Day (2 page)

‘Ha?'

High gauzes and drags of cloud, in where the blue was strong-est: he'd learned what that meant. ‘Cirrostratus . . . moisture . . . It freezes up there. Everything freezes up there.' Catching the idea before it pushed in any further and turned nasty. ‘There'll have been a storm somewhere. Earlier.' And he was glad that he hadn't heard it, that no one had, because he was very much soothed at the minute, but you never knew what might become a strain, what might become a trouble for somebody. People were unpredictable – eventually, being with them always showed you the same thing: there was nothing on which to rely. Anyone could splinter in your face.

Bit bloody miserable that, though: isn't it, our kid?

Which isn't like us. We're as happy as the bloody day is long.

Yes, but this bloody Day isn't bloody long. Five foot bloody four in my bloody socks, I thank you. That is short.

That is usefully short.

How Pluckrose always put it – ‘This is my friend and colleague, Sergeant Day, Alfred F. And, before you mention, he is not a stunted little bastard, he is
usefully short
. Couldn't fit him in the turret otherwise, could we?'

Pluckrose who was also a sergeant, although it didn't suit him – not that a commission would have suited any better – his face was simply incompatible with Air Council Instructions: it had the wrong atmosphere and superiors took it amiss. Added to which, he never could shut up. ‘Well, I didn't ask to come.' Peering over Alfred's head on the first day, beaming about at the hangar full of blue: men standing as if they could think to do nothing else: others searching as if they were late, as if they'd lost something, or had been forgotten: others not alone, beginning to be not alone. ‘Matter of fact, the King
asked me
. I got a written invitation – through intermediaries, that's just what you'd expect, but it should make a difference, you would think. Of course, I volunteered for
this
part. And not a soul's been civil to me since – except you.' He beamed down and Alfred could see no doubt in him, no unease, only this sense that he was being entertained. ‘Wouldn't have turned up, if I'd known. I mean, it's hardly been efficiently organised, thus far. More like a total fucking shambles.' And the amiability in his voice had made his swearing not a personal thing, or angry, more of a musical addition. ‘Truly. I mean, a man could catch his fucking death of cold here, for a start. And I suspect worse.'

Alfred, his words in a lump under his tongue, ashamed of themselves, but getting out a decent-sounding, ‘Yes.' He was keeping things short, sticking to the phrases he was safe with, the ones he'd cut away from Staffordshire, that could sound fully RAF.

He still practised in his head.

Yo bin and yo bay. Yo doe and yo day.

You are, or you have been and you aren't, or you haven't been. You do and you don't, or you didn't.

Everything getting longer when you started to say it that way – and harsh, too, the h's everywhere to trip you, having to hack out each one.

I bin.

I am. I was.

The way I was. The soft way I was.

His dad had always said, ‘Doe talk soft.' But he'd meant don't talk as if you're stupid, he'd meant Alfred was stupid. Now Alfred was talking hard.

Still, he didn't sound like Pluckrose, wouldn't want to – Pluckrose had come from another England. Pluckrose could have been on the wireless: a police inspector, maybe, a friend of Paul Temple, or a gentleman with missing papers who seeks the help of Sexton Blake. A gentleman with lots to say and currently engaged in listing his complaints.

‘Some of those big tins of jam, you know – they're from the Great War. Plum and apple jam, rejected from the trenches. That can't bode well.'

Alfred wasn't
going
to sound like Pluckrose, only like his altered self, his best guess at how a Sergeant Day would be.

For Alfred's other alterations there'd been drill, there was assistance, and he'd had taken to it all with a sort of delight: fitting his hands, winged into each other for standing at ease, getting the loop of the cocking toggle over the stud in one, checking the travel in the breech block, learning his movements, his new form – the man at the turret's centre, the heart of a gun.

