Stanislav and Grace At Blackpool International Airport, UK, Hangar 42 is reputed to be haunted. The TV company, ‘Most Haunted’ have filmed in the hangar several times, and installed a semi-permanent camera in order to film our ghost. A pilot, probably of Polish origin has been seen by various people in the hangar. Andrew works on the flight simulators at British Aerospace during the day. At night he works in the hangar, and has had many encounters. The simulator he has built has had many mysterious problems caused by what Andy refers to as Gremlins; problems within the electronics that have no business being there seem to have ghostly provenance. Our ghost wears 1940s flying gear, we do not know his name, but here we shall refer to him as Stan. Like his name, some of the following is supposition. When Poland was invaded by the Germans in 1939, they set about murdering numerous Polish people. Today we label this ‘Ethnic Cleansing’. The brave Polish people put up a valiant struggle, but they were hopelessly outclassed by the modern German forces – and then they were stabbed in the back by the Russians. Many Polish airmen fled to France to continue their struggle. When France, these same men crossed the channel to England – the last country left fighting the Nazi tyranny. Most of these gallant airmen spoke no English, so the authorities of the day shipped them off to places like Blackpool, mainly because the coastal town had many empty boarding houses and accommodation, with an airfield. The seaside resort was a popular posting for the fighters, who were ravaged by war. The landladies and other locals taught the flyers how to speak English, or rather a Lancashire version of English. The flyers found that navigating around the Fylde area much simpler than they were used to - it you’re lost, fly west until you hit the coast, then follow the shore until you see the Tower, you can see the airfield from there. It was during this intensive training period that Stan met Grace, a nurse taking a break in a cafe on Coronation Street, behind the Tower. Grace was at the counter, about to be served, ‘It is unusual to see someone out of uniform these days.’ He said. ‘I have just come off Duty at the Vic.’ She replied, referring to the Royal Victoria Hospital in the town. He looked again, and noticed her black stockings, ‘Oh, I see. You are a nurse?’ ‘Yes. And I see that you are a Polish airman, if I am not correct?’ ‘Yes. How did you know?’ ‘It was that funny shaped badge you all wear.’ He pointed to the Polish Air Force badge on his tunic, ‘You mean this?’ ‘Yes. What is it?’ ‘It is the badge of the Polish Air Force. It depicts …’ he was interrupted by the waitress behind to counter, who was asking to serve Grace. He continued by saying to the waitress, ‘Here, I will pay for that, and a black tea for me.’ Grace was taken aback by this, ‘No, you mustn’t. Here.’ She rummaged in her purse. Stan looked directly at the waitress and said, ‘This lady’s money is no good; trust me, I’m a foreigner, I must insist on paying.’ They all three laughed, Stan took the sixpence, and gave it back to Grace with the comment, ‘Flying is very dangerous, I may have need of your services before long; today I will look after you.’ They took their tea to a small round table. ‘Would you pass the sugar, please?’ He said. Grace took the glass sugar basin, and passed it to Stan. They noticed together that there were only five sugar lumps in it. ‘You have to put your own sugar in, or leave it out.’ She indicated the sugar basin. ‘I wouldn’t like to think that I was depriving someone with a sweet tooth.’ ‘It’s on the ration, don’t you know there’s a war on?’ ‘But what do you do if you get two people with a sweet tooth?’ ‘You get a basin each You can also ask for more sugar, but it depends who you ask,’ her tone quietened, ‘Carol over there can be a bit tetchy. They thought of putting up one of those signs, you know – “Do not ask for more sugar, as a refusal may offend.”’ He leaned closer to Grace as he said, ‘Or “Do not ask for more sugar, Carol’s refusal always offends.”’ Grace put her hand to her mouth as her eyes widened in mock horror, all she could say was, ‘You!’ He devised an impromptu chat-up line, ‘And what about your refusal, does that always offend?’ ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’ ‘If I were to ask you out for tea, would your refusal offend?’ ‘There’s your tea. No need to go out.’ ‘Thank you. What’s your name?’ ‘Grace.’ ‘Hello, Grace. My name is Stanislav, you can call me Stan.’ He held out his tanned hand. She took it, they shook hands, she almost blushed, and even thought about curtseying. Stan bowed his head politely. They moved to go in opposite directions, Stan stopped, turned back, and added, ‘I was serious about going out some time.’ ‘I only just met you, be off with you.’ ‘Not offended, I’ll be back.’ The next day Stan returned to find Grace already sitting at the same table. She greeted him with a smile ‘Hello, Stan.’ ‘Hello, Grace. Your English tea yesterday was so delicious, I had to come back.’ ‘Black tea isn’t it?’ ‘You remembered.’ ‘You will be wanting biscuits next.’ ‘That sounds nice.’ He ordered his usual black tea, and then said to the waitress, ‘Could we have some biscuits, please?’ ‘Certainly, sir. I will bring them over to you.’ Grace was pleased that Stan had joined her at the table, but she hoped he hadn’t noticed how pleased! She decided to test some of his motives, ‘You get tea and biscuits free at your NAAFI, why should you want to come here?’ ‘Isn’t it obvious? The company is much nicer; those RAF people are so, how shall I put it? Ugly. The WAAFS are ok, but I definitely prefer it here.’ The waitress arrived with biscuits on a plate, ‘And your biscuits, sir.’ Stan did a double take when he saw the plate. He said, ‘Wow! Are they both for my friend? What about me?’ The waitress stood back as she announced proudly, ‘When it comes to generosity – we stop at nothing.’ He shook his head in amazement. Grace reached into her bag, and produced a bar of Five Boys chocolate. Which she offered to Stan. ‘Chocolate! You must let me repay such generosity.’ ’There’s no need.’ She said demurely. ‘I insist, or I will be disappointed.’ Stan watched Grace push he long auburn hair back over her shoulders. He added, ‘And we couldn’t have that, now could we?’ His hopes rose, ‘Is that a yes, then?’ ‘Yes, that would be nice, thank you.’ And so began the wartime relationship between a Polish airman and an English nurse. * As they explored the resort, one of the first things they came across was the Winter Gardens. This was a completely new thing to Stan, ‘What is Winter Gardens?’ he asked Grace. ‘It’s like a big theatre complex, but much more than that I don’t know what is inside, I’ve never been in.’ ‘It looks massive, someday I would like to take you there.’ She was taken back by this, ‘Really?’ ‘Yes. I would like to show you the heights.’ As they laughed and chatted they didn’t notice a man watching them from the opposite side of the road. Although in normal clothes, known as ‘civvies’, this was actually Squadron Leader Russel Brown. Stan stopped to look up at the Tower, ‘That is one hell of a height, in Poland we have a big radio aerial, but nothing like this.’ ‘Would you like to go up it?’ ‘You mean you can climb up it?’ ‘No silly, there’s a lift inside, look.’ She pointed at the lift as it rose up the open girder work of the famous tower. Stan looked incredulous as he said, ‘With people inside?’ ‘No, they are animals from the zoo on a day out.’ Surely, Grace was joking. Stan glanced sideways at her. She looked serious and demure, so for a minute he felt uncertain. Then he caught a twitch in the corner of her mouth trying not to smile. ‘You! You make fun of me. Next you will be telling me that the donkeys on the beach have a day off.’ Grace hesitated, ‘Well as it happens, they do. Wednesdays, actually.’ ‘Now I know you are pulling my leg. I have flown over here on a Wednesday, and the donkeys were there.’ Grace shook her head, ‘You couldn’t have seen them; there is a law forbidding anyone from working their animals seven days a week.’ She was not smiling as she said this. ‘This time you are serious?’ ‘Yes. The law was made in Victorian times to protect the poor creatures, and has never been repealed.’ She pointed towards the beach, ‘Go and ask the people who look after them.’ Stan looked thoughtful for a minute, ‘What about Morecambe?’ ‘What do you mean, what about Morecambe?’ ‘The donkeys at Morecambe, do they have Wednesdays off? I can’t believe I just said that.’ ‘I don’t know. They may have Tuesdays off.’ ‘I think it was Morecambe I was flying over last Wednesday.’ He looked at the tower, turned to her and said, ‘Come on, I’ll take you to the top.’ ‘I believe it is quite expensive to use the lift.’ ‘You are worth it.’ As they approached the entrance, they were surprised to find a military guard outside. Stan walked up to the soldier, who snapped to attention as he saw the RAF uniform, he shot off a quick salute, and said, ‘You here for the RDF installation, sir?’ ‘Yes, I have come from Gleiwitz to help.’ ‘May I see your papers, please sir?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Stan passed his RAF pass, and Polish pilot’s license to the soldier. ‘And here is my authority to work in the equipment with my assistant here.’ The soldier hand the papers back to Stan, and then turns to Grace, ‘And your papers please, miss.’ She rummaged in her bag, and eventually produced her Identity Card, ‘My classified passes have not come through, yet.’ Stan backed this up with, ‘I can see to it thar she does not see any classified material.’ The sentry smiled as he said, ‘You will be lucky – we haven’t got any yet. I can clear you as far as the balcony, there is another guard up there, he will not allow anyone he doesn’t know to go any higher. But you will be alright for sight-seeing.’ As they entered the lift, Grace whispered, ‘Does this mean that we don’t have to pay?’ As the lift rose into the tower the sound of the wind began to get louder as it whistled through the steel frames that made up the tower, making genteel conversation impossible. As they exited the lift the only way to communicate was to shout directly into each other’s ears. The heads swapped and moved in an attempt at talking – it was only a matter of time before they became out of sync. Grace’s long auburn hair was only partially held in place by a headscarf, beautiful red tendrils flowed around Stan, the faces almost clashed. Face to face now, all he had to do was bend slightly to kiss her. The wind whistled and howled around them. Stan had to take his cap off. His dark hair being shorter than Grace’s, was not really a problem. She wore a headscarf, which had to be held in place. They stood there, he holding his officer’s cap, she with a hand on her head. Her free hand moved up his back towards his broad shoulders. He gently pulled her shoulders towards him. As their lips parted, he moved towards her left ear. Turning his head slightly, he kissed her cheek before they just held the embrace. Grace was looking out towards the North Pier, stan looked out to the south. ‘I can see the airfield from here.’ He said. She turned around to look in the same direction, looking along the coast she said, ‘The donkeys; I’m surprised they are out in this wind.’ He looked sideways at her, smiling, ‘The wind is because we are high up, silly. There is no wind down there.’ She looked closer to the base of the tower – then at the waves marching in, almost gently. She looked up at him with a big grin on her face ‘Yes, I see now.’ The enchanting smile made hi want to kiss it again, so he did. Fifteen minutes later they stepped out of the lift, back on to terra firma. As they encountered the soldier on the way out, he remarked, ‘Successful mission, sir?’ ‘Yes, thank you, Corporal.’ The sentry said, ‘Will you be going to see the Battle of the River Plate, sir?’