The Crew (11 page)

He thought about Carrie, and he hadn't thought about her for quite a while, which was a big change. After the accident he'd thought about nothing else. Accident? That was the official verdict, but he'd always blame himself. To the end of his days. If he'd been going slower, not showing off, not had his arm round her, been paying attention . . . if, if, if.
If only.
People
said they were the two saddest words in the English language and they were damned right.

He lit another cigarette from the end of the last one. Charlie had gone off to take another leak – the kid got real nervous before an op – and Harry was cleaning out his pipe as though his life depended on it. Stew seemed to have gone to sleep, but he knew darned well he hadn't. They were all wide awake. Waiting.

He lay back again and went on watching the sky. High above his head a flock of small dark birds headed home for the night; he could hear the faint whirring of their wings. Another, bigger bird flapped over on a solo flight. The pink was deepening to crimson, the light beginning to go fast. He shut his eyes for a while and then opened them quickly when he heard the sound of a van coming along the dispersal track. Scrubbed again? Or on? Either way it was a gut wrencher.

It was on.

They scrambled to their feet, butting the cigarettes, and had the all-together-now ritual leak on D-Dog's tail wheel before they climbed back in, each touching Sam as he passed. Van eased himself into the cockpit seat and fastened his Sutton harness.

‘OK, Jock. Let's go.'

The four Merlins fired up again. More checks, then Jock gave the thumbs-up to the ground crew for the chocks to be pulled away. D-Dog trundled out of dispersal. Van gunned the outer starboard engine to turn her onto the perimeter track and gave the outer port a quick burst to straighten her up. You were meant to taxi at a walking pace but it was hard to judge so high up off the ground, and Lanes, like spirited
horses, could try to run away with you. He kept his hand on the brake lever in case D-Dog got any ideas. He liked the feel of her. All aircraft had their own little foibles and gremlins but D-Dog seemed to have less than most. She'd be good company for the long haul across the North Sea to Emden.

They wound their way round the peri track to the start of the main runway where he and Jock went through the final list of checks in sequence while waiting their turn in line. Harry was standing in the astrodome, ready to watch for their green light from the control caravan. He'd be able to see the lamp as well, but two pairs of eyes were better than one.

He held the control wheel with his left hand, right hand free for the throttles, and felt the rudder pedals with the balls of his feet.
Off we go into the wide blue yonder
 . . . well not blue any more, but the idea was the same. And boy, the Lane would go down that runway like a bat out of hell. The poor old Wimpey had always lumbered, but the Lane flew along, tail up, engines roaring like lions. He chewed on a piece of gum, waiting. The aircraft ahead of them was on its take-off run. Any moment now it would be them. He watched the bomber's dark silhouette rise slowly into the air and then saw it suddenly flop back. It veered off the concrete, tore crazily across the grass like a runaway loco and on into a field of crops where it ground-looped and burst spectacularly into flames.
Je-sus Christ.

Fire trucks and blood wagons were racing towards the crash site when Harry spoke flatly from the astrodome.

‘We've got a green, skipper. We're away.'

He'd seen the signal, too, and hardly believed it.
No pause. Press on regardless. Step over the corpses. On with the war. He took D-Dog out onto the runway and lined her up, throttles to zero boost, bouncing her gently against the brakes.

‘Pilot to crew. Taking off.'

Brakes released with a great hiss, engines howling, D-Dog surged forward. The small group of people by the control tower were waving hard – harder than ever. As soon as he could, Van got the tail off the ground so it was easier to keep her straight. Jock's arm was pressed firmly against his arm, his hand ready to take over the throttles. He kicked the rudder to straighten a slight swing to port.

‘Full power, Jock.'

‘Full power, skipper.'

Timed to the split second, Jock's hand slid beneath his onto the throttles so he could take the control column in both his own, ready to haul her off. They were eating up the runway real fast, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the crimson pyre of fire flash past. He brought the wheel back gently. Sweat was forming under his helmet and mask.
Come on, D-Dog. Don't screw us too. Get up. Get up. Fuel, bombs, incendiaries, ammunition, men . . . the whole damn massive load. Be a good Dog and get us up, for pity's sake.
He pulled back harder on the wheel and they soared into the evening sky.

