XI

Apart from his efficiency as a navigator, Tomlinson was a very useful bloke to have in the crew, for his calm confidence. If his confidence meant anything, the whole crew would come through safely tonight.

The intercom came on.

‘You can’t see anything in front, I suppose?’ Dent asked. ‘No lights or anything?’

Mason almost laughed at Dent’s tone. It sounded peevish, like a kid at a circus impatiently awaiting the appearance of the lions.

Tommy broke in before he could answer.

‘Sorry, old boy, I’m afraid there’s nothing.’

Dent chuckled before continuing, more seriously: ‘I don’t like this. Too bloody quiet – a bit fishy.’

‘As a matter of fact’, Tommy replied, rather slowly, ‘nor do I. We must have passed over some defended areas. All I can think is that the fighters are about and we’ve been lucky.’

Tomlinson sounded a little worried as he said that. Well, not worried perhaps – pensive, maybe. Better try and put a stop to that. Wouldn’t like to think of Tommy losing some of that confidence.

Mason chipped in quickly, before Dent had a chance to say anything more. ‘I still think they are wondering what we’re up to.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Tommy sounded dubious, and paused before going on. ‘Anyway, we’ll soon know. We’re about to turn, I should think.’

‘Any time now. Can you identify anything?’

‘Well, there’s a big U-shaped twist over there. I think it’s the one we want. The target should be just south of it. Can you see the one I mean?’

Looking over to the left, Mason could just make out the peculiar shape the river took just there.

‘I think I can see the one. We’ll make for it. Let me know as soon as you identify it. Turning now.’

‘OK.’

Tommy was his old self again.

The nose of the aircraft swung round and headed for that deep bend, but at an acute angle. Mason would keep it there until Tommy had picked out the target, then fly parallel with it until they were opposite. Then run in across the river.

If Tommy had made a mistake and this wasn’t the pin-point he thought it was, there would be nothing for it but to fly along the river. In that case the Germans would know immediately it was the refinery they were after. Obviously – the others had bombed it already tonight. Probably knew now, anyway: everyone down there at their posts, listening, waiting, giving orders, taking orders. Smart heel-clicking battery commanders hoping it would be another triumph for their particular battery, another star to paint over the door of the mess. Another front page for Goebbels’ press: ‘British bombers again attempted to penetrate the German defences last night. A hospital and two churches …’ etc., etc.

Another ten minutes and it would be over; they would be on the way home. But what a difference ten minutes could make to one’s life. Ten minutes. Hardly anything. Just about the time it took to walk from the mess to the crew-room and back. It was the amount of time Mason allowed himself to go from his room to the main gate to catch the half-hourly bus. To go into the town, to The George or The Pheasant, to a dance in the town hall.

They were a long way from The George, The Pheasant and the town hall now. Hundreds of miles, and something else which couldn’t be calculated in miles, or time. The next ten minutes would make all the difference to whether they would be catching that bus tomorrow or not. Just ten minutes.

He was startled by Tomlinson suddenly calling: ‘That’s it all right’, and then louder, excited, ‘and I can see the refinery – look, just to the right of it – a bloody great black mass, with things sticking up all over the place.’

Mason didn’t look – no need to. He’d look when they’d turned. The aircraft swung due south, and now he saw it. Not straight away. It was further from the bend than he thought, but having seen it, there was no mistaking it. It was the target, right enough – huge oil containers, chimneys, buildings, small peeping lights.

He looked hard at it, because there was something else that caught his attention, a small red-yellow glow, rising and falling. It was too striking to be … it looked like a fire. The others had started a fire.

Before Mason could switch on his mike, Tomlinson yelled: ‘There’s a fire. Can you see it?’

‘Yes, I can. Not a dummy, I suppose?’

‘No, can’t be, it’s slap in the middle of the target – beauty.’

‘That’s fine. If we don’t score a bull, it’s nice to know somebody has.’

‘We’ve got something to report when we get back, anyway.’ Tommy was tickled pink. His optimism was a tonic.

They were catching up on the dark, irregular-looking mass now, over on the left.

Mason wondered if this turning off the target could possibly have fooled the Germans. Shouldn’t think so, but this quietness was uncanny. It was the Ruhr down there, not a vast tract of desert.

Something brushed against him and he looked round. Harper was standing at his side peering over him at the target. Mason wanted to look at his face to see what he looked like now. Moving his head quickly, he took a glance, but didn’t learn much because he couldn’t see Harper’s eyes. What he could see of his face was, perhaps, a little pale, but then his own probably was too.

