Flyaway / Windfall

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘All the same,’ I said, ‘I’d like to have a sample of that stuff.’

  ‘Then find something to put it in.’

  I’m old-fashioned enough to use a soap shaving-stick and mine came in a plastic case. It hadn’t seen much use in the desert and I’d grown a respectable beard which, Byrne told me, was necked with grey. ‘Pretty soon you’ll look as distinguished as me,’ he had said. I broke off the column of soap and we filled the case with the brown powder and I screwed the cap back on and, for safety, secured it with an adhesive dressing from Byrne’s first aid kit.

  By that time it was past midday so we prepared a meal. As we ate Paul said, ‘When are we leaving?’

  Byrne glanced at me and I knew the same thought was in both our minds—we had a burial detail to attend to. He said, ‘Early tomorrow.’

  I said nothing to Paul until we had finished eating and had drunk our tea. Then I put a new film in my camera because I wanted a full record. I said, ‘Paul, brace yourself; there’s something I must tell you.’

  His head jerked and he stared at me wide-eyed, and I knew he’d guessed. ‘You’ve found him. You’ve found my father.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He got to his feet. ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far from here. Are you sure you want to see him? Luke and I can do what’s necessary.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘No—I must see him.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take you.’

  The three of us went to the cave and the tears streamed down Paul’s face as he looked down at what was left of his father. There were still scraps of flesh and skin left attached to the bones but it was brown and mummified, and a few tendrils of hair clung to the skull which otherwise was picked clean.

  I took some photographs and then we began to brush the sand from the skeleton. Underneath the thin layer of sand was rock so we could not bury Peter Billson. Instead we piled a cairn of stones over the remains, Paul sobbing all the time. Then we went back to Flyaway, Byrne carrying under his arm the tin box which had been next to the body. There were a couple of other things we had buried with Billson; two packets bearing the name of Brock, the pyrotechnic company. One contained flares, the other smoke signals. Neither had been used because a rescue plane had neither been seen nor heard.

  Standing next to Flyaway Byrne held out the box to Paul. ‘Yours,’ he said simply.

  He took it and then sat down on the sand and laid the box in front of him. He looked at it for a long time in silence before he stretched out with trembling fingers to open it. This was nothing like opening a Christmas present. There were a lot of papers inside.

  In his last days Peter Billson had kept a diary, written in his log-book. I don’t propose to go into this in detail because it is most harrowing. A proposal has been made that it be published in a future edition of the Journal of the Royal Aeronautical Society. I’m against the idea. A man’s mental agonies when facing death ought to be private.

  There was Billson’s flying licence, a sealed envelope addressed ‘To my darling, Helen’, a worn leather wallet, a pipe and an empty tobacco pouch, a Shell petrol carnet, a sheaf of bank notes—British, French and Nigerian, and it was strange to see the old big British five-pound note—and a few other small odds and ends.

  Paul picked up the letter addressed to his mother. His lower lip trembled. ‘I ought to have treated her better,’ he whispered, then handed it to me. ‘Will you burn that, please? Don’t open it.’

  I nodded. Byrne stooped and picked up a card. ‘The compass deviation card,’ he said. ‘Not more than a degree and a half out on any course.’ He handed it to me. ‘It don’t matter if a compass has deviation as long as you know what it is.’

  Printed on the card was a compass rose around which were written figures in ink. It was signed by the compass adjuster and dated the 4th of January, 1936. I turned it over and saw something scrawled on the back. I wonder how bloody true this damn thing is? I nudged Byrne and showed it to him, and said in a low voice, ‘He was beginning to guess in the end.’

  The diary told Byrne what he wanted to know about the landing. ‘He was a good flier, Paul,’ he said. ‘This is how he got down. His engine had quit and he was coming down in a glide with an airspeed of fifty-five knots. There was a low moon and suddenly he saw rocks between him and the moon, so he stalled her. He pulled her nose right up and that lost his speed and his lift at the same time, so he fell out of the sky damn near vertically. What he called a pancake landing. Never heard it called that before. He says, “The old girl pancaked beautifully but I’m afraid both oleo legs are broken—one badly. Never mind, she wouldn’t take off from here anyway.”’

