Storm at Sunset

by Hall, Ian

  Would an insight into the political background help the family? Dusty sensed that embarking on such an explanation could go one way or another – might be very helpful or, on the other hand, be entirely inappropriate in the circumstances.

  He sighed, uncertain. And gazed again at the endless scenery that drifted past his small side-window. Desperately slowly, it seemed. But perhaps that was all right, for he was none too sure that he wished to hasten this meeting. Dusty wondered again as he turned back to his navigational charts, consoling himself with the thought that the right words would probably come when the moment demanded.

  Bert Edwards, level-headed as always, had no clear idea of what the immediate future would hold but was relaxed about the long term. Having little doubt that he’d find a sensible way ahead before too long, he contentedly passed the long transit hours working his way through a pile of books he’d accumulated.

  On the other hand Arthur Brownlow woke from a fitful doze and wiped away an uncomfortable sweat from his forehead. He’d been in that truck again, little Chota standing motionless at the front as the scramble to get off had gone on around him. He knew close to nothing of Chota’s family. They’d been mates out there – of a kind. But it had never been the sort of friendship that had led to more intimate discussions. Brownlow knew that they’d been like ships in the night, briefly wondering whether that was strange on his part. He concluded that there were many graduations of friendship … but even so?

  Partly as a way of redirecting the unsatisfactory train of thought, he heaved himself up and set to with making a brew. As he watched the kettle coming to the boil his mind turned to Joy, waiting for him at home by the fireside. One of the things he’d never mentioned to her in his letters was the Bekasi massacre, and especially not his part in its aftermath. Like many of the men who were there at the time he had consigned the incident – whether deliberately or involuntarily – to somewhere deep in his subconscious. He’d been unable to erase it though, and its ghosts would periodically emerge at night.

  Arthur would awake perspiring after dreaming of digging out those black, mutilated corpses, and he knew that at some point he might need to explain to someone the gremlins that were disturbing his sleep. He was wary of frightening his young wife, but if his nightmares continued she would be bound to notice and to question him. There would be no need to tell her all the details, he reasoned to himself, but it would nevertheless be a relief to be able to share some of his burden with a loved one.

  None of his fellows would ever forget the horror of what had been done to their friends and comrades. Nor would most understand or fully forgive the wanton cruelty. In some ways Brownlow was lucky in that he’d not be alone – he’d have somebody with whom he expected to be able to share his grief. At least he thought he would. It was nightmares, after all, which were troubling him, and in some ways they were better consigned to the night than dragged out into the daylight and dissected in conversation. Maybe, after all, he would become one of those who, for years afterwards and for whatever reason, would feel unable to talk about the terrible event.

  Others amongst the crew were alone with their thoughts too. Nobby Clark was, for the thousandth time, wondering what the hell he’d find to do once he was demobilised. “Twenty-two years old and with no training in anything except bomb aiming,” he mused to himself. “What sort of education for life is that?”

  For once Freddie was quiet, too. He was daydreaming about the home he would soon set up with Nelli. Whether it would be in England or in Holland had yet to be decided. It would depend upon where the jobs were. Maybe at some stage he and his wife would even move back to the East Indies or another part of the Far East once things had settled down out there. After all, they both loved the area, and Nelli had a lot of history there. Her father’s health and intentions would also have a part to play in their decision.

  But that was all for the future. The first thing was to meet her again, and they’d take it from there. Not long now, he thought, a smile flitting across his features. He wouldn’t be alone for much longer.

  He nearly added, grinning to himself, “with only a monkey for company!” But that complication had gone away long ago. And, as he acknowledged to himself, it was a very good job that things had worked out that way. For now he simply couldn’t imagine what Nelli’s reaction would have been if she’d greeted him on arrival to find she was to share him with a monkey called Adolf. All’s well, he told himself, that ends well.

