The Lost Flying Boat

by Alan Silltoe

  I was uneasy about not being able to send. Every operator likes a bit of tap-chat with passing ships or planes, or with shore stations.

  ‘I’ll tell you when it’s necessary. If you send, and somebody gets a bearing on us, it could put us in peril. You understand, Adcock?’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Take my word for it. There may be some rum types roaming around the area we’re going to. You never can tell. So no sending. We want to spend our hard earned money on Pleasure Island, not Devil’s Island, don’t we?’

  I agreed that we did.

  ‘You’re our ears, our intelligence section. So listen, and keep your hands off that key. With you bloody operators it’s like playing with yourself, but resist it. Everything you hear is important. Whatever little squeak comes into your ken, I want to know about it.’

  The assignment was peculiar, yet such orders had more excitement than orthodox instructions. I was about to ask for how long they would apply, when he said: ‘I assume that I have your absolute trust, Adcock?’

  The question might have been tainted with insult to a certified and experienced wireless officer, young though I might be in comparison to the rest of the crew. If I had known myself to be untrustworthy, would I have given him an answer? Yet who could be certain until a crisis proved it one way or the other? I felt the same query going through him. He seemed burdened by such anxiety that, though it was automatic that he have my loyalty, it was far from guaranteed that he had my confidence. Yet anxiety seemed his normal condition, and because I did not want it to increase, I shook his hand when he stood up. The flesh was like that of a lizard, where it had previously been warm and moist. I supposed he had been through the same procedure with the others.

  Shaking hands is often a competition to see who can crush most fingers. I’ve never liked the practice. There are those who assume that afterwards they won’t see you again, and maim your fingers to give you something to remember them by. Others, who have already been caught out, slide their hand immediately away. Or they dread touching either man or woman, fearing strangers as much as they distrust themselves. There’s no sincerity in it.

  Hand-shaking is a language whose messages are peculiar to the moment, and Bennett indicated by his that he wanted to rely on me. Yet how could he expect such loyalty when he would not say why it was needed? If I knew what was in his mind I might have been sincere in my agreement to do more than the duty I was paid for. The text of my returned handshake must have been understood, however. He tapped the photo-triptych of his family, maybe by accident, so that I wondered if he had indicated it to the others on their separate briefings. I nodded, my hand on the doorknob.

  ‘I’m going to need your loyalty above that of everyone else, Adcock. I hope you understand.’

  There’s a mock-solemn, patronizing quality about those who continually speak your name when talking to you. I don’t like it. They look upon you as a child, and have an unjustified feeling of their own significance. Yet Bennett seemed less of the type. Whether his hands trembled from too much drink (the bottle was again half empty) or from sleeplessness, or from fear of something he would rather die than tell, I couldn’t say. It seemed an act of mercy rather than friendship to affirm, before opening the door: ‘I’ll do all I can.’

  Such candour, while helpful to him, got me nowhere. My curiosity was at its highest, but if I wanted to satisfy it I would have to wait till such time as I, and maybe the rest of us, became a victim to whatever was intent on destroying him – because when, in an aircraft flying at eighteen thousand feet above the ocean, the captain discovers himself beset by enemies from within or without, then surely those foes – whoever and whatever they might be – become equally dedicated to the destruction of everyone else who has the misfortune to be on board with him. Bennett wanted to be the master of his own destiny, but I questioned the validity of this desire to involve me in any way.

  A dream-serial played while I slept off the food and drink. A flying boat was hundreds of miles out, with but two of its four engines working. Instead of a normal aircraft interior there were the domestic furnishings of an ordinary house. There was no fuel left, and the flying boat came down on a rough sea and began to disintegrate. Waves spun and splashed with malevolence over the windscreen. When the perspex panels fell away I woke from the horrors.

  Nash banged from next door: ‘You all right, Sparks?’

