Virgin Airman

Spic had already put one arm to Bo's bearing. I repeated Jim's and Spic moved the other arm. For a moment the two didn't seem to join and I wondered what we'd done wrong, but then he moved it so that the two arms crossed. He whistled. "Nearly a direct hit," he said. He used his ruler to measure the distance between the centre of the target and the hit. "Five yards South, South, West," he said.

"Nearly a direct hit," I said to the pilot though I knew comments like that weren't really approved of but I thought he deserved it after the first dud,. Then I told him the distance from the target.

"Bloody good show," I heard the pilot say to his bomb aimer.

Three more runs, all except one with very good results and the 'failure' was only twenty yards off. The pilot signed off sounding pleased.

"Good show, lads," said Bingham, his voice a low grumble, "but don't let it go to your heads. We've got that dud to find."

No one had told Jim and I about this, perhaps keeping the 'best' news for later. It seemed that if any bombs didn't go off, we had to go to find them. sometimes this was easy. They might just be lying on the ground in clear view. At other time, especially if, like now, the ground was soft and probably waterlogged, they might go straight in and the only way we'd find them was by stepping into the hole. If the crater had sloping sides, the bomb had exploded. If it was straight down, the bomb was probably at the bottom. According to the Sergeant there was no danger. You couldn't set a bomb off by treading on the fins but I was to say the least a bit doubtful.

There were no planes due until the afternoon, so, telling Jim and Curly to start searching from their post. I heard Jim and Curly swearing. Sergeant issued out the wellington boots. "What happens if the hole's really deep and full of water?" I asked.

"You gets your feet wet," he said. He was all heart.

Even though I didn't really like the idea of looking for unexploded bombs with my feet, I felt elated. The first runs had gone well, The only foul-up was in the bomb itself and we could hardly be blamed for that.

"What does the finder of the bomb get?" I asked.

"A kiss from the Sergeant," said Bo.

Bingham grunted, but I don't think he was upset.

"What about those that don't find it?" I asked.

"A kiss from me," said Bo.

I knew which I'd prefer. Actually I'd really like a kiss from Jim but I could hardly say that. I wasn't sure I could analyse my feelings for Jim exactly. Certainly I liked him as a friend, but I also liked being with him, having his physical presence near me, and when we occasionally touched, accidentally, I felt an excitement go through me. I put thoughts of what all this meant though to one side though at night, when I remembered that first night in the transit hut, and his body spooned round me, his arm round my chest, I wondered what I would have done if his hand had gone the other way, down instead of up.

We splashed out into the cold bog and I was glad. The thoughts had given me a hard which the winter weather soon took care of. We splashed our way towards the target. If all his bombs had been pretty close, even the furthest one away, probably that first dud would be in the area. After ten minutes, we saw Jim and Curly coming from the other direction. We'd been given sticks to poke down likely looking holes and we prodded away, the excitement ebbing away as we found nothing. Then, at long last, when even Bingham was about to give up. Bo's stick struck something metallic. Spic and Curly had their spades and they dug the thing out. Jim and I looked on. He stood close and I could almost feel his warmth. I would have liked to put my arms round him but of course I didn't.

The bomb looked small and innocuous. We carried it back and put it in the special store. I noticed this was defended with concrete cladding. So, it was all right to go looking for bombs in our bare feet as it were, but storing them needed real protection. I hoped we wouldn't have to do this very often.

Bedtime. The night time arrangements were primitive as was also the cooking. There was a small calor gas stove on which we used a huge frying pan to cook anything that had been provided by the cooks at base camp. Sausages, usually and more of the tinned tomatoes. There were some boiled potatoes, remains of last nights supper probably but good for a fry-up. Plenty of grease and stodge and it filled us up.

The beds were on the lower floor. Six rickety army beds with another one for the sergeant hidden for the rest by a half partition. You couldn't see what he was doing but you could certainly hear him. He farted a lot, but then so did we - all that greasy food I guess.

We climbed in, Jim in the bed next to mine. Someone, Curly I think started a song from the war and we all joined in.

"Kiss me good night Sergeant Major,

Tuck me in my little wooden bed.

We all love you Sergeant Major

When we hear the bombing show a leg.

