The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  Bert shut his eyes tight.

  Harry had clamped down the Morse key and stuffed the Very pistol, cartridges and torch inside his battledress jacket under his Mae West. He climbed over the main spar and went aft to get Sam and back to take up his ditching position, alongside Stew, Piers, Bert and Charlie – Sam tucked well inside his battledress jacket. They squatted down, hands behind their heads, backs braced against the spar. He made sure he was next to Charlie. Whatever happened he was going to see to it that the lad was all right. He waited. Any second now.

  D-Dog hit the water nose first, and the impact flung him sideways so he hit his head hard. The Lane was skidding along on her belly with a terrible grinding and tearing noise. Icy water gushed over him and his first thought, when he recovered his senses, was that they were already sinking, going down fast.

  Then D-Dog finally came to a stop and Charlie was tugging his arm. He staggered to his feet and scrambled after the others to the roof escape hatch. The bomber was tilting forward at the nose but she was still afloat.

  He was half-way out of the hatchway, when he realized he’d forgotten the pigeon. Couldn’t leave the poor little bugger to go down with the Lane, so back he went, sloshing his way through the fuselage. He squeezed his shoulders up through the escape opening again; wind and spray whipped at his face.

  The moon lit the scene: the inky blackness of the ocean, the white-crested waves breaking over D-Dog. He played his torch over the bomber. She was rolling and pitching hard. Charlie and Bert were clinging to the starboard wing and Stew and Piers leaning over the trailing edge, hauling on the dinghy. The skipper and Jock were crawling towards him along the cockpit roof. All out safely, thank God. By the time he’d clambered out on the roof and slithered down onto the wing, the Lane’s nose had sunk further and the wings had tilted up so that the dinghy was now several feet below, bobbing around like a cork.

  They had to jump for it: Charlie, himself with the pigeon in its carrier, Piers, Jock, Stew, Van. One after the other. But Bert hung back, still clinging to the wing for dear life with them all yelling at him, and when he finally got up the courage to jump, he missed the dinghy and fell into the sea.

  He came up close by, choking and thrashing about wildly. The Mae West kept him afloat but the waves swept him away from the dinghy. Harry kept his torch beam trained on the yellow life jacket being carried off fast like a piece of flotsam, while Stew slashed loose the rope tethering them to the Lane’s wing and they paddled frantically after Bert. When they got close enough, the skipper and Jock, who were the nearest, leaned over the side and grabbed hold of Bert’s arms. Little as he was, he must have weighed a sight more in sodden flying clothes, because they had a real job getting him on board, and he was kicking and struggling and choking and thrashing about, making things even worse. Each time another wave broke over the dinghy, swamping them, Harry thought they were going to lose their grip on Bert and that he would be gone for ever. Then a lucky wave lifted him up and, at the same moment, Van and Jock heaved him into the dinghy.

  Bert had been snatched from the sea, but D-Dog was going. Stew shouted out and pointed and they all turned to see her twin tail fins rise up in the moonlight. None of them spoke as they watched her slide down into the dark depths like a sounding whale, leaving them alone.

  Dorothy woke up suddenly. She sat bolt upright in bed, listening. She always heard the bombers coming back and listened to them circling overhead before they landed. Sometimes they’d circle for a long time and she’d picture Charlie up there, very tired and yet having to fly round and round and round. But there was no sound of any bombers. No distant rumbling drone, getting louder and louder. Nothing but the wind.

  The luminous hands of her alarm clock showed it was only ten past eleven. They’d taken off at six in the evening – thirty of them – and they would probably come back around midnight, unless it was one of the very long trips.

  She lay down again. No point in panicking. Getting herself into a state. Charlie might be safe in bed over at the station, sound asleep and dreaming. And yet, she knew he wasn’t. She lay rigid in the darkness, eyes wide open, listening.

  Aircraft: D. Captain: Pilot Officer VanOlden. Missing.

  The WAAF sergeant was standing on a chair to reach the top of the ops board. Catherine watched her chalking the word in the space. Two other aircraft had failed to return and were seen going down in flames over the target, but nobody had seen what had happened to D-Dog. No news from any other station. The only hope left was that they’d bailed out or crash-landed safely somewhere in Germany or France. The sergeant finished off with a heavy dot after the ‘g’ and hopped down off the chair. She looked quite cheerful. Just another crew to her. One of the many. Nothing to cry about.