  16

  Rose sat in the smoking room, reading a copy of Flight Magazine, legs straight out as if ‘don’t disturb’ was printed on the soles of both shoes. The high leather armchair in the shade of the aspidistra hid most of his body, and he was so engrossed in whatever piece of technical exposé had taken his fancy that I could hardly believe he was alive. He seemed in a state of repose that would be impossible to disturb, as if blessed with a power of automatic detachment that had been with him since childhood; and because the devastation of the scar was turned away from me, I saw him as if before his accident. Just as a person who has lost an arm eventually finds more strength than he originally had in the two together, so perhaps the livid corrugation of bone and flesh had in some compensatory way beautified the side I looked at and made it more perfect than if the other part had never been injured. Yet the boyishness that would stay even if he lived to be a hundred was only marred by a painful sensitivity which made his head too big for his body.

  I had decided to tackle him about the real nature of our trip in the hope that his replies would at least indicate the direction in which any further questions ought to point. As chief mate, he was not exactly matey; but if he told me to vanish or get dive-bombed I would leave him alone.

  A navigator, like others of the aerial fraternity, was jealous of his guild-secrets even when they were obsolescent, or sufficiently simplified that they could be passed on without revelation. I felt the same about my own trade. Questioned by an outsider, I would tell nothing because, unless to save life, my time would be wasted. Those who asked from friendliness might learn that I sat at a table sending and receiving messages in morse code; but that was all.

  The roles of aircrew sometimes overlapped, but the fundamental part of each skill could not be passed on. If such details were handed over it was only to give the illusion that we were capable of sharing secrets, which built up our comradeship for the day when, as crew members, we would care for each other and the plane. If Rose was party to any secret with Bennett as to the true purpose of our expedition, would he be able to unshackle these principles sufficiently to tell me something?

  There was no saying, but private communication between one crew member and the next would be impossible once we were airborne. To hugger-mugger in hole or corner would stink of conspiracy. Cool and intelligible words must go via the intercom, and any others must be kept healthily suppressed. Working as an eighth part of the common voice, a good crew has no use for secrecy.

  I had very much wanted to believe in the neat package of a single task for one and all, as I looked at the flying boat the previous evening, seeing it as a refuge that I had spent a lifetime looking for, floating on the placid water like a white mansion under the moon, four engines in their sturdy cowlings, wings stretching as if they might grow to span the whole town, and the steeply sloping hull which, if it weren’t for the wings, would be a galleon waiting for its pirate crew.

  The flying boat showed only its registration sign, and I wondered what true colours it would be under when on the move, what flash should decorate its tailplane. Probably a constellation of blue stars on a white background, Ursa Major, or the buckle of Orion’s Belt, or the seven visible stars of the Pleiades. Each crew member could no doubt stamp his individual badge on the Aldebaran according to how he defined the pattern of his own life.

  The pennant would have been harmless, even humorous, because trust bound us together when we played cards and drank in the bar or lounge of the hotel, analysing endlessly some bombing operation over Europe during the war. In the space of a few days we had
time to observe all mannerisms, assess each other’s virtues, weigh up generosities and catch flickers of deviousness or diffidence with which we would have to live come what may. Our bodies and mortal souls depended on each man’s inner emblem, and there was no way of knowing what they portended because all were buried under the common denominator of crew-like characteristics. We were to earn our money, and afterwards flee to the eight points of the compass. As long as we didn’t talk about the purpose of the journey, we were content.

  But there was little else that I wanted to discuss, and on wondering how I could open the matter with Rose I felt strongly that the journey had little interest for him. When he and the others had been told to bomb Hamburg or Frankfurt or Essen, they asked no questions. So it was now. At take-off they would get their fingers out and do their stuff. Compared to the war it was a piece of cake. In view of which, it did not matter that, once airborne, there would be no possibility of private conversation. Being a prisoner of my own small private life, I was a perfect specimen for the job I had stumbled into by my senseless whistling of morse code in a London pub.

