Gibbins said, carefully, ‘Dutch coast coming up. Vlieland to port …’ and a few minutes later it happened, a long, rattling thud that might have been caused by anything at all, by the sudden seizing up of one or more engines, by a blind discharge of heavy flak pouring up at nothing and searching them out, or the raking burst of a fighter that had followed them all the way from the Ruhr. He didn’t know and he never had a chance to find out for, although voices clamoured over the intercom, he ignored them, concentrating the whole of his attention on the heavy starboard drag. He saw the coastline and realised he must have lost a great deal of height and was still losing it, for the altimeter read eleven thousand feet and when he had last looked at it it was over fifteen thousand. The Lancaster was acting like a young stallion turned loose in a field full of mares, bucketing and half-stalling, lurching and frisking as though determined to spill them out into the sky. He fought it madly, knowing it would defeat him but buying time while he made his decisions and the field of choice was not wide. Their words came to him like drops of rain, dashed in the face. ‘Flak … for Christ’s sake …!’ ‘Going to ditch … this far out …?’ ‘Where are we? Can we make it?’ This last from Wiley, surprisingly cool, so that it helped to steady him and ask Gibbins their position. Gibbins said, glumly, ‘Wait … can’t be absolutely sure … West-northwest of Vlieland—that’s about it—watch it—there’s another bloody flak-ship …’ and a series of flashes exploded almost immediately below, a stream of little red balls trundling into their wake.
A few miles off the Dutch coast at ten thousand, and losing height all the time. They could ditch, he supposed, but what were their chances out there, in December? Then, Wiley spoke again, weighing his words one by one. ‘The kid … rear-turret … he’s hit …! Kitson’s seeing to him …’ and finally Kitson’s voice, ‘Got it in the leg. Not too badly I think! Stopped the bleeding. Bloody shambles!’
That decided him. With Pidgeon injured there could be no question of ditching. Neither was there any question of returning to base. They would have to fly as long as possible and then a bit longer, and when the nearest piece of coastline showed he could order the able-bodied to bail out. From then it would be every man for himself and for him and Pidgeon a miserable attempt to pancake. That, in fact, was Pidgeon’s only chance and it wasn’t much of one, no better than his own.
Miraculously the Lancaster remained airborne. Minutes ticked by and every part of a minute increased the chances of each of them except the rear-gunner and pilot. Seven thousand feet, six thousand five hundred, and the drag becoming heavier with every flick of the needle. He gave his orders crisply and nobody questioned them. He could imagine them clipping on their parachutes, swearing continuously under their breath. Then Wiley said, ‘How about the kid? He can’t make it, Skip,’ and Stevie snarled, ‘For Christ’s sake, I know that. Do as you’re told and bale out! I’ll stick with it.’
The coast, when it showed up, was like a thin, curving blade laid along the end of a moonpath and Stevie wondered fleetingly where it was, but before Gibbins could tell him the altimeter needle flickered its ultimate warning and the aircraft, that seemed now to be flying on its side, began to slip so that he called ‘Everybody out!’ and Wiley’s voice said ‘Good luck, Skip, good …!’ and left the sentence unfinished.
He saw nothing of their going, if indeed they went, for a pattern of subdued light showed directly ahead and it looked as though it might be a flarepath although he could hardly believe it was. A man, flying a disintegrating bomber with an injured tail-gunner aboard could hardly expect luck of that kind.
In the moonlight, at almost zero height, the countryside looked as neat and patterned as the Valley at harvest time. Frost rime sparkled down there and there seemed to be very few trees, just rectangular fields divided by hedges. Pushing with all his strength on the rudder bar he felt little or no response and called into the intercom, ‘We’re coming down, kid, brace yourself …!’ but there was no answer and he wondered if he was crash-landing a dead man. Then he saw that it was a runway, some kind of runway, although it looked hopelessly short and the few buildings close by seemed to be no more than sheds. He struck the surface, bounced, struck it again, bounced again, and tried to think of something to fortify him against the impact but on the third touchdown the aircraft slewed violently and hurled him sideways so that landscape, instrument panel and moon merged into a confused, whirling Catherine wheel and there was a roaring in his ears, the roaring of breakers and falling chimney stacks in brickyards that he and Andy had prospected for scrap when they were Zorndorff’s apprentices.