  The Intelligence Officer wandered over. ‘We’ve just had something in on VanOlden’s crew. Apparently, an SOS was picked up from them. They lost two engines on the homeward leg and had to ditch in the North Sea. The rescue chaps are out looking for them, but no luck so far.’

  A chance after all, but so slim. Not many crews who came down in the North Sea in winter survived.

  ‘Do they know their position?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘They knew it just before they ditched. They were still sending then. Since then, nothing. The dinghy transmitter might be u/s, of course.’

  Or they might all be dead, she thought bleakly. The Lane might have sunk too fast for them to get out, or the dinghy failed to inflate, or the sea swamped them, or the cold got them.

  ‘The weather . . .’

  ‘Not too good, I’m afraid. A Force seven. It must be pretty rough and chilly out there. Doesn’t make it any easier to find them either – if they’re still alive. But we mustn’t lose hope yet.’ The squadron leader took a closer look at her and put a firm hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on now, young lady. Chin up. It’s not like you to let it get to you. You know you can’t afford to do that. We none of us can. We have to get on with the job.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  Charlie didn’t think he could last much longer. It wasn’t so much the cold, which he couldn’t seem to feel any more, it was the sea-sickness. Bit of a joke, that! Here he was floating around in a rubber boat in the middle of the North Sea in winter, soaked through, and the worst part of it was feeling sea-sick. He’d vomited over the side until he thought his insides would come up. Now all he wanted was to lie down at the bottom of the boat and die. Only they wouldn’t let him. They kept shaking him and making him sit up and talking to him.

  Poor old D-Dog! He’d hated to see her go like that – all by herself, down to the bottom. Nobody’d liked watching it. She’d been the best of the Lanes they’d flown in. Never failed them before and it hadn’t been her fault this time. If only he’d spotted that Jerry, it might never have happened, but he’d never seen a blinking thing.

  Bert was talking now, telling one of his stories, but nobody laughed, not even Stew. He’d thought Bert had had it when he fell in the drink like that. Nobody had known he couldn’t swim a stroke. Still, Bert was the sort who always bobbed up somehow.

  He wasn’t sure how long they’d been drifting about, but it must have been several hours because it was getting light. That wasn’t much comfort, though. There was nothing to be seen but miles and miles of empty sea. Cold, grey, heaving sea. No ships anywhere and no planes in the sky either. Nothing. Just the waves see-sawing them up and down, and round and round. Up and down and round and round. Up and down and round and round. He closed his eyes again.

  ‘Wake up, lad.’ Harry was shaking his shoulder roughly. Harry’s face looked cold and grey as the sea, ringed by his yellow Mae West, and it was going up and down and round and round, too. ‘Not long now before they find us.’

  Some hope, Charlie thought. But he felt too ill to care. And if he was going to die, he didn’t mind it so long as they were all together.

  Stew thought, I’m buggered if I’m going to die. Not like this. Just
waiting for it to happen. Giving up. Christ, he was cold, though. Couldn’t feel his legs or feet at all. Could hardly move them. The spray stung his face and his eyes smarted from salt, lids stiff and sore with the bloody stuff, and every few minutes another bloody wave drenched them all again. They kept bailing out but as soon as they did, the water slopped back in. He’d’ve killed for a cigarette, but the pack in his breast pocket was a sodden pulp. He chucked it overboard in disgust and watched it swirl away and vanish.

  Where the hell were those Air Sea Rescue wankers? The bloody dinghy transmitter was u/s, of course, but they’d known their position OK when they’d ditched, and they couldn’t have drifted that far away for Christ’s sake, so what the fuck were they doing? Having another cup of char? Stopping for a chat? Playing cards? Forget the bloody pigeon. About as much use as the transmitter. All it had done was fly round in circles over the dinghy before it’d finally pissed off in the general direction of Germany.

  Jesus, the cold, the cold . . . If he ever got his hands on that bastard Jerry who’d done this to them, he’d fucking kill him.