‘Undercart up, please, Jock.'

‘Undercart up, skipper.'

His voice and Jock's had sounded completely normal, as though nothing whatever had happened. He swung the control wheel left and looked down the long length of the port wing to the conflagration in the corn field below. Fuel and incendiary bombs were
blazing away merrily, flames leaping high into the air. Except for Piers behind his curtain, they could all see it clearly: Jock beside him, Harry in the astrodome, Stew in the front turret, Bert in the mid-upper and Charlie at the rear, with the best view of all. But as they climbed on up and up above the burning bomber, nobody spoke a word.

Dorothy saw the fire from the cottage windows and ran outside into the front garden. She could hear the fierce crackling of the flames and the sound of ammunition exploding. And smell the smell of burning flesh.

The old man came down the road early in the morning. He was wheeling a lady's bike that looked as old as himself – a big black rusty thing with a large wicker basket strapped onto the handlebars. He leaned it against the post of the front gate. ‘Needs a bit of a clean and some oil, but I thought your lad might see to that for you.'

If he's still alive
, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. She couldn't speak her anguish aloud. All night she had lain awake, certain that it would be Charlie's plane that had crashed. Hideous images of him trapped in the rear turret and being burned alive had come before her eyes, however much she had tried to stop them. She could see him struggling, hear him screaming, see the flames devouring him . . . At dawn she had gone out into the front garden again. The flames were gone and it was quiet, but she could still smell the dreadful smell.

Charlie had once told her that he'd asked the station padre to come and see her if anything
happened to him. If he got taken prisoner, or anything, he'd said casually, but she'd known what he really meant. She'd get a letter, too, he'd added, but that might not be until later.

When nobody had come to the cottage first thing, she'd allowed herself to hope just a little. No news was good news. Until somebody came to tell her that Charlie was dead, he was alive. If nobody came at all then everything was all right.

The old man pointed to a sack in the basket. ‘Brought a few seed potatoes for you. An' some peas an' broad beans . . . I'd plenty spare from mine, so you're more'n welcome to 'em.'

She managed to speak quite ordinarily. ‘It's ever so kind of you. Thank you, Mr . . .?'

‘Stonor's the name. Ben Stonor. Bit of trouble they had at the drome last night.'

‘Yes—'

‘One of the Lancasters took off an' came down again with a big bump, so it seems. Poor lads. Canadians, they were.'

‘
Canadians? All
of them?'

‘That's right, Mrs Banks. All Canadians. So it wasn't your boy's aeroplane, that's for sure. You can rest easy.'

‘How do you know, Mr Stonor?'

‘Oh, the village hears everythin'. We know what's goin' on. Why, Mrs Dane at the shop, she even knows what they're bombin'. It's Essen tonight, she'll say, or Bremen, or some such, an' she's always right. Don't know how, but she always is.' He touched his cap and went on his way, walking down the road towards the farm.

The world was normal again – everything going on
as before. The sun was shining and it was going to be a beautiful day. She was sorry about the Canadians but Charlie was alive.
Alive!

Dorothy wheeled the old bike through the gate and round the back, where she leaned it against the shed door. Later on, when she'd finished work, she'd give it a clean-up and maybe Charlie could get a spot of oil for the chain and the wheels. She took Mr Stonor's sack out of the basket and noticed a paper bag underneath. Inside she found six brown eggs that he'd left for her as well.

Six

HOWEVER HELLISHLY CONFUSING
it might seem from the air when you were trying to find your way around, Van acknowledged that on the ground, and in full summer, the English countryside was glorious. Pennsylvania was a pretty good-looking state, but he'd never seen anything to match this. It was partly the sheer
oldness
of it all, he reckoned – history that had been going on for a heck of a long time. Old brick and stone, thatch and tile. Ancient churches embedded in the landscape, bridges that had spanned rivers for hundreds of years, winding lanes trodden by generations of people. Fields and woods and hedges that went back to the Domesday Book. It didn't hurt either that, for once, the sun was shining.

