He had one eye on the altimeter, and the other on Ronson’s left hand, which was ticking like a clock towards the centre frame of the windscreens in front of them. When Ronson’s hand pointed dead ahead he centred his controls, and settled the Pig into level flight. It was getting on for five in the morning. There was a dawn somewhere lighting up part of the east, and the sky train to Berlin was winding up for the day’s effort. The navigation lights of a stream of aircraft heading for Gatow and Tegel twinkled relentlessly above us. The westbound stream wasn’t much less dense, but Max edged us up closer and closer to it, and eventually found a couple of guys who were crap at station-keeping and managed to slot us in between them without giving anyone a heart attack.
That’s when I asked him, ‘Why didn’t that border patrol tell their air force? I don’t understand it. They could have roasted us.’
‘Perhaps they figured they owed us one.’ It was a lazy reply. Then he yawned.
Ronson said, ‘Don’t go to sleep on us, Skip. Not now you’ve nearly done it all right.’
‘I’ll go and ask our passengers,’ I told them. ‘Maybe they can tell us what’s going on.’ As it happened they couldn’t, because they were all asleep and holding hands, and I hadn’t the heart to wake them. Frieda was awake. She smiled and put her finger to her lips. I went back to my radios and stayed there until I was sure of the beacon at the northeastern end of the corridor, and it was time for me to make up a story for Lübeck.
Red stuck his head through the bulkhead door and said, ‘Just thought you’d like to know it, boss.’
‘What?’ My eyes snapped open. How long had I been asleep?
‘We just got into free air. Downhill all the way now.’
I didn’t like to say it, but the problem was, I suppose, that downhill all the way is always a fair description of how an aircraft works when things go wrong.
Chapter Twenty-nine
That used main wheel tyre which Russian Greg had put on the Pig failed as we touched down at Lübeck. The heavy night landing an hour or so earlier, on a frozen grass field, probably hadn’t helped. The tyre shredded immediately against the runway, and then the wheel began to break up. Then one of the undercarriage oleo legs gave out, and the wing slammed into the deck. There was no way back after that, even for Max.
What was left of the wheel bounced gaily down the runway ahead of us, shedding a spark or two each time it hit the concrete. The Pink Pig immediately slid into a series of enormous ground loops to port which probably saved my life. Thank you Pig. The huge horizontal gyrations took us out into the grass. We must have lost the tail wheel just about then. The first big bang was half a port prop blade coming through the fuselage about three feet behind me. The second was the outer section of the port wing detaching, and flipping over to slam back down on the cabin roof above me. I saw it physically distort and then split.
I could see that because I was lying on the floor . . . and I wondered why. At some point in the dance I had been spun off my seat, and had thumped my chin on my radio table on the way down.
After that there was silence. I’ve told you before about how quick violence is – the whole of the Pig’s death dance didn’t take much longer than it has taken to write this. After the silence there was the distant – or so it sounded to me – cries of the children, and a steady dripping sound from above me. Then I smelled aviation spirit, and decided to split.
‘That was a pig of a landing, Max.’ That was Red’s voice. He sounded shaky.
‘This is your captain speaking. Ow! I think I broke a rib!’ Max. ‘The Brits would say I’d made a pig’s breakfast of it.’ He sounded even shakier.
‘. . . or a pig’s ear?’ Red again.
‘Stop fucking about you two, and get out!’ I roared at them. ‘Can’t you smell the petrol?’ Anyone who flies will tell you that they are precisely the five little words you never want to hear.
I staggered back down the fuselage to find that the poor old Pig had broken her back about ten feet ahead of our passengers, and, conveniently for me, had left her wide cargo door thirty yards away in the frosted grass.
Frieda was OK but staring ahead. She looked slightly pop-eyed. Elli was crying. I put my hand on the kid’s head, and unbuckled their seatbelt. My hands and legs were shaking, and my chin hurt. I told Frieda, ‘I’ll say it now: I told you so.’
