The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  He wished he’d said something to Dorothy. Lost his nerve, hadn’t he? He should have spoken out boldly when she was making the tea, before that other woman had arrived and gone on and on with her gossiping. Now he’d have to wait till there was another chance.

  R-Robert had started rocking about – either somebody else’s slipstream, or the flak had already started.

  ‘Bomb aimer to pilot. Target indicators going down to port, skip.’

  ‘OK, I see them, Stew. Thanks.’

  Harry felt R-Robert alter course slightly to port as they headed for the indicators. Into the jaws of death, he thought. God help us.

  Stew had never seen anything like it, and that was bloody saying something. Strewth, they must have every ack-ack gun in Germany down there, blasting away. The whole flaming sky was just that – flaming. Jesus, they’d never get through this lot. R-Robert didn’t like it one bit either, plunging about all over the place, and you couldn’t blame her when they were swatting bombers down like flies. He’d counted three in the past minute. Christ almighty, another one – a Lane spinning down slowly, both wings on fire, tail section breaking off as she went . . . Holy shit!

  Yeah, but they were getting it back down there. Too right they were. The whole bloody city looked like it was burning. A whole bloody sea of fire and smoke and explosions. Flaming hell down there, too. Serve ’em right. He settled himself good and steady. He was going to make fucking sure this last lot were right on target.

  ‘Bomb doors open, skip.’

  ‘Bomb doors open.’

  Eyes fixed on the sight, hand ready on the release tit, tracking the target indicators. The skip was keeping R-Robert straight and level, God knew how. Good on him.

  ‘Right . . . right . . . left, left a bit . . . steady . . . ste-ady . . .’

  The TIs were smack on the intersection. Beaut!

  ‘Bombs gone, skip . . .’

  Take that from me, Adolf and the rest of you bastards down there. And there’s plenty more where it came from. Take that from all of us!

  Charlie got a grandstand view of the city burning as the skipper took R-Robert away in a tight diving turn. Although he knew it would wreck his night vision, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the leaping flames. They had a horrible fascination.

  About, about, in reel and rout

  The death fires danced at night.

  Don’t think about the dead or the dying. Don’t think about the old people or the kids down there. Think about London and Coventry and Liverpool and Southampton. Think about Hitler and the goose-stepping storm troopers. Think about what they want to do to the rest of the world.

  They left the flak behind, and R-Robert went like the clappers, heading west across Germany. Charlie’s eyes readjusted to the dark and he scanned the night skies for enemy fighters. If you didn’t have the flak you had the fighters.

  ‘Pilot to rear gunner. Keep a sharp look-out.’

  ‘Roger, skipper.’

  Up in the mid-turret, Bert was keeping his eyes skinned too, spinning his turret round. So far, so good, but it was still a bloody long way home. I’ll marry Emerald if we get back safe.

  With a bit of luck we might make it, Harry thought. That was all they needed now. A little bit of luck.

  ‘Navigator to pilot. I’m rather worried about the wind strength. It keeps pushing us off course. I think I’ll try a couple of shots.’

  ‘OK, I’ll hold her level.’

  Harry waited while Piers stood up in the astrodome to use the sextant. There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach now. Something was going to go wrong – just when they thought it was nearly over. Steady on, he told himself. No cause for alarm. Piers’ll put us right. You’ve got the jitters for nothing.

  ‘Pilot to nav. I can see flak ahead. Where do you reckon that is?’

  ‘That’ll be Bremen, skipper.’

  ‘Right, I’ll go south of it.’

  Van altered course. Another hundred miles and they’d be over the coast with only the North Sea between them and England. Hallelujah!

  ‘Fighter, fighter! Corkscrew starboard! Go!’

  As Charlie’s voice shouted over the intercom, Van shoved R-Robert’s nose hard down, foot jammed against the rudder. He could hear Charlie’s guns firing crazily. When he came out of the dive they had fallen silent. ‘Pilot to rear gunner. Have we lost him?’

  No answer.

  ‘Pilot to rear gunner. Any damage, Charlie?’

  No answer. Jesus, not the kid.

  ‘Pilot to mid-upper. Any sign of that fighter still around?’

