‘Because then when we walk away, and leave them to starve, I won’t feel so bad about it.’ That hadn’t occurred to me either.
I hitched a lift on a beautiful silver Skyways Lancastrian. She can’t have been far off brand new. The name on her schnozzle was Sky Path, and she bore the registration G-AHBU. Her crew called her Abu, as if she was a friendly Arab, and talked about her with immense pride. I liked that. She’d arrived with foodstuffs and was going back with a load of evacuees. Did the Reds know that we were secretly reducing West Berlin’s population on the quiet and relieving the pressure on the Airlift? They flew with a pilot, a second, an engineer and a nav, and a W/Op like me. I spent the flight standing behind the pilot, exactly where I’d stood in our Lanc sometimes during the war. I liked that too. That was interesting.
Sky Path was directed to a remote hard standing on Lübeck Airfield where there was a motor coach waiting for the DPs. The poor buggers had just a cardboard suitcase each; the kids had school satchels. The sum of their worldly possessions.
The large red thing squatting on the dispersal next door was Dorothy. Her paint was already worn and peeling, showing aluminium skin beneath, and she leaned significantly to port because she had a flat main wheel tyre. In fact it was in shreds, so the wheel was probably buggered as well. Bollocks. I must have said it out loud, because the Skyways pilot looked back at me with pity, and asked, ‘Yours, old boy?’ He was a moustachioed Aussie, and the old boy was as close to an insult as he could get it. His second pilot smiled, and looked away.
‘Yes; unfortunately. Sorry.’
‘It’s a heap of junk. Get rid of it.’
‘Thanks. Why?’
‘Tell yer later in the bar if yer like?’
‘OK. If I see you.’
His name was Mickey and he was demob happy; so were his crew. Skyways generally flew out of Wunstorf. They were only at Lübeck for a crew change. By tomorrow they’d be strolling down Regent Street looking for a bar and some off-duty shop girls, at the beginning of a seven-day furlough.
I couldn’t find any of my people, so it looked as if Dorothy was laid up again. A busy French Letter in Flying Control told me that the RAF was providing a new wheel and tyre for her, but they couldn’t be fitted until the next day.
‘What about my Dakota? It will be here in about three hours expecting to collect some cargo from the York: there won’t be any.’
‘Don’t panic, old son, I’ve linked it up to a 47 Squadron Hastings. It can feed from that when they’re synchronized. When they’re not, it can just pick up from the coal yard. We’ve built up a pretty hefty stock now, and the DPs are bagging and loading it for us. OK?’
He was better at this game than I was. I said, ‘Sorry, I was away for a week. Things change all the time over here.’
‘Know what you mean, old son. Anything else I can do for you?’
‘No. Thanks. I’ll grab some char, and see if I can find my people.’
‘I think they’ve gone off station: a crazy little American and an older guy with bad hands.’
It was an unmistakable description, wasn’t it? They’d got themselves more organized at Lübeck. There were Messes for service personnel, and separate facilities for civvies like me. I found the Skyways people trying to start a party. I asked their skipper, ‘What was the problem with the York you wanted to tell me about?’
‘Design flaw. She’s got a Lancaster’s flying surfaces, right? Modified, but essentially the same wing and tail feathers as a Lanc.’
‘Right.’
‘Only they’ve moved the wing up to the top of the fuselage to accommodate passengers or cargo . . . it was never meant to be there. The Lanc, and my Lancastrian, is a mid-winged job, the way they were supposed to be. The York is a high-winged job.’
‘OK, so?’
‘Same wing but different C of Gs. That wing and spar were never intended to take the load a York puts on them at landing. Whenever a York full of cargo sits down too fast she tries to break her back. Go and look up the AIBs . . . there are Yorks in bits all over Germany. We got rid of ours. I should do the same if I was you, old fellow.’
The AIBs were the Accident Inspector’s Bulletins. They usually hung on boards in the ready rooms or at briefing. What had the Old Man told me about Dorothy months ago? She’s proved to be a bit of a disaster. You could say that again. Maybe Yorks were proving to be a bit of a disaster in the cargo role for everybody else as well.
‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll tell the boss.’
‘I thought you were the boss.’
‘I’m just the little boss. I meant the owner.’
‘Little boss. I like that,’ the Aussie said and slapped me on the back, spilling my beer. He must have been a foot taller than me, and his slap was like being charged by a rhino. Sometimes I like the Aussie sense of humour, and sometimes I don’t.
He wasn’t far wrong either. The number of landing accidents involving Yorks was becoming scandalous.
I found my crew in the U-Boat hotel. The little corporal was pleased to see me. He asked, ‘Shall I put you in the same room, sir?’ Then he saw my face and answered himself, ‘No, I’m sure I can find you somewhere more convenient.’ Somewhere without the shades of dead sailors sloshing about.
Ronson was sitting at the bar. Maybe this was my opportunity to tie off another little loose end. There was a man standing at the end of the bar in a sailor suit; that is he was in navy blues, wellingtons, an old white sloppy joe and a plain reefer jacket. His flat-top cap was tipped to the back of his head, and he stood with his back to us. I slipped into the seat beside Ronson and waved the bar boy to bring a drink over. It was the boy who’d called himself Reiny. He now had a Hitler moustache and floppy dark hair, which took a bit of nerve in 1948. The drink was that sharp cold beer you get in Northern Germany.
Ronson said, ‘Don’t mind him, boss. He does a dead Führer comedy act at the club next door.’
‘Doesn’t he upset people?’
‘His problem. Do you want Max? He’s gone for a little lie-down.’
‘That’s all right. I was going to fly back with you tonight, but now I’ll have to stay. Can we talk about why the Cousins have a wanted notice out on you, and why everyone seems to know what it’s about but me?’
‘You can talk, boss. It may not be wise for me to.’
‘Try.’
‘Why haven’t I been arrested already?’
‘They’re willing to leave you alone while you’re flying Operation Plainfare. Once you stop they’ll want to take you home.’
‘. . . and into a loony bin I ’spect: never to be heard of again.’
‘What for? What did you do?’
‘You heard of flying saucers?’
We all had. The papers were full of them from time to time. The government said that they were no danger to anyone, and you’ve got to believe the government, haven’t you?
‘Did you make one?’
‘Maybe I saw one once. Do you know what the Air National Guard is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s like your Auxiliary RAF squadrons. Gentlemen flyers. The state provides their aircraft and a bunch of amateurs and reservists flies them around. It’s a way of avoiding conscription, so the rich kids get to stay at home and go ter university, when everyone else is sent to dig latrines over here or in Japan. I was a ground-crew chief in Kentucky Air National Guard. I took care of Captain Mantell’s aircraft.’
‘Was there a problem with that?’
‘There was after he flew it into a spaceship. You ever seen what a Mustang looks like when it’s fallen in from twenty thou with bits coming off her?’
‘You’re losing me, Red. What spaceship?’
‘One of those flying saucers. The National Guard was scrambled to intercept it over Godman Field in Kentucky.’
‘There’s no such thing as spaceships. Was it something the Russians sent over?’
‘Not unless the Reds are flying things the size of aircraft-carrie
rs which can also hover like a helicopter.’
‘This Mantell intercepted a spaceship. That’s what you’re trying to say?’
‘Mantell an’ his flight. The other two dropped away because it was too high. Captain Mantell carried on.’
‘. . . And he collided with it?’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘What’s amazing, boss, is that it never happened after all. The top brass say that Captain Mantell made a mistake and was chasing the planet Venus when his P-51 broke up. People that agree with them get to go home; those that don’t get the bin.’
‘Then agree with them . . .’
‘I can’t, boss.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know what I heard. I was in the Tower listening out to the Captain. He described what he was going up against: it sure weren’t no planet Venus. It was a huge silver metallic thing just sitting there. It didn’t even bother to run away.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Red.’
‘That’s because you can’t believe it either. I told you that. Don’t say nothin’. Maybe the row will all die down an’ I can go home sometime. If people keep seeing these flying saucer things they’ll have to let me go. They can’t lock up half the US, can they?’