Don't forget to wake me in the morning

And bring me a nice hot cup of tea.

Kiss me good night, Sergeant Major.

Sergeant Major be a mother to me."

Bingham was having none of it. He puffed on his eternal Woodbine and when we finished, grunted, "Kiss you kids. I'd sooner kiss the Pope's arse." I remember being shocked at this. It wasn't done in my family to make anti-religious comments but I suppose Bingham was a Protestant. He had a slight accent and could I suppose have come from Northern Ireland.

Bo stood up in his pyjama trousers, tall and handsome. "Well," he said, "if he won't I'll have to do it. Pucker up, lads, here I come."

He went round all of us and gave us each a kiss on the lips, soft and light, almost the sort an aunt might give us. Only Curly turned his face so that he got a kiss on the cheeks. I looked over at Jim after Bo had kissed us. He smiled and made a slight movement of his lips as if he was blowing me one. I grinned back.

Then there was a sudden shout from Bo, high pitched, not like his usual voice at all. He'd just kissed Spic. "The slut," he called. "She opened her mouth. Wanted me to put my tongue in."

Spic was grinning and I knew Bo was having a joke, but I was confused.

Bingham said, "Go to sleep, you fucking nellies, or I'll have you out on parade at five o'clock tomorrow morning." It was an empty threat, we knew, Bingham was no more likely to want to get up that early than pigs might fly but we settled down and Bo switched off the light.

I could see a sliver of moon through the window and millions and millions of stars, more than I'd ever seen in London since the streetlights came on again at the end of the war. I could see the lump which was Jim and wondered what he was doing or thinking. Was he holding himself like I was?

What did Bo mean by 'putting his tongue in? Into Spic's mouth? What was that for? Was this the 'French kissing' I'd heard mentioned once or twice since I joined up? And did that mean that Bo was queer? He was nothing like the effeminate idea I had of those people whom my father called 'Nancy boys'. Bo was tall and straight and, yes, manly. He looked a bit like the Captain of our First Eleven Cricket team at school, a hero to all of us juniors.

Then I thought of Jim. He'd 'blown a kiss' at me. Would I like to kiss him and open my mouth allowing his tongue to come in and find mine. The thought was strangely erotic. I realised I was getting a hard and knew I wouldn't be able to sleep without a wank unless I got rid of it.

I thought of kissing Sergeant Bingham and I drooped immediately.

"G'night, Jim," I whispered too low for anyone to hear.

But perhaps he did, for his shape moved. I could just make out his arm stretched out towards me. Our beds were close enough for me to reach out too.

Our fingers touched - just.

* * * * * *

It wasn't this first time but a week some months later. Christmas was over and we'd had a week's leave - very generous. I went home but, though Christmas with the family was fun and, in spite of the rationing the food was good, my sister, aged fourteen was a bit of a pain and my brother, aged four was a complete nuisance so I was almost looking forward to going back to camp. Almost? No really.

I fantasised about Jim, wondering whether,back in Nottingham where the ratio of girls to blokes was three to one. he'd had his share. I fantasised about Bo whose 'kissing us goodnight' at the range had now taken on the aspect of a ritual. I even fantasised about Spic and his open mouth. But especially I fantasised about Jim and then worried as to whether I was turning queer. And of course there was no one I could ask.

One evening he phoned me. Not that we said very much seeing as how my family were listening my end and his at his end and I didn't even ask him whether he'd found himself a girlfriend, but I came off the phone so elated that my mother asked whether it had in fact been a girl at the other end.

So at the end of the week, we went back to Bawtry and Hatrack Control and a few days later it happened. A comedy which for some of us turned into a tragedy. It wasn't even at night when it could have been perhaps more understandable.

The afternoon began as normal. It was a fine clear day though some clouds were piling up in the west and we were awaiting that last bombing run of the day. Bo and Spic were in Observer 2; they had become very close and often chose to spend the shift together. Bingham didn't seem to object. They looked and seemed happy together.

The pilot came through and we were surprised to hear an American voice. The message was hardly couched in procedural language.

"Hi Hatrack, I'm coming in for a run over your range. OK?"

"Unidentified aircraft," I said (I was on the RT with Jim and Curly on telescope and map respectively). "What is your call sign? Over."

