Attack Alarm

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The atmosphere of the place was stifling. The air was hot Hid full of smoke, and the lamps, which had just been lit, glowed dimly. From where we sat at the entrance it was rarely possible to see the beer counter at the far end. And between ourselves and the bar was a sea of faces, sweat-glistening and animated — like masks seen vaguely through curling tobacco smoke. This was our only recreation. This was Thorby in mid-August.

It had been exciting enough at first. A fighter station at the beginning of the Blitz was exciting. But after only a week in the place, the excitement had palled; it had become a strain. The inevitability of concrete runways and brick and concrete buildings, the din of revving engines and the dust had asserted themselves. Dust and noise — that epitomised Thorby. And not even the excitement of action could dispel my sense of depression.

It wasn’t just the dust and the noise that made me depressed. Thorby was better than some stations. It had been built in 1926, and those who had planned it had had the grace to give the roads grass borders and to plant trees. At certain strategic joints there were even flowerbeds. God knows, I longed for the fresh green of the country, but it wasn’t that that made it impossible for me to join the others in celebrating their first action. It was the atmosphere of the place. It was tense — tense and waiting. Even in the few days I had been on the site, Thorby had changed. France had fallen in June. The Luftwaffe was just across the Channel now. Invasion was in the air. The coast and the fighter ‘dromes felt it most, for they had become the front line. All around the ‘drome barbed-wire entanglements were springing up.

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