The Crew (42 page)

Bert's guns were blasting away. ‘Mid-upper to skipper. We got 'im! We bloody well sodding got 'im! Got 'is bloody prop. The bastard's going down.'

‘Well done, Bert. Well done, Harry. Keep watching. There could be more of them. You OK, Harry?'

Harry fumbled with his mike switch. ‘OK, skipper.'

Must have been hit somewhere, though nothing was hurting. No sense in saying anything. Making a fuss. It wasn't much. Couldn't be, as it didn't hurt. He could get it seen to when they got back. And he could still keep a look-out – enough to warn them anyway. Keep watching. Keep watching. He listened to them talking as R-Robert flew on. He tried to sit up more so he could see better but couldn't seem to manage that. Just have to do the best he could. He heard Stew sighting the Dutch coast and then they were out over the North Sea. Not so much likelihood of a Jerry catching them now. They'd got a chance of making it. A good chance. Not too long, if only he could hang on. He was very cold, though, with all the air coming in. It was a bit like sitting in a sieve out on an
icefloe in the Arctic. And there was a nasty taste in his mouth.

‘Pilot to rear turret. OK back there, Harry?'

It took him an age to press the switch this time. His hands looked like two dead fish and his fingers refused to do what he wanted. Like when he'd tried to fire that Very pistol in the lifeboat. No Piers to help him this time. ‘OK . . . skipper.' He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It was no good, he couldn't keep a proper watch any more . . . ought to tell the skipper, but he'd never manage the mike switch again. He couldn't speak but he could still listen. When Piers picked up the G-signals from England it meant they were on the final straight. He listened to the strong, even pulse of the Merlins taking them home.

He knew now what the foul taste was – blood – and his mouth was full of it. He could feel it trickling out from under his mask and running down his neck all over Dorothy's scarf. Not that it really mattered, because the blood meant he was a goner. No point in pretending to himself, but he'd like to last till they got back so he knew the others had made it safely and that Charlie was all right. He opened his eyes and looked at the stars. Charlie'd always said how they kept him company and he could understand it now. He went on watching them. Crossing the English coast now. Soon be home. Just as well because he didn't think he'd be able to last much longer. It was hurting now. Hurting a lot. He didn't know how he was going to stand it.
Jesus
 . . .

He could feel the Lane sinking lower and lower. The skipper was bringing R-Robert down so they'd be almost there. She was coming in nice and steady and he heard the heavy
clunk
as her wheels locked down
into place. They were going straight in – the skipper would have warned Control about Charlie so they'd have priority. They'd be ready down there with an ambulance.

The rear turret skimmed over the boundary lights. He watched the flarepath unrolling in a blur and felt the tail wheel beneath him touch down at the same time as the other two. A greaser! Well done, skipper. That was the way to finish. In style. Thirty ops. They'd made it.
They'd bloody well made it.

‘Pilot to crew. Thanks for everything, you guys.'

He heard them answer in turn.

‘Och, you're welcome.'

‘Good on you, skip.'

‘Thanks most awfully.'

‘Ta, skip.'

And then Charlie's voice – a bit weak but OK. ‘Thanks, skipper.'

He'd like to have said something to them all, too.
You've been bloody marvellous, the lot of you. God bless.
But he couldn't speak. Not to worry. Main thing was, Charlie'd be all right now. Soon as R-Robert stopped they'd have the door open and get him out on a stretcher. He'd be in hospital in a jiffy and they'd look after him. He'd be all right. He shut his eyes again. He didn't think they'd be able to do much for himself. Not to worry about that either. Rita wouldn't care tuppence and Paulette wouldn't miss what she'd never known. I wish I'd told Dorothy how I felt though, he thought. Too late now. But perhaps it's just as well.

Nineteen

‘
SOMEONE TO SEE
you, Charlie.'

He turned his head to see Mum coming down the ward. He could tell she was worried stiff, in spite of the smile.

‘Charlie . . .'

‘I'm all right, Mum. Honest. It's nothing to fuss about.'

‘They said you'd been wounded—'

‘It's only the shoulder, and they took the bullet out. I'm fine.'

