III

All that was … how long ago, when he had first seen the aircraft which had looked at the same time both familiar and strange? Just a year. Mason wondered how many replacements there had been at that dispersal point since that day a year ago. Whether there’d be another one after tonight.

Sometimes when an aircraft was lost, especially the first night, he would think what a shocking waste it was. He often wondered if the factory workers ever said to themselves, ‘That’ll do – it won’t last long anyway’. No new aircraft he had ever seen had given that impression, in fact he was always amazed at the thoroughness with which even the smallest detail had been finished off. It was difficult to understand because he felt that if he were working in an aircraft factory, he would see the futility in turning out a job as though a customer was going to examine it before buying it. Couldn’t imagine anyone saying, ‘I’ll think it over and let you know’, and put off buying the thing in case he found a better one.

The life expectancy of an aircraft was very short, but no time or trouble seemed to be spared to set the dials at the exact angle, or finish off the paintwork to the last niche and corner. The knobs on the switches and levers were always of the best quality, when it wouldn’t matter, if one were in a hurry, if there were no knobs at all. The things could be worked just the same.

Another thing too – there was that little aluminium ladder clamped inside the fuselage of every aircraft for the convenience of those who wanted to get in by the rear door. Mason seldom saw anybody use it – he never did. It was much quicker and far less bother to put one knee on the step and haul yourself up.

It gave him a comfortable feeling, though, to think that there were people who didn’t consider it a waste, at least pretending that each aircraft made would last a normal lifetime. Perhaps that was the idea – to give the crews that comfortable feeling. Now he came to think of it, that thought gave him more comfort than anything else on his first trip. It hadn’t seemed possible that all the work and money that had gone into the making of the aircraft could be wasted the first time out. And yet when the flak started coming up, that argument seemed so futile. Time and money had nothing to do with it.

There had been plenty of flak that night too. At briefing they had been told there would be.

‘Mostly light stuff, though’, the Briefing Officer had said, ‘so if you keep above it you should be all right.’

It was a pitch black night and the sky was crowded with stars. No moon. Over Southend on the way out a couple of searchlights wavered about ineffectively. Whether they were serious or not was hard to tell, but no action was needed to avoid them.

The whole crew were doing their first op – Wood, the navigator; Plover, second pilot and bomb aimer; Long, the wireless operator; and Drake, the tail gunner. None of them were left now. They all got split up after a time and one by one their faces disappeared from the crew-room.

The journey out on that first trip dragged like hell, and nobody spoke, the drone of the engines and the darkness enclosing each one of them in a little world of his own. Alone with his thoughts and that funny feeling in his stomach.

Wood was the first to speak. ‘Target coming up in ten minutes’, he said, putting aside his navigator’s pad. From then on the atmosphere changed, in a subtle sort of way. Wood was sitting up a little straighter than he had been, and behind him Long flashed a torch on the radio panel, causing a faint reflective glow in the cabin. The pulse of the aircraft seemed to have quickened, and the readings on the instrument panel took on a different meaning – a new significance. The mainplane stretching out into the darkness on the left looked such an easy target, and there were two of them, both vital to the safety of the aeroplane. The fierce blue-white flames coming from the exhausts couldn’t be missed by a fighter behind them, surely? Below was black silence. They were still over the sea, just coming up to the coast.

‘Coast coming up.’ Plover’s voice from the front turret brought Wood to his feet, crouching at the side window. ‘The town should be over on the right’, he said. ‘Can’t see anything yet, though.’ He sat down again, still looking out.

The next few minutes went quickly. Mason expected flak crossing the coast, but nothing happened. Five thousand feet – that should be all right. There was the town, just up the coast.

Plover’s voice said, ‘Bombs ready’.

‘Right.’

Skirting the town on the land side, Mason could see odd little lights flickering down there, necessary lights which could not be doused altogether: train signals, travelling vehicles, and dock working lights. Well inland, he swung the aircraft hard over and headed for the town.

