The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Did you want something?’

  No ‘sir’ like with Piers, he noted. ‘Yeah. If you can spare the time.’ He injected a dose of sarcasm into it. ‘I’d like to know the price of your rooms.’

  ‘Double or single?’

  ‘Single.’ He leaned an arm on the counter and she moved further along, well away from him.

  ‘That would be fifteen shillings per night, breakfast included.’

  ‘Bit steep, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to look elsewhere.’

  ‘Before I make up my mind about that, I’d like to see some rooms.’

  She frowned. ‘Only one of the singles is unoccupied at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll see that, then.’

  ‘It might not be available for you.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll give me a clue what the rest’re like, won’t it?’

  She shrugged and took down a key from the row of hooks on the wall behind her. ‘If you’ll come this way, then.’

  He followed her up the stairs. She had quite a bit of trouble getting up them with that foot of hers, he noticed, though she tried hard not to show it. Too bad. The legs were pretty good otherwise. Better than he remembered.

  They went along a corridor. Good grief, it was gloomy! Dried blood carpet, porridge wallpaper, more pictures of cattle in fog and a couple of stuffed foxes’ heads snarling down. The room, though, was a lot nicer than he had expected. It overlooked a garden at the back of the hotel, and the evening sun was coming in through the window, cheering things up no end. And the bed looked comfortable. He went and sat on the edge of it and bounced up and down.

  She was standing over by the wardrobe, as far away as possible, acting as though there was a bad smell in the room. Just to annoy her, he swung his feet up onto the bed and lay there at ease, hands linked behind his head.

  ‘Would you mind not putting your shoes on the counterpane.’

  He turned his head to look at her. Yes, she was annoyed, all right. Good.

  ‘Have to test it properly, don’t I? Where’s that door in the wall go?’

  ‘It connects to the next room.’

  ‘Another single?’

  ‘Yes. Occupied.’ She jangled the key in her hand. ‘Did you wish to book this one, then?’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  His next leave was still four weeks away and first he’d need to find out from Doreen for sure if she could get away. If she could, he’d book the two connecting singles, if possible. No chance of getting away with a double and the Mr and Mrs Smith routine here. He put his feet to the floor and stood up, the springs twanging.

  ‘I suggest you do so as soon as possible. We get very booked up, especially at weekends.’

  She moved towards the door but he was nearer to it and he blocked her way, standing close – just to annoy her some more. She’d got a beautiful skin: he’d never seen one as good. On second thoughts, maybe she didn’t need a load of make-up like most girls. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘I might want to ring about the booking. You’re in charge, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s Miss Frost.’ She hissed it at him.

  ‘I already told you mine.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

  ‘Stewart Brenner. Everyone calls me Stew.’

  ‘Really? Well, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Brenner, I’ve got a lot of work to do.’

  ‘Sergeant.’ He tapped the stripes on his arm.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Sergeant Brenner . . .’

  He moved away from the door and she limped past him as fast as she could. After you, Miss Iceberg, he muttered under his breath. He followed her downstairs, determined not to let it rest there, but there was some doddery old codger waiting at the reception desk and she started fussing all over him, sweet as pie.

  ‘Yes, of course, Colonel. Don’t worry, Colonel, I’ll see to it right away.’

  He decided to go and take a gander at what Piers was up to in the dining-room, and she called after him, ‘That’s not the way out, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m not leaving yet.’

  He peered through the glass panels in the doors and caught sight of Piers sitting at a table, drinking his soup, all alone. No sheila in sight. Bloody odd.

  ‘I say, do you think I could possibly have some more water, Peggy?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ She smiled at him as she stopped by his table, and Piers watched her go off towards the kitchens, carrying the empty jug. After a while she came back with it refilled.

  ‘Shall I put some in your glass for you, sir?’

  ‘Oh, thanks awfully.’

  ‘Are you finished with your soup, then?’

  ‘Gosh, yes, thanks.’

  ‘Was it all right, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, frightfully good.’ He couldn’t even remember what it had been supposed to be . . . some kind of vegetable thing.

  She smiled at him again – but then he’d noticed that she smiled at everybody as she went round the tables, even at that appalling old woman in the corner who kept grumbling in a loud voice. ‘I’ll bring you your chicken, then, sir. If you’re ready.’

  ‘Jolly good.’

  She bent a little closer and whispered. ‘It’s rabbit really, sir . . . but don’t say I said so or I’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ he promised. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged it out of him.

  He followed her with his eyes as she went off again. After the chicken there’d be the pudding and she’d have to come and see what he’d decided to have. That was going to be his chance. He could ask her then – if he could get up the courage. He’d rehearsed what he was going to say. I was wondering if you’d care to come out with me, one evening, Peggy? I thought perhaps we might go to the cinema, or to the theatre? There was actually quite a decent little theatre in Lincoln. Or dinner somewhere? Whatever she wanted. If she wanted at all. She’d probably turn him down flat. Probably had lots of boyfriends taking her out all the time. Bound to.

  Driving in, he’d felt so nervous about asking her that he’d gone and asked Stew to join him so he’d have the excuse of putting it off till another time. But Stew was up to something else so there was nothing to stop him jolly well speaking up.