  I sat opposite Rose. ‘There’s something I want to ask.’

  He didn’t look up. His arm squeaked along the leather from the pressure of turning the page. ‘What about?’

  ‘A simple question.’

  He flipped another page, and cigarette ash fell onto the worn carpet. ‘One of the cheapest planes you can buy today is an Auster. I flew one once. A strong wind almost pushed me backwards.’

  I fetched an ashtray from the table laden with old magazines. ‘What’s that star called at the top left-hand corner of the Square of Pegasus?’

  ‘Alpheratz. Why?’

  ‘The word came to me in a dream. I knew it was the name of a star, but couldn’t place it till I looked it up.’

  He put the magazine on his knee. ‘Why Alpheratz?’

  ‘Because that’s what all eight of us are: Alpha Rats – stuck in the front line, and numbered for this stunt of Bennett’s that none of us knows anything about. What are we going to pick up at the Kerguelen Islands? I think you know.’

  He hadn’t navigated for two years but, after giving up his tramp around the country, had a desk job with Little Island Air Lines, until bankruptcy was fended off by amalgamation – and his own redundancy. A navigator has to work every day, otherwise he might lose his way through sight-reduction tables and relinquish that sixth sense by which, on long flights over the sea, he looks at the waves and knows his drift almost by instinct. Bennett must have pondered the issue, but he was God in his flying boat, and all was right in Heaven, so who could tell what he thought?

  ‘There are nearly five thousand stars in the heavens,’ Rose said, ‘which are visible to the naked eye, so why choose Alpheratz?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘Alpheratz chose me – and the rest of us.’

  ‘Not a very bright star,’ he observed. ‘You’re not a particularly bright Sparks, either, if you ask me.’

  ‘Nash thought it bright enough. We laughed about it last night over a couple of bottles of Alphen Red. He said this trip was a matter of life and death eight times over, and that even if we did find the island, and I suppose we actually might, with a shit-hot navigator like you, the sea’s likely to be so jumped-up there’ll be no hope of landing without getting the whole rig smashed. And if we do land, we might never find whatever it is. And even if we do, who knows whether we’ll be able to refuel, especially if, in the time it’s taken to find what we’re looking for, the weather worsens as it’s likely to do in those latitudes. Because you know as well as I do, Rose, that forecasting is non-existent, as are navigational facilities, and the scarcity of radio stations is positively bloody horrifying. Now I don’t mind all this. It’s insane, I know, but I signed up for a taste of adventure so I’m prepared to have a go and do my bit at the wireless. But I would like to know what I’m risking my neck for.’

  I tried to sound amiable, but he went nonchalantly back to his reading as if I were a rat that had eaten its way out of his Dalton computer with a bit of topographical map in its mouth. I stood so as to see the devastated side of his face, and made sure he knew it. If I had stayed immobile there would have been no bust up. Silence and stillness were good for both, the way things were going. But the contemptuous way he ignored me, and allowed his fingers to search blindly for the top right corner of the magazine before turning the page, enraged me. He was a better actor than a navigator, unless he really had forgotten my existence.

  I snatched the magazine and threw it towards the door: ‘Listen, Scarface, I asked a question. Either answer, or give a fair reason why you can’t.’

  The good part of his face turned white. I had gone too far, but because of his contempt he couldn’t say so. He stood, and picked up the magazine: ‘Last night I dreamed I was pissing blood, but it was sheer happiness compared to dealing with a bod like you. What we’re going to Kerguelen for is no concern of yours. We’re looking for harbours that future cruise ships will be able to anchor in with a fair degree of safety. That’s all I know, and all I want to know. What do you imagine we’re looking for, for Pete’s sake? If we hadn’t had to wait so long you wouldn’t suspect anything. Look up your callsigns, get familiar with the frequencies, or calculate a few skip distances – or whatever you do these days. I suppose this South African wine’s too potent for a head like yours. Can’t take the stuff myself. As for my scar, I don’t suppose I can object to you using it as an identifying mark, but be careful you don’t attach a moral stigma to it. That would be unjust, and injustice is something that might make me lose my temper.’