"Jeez, You Brits. Er . . .," came the voice. "Xray Yankee Zulu." It wasn't British phonetic alphabet but I used it anyway.

"Xray Yankee Zulu, You are free to start your run. Please call us when you can see the target. Out."

Even Sergeant Bingham came up to the table. He said, "For fuck's sake, make sure you get this one. We don't want to show ourselves up in front of these Yanks."

I checked with Bo that he was ready, willing and able. In the background I heard Spic saying something softly, obviously not for my ears. "Sure am," said Bo though I wasn't quite sure what he was referring to.

We waited. Then I could hear the sound of a plane's engines. Curly looked out and up. "There she is," he said. "Christ he's high up. Can he see the target?"

As if in answer the pilot's voice crackled over the airwaves. "Your target in view, Hatrack. Am starting my bomb run." His countdown came almost immediately, "Five, Four, Three, Two One, Bomb gone!" Then a sudden shout. "Gee, sorry, Hatrack, I've bombed your arrow."

It took a moment to realise what he meant and then it sunk in. The arrow pointed to the target. It was next door to our observation post. In fact he'd bombed us. There was another brief, terrified pause and then Jim said, "Under the table."

We tried but the space under the table was full, full of Sergeant Bingham's not inconsiderable bulk. His face stared out but he made no move to make space for us. In fact there was no space.

I prepared for death. I grabbed hold of Jim and hugged him. I felt other arms clasping me. Curly was in on the act as well.

It seemed an age but an object falling at an increasing rate of sixteen feet per second per second, doesn't take long to reach ground zero. There was a sharp crack, then an explosion, the floor under us tilted to the right, smoke drifted upwards past the window.

For a second we waited to see whether the whole thing would collapse but we remained on the tilt. Bingham scrambled out and grabbed hold of the microphone. "You fucking Yankee cunts," he shouted. "You want your fucking . . . ." Many of the words he used were unfamiliar to me but they were effective. "Sorry Hatrack," came the answer. "Is anyone hurt?"

"We're all fucking dead," said Bingham and cut out.

To give him his due, though he'd been first under the table, he remained in the post until we'd all gingerly climbed down the stairs now leaning at a drunken angle. We could see that the bomb had hit one of the wooden supports but, though it was fractured, it hadn't actually split in two so still supported the structure but it looked as if it could give at any moment.

Suddenly there was a creaking sound and the whole structure wobbled. "Run for it," shouted Bingham.

We did. I didn't look round and the crashing seemed to go on for ever. At last it stopped. We turned round. We were lucky to have escaped uninjured. Planks and spars with lethal looking points and splinters lay all around. The twisted metal parts of beds protruded from the wreckage.

"Christ, my spare boots," said Curly peering into the mess.

Luckily everything had missed the lorry so as soon as Bo and Spic arrived, looking anxious, we drove back to the camp where Bingham made his report and we were all interviewed. Our evidence of course agreed though parts of it were subtlely edited and the blame fell on the American pilot.

But of course the bombing range was no longer functioning. It wasn't decided whether the observation post would be rebuilt or not and until things were decided no one wanted us around. Our futures were decided without our wishes being considered, but of course, that's the services.

Jim was transferred to RAF Bassingbourne, near Cambridge, I was sent to RAF Kidlington, near Oxford. The irony of two University cities always joined in popular parlance but splitting us apart.

The real tragedy was that Bo and Spic were also split. After Bo left Bawtry, Spic committed suicide by cutting his wrists in the bath. The suicide and any relevant circumstances were hushed up. I never heard what happened to Bo.

We were given a forty-eight hour pass and Jim asked me to go with him to Nottingham to stay at his house. Trying not to think of what would happen afterwards, I was overjoyed. I thought what we might do when we were alone together. I'd probably have to sleep with Jim, in the same room if not the same bed, as I knew the family was big and the house small.

Then all went wrong. I phoned my parents to tell them the news, that I wasn't hurt, that I would be visiting a friend for my forty-eight hour.

"Your grandmother's dying," said my mother. "This could be the last time you can see her. This pass has happened at just the right time."

"But . . ." I said, and knew I would have to refuse Jim's offer. And probably I'd never see him again. In a way I knew how Spic had felt though his solution wasn't mine.

