A Shock To The System
"I'm sorry, young man, I can't possibly pass you as fit." The speaker looked sympathetically at the young pilot in front of him. "Although it is nearly three months since your injuries, I'm not at all happy with your condition." He consulted the folder on the desk in front of him. "The infection that developed in your arm is more or less under control now, although you may find it is tender for a while yet, but the dizzy spells you have started experiencing recently as a result of your head wound are a worry. They mean you would be more of a danger to yourself and the rest of your squadron than to Jerry." He wrote on the medical record in front of him. "I'm standing you down for three weeks initially. I'll see you again at the end of that time and review your case. If you have no more periods of dizziness we shall be able to put you back on active service."
Ginger felt his mouth go dry with shock. Having always enjoyed good health, apart from chronic tonsillitis in his childhood, solved by their removal in his early teens, he had anticipated no problems with returning to squadron strength after his adventures in the Argentine. The doctor's words sent him into what Bertie would have described as "a flat spin".
The doctor seemed unaware of the devastating effect of his words as he continued, "Take a complete rest. Get some fresh air," he looked at Ginger over the top of his glasses. "Spend some time with your girl-friend in the country." Ginger winced inwardly, the wound still raw.
"Thank you, doctor," he said quickly to stem the flow of advice. "I'll do that." He rose, put on his cap, saluted and left, his mind in a whirl. All very well for the MO to tell him to spend some time resting in the country, he thought as he made his way along the Strand, headed for the Mount Street flat where Biggles, who had been summoned to a conference with Air Commodore Raymond, leaving Algy in charge of the squadron, was waiting to find out if Ginger had passed the Medical Board. Bertie was the only person he knew who had a country estate, and that had been requisitioned as a girls school. Somehow he could not see himself spending three weeks surrounded by shrieking fourth formers, even if it could be arranged.
The Fates had decided to be kind, however, for as he walked slowly down the thoroughfare putting off the moment when he had to tell Biggles the bad news, he suddenly heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw a slim, blond young man of roughly his own age hurrying towards him. For a moment, he could not place him, but then in a flood of recognition he realised it was Nigel Peters, better known as Cub, whom he had met when the squadron had helped out with transport for the Commando raids of King's "Kittens".
The two spent some time exchanging news and when Ginger told Cub about the doctor's advice an invitation to spend some time with him on his father's farm in East Anglia was immediately forthcoming. "The Guv'nor will be delighted to see you," Cub assured him, overcoming any resistance. "I told him all about you and the rest of the lads. I've got some leave coming and some company would be especially welcome. Look," he continued, enthusiastically, "I'm up here for the night, staying at the old man's club. I have to finish some business at Holland and Holland but after that, I'm free and I'm going home tomorrow. Why don't we have dinner together tonight and we can travel down together in the morning?"
Ginger agreed that it sounded a good idea. The prospect of three weeks away from squadron life took on a less unappealing aspect at the thought of Cub's company as the two, so close in age, had formed an enduring friendship through their adventures together. They made arrangements to meet that evening at the United Services Club, familiarly known as the In and Out, owing to the inscriptions on its gates, and went their separate ways.
Biggles was sitting reading and smoking a cigarette when Ginger returned. One look at the expression on his protégé's face was enough to tell him it was not good news, which Ginger swiftly confirmed. At Biggles' enquiry as to what he had planned, Ginger recounted his meeting with Cub and the invitation.
"Good idea," endorsed Biggles. "I know Colonel Peters. He'll make you welcome. We shall miss you," he remarked, looking keenly at the young man who stood by the fireplace, "but three weeks will pass very quickly. The important thing is that you make a full recovery and the squadron can be up to strength," he stressed. Then he smiled wryly. "If you haven't lost your appetite, ring the bell for Mrs Symes. We'll have some tea."
Ginger suited the action to the word and proving his appetite was undiminished by his injuries did full justice to the magnificent spread that the housekeeper managed to provide, despite the exigencies of rationing. "You're a marvel, Mrs S," he complimented her as she came to take away the remains of the meal. "I don't know how you do it."
The housekeeper smiled fondly. She had a more than soft spot for the young man that Biggles and Algy had brought home before the war. She had watched Ginger grow up into a good-looking young man whose early deprivations still showed in his lack of stature and slight frame, despite all her attempts at spoiling him. Although the Mrs was an honorary title, bestowed on her by virtue of her occupation, Mrs Symes regarded her "gentlemen" as her family and was determined to do her best for them despite all that Hitler's minions could throw at her.
When the housekeeper had disappeared once more into the kitchen that was her domain, Biggles eyed Ginger with a rueful smile. "You twist that woman round your little finger," he teased. "She will do anything for you. I shan't get anything like the same service once you've gone on holiday. No-one would think I pay the bills," he grumbled, mock angrily.
Ginger smiled and refused to be drawn. If the truth were known, he felt very tired. His arm was troublesome in spite of being close to fully healed and he could feel a dull ache in his temple. He made an excuse about packing for an early morning departure and went to his room.
The next thing he realised was Biggles shaking him by the shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Biggles' concerned expression suddenly change to asperity. "You're going to be late for dinner," he accused, hiding his concern under irritability. "You haven't even changed yet! Mrs Symes has run your bath. Get a move on!"
Ginger pulled himself together and looked at the pile of civilian clothes he'd started to amass before the dreadful wave of lassitude had swept over him, causing him to stretch out on the bed where Biggles had found him several hours later. He passed his hand across his eyes and went to make his ablutions before donning his best blue for dinner with Cub.
