I'll Be Seeing You (17 page)

‘My husband thinks we should invite some of the crews over one evening, Daisy – that it's the very least we can do. Could you ask Flight Lieutenant Dimmock about it? See what he thinks?'

‘How many would you want, Mrs Layton?'

‘We've got room for thirty people or so at a time, perhaps even more. I was thinking of sandwiches and beer, if we can cope. You'd help, wouldn't you, Daisy?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Poor things, it's been going so badly for them. I've been counting the planes when they go off and when they come back and there's always some missing.'

At briefings, the leather-jacketed rows listened hard to every word, every instruction given, every warning that might help save their lives: flak concentrations, enemy fighters, coastal defences, bad weather. At Interrogation, after the missions, Daisy sat at a desk beside the flight lieutenant ready to pass on any useful information gleaned from the American bomber crews to the RAF, or to Air Sea Rescue if co-ordinates were known for a ditched bomber. A B-17 could float for quite a while and give its crew time to get out and into the dinghy – if they were lucky. Some were, but an awful lot of them weren't.

Sandy Dimmock thought the Laytons' invitation was a good idea, so did the base commanding officer. A notice went up in the Officers' Club.

The Americans arrived early in the evening. They seemed unusually subdued and rather ill at ease, as though they weren't sure what was expected of them. The Laytons did their best. There was no talk of the war at all and Daisy could hear Mrs Layton telling a group of them about the annual flower show in the village. They were listening politely as if it was the most interesting thing they'd ever heard.

‘We have vegetables as well as flowers,' Mrs Layton was explaining brightly. ‘Different classes for different kinds, you see. The judge chooses the best potatoes, or onions, or carrots . . . and there's a small prize for the winner. And there's a Homecraft Section for the best cake, or jam, or chutney – though, of course, that's not quite so easy with the rationing, but it's wonderful what people can manage these days, isn't it?'

The Americans, whose business was death and destruction, all nodded their heads. One, whom she remembered from the Mad Monk, detached himself from the group and came up to her. He seemed to have aged ten years since she'd last seen him.

‘Hi, there, Daisy. How're you doing?'

‘All right, thanks.'

‘Say, this is real nice to be asked into an English home. First time ever for me. Are we behaving OK?'

‘Impeccably.'

Mrs Layton had moved on to the Handicraft Competition – knitting, crochet, patchwork, embroidery. Two more Americans wandered over and he introduced them.

‘This is Lieutenant Grossman and Lieutenant Hamilton.'

The best conversation opener, she had learned, was to ask where they came from. It seemed to matter to them, far more than to any English person who would wonder why on earth you wanted to know. The first one came from Pennsylvania, the second from California and she definitely remembered noticing him before – at the Mad Monk, at briefings and interrogations and in the Officers' Club. He'd been staring quite a bit, but this was the first time he'd spoken to her.

She was shaky about where some of the American states were located, but she knew that Pennsylvania was east and that California was way out west – the final destination of the covered wagons and the rush for gold. He looked easily tough enough to have made that journey himself – to have handled the Indians, the Rockies, the snakes, the wild beasts, the heat, the cold. Eyes of steel. Strong features.

He offered a cigarette and lit it for her. ‘Are you liking us any better now?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, I guess we take some getting used to, and it seems to me you've been finding it pretty hard going. But this evening you're looking as though you might give us an even chance.'

‘I'm thinking about it.'

‘That's nice. I was afraid you were just being polite.'

‘I am. Mr and Mrs Layton want you to feel at home.'

‘It's good of them. I wouldn't have any of us guys over the threshold. Most of us don't know how to behave in decent company.'

‘I've noticed that.'

He said, ‘You should do that more often, you know.'

‘Do what?'

‘Smile – like you did just then. Usually you only do it to us when you know we might not be coming back. Or when we've come back and you didn't expect it.'

She flushed. ‘I'll try to remember not to smile at
you
next time.'

‘Hell, don't do that – I look forward to it. Every time.' He drew on his cigarette. ‘Where are you from in England?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘I guess not. I was just asking.'