  ‘Can’t see him, skip. I’m watching. Is Charlie OK?’

  ‘Go take a look will you, Harry?’

  He clambered over the mainspar, cracking his head on the escape hatch in his frantic haste, squeezed past the mid-turret and Bert’s feet, and stumbled on down the vibrating, roaring darkness of the fuselage, between the ammunition ducts, past the main door and over the Elsan to the rear turret doors. Yanked them open.

  At first he thought Charlie was already dead. He could feel the blood warm and sticky on his hands as soon as he touched him and the lad didn’t move or say a word. Then, when he groped desperately for his heart, he found it was still beating. ‘Wireless op to skipper. Charlie’s wounded. Unconscious. I’m not sure how bad. I’ll have to move him. Get him out of here somehow.’

  ‘OK, Harry. Get him on the rest bed if you can.’

  Just as well the boy was unconscious. He had to drag him out of the turret backwards. No choice. Just as well he was only a shrimp, too, or he’d never have been able to carry him all the way back down the length of the fuselage. He laid Charlie down gently on the bed and hurried back to fetch the first aid box from beside the crew door. Sam was hanging in his place there and, on impulse, he grabbed hold of him too.

  He shone his torch on Charlie, fearful of what he would see. There was blood running down the lad’s face and when he eased back his helmet he could see a wound above the left temple. Not deep, just a long gouge where a bullet must have clipped him. He’d been wounded in the left shoulder, though, and that looked bad. There was a lot of blood and a deep hole. A few inches lower and it would have got his heart. Harry tried to remember the first aid he’d learned. Staunch the wound, that’s what he’d got to do first. Stop the bleeding. Bandage it tight. Keep him warm. Blankets . . . where were the blankets? Give him a shot of morphine if necessary to stop the pain.

  He fumbled with the first aid box, tearing open dressings and bandages with shaking fingers. Hurry, for God’s sake! He’d let Charlie bleed to death if he didn’t get a move on.

  ‘Pilot to wireless op. How’s he doing, Harry?’

  ‘I’ve got him on the rest bed, skip. He’s still unconscious. Nasty wound in the left shoulder but I think I’ve stopped the bleeding.’

  ‘Well done. Think he’ll be OK?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Take over in the rear turret, Harry, would you? Soon as you can. That fighter could still be around.’

  ‘Right-o, skipper.’ He drew the blankets over the boy, tucking them in carefully, and checked his mask and oxygen supply. He’d done the very best he could for him. One more thing, though: he laid Sam beside him – for company.

  He felt his way back to the rear turret and hauled himself in by the overhead handles, feet first, landing on the cushion Two-Ton-Tessie had given Charlie. It was a tight fit for someone of his size but he managed it, and he knew where everything was. Jack-of-all-trades, wasn’t he? Sometimes it paid off. He swivelled the turret, aiming the Brownings up and down. If that bugger who’d got Charlie came back again he’d let him have it and no mistake.

  Glory be, it was cold back here, with that open panel right in front of his face and the wind whistling in from the bullet holes. He didn’t know how Charlie stuck it, but then in his heated suit it wouldn’t feel quite as bad. He was only wearing his battledress, being so warm where he was himself in the kite. Hadn’t thought to stop and put
on his Irvin or his gloves in the rush. Lucky he was wearing his scarf. Too late now to go back for the gloves and jacket. Mustn’t leave his post in case that Jerry turned up again. He looked hard into the darkness, concentrating. His night vision wasn’t too good so he’d have to stay extra lively. He rotated the turret again, quartering the sky. There wasn’t anything out there except the stars.

  He saw the tracer before he saw the enemy night fighter. Bright beads of fire snaking towards him. ‘Fighter! Fighter!’ He got the words out just before the bullets ripped into the tail plane, and he fired his own guns as they hit.

  Bert’s voice crackled urgently, ‘Mid-upper to rear turret. He’s coming about port. Watch for him, Harry.’

  He could see the 110 coming for them again, head on. Still too far away. Steady. Steady. Wait till he’s in range. Get him in the sights. Go for the prop. The German and he fired together. The fighter’s propeller disintegrated at the same time as its bullets tore at the rear turret, smashing Harry back against his seat.

