VIII

It was pretty early to start getting ready but that was better than a last-minute panic. Anyway, what was the time now? He might as well have got togged up this morning and hung around the crew-room all day in his flying kit. It would have been boring, that was all. He’d gained nothing by walking about all day, in and out of the mess, to his room and back, all for no reason. The walk to the village had been profitable, but twenty cigarettes – although very acceptable – had only a sort of local importance. They added nothing to his life. Time-killing without them would have been a little harder, that’s all there was to it. Like those two beers he’d had, like having the mess to go to, the band to listen to, the dancers to look at, the girl in green to talk to – they were all things to make the process of time-killing appear to be less of a waste of time.

Was that why anybody did anything? Was the whole of one’s life made up of time-killing incidents? Obviously some people had found better ways of doing it than others, war or no war. Those who were rich could do it at a higher standard than those who weren’t. Others might have achieved something. But for the vast majority, who had neither the money nor the satisfaction of achievement, life could become, and in lots of cases must have become, an exceedingly tedious string of trivial, incidental events. Some might say they had had a fine game of tennis or had watched a good football match. Would they have had a more enjoyable time than the person who had slept the entire afternoon? The answer, of course, was that they had found a way of killing an afternoon successfully. And if life is like that, why do people fear death so much, when in death the whole problem would be automatically solved?

What, then, was he afraid of? Mason knew he was frightened of the pain he would experience – even if you’re killed ‘instantly’, as they say, you must feel something before you actually die – but he wasn’t sure if that was all he was afraid of. He’d experienced pain before and knew it wasn’t the pain that killed you but the thing which caused the pain.

No, it couldn’t be the fear of pain. Then it must be the fear of being dead, and not of dying. And yet, life was merely a struggle to amuse and entertain yourself until you died of old age. One surely didn’t cling to life for that reason – just so as to die of old age?

Probably everybody clung desperately to life for as long as possible because they feared the unknown. When they killed time for themselves they knew what was happening, but to have the necessity of killing time taken away – to have time killed for them in an unknown manner – was a different thing, and as such, was frightening.

It was, then, without a doubt, being dead that Mason was afraid of.

Anyway, whichever way he looked at it, he was back where he started – still frightened.

It was rather a surprise on reaching the crew-room to find somebody already there. It was Lane, a navigator, and he had evidently just finished making some last-minute adjustments to his maps and notes. He was putting them away into a carrier and looked up as the door opened.

‘Hello’, Lane said. ‘You’re early. Keen type, eh?’

‘Early, yes. Keen type, no.’

Mason watched Lane finish packing his navigation paraphernalia and was glad he wasn’t a navigator, having to lug all that stuff around: maps, notes, code-charts, instruments. Identification signals to worry about – all fiddling things.

‘I hear you’re being posted’, Lane said suddenly.

‘Yes, in about a week.’

‘Your rest period, of course? Do you know where you’re going yet?’

‘Scotland. Ops training – unless I go for a burton before.’ He didn’t know why he said that to Lane and smiled to show he wasn’t really worried about it.

Lane smiled too but became serious again and said, ‘What do you honestly think our chances are of getting through – even our first tour?’

‘Well’ – Mason had slung off his respirator and was unbuttoning his tunic – ‘I’ve never tried to work out the actual percentages. And you’ll never see them printed anywhere.’ That bottom button was coming off. Must get it done.

‘I’ve done fifteen now’, Lane was saying, ‘and when I think I’m only half-way through, I can’t see much chance of getting away with it for another fifteen times, without the extra couple they seem to chuck in for luck these days.’

Mason didn’t know Lane thought that way, and felt a sudden liking for him. He wanted to cheer him up by saying he’d got through 30, but wasn’t that rather asking for it? That business again of tempting fate, or something? He hadn’t finished his tour yet. There was tonight, and probably at least another trip after that, if he wasn’t being posted for a week. There was the case of Barclay the other night, missing on his 32nd op – the last of his tour. Lane broke in again, just as Mason was trying to think of something to say.