  He felt like he was falling asleep now, and that was a bad sign. Keep awake, you stupid sod. Keep awake. Eyes open, brain ticking. Think of something. Anything. Don’t let go or you’ve had it. He thought of Bondi beach. Pictured himself there, walking barefoot along the hot sand. Blazing sun, blue sky, not a cloud, the rollers coming in, surfers riding them . . . a corker of a sheila coming towards him: long legs, blond hair, tanned all over, smiling. The picture faded. Dissolved into Miss Iceberg, frowning at him. Yeah, well, not much help there. That wouldn’t warm his cockles. Back to Bondi. Only he’d lost it. It was gone. He couldn’t see it any more. Just the flaming North Sea and the waves and the empty sky.

  Van kept his eye on Charlie. The kid didn’t look like he was going to make it. Hell, none of them were going to if they weren’t picked up soon. They were all in real bad shape – teeth chattering like castanets, faces death-white and ominously patched with blue, limbs numb and near-useless, hands swollen. They couldn’t last much longer. They’d start sliding into unconsciousness. Slipping away. Got to keep them moving. Keep them talking.

  ‘Time to bail out again, you guys. Come on, Charlie. You, too, kiddo. Give us a hand.’

  They scooped away slowly and painfully, tipping water over the side.

  ‘Bert, how about another story?’

  ‘Don’t know any more, skipper.’

  ‘Tell us the others again.’

  ‘Aw, come on, skip, he’ll bore us to death.’

  ‘OK, Stew, you tell one.’

  ‘Well . . . there was this bloke went into a bar . . .’

  Jock counted as he bailed. One, two, three . . . up to ten to fill his forage cap. Another ten to lift it. Five to empty it. Then back to filling it again. Keep on doing that twenty times. Slow but steady. Move the arms. Never mind the pain. Keep going. One, two three . . . He went on scanning the sky and the sea. By a miracle his service watch was still working. Good old Omega. They’d been in the dinghy over nine hours. Somebody would have chalked Missing against their names on the ops board. He’d seen that a good few times. Stared at the names and wondered what had happened. Missing . . . until and unless somebody found them.

  At dawn she dressed and went downstairs, unable to bear lying in bed any longer. Outside it was still blowing hard and starting to rain. Inside, the cottage sitting-room was dark and cold as a tomb. She put on her coat and went to let Marigold out of her house and feed her some mashed peelings and stale bread. When she came in again she switched on the wireless and stood staring at the oblong yellow light, waiting for the set to warm up.

  This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it. Last night the Royal Air Force attacked the German city of Hamburg, inflicting heavy damage and starting numerous large fires . . . Of the two hundred aircraft, seven failed to return . . .

  She turned the set off and went and curled up in one of the easy chairs, still wearing her coat, arms wrapped round her shivering body. One of those missing aircraft was from Beningby. When the bombers had come back, she’d counted them: thirty had taken off, only twenty-nine had returned. She’d stayed awake for the rest of the night, listening for the thirtieth.

  If it was Charlie’s plane that was missing they’d come and tell her – as soon as they were sure. The padre would come down to the cottage, like he’d promised Charlie, and knock on the door and give her the news. She could go and stand at the window, watching the road, or she could stay here in the chair, listening for the knock. If nobody came it would mean that it wasn’t his plane after all. She wanted to shut her eyes and stop her ears with her fingers so she couldn’t see or hear anything at all, but that would be cowardly. Charlie wouldn’t want her to be like that. He’d want her to face up to whatever happened.

  She curled up even tighter, waiting.

  Piers saw the aircraft first. It was only a small speck in the clouds but he kept his eyes fixed on it, not daring to hope. The speck grew bigger and his hope grew with it as he made out the short fuselage and twin rudders. It looked like a Hudson.

  Harry had spotted it too and was trying to get the Very pistol ready, but his hands were so numb he couldn’t pull back the firing pin. Piers put his thumbs over Harry’s and they struggled desperately with the heavy pin, and then to squeeze the trigger together. His fingers had no life, no feeling, no strength. Make them work before it’s too late. Force them. Pull. Harder. Oh, God, we’ll never do it . . . Oh God . . .

