by Nevil Shute
He swept low over the roof-tops of a village, and on, working round to north, tense, concentrating upon keeping low and missing things. He passed through north, and he saw far ahead of him, faint in the distance, three silvery pyramids of light that were searchlight clusters. His heart lightened when he saw them, believing that they stood upon the coast; moreover, they showed obstacles in his path in silhouette if he went straight for them. Once past those he would be over sea, and this nightmare, suicidal dash through trees would be behind, and he could climb.
“Sergeant Franck here, Cap. Port outer tank is empty and I am pumping from port inner to the starboard. Starboard tanks, I think, are not leaking. We now have two hundred and eighty gallons, or a little more, I think.”
“Fine.” That was plenty to get them home. “Fill the starboard outer right up full, and try and trim her for me.”
“Is she ver’ difficult to hold?”
“Bloody awful. Makes your wrists ache.”
“I will come and fly for you as soon as I have pumped the fuel.”
“I’m all right for a bit, Gunnar. When you’ve done the fuel have a look and see if you can find out where we are, and let me have a course. Then get aft and see what you can do to fix up Phillips. You’ll do that better than I could.”
Ahead of him the searchlight pencils stood and swung in cones with little points of flak-bursts upon high. He would crash through them at a hundred feet and take his chance of the machine-guns and the forty-millimetre stuff, jinking and weaving, hoping for the best. Beyond that lay the sea and the calm quiet of the starry night, a great peace into which one could climb up and be safe, and relax a little on the way home. And Gervase would be there.
In the control-room Gervase sat at her telephone; behind her the W.A.A.F. corporal wrote upon the blackboard at her instigation a large M for Mission Completed. She said: “D for Donald.”
The corporal wrote M in the precise manner of a schoolmistress, which, in fact, she was. “That only leaves London and Robert now,” she said brightly.
Gervase nodded shortly. This was what training was for, she thought. This was what discipline was for, to enable you to pigeon-hole your feelings and carry on and do the job you had to do. Discipline, she thought sadly, meant the difference between a grown-up and a child. A child would cry.
Wing-Commander Dobbie came into the office, having been over to the mess for a few minutes. He stood in cap and overcoat looking at the board. “London and Robert still to report?” he said thoughtfully.
The control officer, a grounded squadron leader, said: “That’s right, sir.”
On the desk before Gervase the telephone buzzed quietly. She lifted the receiver, listened, and replaced. She turned to the W.A.A.F. corporal. “M for London,” she said. The corporal wrote it up.
Dobbie stood scrutinising the board. It was one-fifteen; Robert had been airborne at 10.34. Immediately before, Apple had taken off at 10.31, but Apple had reported “Mission completed” at 12.53. Sammy, airborne directly after Robert, had made his signal at 12.59. Whichever way you looked at it, Robert was twenty minutes late.
He turned aside and went out through the light trap on to the balcony in front of the control office. Too bad about Robert, he thought; he would not get “Mission completed” from them now. He stood there staring out over the starlit aerodrome; in another hour he would have the runway glows put on for the first aircraft to come home.
He stood there for ten minutes in the great peace of the night. He knew all the crews up to a point, because that was his job. He tried not to get to know any of them more than that because of equity, and because it only made things more painful later on. It was bad enough to have watched throughout the war the passing of most of his old friends from Cranwell and the peace-time R.A.F.; there was no need to add to it by making friends with these young men who came and went so soon. But sometimes it was difficult to dodge. He was interested in people, a quality that made him a good officer. He had been interested in Marshall and his crew, in all of them, because they seemed to him to be men of character who had an influence in his command, and because of the queer story of the fishing. Now they were very likely gone. Too bad.
Behind him the control officer came out on to the balcony. “Nice night,” said Dobbie quietly. “Anything from Robert yet?”
“Not yet, sir. When shall I put the lights on?”
“Two-fifteen.” The Wing Commander paused. “Is that Section Officer in there behaving all right?”
“Yes, sir.” The Squadron Leader added: “She’s engaged to Marshall or something, isn’t she?”
“Or something,” said Dobbie. “She’s not officially engaged. Nobody on this station is officially engaged till they’ve stood me a glass of sherry, and I haven’t had a sherry out of them. But I’m afraid it looks as if I shan’t get one now.”
“It doesn’t look so good,” said the control officer.
They turned and went back into the control-room. “Any tea going?” said Dobbie, brightly cheerful. “I could do something to a cup of tea.” A cup of tea, he thought, would do her good; girls liked tea.
“I’ll get a pot made in a minute, sir,” said Gervase. She turned to the corporal; there would be no more work now for her at the blackboard. “Go through and make tea,” she said quietly. “Three cups.”
She sat on at her little desk, writing up the signal log from her rough notes. It helped, to have something to do. Already she had become accustomed to the thought that Robert was gone. Sitting in that same chair before that telephone, with that same blackboard at her back, she had known so many aircraft to be lost that she had herself lost the faculty for easy grief; that nerve had been so hammered in the last few months that now it hardly hurt at all. Peter was gone, had followed Drummond and Forbes and Bobbie Fraser and Sawyer and all the others she had known at Hartley Magna. It was so unobtrusive, the manner of their going. A lot of aircraft took off in the night and were airborne one by one; a lot of aircraft came in one by one and taxied to dispersal in the darkness. It was only when you came to count them carefully to make a record in a log that you discovered one or two of them had slipped away and travelled to some other place.