  I regretted letting go of mine. He lifted the magazine, then lowered it: ‘You know how I got this scar? It was no accident. Somebody tried to kill me because he thought I’d betrayed him. I used to think more of the world than I do now.’

  He held out his hand, and I was glad to accept that he knew nothing I didn’t know. Too cowardly to tackle the pilot, I had gone for the navigator, and discovered he was better than I thought.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose.’

  He was back behind his magazine.

  But as I walked down the stairs I still wasn’t satisfied. I never was, and never would be. Only the final death-shave, that I wouldn’t wake up to know about, would cure me. Rose had brought up the concept of morality with regard to his disfigurement, and I wished he hadn’t because from then on the word gripped me and wouldn’t let go.

  17

  With a dozen of beer on the table, and two of Voortrekker’s Gin from which the corks were lost as soon as extracted, Nash opted for the Lancaster because of its range and bomb load. Except for the absence of a belly-gun, there wasn’t much to gripe about by way of armament. A. V. Roe did a good job when they turned up with the Lanc, a kite that generally got through, and often came back. You had to say that for it.

  Wilcox, in spite of his coughing, shouted him to a standstill. Too many had exploded in mid-air, or piled up on the runway after seven or eight poor buggers had slogged six hundred miles to get back. Inside the plane you sweated blood crawling over the bomb bays from one part to another. He filled his glass, foaming the table. His cough was no trouble while he drank a pint.

  Discussing the best plane of the war was like talking about the merits of Milltown United as against those of Weathersfield Wednesday, but I placed my bet on the Spitfire. Without the Spit there’d have been no Lancaster. We would have been beaten into the ground. To see a Spit doing aerobatics was something never forgotten. The sight was like recalling a good dream.

  ‘Good dreams are few and far between,’ Appleyard said.

  ‘Especially wet ones,’ said Bull.

  ‘The sky was its background,’ I went on. ‘Man and machine were wedded to each other, the highest achievement of technique and art! What more could you want?’

  ‘Bloody hellfire!’ Rose exclaimed.

  ‘Schoolboy crap.’ Nash went on to say that I should get some in. He was in Baghdad befor
e I was in my Dad’s bag. All the old laughter clattered out.

  ‘Butcher Harris should be living at this hour,’ Rose said.

  Bennett looked from around the corner of the L-shaped room: ‘He is, and not far from here, either.’

  ‘Let’s drink to him, then.’ Nash held up his mug of gin: ‘Here’s to the best bloody leader anybody ever had.’ There were grumbles from his gunners, who were too drunk to say anything sensible. Wilcox came out in favour of the Sunderland, which beat the U-boats. ‘Britain would have starved to death without it.’

  Bull called that he should tell that to the navy.

  ‘Apart from which’ – Wilcox’s coughing sounded as if his chest was full of inmates trying to get out of a jail that had caught fire – ‘the Sunderland was the most beautiful flying boat that ever was, and a treat to work on, as everybody knows. There was space, and two of each for the crew.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Nash.

  ‘The lovely old bag was big enough to live in.’ Wilcox said he would make a house out of one, fly to another place when he got browned-off, which would be pretty often, you can bet.

  Appleyard staggered out to be sick, and by the time he came back the laughs had turned to jeers at Wilcox’s idea. The black waiter brought a dozen more bottles. Armatage denied the supremacy of the Lancaster, and gave his vote to the Spitfire. There were tears on his cheeks – or was it because his spilt beer had ricocheted from the table? The good old Spitfire saved the best country in the world from the iron heel of Germany. It bloody had – say what you like. If they hadn’t kicked the living shit out of the Messerschmitts at the Battle of Britain, where would we have been today, mate, eh?