‘What about your head?'

‘That's nothing. Just a scratch.'

She sank down on the chair beside the bed and managed another smile. ‘Thank God. Were any of the others hurt?'

‘Harry was.'

‘Oh, poor Harry.' She looked round the ward. ‘Is he in here too?'

‘He's dead, Mum.'

She looked shocked. Went white as anything. ‘
Charlie!
Oh, no! What happened?'

‘He got me out of the turret after I was wounded, and took my place, then the Jerry fighter went and copped him. I'd've been the one to get it otherwise.'

There were tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Poor Harry. Oh, Charlie!
Charlie
 . . .'

He swallowed hard. Wiped his own eyes quickly. ‘Yes, I know. Anyhow, he shot the Jerry down, or Bert did. They're not sure which one of them did it. Mum . . . did Harry ever say anything to you?'

‘What about?'

Maybe he should tell her, but then what good would that do? Nothing could come of it now, and it might upset her more. ‘Oh, never mind.' Instead, he pulled Sam out from his hiding place under the pillow. Blood-stained and battle-scarred Sam. The other blokes in the ward had been giving him a real leg-pull about having a teddy bear.

‘Could you take him back with you?'

She looked at Sam, and then up at him. Her eyes were shining with tears. ‘I'll give him a wash, shall I, Charlie? And a bit of a mend.'

‘I'm so very sorry about Harry, Van.'

‘We're pretty sorry ourselves.'

‘He was a nice man.'

‘Yep. One of the very best.'

Keep it off-hand. Mustn't show how cut up you were. He'd learned that, if nothing else, in the past months. Dashed bad form, as Piers would say.

‘Congratulations on finishing your tour.'

‘Well, we were one of the lucky ones in the end . . . except for Harry.'

‘And on your DFC.'

‘How did you hear about that?'

‘News travels fast in a place like this. I heard Piers has one too.'

‘Can't get anywhere without a good navigator and that's a fact. Stew gets the DFM, did you hear that? I've kept on at them since we had that hang-up.'

‘He deserves it.'

‘Sure does. And they're giving the same to Harry. Pity he won't he around to collect it himself.'

‘I know . . .'

‘They should
all
have got gongs. The whole damn crew.
Every
crew.'

‘I know.'

They were standing outside the ops block in a wind like a razor's edge.

‘Look, Catherine, can we go somewhere inside and talk a minute?'

‘I'm on duty in five minutes.'

‘That's all it'll take.'

In the corridor, people kept pushing past, staring. He took no notice. ‘You were right about Peter,' he said. ‘I'm sorry I was such a jerk.'

She looked up at him. ‘I was going to tell you, Van. I've had a letter from his mother. Peter tried to escape – made a dash for it over the wire. The guards shot him dead.'

‘Hell . . . I'd no idea. That's bad.'

‘It's what I was always afraid of: that he'd go and do something crazy like that.'

More people went past. He could see them nudging each other.

‘I guess I've been even more of a jerk than I thought.'

‘No, you haven't, Van. You didn't know Peter. I did. And I never wrote that letter, thank God. I would have blamed myself for ever if I had.' She looked at her watch. ‘I've got to go now.'

‘When will I see you?'

‘I don't know. You'll be posted, won't you?'

‘I've got two weeks leave. Then the US Air Force
want me to switch over to them. I'll be converting onto B17s or 24s.'

‘A change of uniform as well.'

‘Yep, I'm getting the Yank one in London.' He touched his RAF wings on his chest. ‘I get to keep these, though, and wear them. They mean a hell of a lot to me.'

‘And your DFC?'

He nodded. ‘That, too. So they say. What I want to know, though, is what happens to
us
?'

‘I'm not quite sure.'

‘Supposing we start over?'

‘You mean back to square one? Like snakes and ladders?'

‘Snakes and ladders?'

‘Don't you have it in America? It's a board game, played with dice. You go up ladders and come down snakes. Sometimes you have to go back and start again at the first square.'

‘I guess that's pretty much what I meant.'

She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Assistant Section Officer Herbert, Women's Auxiliary Air Force. Delighted to meet you.'

