The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  D-Dog rolled forward and swung round to face the runway.

  ‘Pilot to rear gunner. All clear behind?’

  ‘All clear, skipper.’

  He settled himself and waited.

  Jock kept his left hand close to the skipper’s hand on the throttles, ready to take them. They were running straight and approaching flying speed.

  ‘Full power, Jock.’

  ‘Full power.’

  Timed exactly right, he slid his hand smoothly under the skipper’s and took over the throttles, pushing them to the gate and clamping them. Van had both hands on the control wheel now, easing it back, and the Lane was off the ground, the concrete runway falling away.

  ‘Undercart up.’

  ‘Undercart up.’

  At eight hundred feet, flaps up and trimmed, D-Dog was climbing smoothly and steadily. No problems on this one. Not a moment’s worry. The skipper was improving, he had to admit that. Maybe one day he’d even manage a decent landing.

  Stew was down in the bomb aimer’s compartment in the nose, through the opening by Jock’s feet. Officially, he was supposed to stand behind them for take-off and landing, but Van turned a blind eye. If he’d been skipper, Jock would have insisted on it but the Yanks were slacker about things, he reckoned, not so disciplined. For himself, he preferred to stick to all the rules – everything to be done exactly by the book. There was usually good reason for it.

  As each bomber took off, Dorothy waved a piece of white cloth torn from an old sheet. There were so many planes going that she was sure Charlie must be in one of them, and there was just a chance that he might be able to see it. Maybe she ought to have tied it to the end of a stick, but it was too late now. They were taking off so quickly, one straight after the other, that there wasn’t time. The noise went on and on until she could bear it no longer and had to stop waving the cloth and put her hands over her ears.

  She stayed by the garden gate long after the last bomber had gone, listening to the silence and watching the empty sky darken. Sleep would be impossible. She must stay awake to be sure to hear the first one returning so she would know if they’d all got back safely. It was only later on that she realized that, with all the noise, she had completely forgotten to count them.

  Stew had seen the flutter of white below as the Lane clambered skywards. The Perspex blister in the nose gave him a bonza view and he thought he had the best bloody place on the kite. And the take-off was the best bloody bit of all. It gave him a real thrill to be right out in front when they went roaring down the runway. Got to him every time, deep in his guts: the surge, the speed, the power, the climb, the earth falling away . . .

  He watched Lincolnshire recede and finally disappear. His control panel was right beside him and the front turret with the two Browning guns immediately above. He could stand up and grab the triggers in two shakes if any bastard Jerry fighter showed up.

  Charlie’s voice came over the intercom: ‘Rear gunner to skipper. There’s another Lane right behind us.’

  ‘Roger, Charlie. Watch him, will you. Let me know if he gets any closer. Pilot to crew: keep a good look-out, guys. There’s a hell of a lot of kites about.’

  Too bloody right, Stew thought. And over the target it’s going to be fucking murder with them and the Jerries to worry about. On top of that, he’d be worrying about not screwing up his part again.

  It was almost dark when they crossed the English coast; the North Sea looked like shiny grey metal. It seemed flat calm from this height, but you couldn’t tell and he wasn’t keen to find out. The way the skipper kept cocking up on dry land, they wouldn’t have a hope ditching.

  D-Dog droned on and he kept a sharp watch through his Perspex window.

  ‘Bomb aimer to navigator. Enemy coast ahead.’

  Piers’ voice answered him, ‘Thanks awfully, bomb aimer.’

  Strewth, Stew thought, I wish we’d got a nav who spoke like a normal bloke. Come to that, I wish we’d got a nav who could bloody navigate.

  Piers checked and re-checked his calculations. If he’d got everything absolutely right he’d be taking them between two coastal flak batteries, slipping in unnoticed. And if he went on getting things right they’d make their bombing run away from the Cologne barrage. In his cramped cubicle behind the blackout curtain, the little Anglepoise lamp illuminating his charts, he felt secure for the moment. It wouldn’t last, of course. When they got near the target, if not before, that would all change. The enemy would know they were coming, and night fighters were probably already up and searching for them. And over the target it was bound to be dicey. He needn’t actually see anything of it, if he didn’t want to – some navigators never came out from behind their curtain – but he felt he ought to see what was going on this time. It was like being compelled to look at something horrible, even though you knew it would appal you.

