by Nevil Shute
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown—
How could he know we two were so in love,
The whole darned world seemed upside down …”
The volume was sufficient to drown anything the pilot said. Dobbie swung round to the W.A.A.F. sergeant at the set, vehement with the strain. “Get that damned broadcasting tuned out, can’t you?”
Gervase leaped across the room to her aid, but aid was not required. The horse-faced woman raised her head and gave the Wing Commander a glance of withering scorn.
“That ain’t broadcasting,” she said disdainfully. “That’s ’im.”
They turned and stared open-mouthed at the loud-speaker. It went on, with deep feeling:
“The streets of Town were paved with stars,
It was such a romantic affair—
And as we kissed and said good night,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
The background noise swelled suddenly in volume as the pilot opened up his engines, and the song stopped. “Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling. I got down to about a hundred and forty, but that’s the limit of control. She’s bloody heavy, and my wrists are getting tired. I shall put down at about a hundred and fifty. Robert calling Zebra. I shall have to put her down at about a hundred and fifty.”
There was silence in the office, broken only by the hissing from the loud-speaker. The Squadron Leader broke it. “He’ll never get away with that, sir,” he said quietly. “I think we ought to tell him to bale out.”
“Let the gunner go?” said Dobbie.
The control officer nodded. “Would you mind stepping outside, sir?” It was intolerable to have to talk a matter like this over before the signallers.
They went out on to the balcony. The control officer said: “What I feel is this, sir. The gunner is badly wounded, too badly to bale out. He may very likely die in any case. If we let Marshall try and put her down at that speed, even on the runway, he’ll almost certainly be killed. If we tell him to bale out, we save a good pilot.”
“No we don’t,” the Wing Commander said. “He’d never be a good pilot again.”
There was a short pause. “Besides,” said Dobbie, “he’d never obey an order of that sort. I know that crew. If Marshall’s got to be killed, I’d just as soon he wasn’t killed while disobeying orders. Anyway, he may get away with it. He’s got very good hands.”
They came back into the office, in time to hear the loudspeaker start up again. “Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. I have fuel for forty minutes, I have fuel for forty minutes. I shall cruise around to burn up some of it. I shall land at oh three three five. Robert calling Zebra, I shall land at oh three three five. I shall require all lights, and crash wagons at the intersection of runways two and four. I shall require all lights, and crash wagons at the intersection of runways two and four. Please send up a green now if this message is received and understood. Please send up a green now if this message is received and understood.”
Dobbie said: “Give him his green.” The control officer went out of the light trap; from the balcony they heard the report of the pistol.
The loud-speaker said: “Okay, Zebra, your green seen and understood, your green seen and understood. I shall get away now over towards Kingslake to avoid other aircraft landing, I shall go towards Kingslake. I shall return to land at oh three three five, I shall return and land at oh three three five. Robert calling Zebra.”
Dobbie turned to the control officer as he came back into the office. “Where’s Kingslake?”
“Never heard of it.”
From the door of the radio-room Gervase spoke up, rather timidly. “I know where Kingslake is, sir. It’s over towards Chipping Hinton.”
Dobbie glanced at the map on the wall. “Chipping Hinton—I see. What is this Kingslake place—a village?”
“No. It’s a house—a house with a lake.”
Dobbie laid his finger on a little blue spot on the map. “Is this the place?”
Gervase approached and looked at it. “That’s it, sir.”
The Wing Commander grunted. “I suppose that’s where you get the trout.”
“Yes.” There was nothing else to say, except the urgent question. “Is Flight Lieutenant Marshall going to bale out, sir?”
“I haven’t told him to.” He looked down at her, noting a damp streak of hair sticking to her forehead, unbecoming. “You can go off if you want to,” he said kindly. “The sergeant can carry on.”
Gervase said: “I’m quite all right.”
Dobbie nodded. “Good.”
Over their heads the hissing of the loud-speaker merged to a half-tone of reminiscent melody:
“That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
“You’d think this was a bloody ENSA concert,” said Dobbie.
There was the sound of a truck outside the office, and the outer door opened. Sergeant Cobbett and Sergeant Pilot Franck thrust their way in, still clumsy in their flying-suits and boots. They checked when they saw the Wing Commander. “Crew of Robert, sir,” said Cobbett. “We sent the wireless operator along to hospital.”
Dobbie asked: “Is he bad?”
“Only his hand.” The flight engineer hesitated, and then said: “Is Robert still up, sir?”
The Wing Commander jerked his head at the loud-speaker, smiling a little. “That’s him.”
“The moon that lingered over London Town,
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown …”
“Aye,” said the flight engineer. “He was singing that song most of the way home.”
“He’s going to land at three thirty-five,” said Dobbie. “What’s the matter with the gunner?”
Sergeant Franck said: “There was a shell, sir. I think it burst not in the turret but underneath. Both legs is broken, one above and one below his knee. I have made splints and bandages, with wads of gauze, and I have given dope in the same way that it says in the book.”
Gervase, listening, noticed for the first time that the Dane’s hands were dark and stained, and that there was blood in smears all over his flying-suit. You couldn’t help that, she reflected, when you were doing for a friend what Gunnar had done in the darkness and the wind blast of the shattered fuselage, tearing along in the black night.