‘Tough luck on old Ted Barclay, wasn’t it?’

Mason looked quickly at Lane but he was busy taking off his tunic and gave no appearance of having knowingly read his thoughts.

‘Damn tough.’ He began taking off his collar and tie. ‘Not much hope either.’

‘Why?’ Lane was taking his tie off. ‘Have you heard anything?’

‘The Signals Section say they picked up the aircraft asking for a bearing, but it seemed as though the aircraft wasn’t receiving anything. Then they went out of range and that was the last heard of them. Must have passed clean over England and come down in the drink.’

Both had their tunics, collars and ties off now.

‘Poor devils’, Lane said as they began to walk across the corridor into the locker-room, and his far-away look was obviously a reflection of the picture he had in his mind of the scene in the aircraft that night: anxious eyes peering out into the darkness, looking for a break in the clouds, hoping for it to coincide with something they could identify their position by, a beacon, a lake, a river – anything. And all the while the engines would be droning on, relentlessly, taking them they knew further and further away from their last known position, which might have been as far back as the enemy coastline. The atmosphere would be tense, with long periods of silence, words passed only when necessary, and then in the shortest possible sentences, clarity being far more important than grammar – the radio operator feverishly working on his morse-key, probably unaware that his receiver was faulty.

‘Lot of cloud that night’, Lane went on as they reached the locker-room. ‘Wind changed too, if I remember.’

There were a couple of other chaps already in there, and after a minute or two the rest began to drift in. The room filled with noise: locker doors slamming, laughter, swearing, and chatter – that bright, brittle chatter of voices pitched a little higher than normal, laughter a little too gay, in some cases sounding harsh and unreal because it required more effort than usual. Everybody was very happy-go-lucky, and oh, in such high spirits.

Looking down the room, Mason saw Lane at the far end, and noticed that he was taking no part in this back-chatting gaiety while he quietly pulled on his parachute harness. He had often spoken to Lane, at meals, in the bar and so on, but he didn’t realise that he had got over his ‘I’ll get through if nobody else does’ phase. He felt sorry for him, as he did for everybody who began to develop those nagging doubts.

Mason pulled on his second boot, took his helmet, intercom and gloves out of the locker, shut the door and went back to the crew-room.

‘Hello, Les’, a voice said behind him, loudly. It was Harper, of course. He was the sort of bloke who wouldn’t realise how he hated being called ‘Les’.

‘All ready?’

Harper shouted back, ‘Will be in a jiffy’, and disappeared into the locker-room.

Why did some people irritate others? And why were some people irritated by others? One was often inclined to think that because you, personally, found a particular person irritating, that person must be an irritating person. That couldn’t be so, or otherwise that fellow Harper, for instance, would have no friends at all. So his friends must be irritating too, working on the birds of a feather principle. That meant you had two main groups, both groups thinking the other irritating. Amusing thought, that.

Mason wondered how many people found him irritating, and suddenly, with quite a shock, he realised that these days he had no real friends on the station. So presumably they all found his company unattractive. Horrible, really. The fact that he didn’t try to make friends made no difference – they weren’t to know he hadn’t always been like that. Others had probably tried to be friendly with him but he hadn’t reciprocated, and was therefore considered morose or bad-tempered, or supercilious, or just plain unfriendly. Or irritating. A pity that, but he couldn’t help it. Hell, what did it matter anyway? His friends were in his memory, and he still gained comfort from their company. And there was Bill Bailey – good old understanding Bill.

Somebody came into the crew-room carrying a bag of rations and a Thermos of coffee. Better go and get his.

When he got back the crew-room was full, and very noisy. The fellows were standing about in groups, mostly in crews, and he looked for his crew. Tomlinson was there, talking to Holt, and as he joined them Dent walked up. Only Harper to come now. Over in the corner Lane was standing a little apart from his crew, gazing at a wall poster which he must have known by heart because it had been there as long as Mason could remember.