  I read the diary. He had lasted twelve days on two and a half gallons of water. At first the handwriting was firm and decisive but towards the end it degenerated into a scrawl. During the last few days he was apparently feverish and had hallucinations, communing with the painted men on the wall of the cave. The last entry was in a surprisingly firm hand and was a plea that his wife and young son be well looked after. The thought of the £100,000 insurance on his life seemed to comfort him a lot.

  Byrne grunted and stood up. ‘A guy like that deserves better than a heap of stones. He needs a marker.’ He strode to Flyaway and jumped up on to the wing, then made his way up the fuselage until he was astride the cowling of the big radial engine. There was a banging and I saw he was unshipping the propeller.

  That gave me an idea. I found the piece of aluminium we had cut from the side of the fuselage and, using the chisel and a small hammer began to incise letters. Paul came over to see what I was doing and stayed to help. When I thought we had finished I said, ‘That’s it, Paul.’

  ‘No—there’s something I want to add.’

  So he guided the blade of the chisel while I thumped with the hammer and we added the fourth line so that our rough plaque read:

  PETER BILLSON

  AIRMAN

  1903-1936

  Fly away, Peter

  TWENTY-NINE

  That seemingly small task took longer than I thought and by the time we had finished the sun was setting. We had our evening meal and went to sleep early. At dawn the following morning Paul and I helped Byrne take out the last two bolts that held the propeller to the shaft and we lowered it to the ground using a rope made up of bits and pieces of the donkey harness. Byrne and I carried it to the grave in the cave while Paul brought the plaque. We set the propeller upright near the grave and Byrne fastened the plaque to the boss using some wire he had found in Flyaway.

  Then we stood there for a while, doing nothing, but just standing there. Byrne said, ‘I guess Billson was the first guy to see those pictures in here in a few thousand years. Maybe this propeller and the inscription will still be there in a thousand years from now. Aluminum don’t rust and things change slow in the desert. It’s a good marker.’

  After a while we went away, leaving Paul to his own thoughts.

  In spite of the hobbles the donkeys had moved a fair way in search of grazing and it took us a while to find them and it was an hour before we got them back to the camp. Paul had come back looking sombre and helped us load them. It was time to go.

  We took one last long look at Flyaway and then began the awkward business of coaxing the donkeys through the narrow cleft in the rock. When we got them out Byrne said, ‘Okay—back to Tamrit. Maybe three days.’

  Paul said, ‘Do you mind waiting a minute? I won’t be long. I just want…’ He swallowed convulsively and looked at me. ‘You didn’t take a picture of the plaque. I’d like that.’

  I glanced at Byrne who said, ‘All right, Paul, but not more than fifteen minutes. Tether those donkeys firmly. We’ll stroll ahead.’ He pointed. ‘That’s the line we take.’

  I unfastened my bag and took out my camera. ‘Shall I come with you, or can you take the pictures?’

  ‘I can do it,’ he said, so I gave him the camera and he went back through the cleft.

  Byrne said, ‘Funny thi
ng, this flesh and blood. You wouldn’t think he’d feel like that about a man he hardly knew.’ He tugged at the donkey rein. ‘Let’s go; he can catch up.’

  We went at an easy pace, threading our way among the rocks for about half a mile. I looked back and said, ‘Perhaps we’d better wait for Paul.’

  ‘Huh?’ said Byrne abstractedly. He was staring at the ground. ‘Been camels here.’

  I looked down at the enormous pad marks in the sand. ‘You said there were wild camels.’

  Byrne dropped on one knee. ‘Yeah, I know I did—but wild camels don’t repair their own pads.’ He traced a line on one of the footprints. ‘This one cut its foot and someone put a leather patch on.’

  I frowned. ‘Can that be done?’

  ‘Sure. I just said so, didn’t I?’ He stood up and looked around. ‘And there it is.’

  I turned and, coming up from behind us was a man riding a camel—the Arab who had been with Kissack. He whistled shrilly and from our front came an answering whistle. There were five of them altogether; Kissack and the Arab, and Lash and his two musclemen, all mounted on camels and with no less than six baggage animals. There were no weapons in sight but that didn’t mean a thing.