Harper sat down again, looking down the other side, leaning forward. Seemed all right.

They were level with the target – just about. Mason had to steady his hand as he fumbled the mike switch. It wasn’t that fluttery feeling, though: there was nothing in his legs. His jaw felt tight, but it wasn’t trying to shiver. He could speak normally.

‘OK, Tommy, stand by. Here we go.’

Tommy’s voice was perfectly calm as he answered: ‘Standing by, mind the women and children.’ Tommy left his mike switched on – you didn’t have to tell him these things. Better tell the others.

‘Keep your mikes on, everybody.’

They were heading for the refinery, keeping the flickering red light dead centre.

‘Keep just like that.’ Tommy said that to show he was in position and standing by.

They were well over the town; the overflow on the other side of the river. No flak yet – where the hell was it? The aircraft was flying smoothly and level, the engines perfectly synchronised.

‘That fire gives a beautiful—’ Tommy’s words were swamped by a terrific crackling explosion somewhere under the tail, followed immediately by others, all round, the sounds so close together that they overlapped. The sky was full of orange flashes, both sides, above and below. And a white light – everything was dazzling white. Couldn’t see beyond the windows, except the flashes. The cordite fumes, thick as fog, were stinging Mason’s throat, choking him. The aircraft wanted to climb and go left. He had to push hard to keep on course. Harper was standing, crouching, not looking. Must get out of these lights. The air must be full of shrapnel; it was going somewhere. Couldn’t hold the aircraft. Push hard … keep on course … target was just ahead. This was fear – plain fear, not panic. Couldn’t possibly survive. Must stop soon – couldn’t go on for ever.

If they got out of this … With a sickening jolt that jarred his whole body the aircraft shuddered and lurched to the left. The port engine went dead: feather the prop quickly. Oh my God – flames. The engine was on fire. Couldn’t be, this couldn’t happen. Must be some way out. She was well alight. Hopeless, helpless.

‘Drop the bombs, we’ve been hit.’ Didn’t mean to shout like that. Tommy was a long time. ‘Hurry, Tommy.’

‘Bombs gone.’

What now?

‘Come back, Tommy, we’ve had it.’

Harper was fixing his parachute feverishly, fumbling badly. Of course, must bale out. Tell the others. Was there nothing that could be done? Baling out was so final, so deliberately cutting off all hopes of getting back. No, nothing. Have to hurry too.

‘Bale out. Bale out.’ Dent might have been hit. ‘Dent!’

‘Right. Going now. Good luck, Leslie.’

Everything had gone quiet suddenly. The flak had stopped. Only the lights. Tommy was standing there, his ’chute on. Harper was in the well, opening the hatch. There was a rush of air as it opened. Bloody fool was going out with his oxygen pipe and phone cable dangling all round him.

‘Harper, your …’

Harper went through the hatch – just his fingers showing now. They went suddenly.

Mason felt a pat on his right shoulder. Holt passed, jumped into the well, waved a hand and went out.

There was a sudden brittle, splintering noise – and a violent blow just in from Mason’s left shoulder shook his whole body. The side windscreen and window were shattered. Must have been hit. He was numb all down one side, and dizzy. Just under his collar bone. Like being hit with a hammer. No flak – a fighter then. He’d been hit by a bullet. Thought it would have been a hot searing pain. Didn’t hurt, not really – just a dreadful ache. God, the aircraft was going to stall – nose wanted to go up. Must push harder. Needed two hands, but his left arm wouldn’t move. Tommy was shaking his other shoulder speaking to him, his voice coming from a distance.

‘Your ’chute, where’s your ’chute?’

Mason knew where it was – where he always put it, under the seat, behind him. Couldn’t think where that was now, though. Like being upside down, had to work it out. Shocking being dizzy when you wanted to think. If the air-speed dropped any more the aircraft would stall. He could think of that all right. Expect it was because the indicator was in front of him, but his ’chute was somewhere behind. Somebody was fiddling with his oxygen mask – taking it off. That was better, could breathe easier. Who was it? Ah, Tommy of course. Tommy was helping him. Now with his parachute harness. Tommy. Tommy was fixing his ’chute for him. Good old Tommy, couldn’t have done it with one hand. Tommy was shouting at him. Kept saying: ‘You all right? Are you all right?’

Yes, he was all right. Only his arm. He could still walk.