“Where is he now?”
Cobbett said: “We got him all comfy on the floor, sir, right back in the rear fuselage, feet forward, with his head about two feet forward of the tail wheel jack. We got him lashed down there all ways, so he won’t shift whatever sort of landing the Cap makes. The Cap, he come along while Gunnar here was flying, and he see to that himself.”
“Did you help lash him down?”
“Yes, sir. Me and the Cap did it.”
“You’d better go with the Headquarters crash wagon and get him out, quick as you can. Look sharp about it, in case there’s a fire. You should be able to get him out of that in time.”
“It won’t take long to get him out of it,” the flight engineer said. “There’s a hole in the rear fuselage you could walk through.”
“All right—you go for the gunner. Sergeant Franck, you go with the south bay crash wagon, and get the pilot out.”
“Ver’ good, sir.”
“Take both crash wagons to the intersection of two and four,” said Dobbie. “Get out there as soon as you can. There are no other aircraft landing. He’ll be putting down at three thirty-five—that gives you fourteen minutes to get out there. Do your best for him.”
They turned to go. By the door they noticed Gervase, white and tired. Gunnar checked for a moment by her. “I think that this will be okay,” he said. “He is ver’ good pilot.”
She smiled weakly, but said nothing. Into the room there came the reminiscent melody, sung absently as an accompaniment to other occupations:
“I may be right
, I may be wrong,
But I’m perfectly willing to swear,
That when you turned and smiled at me,
A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”
Sergeant Cobbett grinned at her. “Sounds happy, don’t he?” he remarked.
In the machine, peering through the starred windscreen into the starlit blackness of the night, Marshall sat singing softly to himself. He had tied a piece of cod line round the right-hand side of the half-wheel and taken it down to his thigh, so that the weight of his leg helped to ease the strain upon his wrists. Beside him and below, the hatch was open from which his crew had jumped; he could not reach to close it and a great blast of cold air came sweeping in around him and out through the window at his side. He did not mind. This rush of cold air was the very substance of the night, the quiet, deep blue serenity sifted with a thousand stars.
He was happy, sitting there in the machine. He had found the Kingslake lake, or thought he had; once or twice in the deep blackness of the woods he had seen starlight reflected upon water. Rough bearings from the beacon at Nottingdene and the beacon at Gonsall indicated he was somewhere near his fishing. It made the serenity complete for him to be there.
Presently, very soon, he would return to Hartley Magna to put down. Either you got away with these things or you didn’t; it didn’t seem to mean much either way. He had been very near to death in Germany only three hours before; he now had a sporting chance of life at Hartley, and he only felt relief. Whatever happened, he would be on his own runway, tended by his friends, with everybody working to help him. And Gervase would be there.
He sat there staring forward at the stars, and singing quietly to himself.
In the control office Gervase sat down at her little table, and tried to work upon her signal log. There was nothing to do now for the next few minutes, and she must not fuss about, because that put people off. She sat there staring at her own handwriting, listening to the low repetition of the song from the loud-speaker. Whatever anybody else might be feeling, she knew that Flight Lieutenant Marshall was happy, and she was glad for him, and comforted herself. And, sitting there, she knew that she was always glad when he was happy, and she was always miserable when he was worried; it was like that between them, and would be, whatever they might do or say. He had been right, she felt, and she had been quite wrong; there was something wonderful for them if they gave themselves a chance. Within the next few minutes, Peter might be killed in putting down at that colossal speed upon the runway. If he was not killed, she would find herself married to him very soon. It wasn’t fair to keep him hanging round now that she had made her mind up, nor did she want to hang around herself.
On the loud-speaker the song broke off, and the background noise diminished. “Robert calling Zebra, Robert calling Zebra. I am approaching from the west and dropping off some height, approaching from the west and losing height. If you are ready for me, please, put on all lights. Robert calling Zebra.”
Dobbie nodded to the control officer, who spoke into his telephone. Outside the Chance lights blazed out from the lee boundaries of the aerodrome, so that everything was as bright as day. The control officer told Gervase to get the speaker to full volume, and went out on to the balcony with Dobbie, propping the light trap doors open behind them. Gervase went to the balcony door and stood in the doorway looking out, ready to get back to her signallers immediately.
“Okay Zebra, Robert calling Zebra, thank you for lights. I am now south of you, now south of you, and turning to come in, turning to come in.”
On the balcony they stood tense. On the grass beside the office Gervase saw a little group of men in flying kit; she recognised Pat Johnson, and Davy, and Lines, and Sergeant Pilot Nutter, amongst others. There was nothing they could do to help, but they could not stay away. They were standing motionless, straining their eyes into the sky beyond the blinding lights.
From the lit office behind Gervase the loud-speaker said: “Robert calling Zebra. I am now coming in to land, coming in to land, bringing her in at about a hundred and eighty. Here we go. Robert calling Zebra. Here we go.”