The C.O. came into the room in tennis clothes but wearing his uniform cap, jumped onto the table and shouted above the din that the tenders were outside waiting.

The fellows began filing through the door and Mason walked out with Tomlinson and Holt, Dent following. The C.O. was now standing just inside the door and as they passed he nodded, grinning, and said, ‘Good trip, Mason’.

He nodded back. ‘Thank you, sir.’ It worried him rather that the C.O. should have said that. He hadn’t said it to anybody else. Was it anything to do with these last two trips, so near and yet so far? Nice of him but rather disturbing.

‘Where’s Harper?’ Dent said from behind Mason.

‘Christ knows. Give him a yell, will you?’

Dent put his head into the locker-room and almost collided with Harper as he came blundering out.

They all managed to get into the same tender. It was very noisy and crowded, full of flying kit, boots, parachute packs and navigators’ bags. It was hot too. Then everybody started shouting to the driver as though he was the one holding things up. ‘Contact!’ ‘Pull the chocks away!’ ‘Time to get up, driver!’ ‘Pull your finger out!’ ‘“B for Bunty” first!’ ‘Hurry up, I feel bloodthirsty!’ Somebody started singing, taken up by several others, ‘They scraped him off the tarmac like a pound of strawberry jam’. To a crescendo of shouting, singing and cheering they started off, and somebody who had chosen that moment to stand up fell onto everybody else, and then rolled to the floor, where in spite of his shouts he was prevented from getting up, adding something extra to the noise and confusion.

It was more comfortable when one crew got out at the first aircraft.

Mason was glad ‘G for George’ was the last machine – it meant they would be longer in the tender. He realised how stupid that would sound if he told anybody, but it was quite true, he did feel like that. It was putting things off just that little bit longer. He wondered if the tender could go on and on until the end of the war. When they got to ‘G for George’ and had to get out he felt a strange reluctance to do so. It frightened him a little, to feel like that. It had never happened before, about getting out of the tender. When he jumped down it was like breaking another thread.

The van turned round and Mason stood and watched until it disappeared behind a gun emplacement, knowing while he did so that it must have seemed odd to the ground crew, if any of them were watching. The rest of his crew wouldn’t notice; they were getting into the aircraft.

It was a peculiar feeling, watching that tender going away, leaving them out there with the aircraft. It seemed as though another link had been broken. That link would only be reconnected after they had taken off, gone to the Ruhr and back, and landed again. It was such a small link to support that great weight.

Mason turned and walked to the machine, and one of the ground crew held the steps while he climbed in. That damned smell. Why did aircraft have to have that smell? Sweet, sickly and, well – yes, it was a deathlike smell. ‘Smell of death’ – that was more like it, because it suggested the future, whereas ‘deathlike smell’ suggested something past. Ken had mentioned something similar once; so had Bill Bailey.

As he slid into his seat Mason became aware of the other aircraft engines starting and warming up. The clock on the instrument panel said 10.25. Better get cracking. Over on the left ‘S for Sugar’ seemed all ready to move off to the runway. The steps had been taken away, and one of the ground crew was waving, probably answering the pilot’s thumbs-up signal.

Mason’s eye caught a movement on the ground beneath him and he realised a mechanic was trying to attract his attention, wanting to know if he was ready to start the engines. He gave thumbs-up and glanced round the cabin to see if the others were ready. They were all absorbed in their own jobs and apparently had no trouble to report.

One engine started up straight away with a great roar. Mason could never understand why those flames that shot out didn’t set fire to the whole machine. The terrific rush of air from the airscrew, of course, kept them in one direction and away from the fuselage, but even so, they seemed awfully close.