‘Yes, yes. Go on, Tommy. I can’t hold her.’

Something was trickling down his stomach. Must say something to Tommy. Good bloke, Tommy. Hurry, before he goes. Have to shout, he’s in the well.

‘Thanks, Tommy.’

Tomlinson was on the floor, his legs through the hatch. He turned, grinned quickly, stuck up two fingers and disappeared.

The aircraft was wallowing. Must get out quickly. Mason grabbed the handle above his head with his right hand, hauling himself up. As the control column was released the nose of the machine began to rise and one wing started to drop. His left leg wouldn’t work properly. Pins and needles, it felt like.

As he scrambled into the well, the aircraft began to bank steeply to the left. He was on the floor, with his hand gripping the hatch frame. The aircraft was going out of control, practically on its side now. More like trying to climb through a window. He got his feet against the bulkhead and pushed. Head and shoulders were through – oh Christ, the phone cable. Caught somewhere under his body. Couldn’t fiddle now, take the helmet off. No time to undo the chinstrap. Hell, it was too tight. Pull harder; something must go. That was better – hurt his ears, though. The good engine was roaring. No fear of falling into the prop; it was above him. Must miss the other engine – could get a nasty clout.

As he heaved, the aircraft stalled and hung in mid-air, then lurched horribly and he was out. It flashed past him, quite plainly against the sky, great chunk missing off the tail, jagged fabric flapping, and it was gone.

He was falling, and it was quiet and peaceful. There was something else he had to do. Oh yes, the rip-cord. He hadn’t forgotten – just thinking. When he pulled, the metal ring came away in his hand. He held it in front of him, staring at it stupidly, wondering what to do. Nothing seemed to be happening.

As he was wondering what should happen when a rip-cord was pulled, and if the ring should come away like that, a flurry of cords and silk swept past his face. There should be a jerk now. That’s what people said – a jerk. Caught you between the legs, so they said. Sometimes, apparently, if the silk jerked open too quickly, a spark was generated and caught the whole thing alight. Electricity. Funny thing, that – electricity in silk. The silk came from the silkworm. Thousands of little silkworms all breeding like mad to make lots of parachutes. ‘Come on, Alfie. Eat up your supper, or you’ll never help to make a parachute.’

Did they have to kill the worms to get the silk, or did they just take the silk from them? He wouldn’t like to think of all those silkworms being killed. Little Alfie, for instance.

‘He died that you might live.’ Now where did that come from? Oh yes. Jesus on the Cross. Why think of that? Nothing to do with silk. Was it true that everybody, no matter how boldly they claimed atheism throughout their life, always turned to religion on the point of death? Was it a sign – something beyond one’s control?

This jerk was a long time coming; damn thing should have opened by now. Perhaps it wasn’t going to open. Perhaps it should have opened a long time ago if it was going to. Maybe it wasn’t even attached to him. Clips not fastened properly. It must be that, because he knew it had opened – it all rushed past his face. Anyway, it was no longer on his chest; the pack had gone. He was going down without a ’chute. When he hit the ground he would be killed.

This made him sad, not worried or frightened. After all those trips – flak, fighters, storms and fog; those two crashes, two forced landings, being shot down, getting out, and now no bloody parachute. Well, somebody was having a dirty great laugh.

He couldn’t understand why he had a pain between the legs. It hurt quite a lot, and he couldn’t remember it happening. Peculiar sort of pain, more like a pressure.

He put his hand down. There was a sort of strap there – two straps, one in each groin, meeting in the middle. It was his parachute harness, but it was tight, just as though something was pulling on it. Just as though he was hanging on his ’chute. Could easily tell by putting his hand up and feeling the shoulder struts. They were there all right, tight and firm. Perhaps if he looked up … yes, there it was, an enormous dome of white. Huge. How did all that get into such a small pack? Wonderful invention – saved lives. Funny about that jerk, though, didn’t feel a thing.

He thought he was going to be sick – felt very dizzy. Felt like coming round after an operation. That’s it: he’d been unconscious. That’s why he didn’t feel the jerk. The last thing he remembered was pulling the rip-cord. Wonder how long for – perhaps he was near the ground. Couldn’t tell, though, it was all so vague. Lots of dark patches about. Those must be trees; but they might be bushes, and he was low down. Couldn’t get any perspective.