The little smile I got back, as she struggled to her feet still clutching Elli, said that her brain still worked. I helped them through the door and said, ‘Start walking in that direction. Go as far as you can. Stop if you reach the road . . . You have to go quickly.’ There was a moderate crosswind: it got inside the poor ruptured Pig, who creaked and groaned, and moved gently as if she was dying.
Max had slid past me with a moan, and over the door sill. Red had stopped to help the Russians out. The man spoke sharply to the two children, who stopped crying as if a tap had been turned off. When we were all outside and staggering away the Russian began to laugh, and then the woman copied him. So did I, and so, eventually, did Ronson. When we caught up with the others they looked at us as if we’d lost our minds.
We sprawled on the frozen field a hundred yards from the wreck, and saw and heard two excited fire trucks and an ambulance dash past about half a mile away, going in the wrong direction.
Max observed, ‘They don’t know where we are, do they? They don’t know where we ended up.’
I told him, ‘That aircraft always was a contrary bitch.’
That was when the Pig agreed with me, and set herself on fire. At first all I noticed was a blue light, like a gas flame, outlining her one good wing, which was tilted up into the halflight of dawn. Then she blew with a great yellow flash as the fuel left in her tanks went up. We felt her warm breath on our faces. Max grunted with pain, and sighed. Then he said, ‘They can’t friggin’ miss us now, can they?’
Red Greg’s sister began to sing a sad song in low tones you could scarcely catch, but the rest of us just watched the Pig burn. I heard the same song years later in a Russian Orthodox church in Paris, and someone told me they always sang it at funerals. Maybe, like me, she just hated to see aircraft die. I reached over and squeezed her hand.
‘They’ll find us soon,’ I told her. I almost believed it myself.
Dave found us first. He’d grabbed a bicycle and hared around the peritrack in the direction he’d last seen us. He was on the runway when he saw us huddled in the grass outlined against the Pink Pig’s fire.
He threw the bicycle down and knelt by me.
‘Did everyone get out, boss?’
‘They did. God is being particularly friendly this morning.’
‘You’re only saying that. Any damage?’
‘Max has hurt his chest. Probably stove a couple of ribs. That right, Max?’
Max groaned. He had a good groan. Then he said, ‘I’m dying.’
Scroton said, ‘He sounds all right to me.’ He produced a leather-covered flask that must have contained a pint. ‘Drink, anyone?’
Now you know that when a person is hurt, or in shock, alcohol is the worst thing you can give them . . . and I guess that we were all hurt or in shock.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ I replied, propped myself up on my elbows and held my hand out. It was a very good whisky. I took a swig. Then I turned on one side, and offered it to Frieda. She took a pretty respectable swig herself before she passed it on. I stayed on my side looking at her. Everyone else was watching the burning wreck. The flickering light of the Dakota’s distant flames on her face reminded me of the shadowy patterns on her body in our little room in Berlin. The Pink Pig crackled and popped, and we could feel the heat of her passing from where we lay. Bells in the distance, approaching, signalled that the emergency crews had reoriented themselves.
My sense of timing has never been good, you know that, but I felt driven to speak – me and my mouth – and found myself saying something odd.
‘Frieda,’ I said, loud enough for her to hear ab
ove the fire, ‘will you marry me? Please.’
She paused before she replied, and then shook her head before saying, ‘That would probably be a very silly thing for me to do, Charlie.’
Scroton sighed. I think that he was disappointed . . . there had been a smile in her voice though.
The first of the fire crews drove straight past us, and frantically began assaulting the Pig with foam and axes. They wanted to rescue the survivors. Ronson wandered over, narrowly avoiding being run over by the second, and advised them not to bother. I lay back, put my hands behind my head, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again I could see Borland’s boots and legs close by, and a three-legged dog was pissing on my foot.
Max complained when we stuffed him in the ambulance. Red accompanied him. That didn’t seem to make it any better for him; I think that he was feeling a bit abandoned . . . so I bundled Spartacus in with them and told Max to see he got back to Gatow. Thinking about it later I wondered how he had got that far with us that morning – I think he just couldn’t bear to be left out of things. A second ambulance trundled us around to the far limits of the airfield where Whisky and Dorothy were chumming up to each other – it was where we were supposed to have met them.