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘Battle of the River Plate. It is being re-enacted in the ballroom, sir.’ Grace was surprised by this, ‘What, you mean a film? So soon?’ The sentry replied, ‘No, miss. An actual re-enactment of the battle where they sink a German battleship.’ Stan said, ‘You mean they sink a battleship in the ballroom?’ ’Yes, sir, but not a real full-sized one. Apparently, it is quite a spectacle to behold.’ Stan turned to Grace, ‘What do you think?’ ‘When is it on?’ The sentry pointed to a poster advertising the event. Grace pondered the situation, ‘I’m not off again until the day after tomorrow, just for the afternoon.’ ‘All right then; Thursday it is. Shall we say 13.30?’ ‘Could we make it 2 o’clock; the show doesn’t start until 3, and it allows for any delay I may have in getting away.’ ‘OK, that’s a date.’ ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ Two days later they went to the Tower Ballroom to see the spectacle. * Dancers dressed as sailors moved model ships around the dancefloor. A loudspeaker gave a running commentary, telling of how cruisers HMS Ajax, HMS Achilles and HMS Exeter chased the German pocket battleship Graf Spee in the mid-Atlantic. Different types of ship operate in different ways. The Graf Spee was a new type of ship, slightly smaller than a full battleship, facing three fast cruisers of Britain’s Royal Navy. The cruisers behaved like destroyers to throw the captain, Leutgens, off guard. The German ship was on its first cruise, and serious blow to German morale was about to be dealt. The battle moved towards South America, forcing her to Argentina, eventually the tactics employed by the three cruisers pushed the pocket battleship into Montevideo harbour. She had taken some damage, but the authorities in Argentina held that she was still capable of fighting, therefore was in contravention of the neutrality of the country, and to keep hold of the battleship would be construed as an act of war. The cruisers sat outside the estuary of the River Plate – the Battle of the River Plate was about to begin. The Graf Spee left harbour without warning. But the British had blockaded the estuary with two submarines as well as the cruisers; the Germans had already taken considerable damage in the running battle, and now the British were waiting for them. Whilst still in sight of the Argentine coast the German battleship exploded and sank. Because she was scuttled there were no casualties. The audience cheered loudly at the pyrotechnics display signifying the sinking of the battleship. Stan and Grace joined in the cheering and applause. Like all wartime romances, this one was not destined to last. * Stan was posted to somewhere in the south-east sector to fight in the Battle of Britain. Let him take up the story from there, ‘We Poles do not hold back. RAF pilots have their guns set up so that the lines of bullets meet at 250 yards. We make ours meet at 100 yards to make sure. We were fighting the Messerschmitt 109; the Germans only had one single engined fighter at that time, the Messerschmitt and Spitfire were evenly matched. One warm summers day we were sent up to deal with the escorts, a dog fight ensued. I banked over, standing the Spit on one wingtip, kicked in a touch of left rudder, and let fly very close in. All eight machine guns fired for less than one second. Bits flew off his wing and fuselage as the bullets moved along towards the cockpit. He went down, but I didn't see him hit the ground, I was focused on his pal. He was just pulling up after doing his attack; so was vulnerable to a rear attack. I slammed my throttle closed to lose height and drop in behind the '109. He then began to climb - we were very low. I realized that I had carried more speed than expected, I saw his tail drop under my nose. I dropped a wing to try to bring him directly into my line of fire, but he already knew I was there, so he was expecting this; we both knew he would be able to turn sharper than me because he had just come out of a dive, and was therefore carrying more speed. I already had the wings standing vertically, pulling round as much as I could. But I could not just get my sight on to his tail - that's all I wanted - just put a few rounds into his tail to stop him turning so fast. He would be craning his neck to watch me. He could see I was close to a stall - that was what he was waiting for. His slats popped out, and he knew that he was not far from a stall. Then I disappeared. The stall! He rolled inverted to find me. There I was, fighting to avoid crashing. I did manage to avoid crashing, but by then he was behind me... I felt the aircraft shudder as the bullets hit the port wing, and then the engine. I have run this through my mind several times since, and reviewed the situation from many angles. There were no more than five bullets hitting my engine. At such close range the 20 millimetre cannon shells carried tremendous destructive power. One hit the top of the engine, almost taking the propeller off. Two bullets hit the rear of the engine. Another took out the supercharger, the other ripped out fuel lines, then bounced back into the instrument panel and into my lower chest. This allowed blood to flow into my lungs and force air out. The fuel ignited at the same time as oil covered the windscreen. I was dead before the aircraft burst into flames and crashed into the ground. * This ghost business is not bad, you know. I can go anywhere I like. First, I went back to Poland - bad move. Very bad move. You know how you remember things in your childhood as they were? You expect things to remain the same - and everything seems so much smaller, and happiness lasted all day. Not for the Poles. Our whole country was over-run by the Nazis. The old neighborhood had ceased to exist; bombed out of existence. The few houses left standing had so much structural damage that they were dangerous, but still people had to live in them - sometimes four or five families where there used to be one. I tried