Pastoral (17 page)

Sergeant Cobbett, lying in the bomb-aimer’s position, stared down at the sea. He had been on seven operations previously, and only one of those had been with Marshall. Before he joined up he had worked in a garage, washing motor-cars; he was still very young, developing into an intelligent and an efficient man through the responsibilities that he now had to bear. He knew this himself, and thought a little regretfully that it was a pity that it should all end now, in the black water he could see below. He could see from the run of the waves that the wind was westerly; that meant that if they should get out into the dinghy safely they would drift away from land. It was a pity; if things had gone on he might one day have been sent for training as a pilot, have been given a commission even, and become a man like Marshall in a few years’ time. That was what he had set his heart upon, and every night he prayed that the war might go on long enough for him to get a commission and become the captain of his own aircraft. Now it was all to end in the black sea. He was not resentful of the captain’s mistake that had landed them there; he respected Marshall too much for that. It was just a pity. He knew that there was a thirty per cent chance that they would be picked up before exposure and the bitter cold brought death to them; he knew that there was a seventy per cent chance that they wouldn’t. He lay staring down at the black sea through the triplex panel, ready to shout out at the first indication of land.

Corporal Leech lay in drugged stupor on the floor of the rear fuselage, his head pillowed on somebody’s parachute. Gunnar had done his work efficiently; Leech knew nothing of what was going on. Even when Phillips had to drag the dinghy pack across him, it hardly stirred his mind. When they went down into the water he would almost certainly be drowned within the fuselage; in the few moments that the escape hatch would be above water the remainder of the crew could hardly hope to get him out. He was unconscious now, wrapped in drugged slumber; in that slumber he would quietly meet his death.

Gunnar Franck sat at the wireless, painstaking, thorough, and methodical. He did not know the code groups; at each stage he had to consult the written information that he had found in the wireless operator’s satchel, and this made him very slow. He transmitted slowly, too; he could not manage to send accurately at more than about seven words a minute or
to receive at more than four or five. He did literally what he had been told to do, asked for emergency routine, reported their situation, and asked the stations to stand by for their last signal before they went down in the sea, in order that the rescue planes could search for them at dawn. He received the code confirmation that the written card had told him to expect, and then, surprisingly, the message went on pinging in his head-phones. His pencil moved mechanically on the pad; the message ended and he read the groups that he had written. They read: “Good luck to captain and crew.”

He was very pleased at the message; almost certainly it came from Pilsey. He must tell the captain, and plugged in his intercom. He said: “Navigator to Captain. Wireless emergency routine is in force, and they are standing by for our signal. They have sent us a message, Cap, from Hartley, I think. They say: ‘Good luck to captain and crew.’ I think that is ver’ nice to have.”

Marshall said quickly: “Are you sure that came from Hartley?”

“It was Group, Cap. They gave the identification.”

“Okay.” He raised his voice. “You all heard that, you chaps? Hartley says ‘Good luck to captain and crew.’ ”

He sat on at the controls, peering forward into the darkness and studying the faint lines on the sea below. He had become awake and cheerful; in that last half-hour he felt more himself than he had done for weeks. By all calculation they would be down very soon; those of them who were not killed at the impact with the water might get out into the dinghy to drift outwards from the land in the wet, freezing blackness of the sea. Many of his friends had gone that way; some had been picked up and returned to Hartley Magna in Oxfordshire, more had not. If that now had to happen to him, that was just too bad, but it had happened to better men than he. In the meantime the engines still ran, steady and even on the starboard side, like the lavatory cistern on the port. The sea beneath still seemed unreal and far away, as unreal as Mannheim.

His mind glowed at the message they had had from Group. A girl had sent that message; it was not in the words that a man would have used. And if it was a girl at Pilsey, it could only be one of two: either the operator had slipped it in upon her own, or else the W.A.A.F. officer in charge had sent it—Gervase Robertson. He was convinced as soon as he had heard
it that it was Gervase; she had sent the message to cheer them.

He said down the intercom: “Captain to flight engineer. Do you think that port engine’s doing us any good?”

“It’s helping us along, Cap.”