Chapter Ten
A Kind of Confrontation
I
The village near the airfield had a pub, The Prince Rupert, named, she supposed, in honour of the battle near here in the Civil War. Paul would be interested in this but then, she remembered, Paul must never learn she had been within two hundred miles of the place. Now that she was here and it was dusk she was uncertain of her next move. She had a telephone number Margaret had given her but did not know whether it was permitted to ring an operational airfield. She booked a room, washed and went down to the visitors’ phone booth, a little glass box at the foot of the stairs. No one questioned her call and a girl’s voice said, ‘Who is it? Who do you want?’
Her wits cleared suddenly and she said, ‘I’m the mother of one of your pilots. I was in the district and wondered if it would be possible to see him. He’s called Craddock, Flight Lieutenant S. Craddock,’ and she gave his Service number. The telephonist said, ‘Wait, I’ll put you through to the officers’ mess,’ and after a series of clicks a male voice said, ‘Officers’ mess. Someone asking for Flight-Lieutenant Craddock?’ There was, she thought, a note of surprise in the voice but that was understandable. It was not often that a fond mamma called at the camp as if it was a prep school. She said, ‘I hope I’m not bothering anyone, I’m Mrs Craddock, his mother. I was in the district …’ The mess steward said, carefully, ‘Hold on a moment, Ma’am, I’ll find somebody who can help you!’
‘They’re all very polite and pleasant,’ thought Claire, and waited patiently until another, rather grating voice spoke. It said, incredulously, ‘Mrs Craddock? Crad’s mother?’ and she said yes and was he off duty or likely to be? She added that she was spending a night at The Prince Rupert in the village and it would be nice if he could come over for a meal.
The voice said, hesitantly, ‘He’s … er … he’s not around right now, Mrs Craddock. This is P/O Wiley speaking, his radio-op—a member of his crew. I wonder if I could pop over right away? I could be there in about ten minutes …’
He sounded, she thought, bashful and apologetic for being unable to produce Stevie out of a hat. She said, ‘By all means … perhaps you could leave a message for him and he could join us. I’d like to meet you, Mr Wiley.’
It was, she decided, the least she could do. He sounded as if he very much wanted to come and she supposed it was rather like a school after all, where it was nice to be taken out once in a while by the parents of a chum. She was disappointed, however, that Stevie was not available and supposed she would have to hang around until he was. Perhaps Mr Wiley might talk freely and help to build up some kind of background for her. At all events she had almost run him down and that, after such a journey, was an achievement.
He came hurrying into the foyer in less than ten minutes. Apparently the camp was very close and none of them had to walk anywhere. He was a spare, good-looking young man, with a sharp nose and pointed chin and there was a long strip of pink adhesive plaster on his cheek. He greeted her very diffidently and then asked her if she would join him in a drink. She said she would have a sherry if they had any and he said, ‘They’ve got everything here, we see to that!’ and disappeared with surprising alacrity. She took off her gloves and waited, opening her bag and peeping into her mirror. The feeling that she was paying a visit to a school grew upon her. She wouldn’t have been
surprised if a group of elderly men had appeared in the lounge in shredded gowns and honked at her in that assertive manner schoolmasters usually employ when addressing parents. Wiley came back, carrying a tankard of beer and a tall sherry. He said, rather helplessly, ‘About Crad … er … have you been travelling Mrs Craddock? What I mean is … did you leave home today?’
