Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (8 page)

“It’s like the one…that got shot down,” he said, and without any prompting.

I tried not to show too much excitement but inside I was bursting at the seams.

“What do you mean, Billy?”

Billy tapped his new toy with his finger. “There… there were…two of these planes. Have you…got another one for me?”

“No Billy, I’m sorry, but I promise I’ll bring you another one the next time I come to see you. Would you like that?”

Billy’s head was nodding so hard that I thought it was attached to a piece of thick rubber.

“You saw two planes in the sky?” I prompted him before he forgot.

“Two planes…yes two planes-two planes and they all fell down!”

“In what way did they fall down?”

Billy stopped playing with the replica. His face went blank. I assumed it must be his usual expression when thinking hard. Finally he said, “One was…chasing…the other one.”

Billy’s account of events was really beginning to interest me.

He put his hand to his mouth sniggering. “I play…chasing. I chase…all the girls, kissed them…when I catch them.”

“Yes, Billy I bet that’s good fun. Now forget about girls. We can talk about them later. Remember the planes. What did you mean by the planes
chasing each other
, were they playing chasing games? Perhaps they were having fun too? Maybe they were fooling about, to show their flying skills.” I demonstrated with my hands.

“Oh no…I saw it…I was in my…plane, flying… through the field. I was only…a small plane. I was hiding. No one saw me. I was…scared…I hid…in the long grass.”

“What did you see, Billy?”

The plane…behind the other one…its guns… shooting…rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. The plane…it made the other one…crash. I watched it…it came down from the sky…smoke coming…from here.” He demonstrated the entire scene with the replica Spitfire very convincingly.

“You’re sure of what you saw, Billy? It was a long time ago.”

“It was…on fire…it crashed in the field. I never…saw it again.” He smiled impishly, “I set fire…to my paper airplanes. Matron doesn’t like me doing that.” His face saddened. “She shouts at me…for being a bad boy…send me to bed early…with no supper. I’ve stopped doing it…now. I like my supper!”

I looked at him incredulously and wondered if this nursing home was the right place for him. I guess it was ideal.

Billy glanced at me with speculative eyes. “You believe me…don’t you?”

“You must understand, Billy. What you’ve told me would sound ludicrous to someone who never saw those two planes. Two friendly Spitfires battling against each other over the skies of England when effectively, they should be fighting Germans? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Poor Billy, he never understood a word I’d said. He was happy twisting the replica plane through the air in his imaginary battle, rasping the sound of an attacking Spitfire.

As for Billy’s account of that day it was so far fetched it wasn’t surprising no one believed an illiterate boy during the war. If just one person had taken the time to verify his story, well, I wouldn’t have found the wreck when I did, nor find myself in the precarious position of looking over my shoulder every five minutes waiting for the inevitable hit-man. I left Billy in peace flying his new toy and headed back to the Mansion.

Before leaving Three Trees I had a quiet word with Matron about the possibility that Billy might have other visitors, nasty reporters trying to make a fast pound or two. I told her of the plane that had been recently discovered, and how Billy and the deceased had seen it crash during the war. I suggested that if uninvited callers insisted on speaking to Billy she should have them removed from the premises immediately. Her waspish glare convinced me she would oblige.

“Don’t you worry, Mister Speed, Billy won’t be pestered by anyone. Will you be coming again to visit him?”

In all honesty, I’d no reason to ever see Billy again. “Yes, of course I will.” I’d never found lying a hard task ever since childhood. I wasn’t about to change my ways.

On the return journey back to London I found a nice eating place with a quiet corner where I could unravel the complexity of the entire situation so far and chew over a piece of skulduggery. Why would a R.A.F. Spitfire shoot another Spitfire from the sky? It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps what Billy saw was an incident of friendly fire, a regular occurrence during wartime night-fights, but not during daylight? Unless the pilot needed spectacles, it’s a mistake that couldn’t be made. Perhaps Billy had got the identification wrong and it had been a German plane that shot down the Spitfire. Overall it meant nothing conclusive to me. Then in reality, could I trust the mind of Billy Slade?