And it had felt like choosing, like being free. Some mornings it lit in his breath: a permission to keep this fresh skin, to love the patterns and the habits of his airman's life. Now, though, it might be different, this was somewhere operational and serious, too busy for you to get help. Parts of him, like his speaking, they weren't quite right, they didn't work well and perhaps this was an indication of other more serious faults he hadn't found yet. He could see himself failing, washing out, disappeared up North to somewhere cold and pointless, erking away at potato peelings and latrines. And wouldn't that be a sort of cowardice: a fear you don't have to admit, because you just sneak yourself out of danger by making too many mistakes? And maybe you've hurt other people before that, because you were scared. That's what they always told you – panic and you'll damage valuable equipment, you'll waste us trained men.

Pluckrose was still talking, while glancing at the doorway, the ceiling, at Alfred and Alfred's forehead – which was frowning – and at the single wing above Alfred's breast pocket – AG embroidered at its root, the gunner's brevet, the sign of his qualification. The first test that Alfred ever passed. The first he'd ever taken.

Pluckrose winked. ‘Not out hunting for yourself, though? Under instructions? Go thou forth and gather up a crew?'

‘I found you for the skipper.' This a mumbled chain of Black Country noises –
I fownd yo fur the skippah
– but never mind, because here was the first time that he'd said it –
skipper
– and felt the sparking kick inside his chest, beneath the weight of that single wing. Alfred had a skipper, he was under instructions, he was all right. He was solid while the whole place was uneasy with confusions he couldn't fathom: restless men and the rattle of wind against loose metal somewhere and the lot of them left here after the pep talks to sort themselves out and knowing they'd have to manage, get this done right, because you couldn't end up with the spare bods and the runts, couldn't be forced into a crew with nothing but wazzock-looking baskets, the types who'd kill you.

He'd thought it very quickly, but very clear –
the types who'd kill you
– he'd allowed that, but it made no impact, perhaps because he'd hoped he was already a little lucky, being fixed up, crewed up, safe.

Lucky and almost showing a grin. He had his skipper.

He'd been able to tell Pluckrose, ‘So come on then. Skipper's waiting.'

But the skipper needs to be first. If you've got to go dragging it up again, then you have to start with him.

The skipper is the one who stood behind you and a touch to starboard, stood and waited for you to know it in all that crowd, to see if you had a sense of him, had instincts. When you turned he was solemn, arms folded, staring at you, the peak of his cap leaned forward so you caught no more than a glimmer from his inspection: he was keeping mum about it, but already seeming close to satisfied. ‘You married?' Not making fun of you with this, not intending disrespect, letting it seem that you were pals in a way and you'd had other times together and this was the end of an old conversation, the last thing to check.

He angled his head for an instant and then you could see his eyes, what you were certain must be proper pilot's eyes – you hadn't a clue about anything, but they really ought to be like this: their interest too far forward and an odd temperature at their back. Later, you'd see the same in other men and you would think of the skipper, whether you wanted to or not.

You realised he was waiting for an answer and you choked out, ‘No, sir. I'm not,' as if you were a boy, had never touched a woman.

And, then again, you weren't married and you had touched only yourself and then fretted about it and you were almost infin-itely younger than you thought.

Infinitely: a word you'd learn soon – once infinity started to drive up and breathe against you. Infinity is fond of wars, they give it a way to come in.

‘No, sir. I'm not.'

‘Decided I'd ask. Better to have all bachelors. Simpler. That's my plan.' And he takes off his cap and he reaches forward and, before you can intend this, you are bare-headed also and shaking his hand. There's the grumble and shout of so many others round you, nudges as men pass, and you drop the grip, but are together now. He examines your face and stops you moving and you watch something hard turn in the light, light grey of his look and you feel that he'll do what he has to, whatever that might be, and it seems he's caught this in you, too, and is content. You will both do everything required.

‘Position?' He's almost grinning.

‘I can take mid-upper, if I have to.'

‘But you'd rather not? Rather be out in the tail turret on your own.'

‘You get a nicer view.' And they kill you. You're the one they're most likely to kill – that's why it's been what you've wanted, from the very first time you heard. ‘I like a nice view.' From the very first time you heard.

