The Crew (41 page)

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 filled 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.

He wished he'd said something to Dorothy. Lost his nerve, hadn't he? He should have spoken out boldly when she was making the tea, before that other woman had arrived and gone on and on with her gossiping. Now he'd have to wait till there was another chance.

R-Robert had started rocking about – either somebody else's slipstream, or the flak had already started.

‘Bomb aimer to pilot. Target indicators going down to port, skip.'

‘OK, I see them, Stew. Thanks.'

Harry felt R-Robert alter course slightly to port as they headed for the indicators. Into the jaws of death, he thought. God help us.

Stew had never seen anything like it, and that was bloody saying something. Strewth, they must have every ack-ack gun in Germany down there, blasting away. The whole flaming sky was just that –
flaming.
Jesus, they'd never get through this lot. R-Robert didn't like it one bit either, plunging about all over the place, and you couldn't blame her when they were swatting bombers down like flies. He'd counted three in the past minute. Christ almighty,
another
one – a Lane spinning down slowly, both wings on fire, tail section breaking off as she went . . . 
Holy shit!

Yeah, but they were getting it back down there. Too right they were. The whole bloody city looked like it was burning. A whole bloody sea of fire and smoke and explosions. Flaming hell down there, too. Serve 'em right. He settled himself good and steady. He was going to make fucking sure this last lot were right on target.

‘Bomb doors open, skip.'

‘Bomb doors open.'

Eyes fixed on the sight, hand ready on the release tit, tracking the target indicators. The skip was keeping R-Robert straight and level, God knew how. Good on him.

‘Right . . . right . . . left, left a bit . . . steady . . . ste-ady . . .'

The TIs were smack on the intersection. Beaut!

‘Bombs gone, skip . . .'

Take that from me, Adolf and the rest of you bastards down there. And there's plenty more where it came from. Take that from all of us!

Charlie got a grandstand view of the city burning as the skipper took R-Robert away in a tight diving turn. Although he knew it would wreck his night vision, he
couldn't drag his eyes away from the leaping flames. They had a horrible fascination.

Don't think about the dead or the dying. Don't think about the old people or the kids down there. Think about London and Coventry and Liverpool and Southampton. Think about Hitler and the goose-stepping storm troopers. Think about what they want to do to the rest of the world.

They left the flak behind, and R-Robert went like the clappers, heading west across Germany. Charlie's eyes readjusted to the dark and he scanned the night skies for enemy fighters. If you didn't have the flak you had the fighters.

‘Pilot to rear gunner. Keep a sharp look-out.'

‘Roger, skipper.'

Up in the mid-turret, Bert was keeping his eyes skinned too, spinning his turret round. So far, so good, but it was still a bloody long way home.
I'll marry Emerald if we get back safe.

With a bit of luck we might make it, Harry thought. That was all they needed now. A little bit of luck.

‘Navigator to pilot. I'm rather worried about the wind strength. It keeps pushing us off course. I think I'll try a couple of shots.'

‘OK, I'll hold her level.'

Harry waited while Piers stood up in the astrodome to use the sextant. There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach now. Something was going to go wrong – just when they thought it was nearly over. Steady on,
he told himself. No cause for alarm. Piers'll put us right. You've got the jitters for nothing.

‘Pilot to nav. I can see flak ahead. Where do you reckon that is?'

‘That'll be Bremen, skipper.'

‘Right, I'll go south of it.'

Van altered course. Another hundred miles and they'd be over the coast with only the North Sea between them and England. Hallelujah!

‘
Fighter, fighter! Corkscrew starboard! Go!
'

As Charlie's voice shouted over the intercom, Van shoved R-Robert's nose hard down, foot jammed against the rudder. He could hear Charlie's guns firing crazily. When he came out of the dive they had fallen silent. ‘Pilot to rear gunner. Have we lost him?'

No answer.

‘Pilot to rear gunner. Any damage, Charlie?'

No answer. Jesus, not the kid.

‘Pilot to mid-upper. Any sign of that fighter still around?'

‘Can't see him, skip. I'm watching. Is Charlie OK?'