He wished he could be sick. His left arm was aching badly too, the shoulder straps pulling on it. He’d been very lucky there – one bullet in a part where it didn’t really matter. A little lower down and it would have got his heart, or a little to the right, through his chest. Must be bleeding a lot; he could feel all that side was wet, warm and sticky. Right down his leg. That might be a separate one, but he couldn’t tell. A leg wound was nothing anyway.

A dark shapeless blur, appearing from nowhere, rushed at him. It seemed to hit him everywhere at the same time, legs, head and stomach, thousands of pinpoints of light, and he couldn’t breathe. He was gasping for breath.

Getting better now; he could breathe more easily. His forehead hurt where it had been hit. Couldn’t think what it could have been. Aircraft flew into him, perhaps. But that would have killed him.

Maybe it had. Nobody knew what death was like. This might be it. Quite likely was; yes, probably was. Funny, though, it felt no different to being alive. Not in his limbs, but outside him, as it were, it could easily be death, because he couldn’t see anything. Just a sort of unreal darkness.

He felt very tired. Might as well go to sleep. Make himself comfortable first; there were one or two things digging into his chest and stomach, and his legs were at an awkward angle. He would move his face round a bit too and make it more comfortable.

When he pressed his hand down to move himself, little things dug into it – like stones, or hard earth. All gritty. Just like the ground. It was just like lying on the ground, face down. Better make sure – could do that by turning over. Should be looking up at the sky then. Not easy, though, turning over. His shoulder hurt when his left arm touched anything. The whole arm and shoulder had gone stiff. If he could get onto his right side he could roll over onto his back. Got it … now take a breath, and push with the left leg. The leg wouldn’t move, though. It was too heavy. Like lead – his leg had turned to lead, and he didn’t have enough strength to lift it.

Have to wriggle over, then. Wished his head didn’t ache so. That’s it – he was over – damn that arm. There was the sky, but he’d have to get his left arm in a comfortable position before he could think about it. That seemed better – bent with his hand on his stomach. Not the stomach, the diaphragm.

Lots of stars out now. Couldn’t see the moon, must be over the back of his head.

He’d like a cigarette; they were in his parachute jacket. Put them there so they wouldn’t be pinched back home. The lady in the post office, bless her. They were still there, although the zip wasn’t fastened. Wonder what the girl in green was doing now. She might be thinking of him, as he was thinking of her.

His lighter was in his trousers pocket, in his right pocket, should be. Hope so, because it would be difficult to reach his left pocket. Oh blast, all this parachute guff in the way, straps, buckles and things. Wouldn’t bother – he was too tired to smoke anyway.

If he was going to sleep he ought to get the parachute and wrap up in it. Probably be chilly later on. Wasn’t exactly hot now. In fact, now he came to think of it, he was pretty cold. Better get that ’chute. Hell of an effort to sit up. Didn’t seem to be much strength in his right arm now. That was tiredness, of course. Must have lost a lot of blood too – that made you weak. Sleep, that’s what he wanted. Get that ’chute and go to sleep. Couldn’t get up; his left leg was useless and his right leg wouldn’t support him. Crawl then. Not so easy, though, trying to crawl on one hand and one knee, especially as that arm wouldn’t hold his weight. Would have to get along like this, on the elbow. Take the weight on the right knee, and jump the elbow forward – oh Christ, his arm, no, that was no good: back where he started on his face. Couldn’t get up at all now. Oh, to hell with the parachute, he’d sleep like this. So tired he could sleep anyhow, anywhere. Wouldn’t even try to turn over.

He was on the ground, that’s all that mattered. No more ops. Couldn’t do any more. He’d done his. Nobody would ask him to do any more. They wouldn’t dare, surely? Couldn’t stand another one. No, of course they wouldn’t. He’d had what was coming to him, and happened to survive. If he’d been killed he couldn’t have gone again, so why punish him for being lucky enough to get through? No. No more ops … never wanted to fly again. Just wanted to sleep. To sleep for as long as he’d been doing ops; he’d catch up then. Sleep was nice at all times, especially nice now, being so tired. Would go back to The George one day. And The Unicorn, and The Barley Mow. Wouldn’t be any of the old crowd there, though – Ken, Trewsom, Millet, Barrett … He’d go back all the same, on his own, to have a quiet drink with them. Not that Cenotaph business – he wanted to remember them living, not to remind himself that they were dead. Just on his own – not even the girl in green. Wood, Clynes … and Wright, and Dwyer and … couldn’t think of the others. Too tired. Must sleep. Couldn’t think any more. Sleep.