to look up some of my old pals, but all I found was desolation and destruction. The people who were left were almost like zombies - but who am I to talk about the undead? No; it was a bad move to go back there. My happy memories will have to remain just that; memories, I cannot revisit them. I thought that I would drop in on some of my old haunts. Sorry about that - I can't avoid it. Next I went to some of the airfields in southern England - Manston, Biggin, Tangmere. But I was only there fleetingly; I didn't get chance to put down roots, and fond memories were fairly scarce here. So I returned to Blackpool. The war was still in full swing. I walked through the old hangar to see a young woman make her way to an aircraft, an Airspeed Oxford as I recall, it was parked on the fuel farm. This was the famous aviator Amy Johnson. Her fame is not easy to estimate by today's standards; but someone in New Zealand once wrote to her, they did not know her address, so simply wrote on the envelope 'Amy, England' - and it found her! I didn't know it then, but that was the last time she would walk on the earth. Must look her up some time. The guys at that time were flying Defiants. These were like a Hurricane, but with a heavy turret carrying 4 machine guns with a gunner behind the pilot. Because of this weight penalty it was relegated to night operations. But not before a squadron of Messerschmitts mistook them for Hurricanes, and attacked them from behind - they didn't do that again! At this time they were jubilant, because Blackpool was supposed to be a quiet backwater where nothing much happened. They had just shot down a Junkers 88. This one must have been flying from Scotland down to Liverpool, not knowing that the black Defiants were based at Blackpool. Using the Ribble estuary as a guide to navigation he had to pass over Blackpool on his way to Liverpool. He didn't get much further. I thought of looking for Grace, but decided against it after standing outside the café on Coronation Street for quite a long time. With the realisation of the futility of it, I thought of going to the hospital, but when I thought of the kind of work she was involved in I decided not to make an appearance. On my next visit the airfield had changed. The RAF had gone, and our old hangar was being used to store aeroplanes. The Americans had built another airfield almost next door to assemble and repair their aircraft. It was one of these aircraft that crashed into Freckleton village junior school killing 61 people, mainly children - a crushing blow to such a small village. A quiet backwater untouched by war indeed. It must be quite some time since my first visit to Blackpool, I have lost all sense of time. They are producing jet fighters there now. In the same hangar where they used to make Wellington bombers. Hawker Hunter jets. They have had to lengthen the runway to accommodate the faster landing speeds. Our old hangar 42 is still being used to store aircraft. It plays on my emotions. Yes, we do have emotions. Especially when those big hangar doors are manhandled open, and the sun streams in. Even in winter it felt as if warmth was being imported. We are a hardy lot, us Poles, but we still prefer sunshine - even if it is accompanied by an icy blast! Has 15 years really passed since I last visited Hangar 42? It must have done because on this present quest, I have discovered that they are now building Tornadoes at Warton. That’s the airfield the Yanks built. I came back because that there is something happening here. For a while I drifted outside the hangar, then settled down to admire two magnificent old Dakota aircraft. They were starring in a television series about a man starting an airline in 1946. This is my era! I walked about in our old hangar marvelling at the authenticity of the 1940's clothing being worn. Dressed exactly like me in my RAF flying gear. Anyone seeing me thought I was an extra! Did they shudder, or look twice thinking they had seen a trick of the light, or camera trickery when I walked through a wall! * I returned to find the hangar neglected. Not a soul in sight. It is full of junk. Or rather stuff that ought to have been scrapped long ago, but no-one dares scrap it off. A wave of depression came over me for a minute. I could hardly move for staring in disbelief. Rain blew through rusty holes in the huge doors that rattled and sigh in the wind. Furniture is piled high in the old mess room, there is nothing left of our era; even the old chimney has been blanked off in an effort to keep out the elements. The airfield now has a new terminal, and they are operating commercial passenger flights. But Hangar 42 is away from this new-look airport. It is beginning to look out of place in a modern aerodrome. It is now the last of the wartime Belman hangars, and I wonder how long it will survive. On my last visit to Blackpool I materialized in the old Mess Hall in the hangar. This has now been cleared, and is completely empty. * Which brings us to the present day. Inside hangar 42 there are four Spitfires, a Hurricane, and half a Messerschmitt 109. Stan wanders around the exhibits and ground equipment. He picks up a Polish flag. Before he has chance to become absorbed in his thoughts he is rudely jerked back into the present world by a German soldier, who came shouting at him from across the hangar, waving an MP40 machine pistol. ‘Achtung! It was necessary to occupy your country. By order of the Fuhrer.’ Stan heard himself say, ‘By order of the Fuhr… and who the hell does he think he is, giving out such orders?’ ‘He is our leader, and will conquer the modern world.’ ‘As long as he has demented little shits like you to follow his orders.’ ‘These orders will bring stability and civilisation to your country.’ ‘Stability like Treblinka? Civilisation like the death camps?’ ‘They were deemed necessary by the Fuhrer.’ ‘Necessary, necessary, is that how you justify murdering innocent civilians, including women and children in cold blood?’ ‘It is inconceivable to me that a subordinate leader should not carry out the orders of the leader of the state.’ ‘Are you completely mad? By following these insane orders, you have stripped yourself of any vestige of human dignity.’ Grace entered the hangar from the Lancashire Air Investigation Team room. She appealed to both parties, ‘Stop this at once; nothing can be achieved.’ Stan was surprised to see Grace. She was obviously now considerably older than he remembered her. ‘I cannot forgive this little shit for what he and his countrymen did to my people.’ He hardly paused before he asked her, ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘This has gone on long enough, love. Someone may do something really harmful.’ ‘You mean more harmful than who his kind did to Poland?’ She looked confident and knowledgeable as she said, ‘You do not know.’ The German butted in with explanation of his earlier statement, ‘We invaded your country to get at Russia. It was a sacrificial pawn.’ Stan lost it. He rushed at the German. But he was half-way across the hangar when the German levelled his machine pistol at Stan. Stan did not slow down; he continued charging at the German. Grace saw what was likely to happen. She wanted to protect her man. The German opened fire; 27 bullets flew from the gun in a few seconds. Grace was between Stan and the gunman. They fell into each other’s’ arms. By the time the gun fired they were quite close to the German – he couldn’t miss. Bullets intended for Stan went through Grace, and then into Stan. They moved away from each other to feel for their wounds. They were both surprised to find no damage. Grace was first to regain her composure. She spoke to the German, ‘What damage do you think you can do with that to a ghost?’ The German looked at the smoking gun as he replied, ‘Nein. I suppose not.’ ‘But your behaviour leaves a lot to be desired. I have been sent here to re-assign you.’ ‘Bitte? Re-assign?’ ‘Yes. Away you go now.’ A puzzled look came over his face as he evaporated. Stan looked at Grace, ‘Where did he go? What happened just then.’ He felt his torso to confirm that there were no bullet holes, ‘How did you get here? Is it Grace? I never met your mother, but…’ She held a finger to his lips, ‘Yes, it is Grace – your Grace.’ They held hands as they walked over to a table by the Hurricane. She continued, ‘After you left for the south coast we only managed three letters. I kept trying to find out what had happened to you, but there was never any information.’ She removed a crumpled piece of paper from her bag, ‘I kept the letters. Remember the poem you wrote in one of them?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ He began reciting, ‘If I were to love you My thoughts of us Would be but dreams we couldn’t possibly fulfil. But still The vision of seeing us both together Gives such pleasure And because of these fantasies My mind smiles.’ She joined in, at first reading from the page, but then reciting from memory, ‘and sometimes These flights of imagination Transpose themselves into feelings. Fantasies are just that; Figments of the imagination – But feelings. They are almost tangible As tangible as holding you And kissing you On top of Blackpool Tower.’ Grace was surprised that he had remembered it all, ‘You remembered all of that, after all this time?’ ‘After all what time? It was only last week, was it not?’ Grace suddenly realised that there was something happening here that would take some explaining. ‘But of course – the time difference.’ Stan picked up on this, ‘Time difference? You’ve lost me.’ ‘Yes. It was thought that I should be allowed to come back for you.’ He turned away, but without looking carefully. He nearly walked into the propeller of the Hurricane. She reached out and took his arm, wondering what would have happened if he had collided with a physical object. He briefly looked back at her, ‘Wait a minute, I am trying to come to terms with that.’ Grace thought for a few seconds. Then she decided to try to bring some figures into it, ‘You died in 1940. I died in 1984’ ‘What year is it now?’ She raised an arm towards the other side of the hangar, towards where two men were working. Keith and Paul had been absorbed in their work. Grace spoke quietly, as if to avoid disturbing the workmen, ‘To these people it is the year 2017.’ He looked directly into her eyes, ‘And you kept the letter all of that time?’ ‘Yes. That was why I was allowed to come here.’ ‘Because of a piece of paper?’ ‘No. Because of what it means to me. I kept waiting for you. I never gave up hope that you would somehow return to me.’ He was surprised, ‘You mean nobody told you what happened?’ There was a war on. I even went to the airfield to try to find out what had happened to you. The guys tried to help, because they knew me, but the best they could do was tell me where you were posted to. They shouldn’t have done so, but I think they felt sorry for me. Some of them wouldn’t say anything; they must have thought I was some sort of Fifth Columnist or something.’ * Back in 1940 a small, young nurse turned up at the main gate of the RAF Station, Squires Gate. She was ordered to stop by a sentry calling, ‘Halt, who goes there.’ Grace responded, ‘Friend.’ ‘Approach and be recognised.’ She slowly made her way to the airman. He relaxed, shouldered his rifle, and said, ‘What can I do for you, miss?’ ‘I’m looking for my friend. He’s a pilot. He was trained here at Blackpool, and has been posted away, but his letters have stopped.’ ‘What squadron is he with?’ ‘I don’t know, 303 I think. He is Polish, if that helps.’ ‘Not really, miss. If you would like to go into the guard room, the sergeant there may be able to help you.’ She walked into the wooden hut that served as guardhouse. The sergeant seemed to be welcoming, she asked him directly, ‘I am looking to find out what has happened to a friend of mine.’ ‘How long has he been based here?’ ‘Not very long. His letters have stopped suddenly.’ ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you really.’ He looked around quickly, and then produced a brown envelope. On it were the words ‘On His Majesty’s Service’, ‘Use this. Just write on it ‘Air Ministry, Personnel Branch, London’, you don’t need a stamp. Good luck finding your chap.’ * Back in the hangar, 2017. Stan and Grace walked towards the open hangar doors, she said, ‘And that was all I got – an envelope.’ ‘And did you send it off?’ ‘Oh yes. And they came back with a brief comment that they could not find any reference to the name mentioned. After some delving I found that the paperwork for the Polish contingent was a real mess – with names copied out wrongly in the main.’ ‘So, you never found out what happened to me?’ ‘No. but I continued to look and hope. I carried a flame for you, and all lost aircrew.’ Grace moved about, keeping herself between the open hangar doors and the men at the back of the hangar. She knew that they would not see her if strong light was behind her. She continued, ‘I made it my quest to find out what happened to you, and do something so that you would be remembered. Christ, even the people in your squadron didn’t remember you! That was no way for my man, to disappear as if he hadn’t even existed.’ It took him a little time to digest this, ‘So you never married?’ was all he could muster in reply. She thought she had gone deep enough for now, so she replied, ‘Nope – I was looking for you.’ ‘And children. You have children?’ ‘No. I would have liked to, but you need a man to help, and I couldn’t find you.’ ‘But there must have been other men around.’ ‘I didn’t want to lose you. I eventually went to Bentley Priory.’ ‘You went to a priory? Were you looking for a Monk now?’ ‘No. silly, Bentley Priory was headquarters of Fighter Command.’ ‘You mean you just walked up to the door of headquarters and started asking questions?’ ‘O course not. I got a job at a First Aid Station in Stanmore, there I got to know people who had connections with the RAF. I began asking them.’ They sat on a bench that could have been wartime vintage, but had been put there by the Air Ambulance people. ‘You certainly went through quite a lot looking for me.’ ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ ‘Well tell me. You don’t have anywhere to go do you?’ She turned to look into his eyes as she said, ‘Not any more.’ * 1940. First Aid Post, Stanmore, Middlesex. During her daily work, Grace met quite a few RAF types, among them was Squadron Leader Brown. But he was never in uniform when she saw him at the post. They got chatting one day, She asked him, ‘You sound to have a bit of a northern accent; where are you from?’ ‘Manchester.’ he said. ‘I’m from up north too, I’m from Blackpool.’ ‘That’s interesting, we used to go to Blackpool on Wakes Weeks.’ She sat close to his table, ‘Before the war of course?’ ‘Oh, yes. Before I left school.’ She decided to dive straight in, ‘You don’t know any Polish squadrons around here do you?’ ‘That would be classified information.’ ‘I realize that, but I am looking to find out what has happened to a very close friend of mine. He seems to have gone missing.’ He was very apologetic, ‘I’m sorry. That would get me six months in the glasshouse. I don’t know anyway; everything is so fluid right now.’ The civilian Squadron Leader left. Two days later Grace found more information from a Czech pilot who had been given light duties at Bentley Priory whilst he recovered from battle injuries. She was changing his dressing at the Post when she asked him, ‘That is not a Polish accent is it?’ ‘Ne, I’m from Czechoslovakia.’ ‘Haven’t you been training with the Poles?’ ‘Yes. We shared a base at Blackpool.’ Grace decided to dive in straight away, ‘I’ll level with you; my main reason for being here is I am looking for my good friend, who has disappeared. He is a Polish fighter pilot, and no-one knows what has happened to him.’ ‘People go missing all over the place these days. We have trouble keeping track of whole squadrons.’ She was desperate to get some information, ‘But, you don’t happen to know where the Poles went to, do you?’ The Czech thought for a moment. He knew the information she needed, but there were all sorts of security implications to consider. After a long pause he said, ‘They came down before us. I seem to remember that they went to Eastchurch.’ He paused again, and continued, more quietly this time, ‘and you did not get this from me. If you are thinking of paying them a visit, they have a satellite field at Warmington – it would be easier to get in there.’ The dressing finished, he left with a polite wave. At the end of her shift Grace decided she needed a railway timetable and a map at least, but these things were not easy to come by during wartime. As she looked around to find the timetable and map, she almost walked straight into Squadron Leader Brown, but did not recognise him. Brown was in civvies, he blended right in. On her next day off Grace took the early train to Brighton, and then on to Warmington by bus. She arrived at the base at the same time as the cleaners and maintenance staff. In fact, some of them were on the bus with her. This was no accident; she intended to simply walk straight on to the base as if she belonged there. The nurses uniform gave her confidence that she would blend in, but she need not have worried. Soon the airfield settled into its regular routine. This meant that Grace began to stand out a little; everyone else had a job to do, she was just wandering around trying not to be noticed. It was inevitable that she would be picked up. An RAF man with a rifle called, ‘Halt, who goes there?’ ‘Er, ahm,’ she nearly forgot the correct response, ‘Friend.’ ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Hands up!’ She was then marched off to an office close to the control tower. In the office sat Squadron Leader Brown. She did not recognise him, this time he was in uniform. Grace was thrust into the office, and almost pushed into a chair. Brown began the interview with, ‘You have been a busy little lady, I see.’ Grace did not know how to respond, so she simply told the truth, ‘I am looking for someone.’ ‘I don’t doubt that you are.’ Grace looked around. Something did not look right, ‘Why am I here?’ ‘Because you were apprehended on a top secret military establishment.’ ‘It’s only an airfield.’ ‘To you it may be. But there’s a war going on, and these aircraft and facilities are at the cutting edge of fighting the enemy.’ Brown’s self-importance angered Grace, but strangely gave her courage. She had right on her side, and he must see the righteousness of her mission. ‘You have been a busy lady, I see.’ He tapped his pen on the table. Grace did not know how to respond, so she simply told the truth, ‘I am looking for someone.’ ‘I don’t doubt that you are.’ Grace looked around. Something felt very wrong. She did not see the five Military Policemen com in the room after her. The man before her began to look strangely familiar. She stuck to her guns, ‘My friend has gone missing. All I want to do is find out what has happened to him.’ Brown did not alter his tone as he said, ‘Many more people have ‘gone missing’ as you put it.’ His tone seemed to change to become a little more threatening. Grace’s mind began racing. Brown was now becoming more hostile. She had heard about spycatchers; if they point the finger at you, you could spend the rest of the war in prison – for the safety of the war effort. ‘It’s only an airfield.’ She protested. ‘To you it may be. But there’s a war going on. These aircraft and facilities are on the front line of the action.’ The pen tapped more insistently. ‘I was looking for my friend.’ He put down the pen he was holding as he looked her straight in the eye and said, ‘I put it to you, young lady, that you are a fifth columnist working for the enemy.’ Adding, ‘Who are you working for?’ She was completely taken aback by this, ‘I beg your pardon. Report to? What do you mean report to?’ ‘These places you visited,’ he consulted some papers, ‘Squires Gate, Westminster, Manston, Bentley Priory, Warmington, even a top secret establishment on top of Blackpool Tower. And the people whom you dealt with during this mission – some of the least trusted people in the forces. All very clever, but what did you do with the information you gathered? We searched all of the locations you stayed at, but found nothing. I put it to you that you are devious. Dangerous.’ She was getting indignant now, ‘What, you’ve searched my places? When, how?’ A Military Policeman handed her bag back to her. Grace had not even noticed it was taken from her. She quickly rummaged through it. She did not know why. Brown sneered, ‘You did not think you could evade security as many times as you have without attracting attention.’ ‘Evade security? All I did was trying to find out what happened to my friend.’ ‘Ahh. Yes. This friend of yours, is he worth coming down here from Lancashire, and then chasing all over the south coast for?’ he turned to one of the five MPs, ‘Do we know anything about this man? Could he be a link to the controller?’ The MP answered, ‘All we know is he is called ‘Stan’, sir. Could be some sort of code name – of could even refer to Stalin.’ Brown turned his attentions back to Grace as he continued the questioning, ‘Is that right? Are you working for the Russians?’ If she were not sitting down Grace would have staggered back in surprise. All she could find to say was, ‘Russians? I’m a nurse, not a spy. Aren’t they on our side?’ Brown shook his head, ‘They used to be. They have just signed a non-aggression pact with the Nazis. Any information passed on to the them could easily find its way to the Germans.’ He threw his hands up in the air in despair, ‘This is getting us nowhere.’ The little red-haired nurse was either very well trained, or completely innocent. Her wide-eyed presence infuriated him. He shuffled some papers, then bent forwards to pick up his pen. ‘Your actions have consequences.’ He said at last. She was further surprised by this, ‘Consequences, consequences? What do you mean? I’ve done nothing wrong.’ Brown was very serious as he replied, ‘All of these classified places you sought out to visit, including a top secret RDF installation, and roaming around a front line fighter base.’ He swept an arm around, ‘They say differently.’ He looked accusingly at Grace. All she could say was, ‘He was a fighter pilot. ‘She was fighting back the tears now as she continued, ‘Where else would I look for him? Do you know where he is?’ Brown sniffed, ‘I don’t even know if this Pole even existed.’ He rose to his feet, and pointed at her, ‘You are a fifth-columnist spying for a foreign power. I don’t even need to prove who you were spying for; with the emergency powers granted by the War Council, all I have to do is show reasonable probability, and it will be curtains for you.’ This was all getting quite surreal for Grace, ‘Curtains?’ ‘Death by hanging, or shot by firing squad, makes no odds to me.’ Brown raised his eyes and watched as Grace’s face drained of colour. With a flick of his head he said, ‘Take her to a holding cell.’ Her eyes were beginning to well up, now they shot open as the colour drained from her face. He turned to two MPs, ‘Take her to a holding cell.’ Grace was in no fit condition to give any resistance as they lifted her by the arms, and marched off to a holding cell somewhere else in the building. * Somewhere in Southern England in a bare, windowless cell a young woman sat alone beneath a single bare lightbulb. It was not cold, yet she was shivering. Less than two hours ago she had dismounted from a bus into the early morning sunshine. Now she was facing a death sentence. With tears streaming down her face she rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief. As she wiped her eyes, she noticed something unusual. She sat bolt upright. On the door was a hook, on the hook hung a military cap. The British military caps were round, but this one had a diamond shaped top. She tried to stand up, but her legs turned to jelly. She sensed a movement in the air, but that was impossible. A feint shape drifted into view. Grace blinked and dabbed her eyes. ‘It’s just my fear,’ she told herself. ‘Pull yourself together, Grace.’ The fuzzy outline of a man appeared. He had his back to her, but in the seconds that followed, she could make out the blue of an air force uniform. The man quietly reached for the cap on the door. He put it on and turned around. ‘Polish Air Force!’ she said, but the next words were very quiet – ‘Stan?’ Stan smiled, ‘Don’t cry, love, everything will be all right. You have done well.’ Stan winked, and vanished. Grace sat down, no longer in despair. A strange sense of calm came over her. ‘You existed.’ Then louder – ‘You were there.’ Some hours later, it felt like days to Grace, the MPs returned. They flung open the cell door. She stood up quickly, not wishing to be manhandled again. They led her back into the same room. It turns out that Brown and his colleagues had been watching and listening. The reason for this was to observe the suspect when on their own to see how they behave. These people had had enemy agents through their hands, and the guilty did not behave like poor Grace did. They did not hear Stan. Brown let out a long sigh, as if to interview Grace was a huge burden. ‘Your efforts in gaining access and obtaining information would do credit to any of our trained individuals.’ She still did not know if she was off the hook. She watched Brown’s mouth move. He was saying something important. Brown continued, ‘It is with great regret that I must inform you that your man has been killed in action. But because of the mission he sent you on we are in a position to offer you a position in a new organisation.’ * And that was how the quiet redheaded nurse was recruited into the new Special Operations Executive. She even had to do a parachute jump, not into enemy territory, but somewhere south of Manchester. She was put through some scary stuff, to prepare her for the vital work of training agents to work behind enemy lines. In Hangar 42 at Blackpool Airport, Stan was amazed to hear Grace’s story. Ghosts are not as well informed as some may imagine. That’s why they like to hang around. Stan and Grace walked by a Mk 9 Spitfire towards what is now the Lancashire Air Investigation Team room, but was once their main rest room with a stove in it. Paul looked straight at them as if undecided whether to see them or not. Stan asked Grace, ‘Did you find a man? Did you get involved with someone?’ ‘No, not really; there were plenty of men around in the line of work I was in, but most of them either went the way you did, or they went off into enemy occupied territory for God knows how long. So I decided not to get involved again.’ ‘So you never got married?’ ‘No. I suppose I was still looking for my man.’ He stopped and turned to face her as he said, ‘Well, you’ve found him now.’ Keith dropped a tool on the hangar floor as he thought he saw Grace. He gave a quick cry, but no-one heard him. He decided to keep quiet about it. She paid no notice, and said to Stan, ‘I know. I deliberately sought you out because the German chap we met could have made things difficult for you.’ ‘I didn’t know that.’ ‘I wouldn’t expect you to know; you are new to all of this. That is why I was sent to help you.’ ‘I don’t understand – you died decades after me.’ Grace shook her head, the long hair no longer auburn, but pure white, ‘Yes, but it doesn’t work like that. It sort of goes on how long you lived, and what you did when you were alive.’ ‘For years before I died, I was being prepared for this role. I didn’t know this at the time, of course.’ He walked through a wall that was not there in 1940, stopped, looked Grace up and down, and then asked, ‘You are some sort of Guardian Angel?’ ‘In a way.’ Grace turned to walk away. He said, ‘Where are you going?’ Grace picked up a Polish flag and a machine gun, ‘These things, and all the hatred, must be put behind you.’ ‘You mean forgive these bastards for all the evil they did to innocent, helpless people?’ ‘That is what you must do.’ Stan fought to remain calm, though he felt like yelling, ‘You did not see what they did in Treblinka – they were inhuman.’ Grace paused as if unsure whether to tell Stan, ‘Yes I did. I went back and saw what happened. But if mankind is to improve, we must move forward, not backwards. For many thousands of years we have found that holding grudges for generations only leads to more hatred and destruction. The only way forward is to let go of regrets – the Germans did not win, and they were punished. Let the horrors of the past go, and maybe we can be together again.’ Stan looked at the flag, the white stripe above the red. The red stripe dripped blood on to the hangar floor. He said, ‘You mean you and me?’ Stan put the gun down, and looked at the bloodied flag, ‘It’s a lot to ask. There were too many of my people killed without reason.’ Grace raised her chin, ‘If you cannot let go of the past, then you must stay here.’ Her shoulders drooped as she turned to walk away, ‘My work here is done, I must now go away. Goodbye, my love. I will always love you.’ She walked through the hangar doors and, before she reached the apron, she vanished. Stan stared open-mouthed. Looking this way and that, he ran out onto the apron, knowing he was too late, yet realising he could never forgive. ‘No! he shouted, but no-one heard him. There by the wall was the wooden bench he had shared with Grace. He sat down, looking at the space where she had been. He removed his cap and covered his face with it, sobbing for what might have been. To this day, Stan still drifts around Hangar 42, hoping against hope that Grace will return. If perchance you think you see a petite white-haired woman, leave a note for Stan in the NAAFI. He’ll be sure to pick it up and smile. The End

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