He'd appreciated Piers' invitation to spend some of his leave at his home in Northamptonshire. On other leaves he'd gone to London, hit the theatres and the clubs and the restaurants and had a pretty good time, but staying with an English family in an English home would be a new experience.

Piers drove through yet another village. They passed an old man sitting on a bench who looked as though he'd been there since the Flood. More cottages, with front gardens like flower shows. The village pump by the village green. Another Norman church, mossy tombstones leaning at drunken
angles in the shade of a gnarled yew tree.

It was obvious that Piers came from a well-off family, but, even so, Van wasn't prepared for the mansion that lay at the end of the long driveway. Piers brought the car to a halt outside the front door. He looked embarrassed. ‘I ought to tell you that my parents have got a title . . . just so's you know.' He sounded as though it was something to be ashamed of.

‘What do I call them?'

‘Well, my father's Sir William . . . and my mother's Lady Wentworth-Young. Actually, you needn't call them anything at all, if you don't want to.'

In real life, Lady Wentworth-Young was every bit as daunting as in her photograph. He watched Piers take off his cap and peck her cheek respectfully.

‘This is Pilot Officer Lewis VanOlden, Mama. Captain of our crew.'

As he shook her hand, her eyes assessed him rapidly; he saw relief in their chilly depths. That he didn't appear to be a total savage? Some hick Yank come to pollute the ancestral home? An unsavoury influence on her well-brought-up son?

The house was what he called olde-English-beautiful: panelled walls, oriental rugs, antique furniture, classy portraits, fine porcelain and flowers and gilt-framed mirrors to reflect it all. There was no shiny newness. No vulgar glitter. No ostentation. And not much affection either, he thought, observing the parents with Piers. If he was a beloved son, you'd sure never have guessed it.

Dinner was served at a table that could have seated twenty. Sir William barked at him from one end and his wife addressed him graciously from the other. Piers' older sister was home on leave from the WRNS
and sat opposite, inspecting him critically during the soup course. What the hell
was
the soup, anyway? Lukewarm, thin as water and almost colourless, it gave him no clues.

The conversation limped on.

‘You come from Philadelphia, I understand, Mr VanOlden?'

‘That's right, Lady Wentworth-Young.'

‘One of your oldest cities, of course. Have your family lived there long?'

‘My great-grandparents settled there. From Holland.'

He guessed it would have been better if he could have added a couple or so more ‘greats'. Better still if they'd come from England . . . preferably on the Mayflower. Lady Wentworth-Young didn't know it but she'd be right at home in Philly where blue blood was all, where old money and old families reigned supreme and everyone else stayed outside the pale.

‘Well, your chaps have joined in at long last.' Sir William dabbed at his moustache with his napkin. ‘We could have done with a hand sooner, but better late than never.'

‘We'll try to make up for it, sir,' he said. ‘Now that we're here.' He might have pointed out that he himself had given a hand sooner.

The daughter spoke up. ‘We had some American Navy personnel with us for a bit recently. Rather different from our lot. Nothing like the same discipline. Pretty casual, actually . . .'

She spoke in exactly the same clipped way as her mother and she had the same ice-blue eyes. A chip off both old blocks, Pamela. How come they'd managed to produce a nice guy like Piers?

‘I guess what really counts is whether they can cut it.'

‘Cut it?' She looked at him blankly.

‘Do the job.'

‘Oh . . . Well, I suppose we'll have to wait and see.'

After the unknown soup there was some kind offish, equally tasteless. An elderly woman in a white apron plodded about, offering dishes of soggy cabbage and gluey mashed potatoes. Sure, the rationing was tough, but he wondered what they did, or didn't do, to food that screwed it up so much. Mostly it was over-cooking, he reckoned. Vegetables boiled to pap, liver fried to leather, fish steamed to flannel.

After dinner, to his relief, Piers took him off to play billiards. The only problem he had there was winning too easily so he had to make some dumb shots on purpose to even things up. Pamela came to watch them, draped sideways in a chair, smoking a cigarette in a long ebony holder and showing off a lot of black silk-stockinged leg. He could tell that he'd passed the test and that she was interested. Only he wasn't. Not the least bit.