‘You’d better come inside and dry off a bit or you’ll go and get a chill.’
He followed her into the cottage, wiping his feet carefully. She was touched to see that he was wearing the scarf she’d given him. ‘Take your coat off and I’ll make you a cup of tea. It’ll warm you up a bit.’
‘I don’t want to keep you. You’ll be busy.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m on the last shift this week so I don’t have to go to work till later.’
She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and he came and stood in the doorway, like he usually did. Watching her. ‘How’s the job goin’, then?’
‘Not so bad. They let me do some cooking once in a while. Fry the sausages and the chips. It makes a change from peeling the vegetables, like I do mostly.’
‘You won’t be sorry to leave? When we’re finished.’
She turned round to him. ‘Oh, Harry . . . just one more op to do. That’s all.’
‘Soon be over,’ he said. ‘Not much longer and you won’t have to worry about Charlie. You’ll be goin’ back home then?’
‘Well, I won’t try and follow him, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Nay, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t, Harry. But I mustn’t do it any more. Charlie’s got to live his own life. I thought I’d try and join the NAAFI down in Kent. I saw an advertisement in a magazine. Cooks urgently needed, it said. I’ve got the address in London to write to about it. See if I can be a real cook.’
‘You already are. The best I’ve ever known.’
‘That’s nice of you.’
He coughed, as though he really might be getting a chill. ‘It’s meant a lot havin’ you here, Dorothy.’
‘That’s nice of you, too.’
‘It’s true.’
She poured some hot water to warm the pot, swirling it round. ‘You’ve been a wonderful friend to Charlie. He’s always telling me how kind you’ve been.’
‘I’ve done what I could. It hasn’t been much.’
‘Well, he thinks the world of you, you know.’
‘Dorothy, I—’
‘Could you pass me that tea tray there, Harry?’
‘Oh, aye . . .’
She took the cups and saucers out of the cupboard and put them on the tray, together with the milk jug and the teapot. ‘We’ll take it through.’
He carried the tray into the sitting-room for her and set it down on the table. She started to pour the tea.
‘They give you all leave as soon as you’ve finished, don’t they, Harry?’
‘Aye. Two weeks.’
‘You’ll be going home yourself, then?’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do,’ he said.
‘Well, if you’ve nothing special, you must come and stay with Charlie and me. You’re always welcome.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well . . .’
‘We’d be glad to have you.’ She smiled at him. Dear Harry, he was looking as though he couldn’t believe she meant it. ‘Really we would.’
‘Dorothy, there’s something I wanted—’
‘Here’s your tea. I haven’t any sugar, I’m afraid. It’s all gone.’
‘I don’t take it.’
‘You’re sweet enough, Harry.’
He went a bit red. ‘I was going to say—’
‘Bother! There’s somebody knocking at the front door. I’d better go and see who it is.’
It was Mrs Dane from the stores, standing there with her big black umbrella over her head, rain running off it like a waterfall.
‘I’ve brought a nice bit of bacon for you, Mrs Banks. Had some in unexpected and I thought of you and Charlie.’
‘That’s very kind. Will you come in and have a cup of tea. I’ve just made some.’
She nosed past Dorothy’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t say no, but I see you’ve got company.’ She would have spotted Harry’s bike by the gate. Nothing would escape her eagle eye.
‘Sergeant Green from Charlie’s crew called by.’
‘Is that so? Well, I’ll only stop a moment.’
She was more likely to stay an hour. Poor Harry sat there hardly saying a word while she prattled on. What a shame, Dorothy thought. It would have been much nicer to talk to Harry alone. She wanted to tell him properly how grateful she was about Charlie.
But she didn’t get the chance. As soon as Mrs Dane drew breath he stood up.
‘I ought to be goin’, if you’ll excuse me. Must be gettin’ back.’
She saw him to the door. ‘It was good of you to come by, Harry.’
‘Thank you for the tea.’
‘I meant to ask you, was there anything you wanted?’
‘No. Just passin’.’
‘I’ll see you again, before you go on leave. When it’s over?’
