Flight Path Part Two.
Temporary quarters or that’s what they told us, the truth was that we were baggage not wanted on the voyage. The four of us at the tag end of our service were seen as an unwanted threat to the structured regimentation of new recruits. We were left over pieces of a jigsaw that wouldn’t fit and with only a few months to go before we were thrust out into the wide world it wasn’t worth the effort.
Our home, we dubbed it The Hilton, was outside the army camp’s parameters on the edge of an old disused Second World War airfield, one of many scattered across the Suffolk countryside. What the old breeze block building had been initially used for we had no idea; it had the basic facilities of water and electricity but little else.
The old airfield buildings, a couple of hangers and admin block, were on the far side of the airfield three quarters of a mile away, the control tower stood by itself further to the north.
We had a reason for being there; in army parlance there had to be a reason for everything, it didn’t have to be relevant just so as it looked good on paper; so we were the airfields resident guard.
What we were supposed to be guarding it from was never made clear. The only occupants were a flock of semi nomadic sheep which we decided posed no immediate threat to the safety of the realm or to the good citizens of Suffolk.
After a few days of trekking back and forth to the army camp for our meals we came to an arrangement to draw our rations three times a week and fed ourselves. We only had the pot bellied stove for heat but we weren’t fussy as we wanted to be alone and left alone.
The sun had set around five thirty on that Thursday evening. Our funds were low so a trip to the Horse and Hounds was out of the question. Bored, with hands in pockets I wandered through the deserted rooms at the back of the building. A broken window banged repeatedly like a drummer who had lost the beat. The fading light through missing roof tiles fell on slimy walls and the smell of damp and mold was everywhere.
The last room was larger than the rest with double doors that told me this was originally the main entrance. I walked over to an old desk that still stood in one corner. A notice board hung above with what looked like a torn poster stuck to it. I brushed off the years of dirt and grime and grinned.
A red haired girl in a green skin tight dress lent provocatively against a bar. Beware of VD it warned under which someone had scrawled ‘Don’t care if I do go blind’
Back in what served us as a sleeping quarters and rest room, I sat down and lit the last cigarette of the day.
Chatwin was reading, a large man, heavy shouldered with an air of careless authority when he chose to use it.
Crawford, thin, plagued with acme which had lasted past his teen years was writing yet another letter to his girl friend.
Danny was a product of the East End slums a small bouncy cockney, sometimes the comedian, sometimes a pain in the arse was sitting on his bunk swinging his legs.
“I wonder if this old base was American or ours.” I asked.
“Dunno” said Danny “Could have been either”
“It was ours” answered Chatwin, not looking up from his book.
“How do you know?”
Chatwin sighed and turned down the page corner.
“I asked in the village, they flew Stirling’s and Lancs.”
Danny grinned.
“I wonder if it’s haunted.”
“What?”
“Well some of these old airfields are, I read about it”
“Don’t be stupid”
“No he’s right” said Chatwin. “Actually there are many accounts of paranormal activities on these old airfields, including this one”
“You’re joking”
“No apparently---
Crawford flung down his pen.
“Will you shut up about bloody ghosts?”
“Why, you scared?” grinned Danny
Chatwin reopened his book.
“No he’s right, better leave it”
I wandered over to the window. In the fading twilight the old hangers were silhouetted black on the horizon. I shivered; something I had half noticed on the day patrol jumped into focus. The grass! Sheep do what sheep do, they crop grass, but around the hangers it stood a foot or more high because the sheep never went near them,
_______________________________________________
Author's Notes:
After returning from overseas I served the last few months of my army service in much the same circumstances as in the story. Although I never experienced any paranormal happenings, these old dilapidated buildings were not a place you wanted to be around after sunset, there was certainly an aura that surrounded them.
This is pretty long so I have divided this into three chapters and avoided long descriptive passages to make for easier reading. I will post the next chapter in two weeks.
I don’t use bad curse words in anything I write but the characters in this story are soldiers not choir boys, so you will find a few very mild expletives though in reality their language is much worse than anything you will find here. I hope you enjoy.
A little background on this story.
The flat farm lands of the counties in East Anglia were commandeered in1940 for the building of airfields for the bombing of occupied Europe by Bomber Command (British) and later in 1943 by the American 8th Air Force. The loss of life for both British and American was horrendous. The British tour of duty was 30 missions which there was a 1 in 6 chance of completing. The American loses were so bad that operations had to be suspended until the development of long range fighter cover was made available.
Flight Path. PART 2
On Saturday, Crawford was away on a week end pass; Danny was drinking in the village and Chatwin and I walked the half mile to the Coach and Horses that stands alone on the Forditch road with only the winter stubble fields for company. True to its name it was an old a coaching inn that in the past was where fresh horses were harnessed and the passengers provided with refreshment.
I pushed open the door nodding to the two domino players by the bottle glass window. As Chatwin made his way to the bar I moved over to the table by the side of the open hearth and pulled up a chair.
I smiled and reached down to scratch the back of Sophie’s neck. The old black Labrador stretched her paws on the spark scarred rug and acknowledged me with a sleepy wag of her tail.
Chatwin set the two pints of ale on the table and sat down.
I looked round.
"Quiet tonight” I said
"If you wanted a party you should have gone to the Drayman’s in the village with Danny, Karaoke night isn’t it?”
"Do me a favour, Danny, legless murdering ‘My Way’ for the third time; no thanks”
I opened a packet of Players and we smoked and drank in silence.