He took her hand in his. ‘They're moving me up a notch. First Lieutenant VanOlden, United States Eighth Army Air Force. How about dinner tonight?'

Bert was clearing out his locker and whistling while he worked. Blimey, the rubbish there was in there! Sweet papers, empty cans of orange juice, squashed fag packs, old magazines, half a bar of mouldy chocolate, part-chewed wads of gum, a crumpled pin-up of Rita Hayworth lying about in straw with her jumper sliding off one shoulder . . . He studied it for a
moment with reverent approval – she was a smasher all right – and then stuffed it into his kit-bag. He'd take her with him. He groped some more in the locker and found a pair of women's knickers and a brassière right at the back. Emerald's. He held them gingerly aloft, at arm's length. To think he'd carried those around with him in his pockets. Must have been off his bloomin' trolley.

One of the new crew came into the hut. All sprogs, just starting out, and this one was the rear gunner – only a nipper, like Charlie. Turned bright red when he saw the undies. He'll see worse sights than that before he's finished, Bert thought. He tossed them into the rubbish bin and went on whistling. He felt like a man reprieved from the gallows. Saved at the eleventh hour. It'd all been a false alarm – just like Stew had said. All right, I'll marry you if you want, Emerald, he'd told her, like he'd sworn to do if he got back safe. Ready to sacrifice his whole life. Do the right thing. Thanks very much, she'd snapped back, but you needn't trouble yourself now. And furthermore I wouldn't marry you if you was the last man on earth. He'd almost hugged her, he was so relieved. Couldn't help grinning, just to think of it.

What with that and getting the Jerry fighter – well, he was sure it'd been him, not Harry who'd got the bugger –
and
finishing the tour, well, everything'd come up roses after all.

His grin faded. No roses for Harry, though. He didn't feel quite so chuffed when he thought about that. He'd been a good bloke. Poor old Harry. Sticking to his post like that. Must've been in agony, yet he'd never said a bloomin' word. First they'd known was when he didn't come out after they'd landed and got
Charlie away in the ambulance. And when they'd gone and found him it was too late. The skipper'd got to him first. Been holding his hand when he'd gone. Could've been Harry who'd nabbed the Jerry – he'd got to admit that. They'd never know.

The sprog kid was watching him the way they always did. He'd been just the same himself at the start, wondering what it was like, wanting to ask the old hands, thinking they knew all the answers. He was shit-scared, this one, all right. White face, goggle eyes, gulping. Bert started whistling again, ever so carefree. Thirty ops. Piece of cake. The locker was empty. He picked up his bulging kit-bag, swung it over his shoulder and tucked Victor in his shoe box under one arm. The sprog was still watching. He gave him a cheery thumbs-up. ‘Good luck, mate. You'll be all right. Nothin' to it.' Sez me, he thought, as he left the hut. What a bloody joke!

‘Jolly decent of you to give us a lift, old boy. Frightfully sporting.'

‘Don't mention it, Stew.'

He didn't mind Stew taking the mickey. In fact, he was going to miss him doing it. He was going to miss them all. And Harry – well, that was the worst of it. The rest of them might meet up, with luck, but without Harry it wouldn't be the same. Six, not seven. Not a full crew. Not the same.

Bert and Jock and Stew shoved their kit into the Wolseley's boot. They looked strangely clean and tidy in their best blue, shoes polished, faces shaved, hair well brushed. It reminded Piers of the end of term at boarding school, with everyone going home, passed by Matron.

They'd gone and said goodbye to Charlie in hospital and to Van who was getting his transfer to the American Air Force sorted out. Shaken hands all round, promised to keep in touch and have regular reunions. He wondered if they really would. Whether any of them would even survive the rest of the war.

They'd said goodbye to Harry, too. The station had given him a jolly good send-off – all properly done with flowers and a rifle salute over the grave. The five of them had stood together: Van, Jock, Stew, Bert, and himself. And he, for one, had had the most awful lump in his throat. He thought the others had been pretty cut-up, too, though, of course, they hadn't shown it. Harry's parents had been there and Charlie's mother had come in his place, which seemed right. No sign of the ex-wife or daughter, though.