  CHAPTER 32

  Malta came and went. Ordinarily, they’d have made a point of paying the night-spots a visit – not least the parts famous over the years for relieving countless thousands of sailors and airmen of their frustrations and hard-earned cash. A month earlier, some of the crew might well have been tempted to spend a little of their own money there, too. But this was December, and the evening was cold and wet. It was dark when they arrived and would be dark when they left the next morning. In any case, they were almost in sight of home now, and their priorities lay elsewhere. So they contented themselves with a couple of beers in the mess before turning in for the night.

  The same spirit pervaded their landing in the south of France. Pausing for a brief stop at the military base at Istres, they had an early night before setting off on their long last leg. Keeping the Alps and the eastern border of France on their right-hand side, they crawled up the Rhône Valley. The weather, which had started brightly, began to close in as they headed north, and approaching the English Channel they began to think about making contact with their destination airfield.

  Freddie scribbled intently as he copied the faint transmission from RAF Lyneham. After what seemed like an age he pulled the phones from his head, leaning forward to pass the pad to the captain.

  “Filthy weather, skipper, and they’re saying that GCA approaches are in force.”

  The captain studied the scribbled notes. “GCA? What the hell’s that all about?”

  “Blowed if I know.” This from the co-pilot.

  “It’s a ground-controlled approach, I think,” offered the nav. “I have some sort of hazy recollection of hearing it mentioned in training. The system was still on test at the time, but I seem to remember that there are a couple of controllers looking at radar displays which point up the approach path. They’ll steer you on to the centre-line and glide path, and talk you down until you get the runway in sight.”

  There were grumbles of doubt all round. “I don’t know about that,” muttered Ken. “Without a proper understanding of the kit, I’m not sure I like the sound of it.”

  Murmurs of assent.

  “Rubbish,” countered Freddie. “It’s all coming back to me now, too. What it comes down to is that you just fly the kite on instruments as accurately as you can, and do exactly what the controller says. You can’t go wrong. In any case, with the weather being so bloody awful, do we have any alternative?”

  The skipper looked doubtful. “If there’s one thing I can cope with, it’s weather. Given what we’ve lived through out east I can hardly believe that the skies of little old Blighty can offer anything worse.”

  “Yeah – but the difference is that there are probably rules and regulations around here. None of your letting down on dead reckoning into a valley and crawling in visually. Come on, you’re supposed to be some sort of ace, aren’t you? Get on with it. We want to go home!”

  “Well, it might be more sensible to see whether there are any airfields open with better weather. Lyneham’s quite high above sea level, after all; it’s maybe poking up into the clag. I don’t suppose it really matters where we leave the kite – just as long as there’s a nearby railway station where we can catch our connections.”

  The captain had been thinking aloud, but Dusty Binns came back to him immediately. “I bet if we dump it at the wrong place they’ll make us wait with it overnight and ferry it onwards to Lyneham tomorrow when the weather’s blown through. I’d rather get on my way tonight.”

  Freddie came ba
ck in. “They said in the weather report that this bad stuff is very widespread. There are no airfields usable south of the Mersey, and I don’t think we’ve got the fuel to get that far.”

  The pressure was mounting. This wasn’t how the skipper had imagined it. This could be his last Dak trip. He should have been floating down gently into the setting sun. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He felt the crew’s opinion hardening inexorably, and he shifted to a more upright position in his seat. GCA, whatever that was? Of course he could do it!

  “Okay, guys, let’s give it a shot. Get us a steer for the turn-in point.”

  A muffled cheer sounded from the back as the men got down to their various pre-landing tasks, and soon the tinny tones of the talk-down controller came crackling across the airwaves.

  “I’m lining you up for a GCA approach to Lyneham runway two-five. The cloud is ten tenths at 100ft, with a visibility of half a mile in heavy rain. The surface wind is south-south-westerly at fifteen knots, gusting twemty-five. Turn left now onto two-four-five degrees to pick up the centreline.”

  “Hey skip – monsoon weather!”