There was no denying it, the ‘Horse’ was definitely a man’s pub, not that the ladies were excluded by order, just that there was nothing in the place that appealed to them. A watering hole, a place of refuge, with its ambiance of wood and tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of strong ale that set the stage for conversation and beery nostalgia.
"What did you hear in the village?”
"About what?”
"The airfield”
Chatwin shrugged.
"Oh not much, aircraft noises, lights at night, that sort of thing”
"We’ve never heard anything”
"True”
The bar was filling up. Farming folk mostly, wind chilled faces, work rough clothes with the smell of the land on them.
I stubbed the cigarette butt.
"It scared Crawford though”
"Yeah, a bit strange that”
"Ah just scared of spooks I suppose” I replied.
"No it’s more than that”
"How do you mean?”
"Have you noticed how he goes out of his way to avoid being left alone?”
I tossed another log on the fire.
"As I said, he’s scared”
Chatwin shrugged and drained his beer.
I collected the empty glasses.
"There’s one thing though. I get a feeling that the damned place is--well, sort of waiting”
He stared at me.
"You have that feeling too”
It was late Monday afternoon when a Landrover drew up to the side door.
"Visitors” cried Danny "Put the kettle on Crawlie”
"Get stuffed”
A vision appeared in the doorway, immaculate uniformed with cut throat creases and two shiny stripes on his arms.
"Ooh! a real soldier” squealed Danny "Isn’t he lovely?”
"Cut it out and get in the Rover, you’re all wanted over at headquarters”
"Can’t love” minced Danny "I’ve got a bun in the oven”
"Get in the bloody Rover”
The admin. Sergeant surveyed us over horn rimmed glasses.
"Ah, the Four Musketeers; I have a job for you”
"Apart from guarding sheep you mean” said Chatwin
"Oh I just love comedians, well try this for size. The old hangers on the airfield, you have noticed them I trust, their big and black and in the second one, that’s the one with a big number 2 painted on it. Well there are a few drums of paint oh and about ten drums of nasty toxic stuff, you can’t miss them they have Toxic Handle with Care stencilled on them and they need shifting because they have been deemed a fire risk. So here you are Hardy take this chit down to the MT compound for a Three Ton Bedford, I would get an early start tomorrow; the pick up truck is due at midday”
I drove back to the Hilton and put the kettle on the stove. Crawford sat on his bunk with his head in his hands.
"What’s up Crawlie” I asked.
"I can’t go”
"What?”
"You bloody deaf? I said I’m not going”
Chatwin pulled up a chair.
"You had better tell us about it lad”
Crawford looked up; there were tears in his eyes.
"Ok. I suppose I had better tell someone, it’s getting me down”
"Ooo, I love stories” said Danny
"Shut your mouth and make the tea” Chatwin told him
" Dad and mum split when I was five, I never saw my dad for years but you know how it is when you miss someone; well I was about seventeen and it was really getting to me, I just had to find him. Mum had re-married and she never talked about him, but I traced his sister who told me that he had been in a nursing home in Basingstoke for years. That wasn’t true, it was a Mental Home.
I found him in the summer house, told him who I was and he seemed to accept it, we talked for a while and he seemed ok but I found out later that it happened to be one of his good days”.
Crawford’s voice broke and he fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.
"Take your time lad” said Chatwin softly.
”Dad was in the air force in the war, aircrew, a navigator on Lancs. He had flown fourteen missions then on the next one it happened. The truck had stopped next to the plane the crew got out and walked over to it”.
”Son”, he told me "my bloody legs froze I couldn’t move, I was shaking all over.”
They had to send the truck back for a replacement, the only navigator available was a nineteen year old kid just out of training school; they never made it back”
Danny handed round the tea, for once without a word.
”Dad stared into space, his lips, quivering, dribbling like”
”They never found them son, but I know where they are, oh yes I know, I get this dream see, over and over, I’m with them in the Lanc, they don’t see or hear me but I’m there alright. The bombing run, the worst part straight and level, bombs gone, and then the night fighter finds them. Bloody terror, I hear Bill screaming in the upper gun turret. The skipper puts the Lanc into a corkscrew then levels out. The engines sound ok but the Nav gear is all shot up, so no homing beacon. But no worries just a case of dead reckoning, after all England’s too bloody big to miss, but the kid screws up. They cross the coast and out to sea but it’s not the English Channel, it’s the North Sea.
Crawford looked up at us.
“Dads crying now, tears running down his cheeks, I wipe his eyes”.
”On and on until the petrol gauges are reading empty, no choice but to ditch. If they can inflate the dingy there’s still hope but the bomb bay doors are locked open, the hydraulics smashed by cannon shells. She sinks like a stone, the screams, oh the bloody screams. The skipper turns in his seat the water is now up to his waist. He sees me. "You bastard”
Crawford dropped his head into his hands.
"A month later he was dead, he’d slashed his wrists with a razor”.
We had listened in silence which, now it was over no one wanted to break. After a minute or two Chatwin stood up.
"That’s tough lad, bloody tough, but its over now try and forget it mate”
Crawford stared at him.
"You don’t get do you” He shouted "This was dad’s old station, he flew from here, all those years ago” he pointed to the window "Out there”
He flung his mug at the stove it bounced twice and rolled under Danny’s bunk
Chatwin caught him in his arms.
"Take it easy lad”
"Its dad’s dream, every damn detail clear as day” he looked up at Chatwin, Don’t you see dad’s dream, every bloody night, it’s now it's mine”
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