Cold War

Moran spotted them, smiled, and waved back. He looked very smart, Terry thought proudly, like a real gentleman in a tailored suit. Then Terry noticed that another man was shadowing him. Scott-Ross, meanwhile, had jumped up to haul an empty chair over to their table, and Nigel did the same, so there were two vacant places when Kit and his companion arrived. Moran opened, “Good to see you all! Gordon,” he leaned forward to shake hands with the man in the wheelchair first, then the others in turn before introducing the man beside him. “Mr Sidney Liddel. The last member of our crew.”

The four men already at the table looked up at the man who stood taller than Moran (and he was almost six feet tall). The stranger had a receding hairline over an aquiline nose and cold blue eyes. Terry tried not to make instant judgements about people, but something about this man sent a chill down his spine. “I see you’ve all got something to drink,” Moran noted, adding, “What can I get you, Mr Liddel?”

Mister Liddel? Terry looked at Nigel. Since when did the skipper call his second pilot mister? Unless he was Navy, of course. When Liddel asked for rum, Nigel mouthed “Fishhead!” to Terry.

Moran left for the bar, and Liddel sat down and looked around the table critically. “Would you mind identifying your trades for me?”

Pompous ass, Terry thought, but complied with “Signaller.” Scott-Ross, Gordon and finally Nigel followed suit. Nigel going last was unfortunate because it allowed Liddel to query, “You were an air gunner in the war, Moran said?”

“That’s right, but I’m a qualified navigator now,” Nigel answered defensively.

“Qualified yes, but you’ve never actually done any navigating in an aircraft, have you?”

“Look, I passed the exams and I navigated at sea—”

The snort Liddel gave in response to this statement made Terry question his earlier assumption about Liddel’s RN background.

“Maybe you could say a word or two about your background,” Gordon deftly shifted the focus of the conversation.

“Fair enough,” Liddel answered. “I flew Whitleys with 102 Squadron and after time as an instructor and in staff college, I transferred to Coastal Command where I flew Liberators.”

“Liberators? That’s about the only aircraft we’re not likely to fly,” Nigel complained.

“Well, for those of you ignorant of the fact,” Liddel retorted, “the skills demanded of a Liberator pilot are such that anyone who can handle a Liberator can fly anything else.”

Gordon looked at Scott-Ross and muttered just loud enough to be heard over the general pub noise, “bollocks.”

Moran returned with his own and Liddel’s drink. “Everyone getting along?” he asked innocently. The silence that answered him made him look around the table in alarm.

“You didn’t tell me the crew was composed of a bunch of insolent buggers,” Liddel sneered.

“That’s because they’re not,” Moran responded levelly.

“I think we’d better get things straight right from the start,” Liddel countered. “I run a tight ship. I won’t tolerate any kind of unprofessionalism or undue familiarity, much less impudence from my crew. I will be addressed as “captain,” not skipper—”

“Wait a minute!” Nigel broke in, looking furiously between Moran and Liddel. “You aren’t the skipper, let alone the captain, of this crew. You’re the second pilot—”

Kit gestured for Nigel to stop, but it was too late. Liddel turned on Moran in outrage. “Didn’t you tell them?”

“I haven’t had a chance. Besides, I thought it would be more appropriate to do so when we were all together—.”

Liddel didn’t let him finish. He turned back to the others. “Since Moran was remiss in informing you, I shall do so now. I have more than twice as many flying hours in my logbook as Moran. I’ve flown a greater variety of aircraft, and I held the wartime rank of Wing Commander. I’m not flying Second Dickie to a former Flight Lieutenant with such limited experience — not to mention a blemished record—”

Nigel sprang to his feet and his voice was loud enough to make the customers at adjacent tables turn to look. “I don’t give a toss how many hours you flew on what sodding aircraft much less what effing rank you had in the war! I didn’t sign on to your crew, Liddel! I signed on with Kit Moran.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a crew. I do. So adjust your thinking and pay attention to what I’m saying.”

“No. I’m not flying on your crew. You’ll have to find another navigator.” Nigel turned and walked out of the lounge.

In the stunned silence that followed, Terry registered that this was the end of the whole dream of flying again. What was more, he’d already resigned from his job at the Post Office, which made him unemployed. For a second he thought of chasing after Nigel and trying to get him to change his mind. Then he realised that he agreed with Nigel. He stood and said in a soft voice to Moran, “Sorry, Skipper, but I’m with Nigel.” Then he too walked out of the lounge.

Terry caught up with Nigel in their room, where he was punching things — fortunately, soft things like the armchair and the bed. “How could he do this to us?” Nigel fumed.

“He didn’t have a lot of choice. He didn’t have a second pilot until Tuesday.”

“But that turd—” Nigel picked up a pillow and threw it across the room. “Now what are we going to do?”

“We could go out for fish and chips over at Yates’.” It had been one of their favourite places during the war.

Nigel glared at him. “I didn’t mean tonight. I meant for jobs, income, our future!”

“I don’t know. Let’s talk about it over fish and chips.”