What the hell was wrong with the other engine? The damned thing started all right this afternoon. They tried again but it showed no signs of firing. One of the mechanics shouted to him, and climbing on top of the engine, took the cowling off and began fiddling about with something inside.

They tried again. Still no good, and the mechanic climbed up again. Another one stood on the top of the steps helping him. Might as well switch the other engine off. ‘S for Sugar’ began to move off. They were supposed to follow her.

There was a roar from the far end of the runway. That was the first machine taking off, and they hadn’t warmed up yet. ‘B for Bunty’ passed very close on the left, only a few feet up, with that crackling roar of engines at full boost, as though they were angry. One of the crew stuck two fingers up at Mason. Mechanically he stuck two up in answer.

And still that bloody engine wouldn’t start. The Flight Sergeant Mechanic had come over and taken charge. Then the C.O. arrived to see what the trouble was.

Another machine went off: ‘M for Mother’. That was Lane’s aircraft – hope he’d be all right.

They seemed to have half the engine spread all over the aerodrome now. ‘G for George’ might not be able to go tonight, and there was no spare machine. If those blokes down there knew what Mason was thinking they would probably call him unpatriotic, or a coward or something.

He looked round as he heard the next machine approaching. It passed almost overhead but he managed to read ‘C’ on the side. ‘C for Charlie’ – that was Simpson. Might have known it: it was a miracle how he always managed to get his aircraft into the air without having to use all the runway. Good luck, cock, you’ve got a date tomorrow.

Better get out and show a little interest. Keen, annoyed at this delay, that’s what he must be. But just as Mason was getting out of his seat the Flight Sergeant looked up at him with a proud smile and gave thumbs-up, confident that he’d cured the trouble, very pleased with himself. The rest of the ground crew began putting the parts back into the engine, anxious to get it done as soon as possible. As Mason sat back another aircraft went over. One more to go besides him.

It was hot sitting there – the machine had been in the sun all day. It was like a greenhouse, and they were being ripened. Mason recognised Dent’s voice over the intercom asking the time. Twenty to eleven, Holt told him. Tomlinson said he was hungry and was going to start on his rations.

They were putting the cowling back. The Flight Sergeant watched them impatiently until the last screw was put into place, and then turned and waved a hand, indicating that they were ready. ‘S for Sugar’ roared past, and everything became quiet. The Flight Sergeant was wiping his hands on a bit of rag as though he didn’t expect to have to dirty them again. The first engine started again without any trouble, and Mason flipped the switch for the other engine, conscious that all eyes below were gazing expectantly. He pressed the button and the blades began slowly to turn. Suddenly a puff of blue smoke and the engine burst into life with a shattering triumphant roar. Everybody on the ground was all smiles and looking up at him. They’d done a good job. Mason pretended to be concentrating on the instrument panel – it was easier. The C.O. got into his car, waved and drove off.

Mason ran the engines up in the routine manner, concentrating a little more on the one which had given the trouble. Revs all right, pressure all right – they were both running beautifully. The fellows on the runway must be wondering what had happened. A final searching look along the instrument panel, and he gave the okay. Two fellows pulled the blocks away, and as he started to taxi, the ground crew waved. He and the others in the cabin waved back. One of the ground crew chaps stood watching as the others started walking towards the dispersal unit. Mason waved a hand and the chap answered, before passing out of sight behind the machine.

The ground was very bumpy – perhaps he was going too fast. Mustn’t forget that dip where Pepper tipped his aircraft over onto a wing and wrecked an undercarriage. Mustn’t do that tonight. It would be quite easy: just a little too fast, one wheel in the dip, and that would be that. Mason knew exactly where it was and left it a long way over on his right. He turned the machine towards the head of the runway.

They were waiting for him, of course, when he arrived. He swung the aircraft round onto the runway and allowed her to come to a stop, the engines ticking over. The Duty Officer was giving him the all-clear. They were late, nearly five to eleven. Mason switched on the intercom. ‘Here we go, chaps.’