  Lash looked down at us from the enormous height a camel confers. ‘Mr Byrne,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And Mr Stafford. Well met. I didn’t expect to find you here. Looking for frescoes, I take it?’

  Kissack said, ‘You’re a long way from Kano, Stafford. You’ve come the wrong way.’

  ‘And there’s someone missing.’ Lash snapped his fingers. ‘What was his name? Ah, yes—Billson. Where is Mr Billson?’ One of the men behind him muttered something, and he added, ‘And the Tuareg who were with you?’

  Byrne dropped the leading rein of his donkey and put his foot on it. ‘Paul went sick so they took him back to Djanet.’ It was a good improvised lie.

  ‘Strange that we didn’t meet him,’ observed Lash. He beckoned to the Arab, who came close to him. Lash tossed him the camel reins and the Arab coaxed the camel to its knees and Lash dismounted awkwardly. He had not been riding in the Tuareg manner with his feet on the neck of the camel, but had stirrups. He grimaced. ‘Damned uncomfortable beasts.’

  ‘No call to ride them if you don’t want,’ said Byrne. ‘You’d do better with a Tuareg saddle instead of that Chaamba rig.’ He jerked his head at the Arab. ‘His, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose correctly.’ Lash waved his hand and all the men dismounted, the camels grunting discontentedly. ‘Cat got your tongue, Mr Stafford?’

  ‘I’ve found nothing interesting to say, so far.’

  ‘Oh, you will,’ he assured me. ‘I’m certain you will. You’ve both already met Kissack so there’s no need to introduce him. As for my other friends, they have no English.’

  ‘Friends!’ I said. ‘Not guides?’

  Lash smiled thinly. ‘Propinquity breeds friendship. From the direction you’re taking it seems you are returning to Tamrit. Do I gather that you’ve found what you were looking for?’

  ‘Yeah, we found some paintings,’ said Byrne. ‘And I guess these are new ones—not seen before.’

  ‘You weren’t looking for frescoes,’ said Lash flatly. ‘Let’s cut the cat and mouse act, shall we? You were looking for an aeroplane. Did you find it?’

  ‘I don’t know what business it is of yours,’ I said.

  Lash looked at me unsmilingly. ‘Or yours, either. You wouldn’t take a warning back in London. You had to play the thick-headed hero and meddle in things that don’t concern you.’

  So there it was said outright—Lash had been responsible for having me beaten up. ‘Who’s paying you?’ I asked.

  ‘Still meddling? That’s dangerous. Now, where’s Billson?’

  ‘You’ve just been told,’ I said. ‘He went back to Djanet three days ago. He had an injury which was inflamed.’ I touched my own shoulder. ‘Here.’ I was careful not to look at Kissack.

  The play of expression on Lash’s face was interesting because what I had just said could be circumstantially true. He dismissed Billson for the moment. ‘And the aeroplane—where is it?’

  ‘What airplane?’ asked Byrne.

  Lash sighed. ‘Look, Byrne; don’t play with me. That’s just being stupid.’ He turned away and began to talk to the Arab in low tones. The Arab remounted his camel, urged it to its feet, and began to backtrack along the way we had come. If he went far enough he’d find the donkeys Paul had left tethered outside the cleft in the rock. He might even find Paul.

  Lash turned back to face us. ‘Where’s that aeroplane? And don’t ask which aeroplane. It’s a Northrop “Gamma” 2—D, built in 1934 and called Flyaway. It was crashed around here in 1936 by Peter Billson.’ As Byrne opened his mouth Lash held up his hand. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. That would be a big mistake.’

  Before Byrne could reply Kissack said, ‘You’re wasting time, Mr Lash. Let me try.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Lash coldly.

  Byrne said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lash wearily. ‘We’ll try it your way, Kissack.’

  There was suddenly a gun in Kissack’s hand. He stepped forward and looked at us speculatively. ‘The old geezer knows more about the desert than Stafford, I reckon; so he’d be a better guide.’ I looked at the pistol he lifted; the muzzle was pointing directly between my eyes and I knew I was close to death. ‘If you don’t tell us, Stafford will be dead meat.’

  It seemed an eternity before Byrne said, ‘Okay—it’s about ten kilometres back.’