  Ken merely grunted as he concentrated on the job in hand. He was an excellent pilot, but this serious instrument flying after what had been a long and tiring trip was not exactly what he needed. The more so with the pressure he was feeling to get his men home. He brushed the back of his gloved hand across his forehead, and adjusted the trim wheel as the aircraft bucked in the turbulence of the winter weather system.

  “You’re drifting a little right now, come left two-three-five degrees to correct to the centreline. Two miles to the top of the glide path.”

  The skipper made the correction, and called for the wheels and flaps to be lowered. With the weather difficult and the approach unfamiliar, he’d resolved to cut out one of the variables by flying all the way in from five miles at a constant speed, and now he wound the trim wheel steadily backwards as the airspeed died away to eighty knots. A new voice spoke on the radio as the glide path controller came on the air.

  “Start your descent now for a three-degree glide path. Recommended rate of descent four hindred and fifty feet per minute.”

  Ken adjusted the flight path, cursing the needle of his rate of climb and descent indicator as it refused to settle in the turbulence. He had both hands on the yoke, struggling to put the aircraft into the attitude he wanted it. “Give me twenty-fifty RPM, Bernie.”

  The co-pilot adjusted the throttles for him; at least the speed was staying roughly where they wanted it.

  “On the centreline again, turn right two-four zero to maintain.” The azimuth controller’s calm voice continued.

  The captain wrestled the aircraft the required couple of degrees to the right. At least he got it onto the approximate heading, for the compass was dancing wildly in the turbulent air. Despite the winter weather, he was sweating.

  “Two miles from touchdown and you should be passing six hundred feet.”

  “Dammit.” They were fifty feet high, and Ken shoved the nose down, frantically pulling power off to keep the speed under control.

  “You appear to be drifting left now, but you’re reaching the limit of my radar cover. Look ahead for the lights and land.”

  Nothing. Cold grey cloud. It was no good – they’d have to go around and set up for another attempt. He called for power to be applied …

  “Over there, skip … to the right.”

  They were a hundred yards off the centreline.

  The lights disappeared as the ragged cloud-base lowered once more. Then swam back into vision through the teeming rain.

  Ken chopped the power and rammed the Dak earthwards. There was no question of getting onto the runway, but what the hell? A tarmac runway had been a luxury for them anyway for the best part of three years. The airfield’s open grass ahead looked – as far as he could see through the curtain of water – a better landing surface than most of those he’d operated on across the sub-continent and the Far East. He applied all the remaining concentration he could muster to the flare, and amazingly there was no more than a faint hiss of wet grass as he made one of his greasiest ever touch-downs. The aircraft’s squashy undercarriage splashed across the ground and came to a halt. Limp and drained by his effort and concentration, the skipper slumped back into his seat. Dusty squeezed him gently on the shoulder; each could clearly hear the breathing of the other crewmembers. They were on home soil.

  A fresh squall had hit the airfield and now the English rain was lashing down on the aircraft’s tin fuselage in renewed volume. Visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile.

  Through the din the radio receiver crackled into life again. “Where are you? Have you made a missed approach?”

  “Negative, GCA. We’ve landed.”

  “Roger, call local control.”

  The WOp switched frequency. “Lyneham Tower, this is ...”

  “Well done sir … I don’t know how you did it in this weather. We can hardly see anything out of the window. Where exactly are you?”

  Bernie chuckled, the tension going out of him. “Just as well they can’t see us I should think!”

  The skipper thought quickly. There was obviously no need to declare their present predicament. The tyre marks on the grass wouldn’t be discovered until tomorrow, by which time they’d be hundreds of miles away, all in different directions. Probably have left the RAF by then, too! He inched the Dak round to the right and gunned the throttles. The runway appeared out of the murk and he bumped over the tarmac lip and straightened up the aircraft.

  “We’re about two-thirds down the runway. Taxi instructions, please.”

  “Proceed to the end, turn right and park on the hard-standing beside the first hangar on your left. We’ll phone for a marshaller to meet you.”

