Chapter 4: Up in the Air

MID-MORNING on Thursday we arrived at the remote East Anglian railway halt, named after the airfield we were heading for, the bomber squadron base that missing pilot Bradford Gold had operated from for about five or six months the previous summer and autumn.

The halt could barely be called a station, we had been warned by the station master at the nearest mainline station that the platform was only long enough for the first of the two-carriage rural train to alight. The terrain was flat for miles around and on the edge of The Fens, nothing was higher than a low bush to stop the fresh cold wind whistling in from the North Sea, spraying that fine driven rain that seeps through, wetting anything and everything in its path.

There was a car waiting for us, driven by a smart WAAF Sergeant, who couldn’t possibly be more than twenty years old. She was only expecting one passenger to take to the AOC, but she cheerfully accepted Mrs Jones as my secretary and told us that was no problem.

Neither would it be a problem at the gate, the WAAF Sergeant assured us, as apparently “Brass Hats” and Air Ministry visitors brought miscellaneous secretarial ladies along for the trip all the time.

The WAAF Sergeant informed Mary that she could quite safely leave her valise in the car after she had freshened up in the WAAF Mess, as she was scheduled to take us back to the railway halt once our business was concluded.

I left Mrs Jones, who sat up front with WAAF Sergeant Livings, chatting away quietly and conspiratorially together. They both spoke in the same precise English of the Home Counties Middle Class and appeared to share an infinity, however bizarre, knowing as I did that my colleague had never set foot in the Home Counties, other than pass through it twice by train in the last 72 hours!

I heard the odd snippet, as they talked about life on camp in general and relationships between flying officers and other ranks in particular, while I settled back, confident that Mrs Jones would report in full on the way back.

She had an easy way about her and, in her fake but unimpeachable English accent, had charmed several fellow passengers on the journey up thus far.

When we had a moment to ourselves I had asked how she could converse so freely, knowing how stiff I usually was with people. She replied that it was essential for her acting profession to thoroughly research her roles; if she was playing a nurse for example, she or the Studio would arrange for her to spend a week or two in a hospital, and a good way of finding out the real nitty gritty of any situation was by holding innocent conversations where people didn’t even realise they were being studied and interrogated.

As soon as she said it, I recalled that by that same subtle process on our very first meeting I had told her more about my engagement to Mildred breaking down than I had ever told anyone in the last quarter of a century, including any of my own family.

The Air Officer Commanding was an athletic, upright chap in his middle fifties, called Bradley, with hair greying at the temples and a thick, dark brown handlebar moustache, clearly a veteran of the Royal Air Corps of the Great War. He greeted me tersely, while ignoring Mrs Jones’ presence entirely.

“Quite honestly, Inspector Onslow, I think you may have had a completely wasted journey, what? As I explained during our telephone conversation yesterday, I was only appointed to the squadron for the final month that Flight Lieutenant Gold was here, so I never really got to know the damned fellow much at all.”

“When you did meet him, Sir, what were your initial impressions?” I asked.

“Well, Gold seemed rather casual in his manner, like many from the former colonies in the Americas, you know. He didn’t much like proper procedure, and was quite unorthodox in his behaviour towards the chaps under his command. Oh, he was bold and very brave undoubtedly; he was one of our best pilots, actually, but he was damned difficult to discipline. Much better suited to the fighters that he decided to transfer orff to. Jolly good move on his part, if you ask me, all glory without the grind. Still, I’ve asked around since our little chat on the old blower and found that our Squadron Leader Wentworth was his WingCo when Gold first showed up here bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a Pilot Officer, so I have asked him to pop along and have a chat with us.”

Apparently, WAAF Sergeant Livings was under instructions to fetch Wentworth as soon as she’d dropped us off, because just then came a knock on the door. Two men, an officer and an RAF squaddie walked in on the AOC’s crisp “Come!” command and saluted the AOC smartly. Sergeant Livings remained outside the room and closed the door behind them. I assume she departed, no doubt for a deserved cup of tea and a warm somewhere by a hot stove.

“Ah, Wentworth, this is Detective Inspector Onslow, ex-Scotland Yard,” the AOC bellowed, “he’s been roped in from retirement to investigate some case or other and needs to get a handle on Flight Lieutenant Gold’s life while he was here. Apparently he’s an important part of some enquiry, but he’s gone and got himself missing in action. You knew him when he first arrived as a wet behind the ears Pilot Officer, didn’t you, Wentworth?”

The young officer nodded and turned to me, “As I explained yesterday afternoon to AOC Bradley, Sir, when Flight Lieutenant Gold first arrived here he was put with Blue Section B Flight where I was Acting WingCo, having previously been Red Section Leader of A Flight. Gold was rather old for a new flier, over 40, I think, but it was clear to us all that he was a bloody superb natural pilot, even though he’d never flown in a Wellington bomber before basic training. She’s a tough old crate to fly straight if she gets hit and on that last mission ‘Goldie’ put in a jolly good show bringing the old girl back home in one piece.”

“Goldie?” I asked.

“Sorry, all rather juvenile, I know, Inspector, but we all go by silly nicknames, mostly based on our surnames. Gold was ‘Goldie’. Before becoming SL, I was always ‘Worthy’, and probably still am behind my back!”

Squadron Leader Wentworth looked as though he was still in his early twenties, fresh-faced with ginger hair, impossible to believe he held the rank that he was promoted to, which was an indication of the tragic losses our fly-boys were having to contend with in this war, defending our vulnerable shores from the deadly dangerous skies, or taking the fight to the enemy halfway across the continent as these bomber crews were doing night after cloudless night.

“How well did you know Gold?” I asked of the young officer.

“Not as well as I’d like, to be frank, Sir. He was a friendly enough chap, very funny, full of amusing stories in the Mess, you know, but everything about him was all on the surface, you know? He never let any chap get deep, although Stanton was quite close to him, his Flight Sergeant. As WingCo, I usually picked a different one of the inexperienced Pilot and Flying Officers to co-pilot with on raids. Not just the inexperienced ones, but also those who didn’t appear to be coping well under the pressure, you know? They are mostly young chaps, many of ‘em hardly out of university, you know? To have the WingCo or SL along on board was mostly to boost the confidence of the crew in their pilot.”