The following morning I went to the London Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road determined to find out all I could about Craven, the pilot that had flown the crashed Spitfire I’d unearthed in Berkshire. One of the curators, a grey haired, grey winged moustached chap, who introduced himself by the title of Flying officer Captain Wright, retired, was keen to help me with my hesitant approach to where I could find the correct information.

“Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Yes. Pilots missing in action during the second world,” I asked. “Is it possible to view records?”

“Yes, of course, sir. Are you perhaps a journalist, Mister-ah?”

I steered him away from wanting to know my name.

“What makes you think I’m a journalist?”

He tapped the side of his pock marked nose. “This tells me a lot, sir.”

I gestured with my finger how right he was.

“Follow me, sir.”

The curator walked along the corridor in military fashion and funny as it might sound I found myself walking in the same manner. He ushered me to a table, pottered around the reference bookshelves and moments later plonked a thick hardback book in front of me. “If he’s missing in action,”-he tapped the book cover-“his name will be listed in here, sir.”

I thanked him and he left me to dwindle through the pages at my leisure.

There were two Cravens unaccounted for during the war. I could forget about the rear gunner on a Lancaster Bomber and concentrate on Wing Commander Ralph Craven, and the impressive number of honours that followed his name. I took out a pad and pen and began to make notes of importance. After gaining enough material to write a short story I went back to have a chat with the same curator.

“Is there any relevant information on the particular missions the pilots were involved in at the time they went missing?’

He expressed his surprise. “Now there’s a first. Not a usual request at this museum.” He shook his head unfavourably. “I’m afraid such information falls within the classified format and can only be obtained directly from the Ministry of Defence. For that you’ll require an appointment, and more appropriately, security clearance to view the sensitive material I should imagine. It’ll be the usual red tape affair, I’m afraid, sir.”

There ended my day at the museum because it was one appointment with the MoD that I wouldn’t be making, and with my reputation, I’d be lucky to even stand outside the main entrance without getting clobbered by a police truncheon.

Back outside I checked the notes I’d jotted down. During the war Craven had been stationed at R.A.F. Duxford. It seemed a favourable place to visit and it was open to the public as a war museum too. I drove straight over to Cambridgeshire with Winston by my side. And just in case I was being tailed I took a route around London that even a professionally organized surveillance team from MI5 couldn’t follow, never mind the intelligible mind of a London cabbie. I also thought I was in for a relaxing day. I was wrong.

*

My arrival at the Imperial War Museum R.A.F. Duxford placed me in the middle of a spectacular air show buzzing over the airfield. I parked the Roadster, leaving Winston inside the car with the window slightly open for fresh air, as I didn’t want to be accused of animal cruelty.

Once inside the grounds I made my way along the pathways towards the exhibition buildings while an old Bi-plane groaned across the skies above the airfield. Wandering through the different building I concentrated on only what the war museum had to offer in respect of various mementos of the war; reading inscriptions and accounts of air battles. Basically I didn’t have a clue as to what I was looking for and was rather hoping that if there was anything significant it would immediately jump out and catch my attention.

I concentrated heavily on glass framed photographs scattered around the walls and came across a collection that showed the resident pilots stationed at Duxford in the autumn of 1943. There was one particular photograph that attracted me; a large group photograph listing all the pilot’s names and ranks which I studied carefully. Finally, figuratively speaking, I came face to face with Wing Commander Ralph Craven standing proudly in the centre of a group photograph of all pilots ready for action in their fatigues and customary flying jackets. I would never have thought that such a handsome face had once lined the skeleton I found.

From the way he portrayed himself Craven appeared to be a very confident person, which you would expect from a leader of men. He was noticeably young. In fact they were all noticeably young. No one, I guessed, above the age of twenty-one. I wrote down every name listed on the photograph. I wondered how many were still alive with whom I could talk with, and then it struck me, a sudden chill gliding down the curve of my spine as I contemplated that just maybe one of the men in the photograph with Craven might be his murderer and if I was to confront the alleged killer straight to his face he might decide to kill me on the spot.

