Pete and I sat on chairs outside the door. Pete offered me a Lucky. No matter where we were he could always get hold of Lucky Strikes.
After we lit up he said, ‘We got some catching up to do, and no time. You stick with that pipe and tobacco that girl gave you?’
The girl had been Grace.
‘Most of the time; but you’re right – no time: stick to essentials. Why aren’t you dead any more? Did God give you a reprieve?’
Piotr laughed.
‘You’re very English, Charlie. You know that?’
‘No. Pete; the last time I saw you alive we were climbing into Tuesday’s Child. I dogged the fuselage door shut, and you checked I’d locked it. You did that every trip. It was our ritual.’
‘That’s right. I don’t remember a lot about that trip. I remember calling out a small town in Germany to Conners so that he could check our drift. He was pleased. He said we were bang on.’
‘That was on the way back.’
‘Right. We were in Belgium, near Ostend. Nearly back to the Channel.’
‘What do you remember next?’
‘Two things. An extreme concussion . . . pouff!! All the lights went out. My turret wouldn’t move, neither would the guns. I got an electric burn from the breech of one. What was it; night fighter?’
‘Lightning. We were bloody well struck by lightning. It knocked me out for a few seconds. I think that it earthed on the trailing aerial, and came in through the radio. I could feel the electricity arcing across my teeth before I passed out.’
‘I worked out for myself that the second one wasn’t the Kraut . . .’
‘No. It was our own bloody Ack-Ack. Some trigger-happy bastard. He bracketed us, and then put one underneath.’
‘Not underneath you, Charlie; underneath me. Focking bastard!’
‘What happened?’
‘Blew the bloddy turret away, didn’t he? What height do you think we had?’
‘Not much: no more than a few thousand.’
‘Bloddy turret fell to pieces around me.’ He did it again. ‘I pulled the ring and the bloddy parachute harness nearly tore my balls off. They swelled like cricket balls the next day.’
‘Pete: you didn’t have a ’chute. I found your ’chute in the aircraft later. In its rack.’ Then I remembered. ‘You kept an extra one in the turret with you. One of those small ones for low jumps. Just in case you never got back into the plane.’
‘I used to sit on it, like a fighter pilot. Sometimes it’s good to be small. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, it is. Isn’t it? How far did you fall?’
‘Fock knows. The canopy goes bang, above my head. I jerk to a stop. I scream because my balls are in a vice, and then my feet are on the ground. What was it the comedian you like to hear always said?’
‘Just like that?’
‘Yes, Charlie. Just like that. And I am in Belgium. That was months ago.’
‘I know that was months ago. Why the fuck haven’t you come back? Everyone thinks that you’re dead.’
‘You need a silver bullet to kill me. What happened to you?’
‘We never flew again. Brookie screened us away from flying. Had a great party. I met Glenn Miller before he was killed.’
‘Everyone met Glenn Miller.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Bollocks. I wouldn’t tell anyone else; I was tired of being taken for a Greek. ‘Anyway. They split the crew. Grease was officered before that last trip, and went home to fly the Canadian prairies. He got really odd about it: didn’t want to go. They got me at my next posting, and sewed a ring on my sleeve. Marty, Toff and Conners all sodded off to OTUs and OCUs, and Fergal went to the priests’ school. He’ll remuster as a Chaplain or Padre. Did you know that Marty carried a Gideon Bible with him on every trip we did? He got us to sign the flyleaf before we split, and then gave it to Fergal. Because you weren’t there to sign I printed your name above mine.’
‘Who got Tuesday?’
‘Brookie did. I think that’s why he retired us early: so he could get his hands on a better kite. It didn’t work though . . .’
‘How is that?’
‘Tuesday never liked him. She crashed and burned him a couple of days later: only the tail gunner got out.’
‘Tuesday liked tail gunners.’
‘No: she just liked us.’
‘Where they send you?’
‘Tempsford: just down the road. Special Duties squadron . . . a very odd lot. They seemed to fly when they liked.’
‘That was a bad break for you.’
‘Not really. I had a ground job . . . but then I played silly buggers; scored a trip as a spare prick in an old Stirling, and the bastard crashed and burned on take-off. Burned my neck and my chin and my shoulders.’
‘I wouldn’t have noticed.’
‘That’s good, Pete. Now tell me properly. Why haven’t you come back?’
‘Charlie; since I join your focking Air Force I been shot at by Krauts and English fliers, shot at by secret policemen, chased by service policemen, locked up in your English prison for painting the tits of an English girl in the Polish colours – which I never did – bounced around Germany freezing to death in the back of a Lancaster bomber – and lastly shot down by our own guns. You tell me, Charlie. If you were me, would you go back to England if you had the chance to bugger off?’
I leaned back against the Quonset, and breathed a huge sigh of pleasure and relief. Pete said, ‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘I can’t. You’re right. No clever man would go back to England.’
‘Charlie,’ he asked me. ‘What happened to you? You’re wearing a half a sailor’s suit, an Army top and a Yankee flying jacket. You joined the mafia?’
‘Is there a Polish one?’
‘Not yet. Not until I make one. Me and that Yank Tommo. He says he knows you.’
‘That’s right. Is he round here?’
‘Somewhere. I’ll tell him.’
‘So, you’re OK? Really OK?’
‘Sure, Charlie. I’m a bit careful these days, but really OK. I even
