Читать книгу Reluctant Hero - John Hickman - Страница 12

Bill broke from his muse of negativity. With the world locked in mortal combat he shouldn’t expect life to be easy. But if only this exam was as effortless as when he defeated Alf.

He’d been so nervous about call-up he’d enrolled in evening classes where he achieved more than expected. Gone to the top of the class and allowed to give out the pencils. He’d felt prepared to face anything—until now.

Might his competitive edge be about to fail him?

Being government inspired tests, the majority of questions bordered on absurd. They looked baffling. There was one in particular he read quietly aloud, again:

‘A rectangular diagram of a field with shaded blobs to represent trees accompanied this question. Underground warrens were shown with dotted lines. Dimensions, compass points and entry for said rabbit was clearly marked with a big X.’

Confused and in a state of rising panic Bill looked around the room. This test was insurmountable but everyone else appeared busy and confident. Some were diligently making frenzied calculations, others engaged in Pythagoras theories. A few longhaired intellectuals had slide-rules.

Bill’s discontent only helped him remember why he should have worn clean underwear.

His idea of pi despite evening classes was something to have with chips and peas. He’d always counted on his fingers and still did, content to pull down A’s and B’s in sincerity and honesty. He cast his mind back to questions at his evening classes.

One question had been; how far could a train travel into a tunnel?

It was a trick question, thrown into the mix as light relief and not to be taken seriously.

The answer they wanted was; half-way (because after the mid-way point the train would be on its way out).

Surely not, thought Bill. But the question was clear; ‘How far can a rabbit run into a field?’

Was it possible the only answer the RAF wanted was same as with the train?

He took a chance and wrote half-way.

The next paper they handed him was even more confusing. Large letters at question number one stated. ‘FIRST READ ALL the questions slowly and thoroughly.

Do not attempt to start this test until you have read the final question.’

Bill was impatient. He went straight to the final question number thirty.

It stated. ‘You are not required to answer any questions in this test. Please place your name here and sit back with your arms folded. You have completed the test.’

As he looked about him, a few sat bolt upright their arms folded and smiling.

Others were writing like mad.

As Bill bumbled along he started to feel as if fate had rolled out a welcome mat.

The kid from the slums might scrape through their tests without too many trips to the toilet.

When he found out he’d passed their Mathematics Exam and General Knowledge test, his excitement flooded over.

At home Fred was surprised. ‘I didn’t think yer had it in yer, Son. Well done.’

For the first time in Bill’s short life he felt a sense of accomplishment. But wait on. Why would they choose him over bigger, stronger, better-educated and more athletic looking applicants?

‘I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or go jump in the fuckin’ Thames, Dad.’

More surprises were to come.

He needn’t have worried as the bravado types were quickly eliminated soon after the rabbit had run into the field. Like rabbits running out again, they were assigned to other duties and trades, including His Majesty’s kitchens. Big strong men convinced they would be taught to fly were trained to wash dishes or peel potatoes the RAF way. Their dreams of soaring above the clouds evaporated with the steam as they washed plates.

Whatever strategies the RAF and its powers-that-be implemented in their selection criteria, the gung-ho types were allocated elsewhere.

Some candidates appeared to be straight from Central Casting. One swaggered around Base with a revolver strapped to his hip, with an ego to match. Another wore cowboy boots stretched almost to his scrotum. Against them Bill felt inferior.

It’s a certainty they’ ll get tickets to fly before me.

On Sunday 7 December 1941 the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbour and the USA officially entered the Second World War.

‘This place is half as big as New York Cemetery, Bud, and twice as dead,’ laughed Cowboy Joe. His handshake crushed Bill’s hand until his toes curled up. ‘Our President Roosevelt will soon sort these fuckin’ Nazis out!’

Worldly, strong and clever, thought Bill. And he wished he were more like Cowboy Joe. Some had panache for the aeronautical, sounded confident and knowledgeable about machines that flew. How he wished he were more like them. Others had experience, if only as a passenger and wore outrageous flying apparel. Another had done eight hours solo.