‘No, as a matter of fact I didn’t,’ she said, wondering at his rather distracted manner, ‘I left yesterday and spent last night in London. Stevie had no idea I was coming.’ Then, seeing him look away quickly, ‘He’s all right, isn’t he? I mean, not sick or … posted?’ she had been going to say ‘Hurt’, the word prompted by the sticking plaster on Wiley’s cheek, but she changed her mind because it occurred to her that she might sound like a fussy old mum and downgrade Stevie in his eyes. It was rather absurd, she thought, to behave like this about a son who had been married nine years and was now in the process of being divorced and acknowledging the child of his brother’s wife, but there it was. He startled her then with a kind of groan, as though the beer in his tankard was particularly unpleasant medicine. He said, bracing himself, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Craddock … two nights ago … down south … we were belted from a flakship crossing the coast. Five of us made it … bailed out a couple of miles inland. But Crad stayed with the kite … the aircraft; he had to, because the rear-gunner was wounded. He got down all right at a satellite, a ropey one it was, and they got the rear-gunner out. He’s in dock now, and in pretty good shape all things considered, but Crad …’
He dried up, looking away and through the curtain of shock she could see the silhouette of his embarrassment and misery and this, surprisingly, gave her something to hold on to for a moment so that she was able to push her hand across the little round table and enclose his, finding it cold and moist.
They sat there for a moment without moving and then his free hand came up and settled on top of hers and she found it wonderfully comforting. She said at length, making a tremendous effort to sound natural, ‘You knew him well, you’ve flown with him a long time?’ and he said, eagerly and gratefully, ‘Two tours. We were pretty close, Mrs Craddock. He was a terrific guy. None of us would have got back if he hadn’t nursed the kite the way he did, and held on until we all had a sporting chance of getting down in one piece! Young Pidgeon, the rear-gunner, wouldn’t have had a hope in hell. Like I said, that’s why Crad stuck with it and pancaked. He almost made it. It was a bloody miracle really. I only got back today.’
‘You hurt your face.’
His hand left hers and went to his cheek. He seemed surprised to find the plaster there. ‘It’s only a cut. I just missed landing on a bit of fencing. The other four were shaken up a bit but nothing serious. The R. G.—rear-gunner—is the only one in dock.’ Then, cautiously, ‘I think the C.O. would like to know you’re here, Mrs Craddock. They sent a wire earlier yesterday, as soon as the gen. came through on the blower, so I daresay someone at home is trying to get in touch with you now. Would you like me to find the C.O.? He’s stooging around somewhere.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’d sooner just talk to you if you don’t mind. It’s odd, I’ve got three sons and two sons-in-law on active service but Stevie is the only one I never worried about. He always seemed to come out of it at the last moment.’
‘He almost did this time,’ Wiley said and after a pause, ‘Won’t you finish your sherry? Would you like something a bit stronger?’
‘No thank you. You’ve been very kind, Mr Wiley. I’m so glad for my sake you were the one who had to tell me, although it must be dreadful for you.’ Then, as she felt her eyes filling with tears, ‘Excuse me … please don’t go … not for a minute,’ and she turned aside and opened her bag while he waited, no longer embarrassed but patient and resigned.
‘You knew he was getting a divorce?’
‘Yes,’ Wiley said, ‘he did tell me that. But there was someone else, wasn’t there? A girl living in Wales? He left a letter. We do that, most of us that is, just in case. I brought it with me. Just the one letter. It seems to be addressed to his wife, not the girl in Wales.’
He groped in his pocket and handed her a clean, stamped envelope. It was addressed to ‘Mrs Margaret Craddock, ‘Ty-Bach’, Llanstynwdd, Merionethshire, Wales,’ and below, in brackets, ‘If not received please forward to St. Just Nursing Home, Criccieth, N. Wales. ‘I was going to post it tonight,’ he said, ‘but maybe you’d like to take it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’ll deliver it personally. It would be better that way.’
The sight of the letter, with its two addresses, gave her a surprising access of strength. She no longer felt worn out by the journey. She said, ‘I think I will have that something stronger, Mr Wiley. A large brandy, but let me pay for it.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘certainly not! I’d much rather, Mrs Craddock. I’d be very happy to,’ and she let him. When he returned with the drinks she said, ‘I’d like to make a start tonight. There’s no sense in hanging around up here and I don’t want her to find out from anyone else. Could I hire a car somewhere? I don’t mean to the station. Could I hire one that would take me all the way to Criccieth?’