  Bert’s guns were blasting away. ‘Mid-upper to skipper. We got ’im! We bloody well sodding got ’im! Got ’is bloody prop. The bastard’s going down.’

  ‘Well done, Bert. Well done, Harry. Keep watching. There could be more of them. You OK, Harry?’

  Harry fumbled with his mike switch. ‘OK, skipper.’

  Must have been hit somewhere, though nothing was hurting. No sense in saying anything. Making a fuss. It wasn’t much. Couldn’t be, as it didn’t hurt. He could get it seen to when they got back. And he could still keep a look-out – enough to warn them anyway. Keep watching. Keep watching. He listened to them talking as R-Robert flew on. He tried to sit up more so he could see better but couldn’t seem to manage that. Just have to do the best he could. He heard Stew sighting the Dutch coast and then they were out over the North Sea. Not so much likelihood of a Jerry catching them now. They’d got a chance of making it. A good chance. Not too long, if only he could hang on. He was very cold, though, with all the air coming in. It was a bit like sitting in a sieve out on an icefloe in the Arctic. And there was a nasty taste in his mouth.

  ‘Pilot to rear turret. OK back there, Harry?’

  It took him an age to press the switch this time. His hands looked like two dead fish and his fingers refused to do what he wanted. Like when he’d tried to fire that Very pistol in the lifeboat. No Piers to help him this time. ‘OK . . . skipper.’ He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. It was no good, he couldn’t keep a proper watch any more . . . ought to tell the skipper, but he’d never manage the mike switch again. He couldn’t speak but he could still listen. When Piers picked up the G-signals from England it meant they were on the final straight. He listened to the strong, even pulse of the Merlins taking them home.

  He knew now what the foul taste was – blood – and his mouth was full of it. He could feel it trickling out from under his mask and running down his neck all over Dorothy’s scarf. Not that it really mattered, because the blood meant he was a goner. No point in pretending to himself, but he’d like to last till they got back so he knew the others had made it safely and that Charlie was all right. He opened his eyes and looked at the stars. Charlie’d always said how they kept him company and he could understand it now. He went on watching them. Crossing the English coast now. Soon be home. Just as well because he didn’t think he’d be able to last much longer. It was hurting now. Hurting a lot. He didn’t know how he was going to stand it. Jesus . . .

  He could feel the Lane sinking lower and lower. The skipper was bringing R-Robert down so they’d be almost there. She was coming in nice and steady and he heard the heavy clunk as her wheels locked down into place. They were going straight in – the skipper would have warned Control about Charlie so they’d have priority. They’d be ready down there with an ambulance.

  The rear turret skimmed over the boundary lights. He watched the flarepath unrolling in a blur and felt the tail wheel beneath him touch down at the same time as the other two. A greaser! Well done, skipper. That was the way to finish. In style. Thirty ops. They’d made it. They’d bloody well made it.

  ‘Pilot to crew. Thanks for everything, you guys.’

  He heard them answer in turn.

  ‘Och, you’re welcome.’

  ‘Good on you, skip.’

  ‘Thanks most awfully.’

  ‘Ta, skip.’

  And then Charlie’s voice – a bit weak but OK. ‘Thanks, skipper.’

  He’d like to have said something to them all, too. You’ve been bloody marvellous, the lot of you. God bless. But he couldn’t speak. Not to worry. Main thing was, Charlie’d be all right now. Soon as R-Robert stopped they’d have the door open and get him out on a stretcher. He’d be in hospital in a jiffy and they’d look after him. He’d be all right. He shut his eyes again. He didn’t think they’d be able to do much for himself. Not to worry about that either. Rita wouldn’t care tuppence and Paulette wouldn’t miss what she’d never known. I wish I’d told Dorothy how I felt though, he thought. Too late now. But perhaps it’s just as well.

  Nineteen

  ‘SOMEONE TO SEE you, Charlie.’

  He turned his head to see Mum coming down the ward. He could tell she was worried stiff, in spite of the smile.

  ‘Charlie . . .’

  ‘I’m all right, Mum. Honest. It’s nothing to fuss about.’

  ‘They said you’d been wounded—’

  ‘It’s only the shoulder, and they took the bullet out. I’m fine.’

