Chapter Eleven: March, 1945, RAF Minton
Dawn had barely breached the horizon, yet RAF Minton was already a frenzy of activity. A night raid on western Germany, whilst successful in taking out its targets, had seen squadrons returning home with around one hundred Junkers 88s on their tails. Crossing the English coast just after midnight, the Ju 88s infiltrated returning bomber streams and shot down at least two dozen aircraft. When the scram order was given, Minton went to emergency protocol and immediately prepared to take incoming craft. All personnel worked through the early hours, the sky above punctuated by gunfire and explosions, a man-made thunderstorm that ravaged the tranquillity of the cool, English spring night.
Damaged Lancasters and Halifaxes spluttered down onto Minton’s runway and limped to a stop as soon as they cleared it, so that others could land. Crews were pulled to safety, shell-shocked but most having suffered only minor injuries. Those with more serious injuries were immediately transported to the hospital. Miraculously, all of the airmen who landed at Minton survived, although there were reports of crashes along the entire east coast, and, in fact, a Lancaster had crash-landed near the disused hangars that only a year ago had been Arty and Jim’s secret meeting place.
Now a sergeant, Arty and his men—the aircraft maintenance crew and six technicians in training—were put in charge of the newly installed FIDO. It consisted of two pipelines, running the length of the runway, into which petrol was pumped from three large tanks. It was a highly effective though fuel-thirsty system, which ensured damaged bombers were able to land in any weather conditions. At 0100 hours, Arty’s crew opened the valves and started the pumps, although it was Jean and Charlie who drove along the runway to ignite the fuel pipes, and then remained close by in case they burned out at any point during the three-hour emergency landing operation.
By first light the FIDO had long been extinguished and there had been no landings since 0415, yet the air remained thick and heavy with fuel and exhaust fumes. With one last check that the pumps and pipelines were clear, Arty sent his men to get some rest and wandered over to join Jean and Charlie, who were sitting on the back of a wagon parked twenty yards or so from the runway, both having a smoke. Arty’s head was banging, and it felt like his cap had suddenly shrunk by two sizes.
“How are you doing, Art?” Charlie greeted him.
“Not bad. You?”
“Same, aye.” Charlie subtly shifted his head in Jean’s direction. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was pale and drawn. Charlie jumped down from the wagon and brushed some of the dirt from his trousers. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, a yawn escaping as he clapped Arty on the back and set off towards the barracks.
Jean watched him leave and then turned to Arty, offering a smile that crumpled as the tears began anew. Arty put his arms around her and comforted her in silence. She’d told him many stories of her first posting in Lincoln, transporting crews to their bombers: the bravado and forced joviality as she drove them out to the airfield, smiling and waving as they took off, the fear of never seeing them again, and her unspeakable relief at their safe return. It stood to reason that she would know many of the crews that had taken part in the raid, thus also those who had perished.
Her cigarette had burned all the way down to her fingers and she quickly dropped the butt. Arty stamped on it and gave her his handkerchief. Jean dabbed at her eyes and attempted a laugh.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Arty asked.
Jean cleared her throat and shrugged, hopeless and defeated. “I’ve lost my boys, Arty. Lost so many of my boys. Flight Lieutenant Howard Caffrey, shot down over Filey, no survivors. Squadron Leader Knowles, Lieutenant Harris, Flight Sergeant McCormack—they’re all gone.” The tears took over again, but Jean talked through them. “Up in Lincoln, Caffrey was one of those sorts who treated his crew as equals and they worshipped him. To the end he’d have been cheering them on, telling them they were almost home. ‘Come on, lads. Final push!’ That’s what he used to say every time they set out.” Jean sighed sorrowfully. “Hitler’s last stand. That’s what they keep telling us, believing it keeps our spirits up when in reality it means they gave their lives for nothing.”
