The bomber jacket, p.24
The Bomber Jacket, page 24
Helping him climb up the stepladder to the cockpit, he boosted Colin in, sitting him in the pilot’s seat, where all Colin could see were dials and handles. Awash in the smell of engine oil and gasoline, Colin listened carefully as MacGuire pointed out the controls and let him put his hands on the joystick, explaining how it was used to control the airplane.
"I'd take ye up, mind ye, but I'm on a schedule, ye ken, so another time, maybe."
The man laughed as Colin just stared at him. "I know. I see the fever. I know the bug ‘ats' bitin' ye. It'll happen, mind ye. Ye've got a bit of growin' up ta do ferst."
Wordless, Colin didn't begrudge being hoisted out and replaced by his brother, who had been clamoring to have his turn. When he watched the plane taxi down the runway and take off toward Inverness, Colin’s mind swirled with new sounds as well as new hopes.
On the ferry ride back to Ullapool on the Western coast of Scotland, his stomach heaving and roiling with the choppy Minch Strait, Colin pictured himself flying above the wild seas, over the mountains of Stac Polly, Cul Mor, and Cul Beag. Over the mainland, down into England, and across the Channel to the distant lands of the Continent.
Someday, he vowed to himself, Someday, I'll be a pilot.
But it wasn't a wish he said aloud, for his future was laid out before him, as it had been for his father and grandfather, back generation after generation—laird, leader, farmer, fisherman.
Tied to the land, not soaring above it.
On New Year’s Eve, the enthralling beat of swing music filled Colin’s ears as he walked out of the rainy night into the chilly hangar. Through the magic possessed by the local civilians, a corner of the large, cavernous space had been turned into a dance hall. Spitfires and Hurricanes had been rolled out of the way, some out onto the tarmac, replaced by a recently constructed stage, currently occupied by a band possessing the musical verve, if not the expertise, of a Glenn Miller or Gene Kruppa ensemble.
A huge Union Jack hung on the wall behind the stage, and a large net of colorful balloons was suspended over it, along with a banner that read, "Welcome, 1941." The flag with the blue and white cross of St. Andrew stood gallantly to the right of the orchestra, reminding everyone that this RAF station was located in a Scottish town. On the left were the unit flags of the squadrons currently based at Drem, the 43rd and the 603rd, his unit, flying Spitfires, which had arrived on December 12. The other units had returned south.
In front of the stage, a temporary wooden dance floor had been laid over part of the cement, covering the oil stains, grease puddles, and wheel tracks, though at this moment, very little of the dance floor could be seen beneath the crowd of uniformed airmen and WAFFs and young local women in their party finest. The dancers jived with abandon to the rhythmic American music that seemed oddly jarring to Colin, who usually celebrated New Year’s Eve, or Hogmanay in Gaelic, with a traditional Highland cèilidh filled with pipe and fiddle music and energetic Scottish country dances.
Rectangular folding tables brought in from the mess hall and briefing rooms were arranged randomly on two sides of the dance floor, each table surrounded by ten wooden folding chairs. The tables were covered with white starched cloths that fell in flowing folds to the floor, reminding Colin of Father McNichol’s robes.
Square linen napkins in rich colors were laid diagonally along the center of each table forming diamonds of color: the purple of Lent, the red of Pentecost, and the green of Ordinary Time, strangely liturgical in theme, Colin thought, for so Protestant a place as East Lothian. Colin imagined that every linen closet in the shire had been emptied in this effort. On each diamond of linen, a votive candle in a small crystal tumbler gave off soft, flickering light.
The transformation confirmed his amazement at the organizational power of a group of civilians, mostly women, who were determined to help their boys forget for one night what lay in wait for them beyond the converted hangar. No one cared that the rain had crystallized into a driving sleet, which pinged in tiny shards on the roof, or paid any attention to the gusts of wind rattling the metal sides of the hangar.
Fresh-cut pine boughs on the tables and hanging from the metal roof supports filled the air with the scent of Christmas and filled Colin’s mind with an image of the pine forest on the hills above Achiltibuie. He could almost feel his feet crunching on the long, narrow path that climbed to the lookout point over Badentarbat Bay and hear the tall, straight Scots pines, which grew sparsely on the western hills, rustling in the brisk breeze.