Fortunately it was not far to the In and Out, as there was not a taxi to be had. Ginger announced himself to the porter and was escorted to the member's library where Cub was waiting, idling away the time with a newspaper.
He stood up, tossing the broad-sheet aside. Like a drink?" he invited his guest.
Ginger hesitated. "No thanks," he declined. "I've given that up, now."
Cub looked at him curiously. "It's a long story," said Ginger, "I'll tell you all about it over dinner."
Cub gestured to the chair facing him the other side of the fireplace and they both sat down. Despite the length of time since they had last met, the conversation flowed easily and they picked up their friendship where it had left off. They were still filling in details when the elderly porter came across and announced that their table was ready. Together they walked across to the dining room, Ginger in his Royal Air Force uniform and Cub in full dress Royal Marine Commando mess kit.
The porter led them across to a table near the window. The blackout was firmly in place and gave a somewhat claustrophobic atmosphere to the room. They sat down and Ginger told Cub all about his recent adventures as they attacked a substantial if rather tasteless meal that conformed to war standards.
"I shall be glad to get home," confessed Cub, pushing his plate away. "At least we get decent grub."
Ginger murmured something about rationing.
"Rabbits aren't on ration," remarked Cub. "I need to keep my eye in - for when I have a chance to take a pot shot at Jerry," he smiled. "Bring your guns, Ginger," he counselled. "We'll get lots of opportunity for shooting."
Ginger confessed he did not own a shotgun. "I hardly think I can ask Smyth to take the Brownings out of my Spit," he continued dryly. "I should imagine that, apart from being very unsporting, it might be considered misuse of War Department property," he grinned.
Cub laughed. "I wouldn't like to try to eat the result, either! Never mind," he reassured his companion. "I'm sure we'll have some sport any way." He looked at his watch. "Good grief," he ejaculated, "is that the time? Sorry, Ginger, but I'm going to turn in. We'll be catching the 6.30 from Liverpool Street tomorrow morning. I suggest you get an early night, too."
They both went down to the lobby where Cub saw Ginger off with a reminder not to be late the next morning.
The night was clear and cold for the time of year. With the blackout, the stars shone brightly like diamonds strewn across a black velvet cloth. Ginger leaned against the Out pillar and enjoyed the cool of the night air on his cheek for a moment before setting off back to the flat. He did not hurry for despite Cub's protestations, it was not very late. There were still pedestrians in the streets, some of whom, lacking good night vision nearly collided with him. Blessed with extremely good night sight, Ginger found the moonlight lit the streets with a blue light that was nearly as bright as day. Looking up he saw faint wisps of cloud veiling the moon and thought of the bomber crews ploughing their lonely course across the landscape. As if the wish was father to the thought, the sirens suddenly sounded. Far to the south he could see the long fingers of the searchlights probing for the attackers.
Ginger knew that there was no possibility of reaching his home before the bombs began to drop so he made his way to the nearest Underground station. Any port in a storm, he thought as he clattered down the steps with others who had the same idea. When he emerged on the platform he was astounded at the sight that met his gaze. There were ranks of bunks along the edge of the tunnel. Families grouped around with flasks of tea and sandwiches, some playing cards. Someone jostled him. "You should be up there!" the man told him angrily. "Why aren't you shooting them down? Brylcreem boy!" he said scornfully. The speaker was well-fed and dressed in a trilby. He looked a typical spiv, Ginger thought.
"Leave 'im alone," said a woman from the first bunk before Ginger could say anything in his own defence. "Pay no attention to 'im, luv," she advised Ginger. "'E don't want no fightin'. 'E's too busy makin' a pile from the black market."
The man muttered angrily and hurried off up the platform, leaving Ginger to smile his thanks at the woman. She was in her late forties and had had a hard life judged by the lines etched on her kindly face. "You on leave, luv?" she wanted to know.
Ginger owned that he was. "Fought so, I c'n tell. Been wounded?" At Ginger's surprised look, she told him, "I got the gift, see. Me muvver was a gypsy. Second sight," she clarified when Ginger looked mystified. "Give me yer 'and." Ginger hesitated, reluctant to have any truck with fortune-telling, but she reached out and took hold of his hand, turning it palm up. In the dim light she scrutinised it. Ginger regarded her curiously, not knowing what to think. "You was very poor," she started, "but now you 'ave rich friends." She looked at him, "there's someone special," she said, regarding him steadily. "Someone very important to you." She looked at his hand again and frowned. "I see the shadow of a limping man crossin' yer path. Beware of 'im," she warned. "'E means you no good." Then she continued, more tenderly, "you've lost someone dear to you recently." Ginger withdrew his hand and she regarded him sympathetically. "You'll 'ave a long and 'appy life, luv," she assured him, gently, "and so will yer friends." Ginger took a deep breath, at a loss for words. Just then the all-clear sounded and she shooed him away. "Go and give 'em 'ell when you get back to yer squadron," she admonished him. He thanked her and went back up into the fresh air, oddly comforted by the strange encounter.
With no more alarms, he swiftly reached Mount Street and let himself in. Biggles had already retired so he helped himself to a glass of milk in the kitchen, where he left a note for the housekeeper to warn her he would not be in for breakfast, before he turned in. He noticed before he went to bed that Mrs Symes had packed the clothes he had left out.