  Harry passed him a scrap of paper with his latest radio fix. Piers went over everything again.

  ‘Navigator to pilot. ETA on target is o three forty-five.’

  ‘Roger, nav.’

  In less than half an hour, he realized, it would be his birthday.

  Sitting on his canvas sling seat, head and shoulders in the Perspex dome of the mid-upper turret with the rest of him, feet in stirrups, down in the draughty fuselage, Bert was thinking about Emerald and fancying his chances. She was a smashing bit of skirt, the best-looking bint he’d ever taken out. They’d had a good old snog in the back row at the flicks, and look how she’d given him the silk stocking – to bring him luck, she’d said, with one of her sidelong smiles – and if that wasn’t a come-on he didn’t know what was. He fingered it round his neck, grinning to himself. Next time he took her out . . .

  Blimey, what was he doing, dreaming about that now? He was supposed to be keeping a sharp look-out for enemy fighters, and anything else that could get them into trouble.

  He put Emerald out of his mind and rotated the turret slowly. Trouble was, when you went on staring out into the dark for long you started imagining all sorts of things. What was only a cloud started looking like a whole lot of Messerschmitts, and you could fire away at nothing and put the wind up everyone else, not to mention waste ammo. Sometimes he felt sort of trapped in the turret. You had to be a bit of a Houdini to haul yourself up into it, and getting out in a hurry’d be a bloody sight worse. And once he was there, there he had to stay unless the skipper ordered him to leave. He tried not to think about the turret having no armour protection, or about the RAF roundels painted just below and making a nice convenient bull’s-eye aiming point for Jerry fighters, or about the fact that he couldn’t wear his parachute and had to stow it down below. Most of all, he didn’t think about all the stories of mid-uppers coming back from ops without a head.

  Still, he wouldn’t have swapped places with Charlie for anything – all on his tod at the blunt end there, out in the cold. Not for all the tea in China.

  Piers couldn’t see much until his eyes adjusted from the light of his chart lamp to the darkness of the cockpit, and when they did, it all looked far, far worse than he had expected. He stood behind Van, staring in horror at the glittering wall of exploding flak and searchlights ahead. Christ, they had to go into that! It was sheer suicide. They’d have no chance at all. He wanted to dash back behind his curtain, but a dreadful fascination made him stay and watch it all come closer and closer. A shell burst somewhere beneath them and he grabbed for a handhold as D-Dog plunged about wildly and shrapnel rattled hard on the fuselage. A searchlight beam swept the sky only yards away, and a second beam followed so close he thought they must surely have been spotted. Another shell exploding even nearer almost flung D-Dog onto her back. God, they’d never get out of this alive. It was hopeless. Hopeless.

  A stab of orange fire flared suddenly away to port. As it grew he saw that it was a bomber on fire, flames flickering furiously along its wings. An almighty explosion lit up the sky and dazzled his eyes. Mesmerized, he watched blazing brands of wreckage spin e
arthwards.

  ‘Bomb doors open, skip.’ Stew’s voice sounded perfectly calm.

  ‘Roger, bomb aimer. Bomb doors open.’

  ‘Right . . . steady. Left, left. Left, left. Steady . . . steady. Bombs gone, skip.’

  D-Dog turned away from the target, heading for the dark. Back at his charts, hands shaking, Piers somehow pulled himself together.

  Charlie could see the glow from the fires for a long while on their route back. They’d clobbered the place well and truly. Given the Jerries a taste of their own medicine.

  It didn’t do to think too much about the women and children and old people they might have killed and maimed in the process. The Jerries had done the same, after all. They were the ones who’d started it. That was what he told himself when he saw the burning buildings. He watched the crimson smudge getting further away until it vanished. Only another couple of hours and they’d be home. Another op done. He was looking forward to his egg and a nice long kip.

  ‘Fighter! Fighter! Corkscrew port! Corkscrew port – Go!’ Bert was yelling from the mid-upper turret; the skipper rolled D-Dog left. Charlie knew what was coming. They’d practised it lots of times. They’d dive port, then climb port, roll, climb starboard, dive starboard, roll and then dive port all over again – trying to get away from the enemy fighter.