From that lookout, he could see his house, where his ill father writhed in pain, his mother and sisters trying to be brave when he left for Drem to join his former University schoolmates and their RAF squadron as it rotated north on a short respite from southern England.
But the noise in the hangar infiltrated his mind, and the throbbing music of "Lady Be Good," played like Artie Shaw's orchestra, distracted his thoughts. Around the room, the light from the crystal tumblers seemed to jump and jitter to the beat. Cigarette smoke hung like the mist on Mount Suilven on a fall morning.
At the far reaches of the temporary dance hall, the older officers, local dignitaries, and matronly townswomen lingered, providing a pretense of chaperones. Watching most likely, Colin thought, to be sure the local Scottish lassies weren't besmirched by contact with too many drunken airmen, especially the English ones.
Colin headed to the temporary bar, a set of long tables littered with bottles of every possible shape, size, and inebriating content, another amazing collection that probably came from the storerooms of the East Lothian residents. Several airmen were manning the tables with the willing help of some local girls. Just as he stopped for a dram of whiskey, the band took a break. Spying several of his mates with girls in tow heading toward a table, he threaded his way through the crowd to join them.
That’s when he saw her.
Rich, thick, chestnut hair tumbled to her shoulders in waves, reflecting the glowing light from votive candles in the middle of the table. Her china-smooth cheeks were pink with enthusiasm, her lips were painted a sultry red. She wore a fitted, low-cut evening dress in a silky pine green set off by a luminescent pearl necklace from which dangled a ruby-red stone that caught the light, twinkling like the warning beacon atop the nearby hill of Traprain Law.
No, she was a light from the Achiltibuie lighthouse or a homing beacon along the Firth of Forth...something beautiful that reminded him to return from his flight among the clouds and the stars, but dangerously distracting if he flew too close to it. She seemed made of ivory and cream, unlike the Scots girls he knew, especially the Highland Scots girls with their ruddy complexions and outdoor ways, their capable hands and reticent looks.
She must have felt his stare, for she turned her hazel eyes toward him. They widened, almost in surprise. Colin felt a wrench in his stomach, an odd sensation of weightlessness, similar to the exhilaration that flight always gave him. Her smile faded, but her look intensified. For a moment he allowed himself to be lost in that look, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
A warmth that had nothing to do with his whiskey began creeping along his veins.
She was Henry's girl.
In the three weeks that Colin and Henry had known each other, they had formed a steady friendship, and Henry gradually told Colin the convoluted story of his relationship with Gretchen: his proposal, her move to Scotland, Henry’s transfer to London and eventual volunteer work at Biggin Hill, and Gretchen’s consistent treks to London with her Scottish friend, Fiona.
“It wasn’t me she came to see, though. It was really to enjoy the nightlife,” Henry said, but Colin wondered. There was plenty of nightlife in Edinburgh; one didn’t have to go to London for it, but then, Edinburgh certainly wasn’t London.
Henry explained Fiona’s role in his recuperation from pneumonia and arrival at Drem. Colin suspected Henry’s real motive was to be closer to Gretchen, though Henry insisted he and Gretchen were just friends, and that he regretted his foolish marriage proposal.
“Whatever you do, don’t call her my girlfriend. Because she isn’t,” Henry insisted earlier in the day when he said Gretchen and her roommates were coming to the dance.
Colin first met Gretchen right after he encountered Henry in the hangar. Colin had a six-hour pass, and Henry arranged for them to have dinner in Edinburgh with Gretchen and Fiona. At the first encounter, he immediately understood Henry’s infatuation. Though Henry said he had no claim on Gretchen and often introduced her to other crew members, Colin knew the depths of Henry’s feelings.
He had considered making an excuse not to come to the hangar dance but, other than faking illness, could not think of one. So here he was, determined not to be a moth to Gretchen’s flame. He couldn’t do that to Henry.