The sailor at the bar turned, and smiled a very drunken smile at us. He had a full black beard. He tried to lean an elbow on the bar, but missed, and slid along it a foot before he recovered. The black and gold cap tally bore the name of his ship. Ironically it was HMS Venus. Just one of God’s little jokes I expect.
I took a bath: it was nice to be staying somewhere without water restrictions. As I lay there I listened out a couple of times but there was no yo ho hoing in the corridor outside. When I went back to the bar the English sailor was sitting on the floor propped up against it, snoring. The German barman stood up from his stool and found me a tall glass of beer. It was ice-cold. About the sailor he said, ‘Nine of them here last night.’
‘From the Venus?’
‘Yes, she’s in Kiel. They assure me she’s a good ship.’ He didn’t smile but I was sure he was having me on.
‘What are they doing down here?’
‘Being victorious. It’s what the winners usually do.’
I wanted to explore that further, but Ronson and Max walked in with a coloured radio man they introduced as Dreyfuss. That put four of us around the table. Ronson said, ‘Max knows about Mantell. I told him.’
Dreyfuss looked mystified. He could bloody stay it.
‘Change the subject,’ I told them. ‘I’ll talk to someone about it, and try to sort something out. Where we gonna eat?’
We found a small place down in the docks. You’ve got to hand it to the Germans, they have almost as many recipes for cabbage as they had concentration camps – and that’s a helluva a lot. This place had brown walls, a brown ceiling and served brown cabbage in a brown sauce which once may have been diarrhoea. It was vile. Max got into a cabbage-flicking match with a group of Icelandic whalers who threw us out. They were huge bearded men who smelt of fish oil. Red reckoned that if you set fire to one of them he’d burn like a candle until there was nothing left of him but ash. I thought about it, but they all looked too big to me. After that we went looking for a drinking place.
Back in the hotel I phoned Lympne from an old upright telephone on the reception desk. Elaine was still there.
‘Is the Old Man in, love?’
There was a lot of interference on the line and I thought I heard he’s gone up in smoke.
‘Christ, not another! What happened to him?’
‘What are you talking about, Charlie?’
‘Another one up in smoke . . .’
‘Get your ears syringed, dear. Up the Smoke, not up in smoke.’ Dear.
‘Oh . . .’
‘Can I give him a message?’
‘Tell him I found out what the problem was with that American engineer he took on.’
‘Do we need to do anything about it?’
‘I don’t think anyone can. It’s nuts. I’ll tell him the next time I see him if I remember.’
‘Two more pilots, an engineer and another nutty radio man will be out with you by Friday, and that’s your lot! Bozey’s dealing with them.’ The line deteriorated further. I found that I was shouting, ‘He’s rather good, isn’t he?’
‘So am I.’
‘I know. But do you mean anything else?’
‘I’m pregnant, Charlie: I’m going to have a baby.’ It must have been OK with her because she was laughing. It was as if she was brimming over with it. At that moment the line failed altogether. So did my heart. For the second time in a year someone had said something on the telephone which had scared me half to death. Max was slouched in an old leather chair across the room. He must have seen something in my face because he asked, ‘Boss?’
‘Get Red and Dinsdale, or whatever he’s called, down here now.’
‘Dreyfuss. Why?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. We gotta go out again.’
‘Why?’
‘To get absolutely pissed; and don’t ask me any more questions.’
His mouth opened again and made the shape for Why, but no sound came out. Max was learning. We went out and got very drunk, and I managed not to tell anyone.
I had another war dream that night. I wasn’t in a burning Lancaster; it was worse than that. I was back in the Sergeants Mess at RAF Bawne sitting down to aircrew breakfast, and all the men tucking in around me were men I knew to be dead. There were even a few I hadn’t known to be dead; until that moment of course.
In the morning Max and Red were both asleep in the downstairs bar. I didn’t have to ask them why. Max woke up and yawned when I walked in. He said, ‘The next time we’re back in Lübeck, boss, we don’t stay in this spooky dump. OK?’
