Bollocks.
‘Doing what, sir?’
‘Would you believe that you’re showing the flag?’
‘No, sir, I wouldn’t.’
‘Sightseeing then; you’ll have Nansen with you, so try to keep him out of trouble for once.’
The MO declined to make any more puncture marks in me, but gave me some thick sloppy stuff to drink, and some ointment. I had seen the ointment before in 1944. It had the consistency of the stuff Castrol sold for greasing cars.
‘What’s this for, Doc?’
‘The trots. Everyone gets them in Istanbul. Don’t panic when your shit turns a khaki dark-green colour with yellow streaks, and starts running out of you like Emil Zatopek. Just dose yourself up and stay close to a bog for a day. After that, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible . . . probably.’
I didn’t like the probably, but, generally speaking, I don’t like doctors either. Just like coppers, they all fancy themselves as comedians, and these days it’s remarkable how many of them manage to get on to the telly or the radio – once they realize that they’re no good at doctoring, and not corruptible enough to make it into Parliament.
‘Somebody stole your fore an’ after,’ Oliver told me. ‘I must have had my back turned.’ It wasn’t what he said, you see; it was always the way he said it that made you look up. Anyway, it was the narrow RAF forage titfer he was talking about. It sat on the top of your head looking like a fanny waiting for a kiss, and made you look like an air cadet. I hated the bloody thing – so I wasn’t going to report it.
He changed the subject. ‘Good leave?’
‘They murdered someone while I was there. A New Zealander.’
‘I told you that you weren’t going to like it over here. See any dancers?’
‘I met one in the Blue Kettle.’
‘Just the one?’
‘I met the same one twice.’
‘Hope you’ve been to the Doc for some of the old cock wash.’
‘Just come from him, if you must know. Have you got a beer? I’ve just been drinking something obnoxious with the Wing Commander.’
‘You have the words in the wrong order, Charlie, but yes, we have some beer. It’s about time you contributed some of your own.’
Who would I have to see? I asked myself. Pat Tobin? I rearranged the words I had last used. The best I could come up with was I’ve just been drinking something with the obnoxious Wing Commander. Maybe Nancy was brighter than he looked.
The next day we climbed back into an aeroplane.
In some ways the aircraft was a miracle. It was a miracle because most of the things the RAF had stuffed me into so far had been beat-up and falling to pieces. One of the things you are almost certainly unaware of is that the bright, shiny war planes you see dancing in the sky at air shows are not typical of RAF equipment. Most of the real kit it uses needs a fresh paint job, has bits missing and several essential systems that won’t work. The Varsity sitting on the strip for us at Deversoir looked brand-new. RAF Transport Command at its very best: a polished and beautiful passenger aircraft. All we needed was a couple of those BOAC trolley dollies and I probably would refuse to get out of her again.
The problems started when we climbed up inside, because if this was a Transport Command ship then I was a Dutchman, mijnheer. The pilot and his oppo hadn’t shaved for a couple of days – they looked like thugs. There was a bang-up-to-date-radio rig behind the pilot, for me . . . although a bulkhead separated us, and across the walk space from me was a decent navigation table with bloody M’smith already seated at it.
He said, ‘Hi, Charlie. Good leave?’
‘Fine thanks. I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Fayid. The old man likes to keep us spread about a bit.’ Were Nancy and I being billeted closer to Watson so he could keep an eye on us?
There was a radar station behind M’smith, still facing forward, but anything portable was missing. Nansen slid into the seat, and began to sort out his cameras. We stowed our small packs beneath him. Oh; I forgot the policemen. There were two RAF policemen wearing side arms sitting up close to the tail. Sightseeing with guns in their hands. Who knows – perhaps it will catch on? Bung on the old earphones, Charlie.
In my ears I heard the skipper’s voice ask, ‘Everyone nailed down?’ . . . and the acknowledgements he received one by one. Then he opened the taps and we were airborne in two shakes of her tail. I was impressed by her speed and nimbleness, compared with the Jack o’ Diamonds from whom she had been developed. A stressed-skin fuselage can make all the difference. Apart from the occasional instruction the skipper was a man of few words. In fact, practically none. I eventually worked out that he was an Australian, so he probably didn’t know all that many words anyway – you know what Aussies are like. The co-pilot/engineer came back for a chat now and again, and he and Oliver went down to the tail occasionally, to share a smoke with the coppers.
It was while they were doing this that I asked M’smith, ‘What do we need coppers on board for? Are they frightened we won’t come back?’
‘Nothing as sinister, Charlie. They’ll guard the aircraft when we’re on the ground – keep Johnny Foreigner at arm’s length.’
I didn’t even have all that much to do. Once the pilot had set course I flipped a couple of switches on a newish piece of kit. It looked like a wire recorder, but used a spool of plasticky tape, and