  A grunt of satisfaction came from Lash, and Kissack said, ‘Do I kill him anyway, Mr Lash?’

  ‘No,’ said Lash. ‘We might need him again—and for the same reason. Search them.’

  They found our pistols, of course. Kissack checked the loads on the three donkeys. ‘You had a rifle—where is it?’

  I realized it had been packed on one of Paul’s donkeys. Byrne said, ‘Left it behind in the Ténéré. Too much sand and the action jammed. That’s the only reason you’re still alive, Kissack.’

  Kissack’s face whitened and he lifted the pistol again and pointed it at Byrne. ‘What, for Christ’s sake, did you do to Bailly?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ commanded Lash. ‘We’re wasting time. Help me get up on this bloody camel.’ They all remounted and now they all had guns showing except Lash, who seemed to be unarmed. ‘About face,’ he ordered. ‘Now, take us to that aeroplane. No tricks, Byrne, or you’ll be shot in the back where you stand.’

  And so we retraced our steps. I glanced sideways at Byrne whose nose was beakier than ever. He didn’t look at me but gazed ahead with a bleak expression. All he had bought was time—ten kilometres’ worth of it—say, four or five hours. Then it would all start again.

  I wondered about Paul—Byrne had given him fifteen minutes and he ought to have shown up by now. I prayed to God that he would live up to his reputation. Be a nebbish, Paul, I thought. Be the invisible man,

  I tramped along, conscious of the guns at my back, and a rhyme chittered insanely through my mind over and over again:

  As I was going up the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there; He wasn’t there again today, I wish to hell he’d go away!

  We hadn’t been moving long when the Arab appeared and reined his camel alongside Lash. There was a muttered conversation, and Lash called ‘Stop!’ I stopped and looked back. Lash said silkily, ‘More tricks, Byrne? I warned you about that. Follow Zayid.’

  The Arab moved in front of us and veered to the left on a course which would take us directly to where we had left Paul. Byrne grunted and shrugged imperceptibly. It seemed that Zayid was a good tracker—good enough to call Byrne’s bluff.

  We came to the cleft in the rock and there were no donkeys and no sign of Paul. If he was a nebbish he had also the characteristics of a boojum because, wraithlike, he had ‘softly and suddenly vanished away’. Byrne looked at me and raised his
eyebrows, and I shook my head to indicate that I didn’t know, either. The little man who wasn’t there had indeed gone away.

  There was a bit of discussion in French with Zayid pointing out the imprint of donkey hooves in the sand and a clear indication they had gone through the cleft. Lash said, ‘Kissack, get down and go through there, and tell me what you see.’

  Kissack dismounted and, with drawn gun, went through the cleft. He disappeared from sight because there was a bend half way through and then all was silence except for the snuffling of a camel behind me. Suddenly there was a shout, incoherent and without words, which echoed among the rock pillars, and Kissack came back, yelling excitedly, ‘It’s there, Mr Lash; the bloody plane is there!’

  ‘Is it?’ Lash seemed unmoved. ‘Zayid!’ The Arab helped him dismount ‘Now let’s all go and look at this aeroplane which is unaccountably ten kilometres out of position according to Mr Byrne’s reckoning.’

  There was no choice for it so we went. The camels were too big to go through the cleft so Zayid hobbled them and left them outside, but they took the donkeys through. And there stood Flyaway just as we had left her. Zayid and Lash’s hired thugs from Algiers weren’t very much interested, but Lash and Kissack were. They went towards her, Lash at a steady pace and Kissack practically dancing a jig. ‘Is it the one, Mr Lash?’ he asked excitedly. ‘Is it the one?’

  Lash took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it, then studied it and compared it with what was before him. He peered at the side of the fuselage and said, ‘Yes, Kissack, my boy; this is indeed the one.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Kissack, and jumped up and down. ‘Five thousand quid! Five grand!’

  ‘Keep your damned mouth shut,’ said Lash. ‘You talk too much.’ He swung on his heel and stared back at us. ‘You—come here!’ Byrne and I were hustled forward, and Lash pointed to the hole we had cut. ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Byrne.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We found Billson’s body. We wanted to mark the grave.’ He nodded up towards the engine. ‘That’s also why we took the propeller.’