He seemed doubtful. ‘It would cost a packet,’ he said, ‘even if it could be arranged. Probably a tenner or even more. Wouldn’t it be better to stay on overnight and get a train from York in the morning?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it wouldn’t, because I’m not likely to sleep, am I? I’d sooner do something. Something useful.’
He nodded understandingly and went away again. Five minutes later he was back. ‘The gaffer says a hire car firm in Flaxton will do it. God knows where they get the gas these days. Maybe it’s because they’re undertakers as well. It’ll cost fifteen pounds. I daresay they’d cash a cheque here. I could vouch for you, Mrs Craddock.’
‘That won’t be necessary. I have enough money and if I need more I can cash a cheque when I get there. Did you order it for me?’
‘Be here in twenty minutes or so.’
They sat on, saying little, until the landlord came and said the car was waiting. He looked at her gently and she thought Wiley must have told him who she was. ‘I’ll get your bag down, Ma’am,’ he said, and padded away. Wiley said, ‘Do you mind if I say something else, Mrs Craddock?’ and when she shook her head he went on, with a vehemence that brought a flush to his narrow face, ‘I think you’re terrific! I never thought anyone could be so terrific, but knowing old Crad I’m not all that surprised, not really! You know something else? I wish to God you were my mother!’
‘So do I,’ she said, and leaning forward she kissed him on the cheek that wasn’t sealed by plaster. Unlike his hand, that had been so cold, his face was very warm.
II
The sea-front of the little town at that season was bleak and uninviting. Everything about it was slate grey, the sea, the stone Victorian houses, the sky, even the distances. She had slept after all, under a rug tucked around her by the elderly driver who must, she thought, be a hearse-driver, for his gestures were excessively dignified and he seemed to her to drive the entire distance at a steady thirty. She had decided to take a chance on Criccieth first and dismiss him if she located Margaret. Once that was done she could find a room at a hotel if one was open at this time of year, and brace herself to do what had to be done.
The nursing home was at the end of the long street, a tall, narrow building built of stone blocks and she asked the driver to wait while she made enquiries. It was a few minutes to eight o’clock and a maid was polishing the hall floor behind the locked, glass-panelled door. She signalled to her to open it. The girl looked surprised but she pulled the bolts and when Claire asked if she would make enquiries about a patient she said, in the strongest Welsh accent Claire had ever heard, that she would have to fetch Sister Pritchard who was having breakfast in her room.
Sister Pritchard came bustling up looking even more surprised and vaguely
indignant. She held a napkin in her long, bony hand and dabbed her mouth with it as she descended the stairs. ‘It’s far too early to visit,’ she said, ‘visiting is not until after lunch. Who is it you want to see?’
‘I’m not even sure she’s here yet,’ Claire said, ‘but she’s booked. It’s Mrs Craddock, Margaret Craddock,’ and was relieved to see the look of irritation vanish from the Sister’s face as she said, almost genially, ‘Ah yes … yes! She had her baby last Thursday and we’ve all been wondering why nobody called!’ She opened a register that was lying on the reception table. ‘Thursday, that was it. She came in on Tuesday. False alarm. But they’re both bonny. It all happened rather quickly. However …’ her face went stiff again, ‘I’m afraid you can’t see her yet. She won’t have had breakfast and then Doctor has to see her. I could tell her you’re here of course. I expect she’ll be pleased; she hasn’t had any messages. Not even a telephone call or letter,’ she added, rather reproachfully.
Claire said, ‘It was difficult to get here and anyway, I wasn’t sure when it was due. Do you mind telling me what the baby is?’
‘Why, it’s a girl,’ and the woman looked at her a little oddly, as though astonished she didn’t even know this much. ‘Will her husband be coming, or is he serving abroad? Mrs Craddock didn’t say. It was all rather tiresome. We wouldn’t have known who to tell if there had been difficulties.’
The Green Gauntlet (A Horseman Riding By) Page 24