‘Thought so.' Said in a way that had warmth about it, when that was nothing you required – you only needed to get what you wanted, were asking to get what you wanted. And he gave it. ‘I thought I had the right man.' And now he did grin. ‘I'm Peter Gibbs.' He rubbed at his hair, letting you see that its colour annoyed him when he thought of it. ‘Or Sandy. For obvious reasons.'

You had to raise your voice above a swell of noise and this had been known to make it unreliable, although at that moment you didn't care. ‘Day, Alfred.' Surprising yourself by saluting properly, absolutely the way they wanted, the way a well-disciplined dog might if it could. You stretched up into it, you added lustre to the service, you believed in the rank and believed in the man and believed in yourself, even yourself. After which you were embarrassed, naturally. Saluting with your cap off – how big a bloody fool could you be.

But the skipper was easy about it as you covered your head, felt a sweat – and he was grinning again: for you, not at you. An officer's accent, only not like an officer. ‘I do want a tight ship, Sergeant.' This something he's considered which he tells you to make it true. ‘But I don't think we'll have much time for ceremony.' His voice with a kindness in it that will take you and lead you to trust. ‘Picked you first, because you have to watch my back. You sing out and I'll fly us right up our own fundament if I have to. Make the attempt, anyway. Evasion will take place.' And then, in case you think he's a line-shooter, ‘But I'm a rotten pilot, actually. So this is your last chance to get away . . .'

You grin to him for an answer, then press on, ‘Well, if all else fails, like, you can just take us round in circles anti-clockwise and screw the bulbs out of their searchlights . . .' Which is a very old gag, but you need it to cover the pause, because neither of you can guess how this will be, but it's impossible to admit that, no future in it, and so you let one plan seem as likely as another, because all of them have to be at least half mad and both of you have to sound certain when you are not and you suspect that you may start laughing, shadow-boxing, singing ‘Jerusalem': you can't predict: anything to lead your mind astray, because you are actually here and beginning to be aircrew and in a war – yourself in the whole of a war – and because you are so alive, so infinitely, infinitely alive.

The skipper coughs, not complaining, but he would like to be in charge, thanks, and you enjoy quieting down for him, having him make you focus. You can focus – a good gunner concentrates.

‘Sergeant Day, I'm going to scout round for a bomb aimer. You get me a navigator, would you? Rendezvous by that fire bucket in ten minutes.'

‘Right you are, sir.'

You're almost off when he touches your arm, bends in to be level with you. ‘Look, I should suppose a gunner wants to shoot things, yes? Well, I rather hope I never let you get the chance. Unless you can aim with your head banging off the turret roof. I want to get us through and bomb. It's our job to bomb. If you won't like that you should tell me now.'

‘'Course. We have to bomb.' But a disagreement in you, the taste of how they've trained you and liking to hit your target, understanding how to put yourself into a kill: one thousand, one hundred and fifty rounds per minute – you know the hot, dark trick of that.

‘Sure? I mean arse-splitting turns will not be in it.'

You let go, though, because you have to: he's your skipper. ‘If there's a fighter in my way and getting too friendly, I'll fire at it. But I'll be singing out all the while.' You liked that
singing out
– the way he would put it. ‘Don't mind getting my head lamped when you dive – nothing valuable in there.'

‘When you say
go,
I go.'

‘When I say
go
, you go.'

But he'll get his wish: the bombing will always be the thing, what you're for, what Bomber Harris says you're for, the Big Boss. He says you're to be the boys who bring the whirlwind.

And you don't only obey the skipper, you
want
to obey him and that makes a wonderful difference. Even if in the end it amounts to precisely the same thing. Saying more than you'd expected, ‘We'll bomb. We'll bomb the bastards.' And you don't mither, don't flap, because you're comfortable with Pilot Officer Gibbs; you always will be. The skipper is safe and you know it. ‘Never mind me squirting tracer all over the shop – corkscrew us out of bother and we'll make it home.'