‘Aye, of course.’
‘Well, just in case I don’t, thanks for everything, Harry. For all your help. And for looking after Charlie.’
On an impulse she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He went red as a brick this time.
‘Goodbye, then, Dorothy.’
‘Goodbye, Harry. Good luck.’
She waved as he cycled away in the rain.
Eighteen
‘WE’RE ON TONIGHT, Jock. I’ve just seen the names.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Speak for yourself, mate.’ Bert was jumpy as a jack-in-a-box. ‘I’m in no rush.’
They air-tested R-Robert in the morning. With no heavy load to carry, the Lane soared into the air like a free spirit. Jock felt his own spirits lift with her. Their last op. R-Robert would see them through. She was a good kite. Gremlin free.
They flew straight and level for a bit while Stew levelled the bomb sight, and then the skipper put her through her paces. Everything OK. All systems go. All they needed now was a decent target. Something nice and near and not too well defended. They could have finished their tour in a matter of a few hours.
It was Berlin. The Big City. Old Yellowstripe. The worst one of all. Jock stared at the long, long red tape marking the route on the map. Of all the mean, dirty tricks for fate to play on them . . . He listened to the briefing with bitter resignation. Over a thousand miles there and back. Flak, flak and more flak. Night fighters. Radar tracking devices. Decoy targets. Everything the enemy could throw at them.
‘Maximum effort required, gentlemen. Three hundred aircarft. This is an all-out attack at the heart of the enemy. I’m counting on all crews to do their utmost.’
They’d been doing just that twenty-nine times and they wouldn’t be doing anything less for the thirtieth. The question was, would their luck hold out for them one more time? He didn’t think he was a superstitious man. He didn’t carry any mascot, and he only touched Sam because he didn’t want to be odd-man-out. Nothing could help you if your number was up. It was all fate. Nothing to be done, except maybe pray – if he’d been a praying man, and he wasn’t that either.
They shared the bus out to dispersal with another crew.
‘You lucky people,’ their bomb aimer said to him. ‘All over for you lot soon.’
You could take that two ways, Jock thought dourly.
If we come back safe, Bert said to himself as the crew bus swayed and bumped along the peri track, I swear I’ll marry Emerald. He didn’t know when he’d ever been so jittery about an op. Somehow he’d got the idea in his head that they were going to get the chop on the very last one and nothing would shift it. Please God, if you let us come back safe, I promise I’ll marry her.
He used to say that sort of thing as a nipper, only about things that didn’t matter half as much. Please God, don’t let me get found out and I’ll be nice to sis for ever more. Please God, I’ll never nick anything again if they don’t catch me.
The other crew was watching them, he knew that. Envying them, but knowing they weren’t done yet, not by a long chalk. Not till they’d been all t
he way to bloody Berlin and back. Crews could go missing on their last trip just as easy as on their first. It didn’t even have to be a bastard like Berlin. Taffy Davis’s crew had got the chop on an ice-cream.
He couldn’t see what the skipper was looking like because he was sitting up front with Two-Ton-Tessie, but the rest of them weren’t counting any chickens. Jock was grim as a wet night in Glasgow, Stew frowning as he tried to make that useless lighter of his work, old Harry hadn’t said a dicky-bird for hours and Piers had a face miserable as sin – something to do with that girl of his dumping him, lucky sod. What he wouldn’t give to be foot-loose and fancy free again! Charlie had his head turned away, staring out of the back of the Bedford, though there was nothing to see in the dark. Nobody looked full of the joys of spring, like they thought they were going to make it. He fumbled for his matches, scraped a light for Stew sitting opposite and offered it across the gap between them.
‘Wouldn’t ’ave one of those spare, mate?’
‘Cripes, Bert, don’t you ever have any of your own?’
Stew lobbed him a fag and he lit up from the same flame and took in a slow, deep lungful.
He didn’t want to die. Be snuffed out like a bloody candle, for ever. Blimey, he’d only just got started. Anything was better than that. If I get back safe, I swear I’ll marry Emerald.