  They went down in a dive that turned his stomach worse than anything he’d ever been on at a fairground. His head was jammed up against the turret roof, vomit spewed up into his mouth. He screwed his eyes tight shut until he felt the Lane slowing, levelling out.

  ‘Climbing port, gunners.’

  ‘He’s still there, skipper. Two o’clock high.’

  Bert’s guns clattered from the mid-upper turret. ‘Missed him, skipper. Going low astern. Watch out for him, Charlie.’

  Charlie couldn’t see him. Had never seen him. Where on earth was he? His night vision was good enough to see anything. Maybe the fighter had scarpered after Bert had taken that shot at him. Maybe Bert had only imagined him?

  Then he saw a dark, winged shadow flash past below the turret and skid into a turn. ‘Rear gunner to mid-upper. I see him now.’

  It was an Me110 – coming straight for them – still out of range, but closing fast. A stream of brilliant tracer snaked by the tail before he had him properly in his sights: lined up, smack on. Ready to fire. Then all of a sudden his fingers seemed to freeze on the triggers.

  Bert’s voice yelled in his ears. ‘Shoot the bugger down, Charlie! Get him!’

  He opened fire and the bullets from his guns curved away in a line of bright beads. He thought he saw a chunk of the Messerschmitt’s port wing fly off before it flipped over on its back and dived away, vanishing into cloud below.

  ‘Rear gunner to pilot. I think I hit his wing, skipper. He’s cleared off.’

  ‘Well done, Charlie. Good shooting.’

  Bert was crowing away in his turret and the rest were really chuffed. He should have been feeling a bit pleased himself, too, but all he could think of was that if Bert hadn’t yelled at him like that he might not have fired until it was too late, and the Jerry would have got them instead. And if he’d fired sooner, when he should have done, he could’ve scored a direct hit in the nose and finished him off good and proper, not just clipped him. He didn’t know why he’d gone and frozen up like that. Gone rigid for those few seconds. He’d always thought it would be easy to shoot at the enemy but when it’d come to it, he’d funked it.

  They crossed the English coast at Dungeness and flew north to Beningby in the cold grey light of dawn. Piers got it on the button this time, thank Christ, but they had to wait their turn to land, circling slowly over the fields with other returning Lanes. This was the ball-breaking part that Van hated most of all. He was tired. They were all tired. And they had to go around and around and around, waiting for the OK from Control before they could get down on the ground.

  At last it was their turn and he brought D-Dog in a curve onto the downwind leg. He made himself concentrate hard. Wheels down, half flap, then full flap from Jock – pronto as ever. D-Dog sank obediently. Van brought the nose up a fraction as they crossed the threshold lights and she floated on down the runway. When he could feel her on the point of stall, he dropped her the last few inches onto the concrete. The wheels touched down all three together and with hardly a sound. Wow, a greaser!

  Jock put his thumb up, eyes above his mask creased in a grin. First time that had ever happened. The grin or the greaser.

  In the truck on the way back from dispersal, Piers spoke up bashfully. ‘I say, chaps, it’s my birthday. Would you mind awfully if I stood you all dinner?’

  Four

  ‘I HOPE THAT new girl is going to ring the dinner gong on time this evening, Miss Frost.’

  ‘I’ll see that she does, Mrs Mountjoy.’

  Just because there’s a war on, it doesn’t excuse unpunctuality. We should keep up standards, not let them slip.’

  The telephone ringing saved Honor from another lecture from Mrs Mountjoy. She had listened to them on all subjects: the decline in good manners, the inefficiency of the Royal Mail, the vulgarity of ITMA, the laxness of morals, the disgraceful amount of noise made by the Royal Air Force . . .

  By the time she had dealt with the call, Mrs Mountjoy had gone off into the Residents’ Lounge where she would sit in her usual chair until dinner. Colonel Millis was already in there, slumped in his chair, but there would be no conversation between them beyond ‘Good evening’ and the colonel’s inevitable comment on the weather which Mrs Mountjoy would ignore. Conversation with the colonel was difficult, in any case, because he was so deaf, but he had not lost his sense of time. In ten minutes, at six o’clock precisely, he would emerge to shuffle across the hall to the Oak Bar for his first gin and tonic.

  She was busy in the inner office at her typewriter when he appeared at the reception desk and rang the bell. With his drooping moustache and mournful expression, he looked very like a bewildered old walrus.