‘Over to the left a bit’, Plover said. ‘I can see the river. A bit more. That’s it, hold her there.’

They were over the edge of the town, flying straight and level towards the harbour.

‘Still left a bit more. I can see the docks now.’ Plover was thankful to be doing something at last.

Suddenly, what appeared to be a firework display began. A cluster of lights, starting from one source, travelled skywards, spraying out at the top before curving over gracefully and disappearing. Then more clusters started up, suddenly appearing from unexpected places in the darkness below, until a pattern took shape and it could be seen that a curtain was encircling the harbour. One or two sprays were coming from the harbour itself. Flak ships. Flak – the word brought with it the realisation that this was gunfire; any one of those travelling lights could bring the aircraft down. They were still in front and from this distance it didn’t seem necessary to climb higher to keep above them. The main worry was fighters. No searchlights yet.

‘Coming up to the target.’ Plover’s voice wasn’t quite as calm now; he was speaking a little louder, a little faster. ‘Right a bit.’ Pause. ‘A bit more. Too much – left.’

Pause. ‘Just like that. Hold it.’ If the engines suddenly cut there would still be silence.

Plover’s voice made Mason start as he yelled excitedly, ‘Right a bit! Right a bit … damn and blast. Round again. Sorry.’

No need for Plover to be sorry. This was his first serious bomb-aiming attempt. ‘Don’t worry, cock. This is a little different to a bombing range back home’, Mason told him.

Wood came in: ‘If you don’t get in next time, though, I’ll have your guts for garters.’

It was fascinating looking straight down at the flak coming up. When you picked out one tracer shell as it left the ground, it seemed to be travelling very slowly, heading directly for the aircraft, and then just when it seemed that it couldn’t miss, it veered off at an incredible speed and disappeared, quicker than the eye could follow. Looking straight down it was impossible not to pick out one particular shell and follow it, and it was difficult to believe that they would all veer off before they reached the aircraft.

Over the sea, Mason swung the machine to the left this time, so that banking round he could examine the target area. Most of the guns had stopped firing, leaving one or two still optimistically raking the sky. With what object he didn’t know, because they were a mile off and there were no other aircraft on the same target that night. He held the aircraft in a wide bank, keeping the docks in sight all the time, until several miles behind the town he pulled her round a bit more to head for the target, then straightened out for the next run-in. Almost immediately the guns opened up again. The nose of the aircraft hid the target now and it was up to Plover.

‘Keep like that’, Plover said. ‘Steady as she goes.’ Plover was being flippant for the sake of something to say. ‘Right a bit … a bit more … hold it … hold it …’ With frightening suddenness a searchlight stabbed the sky a little to their left, then another on the right.

‘Searchlights behind.’ That was Drake in the tail. Must be some more at the back. The two on either side had now joined up out in front, a little too high, then a third joined them from somewhere behind.

‘Hold her steady. Just coming up.’ Plover’s voice reminded Mason they were on a bombing run. Although the lights hadn’t found them yet, it seemed awfully bright up there. He wished Plover would hurry up. Any moment those lights …

‘Bombs gone!’

The relief of hearing those words did not last long. At almost the same time one of the lights broke away from the cone, swung towards them and swept the aircraft with a fierce glare. Then another, but this one caught them and held them. In a matter of seconds they were held fast in a cone of dazzling brightness. The engines screamed and everything was vibrating, as with nose down and full throttle the aircraft headed out to sea. Any moment Mason expected fighter bullets to come tearing into them. They were down to two thousand feet and well over the sea, but still the lights held them. A risk had to be taken with the flak but they were out of range now. Several miles later and at fifteen hundred feet one of the lights gave up, and shortly after another, leaving just one still on them. Not long after, at the extremity of its power, this too went out, and they were left in blessed darkness once more.

Mason straightened out and relaxed in his seat, glancing at Wood. Wood leant back too and grinned, making a brow-mopping gesture. ‘Op Number One’, he said into the intercom.

Drake’s voice said, ‘Number One? We haven’t got to do any more, have we?’