‘Fine, Max. How do you feel?’
‘What you mean is Can you fly this morning? The answer is Yes, the sooner the bloody better. I want to ged outta here.’
‘And Red?’
‘Red’s gotta new nail. He’s as sharp as a new-minted dollar.’
‘OK, Max, round them up. I’ll get you breakfast on the way.’
The barman with the Hitler moustache and hairstyle was waiting for us outside. He was dressed in the Führer’s brown jacket and grey trousers. His tongue was sticking out, and had gone as black as Alice’s. That’s because someone had hanged him from a lamp post with a piece of telephone wire. He rotated very slowly in the morning light, this way and that. His shadow danced gently on the pavement in front of us.
Red said, ‘He doesn’t look very well, does he?’
‘His jokes can’t have been much good.’ That was Max.
Dreyfuss stifled a belch, ‘I feel sick.’
‘Save it till later, bud.’ That was Max again. ‘We still got some puke bags in Dorothy.’
Dreyfuss and I scrambled into the back of the Chevy wagon we’d borrowed. He did look a couple of shades paler, come to think about it. Max asked, ‘Which way back to the airfield?’ from behind the steering wheel, which was on the wrong side of course.
Ronson held up a magnificent rusty nail on a piece of string and spun it. ‘That way,’ he said, and belched. I could suddenly smell last night’s thin beer from him, and felt a bit queasy myself.
Two days later I was back at Celle arguing a flight engineer I hardly knew out of a Military Police cell. He was one of ours, a fighter, and he’d broken an off-duty RAF copper’s jaw in a fight at a shebeen near the wrecked railway marshalling yards. I went down to the cell to meet him before I spoke up for him. His bloodied and scabby face looked as if he had leaned too close to a propeller, and he was missing some front teeth. You can forget all the tales of archetypal scrappers you’ve read about who’re supposed to come from Glasgow or Tiger Bay: they’re pussy cats compared to the real thugs I’ve met. The really bad ones all come from nice little places like Selsden or Pollockshaws. This g
uy came from sweet suburban Barnes but the old healed scars on his face said he’d been fighting all his life.
‘Hello . . . Bo . . . tth.’ He smiled like he’d seen the light.
‘Don’t say any more; the rest of your teeth might fall out. Just nod or shake slowly. OK?’
He nodded.
‘Was this your fault?’
He nodded again: but too vigorously.
‘Shit. Will you behave yourself if I get you out?’
He shook his head.
‘Can you fly?’
It was the nod again this time: equally vigorously, but holding up his left hand, two fingers of which were clearly broken.
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’
Out in the fresh air of the front desk again I asked the Station Officer, ‘Why hasn’t he received medical attention yet? His face is all smashed up and he’s got broken fingers. What sort of show are you running here? . . .’s bloody disgraceful.’
‘Sorry, Mr Bassett, but I can’t get anyone to go into the cell with him. He’s a fucking wild animal. We were rather hoping you’d take him away with you.’
Well, that hadn’t been so difficult had it?
‘What about the charges?’
‘There won’t be any. He’d only smash up the courtroom, wouldn’t he? Just get him out of Germany, and don’t bring him back.’
I went down to the cell with a pretty, plump nurse from the RMC. I got our man to put his hands through the bars and handcuffed him, and then I hauled on the cuffs while she gave him a hefty injection of a pale straw-coloured juice. His eyes glazed very quickly, but he stayed on his feet.
‘How long will he stay docile?’ I asked her as we trailed him upstairs.
‘About four hours . . . it’s a veterinary anaesthetic. I’ll give you another couple of shots for him. Will that be enough?’
‘I think so. I’ll have him back in Blighty by about six, with a bit of luck.’
She did a double take: like a quick Joe Loss intro. ‘Any chance I could come with you? I’m up for a ninety-six, and if I fly with you I can claim that I didn’t go off duty until you get him home. I’d get another half-day.’ I looked at her again, and liked what I saw. She wore a wedding ring, and looked friendly without being stupid about it, if you know what I mean.
The Hidden War Page 38