“I think it’s drinking half our bloody juice and doing no work. We’re only doing a hundred and eighty. We can do that on one engine. We’d be better off to stop the port altogether and go on the starboard, wouldn’t we? How much fuel is there left?”

Cobbett scrambled up to the fuel board and plugged in his intercom there. “Gauges say about twenty-five gallons. Cap.”

“Well, that’s the thick end of half an hour for one engine. Stop the port engine—switch it off and let it stop. Then I’m going to throttle back the starboard until we’re doing a hundred and thirty. Navigator, give me a new course at speed hundred and thirty.”

The port engine died and came to rest; the note of the starboard engine dropped slowly as Marshall eased the throttle back. A new sensation as of silence broke upon them; their ears were so attuned to the roar that the lessened level of the noise came as quiet to them. When they spoke now the intercom, set at the previous volume, seemed to bellow in their ears.

Gunnar said: “New course is 279.” He came through to the cockpit and set it on the verge ring himself.

“Where does that bring us over land?”

“Just north of Spurn Head, Cap.”

“Okay. Get through to Group and ask for another fix to check up.” He paused, and then said: “Captain to crew. If we get over land we’ll bale out, so be ready for that because we haven’t got much height. Rear-gunner, got your dinghy ready?”

“All ready, Cap.”

“Well, now clip on Leech’s parachute and tie that cod-line to the ring. If we bale out, we’ll drop him out first.” They would make the line fast at the machine before they dropped him; as he fell away the line would pull the ring and the parachute would open as he fell. Unconscious and inert he would land heavily, but it was the best that they could do for him if it came to baling out.

They flew on in the darkness, peering forward and down. Their slow speed now seemed to mock them; it needed intellect and mental effort to appreciate that they would get a
few more miles by creeping along like this. Cobbett lay on the floor and peered down through the bomb-aimer’s hatch. Gunnar Franck moved rapidly between the navigator’s table and the wireless. Phillips worked over Leech, and pulled and lifted him nearer to the escape-hatch.

Marshall sat on in the cockpit, quiet and resigned. If now they went into the drink it was too bad; he had done everything possible. Gervase had sent him a message; that meant she was still interested. He knew it was a very tiny thing, but after the trouble of the last few weeks it came to him as balm, as a little faint voice whispering that things would be all right. Immediately it had reacted on his work; he had started to take an interest in R for Robert once again, and had shut off the damaged engine.

At 12.52 Gunnar got a third fix, plotted it, and pondered for a moment. It showed them to be about fourteen miles from land. He said: “E.T.A. the coast seven minutes, Cap.”

“Okay. What’s the petrol looking like?” But the needle of the gauge was jumping at the zero stop, and might have been two gallons or ten.

They sat tense and motionless as the minutes crept by. Each of them had found his own position from which to watch the sea: Cobbett through the triplex of the bomb-aimer’s window, Gunnar from the starboard window of the cockpit, Phillips from a cellon panel under the rear fuselage. Each strained his eyes down to the black, ruffled sea below them; each had his ears tuned to the beat of the engines, ready at the first falter to get up and stand by for their captain’s orders.

Cobbett said: “Flight engineer to Captain. Breakers, Cap—on a beach. We’re coming over land.”

Marshall peered down into the darkness. “Okay—I see. Navigator—put on our navigation lights. What’s the gauge showing?”

Gunnar switched on the wing-tip and tail lights and turned to the fuel board; Cobbett got up and stood beside him. The needle stood steady and uncompromising at zero, without even a flicker. “All fuel gauges zero, Cap.”

They were over land, anyway. Marshall said: “Okay. Bring Leech along here to the hatch, and drop him out, quick as you can. Everybody stand by to bale out.”

He pulled the nose of the machine up a little, hoping to gain more height for their jump. Beside him there was heaving and struggling as they pulled the heavy, unconscious body of the
wireless operator to the hatch, and a sharp blast of cold air as the floor hatch opened.

Suddenly Marshall said: “Hold everything!” He leaned over and grabbed Gunnar by the shoulder, and pointed forward. Before them stretched the dim, twin lines of light that showed a runway, barely three miles ahead. “What’s that?”

The Dane said: “There is here a station, Whitsand. That must be Whitsand.”