Some sported bushy style moustaches waxed to perfection. If they didn’t resemble Clark Gable, they made Dick Tracy look like a pansy. They knew everybody worth knowing. One even spoke of a get together while skiing in St Moritz. They all had an edge over Bill. They walked the walk, looked the look and spoke the part.

A couple sported suave leather jackets like rebels without a cause. He envied them their longer hair and rebellious clothes, which he couldn’t afford and wasn’t allowed to have. There was even a robust Australian proud of his tough guy tribal tattoos splattered over his arms.

When Bill told Fred, he laughed. ‘So tough, you mean he has them emblazoned on his testicles.’

‘Ouch! Enough to make your hair curl and arse whistle, Dad,’

Bill reasoned this put them at the front of his queue. All were certain to be accepted. How could these men, who looked and sounded so much better, be overlooked in favour of him? His depression set in again with a vengeance. This had to be a waste of time. Why had he been so foolish as to think he would be considered for the ultimate privilege to fly?

Some thirty would-be aviators were left in his group. And of course one of them felt he should make conversation. Bill didn’t want to chat. He was so nervous he needed to pee about every ten minutes. Why is there always one bull shitter in any group?

The chap continued to prattle on non-stop despite no one listening to anything he had to say. So much so, Bill began to feel sorry for him.

Then, one-by-one each of these assured, knowledgeable and robust champions, many who perhaps had more guts than common sense were weeded out for supper duty.

Soon the only candidates who remained were the pimply faced, round-shouldered, unfit looking specimens with Bill ably leading this questionable group.

Each and every one of them had one thing in common. They were cowards.

No typical gung-ho types remained. No smart-arse bravado types at all. Certainly there were no heroes. Cowboy Joe was gone. His President Roosevelt hadn’t helped him.

And with him, tattoo Aussie. No testosterone filled, gold medal gods remained. Only a few frightened young men, who for their individual reasons, had decided they wanted to fly. From this un-inspirational looking group, final selections for pilot training were made and to every-one’s amazement, most specimens squeezed through.

One common denominator remained. They were seriously afraid.

Bill asked an officer why?

‘They were eliminated because they were fearless or stupid. True courage is to be scared stiff, but keep going anyway,’ he sneered.

Bill had never considered this aspect although he realised fear drove his feet.

‘So, to control fear means you’re truly brave.’

‘You’re smarter than you look, which probably isn’t a good thing,’ said the Officer. ‘Anyone frightened shitless, who performs his duty is a brave man indeed.’

I’ve got the frightened shitless part by the balls. All I need is the follow through.

Bill felt sure he now had a chance. He’d scraped through their exams and survived their weird discriminating processes. He was in. The boy from the slums of Notting Hill had beaten the odds.

Tuesday 20 January 1942 was another milestone for Bill. He was selected for pilot training thirteen days before his nineteenth birthday.

March 1942 saw the first raid by the new Avro Lancaster over Essen in the central Ruhr Valley but for Bill, next came the breaking-in weeks.

‘I want three volunteers who can play a piano,’ announced the Corporal.

Absolute silence.

‘Come on, lads. Surely some of you are musical.’

Not an eyelid flickered. Then a young man weakened. ‘I can play the accordion, Corp.’

‘Well done, lad. Another two.’

‘I’ve had lessons, Corp,’ said another. ‘I can play a tune on a recorder,’ offered a third.

‘That’s capital, lads, capital. Now I’ve my three, and I never had to resort to nominating anyone.’

His eyes glistened with anticipation. ‘Get your kit up off the floor and follow me. There’s furniture to move. That includes a piano.’

Boot camp had the usual basic disciplines, drill and constant yelling of orders by corporals. There was a lot of shouting and marching in the RAF. Shouters had smiles like brass plates on coffins. Every now and again, Bill saw a Sergeant.