‘London – well, a suburb of London.'

‘I was in London in '36 but only for a couple of days, then I went off to the Continent.'

‘On holiday?'

‘Kind of. I could see there was a war coming and I wanted to get to see the places I'd only read about before it started.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘Paris, Rome, Florence, Berlin.'

‘Lucky you! I've never been to any of those. In fact, I've never been abroad at all. Goodness knows when I will now.'

‘I go all the time,' he said. ‘But I don't recommend the trip.'

She caught his meaning. ‘I'm sure you don't.'

Mrs Layton came up. ‘Daisy, could you be a dear and do some more sandwiches? We seem to be running out.'

‘Need some help?' he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.'

‘Make any headway?' Gene asked.

He watched her moving away. The corners of his mouth twitched in a slow smile. ‘I think she's thinking about it.'

The evening was judged a success and the Laytons let it be known that their home was now open house for any of the crews who felt like getting away from the base for an hour or two in the evenings. They came, hesitantly, in ones and twos to begin with, and stayed to play cards, or chess, or backgammon, or read books, or to listen to records on the gramophone. They brought American recordings with them and played them over and over again. ‘Paper Doll', ‘Deep Purple', ‘Moonlight Serenade', ‘Green Eyes', ‘I'll be Seeing You'.

Gradually more men turned up, and still more, and Daisy was given the job of limiting the numbers so things didn't get too crowded. At first they kept to the sitting room, but then they took to wandering into the kitchen. They brought presents for Mrs Layton – tins of food and chocolate which she tried in vain to refuse – cigarettes and Scotch whisky for Mr Layton which he didn't, and presents for the children: toys that they'd made themselves and American candy. And they brought photos to show. Photos of girlfriends and parents and brothers and sisters back home, and sometimes, if they were older men, of their wives and their own children. Daisy came to know names: lieutenant this and captain that and major the other became Gene and Frank and Buzz and Charlie and Budd. And Lieutenant Hamilton became Ham.

He asked her if she was still thinking.

‘Thinking about what?'

‘Whether you like us Yanks any better.'

‘You're not so bad,' she said coolly. ‘Some of you.'

He called by her office one day on some flimsy pretext. He knew that he hadn't fooled her for a moment, though she gave him the information he'd asked for very politely. He'd been going to ask her out – to what they called the pictures, or maybe to have dinner if he could find anywhere to take her – but he could tell that she was going to refuse. Turn him down flat. He wasn't used to being given the brush-off, in fact he couldn't remember it ever happening to him. What the hell, anyway? There were plenty more girls around.

There was a dance in the Officers' Club. As Sandy Dimmock pointed out to her, it was their sacred duty to attend and to help drink the booze. He escorted her faithfully – two lone blue RAF uniforms afloat in a sea of American olive drab.

She danced every dance – doing her sacred duty. The station band was wonderful and the Yanks were good dancers; it wasn't too much of a penance.

Lieutenant Hamilton was there, dancing with a succession of other girls. She was a bit surprised, and just a mite put out, that he never asked her.

The Red Cross girl was busy telling him all over again what great guys they were, and boring the pants off him. He didn't bother to answer – just went on dancing. He could see the English WAAF dancing with the CO and being charming to him, smiling and laughing at whatever he was saying. He steered the Red Cross girl in that direction, passing close by, but without looking at the WAAF. She didn't look at him either but she noticed him all right – he was damn sure of that.

When he went by her table at the end of the next mission briefing, Daisy looked away quickly and then back in time to smile at his co-pilot, his navigator and his bombardier, following after. They were chalking up the missions and they had a reputation as a top-class crew – one that never turned back, always got through, always bombed on target. She'd been right about their captain being a tough guy.

It was Hamburg this time and it wouldn't be a milk run. Swarms of Luftwaffe fighters, a fiercely defended target, poor weather. She stared out of her office window. The ground crews were hanging around, sweating it out, practising baseball throws, looking at watches, searching the skies. She kept thinking that because she hadn't smiled at him, he wouldn't come back and it would be all her fault. She'd cast an unlucky spell, like the chop girl who acts as a jinx and always brings doom.