  She was back with the chicken – or rabbit, rather. It was smothered in a white sauce so he couldn’t see it properly, anyway. Well-disguised. She winked at him as she set the plate before him, together with a dish of carrots and boiled potatoes. ‘There’s your chicken, sir.’

  He wasn’t very hungry, but he ate his way through it doggedly. In spite of the sauce, he would have known it wasn’t chicken; they’d had rabbit enough times in the Mess to be able to recognize the taste. When he’d finished he had to wait for a while before she came back to his table. The dining-room was full and she was scurrying here and there, attending to everybody. The old waiter didn’t seem to do anything – just stand around, snapping his fingers at her. At last she came over, looking hot and bothered.

  ‘I’m very sorry to be so long, sir. We’re ever so busy this evening. I’ve been rushed off my feet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not in any hurry.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’ She took the pencil from behind her ear and held up the little notepad that hung on the end of a chain from her waist. ‘What would you like for sweet, then, sir?’

  It was stewed apples and custard, or sultana roll and custard, or gooseberry tart and custard.

  ‘Gosh, which do you recommend?’

  ‘The gooseberry tart,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘They’re from the garden here.’

  ‘Right . . .’ He took a gulp of water.

  ‘One gooseberry, then, sir.’ She began writing with her pencil.

  In a moment she’d be off again. He cleared his throat. ‘I say, do you think—’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ She stuck the pencil back behind her ear.

/>   ‘I was going to say . . . would you come out with me one evening? To the cinema, or something?’ The words tumbled out in a rush. He smiled at her hopefully.

  Her mouth had fallen open in astonishment. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘I asked if you’d like to come out with me one evening, actually.’ His heart was racing away. Was she going to feel insulted and call the head waiter over? Or, worse, laugh at him?

  Instead, she looked bewildered. ‘Is it a joke, sir?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He was dismayed she should think such a thing. ‘I meant it. Would you? I mean, on your evening off . . . if you have one. Do you? You must have.’

  Her cheeks were turning bright pink. ‘Well, yes, sir. Wednesdays.’

  ‘Would you, then?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, sir . . . it wouldn’t be right, would it?’ She started to back away from the table. ‘Thank you just the same, sir.’

  He said desperately, ‘Will you think about it? Please?’

  ‘There wouldn’t be much point, would there, sir? So, if you’ll excuse me . . . I have to go and give your order now.’

  She fled through the swing doors into the kitchens and he sat there miserably, knowing that somehow he must have made a complete hash of it.

  Eight

  BERT HAD CAUGHT the grass snake out on dispersal. He’d spotted it slithering off into the undergrowth when they were all lounging around on the grass, waiting for the ground crew to fix some dud wiring in D-Dog.

  At first he kept the snake in an old shoe box and fed it on dead insects and milk. It was a friendly little chap and after a while he started taking it around the station in the breast pocket of his battledress jacket. He taught it to poke its head out when he whistled, and it grew rather fond of having a spot of beer in the Mess. He named it Victor because he thought that was rather appropriate.

  The only trouble was that Emerald didn’t like Victor one bit. First time Victor had poked his head out of his top pocket when he’d whistled, she’d screamed the place down. So had other WAAFS, come to that, and he had to admit he’d done it on purpose just to give them a fright. So, when he went out with Emerald, Victor had to stay home in the hut, shut in his shoe box. He kept him out of sight of the new Flight Commander, too. It would have been OK with the old one, who’d been a good sort of bloke, but he’d got the chop over Bremen and the replacement was a bastard: morning parades, hut inspections, a whole lot of daft bloody bull. What did any of that matter when blokes were being written off before they could even unpack their kit? What was the point of polishing your buttons and shining your shoes if you were going to be burned to a bloody cinder?

  Mostly, he didn’t let the constant disappearing acts on the station get to him too much. Best way was to keep saying to yourself that it wasn’t going to happen to you – only to the other blokes. Old Titch, for instance, who’d been a regular drinking mate till he’d copped it on his last trip. The shell had taken his head off clean as a whistle, he’d heard. Just like all those horror stories about mid-uppers. They’d had to put him back together again when they’d got him out of the turret. Poor old Titch.

  What really bothered Bert was knowing he was no great shakes as a gunner. It seemed to him that he was the only one of the crew who hadn’t got any better, and he was scared stiff of cocking it up for the rest of them. He could’ve sworn he’d seen a 110 that last time and felt a real muggins when they’d gone corkscrewing all over the sky for nothing. The skipper had told him he’d much sooner it that way than the other but, even so, next time he fancied he saw something he was going to make sure of it before he opened his cake-hole. Bloody sure.

  The last rays of the setting sun glowed like gold across the corn as they took off. Stew, lying prone in the nose turret, got his usual kick out of the sensation. He stared down through the Perspex blister at the panorama of fields and woods spread out below him in the evening light. Not a bad-looking country sometimes, it had to be said, though you could keep it in winter.

