Gunning for the Enemy by Mel Rolfe

Author:Mel Rolfe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HIS027140, World War 2 / Aviation
ISBN: 9781908117502
Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
Published: 2008-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

TERROR IN THE TREETOPS

John Grey and his crew went home for leave shortly after the raid on Mailly-le-Camp. The break could not have come at a better time. They were drained, needing time to relax and build up their emotional and physical strength after a particularly gruelling sortie. Currents of exhaustion generated by many hours of fierce concentration flowed down from the dull ache lingering stubbornly behind their eyes to lay heavily in their limbs. It was the fatigue of men who needed a break before they began making mistakes, for theirs was not a business in which mistakes could be tolerated.

The express steam train snorted majestically into the crowded platform at Grantham station, and drew to a halt, releasing a hissing torrent of steam. Wallace McIntosh was not the only serviceman heading north from Lincolnshire with a six-day pass safely in his pocket that night, but officers were in the minority. There were even fewer civilians to be seen. He picked up his bag and pushed slowly through the packed fag-fumed corridors, past crumpled erks and tommies sitting on kitbags, into a first-class carriage. He found a seat and fell into it with a relieved sigh. There was something to be said for being a cosseted RAF officer, although even first-class seats were invariably taken on this train.

Usually one or two men were prepared to talk to the affable young air gunner on a long train journey, but few spent much time discussing the war. Leave was the most important topic. What they planned to do on leave, how long it had been since they last got leave, how much they were looking forward to seeing their home and family, and wondering how much taller their children had grown.

He slept a lot that trundling and clattering night, but was awake and alert well before Dundee where next morning he changed to the Perth line. The slower train bumbled through a familiar landscape beside the river Tay to Errol, near the road on which he had ridden his bicycle another lifetime ago. He sifted idly through the memories of that first disheartening ride to Dundee before the war when, unable to afford the bus, he was desperate to get into the RAF. If a fairy godmother had then granted him three wishes McIntosh could not have imagined how much he would achieve and how much farther he had got than his most fanciful dreams. Gazing out bleakly upon fields and hills which had broken many poor but conscientious men and where he had once toiled for a pittance and little thanks, he knew he would never work on the land again.

In Errol, reunited with his family, he also saw men of his own age he had known pre-war. Most were dressed in Army khaki, privates, with glistening black boots and forage caps squatting on their heads at impossibly rakish angles. They stared at him not knowing whether to snap to a smart salute, or grin and hold out their hand in greeting.

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