed to bits. Not that the Germans haven’t had a bloody good go at us, as well as practically every other airfield along the coast, but we’re holding up all right. Sorry not to have written earlier, but it’s been pretty busy. Three, even four, sorties each day, and then they make us write
reports.
Well, they try to, but mostly I can’t be bothered. I’m always getting into trouble for that.

Hard to believe we’ve only been at this for a few weeks. That first real battle seems years ago. I remember jabbing my thumb on the firing button and the whole plane shuddering, then sheer, overwhelming astonishment as I realised I’d hit something – that an actual Luftwaffe fighter was breaking up before my eyes, flipping over, hurtling towards the ground. I just stared at it, for whole seconds, watching the smoke spiral down, holding my breath, waiting for the crash. Then I happened to notice a line of little sparks winking their way towards me and thought, ‘Oh, right, there’s still another dozen Messerschmitts up here, and those pilots are probably a bit annoyed at me now.’ So I flung myself out of the way of that lot, dodged a few more, wheeled about, fired off a couple of rounds, dived through a bank of clouds – and suddenly there was no one there. Just endless sky. So unexpectedly peaceful, so strange, as though I were the last man left in the world. But I was out of ammunition, and nearly out of fuel, so I turned round and limped back home (those little sparks turned out to be bullets and tore a hole in my wing, but missed the engine, so no real harm done).

Since then, our squadron’s shot down nine fighters and two bombers, or that’s what we claim. Hard to tell for sure, when it’s such a blur up there most of the time. One thing, though – and don’t tell him this – I am so glad Simon’s out of it. He thinks too much, and this sort of thing relies on sharp reflexes and pure instinct. He’s better off where he is, at HQ, trying to get us all organised. Mind you, if he gets promoted above me, we’ll never hear the end of it. I might have to pull rank and start making him call me ‘Your Majesty’.

Sorry, I’m falling asleep. Will try to enclose a note for Henry before I send this off. Please pass on a bowdlerised version of this to Aunt C, as I haven’t had a chance to write to her, and please do keep writing to
me,
even if I’m the world’s worst correspondent! Don’t know when I’ll get any leave, not sure when I’ll see you next.

All my love,

Toby

31st August, 1940

T
HE AIR RAID SIRENS HAVE
gone off, again, and we’re down in the cellar, and I’m crouched on the end of our bunk, writing this by the swaying light of the single electric bulb. I already had a stabbing headache, and the dank, stale air down here is only making it worse. It’s been an absolutely awful day, and all the signs are that it will be an awful night, too.

I suppose it’s just that we’re so exhausted. They’ve only dropped a few bombs on London so far, and none close to us. But each night, there’s the interrupted sleep; the effort of dragging our bedding down two flights of stairs in the blackout every time the siren goes off; the uneasy feeling that this really isn’t anything much to complain about, that it’s all going to get much, much worse. Veronica and I debate each night whether we should just stay upstairs in our flat, but we did promise the ARP warden – and Aunt Charlotte.

She and Henry went back to Milford this afternoon, after our disastrous family luncheon at Claridge’s. I’d been
so
looking forward to it – Toby had twenty-four hours’ leave, and Simon managed to swap duties with someone else, so that, for once, he could come into town on a Saturday. But Aunt Charlotte had spent the whole morning, and most of the previous day, dragging Henry round the shops to buy school supplies, so was in a foul mood. And then Toby was nearly an hour late, providing her with ample time to harangue each of us in turn. Why did my hat look as though someone had sat upon it? Where were my gloves, and why didn’t I have my hair pinned up neatly, instead of letting it sprout all over the place? Surely a girl who sneaked off to stay with Julia Whittingham ought to have developed a better idea of how to dress, for wasn’t that the one thing Julia was
good
at? Then Aunt Charlotte turned upon Veronica, who’d been seen brazenly holding hands with a known Bolshevik in the middle of Kensington Gardens.

‘Spotted by Lady Bosworth, I presume,’ said Veronica. ‘Perhaps she could use her extraordinary surveillance skills for something helpful, like tracking German planes.’

‘Oh, I’m sure this is all very amusing for you
now
, Veronica, but wait a few years, until you’re on the verge of turning into an old maid and are desperate to find a husband!
Then
you’ll wish you’d taken more care of your reputation!’ Aunt Charlotte was getting crosser by the second. ‘And as for that
job
of yours! Jaunting about the Continent, when there are so many worthwhile tasks you could be doing at Milford!’

‘What, like bullying old ladies into handing over their only frying pan for salvage?’ said Veronica. ‘Or lecturing villagers about how they’re not allowed to toss an old chop bone to their dog any more?’

Aunt Charlotte, who’d made a point of wearing her bottle-green WVS uniform (though with a non-regulation and very expensive suede hat), bristled at this. ‘Bones, as you well know, can be made into glycerine, which is needed for explosives,’ she snapped. ‘
And
they can be turned into glue, which holds together the very aeroplanes that are protecting this nation! It may be just an old chop bone to you, Veronica, but that’s not how our brave young pilots see it . . . Oh, now, where
is
Tobias? I did tell him he ought to let Simon Chester make his own way here. And that’s another thing –’

And she was off on a rant about how ridiculously expensive Rebecca’s clinic was, and how the best therapy for all those so-called ‘patients’ would be for them to do an honest day’s work in a munitions factory. Meanwhile, Henry was bouncing up and down in her seat at the prospect of seeing Toby again.