Instinctively she felt that she must make a move; she must get a transfer to another aerodrome. She could not carry on at Hartley after this. She was all right for that night; she felt that she could carry on till morning. But after that she knew she would become unserviceable, like an exhausted battery or a tyre worn down to the canvas, no more use in the job. She would go to Group and see the Wing Commandant and ask for a transfer, if possible to the north country, nearer to her home, where she could re-plan her life.
She could re-plan her life. In the north country near her home she could forget the irrational, merry adventure that had touched her in Oxfordshire, so remote from the realities of ordinary life. She would regain the life that she had promised herself: to work hard as a signals officer for the remainder of the war, and then when the peace came to get a job of some sort in the radio business for six or seven years, and then marry somebody or other. It was what she had wanted to do so recently as a couple of months ago; when the distress was over, surely she could get back, and want to live a life like that again. Surely?
The tea came, and biscuits, and the two officers made conversations with each other, bringing her into it from time to time. She played her part as well as she could, because that was what you had to do, because if you made a scene that only made things difficult for everybody. And presently the Squadron Leader told a near-clean story of a parachutist who had happened to come down in a nunnery, and that made her laugh a little, and she was grateful.
They put the lights on presently, and shortly after half-past two they heard the beat of engines overhead. The men went out on to the balcony with the Aldis lamp; presently a winking light against the starlit sky spelled G for George. They gave it a green flash and it departed in a wide left-hand circuit towards the east; presently they saw the nav
igation lights sink down towards the runway’s end, and heard the rumble. The lights ran on upon the ground; over the wide expanse they heard the squeal of brakes. The Squadron Leader put his head in at the door and spoke to Gervase; she called the corporal and they started a fresh set of markings on the board.
Soon there were several aircraft making circuits of the aerodrome, winking their identification letters, waiting their signal to land. The Wing Commander and the control officer were busy with the Aldis lamp; in the control office Gervase and the W.A.A.F. corporal were busy logging them in. In the middle of all this they had a call from the W.A.A.F. signal sergeant in the radio-room next door.
“R/T from Robert, ma’am.” Gervase shot through into the other office like a scalded cat. The W.A.A.F. sergeant, a plain, horse-faced woman, was writing busily at her table before the set, head-phones upon her ears; hearing her officer come through she put up one hand and switched on the loudspeaker, and resumed her writing.
Into the silence of the room there came the message, endless in repetition. “——have sustained some damage to structure, we have sustain some damage to structure. This is Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling Zebra, E.T.A. three five, E.T.A. three five, Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. Emergency routine, please, emergency routine, Robert calling Zebra. We cannot receive R/T or W/T, cannot receive R/T or W/T, Robert calling Zebra.”
Gervase swung round to the corporal. “Go and tell the Wing Commander Robert is transmitting R/T,” she said.
Endlessly the message continued: “Emergency routine, please, emergency routine, please; Robert calling Zebra. Our navigation lights and identification lights are U/S, navigation and identity lights U/S, Robert calling Zebra. We are approaching at four thousand, approaching at four thousand, E.T.A. three five, E.T.A. three five, Robert calling Zebra.”
The door of the light trap slapped shut, and Wing Commander Dobbie came through. “Robert?”
Gervase took the pad from the sergeant and gave it to him; he ran his eye over it quickly. Over the speaker came the monotonous voice. “—at four thousand, approaching at four thousand, all lights unserviceable, all lights unserviceable, Robert calling Zebra. When overhead we shall fire a red light, when overhead we shall fire a red, Robert calling Zebra. Please give me a green if this message is received and understood, please give me a green if this message is received and understood. Emergency routine please, emergency routine, Robert calling Zebra.”
Dobbie said: “All right. Reserve that frequency for him, and take all others on the other set. He’ll probably keep talking to prevent them breaking in.”
Gervase said: “Very good, sir. We are listening on the other frequency. Nobody has tried to use it yet.” She indicated a leading aircraftwoman at the spare receiver.
The Wing Commander glanced at the clock. “I’ll get outside and be ready with his green.” He handed back the pad. “Log everything he says.”
He went out with the Very pistol in his hand; in the office Gervase stood behind the sergeant, listening to the repetition. She was feeling rather sick; Peter was safe and nearing home. The thought did not bring her joy or any conscious feeling of relief. All it brought to her was a sudden and immense feeling of fatigue, and the thought that she might have to leave the office for a minute to go out and be sick.
“Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. We are now passing over at four thousand, now passing over at four thousand. If this message is received and understood will you please fire a green. If this message is received and understood will you please fire a green. Robert calling Zebra.”
Gervase ran through the control office and through the light trap, out into the fresh darkness of the night. “Robert is asking for the green, sir. Says he’s overhead.”
“Okay. He’s just fired a red.” There was a flash and a report close by her, and a green star burst up in the deep blue sky. She did not stay to watch it, but went back into the radio-room.