Last time we do this, Charlie thought. One way or another. Whatever happens, we’ll never be together again as a crew. Maybe, when the war’s over, we’ll meet up one day, and maybe we won’t. One thing’s for sure, none of us’ll ever forget. Not even when we’re old men. He couldn’t imagine any of them being old – maybe they never would be.
They’d given them a real snorter to finish on. Berlin. The name was enough to give you the willies. Goose-stepping storm troopers, burning torches, hordes of chanting Nazi loonies. Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! It didn’t bear thinking about what might happen to you if you baled out over that lot. He’d heard blokes say they’d seen the Jerry night fighters shooting at parachutists coming down, which was probably a lot better than what would happen to you if the mob below got you.
Two-Ton-Tessie was taking them at a fair old lick. Too fast for his liking; they’d be there before you could say knife. Still, sooner there, sooner off and sooner back. The Bedford drew up with a squeal of brakes and he picked up his cushion, his ration box and the chute pack parked between his feet and jumped down to the ground. R-Robert was there, ready and waiting.
‘Hey, Charlie!’
He turned to see Two-Ton-Tessie waving at him from the driver’s window. She flashed him a big smile and stuck her thumb up before she drove on with the other crew. He’d forgotten to ask her if he could keep the cushion.
‘Ready, you guys?’
The tail wheel got its final ritual dousing and they picked up their gear ready to climb in.
Chiefy raised a hand. ‘Bring her back in one piece, sir.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Van touched Sam as he passed him and made his way up the slippery incline of the fuselage, Jock behind him. They ducked under the mid-upper turret and clambered over the mainspar. For once he didn’t bark his shins. Thanks for that small mercy, R-Robert. He settled himself in the cockpit, fastened his harness and flexed his gloved hands on the control wheel.
‘OK, Jock, let’s start her up.’ He reached for the buttons in turn and the Merlins spluttered and growled and then roared. Jock crouched at his panel as they ran them up. He opened up the throttles, in turn, in a deafening crescendo, testing boost, revs, pressures, temperatures. No snags.
He clicked on his mike switch. ‘Pilot to nav. Can you hear me OK, Piers?’
‘Absolutely fine, skipper.’
‘Bomb aimer?’
‘Loud and clear, skip.’
He finished the intercom check and slid open the side window of the cockpit, grabbed a few lungfuls of clean cold night air before he snapped it shut, sealing off the cockpit from the world.
At 1930 hours he taxied R-Robert out of dispersal, with a quick burst of power on the port engines to turn her onto the peri track. She purred sweetly round to the take-off point, where he slowed her to a gentle halt, tweaking the brake lever on and off. He went through the final checks with Jock for the last time. The green light blinked at them from the control cabin. Harry’s voice confirmed it.
‘Well, here we go, flight engineer.’
Jock gave him a brief nod, a grim grin. ‘Aye, skipper. Here we go.’
He rolled the Lanc forward and heaved her round. The flarepath glittered beyond the windscreen.
‘Pilot to crew. Stand by for take-off.’
With a roar R-Robert sprang forward. Thundered down the runway, tail up. On and on. Faster and faster.
‘Full power, Jock.’
‘Full power, skipper.’
Jock’s hand slid under his own to take over the throttles. Van eased back the control wheel and felt the Lanc lift smoothly into the air. All that fuel, all those bombs, and seven men, and up she went like the real lady she was. A class act.
Berlin lay more than six hundred miles away, a nasty chunk of that over enemy territory. And the Germans would be waiting for them.
Stew lay flat on his stomach in the front turret, looking down as R-Robert climbed upwards. Too dark to see anything much, but it was still a hell of a sensation. After a few minutes they flew into some cloud and he kept a sharp look-out for any other jokers around. If they were going to cop it this last trip he’d just as soon it was some Jerry got them and not another Lane.
‘Navigator to pilot,’ Piers’ voice said formally in his ears. ‘Would you please set course zero nine four degrees in two minutes, skipper.’
Jesus Christ, you’d sometimes think Piers’d never even met the skip.