Staring straight into the searchlights, Gervase could not see a thing beyond the middle of the aerodrome. She could see the two crash wagons at the intersection of the runways, one on each side of the main runway, facing each other, ready to spring to the crash the instant the machine came to rest. Each truck was crowded with men hanging on to it, and some of these were ghostly in white-cowled asbestos overalls. A hundred yards behind the near crash wagon was the ambulance, its medical crew by it, staring at the sky.
Suddenly everybody exclaimed, and everybody saw the aircraft. It was about thirty feet up over the runway’s end. Its under-carriage was retracted and no flaps were down; its tail was high, both engines going hard, and it was moving very fast. Gervase had time to note that one wing seemed little better than a stub beyond the engine, and time to see a spurt of white fumes from each engine. For an instant she thought miserably that it was on fire. Beside her she heard Dobbie say quietly: “Good man. He’s remembered his Graviners,” and realised that the pilot had set off fire extinguishers.
Then, quite deliberately, the aircraft flew on to the ground. A great shower of sparks flew up behind it from the runway. It held its course for three or four seconds, its tail high above the wing, unnatural and terrifying. Then it fell over sideways, still travelling at an enormous speed. The stub of the port wing touched ground and the tail dropped low; the undamaged starboard wing rose up vertically till the whole plan of the aircraft was presented to them, the body high above the ground. The port tail plane spun free up in the air behind, and the whole aircraft pirouetted round upon the broken wing, still travelling at an immense speed down the runway. It hung vertically on edge for an instant, the undamaged wing pointing to the sky. Then it fell back with a great crash on to the runway, right side up, and slid tail-first to rest two hundred yards beyond the crash wagons.
The control officer turned to the Wing Commander. “Right side up,” he cried. “He should have got away with it.”
Dobbie nodded. “I was afraid it was going on its back.”
They stood for a moment, watching the crash wagons spurt up to the wreck, watching the men leap off and get to work. A cloud of smoke and dust masked what was going on, but there was no fire. Dobbie turned away. “I’m going out there in my Jeep,” he said. “Get the lights out as soon as the ambulance is away.”
In the control office he passed the Section Officer. “You can go off duty now,” he said. “There’ll be no more in your line to-night.” He hesitated. “You’ll get the news you want up at the hospital,” he said. “I should get up there.”
Gervase wanted to say: “Thank you, sir,” but the words would not come. She just looked at him dumbly and nodded, and he glanced at her, and went on out to his Jeep, and jumped into it, and drove it straight out over the rough grass towards the wreck.
Gervase put on her coat and cap, told the W.A.A.F. sergeant to carry on, and went out of the office. At the road intersection with the runway she ran into a group of pilots still in flying-suits; their eyes, used to the darkness, could recognise her, though she could not distinguish them. Pat Johnson said: “We’re just hanging round till someone comes up to tell us what happened.”
She moved towards him; he was someone friendly, that she knew well. “Winco told me to go up to the hospital. He said I’d find out there.”
“Not a bad idea.”
They turned, and walked together in the starlit night; as they went the ambulance spun past them smoothly and quietly; they could not see who was in it. It took them ten minutes to reach the hospital; as they got there, the ambulance was moving off again. At the door they found an orderly and asked him about it.
“Rear-gunner,” he said. “Taking him straight into hospital at Oxford. The M.O. said not to take him off the stretcher here or anything—just take him right along to Oxford.”
Johnson asked: “Did the pilot come up
with the ambulance?”
“Aye, he’s inside with the M.O. Got his face cut about a bit, but that’s all.”
It was odd, Gervase thought, that whenever good news came she wanted to be sick.
“Born to be hanged,” said Mr. Johnson cheerfully. “You can’t dodge Fate.”
They stood in the corridor outside the surgery for a time, waiting for something to happen. Presently the door opened and the medical officer came out. “Hullo,” he said, “Are you waiting for Marshall?”
“Just like to know what sort of a state he’s in,” said Johnson.
“He’s all right. He wants to sleep in his own bed. If you like, you can take him over and put him to bed. I’ll be along in about a quarter of an hour with some tablets for him. My truck’s outside; you can take him in that.”
They went into the surgery, and Gervase saw Marshall sitting in a chair grinning at her; he had white strapping and lint over the right side of his forehead and his eyebrow. She said shyly: “Hullo, Peter. How are you feeling?”
He said: “I’m fine, only I can’t use my hands.” His hands were lying on his knees, palm upwards; as they looked, the finger-tips twitched very slightly. “Look, I’m trying to bend them. Isn’t that bloody funny?”
“That all you can do?” asked Mr. Johnson, interested.
“That’s all.”
“It’s going to make a lot of difference to the beer situation in the mess,” said Mr. Johnson thoughtfully. “The medical officer says we’ve got to take you and put you to bed.”
Marshall looked up at Gervase. “That doesn’t sound quite nice,” he said smiling.
“It’s not,” she said. “We’ll kick Pat out as soon as he’s helped you upstairs.”
Their eyes met and they laughed.
Chapter Nine
In the white-flowered hawthorn brake,
Love, be merry for my sake;
Twine the blossoms in my hair,
Kiss me where I am most fair—
Kiss me, love, for who knoweth