Well after midnight, when the band announced the last slow number, Gretchen knew if she was going to dance with Colin, she would have to ask him. He had danced with every other girl at the table but exchanged only a few polite words with her.
He already thinks I’m forward, so why try to change his opinion now, Gretchen thought as she walked up to him and said, in a light, flirtatious manner, “You’ve danced with everyone but me, Colin. Don’t be rude.”
“Yes, go on, Colin,” Henry urged. “She won’t step on your feet.”
Gretchen smiled at Henry’s joke and waited for Colin to stand. For one moment, she thought he might say no. Or that Henry should dance with her. But he stood and followed her silently to the dance floor. She turned around and waited for him to take her in his arms, something she’d been longing for since the moment she met him.
Since Henry had been at Drem, she and Fiona had met up several times for drinks or dancing with Henry and some pilot or mechanic he knew, no one claiming to be with anyone. She thought there might be something between Henry and Fiona, as they had continued their correspondence once Henry came to London, and Fiona had suggested Henry come to Edinburgh to recuperate. But if there was something, neither Henry nor Fiona was saying.
He was a dear, and she cared about him, but there was no spark, no flame that lit in her when he was near, just pleased contentment that her childhood friend, her champion, was in her world again. She was amused by the men he introduced to her. They were always polite, friendly, and fun, but never forward. She wondered if there was some test they had to pass to meet Henry’s standards. She knew he was still trying to protect her. Oh, sweet and comforting Henry. She hoped he had gotten over his infatuation with her.
She loved to flirt but never took any of her admirers seriously. She had yet to meet one she would give up the others for. She enjoyed her freedom, plus she had watched many of her Scottish girlfriends be shattered when their beaus went off to war and didn’t come back.
She wasn’t even sure what attracted her to Colin. He was nice-looking, but nothing spectacular, though she could imagine him in a kilt and had found herself blushing at the idea. He was lean, trim, muscular, and athletic. She admired his finely shaped fingers and wondered if he played the piano. He had a way of looking at her intensely that she found unnerving yet captivating.
Henry told her Colin had just celebrated his twentieth birthday. Though he was warm and friendly to Fiona and bantered easily with Henry, from the moment she met him, he was cooly distant. It puzzled, confused, and fascinated her. She wasn’t used to being treated indifferently. Since that night they met, she had found herself thinking of him at odd moments, anticipating the New Year’s Eve dance. Imagining herself dancing with him.
And now the moment was here.
He took her right hand in his left and placed his other hand on her waist, formally, stiffly, holding her at a distance. But before he could stop her, Gretchen crossed the inches of empty space, filling it with her body. Reaching out slowly, she brought her left hand up to his shoulder, splaying her lacquered fingertips just a hair’s breadth from his neck.
They rested there so softly, so gently, that he could not have possibly felt them underneath the cotton thickness of his uniform coat, but she saw him wince for a fragment of a second then flatten his expression to neutral alertness. In spite of his utter stillness, she knew he was affected by her nearness, for she could see his pulse beating in his neck and saw a flush begin to creep up his neck, staining his cheeks.
Though he was a good four inches taller, Gretchen stood just below eye level with him in her strappy, three-inch heels, the envy of all her Scottish girlfriends. She smiled warmly up at him while he stared back with his indecipherable brown eyes, as though challenging her to break through his reserve.
She leaned against him, putting her lips to his ear, and whispered, “All I want is a dance.”
He blinked once, then with an excruciatingly slow movement pulled her solidly against his lean, muscular body.
Gretchen, her smile shaky now, continued to look at him directly, beginning to lose herself in his eyes, as deep as a northern loch.
“I’m not verra good at these modern dances,” he muttered, then made a lie of his words by suddenly and smoothly sweeping her into an accomplished, disciplined three-corner waltz step that meshed perfectly with the throbbing notes of the “Moonlight Serenade.”
Gretchen sighed, relaxing, and let him lead her expertly. Closing her eyes, she lightly rested her right temple against his and gave herself up to the fluid movement of his body.