‘Go take a look will you, Harry?'

He clambered over the mainspar, cracking his head on the escape hatch in his frantic haste, squeezed past the mid-turret and Bert's feet, and stumbled on down the vibrating, roaring darkness of the fuselage, between the ammunition ducts, past the main door and over the Elsan to the rear turret doors. Yanked them open.

At first he thought Charlie was already dead. He could feel the blood warm and sticky on his hands as soon as he touched him and the lad didn't move or say a word. Then, when he groped desperately for his heart, he found it was still beating. ‘Wireless op to
skipper. Charlie's wounded. Unconscious. I'm not sure how bad. I'll have to move him. Get him out of here somehow.'

‘OK, Harry. Get him on the rest bed if you can.'

Just as well the boy was unconscious. He had to drag him out of the turret backwards. No choice. Just as well he was only a shrimp, too, or he'd never have been able to carry him all the way back down the length of the fuselage. He laid Charlie down gently on the bed and hurried back to fetch the first aid box from beside the crew door. Sam was hanging in his place there and, on impulse, he grabbed hold of him too.

He shone his torch on Charlie, fearful of what he would see. There was blood running down the lad's face and when he eased back his helmet he could see a wound above the left temple. Not deep, just a long gouge where a bullet must have clipped him. He'd been wounded in the left shoulder, though, and that looked bad. There was a lot of blood and a deep hole. A few inches lower and it would have got his heart. Harry tried to remember the first aid he'd learned. Staunch the wound, that's what he'd got to do first. Stop the bleeding. Bandage it tight. Keep him warm. Blankets . . . where were the blankets? Give him a shot of morphine if necessary to stop the pain.

He fumbled with the first aid box, tearing open dressings and bandages with shaking fingers. Hurry, for God's sake! He'd let Charlie bleed to death if he didn't get a move on.

‘Pilot to wireless op. How's he doing, Harry?'

‘I've got him on the rest bed, skip. He's still unconscious. Nasty wound in the left shoulder but I think I've stopped the bleeding.'

‘Well done. Think he'll be OK?'

‘I hope so.'

‘Take over in the rear turret, Harry, would you? Soon as you can. That fighter could still be around.'

‘Right-o, skipper.' He drew the blankets over the boy, tucking them in carefully, and checked his mask and oxygen supply. He'd done the very best he could for him. One more thing, though: he laid Sam beside him – for company.

He felt his way back to the rear turret and hauled himself in by the overhead handles, feet first, landing on the cushion Two-Ton-Tessie had given Charlie. It was a tight fit for someone of his size but he managed it, and he knew where everything was. Jack-of-all-trades, wasn't he? Sometimes it paid off. He swivelled the turret, aiming the Brownings up and down. If that bugger who'd got Charlie came back again he'd let him have it and no mistake.

Glory be, it was cold back here, with that open panel right in front of his face and the wind whistling in from the bullet holes. He didn't know how Charlie stuck it, but then in his heated suit it wouldn't feel quite as bad. He was only wearing his battledress, being so warm where he was himself in the kite. Hadn't thought to stop and put on his Irvin or his gloves in the rush. Lucky he was wearing his scarf. Too late now to go back for the gloves and jacket. Mustn't leave his post in case that Jerry turned up again. He looked hard into the darkness, concentrating. His night vision wasn't too good so he'd have to stay extra lively. He rotated the turret again, quartering the sky. There wasn't anything out there except the stars.

He saw the tracer before he saw the enemy night fighter. Bright beads of fire snaking towards him.
‘
Fighter! Fighter!
' He got the words out just before the bullets ripped into the tail plane, and he fired his own guns as they hit.

Bert's voice crackled urgently, ‘Mid-upper to rear turret. He's coming about port. Watch for him, Harry.'

He could see the 110 coming for them again, head on. Still too far away. Steady. Steady. Wait till he's in range. Get him in the sights. Go for the prop. The German and he fired together. The fighter's propeller disintegrated at the same time as its bullets tore at the rear turret, smashing Harry back against his seat.