  ‘What about your head?’

  ‘That’s nothing. Just a scratch.’

  She sank down on the chair beside the bed and managed another smile. ‘Thank God. Were any of the others hurt?’

  ‘Harry was.’

  ‘Oh, poor Harry.’ She looked round the ward. ‘Is he in here too?’

  ‘He’s dead, Mum.’

  She looked shocked. Went white as anything. ‘Charlie! Oh, no! What happened?’

  ‘He got me out of the turret after I was wounded, and took my place, then the Jerry fighter went and copped him. I’d’ve been the one to get it otherwise.’

  There were tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Poor Harry. Oh, Charlie! Charlie . . .’

  He swallowed hard. Wiped his own eyes quickly. ‘Yes, I know. Anyhow, he shot the Jerry down, or Bert did. They’re not sure which one of them did it. Mum . . . did Harry ever say anything to you?’

  ‘What about?’

  Maybe he should tell her, but then what good would that do? Nothing could come of it now, and it might upset her more. ‘Oh, never mind.’ Instead, he pulled Sam out from his hiding place under the pillow. Blood-stained and battle-scarred Sam. The other blokes in the ward had been giving him a real leg-pull about having a teddy bear.

  ‘Could you take him back with you?’

  She looked at Sam, and then up at him. Her eyes were shining with tears. ‘I’ll give him a wash, shall I, Charlie? And a bit of a mend.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry about Harry, Van.’

  ‘We’re pretty sorry ourselves.’

  ‘He was a nice man.’

  ‘Yep. One of the very best.’

  Keep it off-hand. Mustn’t show how cut up you were. He’d learned that, if nothing else, in the past months. Dashed bad form, as Piers would say.

  ‘Congratulations on finishing your tour.’

  ‘Well, we were one of the lucky ones in the end . . . except for Harry.’

  ‘And on your DFC.’

  ‘How did you hear about that?’

  ‘News travels fast in a place like this. I heard Piers has one too.’

  ‘Can’t get anywhere without a good navigator and that’s a fact. Stew gets the DFM, did you hear that? I’ve kept on at them since we had that hang-up.’

  ‘He deserves it.’

  ‘Sure does. And they’re giving the same to Harry. Pity he won’t he around to collect it himself.’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘They should all have got gongs.
The whole damn crew. Every crew.’

  ‘I know.’

  They were standing outside the ops block in a wind like a razor’s edge.

  ‘Look, Catherine, can we go somewhere inside and talk a minute?’

  ‘I’m on duty in five minutes.’

  ‘That’s all it’ll take.’

  In the corridor, people kept pushing past, staring. He took no notice. ‘You were right about Peter,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I was such a jerk.’

  She looked up at him. ‘I was going to tell you, Van. I’ve had a letter from his mother. Peter tried to escape – made a dash for it over the wire. The guards shot him dead.’

  ‘Hell . . . I’d no idea. That’s bad.’

  ‘It’s what I was always afraid of: that he’d go and do something crazy like that.’

  More people went past. He could see them nudging each other.

  ‘I guess I’ve been even more of a jerk than I thought.’

  ‘No, you haven’t, Van. You didn’t know Peter. I did. And I never wrote that letter, thank God. I would have blamed myself for ever if I had.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go now.’

  ‘When will I see you?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll be posted, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks leave. Then the US Air Force want me to switch over to them. I’ll be converting onto B17s or 24s.’

  ‘A change of uniform as well.’

  ‘Yep, I’m getting the Yank one in London.’ He touched his RAF wings on his chest. ‘I get to keep these, though, and wear them. They mean a hell of a lot to me.’

  ‘And your DFC?’

  He nodded. ‘That, too. So they say. What I want to know, though, is what happens to us?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Supposing we start over?’

  ‘You mean back to square one? Like snakes and ladders?’

  ‘Snakes and ladders?’

  ‘Don’t you have it in America? It’s a board game, played with dice. You go up ladders and come down snakes. Sometimes you have to go back and start again at the first square.’

  ‘I guess that’s pretty much what I meant.’

  She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Assistant Section Officer Herbert, Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Delighted to meet you.’