Goodbye Mickey Mouse

He suffered a pang of guilt as he watched Charlie staggering up the steps of the club under the weight of his pack, and then, with the heartlessness of youth, dismissed the feeling from his mind. Farebrother was going to be a fighter pilot; he was the luckiest guy in the world.

‘Is this the truck for Steeple Thaxted?’ a voice called from the darkness.

‘That’s the way I heard it,’ said Farebrother.

An officer in a waterproof mac followed by half a dozen enlisted men climbed into the truck. Realizing that Farebrother was an outsider, they drew away from him as if he were the carrier of some contagious disease. The truck started and the officer lit a cigarette and then offered one to Farebrother, who declined and then asked, ‘What’s it like at Steeple Thaxted?’

‘Ever been in the Okefenokee Swamp when the heating was off?’

‘That bad?’

‘Picture an endless panorama of shit with tents stuck in it and you’ve got it. Whenever I meet a new dame at a dance, the first thing I ask her is if she’s got a bathroom with hot water.’ He drew on his cigarette, well aware of his audience of EMs. ‘Of course, this being England, she usually hasn’t got a bathroom.’ One of the men chuckled.

‘You’re living in tents in this weather?’ said Farebrother.

The officer prodded Farebrother’s bag with the toe of his shoe and pushed at it until he revealed the stencilled lettering on the side. ‘A fly-boy, are you?’ He tilted his head to read the name.

‘I’m a pilot,’ said Farebrother.

‘Captain J. A. Farebrother,’ the officer read aloud. ‘A captain, eh? This is a second tour, or have you been in the Pacific?’

‘I’ve been an instructor back home,’ said Farebrother apologetically.

The officer sniffed and wiped his nose with a dainty handkerchief obviously borrowed from a lady friend. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ he said as he put it away. ‘My name’s Madigan, Vincent Madigan. I’m a captain—Group Public Relations Officer. I guess you’re assigned to Colonel Badger’s 220th Fighter Group?’

‘Right.’

‘If you’re a flyer, you’ll be all right. That son of a bitch Badger has no time for anyone who isn’t a flyer.’ There was a soft growl of agreement from one of the other men.

‘Is that right?’ Farebrother looked round at the huddled figures. There was the odour of warm bodies in wet overcoats and the pungent smell of sweet American tobacco. The men were obviously coming back from pass and would go straight to their duties in the morning. They were waiting for Madigan to stop talking so they could catch up on their sleep.

‘Mud, shit and tents,’ reaffirmed Madigan. ‘And the local Limeys hate us more than they hate the Krauts.’

‘Hold it there,’ said Farebrother. ‘My mother was English. The way I see it, we’re in the war together; no sense in partners feuding.’

Madigan nodded and puffed at his cigarette. ‘They gave you the lecture, then.’ A sergeant sitting next to Madigan rested his head back against the canvas side of the truck. There was a cigarette in his mouth and, as he inhaled, the light from it illuminated a face with a large blunt moustache, a soft garrison cap tipped down to his half-closed eyes, and the collar of his overcoat wrapped around his ears. He pulled the collar tighter to close out Madigan’s voice, but Madigan didn’t notice. ‘You’ll find out,’ he promised. ‘You’re still on the crusade. Most of us started out that way. But you get Colonel Badger chewing your ass out. You get the Limeys screwing your last dollar out of you and then spitting in your eye. You get memos telling you how the top brass are figuring new ways to get us all killed…Suddenly maybe you’ll start thinking the Krauts aren’t so bad.’

The truck jolted as it went over some bomb-damaged road surface. Through the open canvas at the back they saw a British soldier with a flashlight waving the traffic past. Behind him there was a large red sign: ‘Danger. Unexploded Bomb.’

‘Watch out, mate,’ the soldier called. ‘The red alert is still on.’ The driver grunted his thanks.

‘Even if things are as rotten as you say, what can we do about it?’ said Farebrother.

Madigan threw his half-smoked cigarette into the darkness, where it made a sudden pattern of red sparks. He leaned forward and Farebrother smelled the whisky on his breath. ‘There are ways, Farebrother, my boy,’ he said flippantly. ‘There are Swedish airfields packed wing tip to wing tip with Flying Fortresses and B-24s. There must be room there for a factory-fresh Mustang fighter plane.’ He leaned back in his seat, watching Farebrother catch the effect of his words. ‘Some flyers out there over the sea get a sudden hankering to make a separate peace. They steer north to the big blonde girls, farm butter and central heating. You’ll be tempted, Farebrother, old buddy.’

Nervously Farebrother reached for his own cigarettes and lit one. He took a long time doing it. He didn’t want to talk any more with this drunken officer.

But when the cigarette was lit, Madigan said, ‘You’ve got a nice lighter there, Captain. Mind if I take a closer look?’ When it passed to him Madigan silently read the engraved ‘To Jamie from Dad’ and then clasped it tight in his hands.

‘Women are all the same,’ said Madigan. He was speaking more quietly now and with a fervour his earlier conversation had lacked. ‘I was in love this time. Ever been in love, Farebrother?’ It was not a real question and he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I offered to marry her. Last night I dropped in unexpectedly and I find her in the sack with some goddamned infantry lieutenant.’ He tossed the lighter into the air. ‘She’s probably been two-timing me all along. And I was in love with the little whore.’