  ‘The bar’s shut. It’s after six and there’s nobody there.’

  She leaned across the counter and spoke into his better ear. ‘I’ll come and open it up for you, colonel.’

  Ron the barman was late yet again, which meant she’d have to hold the fort for him, as usual.

  The colonel followed eagerly at her heels across the hall into the Oak Bar, and she poured the gin from his private bottle of Gordon’s. She knew how he liked it – up to a certain mark in the glass, just a splash of tonic and no ice. Sometimes he reminisced wistfully about the pre-war days when he had also had a slice of lemon. No more lemons now, or oranges or bananas . . . She carried it over to him at his place in the corner, careful not to spill any on the way. He raised the glass to her in his courtly fashion.

  She was replacing the bottle in the cupboard under the counter when a party of RAF men came into the bar, making a good deal of noise. Two were officers, she saw, but the rest of them were sergeants – which Miss Hargreaves wouldn’t care for at all. One of the officers approached her.

  ‘I say, could we possibly order some drinks?’

  ‘What would you like, sir?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d have any gin or whisky, or anything like that?’

  She closed the door on the colonel’s gin and locked it. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, there’s only beer or sherry available at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. I’ll have a sherry, please.’ He turned to the others. ‘What’ll you have, chaps?’

  One of the sergeants asked for lemonade, but the rest all wanted beer. The officer paid for everything with a nice smile. ‘It’s on me. My treat. By the way, I’m Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young. I telephoned earlier about a table for dinner.’

  ‘It’s reserved for you, sir. A table for seven.’

  Mrs Mountjoy was going to have something to say about sergeants in the dining-room, but she could hardly refuse them admission.

  ‘Jolly good. We’re a crew, you se
e.’

  These, then, were men who were in the bombers that she listened to going overhead. She’d never seen a crew all together before – just the RAF officers who came to the bar and to dinner at The Angel and odd airmen she passed in the street.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any champagne by any chance, would you?’ The pilot officer blushed as he spoke. ‘It’s my birthday. Twenty-first, actually.’

  Champagne, for heaven’s sake! Some hope! ‘I very much doubt it, sir, but I’ll ask the head waiter for you in a moment.’

  One of the sergeants came over to the bar. His uniform was a different blue from the others – royal blue – and the buttons were black. She’d never seen one like it.

  ‘Got any matches, miss?’ He looked her over as he spoke.

  ‘I think so – somewhere.’ She had to hunt hard for a box as Ron never kept anything in order. The sergeant was watching her all the time, irritating her. ‘This isn’t my usual job.’

  ‘Yeah, I could tell that by the way you did the beer.’ He pushed the pennies across the counter towards her. ‘Thanks.’ As he turned away she saw Australia on his shoulder.

  Ron came hurrying in with a long story about a puncture on his bike – it was always a different excuse. She left him flitting about behind the bar and went off to see about the unlikely champagne.

  Pity about the limp, Stew thought, watching the girl leave the room. Looked like something wrong with her right foot.

  Not that she was his sort. All prim and proper in that frumpy blouse and skirt, hair done like a schoolteacher’s, no make-up. He went for the type that sent the message loud and clear, like the one he’d picked up on leave in London last time. Met her in the hotel bar, bought her a few drinks and taken her straight up to his room. Easy as that. They hadn’t wasted time with the fooling around beforehand that some sheilas expected. Jesus, that’d been a night to remember, all right, and he could remember a few.

  He lit his cigarette and stowed the box of matches away in his pocket. Bloody lighter! Still, so long as it brought him luck . . . He was feeling pretty pleased with himself after that last op. No dummy run this time. Dropped the bombs smack on the main target, or as near as he could get the buggers. Then the kid had clipped that Jerry that Bert had spotted, and Piers had even managed to find the way back. And to cap it all, the skipper had gone and done a three-pointer. Maybe they weren’t such a mug crew after all. He looked round the bar, at the dark oak panelling and the pictures of foggy landscapes and long-horned cattle, the brown leather chairs, the drab velvet curtains. Strewth, what a mausoleum! Not a patch on the hotel his parents ran back home. This place looked as though nothing had been touched for a hundred years. Fat chance of any decent tucker, but with Piers footing the bill he wasn’t going to grumble. He was going to drink, eat and be as bloody merry as possible.