The Colour of Courage

The two half-drunk American airmen came in the pub sniffing the air. The Lieutenants from Burtonwood airbase swaggered across to a window table.

‘Hey, let’s have a couple of beers over here’ the one wearing the expensive leather jacket and dark sunglasses yelled.

Margot hated arrogance ‘drinks are served at the bar, sir.’

‘That so?’ Lieutenant Jackson Cleveland said peering over his rims ‘well I’m used to better service from bar girls. Who’s in charge around here anyway?’

Margot’s widower father, Brian Greenwood, entered from behind the bar curtain ‘that would be me, sir.’ He started drawing beer.

The lieutenants sat down placing their feet on the table in an act of calculated provocation. Brian saw Margot bristle and quickly intervened ‘would you fetch some beer mats please, Margot?’ She shrugged angrily and left with a defiant toss of her head.

Brian carried the beers over ‘your drinks, gentlemen.’

Cleveland threw a coin onto the table ‘keep the change barman.’

Brian refused the bait ‘thank you, sir.’

Margot returned with the mats in time to see the black captain enter the bar. He walked up to her smiling, his large athletic frame moving gracefully. Margot’s knees went weak. He was beautiful.

‘Excuse me ma’am’ he drawled ‘do you have lemonade please?’

Lt. William Pickmore, Cleveland’s companion, slammed his beer down. ‘Where I come from, we don’t serve coloureds in the same bars as whites.’

It was a provocation too far. ‘Well, you’re not where you come from now, mister. Over here we serve everyone’ Margot glared defiantly ‘if you don’t like it, leave.’

Cleveland looked at Brian ‘You let the hired help mouth off like that?’

‘The hired help is my daughter mister and I agree with her.’ Brian walked over to the table and lifted their drinks. ‘I served as a medic in the trenches alongside Indians, Africans and Ghurkhas and all the blood I saw was the same colour. Time you left, gentlemen.’

As he turned back to the bar Cleveland leapt up and grabbed his shoulder raising his fist.

‘You strike that man, you’ll leave here by ambulance.’ the black captain barked ‘In case it passed your notice Lieutenant, I’m your superior officer.’

‘I don’t take orders off’n a negro.’

The captain stepped between Brian and the pair, shoulders squared, fists lightly clenched ‘Captain Silas T Jazzbohne at your service.’

Cleveland held Pickmore back. ‘You the Jazzbohne that won the Golden Gloves back in 1940?’

‘The same lieutenant, now, unless there’s something else, I suggest you move out.’

The pair sullenly complied and Silas apologized to Brian and Margot. ‘Some of those Southern rich boys still think they’re slave owners.’ Silas's smile lit up the bar, instantly dispelling the sombre mood ‘I came here looking for help, ma’am. My father’s a preacher back in Louisiana, in the last war he was a merchant seaman. When he docked in Liverpool, he loved visiting old churches. He asked me to take some photographs.’

Margot's mouth dimpled ‘Any particular churches?’

One he really liked was St. Elphin’s someplace around here. He reckons there’s been a church there since the year 650, that right?’

Margot grinned, local history was her hobby. ‘True, Captain, it’s the parish church of Warrington. The present church, though, was only opened in 1867.’

‘Please, call me Silas, ma'am.’

‘I’m Margot, Miss Margot Greenwood.’

Over the next three months, Margot showed Silas around on his off duty days. Using his jeep, they visited every old church from Liverpool to Leigh. Inevitably they grew closer until one evening the friendly good night peck became a lingering kiss. They became lovers that night.

*****

Silas eased the B17 bomber around in a wide turn. ‘OK, running in, camera ready?’ He was part of an experimental team. The top-secret camera in the bomb bay was undergoing final tests.

‘Black Belle, Black Belle, we’re under attack, divert to Ringway immediately, over.’

Silas knew he should obey the tower but just then he saw the enemy bombers three miles away and ten thousand feet below him. He swooped down as they turned for home. Two planes went down immediately; the rest held formation, concentrating their fire on him.

Silas felt the massive jolt as cannon fire tore away the front gun blister. The sudden increased drag made the nose drop alarmingly. He took evasive action as his gunners fought back. Another burst of cannon fire spat along the fuselage. His co-pilot, George Benton, died instantly as shrapnel slashed into Silas’s legs. Screams came from the ‘plane’s interior. He dived as another bust of fire ripped along his wings. The starboard outer and port inner engines burst into flames. The fire extinguishers were activated and the flames died leaving oily smoke trailing.

 Silas looked at his legs. Blood was pooling crimson at his feet. He hit the intercom. ‘Bale out, bale out.’ The rear gunner managed to jump but the rest were either dead or wounded.

At six thousand feet Silas managed to gain more control of the stricken plane. His wings were torn to ribbons, he was losing fuel and the plane juddered violently with every move of the controls. He couldn’t risk circling; he would have to make a dangerous down-wind landing. Silas aimed for the grass alongside the cratered runway. He felt faint now and his vision started to blur.

Feeling weak but calm, Silas thought of Margot, his beautiful Margot and a tear ran down his cheek. He could see many of the places they’d been, churches he’d photographed. The Manchester ship canal gleamed like a silver knife cutting the countryside off his port wing. His vision started t clear again and he prayed ‘Lord, keep my men safe. Please, let me land’ he smiled weakly. ‘Bye Margot’ he whispered, ‘I love you.’

Silas held the stricken plane on course and offered a silent prayer of thanks as the wheels dropped and locked.

On the airfield, people were emerging from bomb shelters. Cleveland nudged Pickmore ‘what in hell’s name is that?’ he asked, pointing.

‘Gawd’ said Pickmore ‘it’s Jazzbohne’s plane.’

Cleveland gawped at what looked like a flying scrap heap. ‘How the hell’s he flying that thang?’

The plane hit the grass heavily, bounced twice then settled. Silas’s last conscious act was to shut down the engines. Sirens wailed as crash crews closed in.

Margot visited Silas every day. For a long time it was touch and go then, slowly, he began to recover. Two months later they wed in St Elphin’s church where a proud Brian gave his daughter away. Silas’s seed had was growing within her.

Postscript:

2016. In the churchyard of St Elphin’s Silas Terrence Jazzbohne the third, RAF fighter pilot, looked at the new tombstone with sadness and admiration. He was proud of the courageous life his grandparents had led. They’d run pubs in and around Warrington, countering every prejudice with great dignity, winning the hearts of all but the meanest. Before they’d passed on, two days apart in their mid-nineties, they’d seen racial attitudes change dramatically. They’d played no small part in that change, helping make Warrington and the world a better place.