“Okay, Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. Your green received, we have received your green. Thank you. Robert calling Zebra. I am now transferring to Captain via intercom, now transferring to Captain.”
There was a pause, and several clicks and scratches; the level of the background noise rose higher. In the small office they stood waiting in silence. Dobbie came through and Gervase turned to him. “They got the green all right, sir. They’re just switching over for the Captain to speak.”
“Marshall? What on earth for?”
“They didn’t say, sir.”
They waited, and presently the speaker spoke again. It was Marshall speaking this time. Her breath of fresh air had made Gervase feel better, but now the nausea returned, and with it a hard lump in the middle of her throat.
“Robert calling Zebra, Captain speaking, Captain speaking.” The voice was clear, and young, and confident. “We’re in a bloody awful mess and minus half of our port wing. We have lost half our port wing. My rear-gunner is seriously wounded and unable to bale out, rear-gunner seriously wounded. Will you give me a green when the aerodrome is clear, give me a green when the aerodrome is clear. My flight engineer and navigator and wireless operator will then bale out, and I shall land the aircraft. Please give me a white if this is understood.”
He proceeded to repeat the message; Dobbie turned and went out to the balcony. Gervase heard the crack of the pistol, and then Marshall’s voice.
“Robert calling Zebra; your white has been seen and understood. I shall proceed on left-hand circuits at four thousand till I receive your green. I shall then come down to two thousand and fly across up wind, and three members of my crew will bale out. Flood lights, please, for them to land. Wireless operator is wounded in the right hand. This thing’s a cow to handle, so you’d better make it snappy with that green.”
Gervase went out to Dobbie with this message; he came back into the control room, and they became furiously busy. There were eight aircraft still in the air and approaching to land; already T for Tommy was winking at them in the sky. They set to work to get through on the W/T to the seven others to divert them to Wittington and Charwick; in the meantime they brought in Tommy. For ten minutes the three telephones were going at full blast; then they were clear, and ready to put up the green for Robert.
“Okay Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. Your green seen and understood, your green seen and understood. I am now coming down to two thousand and will fly straight over while my crew bale out. Coming down to two thousand and will fly straight over while my crew bale out. Stand by with the flood lights, please, stand by with flood lights.”
There was a silence. Gervase stood at the door of the radio-room, white and sick. Waves of nausea were sweeping over her, but it was impossible for her to leave the control at this moment. Nevertheless, her body was letting her down; her mind could take it, but her stomach couldn’t. In a very few seconds she was going to be sick.
Desperately, she thought it would be horrible to be sick in the office; the lavatory was far away. It would have to be the balcony; at the far end it was quiet and dark and only grass below; she could creep out there for a moment and nobody would know. She slipped out through the light trap past Dobbie and the Squadron Leader, and went to the far end, finishing with a little run up to the railing.
Over the loud-speaker came the voice of her beloved. “Robert calling Zebra, lights please. Flood lights, please—Robert calling Zebra.”
The control officer spoke into his telephone; from three sides of the aerodrome the flood lights blazed out from their trailers, making the whole scene as light as day. Dobbie with one glance noted his signals officer being sick over the railing, then turned and scrutinised the sky. Presently, drifting down into the light, he saw three parachutes spaced about a quarter of a mile apart. Two fell within the aerodrome; he saw the men collapse and the fluted silk shrivel and sink down; the other fell outside the boundary.
He turned and went inside. The Section Officer was in the radio-room, a little pale and with beads of perspi
ration showing on her forehead, but at her job. He said to her: “Are you all right?”
Gervase said: “I’m better now, thank you, sir.” She was rather afraid of Dobbie. She did not mind that he had seen her being sick, because that was something that might happen to anybody, but she was terrified that he would find fault with her work.
Over their heads the loud-speaker said: “Robert calling Zebra. I haven’t had this thing below two hundred since we lost our bit of wing. I’m going to slow her down a bit and see what she’s like. I think she’ll be very difficult to hold level at anything like landing speed. Think I’ll get up to four thousand again and try it there.”
The background noise increased. In the office the Wing Commander looked at the control officer. “Bit of test flying now,” he said quietly.
The Squadron Leader said: “He’ll never land it, sir, not if it’s really got half one wing missing. It’ll fall over sideways, in a roll.”
Dobbie said: “There is a minimum speed …”
“Would you like me to make him a signal on the Aldis, sir, and tell him to bale out?”
“Let him handle it his own way.”
Over the loud-speaker the background noise died slowly. “Robert calling Zebra. Just slowing her down now.”
In the office they stood tense and motionless. Somewhere up above them in the darkness, not very far away, Marshall was sitting at the controls without light, alone but for his wounded gunner. In the dim starlight he was straining at the wheel as the speed gradually dropped, his eyes fixed upon the violet glow of the horizon bar, the hand and dots of the air speed indicator. They could do nothing to help him; they stood silent in suspense, waiting for a word.
In the soft hissing from the loud-speaker a note of music grew, incongruous and unbearable. It grew in volume till they could catch the words:
“The moon that lingered over London Town,