‘Roger, nav.’
R-Robert was still climbing steadily through patches of cloud. Within half an hour they’d crossed the Lincolnshire coast at seventeen thousand feet and headed out over the North Sea on course for Denmark. Stew switched on the tiny masked light and took a quick look over his box of tricks again. All set to give the Berlin Jerries something to think about. ‘Do us a favour, drop one on Adolf for me,’ one of the fitters had shouted to him. Not much chance of that, he reckoned. The bastard probably hid down in some nice safe shelter underground, along with Goering and Goebbels and Ribbentrop – the whole bloody mob of them. It wouldn’t be them that got clobbered. He switched off the light.
The stars were shining away merrily overhead but there was a layer of solid cloud below, like a bloody great thick carpet. Looked like you could get out and walk right across it. The sky was a weird and wonderful place, no question.
‘Pilot to bomb aimer. Any sign of that cloud breaking up, Stew?’
‘Not a chink, skip.’
They’d forecast clear skies over the target, but the buggers had probably screwed up. If they got back in one piece he was going out to get blind drunk, soon as he’d had a kip. And after that, when he’d sobered up, he was going straight round to The Angel to find out what the fuck Honor was playing at. What the hell had gone wrong? For Christ’s sake, they’d been talking about her coming to Australia after the war. About making a go of that vineyard together. Getting flaming well married . . . married, for Chrissake! Him. Stew Brenner! But that’s what he wanted: Honor and the vineyard and a future.
He stared into the darkness. ‘Bomb aimer to pilot. Think I can see the cloud cover breaking up ahead, skip.’
‘Thanks, Stew.’
He went on watching.
‘Pilot to rear gunner. You OK, Charlie?’
‘Yes, thanks, skipper.’
‘Give your guns a try, will you?’
‘Roger, skipper.’
The Brownings were all ready, loaded and cocked. Charlie pressed the trigger and yellow flashes spurted from the muzzles with an ear-splitting clatter. The bullets curved away from him in a shining arc, disappearing into the dark. The smell of burning cordite fille
d the turret.
‘Rear gunner to pilot. All OK, skipper.’
‘Great. Pilot to mid-upper. Give yours a go, Bert, will you.’
He listened to Bert’s guns rattling. Everything working. That gave them a good chance.
‘Navigator to pilot. Would you turn onto one six two degrees, please.’
‘Roger, Piers. One six two.’
From the Danish coast they had flown east and by Piers’ dead reckoning they were on their turning point for the final long leg to Berlin. No night fighters yet and the only flak they’d seen had been flickering away in the far distance. It couldn’t last – he knew that. It was too good to be true. They would be over the target in forty-six minutes.
Forty-six minutes left to live, most probably. He wasn’t sure he cared all that much. Not since he’d read Peggy’s letter. Obviously she’d never loved him like she’d said. She couldn’t have done. None of the differences had mattered a jot to him, so why had she minded so much? Maybe Stew was right and she’d met somebody else and decided to give him the push. Maybe she’d had another boyfriend all the time, and that was why she hadn’t wanted them to get properly engaged. It was the only thing that made any sense. All his dreams shattered. The house, the four children, everything. Oh, Peggy . . .
‘Bomb aimer talking. Route markers going down to starboard, skip.’
‘OK, Stew.’
R-Robert swung towards the markers.
Piers clicked on his mike. ‘Navigator to pilot. As soon as you’re over them, skipper, would you turn onto one five zero for the target.’
‘Roger, nav. One five zero.’
Not long now. Funny how calm he felt. As though he really was past caring.
Lucky he’d picked up that wind velocity broadcast for Piers, Harry thought. Looked like they were dead on course. It wouldn’t do to wander off the route and run into a flak barrage. There’d be plenty of trouble over the target without going hunting for it. Twenty-two minutes to go. He’d got the jitters again, but never mind so long as nobody else knew. What worried him most, as usual, was Charlie on his own back there. Nothing to be done about it, though. Just hope they got through all right.
The Crew Page 31