Farebrother murmured sympathetically and Madigan tossed the lighter to him.

‘You’ll be all right,’ said Madigan. ‘Your reflexes are okay for three o’clock in the morning. And any guy who goes to war carrying a solid-gold lighter is well motivated for survival. From Dad, eh?’

Farebrother smiled and wondered what Captain Madigan would say if he knew that Dad was one of the top brass who were figuring new ways to get them all killed.

Lieutenant Colonel Druce ‘Duke’ Scroll was the Group Administrative Executive Officer. He was a fussy thirty-nine-year-old who made sure everyone knew he’d graduated from West Point long before most of the other officers were out of high school. The Exec dressed like an illustration from The Officer’s Handbook. His wavy hair was always neatly trimmed and his rimless spectacles polished so that they shone.

‘What time did you arrive, Captain Farebrother?’ His eyes moved quickly to look out of the window. Two aircraft were parked on the muddy grass, their green paint shiny with the never-ending rain. Some men were huddled against the control tower, the outer walls of which were patchy from a half-finished paint job. Behind it the airfield was empty, its grass darkened by the sunless weeks of wintry weather.

‘A little after eight o’clock this morning, sir.’

‘Transport okay? And you got breakfast, I trust.’ The Exec was bent over his desk, his hands flat on its top, reading from an open file. There was no solicitude apparent in the questions. He seemed more interested in double-checking the motor pool and the mess staff than in Farebrother’s welfare. He looked up without straightening his body.

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

The Exec banged a hand down on the bell on his desk, like an impatient hotel guest. His sergeant clerk appeared immediately at the door.

‘You tell Sergeant Boyer that if I see him and the rest of those lead swingers goofing off just once more, he’ll be a buckass private in time for lunch. And you tell him I’m looking for men to do guard duty over Christmas.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the sergeant clerk doubtfully. He looked out of the window to discover what the Exec could see from here. ‘I guess the rain is pretty heavy.’

‘The rain was heavy yesterday,’ said the Exec, ‘and the day before that. Chances are it will be heavy tomorrow. Colonel Badger wants the tower painted by tonight and it’s going to be done by tonight. The Krauts don’t close down the war every time it rains, Sergeant. Not even the Limeys do that.’

‘I’ll tell Sergeant Boyer, sir.’

‘And make it snappy, Sergeant. We’ve got work to do.’

The Exec looked at Farebrother and then at the rain and then at the papers on his desk. ‘When my sergeant returns he’ll give you a map of the base and tell you about your accommodation and so on. And don’t kick up a fuss if you’re sleeping on the far side of the village in a Quonset hut. This place was built as an RAF satellite field, it wasn’t designed to hold over sixteen hundred Americans who want to bathe every day in hot water. The Limeys seem to manage with a dry polish—they think bathing weakens you.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve got over three hundred officers here. I’ve got captains and majors sleeping under canvas, shaving in tin huts with mud floors and cycling three miles to get breakfast. So…’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘I understand, sir.’

Having finished his well-rehearsed litany, Colonel Scroll looked at Farebrother as if seeing him for the first time. ‘The commanding officer, Colonel Badger, will see you at eleven hundred hours, Captain Farebrother. You’ve just got time enough to shave, shower and change into a clean class A uniform.’ He nodded a dismissal.

It seemed a bad moment for Farebrother to tell him that he had already showered in the precious hot water, shaved, and was wearing his newest and cleanest uniform. Farebrother saluted punctiliously, and then performed the sort of about-face that was said to be de rigueur at West Point. The effect was not all he’d hoped for; he lost balance performing what the Basic Field Manual describes as ‘…place the toe of your right foot a half foot length in rear and slightly to the left of your left heel. Do not move your left heel.’ Farebrother moved his left heel.

Everything good or bad about the base at Steeple Thaxted during those days was largely due to the Group Exec. It was Duke Scroll who—like all executive officers throughout the Air Force—made life a pleasure or a pain, not only for the flyers but also for the sheet-metal workers, the parachute packers, and the clerks, cooks and crew chiefs who made up the three Fighter Group squadrons, and the Air Service Group, which supplied, maintained, policed and supported them.

The Exec stood behind Colonel Daniel A. Badger, station commander and leader of the Fighter Group. They were a curious pair—the prim, impeccable Duke and the restless, red-faced, squat Colonel Dan, whose short blond hair would never stay the way he combed it and whose large bulbous nose and pugnacious chin never did adapt easily to the strict confines of the moulded-rubber oxygen masks the Air Force used.

Colonel Dan rubbed the hairy arms visible below the shortened sleeves of his khaki shirt. It was a quick nervous gesture, like the few fast strokes a butcher makes on a sharpening steel while deciding how to dissect a carcass. In spite of the climate he never wore long sleeves and only put on his jacket when it was really needed. His shirt collar was open, ready for his white flying scarf—‘ten minutes in the ocean and a GI necktie will shrink enough to strangle you.’ Colonel Dan was always ready to fly.

‘Captain Farebrother!’ The Exec announced him as if he were a guest at a royal ball.

‘Yeah,’ said Colonel Dan. He went on looking at the sheet of paper that the Exec held before him, as if hoping that some more names would miraculously appear there. ‘Just one of you, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Farebrother, restraining an impulse to turn round and see.