LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Six

      When choosing a site for an airfield it doesn’t matter that the ground is not flat, for it can easily be levelled. The deciding factor is drainage. The inhabitants of Little Warley had always known that the potato fields to the east of the village drained into Witch Fen. The land between there and the line of ash trees at The Warrens is hard, fertile and as black as coal. Its subsoil is firm enough to take the weight of a bombing plane. So it was no surprise when, as war began, Air Ministry teams surveyed the place and pronounced it suitable for a Bomber Command airfield. After that came earth-moving machinery, concrete mixers and asphalt pourers. A tarmac cross was drawn across Warley’s countryside and around it went a road complete with a circular pan for each aeroplane. Men dug sewers and drains, laid water pipes and strung power lines. Telex and phone cables crossed the fields. Corrugated-iron Nissen huts appeared as if by magic, huddled together like wrinkled grey elephants sheltering from the cold East Anglian winds. There were hangars too: black cathedrals higher than the church steeple and wider than the graveyard. Finally out of the clouds came the sound of an aeroplane and ten minutes later Warley Fen was truly an airfield.

      The box-like Control Tower stood alone, commanding a view as far as Witch Fen. Behind it dozens of buildings provided the complex necessities of Service life from A to Z. Armoury, Butchery, Cinema, Dental Surgery, Equipment Store, Flying Control, Gunnery Range, Hairdresser, Instrument Section, Jail, Kitchens, Link Trainer Room, Meteorological Section, Navigators’ Briefing Room, Operations Block, Photographic Section, Quarters for Married Officers, Radar Building, Sick Quarters, Teleprinter Section, Uniform Store, Vehicle Repair Yard, Water Tower, X-ray Department, YMCA Hut, and a zebra-striped Aerodrome Control Post. Later there were also added a large vegetable garden and extensive pig pens.

      A sign was painted – RAF Station Warley Fen – and erected at the entrance. The wooden shed there was painted red and white and adorned with a notice: ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT HERE. In no time at all it seemed as though the village had always known the bustle of one thousand and eighty-three noisy airmen: bicycles were stacked outside the Bell every evening and Mrs Jenkins had had to write NO CIGARETTES on her window in whitewash in order to save a few smokes for her regulars. There were girl airmen too, to the villagers’ dismay. They flaunted painted lips and waved hair and worked as hard as the men. Sometimes they were heard to swear as hard as the men, too. They set an awesome example to the village girls. Some said the whole aerodrome was a ‘black Satan’s nest’ and hurried past it after dark, especially if the roar of aircraft was rattling the village windowpanes like a thousand furies.

      Dispersed all round the aerodrome were the Squadron’s bombers sitting on their tarmac circles. The six-foot-high fence that surrounded the airfield was little more than a boundary mark, for human logic had torn great holes in it where it had blocked the paths that led from the dispersals to the Bell. Even the armed sentries who stood all night at the main gate would, their duty finished, wander off through gaps in the fence to save themselves a hundred extra yards walk along the perimeter track. It was through one of these gaps that the Bedford lorry bumped and caused them all to lose their balance. Digby and Battersby hit their heads against the metal uprights. ‘Hold on!’ shouted Flight Lieutenant Sweet from his seat in the cab.

      ‘Now he tells us,’ said Digby as the lorry pulled up in front of B Flight offices. The tailflap crashed open and Sweet took Mrs Lambert by the waist and floated her down in a movement that would have done credit to the Sadlers Wells ballet company. Still holding her by the waist, Sweet gave her a decorous kiss. ‘Droit du Seigneur, Lambert,’ he called. ‘The driver will take you to the Ops Block, Mrs Lambert; it looks like there’s something on for us. It’s a good thing that I decided to look in here first.’

      The Lancaster bombers were alive with airmen. Engine mechanics, riggers, electricians, instrument fitters and radio mechanics swarmed all over the great four-motor aircraft. The newcomers automatically looked across to the north corner of the airfield. There a group of hillocks looked like prehistoric burial mounds with a concrete entrance to each. It was all surrounded with blast walls and laced with pulleys and tackle. Inside that was the bomb store. Around it were queues of bomb-trains. Armourers bent low over fuses and fins, and patted the bombs into place on the trolleys. There were general purpose bombs and high-capacity bombs and target indicators and canisters packed with ninety shiny 4-lb incendiaries. No one was painting ‘Hello Hitler’ on them; that was something the Press photographers did. For armourers there was nothing humorous about a bomb.

      ‘Looks like we’re on the battle order, chaps,’ said Sweet. ‘There’s a bit of luck. I’ll enjoy putting some HE amongst the squareheads.’

      ‘Bombs or mines?’ said Digby.

      ‘Can’t see,’ said Cohen.

      The Flight offices were a complex of tin huts which rattled as one by one the engines were tested up to full revs. The Sergeant clerk saluted as Sweet entered the shabby little room marked B Flight Office. Eric, the airman clerk, stopped typing and stood up at attention. It was a dismal place. There were two filing boxes, two tables and two chairs. In the corner there was a sink with chipped railway cups and a brown metal teapot upside down to drain. A notice board on the wall was crammed with ancient announcements and memos. The blackboard was marked to show the serviceability of B Flight’s Lancasters. Above it Sweet had had the lettering bod write ‘B Flight Bombs Best’ in Saxon lettering. There was a dirty smudge under it where another opinion on the subject had been clumsily erased.

      ‘Good morning Percy, good morning Eric,’ said Sweet. ‘Are we on?’

      ‘Yes, sir; maximum effort,’ said the Sergeant.

      ‘I hear you’re making a book on the Squadron cricket match on Saturday, Eric. Put me down for five bob.’

      ‘On us, sir?’ said Eric.

      ‘You cheeky sod,’ said Sweet. ‘Aren’t I the best batsman in the Group?’

      ‘That’s it, sir.’ Sweet smiled appreciatively and patted Eric’s shoulder.

      Sweet picked up a tin of pennies and shook it. A hand-lettered label said ‘Village Children’s Xmas Party’. Last year and the one before that, the clerk Eric Sedge and LAC Gilbert, the Squadron artist, had arranged it, but this year Sweet had put the full force of his persuasive personality behind it. Smilingly he demanded contributions from all ranks and insisted that any raffles or sweepstakes held among the lads of B Flight must pay ten per cent ‘tax’ to the Christmas party.

      ‘How much more since Friday, Eric?’ Sweet rattled the tin again.

      ‘A few pennies, sir.’

      ‘Get the names in the book?’

      ‘I don’t put down less than sixpence.’

      ‘Get them all in the book, Eric. It’s only fair. Then at Christmas we’ll see which section has contributed most.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And put the teapot on, Eric.’ Sweet walked through the door marked ‘B Flight Commander’. It was very hot inside and a wasp was buzzing hysterically. Sweet hit the wasp with a rolled-up copy of Picture Post and then opened the window. He scooped up the wasp and put it outside. He leaned out far enough to see Lambert talking to his wife. Sweet inhaled the perfume of freshly cut grass and looked long enough at two airmen on fatigues for them to go back to work.

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