Arty quietly listened, understanding Jean’s need to voice her anguish without judgement or placation. They had known each other for more than a year, and in all that time not once had she looked to him for support, though he had leaned on her often enough. She was strong, forthright and sensible, taking the usual ups and downs in her stride. But to have lost so many of her friends in one night? It had depleted all of her reserves. And yet, even as the news came in, she had continued with her duties, doing what was required of her without complaint. She was an extraordinary woman, and Arty felt privileged to be counted among her friends.
He had his own worries, of course. The diversions had required a great deal of coordination between the bases on the east side of the country, so Arty was aware that Jim’s base had come under attack from one of the Junkers, which fired on a landing Halifax before flying into power lines and killing all of its crew. The most recent communication, received after the last of the bombers had landed, reported no Allied casualties, and Arty’s relief was immense. However, his other concern was for Socks and Soot’s well-being: it wasn’t clear how close to the old hangars the Lancaster had crash-landed and Arty couldn’t think of a pertinent way to ask the question. The Lancaster’s crew were alive and well; their aircraft was damaged but salvageable. In a few hours’ time, his men would go to retrieve the wreckage and he would have a reason to search the area. In the meantime all he could do was hope and pray the cats were safe.
“What are you thinking about?” Jean asked.
“Oh, nothing really.” Arty smiled to cover his lie. “Are you ready to take the jeep back?”
“Jeep?” Jean repeated.
“Wagon,” Arty amended, kicking himself for letting his thoughts escape unchecked.
“Come on.” Jean slid down from the back of the wagon and beckoned Arty to follow her. “Let’s get this back and call Jim’s base.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not? As far as everyone’s concerned, Jim and I are engaged to be married. As his wife-to-be, I’m worried sick.”
“But we already know there were no casualties.” Arty was arguing even though he was already in the wagon. Jean started the engine.
“For my own peace of mind, Arty,” Jean said, and that was her final word on the matter.
With the wagon returned to the garage, Arty followed Jean to the empty wages office and listened as she placed the call and waited for it to connect. Several more minutes passed before the call reached its intended recipient.
“Jim?”
“Jean. Hey. Everything all right over there?”
“Yes, we’re all safe, but I lost a lot of good friends last night, Jim.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks. Clear channel?”
“Clear enough,” Jim confirmed.
Jean handed the receiver to Arty.
“Hello?” Arty said. His hand was shaking so much he could barely keep the phone to his ear.
“Hey. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Yours too. Are you all right?”
“I am now. How’s Jean holding out?”
Arty glanced her way. “Same as always.”
“She’s in good hands. I guess you won’t be dancing tonight, huh?”
“No. Probably not,” Arty agreed. Even if they hadn’t received a warning from on high to expect it, everyone was of the same mind that a follow-up attack was likely. It made sense that the Luftwaffe would take the advantage, knowing British bases would still be recovering from the first wave. The damage on the ground was minimal, but they’d be working straight through to clean up and prepare for another night of emergency landings, so the Palais Dance Hall would have to manage without them for a week.
Arty heard the door open and glanced behind him;
it was Betty, one of Jean’s wages clerks. She mouthed an apology and left again. Arty sighed.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll quickly put Jean back on.” Arty handed the phone to her.
“Jim, it’s Jean.”
“You take care of each other, all right? I love you so much.”
Jean locked eyes with Arty and replied, “And I love you, Jim.”
Arty nodded and whispered, “I miss you.”
“And I miss you,” Jean said.
“Same here. It won’t be long now. Give my regards to Charlie.”
Jean managed a small laugh, knowing the last part was directed at her. “I will,” she said. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
Jean put down the receiver and smiled at Arty.
“What did he say?”
“To give his regards to Charlie.”
Arty chuckled and shook his head. “Always the joker.”
Jean nodded and looped her arm through Arty’s. “Yes, indeed. Your fiancé is a hoot. Shall we go for breakfast, Sergeant?”
“A very good idea, Sergeant. I could eat a horse.”
“They’re not rationed, so we could certainly ask.”
Arty shoved her playfully. She laughed and took his free hand in hers, leading him towards the door.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely.
Arty squeezed her hand. “No. Thank you.”
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