One of the aircraftmen held his hand up like a child in a classroom.
‘Yes, lad?’
‘What do we do if we land on the sea, SAC?’
‘Wellingtons do not land on the sea, lad; they crash into the sea.’
‘I can’t swim, SAC.’
‘Then you will drown, lad. Just try to do it quietly.’
He took the seat next to mine. ‘If you don’t mind, sir?’
‘Not at all, chum. That was a smashing brief: I wish I’d written it down.’
‘All in the book, sir, providing you knows where to look. And if you wouldn’t mind . . . the lap belts as well, sirs. I need you to set the boys a good example.’
M’smith met my eye. We both grinned and complied. A green light came on over the bulkhead door between us and the flight crew. Jack o’Diamonds’ twin engines coughed asthmatically, one after the other. I could see the props through a long window in front of me – the latticework of the construction made it like seeing them through diamond-shaped Tudor glass window panes. The props dissolved into round shields shimmering in the air, and she began to move. The two-striper had been right: the noise was tremendous.
He winked at me, and produced a ball of cotton wool from his battledress pocket – then he handed us enough to fashion ear plugs for ourselves. The pilot opened the taps, and Jack made her bid for the air. I think we came off sideways. Just like old times.
At just about ten thousand feet Jack gave up; leastwise, that’s what it felt like. After a lurch we stopped climbing and levelled out. I know the height because there was an altimeter on the bulkhead alongside the crew door. The pilot then went into cruise mode and the noise level dropped. I removed my plugs, but kept them. M’smith and the section leader did the same. The first sprog lurched towards the paper bags.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked the SAC.
‘Bates, sir, and I’ve heard all the jokes. The teachers used to love my name when I was a nipper.’
‘Where have you been posted, Mr Bates?’
‘Abingdon, sir; I’m just along for the ride. I have to deliver this lot to Valletta. Then I go back.’
‘Malta?’
‘That’s right, sir. Luqa via Munich: a couple of long hops.’
‘I thought I was going to Egypt.’
‘You are, sir, but you’re not in a particular hurry, are you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I think you’ll find you’re routed Munich, Luqa and on to Cyprus. We have a service airfield near Limassol. That’ll take you the best part of three days. Cyprus will send you on; they have cruises to the Holy Land and the Land of the Pharaohs every week, on Thursdays. In fact you may not get into Suez for a week, so I hope you brought something to read, sir.’ He had a bit of a wicked grin. Three of his blokes were clutching bags now.
‘Why are we taking such a roundabout route?’
‘Mountains, sir. This old bitch – begging your pardon, sir – can’t fly over them, and the cabin’s not rigged for oxygen anyway. We have to go round.’
‘I could have worked that out for myself, couldn’t I?’
M’smith was sitting facing me. He said, ‘Don’t worry: it’ll all come back. Coffee?’ He opened a decent-size pack he’d lodged between his feet. It was khaki so he’d probably nicked it from the Brown Jobs. I spotted at least three thermoses among all the greaseproof packages. He must once have been a Boy Scout.
Munich was under civilian command again and, as airfields go, it looked pretty smart. They’d even had time to cut the grass and dig flower beds. Or maybe they’d just left the old ones there because, as we banked in the circuit over the end of the main runway, eight empty flower beds came magically together in a large dark swastika. The bastards never learn.
We’d flown six hundred and fifty miles in just over four and a half hours: not bad for the old Wimpy, I guessed. I wanted to stretch my legs and get some air, but there wasn’t much time. We taxied straight up to a refuelling bay, and started topping up. There was a misty bitter rain in the air, so it didn’t feel much warmer than England. I stood in the open door and looked north. Somewhere up there, near Frankfurt, I owned a big house that was rented out to the Americans. I hoped they were taking good care of it. I had acquired the place and a couple of neighbouring farms in a shady but fundamentally legal deal at the end of the war. It was amusing to think that I owned somewhere in Germany before I did in England.
Most of the lads took the opportunity to piss in the grass before we fuelled up. The Fraus driving the fuel bowser cracked up over it, pointed out the best specimens, and began cat-calling. The boys didn’t mind: most of them would have promised their dads and elder brothers to piss all over Germany if they had the chance. It was one of the things we still did then. Everything stopped when we were taxiing out for take-off. A Dutch DC-4 had conked out at the junction of the taxiway and the runways, and a queue built up behind it. We were about sixth in line. A smart old civvy tri-motor behind the Dutchman was apparently in unfamiliar colours.
I know this because the bulkhead door was open, and