* * * * * *

RAF Kidlington is nearer the village of Woodstock than the City of Oxford. Woodstock is the home of the Dukes of Marlborough, Blenheim Palace, a huge English Baroque mansion built for the 1st Duke after his victory over the French in 1732. Winston Churchill was born there.

Not that any of this made much impression on us oiks. I was more concerned with my new quarters and companions. We were actually separate from the RAF camp. Ours was a small simulated bombing range, simulated of course meaning no actual bombs were dropped. Instead aircraft focused on the corner of Cowley Motor Works in Oxford. They were picked up by radar and the height, speed and direction were shown on dials in the command room, A camera recorded these at one second intervals and then when we were told that the bombs had gone we'd give five quick clicks on the camera button. Somehow, and this was always a mystery to me, the trajectory and final destination of the bomb could be plotted on a large map. This was all handled by the REME (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) lads who jealously guarded their secret.

In fact we were a cosmopolitan group, the RAF talked to the planes and operated the cameras, the REME worked on the bomb plotting and mended when necessary the radar, and the R.A. (Royal Artillery) operated the radar. These were two huge mobile 'cabins' each with a radar disc on top. Our initiation at the range consisted of climbing onto the roof of one of these holding an electric light bulb. This would light up if held towards the central antennae of the disc. I have no idea what damage this did to our frail bodies through which presumably the same microwaves pulsed. There was also a civilian who was responsible for making sure the cameras worked. Rather like Sergeant Bingham he sat in a chair and smoked because the cameras rarely if ever broke down. They were about the only things that didn't because the radar was always failing and the bomb plotting contrivance was also unpredictable to say the least.

The whole enterprise was run by Pilot Officer Tate. Unfortunately P.O. Tate led to his nickname, Potato, or usually Spud though of course never to his face. He was a nice enough guy, rather shy and probably not much older than us National Servicemen though of course his commission meant that he couldn't fraternise with the men. I remember that, at the end of my time he sent a report on me saying that I was in every way a gentleman. I was shown by the sergeant at my demob camp that someone had drawn a line through this statement and commented, 'No one except an officer can be a gentleman' - but of course by that time I didn't care.

We all (except Spud) lived in a single barrack room completely apart from the main RAF camp. We didn't do parades and the only contact we had with the other RAF lads was that we ate in the same canteen and ran across them in the NAAFI.

It was a grand life and, apart from missing Jim, I enjoyed it immensely. We'd fool around in the hut. One game I particularly remember was 'shaking hands'. Someone would suddenly whisper, "Let's shake hands with . . . . ."

Everyone would advance on whoever was the victim, peacefully lying on his bed listening to Radio Luxembourg. He would be held down arms and legs, and then two guys would do the 'shaking'. This involved each one putting his hand up the trouser leg of the victim until it reached the top. Trousers in those days were comparatively full and there was space at the crotch for fumbling around. Then having touched the hand of the other one coming up the other side, they would withdraw. Well, that was the idea.

There were various ways of prolonging the agony (or pleasure). One I found particularly effective was to bend one of my knees so that, though one person's hand was able to go straight up, the other one was delayed at the knee area. The groping hand at the top, waiting for the hand to touch would encounter various other parts of anatomy and there would be shouts of protest and roars of laughter as the victims genitals were groped.

The only problem I had when I was the chosen victim was that I always got an immediate hard which was considered bad form though it never stopped them picking on me. Perhaps indeed it increased the occasions. One lad, an R.A. Lance Corporal called Rod would unashamedly grab hold of my rapidly hardening cock and squeeze it. But it never went further than that.

And then there was Lofty. Lofty, it was rumoured had the biggest cock in the unit. Not that anyone had seen it. He was very shy when having a piss and always used the lockable bath rooms rather than the more public shower. But he was proud of his cock and mornings he would lie on his back in bed with this monstrous erection sticking up under the blanket. "It's not real," little Sparky the REME private said. "That's your hand you're pushing up."

"Course it's real," said Lofty. "Go on feel it."

And Sparky touched the projection and squealed. "It's true." So we all had a feel, one by one and if anything it grew even bigger and Lofty just lay there, a big smile on his face - but he never showed us his prick.