  ****

  They parked the aircraft and shut the engines down, taking a few minutes to enjoy a brief interlude of what seemed like a deafening silence. The skipper’s mind strayed to the makeshift base at Kemajoran where, by now, there would be no 31 Squadron people left. And, momentarily, he spared a thought for the new Thirty-One, which would be gearing up in north-west India ready to do duty over what he knew would be a difficult period.

  The mist and low cloud swirled around, soaking everything. Not at all like the hot wetness of a tropical monsoon, and the biting winter cold penetrated right to their bones. Eventually the heaviest of the rain eased and a thin shaft of sunshine crept across the apron towards them. The sound of English birdsong broke the silence, intermittently permeating their consciousness. They gathered their bits and pieces, scrabbling around in their baggage for something warm to wrap around themselves. They moved towards the door, each clapping Ken on the shoulder. For the umpteenth time he had got them there safely.

  One by one they climbed down the rickety steps, clumsily encumbered by their motley collection of kitbags and parcels of souvenirs wrapped in brown paper and string. But the unavoidable impression when their heap of belongings was complete in the back of the waiting lorry was how modest was the pathetic little pile. Years of military life reduced to a small, untidy bundle of packages and kitbags. They had landed in what they imagined to be a thriving, peacetime, post-war Britain carrying their few worldly goods in rucksacks. Their shivers were not merely in response to the cold. They were shivers of trepidation. For the first time it came home to them that they felt something like foreigners in their own country.

  The truck drew up at the line hut and they trooped off to sign in the aircraft.

  “Evening, sergeant, we’ve brought you ‘S for Sugar’ from Batavia. Where d’you want her papers?”

  The smart young sergeant behind the counter didn’t look up. He was engrossed in some vital administrative task of his own, and they couldn’t help but note the razor-sharp creases in his immaculately pressed blue uniform. Sheepishly they looked around at each other – almost embarrassed to note the sallow complexions and tattered khaki outfits.

  Eventually, t
he shuffling and coughing from the group brought a response from the man. He put down his pen and looked up.

  “Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

  “‘S for Sugar’ – parked over there on the hard-standing. From Batavia.”

  “Where’s that when it’s at home?”

  “Batavia. Soon to be Jakarta. It’s in Java. RAPWI work across Indonesia. All finished now.”

  “Never heard of it. RAPWI? Doesn’t ring a bell. Java sounds like fun in the sun anyway; it’s all right for some!”

  Ken’s cold expression stopped him for a moment.

  “No matter for now, anyway. I’ve got a lot of admin to get through this afternoon. Just throw the papers over there on that pile and we’ll get down to them later.”

  “Repatriation of prisoners of war and internees, for your interest and enlightenment, sergeant. And don’t you want a debrief on the condition of the aircraft? As we’re handing it over to you I was rather hoping that you’d at least give me a signature for it.”

  “Sorry, warrant officer, we don’t do that. We get hundreds of Daks through here. Far more than we need. Yours will be shoved over to the other side of the airfield into the boneyard – the dump – pending disposal. Either back to the Yanks at some stage if it’s any good, or broken up for spares. The latter more likely. Now, is there any more I can do for you?”

  “Yes, sergeant, there is.” The skipper was struggling to contain himself. “We’ll need a gharry to station headquarters to organise our de-mob and onward travel.”

  “Gharry? Sorry?”

  “Transport, sergeant. A vehicle of some sort.”

  “Ah! Yes we can do that. And warrant officer, do you mind if I offer you a word of advice?”

  “Offer away.”

  “You and your crew will not go down well in the state you’re in with the people in station headquarters. Your uniforms aren’t acceptable here, either in pattern or condition. And I really don’t like to mention this, but you all smell as though you could do with a damned good bath. The staff in the general office are sticklers for appearance. They don’t take kindly to airmen playing the old soldier and presenting themselves as though they’ve been on active service. The war’s been over for a long time now, and they like their Lyneham people to give a good impression of the peacetime Royal Air Force when they’re out and about. The SNCO over there is bound to tear you off a hell of a strip if you don’t make an effort to smarten yourselves up.”