I was overreacting. What possible harm could a man do to me when he was probably in his eighties or nineties, also taking into consideration he might be dead, wheel chair bound, or simply lapsed into dementia that he couldn’t recall the last time he had a shit, never mind shoot someone in the frigging back?

With the names of the pilots noted, I went back outside to speculate everything I’d collected on the matter while I watched the air-show with little enthusiasm until I caught sight of an elderly chap who marvelled and applauded every manoeuvre the planes made. He obviously knew a great deal about the relics flying in the sky so I decided I’d pinch some of his knowledge. I moved through the crowd and stood beside him.

“Wonderful old rust buckets,” I said, as any true admirer would.

“Old rust buckets!” he countered, his throat hoarse and dry.

I pointed skywards as a Spitfire roared overhead followed by a second plane which I had no chance of identifying in a month of Sundays.

He scowled at me and replied acidly, “They’re more than rust buckets, lad.” His voice warbled as he talked. “Those magnificent 1030 horse-power machines helped save England from certain destruction during war, lad, and don’t you forget it!”

“Oh don’t get me wrong. I’m not ridiculing the crafts,” I said reassuringly. “But for comfort, compared to modern planes, they must have felt like carpet handbags.”

I touched a nerve with that one too.

“They weren’t built for comfort, lad,” he scowled fiercely. “Fighting machines, that’s what they were. The finest in their time and as fast as they come; swift, so manoeuvrable it could turn on a sixpence.”

“You obviously know a lot about them?”

“Know lad! During the war I happened to be part of the ground crew that kept those beauties air worthy when they were needed. ‘Erks’, we were nicknamed but we were a skilled bunch with it. When those battle battered Spits returned we would work through the night to patch them back up again in readiness for the next flight.”

“So you were actually stationed here during the war?”

“Aye lad, I was.”

“The war certainly kept you busy.”

“Aye, it did that, lad, and more. In a short space of time, when the V12 Rolls Royce Merlin engines became the power of the Spitfire, we had to become experts. We didn’t have time to be taught the intricate workings of those engines. ‘Erks had to quickly require the skills to repair stressed skin, split flaps, hydraulics, pneumatics, and the electrics; some wage packet if you could do all that nowadays! Aye lad, needless to say those wonderful crafts didn’t require much love and care to fight. They were awesome fighters.”

This chap was beginning to interest me. “What about the pilots based here during the war, did you get know any of them?”

“Vaguely; they came and went for various reasons. The war took a lot of good young men. I didn’t exactly socialize with them personally; you didn’t have the time for niceties; too busy.”

“Do you know if any of the pilots are still alive today?”

“Hard to say, lad, but I wouldn’t count on any of them holding a pilots licence anymore.” His chuckle of laughter was drowned by the sound of an ancient plane rattling overhead.

“I wasn’t looking for flying lessons.”

“Aye, I know, lad, just having a bit of fun.”

I pushed ahead. “Do you remember a pilot stationed here who went by the name of Wing Commander Ralph Craven?”

His saggy eyes lit up. “Now that chap I’ll never forget. Such a considerate man too. He always had a kind word to say and he made sure we had piping hot mugs of tea and lashings of toast when we grafted during the cold nights. Sometimes he would stay with us in the hangars while we worked, reminiscing on the good days before the outbreak of war. Aye, he was a grand chap alright. Went out on a mission one day and never came back, missing in action. That was the problem with the damn war, a pilots life seemed more expendable than most.”

“Yes, I’m already aware of Ralph Craven’s fate. I’m more interested in talking to any surviving war veterans who served with him here at Duxford. Someone he may have been chummy with.”

“Are you related to Craven? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“He was my Grandfather.”

His jawbone drooped, as if he’d said something dreadfully wrong. “How tactless of me, I never stopped to think.”

“There’s no problem; honestly! It was all a long time ago.” Frigging hell, I was beginning to sound so sincere I began to believe every bit of bullshit I spoke. I now knew how a thespian feels when he plays a character so believable he has problems distinguishing what was fictional and what was reality. It was a strange feeling to have. I prompted him to continue. “I was asking about any of his flying chums?”