Dave had perked up. He said, ‘Glad you’re here, Charlie.’
‘Why?’
‘You can tell the Old Man that we’ve burned one of his aeroplanes having a private party. I wouldn’t want to do that myself.’
Max had been supposed to take Dorothy on to the UK for maintenance; he was due a rest – so was she. We hadn’t told anyone she was full of children and refugees of course, and now we all took it for granted that Scroton would step up to the plate. They made room for the four Russkis, Frieda and Elli in the York among the children and the nuns – it was beginning to look a bit crowded in there – while we stood between the two aircraft sorting out who was going to do what. Bozey and Dreyfus would take Whisky back with them in a couple of hours; a load of coal had already been earmarked for her. Bozey would then run things until I got back. What was left of the Pink Pig was still burning in the infield . . . the fire crew seemed to have her under control.
Bozey pointed out, ‘They won’t like it if you just sod off, and leave that bonfire out there without giving them a report, boss.’
‘Max was flying it. He can tell them.’
‘You’re Max’s boss – they’ll expect you to cooperate.’
‘I know,’ I told him. ‘Let me think for a minute; I’m trying to work that one out.’
Several excuses came to me, but none sounded very convincing. The only saving grace was that the Pig hadn’t shut the airfield down. Flights were arriving and leaving with the regularity of a metronome. ‘What if you told them I had to go back to fix up a replacement kite ASAP? . . . that I was more worried about getting the job done than completing the paperwork?’
‘Anyone who didn’t know you well could believe that.’
‘Would you?’
‘Not sure, boss. Try it on these buggers, and see what happens.’
These buggers: a sedately driven jeep which disgorged a stocky sergeant in khakis, wearing a sleeveless leather tank jacket over his uniform, and an officer who looked like that comedian-in-waiting John Thomas. Because it was John Thomas. He saluted negligently with his swagger stick as he strolled up.
‘Morning, squire. Somebody told me it was you.’
‘What was . . . or who was?’
‘The leader of the shower that just left a burning aeroplane in the middle of our nice tidy airfield. Demned thoughtless of you.’
‘Main wheel tyre blew as we touched down. We were lucky.’
‘I know, old chap . . . and I’m very pleased that no one was hurt. I’ve already had a quick word with your pilot.’
‘How is he?’
‘Swearing very colourfully. The MO wants to hang on to him for a day . . . apparently he was going on leave.’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll still get it.’
‘This’ll crimp your style a bit. Losing an aircraft must be hard on a small outfit like yours.’
‘Yes. I’m going back with the York now; see if we can get another one quickly . . . we’ve got to keep the operation running.’
‘The station commander won’t like that very much, old boy.’ He hadn’t said You can’t do that, which was very interesting.
‘You’ve got my pilot and my engineer – isn’t that enough? I can’t tell you anything they can’t. One moment we were in the middle of one of Max’s usual sweet landings, and the next we were falling to bits in the middle of a ground loop. Anyway, I got a knock on the chin, and might have been out of it for a few minutes.’ If I looked browned off it was because I felt it.
Thomas said something that sounded like, ‘Hmph,’ and stroked his chin. ‘Wait one, won’t you . . .’ He strolled back to his jeep. I watched him reach in, pick up a radio mic, and begin to speak. His sergeant gave me a friendly smile and said, ‘Don’t worry, sir; the Captain will sort things out – it’s what he’s good at.’
It was just his manner: it had Regular written all over it. I felt better already. When Thomas came back he was whistling perkily, and slapping his stick gently against his knee.
‘He’s inclined to let you off this once, provided you make a statement to the AAIs when you come back: matter of ticking the right boxes . . . all crew witnesses accounted for, that sort of thing.’
‘And what are you inclined to do, Captain?’ I assumed that the matter rested with him.