One in particular was Sergeant Matthews. He was an unsmiling disciplinarian of colossal innate charisma, all gaunt six feet six inches of him. A caricature for who discipline came before talent. His thickset shoulders under his craggy countenance augmented Bill’s opinion of him. Corporals dealt with minor transgressions but watch out when Sergeant Matthews became involved. A far more daunting experience than addressing smarmy officers in their handmade uniforms as ‘Sir.’

Marching, physical training, and lots more marching with a high measure of verbal abuse in the primeval form of control was doled out to excess. Those who shouted had extraordinarily powerful voices. For sheer volume they’re bloody impressive, thought Bill.

The marching felt endless. In between were lectures and physical training, then more marching and more physical training. Shoes had to be shined until they glowed but on the upside; meals were plentiful. Another downside was inoculations.

Bill winced and turned away as the needle penetrated his skin. ‘I won’t look, Doctor.’

‘Only one of us has to,’ said the doctor.

Young men who watched invariably ended up unwell. They toppled from their chairs to lie in crumpled heaps on the floor, amid the merriment of others.

At the commencement of a typical day’s march, everyone groaned.

‘Come on, lads. Not far today,’ chirped the corporal.

No one believed him anymore. He’d said that every day for a week.

Bill badly needed a rest and a smoke, as did Oliver.

‘Aye, my name is Ol-iv-er,’ he beamed. ‘But as I want to spare you effort for marching, Bill. You can call me Olly.’

They laughed.

Olly was a clear skinned ruddy-faced young man from the Yorkshire Dales. He had cheerful brown eyes that danced when he spoke and carefully groomed red hair.

His principal problem was his rosy complexion, which fought hard against creases of a tan. ‘Aye, I’m not built for warmer weather, Bill.’

Olly had not been exposed much to fresh air. At Glasgow Veterinary College his days were spent locked away in a dilapidated three-storey building, once a pumping station. There, within the confines of their less than hallowed walls, he’d been too busy studying to venture out.

He looked dependable enough. Pity his Yorkshire Dale’s brogue was contaminated with Scottish. Otherwise when he spoke Bill conjured pictures as stodgy and unromantic as Lily’s puddings. Usually Olly had a lazy grin that seesawed across his face, but not today.

‘Aye, I hope it’s naught much further, Bill,’ grumbled Olly. ‘We’re nowhere near end of day and already I’m history.’

‘I heard that, lad,’ shouted the corporal. ‘Come on, lads. Lift ‘em up. Faster. At the double, now- one, two, one, two. And once more we go around the park. Let’s go! Lift them feet. You’ll thank me for this later on.’

‘It’s hard to appreciate his style of kindness,’ gasped Bill. He understood their passion for shrieking abuse as that ensured no one dozed off. What he couldn’t understand was why, if he was going to fly a plane, the need for so much marching.

‘Thank Christ we’re not foot soldiers. There might be an element of fitness involved, but we won’t be carrying the damn aeroplane on our back.’

‘Aye, this running is a sure waste of energy, Bill. I’ve never heard of anyone outrun summat like a bullet.’

Bill’s new boots gave him hell. His feet suffered and he developed athlete’s foot but he was so proud of his new boots and socks he refused to part from them.

‘Best cure ever for sore feet, Son, is to pee on them,’ Fred had said.

Bill turned his nose up.

‘Well, it is only your pee, Son, it’s not as if it’s someone else’s. And it’s clean when it leaves your body.’

Olly agreed their daily marching was relentless.

‘I’ve been marching so long, my arse has changed shape.’

But none of this really bothered Bill. He was as fit as a butcher’s dog and twice as determined. He couldn’t care less. He was in and for now, he wasn’t simply on cloud nine—he owned it.

Christmas was harsh. No presents from Uncle Charlie and not much cheer on anyone’s tables. It was worse overseas; Norwegian tables were bare even of fish, as the Germans had taken their herring catch. French tables and cupboards were pitifully dressed, as the conquerors had depleted their food supplies. Greece, Poland, Holland and Belgium cities were populated by melancholy, hollow cheeked women and children. Unbeknown to Bill, the American war machine was about to shift into high gear.