II

The lane swung left and there on the right lay the aerodrome. The aircraft were being prepared for the trip tonight. Ground crews were bombing up, pumping in petrol, checking oil, the controls, the lights, the guns, the radio, in fact going through the whole routine as laid down by authorities who, of course, wanted the aircraft to return. They wanted them to return because they had to go again, and again, and then again. When an aircraft didn’t return another one would be sent to take its place, and a new phase for that particular ground crew would begin, but the same routine.

Looking at the first aircraft that came into view, a peculiar sensation caused Mason’s footsteps to falter, and he knew he had felt it before, but couldn’t remember where or when. And he wanted to remember because it worried him, like forgetting an important phone number and having no record of it. It was something transmitted from the aircraft and it caused a stir in his breast. Then he remembered. A picture formed in his mind, coming slowly into focus.

It was the day on which for the first time he had turned that corner, he and the eleven others sitting in the transport, still conscious of their shining new wings and the neatly packed flying kit at their feet. Up till then the journey from the station had been chattily noisy, the conversation excitedly trivial. They had finished training and were now fully qualified aircrew, going on ops. They were ‘Bomber Boys’. As the transport turned the corner, the driver said, ‘There she is’, and everybody looked out. There was nothing new to see – they had all seen many aircraft of exactly the same type as the one which now came into sight. They had been trained to fly them. But somehow there was something different about this one. It was like coming face to face with a well known but dangerous animal, which, though fully trained, could not really be trusted. There was something sinister about it, and it seemed to be enveloped in an atmosphere of grimness and purpose, making the aircraft they had just left at the training station seem like animals of the same species, but subdued to a point of spiritless docility.

Twelve pairs of eyes travelled to each aircraft as it came into view, and watched in silence. This was it – no more fooling about, and if you suddenly decided you didn’t like this sort of thing it was too late to back out. No more flippant cross-country flights, secretly comforted by the thought that if anything went wrong there was always an aerodrome or a field somewhere about to lob down on. Or, if the worst came to the worst, bale out and get a lift in a passing car. Mason remembered saying, ‘We’ve done it now, Ken’. Ken grinned back and nodded.

The transport turned in to the main gate and stopped at the Guard Room, and while the driver went in to report, they all sat there, feeling a little foolish, like new boys on the first day of term.

A stout little Sergeant came strutting out, jumped onto a bike much too big for him, and said ‘Follow me’ briskly to the driver. Mason thought vaguely that somebody could have put his head into the truck and said, ‘Hello, chaps’, or something, but nobody did.

They pulled up at a long, brick-built, two-storey building with an entrance at one end. It was very new, the area around bearing evidence of the builders’ recent and apparently hasty evacuation.

‘Here yer rooms’, yelled the Sergeant, as though determined to kill instantly any ideas they might have that he was a bloody hotel porter. ‘Some of the rooms are occupied. Help yourselves to the others. The keys are inside, and don’t lose them – when you go on ops, hand them in to the mess steward.’

They stared at him in silence from the truck as he mounted the bike and rode off, his fat backside sliding from side to side, establishing his contempt beyond all doubt.

The driver had left the engine running and that brought them to their senses. As they climbed out somebody said, ‘I don’t think I’m going to like that bloke’.

Bailey answered him. ‘Aw, forget him. He’s one of the bastards who think the war has spoilt the Air Force.’

Wright was the last man out – he usually was – and the driver moved off, rapidly, to show that the fifteen-mile-an-hour regulation did not apply to old hands like him.

Although it was only five o’clock the corridor inside the building was rather dark and the lights had not yet been fitted. The wires hung from the ceiling, knotted, without holders. There was a breathtaking smell of fresh paint and wet plaster, and the air was gritty with powdered cement. The wash-room, into which they drifted after dumping their kit, was a long room, bare except for a row of wash-basins and some shower-bath cubicles. Lying about the concrete floor were several pieces of wood which had been used to stir paint, and in one corner a bottomless, plaster-encrusted bucket lay on its side. The wash-basins and windows were splattered with dried paint and cement, and the whole place gave the impression that the builders, driven out against their will, had fought a strong rearguard action.

That evening in the mess all twelve of them kept more or less together, a sort of instinctive precaution against the slight atmosphere of hostility they found in there. There were only two or three fellows in there young enough to be aircrew, and even these seemed to pick their way warily amongst this invasion of new mess members.

Later that evening when Mason, Ken and Bill Bailey were standing at the bar and had now given up the idea of the celebration they expected to have but which somehow did not materialise, though they drank quite a lot, Bailey leant back against the bar facing the room, both elbows on the counter, and looked around distastefully. He was a little drunk and rather truculent because it didn’t make him feel elevated. Then he began to sing, not loudly but loudly enough, and with enormous solemnity, ‘God save our Gracious King. Long live our noble King …’

‘For Christ’s sake’, Ken hissed at him, looking apprehensively at the bewildered faces around the room.

‘… God save our King.’

Ken said, ‘I’m going to bed’.

‘So am I’, said Mason. ‘Are you hanging on, Bill?’

‘No’, Bailey answered. ‘Coming now.’ He tossed back his drink, looked around challengingly, carefully replaced his glass, and walked unsteadily to the door.