Sandy Dimmock wandered in, leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and started telling her about his own Hamburg ops – the flak and fighters, crossing the North Sea on three engines, coming back on a wing and a prayer. She tried not to listen. After a while, she saw the ground crews stop tossing the baseball around and start running, and, at the same time, she heard the sound of the first of the B-17s returning.

The flight lieutenant levered himself off the wall and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Better get down to Interrogation.'

From her desk she watched the first crew come into the hut. From the look on their faces she could see that it had been a very shaky do. It showed in their eyes and in the way hands trembled as they lit their cigarettes, long before they said a word. The next crew came in, and the next, and then another, sitting, in turn, round the tables giving their reports to the interrogation officers. The flak had been ferocious, the enemy fighters had gone for them in howling packs, three B-17s had been seen going down in flames, one had ditched later in the middle of the North Sea. She passed on the co-ordinates to Air Sea Rescue.

His was the very last crew to come in and, by then, she had given up all hope. He walked in and paused by her table to light a cigarette. He did it slowly and deliberately, with hands that were rock steady. As he thumbed the lighter shut, he lifted his head and looked down at her. This time she smiled.

Briefing was at 0230 hours – the middle of the night – and the target was the lock gates at La Pallice on the Atlantic coast of France where the Germans had constructed U-boat pens. There were fresh eggs for breakfast before – same as guys got given who were going to be executed – and twenty minutes to eat them before biking over to the briefing room. It was already light by the time Hamilton and his crew took the truck out to their plane, the sun coming up, the sky clear, the temperature pleasant. He thought, what a hell of a way to spend a nice day, sealed up in a tin can being shot at. They racketed round the peri track to the hardstand where
Miss Laid
was waiting for them, the painted lady sprawled seductively along the fuselage wearing high heels and nothing else. He'd often wondered whether the Luftwaffe fighter pilots had time to appreciate American nose art as they zoomed in for the kill.

He chucked his parachute pack up through the nose hatch and swung himself after it, Gene following. While the rest of the crew settled themselves they went through the checklist and started up the engines. A green flare from the control tower and they rolled out onto the peri track to join the other Forts taxiing round to the start of the runway. While he waited his turn to take off, he and Gene both stood on the brakes, and he eased into full throttles with his right hand surrounding the four levers, his left hand holding the wheel – all engines roaring.
Miss Laid
shook like a belly dancer. Every take-off was an adventure. A B-17 heavily laden with bombs, fuel, ammunition and men always took to the air sulkily and sometimes not at all, which was usually curtains for the crew. Their turn finally, and he nodded to Gene to release the brakes. They surged forward. Cliff, standing behind, was calling out the air speed for him. ‘Sixty-five . . . seventy . . . seventy-five . . . eighty . . . eighty-five . . . ninety . . .' He pulled back the wheel and released it, testing the lift on the wings.
Miss Laid
did a couple of cock-teasing bounces. ‘Ninety-five . . . one hundred . . . one-o-five . . .' It was lap-of-the-gods time. Engine failure, prop wash from the guy ahead, running out of runway, could all screw them. ‘Hundred twenty . . . hundred twenty-five . . .' He nursed the bomber off the runway, skimming the ground and the tree tips beyond.

‘Wheels up.'

Gene hit the switch. ‘Wheels coming up.'

‘Wing flaps up.' They climbed faster and higher. He looked down at the English fields and the woods and the farms and the cottages, all laid out peacefully in the morning sunshine. They'd started harvesting and he could see sheaves of wheat stooked against each other. The idyllic scene slipped away beneath the wings. Gene and Cliff had their eyes wide open, necks swinging on the lookout for other aircraft on a collision course. At the rallying point, he slid into formation, wing tip to wing tip with the other bombers so that no fighter could dive between them. They turned towards France.