Two days later, Colin eased himself into the pilot’s seat of his newly assigned Spitfire, thrilled for the step up from the clunkier Hurricane. He began the preflight sequence of tests and checks that were so much a part of his life that he did it without thinking.
Automatic pilot. The words made him frown. That’s what Gretchen said to him at the end of the dance. “Sometimes you act like you’re the one that’s on automatic pilot, instead of your plane.”
As he and Pearson went through the engine check, listening for any sound, hum, or pitch that would give a hint of something wrong, roaring filled his ears.
He tried to think only of this moment. To do anything else was dangerous, even fatal.
Check.
Yet the scent of her perfume lingered in his senses, mingling with the pungent tang of gasoline and engine oil so that the gasoline seemed to hint at flowers and the oil of fruit. He sniffed suddenly to clear it of her smell, clear his head of this distraction.
Check.
Instead of Pearson’s Brighton accent through his earphones, he heard her whisper, felt her breath on his ear as she said, “All I want is a dance.” But she wanted much more; he had seen it in her green-flecked eyes. Her image hovered before him. She could never be his. It was Henry who loved her.
Henry, who had become the closest friend he had made since boyhood, broke through Colin’s natural reserve with his genuine good-heartedness, his quiet, easygoing nature, his willingness to always do what was needed. Henry had come thousands of miles across the treacherous U-boat-filled North Atlantic to be near a girl who didn’t even love him.
“No.”
“What?” Pearson’s voice shouted in his earpiece, startled. “No what, sir?”
“No possibility,” Colin replied, still hearing Gretchen’s unspoken invitation for something more than a dance.
“Of what, sir? No possibility of what?” Pearson’s alarmed voice finally penetrated.
Looking down into his flight director’s concerned face, Colin realized it was already too late. Too late to say no, for she had penetrated his mind, his thoughts, his sense of separateness.
With deliberate mental effort, he pictured escorting her to a room and shutting her in, locking the door despite her pleading voice and her tempting eyes. It would be the only way he could survive this duty flight, and all the flights that had yet to come, until this unending war would be over, however and whenever that might be.
And then she would be gone, back to America. Relieving him of the immediate danger of her presence but leaving him lost and his life empty.
eighteen
February 1941
In the month since the New Year’s Eve dance, those moments with Colin seeped into Gretchen’s consciousness at unexpected times.
She would feel his firm shoulder under her palm, his warm hand enveloping hers, his pulse beating where her temple rested against his. She would hear his polite but distant voice saying, “So I’ve danced with ye, Gretchen. Is that enough?” And see the look of surprised wariness at her reply, “Not nearly enough, Colin, but it’s a beginning.”
Lost in memory, her fingers hovered over the typewriter keys until the teasing voice of another secretary punctured the memory, and it seeped away, like a tire with a slow leak.
Henry had twice ventured to Edinburgh with someone other than Colin, as Colin had either volunteered for an extra op or just come off a long gig.
When Gretchen was politely indifferent to the men, Fiona remarked, “Gretchen, what’s ailing ye? Have you lost your touch?”
On a Saturday in early February, she and Fiona took a bus to meet Henry for dinner at the Gullane Royal Arms, in a town two miles from Drem where many of the pilot officers were billeted. To Gretchen’s delight, Colin was at the bar with Henry.
Colin merely nodded at her but gave Fiona a friendly smile and hello.
To cover her irritation, she stroked Colin’s arm, “Why don’t you join us for dinner, Colin, otherwise we’ll be dive-bombed by these other flyboys. Right, Fiona?” The man practically flinched at her touch but acquiesced. Dinner was full of bantering conversation, yet Gretchen noticed Colin was pointedly reserved toward her.
Before dessert, he said he had an early morning op and left.
Before the band started playing, and he would be forced to dance with me again, Gretchen thought. She wasn’t used to men, American, English, or Scottish, being indifferent when she turned on the charm. I’ll just have to work a little harder on this one.
Her opportunity came several weeks later.
Fiona had organized a sightseeing visit to Stirling, which, like Edinburgh, had a castle dominating its skyline. Through her uncle she also arranged a tour of the nearby William Wallace Monument, closed since the war began.