‘I’m ectually inclined to get you off my patch as soon as I ruddy well can, old son. To be honest you’ve been a pain in the proverbial from the moment I clapped eyes on you.’
‘It’s nice to be wanted.’
‘As far as I can make out, old son, about half your mob appears to be wanted – but I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing, are we? It just so happens that everyone requires you to keep flying for the moment . . . otherwise you’d all be facing a spell talking to my sergeant here.’
There was the way he spoke which made you smile.
‘. . . but you’re saying we can go?’
‘Bravo. I’m saying you can go. I’d do it now if I was you, before I change my mind.’
‘Thank you.’
‘. . . but first you wouldn’t mind my man having a quick shufti in Red Rover over there . . . just to make sure it’s not full of contraband . . .’ I shrugged. Bollocks! The bastard had me, and he knew it. We’d been far enough away from Dorothy for no sound from her to travel, but she was full of little people and nuns, wasn’t she? Thomas nodded to his sergeant and said, ‘Carry on, Mr Staggers.’
The sergeant walked smartly over to the rounded door under the York’s wing, and rapped on it. Someone opened it from inside. I immediately heard the murmur of the kids – it swelled and died. Staggers was looking at more than forty people. Thomas eyed me. I couldn’t hold his gaze: I hated letting Fergal down. Staggers closed the door, and came back. He said very clearly, as if he was making a report, ‘Empty, Mr Thomas, just as you thought. Not a blessed thing. She’s going back as clean as a whistle.’
Thomas stared at me, and then turned on a dazzling smile.
‘Very well, Sergeant. We’ll leave it to them, shall we?’
He touched the sergeant’s elbow as they turned away to their transport, but he said to me, ‘Say hello to Blighty for me. I miss the lights.’
‘I will, Captain . . . and I will remember you; both of you.’
‘Just remember us the next time we ask you a favour, that’s all, old fruit.’
At least he was telling me where we stood.
Scroton waited until their tail lights were fifty yards away before he said, ‘Blimey. What was that all about?’
‘It was all a charade. He was just showing me who was in charge, that’s all. Shall we go back to England now?’ Then I had a thought. ‘Who’s your engineer?’ I wondered if the nuns had a prayer against farts.<
br />
For once in her evil life Dorothy flew like an angel: she seemed to slice across the sky like a huge red toboggan – no bumps, jumps or little skids. No shudders or misses from those tired old motors. Now, I know that the pilots among you will deride this thought, but from the viewpoint of an outsider looking in, a pilot’s skill sometimes appears to move from essentially a technical performance to an art form. That was what Dave did with Dorothy that morning: he flew the big old cow as if he was intimately attached to her.
We picked up the new London Traffic Control just off Gravesend, and with their blessing skated west down the Channel for home. The Goodwin Sands were showing, and the red lightship bobbed on a dark blue sea like a toy boat. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but it was cold out there . . . anyone glancing up could have seen our contrail stretching for miles. I didn’t know what to expect when we made landfall; my planning sequence had ended with getting the circus airborne from Lübeck. Fergal had told me to leave the rest to him, remember? What the hell I was going to do with the Russians and Frieda’s niece was anybody’s guess. Frankly, I didn’t care all that much. I was just glad to have got them this far.
Something very curious happened at Lympne. My brain stopped working. It was as if I had run into a brick wall.
There was a cream and red motor coach parked up alongside the admin building. Two priests stood alongside it. One was that villainous old sod I’d met in Liverpool – Fergal’s mentor: he looked like a dog with two tails. I have rarely met someone who looked as pleased with himself. The other was a tall ascetic-looking guy who had administrator written all over his face. He had two expressions which chased each other around his features: pissed off, and alarmed. I liked neither.
Father Leakey said, ‘Welcome back, Mr Bassett. I would say Well done, but my colleague is very nervous about it all. If the opposition had a College of Bishops handy they’d all be in a pet.’
‘Am I going to be blamed for this?’
The Hidden War Page 43