‘Have you been listening to the wireless? Have you, Sophie? Those dogfights over Kent, oh boy, are we
showing
those Nazis! Did you hear yesterday’s score? Eighty-three of theirs shot down, and
we
only lost twenty-five!’

‘So
many
people could be doing so much
more
for their country,’ said Aunt Charlotte, her furious gaze swivelling about the room like an anti-aircraft gun in search of a target. ‘I mean, just look at that young man over there, the one by the window. Why isn’t
he
in uniform?’

So it was with great relief that I finally caught sight of Simon and Toby in the doorway. ‘Oh, here they are!’ I cried, and everyone, even complete strangers, turned to smile at the two handsome young men in RAF blue making their way towards our table. But as they drew closer, my heart sank. Simon looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, Toby had lost an alarming amount of weight, and it was clear the two of them had been arguing. They slumped into their seats with a few muttered words of greeting, and none at all of apology for their lateness.

‘Did you go flying this morning, Toby?’ said Henry. ‘Or did you have the whole morning off?’

Toby propped his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, and stared blankly at the menu.

‘Still, even if you left
very
early, I expect it would take ages to drive all the way from Sussex,’ said Henry, beaming her forgiveness at him. He didn’t appear to notice.

‘Yes, I do hope they give you pilots extra petrol coupons for your motor cars,’ said Aunt Charlotte, favouring Toby with her fondest, most indulgent look. ‘It’s
so
important that those serving in the forces can get away for visits to their family.’

‘Well, it’s not so much that they
give
us petrol,’ said Toby, glancing up at last. ‘More that there’s so much of it lying about the airfield that no one notices when some goes missing.’

Aunt Charlotte pretended she hadn’t heard that. ‘Well!’ she said brightly. ‘So, Tobias, what are you having for luncheon? Goodness, all these new food regulations make ordering so complicated, don’t they? Only one main course permitted to be served at each meal . . . But Tobias, dear, you must order the lamb, a man
needs
red meat.’

‘I’ll have the chicken,’ Toby told the waiter, although when it arrived, he did no more than prod at it with his fork.

‘Don’t you like it?’ said Henry. ‘You can have my fish, if you want.’

‘I’m just not very hungry,’ Toby said. He did, however, drink most of a bottle of wine that some old gentleman sent over to our table in appreciation of ‘the courageous job you lads are doing up in the skies’.

‘
Everyone
thinks what you’re doing is wonderful,’ said Henry. ‘Did you hear Mr Churchill on the wireless? “Never in the field of . . . something . . . was so much owed by so many to so few.”’

‘Must have been talking about our drinks bills,’ said Toby.

‘
No
, he was talking about how brave you are, and how you fighter pilots are the only ones who can stop the invasion! It’s like knights in shining armour going into battle, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ Toby said flatly.

‘Yes! You’re heroes facing the hordes of –’

‘Henrietta,’ said Aunt Charlotte sharply. ‘Stop chattering, and finish your food before it goes cold.’

‘All
right
,’ she said, but she obediently applied herself to her plate.

Unfortunately, no one else was having any success at keeping a conversation going. Aunt Charlotte, after numerous attempts at drawing Toby out, turned to Simon to enquire about interest rates and war bonds, although his replies were so perfunctory that she soon gave up. Veronica started to talk about the newspaper reports of Oswald Mosley living a life of luxury in prison, but lost interest halfway through and trailed off. Meanwhile, I was darting anxious glances at Toby, trying not to feel hurt that he was ignoring me. But it was a bizarre situation, I acknowledged that. The men who’d fought in the Crusades, or the Napoleonic Wars, or even in the trenches of the last war, hadn’t been able to take the day off to meet up with family and friends. But here we all were, having luncheon in a grand hotel. It made war seem so normal, so much a part of regular, everyday life. And yet, just
look
at what it had done to my brother. He was unshaven; there were dark circles, almost bruises, around his eyes; his whole body twitched when a waiter dropped a spoon on the table. And Simon looked almost as bad . . . But Henry had started in on
him
now.

‘What is it you actually
do
, Simon? I mean, at Fighter Command HQ? Or aren’t you allowed to say?’

‘He bosses us pilots around,’ said Toby with a humourless smile. ‘Don’t you, Simon?’

‘That’s right,’ said Simon. ‘Not that
you
ever pay much attention to orders.’

‘Oh,’ said Henry. ‘Well, I suppose it’s an important job, whatever it is. Still, it must be annoying for you, Simon, being left out of the action. Gosh, it must be thrilling, getting to shoot down Nazis –’

At that, Toby let his fork fall with a clatter. ‘You want to know what it’s like?’ he said.

‘No, actually, we
don’t
,’ said Simon quickly. ‘Sophie! How’s your job going?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said Toby, shoving his plate out of the way and leaning across the table. ‘It’s exhausting and nerve-wracking and bloody terrifying. The first time I landed after coming under fire, the ground crew had to prise me out of the cockpit because all my muscles had seized up. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t talk, I was drenched in sweat, they had to drag me into the dispersal hut.’