  The pistol went off and a brilliant star burst into the sky.

  He watched the Hudson alter course towards them. Thank God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  ‘Have a fag, mate.’

  ‘Ta.’

  The sailor stuck the lighted cigarette between Bert’s lips.

  What with that and the neat whisky, he was beginning to perk up quite nicely.

  Once the Hudson had spotted them, they hadn’t had too long to wait; it was the Royal Navy who picked them up. Blimey, had they been glad to see them coming over the horizon! He’d never seen a gladder sight in all his born days. The navy blokes had hauled them on board in a jiffy. Off with the wet togs, on with the blankets and they’d had them thawing out in front of a lovely hot fire. Bloody screaming agony for a bit, but he could move his fingers again now.

  ‘Drop more whisky, old chap?’

  Bert proffered his tin mug. ‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’

  ‘The Navy found them,’ the squadron leader said. ‘Picked them all up, alive and kicking.’

  ‘All of them, sir?’

  ‘All of them.’ He looked at her. ‘Pilot Officer VanOlden included.’

  ‘That’s very good news.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Jolly good. They were damn lucky.’

  Catherine fumbled blindly for her handkerchief.

  ‘Here,’ he said drily. ‘You’d better borrow mine.’

  ‘Those bombers kept me awake all night, Miss Frost. I’m going to complain to the RAF.’

  ‘It’s not all night, and they can’t help the noise, Mrs Mountjoy. It’s not their fault.’

  ‘Not their fault? Of course it is. Who else is causing it?’

  ‘They’re going on bombing runs to Germany, surely you realize that? We should be extremely grateful to the RAF.’

  ‘They may well be but there’s no call for them to make such a racket about it. Or for you to be impertinent, Miss Frost.’

  ‘Men are dying on those runs, Mrs Mountjoy.’

  ‘That has nothing whatever to do with it. I can’t think what’s come over you lately, Miss Frost. Are you ill?’

  ‘No, Mrs Mountjoy.’

  ‘Well, I shall speak to Miss Hargreaves about your manner. It’s most unsatisfactory. And by the way, that blackout blind in my room still isn’t properly mended. I can see daylight through the hole. I insist it’s done today. Without fail.’

  She was still curled up tightly in the easy c
hair when she heard the click of the garden gate, the sound of heavy footsteps up the path and a loud knock on the cottage door. She couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen, her heart pounding violently. More knocking, louder still. Important knocking. Urgent knocking. Charlie, oh Charlie . . .

  She forced herself to stand up and walked slowly towards the door. Opened it.

  ‘Mornin’, Mrs Banks. Bit of a blustery day today. Looks like we’ll be getting some heavy rain later.’

  ‘Mr Stonor . . .’

  ‘Anythin’ the matter? You don’t look too good.’

  She clung to the doorpost. ‘I’m all right, thank you. Just didn’t sleep very well.’

  ‘Dare say the planes kept you awake. Busy last night again, weren’t they?’

  She nodded.

  The old man dug deep into his pocket. ‘Mrs Dane asked me to give you this. Had a few just come in, she says, and she put one by for you. You can pay her later when you’re next passing. She thought you’d like some for your tea. Nice on toast, they are.’ He held out a tin. There was a picture of a fish swimming across the red label, one bright yellow eye, mouth open, tail waving merrily. ‘Not worryin’ about your boy, are you?’

  She swallowed. ‘One of the planes didn’t come back last night.’

  ‘So they say. No need to fret, though. Shouldn’t think it was your lad’s, but any road they’re all safe. Mrs Dane told me. Came down in the sea, she said, but they were all picked up. All safe and sound.’

  She stared at him. ‘Is she sure? How can she know?’

  ‘Told you before. She knows everythin’ goes on. Will you be keeping the pilchards, then?’

  ‘Oh . . . yes, thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps your lad’ll like some too.’

  Dorothy managed a weak smile. ‘Perhaps he will.’

  Twelve

  MARIGOLD WAS SULKING. She pecked around in the far corner of the run, back turned.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ Dorothy told her through the wire netting. ‘I can’t let you out because if I do I can’t catch you again and if I don’t shut you up at night a fox will get you.’