  They headed east and towards the night. He re-settled himself in the compartment and went over the flak positions on his map again. There wasn’t much else for him to do for the moment, except keep a sharp look-out. He’d checked everything while the skipper was running up the engines before take-off – gone over his box of tricks. His eye ran across the panel once more: selector switches, timing device, selector box for order of dropping, master switch and camera controls, photo-flare releases, bomb release tit . . .

  It always amused him to have to sign a receipt for the bombs when he’d checked the load. As though he might go and flog them, or something. This time they had a lot of bumf packed in among the bombs: bloody stupid leaflets for the Krauts, telling them to blame their leaders for their homes being smashed to rubble and not the nice kind RAF. They might as well load up with a few hundred boxes of Bronco and drop those instead.

  He hated things that got in the way of the real job, and that included the load of bullshit dreamed up by that wanker of a Flight Commander. Polishing buttons and shaving, saluting and parading about like a lot of nancies. Not that it had lasted long – no longer than the bloke himself, which hadn’t been more than a week. Soon as he’d bought it, they’d all gone back to the good old bad old ways, and Victor, Bert’s snake, had come out of hiding. The new Flight Commander didn’t have any flaming stupid ideas like that, thank Christ, and it wasn’t his fault about the bloody leaflets. Some arsehole pen-pusher at HQ had thought that one up.

  The noise of the four Merlin engines throbbed loudly in Stew’s ears. Sometimes he fancied he could hear music when he listened to them. It was always the same tune: The Warsaw Concerto from that film about Poland where the bloke had sat playing the piano in the moonlight while the place was being bombed flat. He’d never told anyone that he heard music, though; they’d think he was going off his bloody rocker, or trying to work his ticket.

  There’d been a wireless op in one of the other crews who’d gone crackers towards the end of his tour. Not hearing things but seeing them. Been sent aft to find out why their Tail-End Charlie wasn’t answering and found him turned to strawberry jam. He’d seemed OK for a while till he’d suddenly flipped one evening in the Sergeants’ Mess, rocking to and fro and gibbering and crying like a lunatic. Strewth, it’d given them all the willies! He’d been carted off and sent away, labelled LMF, poor sod. Lack of moral fibre. Stripped of his rank, put to cleaning bogs and marked down on his service record as a coward for ever. If he’d been a bloody officer, they couldn’t have done it to him. That was RAF justice for you.

  Stew shifted his position again. They were over the North Sea now and it was almost dark, but he could make out the white horses galloping about. Must be bloody rough down there. No chance if you came down in that lot. He listened to Piers giving a course alteration to the skipper. Funny about that business with Piers at The Angel. No sheila after all, unless she’d stood him up, and he didn’t think that likely. Not with the posh family and all the cash. Most women knew bloody well when they were on to a good thing, in his experience.

  Not long now and Doreen’d be coming up. That’d be something to look forward to, all right. Which reminded him. He reached for the steel helmet he always brought on ops. When he was lying face-down in the turret, trying to get the target in his sight and with all the Kraut crud flying up, the most vital and delicate part of him needed protecting. Next stop Düsseldorf. They’d never been there before and he wouldn’t mind betting it was going to be a bastard. Nothing to be done but get on with it. At the start, he’d shit bricks on every op until he’d stopped worrying about getting the chop and simply thought of himself as already dead. The odds were he would be soon enough. Once you did that it was a whole lot easier.

  He could swear he could hear that music again . . . da daaa, da-da-da-daaa da da . . . Strewth, maybe he really was going nuts.

  Charlie pointed his guns at the stars. The
night sky above was full of them, twinkling away. He found them a huge comfort. There was usually something to look at in the darkness: the changing light and shade of the sky, the passing clouds, the detail on the ground far below. It was when he could see nothing – just total blackness all around the turret – that he felt most alone. The stars were like friends, cheering him on. He knew there were billions of them and that their light took years and years to reach Earth so that what he was seeing wasn’t really there any more, but that didn’t worry him. And he knew there were other galaxies you couldn’t see at all because they were even further away. Other worlds maybe.

  My soul, there is a country

  Far beyond the stars,

  Where stands a winged sentry

  All skilful in the wars.

  There above noise and danger

  Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles

  And one born in the manger

  Commands the beauteous files.

  He liked the words a lot. Far beyond the stars . . . a winged sentry . . . Of course, it really meant heaven, but if there was another country beyond the stars, he certainly hoped it would be a better place, without wars and killing and suffering. He swung the turret, searching and searching. They’d be over the enemy coast soon and the fun would begin. The butterflies were already fluttering about in his stomach.

  ‘Pilot to crew. Intercom check.’

  He listened to their answering crackles, in turn.

  ‘OK Charlie?’

  ‘OK, skip.’ His flying suit was uncomfortably hot but there was nothing much he could do about it. It was either on or it was off, and if he left it switched off he’d freeze. The cushion helped, though. When he’d tried to give it back to Two-Ton-Tessie she’d made him keep it. The others had taken the mickey out of him, of course, but he didn’t mind too much because it was a lot better than just having the padded seat. There wasn’t room to stretch his legs – he could hardly even move them – and sometimes on a long trip the cramp got really bad.