They stood fixed for a minute, staring ahead at the lights, listening to the engine. “Okay,” said Marshall. “We can make it now.” He paused for an instant, and then said: “Shut that hatch, Cobbett.”

The flight engineer stooped to the open hatch to close it. Something unusual in the blackness of the space beneath them drew his attention; he stooped to the cold rush of air and jumped back in horror. He thrust his plug into the intercom. “Climb, Cap,” he said urgently. “There’s another kite exactly underneath us!”

Marshall looked quickly down through his side window, but could see nothing. Gunnar shouldered Cobbett back and knelt down at the hatch. “Lancaster, Cap,” he said, “about a hundred feet below, on the same course, going in to land. Better go round again.”

Marshall thought quickly. They had no fuel to go round again; to try that could only mean disaster. Better to put his trust in the captain of the Lancaster to land according to the book, and to hope that the far end of the runway was soft. He said: “Okay, Gunnar. Put out navigation lights, Cobbett. Gunnar, stay at the hatch and tell me how we go. I’m going to land over him, and chance it.”

Cobbett screwed himself round to the instrument board and put out the lights. Marshall said: “Gunnar, tell me how we go. I want to keep fifty feet above him, and land in front of him.”

With a dry mouth the Dane said: “Okay, Cap. He is now going ahead of us, and sixty or seventy feet below. You should now see his wing from your window.” And then urgently: “He has throttled; he is falling away below us now.”

“Okay,” said Marshall quietly. “I see him.”

He throttled back the one engine that was running and sank after the Lancaster towards the landing lights. “Cobbett!” he said urgently. “Quarter flaps down.”

He sat motionless at the controls, his face turned to the open window at his side, watching the Lancaster intently. If the big
machine ahead became aware of them and took fright, and put on power to go round again, Marshall was ready to slip quickly out to starboard, away from its probable turn. If it went on to make a normal landing they would be all right, provided that the captain of the Lancaster kept his head.

For a moment he considered landing in the black, unknown terrain beside the runway. It would probably be quite all right provided that the ground was hard, but on a strange aerodrome in April would the ground be hard? He felt that of the dangers that lay round about them he preferred the danger of collision with the Lancaster upon the ground.

He said: “Sergeant Phillips. Get back to the turret and plug in the intercom. I’m landing ahead of this Lane. When we’re down on the runway, tell me how we go, so that I can keep ahead of it, in case it butts us up the arse.”

He heard the sergeant laugh, and say: “Okay, Cap.”

They were very low now, and the lights were near. The pilot ordered half flap; they sank down with the Lancaster towards the ground at something over a hundred miles an hour in the dim blackness of the night. There was a faint glow upon the wing-tip of the Lancaster reflecting the red navigation light that showed Marshall the machine below him; that faint red glow, and the dim yellow lights that marked the runway, were the only clues to safety and disaster that the pilot had.

Gunnar had moved to the bomb-aimer’s window. He said: “Cap, he is down.”

“Okay,” said Marshall. He drawled the word out absently.

His hand moved on the throttle; the note of the one engine rose in a slow burst and slowly died again. They levelled and swept over the big machine as it ran down the runway and sank down ahead of it. Marshall said: “Navigation lights now, Cobbett—quick. Rear-gunner—how do we go?”

Phillips said: “Well ahead of him.” The wheels touched on the ground; the machine bounced, sank, and touched again. Marshall steadied her on the dim lights still ahead of them as they ran on tail-up. Phillips said suddenly: “Keep going, Cap—he’s closing up on us.”

Marshall moved his hand upon the throttle very slightly; they ran on tail-up. The dim lights flashed past them one by one; they were very near the end of the runway. Without more ado he closed the throttle firmly; if the Lane ran this far they would all pile up into the hedge together. The tail sank to the ground and the last light loomed up to them; he pulled the
wheel hard back and pressed the brakes on to the utmost that he dared. The drums squealed, the tail bounced light upon the ground, and the Wellington ran on past the last light, down a little hill, and on to grass. Sergeant Cobbett switched off the engine and turned off the petrol; they ran on, slowly now, until the port wing hit a post and felled it, slewing them round to port with a tangle of telephone wires across the fuselage. So R for Robert came to rest, somewhere in England, after bombing Mannheim.