As we left the pub he said, ‘You’ll be seeing Tubby tomorrow. Don’t tell him anything about this. You understand? He’s not to know. His family were Methodists.’ He grinned at me as though that explained everything that constituted Tubby Carter’s make-up.
Early the following morning Saeton drove me to Hungerford Station. Riding behind him on the old motor bike through the white of the frozen Kennet valley I felt a wild sense of exhilaration. For over five weeks I hadn’t been more than a few miles from Membury aerodrome. Now I was going back into the world. Twenty-four Hours ago I should have been scared at the prospect, afraid that I might be picked up by the police. Now I didn’t think about it. I was bound for Germany, riding a mood of adventure that left no room in my mind for the routine activities of the law.
Tubby met me at Northolt. ‘Glad to see you, Neil,’ he said, beaming all over his face, his hand gripping my arm. ‘Bit of luck Morgan going sick. Not that I wish the poor chap any harm, but it just happened right for you. Harcourt leaves for Wunstorf with one of the Tudors this evening. You’re flying a test with him this afternoon in our plane.’
I glanced at him quickly. ‘Our plane?’
He nodded, grinning. ‘That’s right. You’re skipper. I’m engineer. A youngster called Harry Westrop is radio operator and the navigator is a fellow named Field. Come on up to the canteen and meet them. They’re all here.’
I could have wished that Tubby wasn’t to be a member of the crew. I immediately wanted to tell him the whole thing. Maybe it would have been better if I had. But I remembered what Saeton had said, and seeing Tubby’s honest, friendly features, I knew Saeton was right. It was out of the question. Duty, not adventure, was his business in life. But it was going to make it that bit more difficult when I ordered the crew to bale out.
I began to feel nervous then. It was a long time since I’d flown operationally, a long time since I’d skippered an air crew. We went into the bar, and Tubby introduced me to the rest of the crew. Westrop was tall and rather shy with fair, crinkly hair. He was little more than a kid. Field was much older, a small, sour-looking man with sharp eyes and a sharper nose. “What are you having, skipper?’ Field asked. The word ‘skipper’ brought back memories of almost-forgotten nights of bombing. I ordered a Scotch.
‘Field is just out of the R.A.F.,’ Tubby said. ‘He’s been flying the airlift since the early days at Wunstorf.’
‘Why did you pack up your commission?’ I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I got bored. Besides, there’s more money in civil flying.’ He looked at me narrowly out of his small, unsmiling eyes. ‘I hear you were in 101 Squadron. Do you remember-’ That started the reminiscences. And then suddenly he said: ‘You got a gong for that escape of yours, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
He looked at the ceiling and pursed his thin lips. I could see the man’s mind thinking back. ‘I remember now. Longest tunnel escape of the war and then three weeks on the run before-’ He hesitated and then snapped his fingers. ‘Of course. You were the bloke that flew a Jerry plane out, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I was feeling suddenly tight inside. Any moment he’d ask me what I’d been doing since then.
‘By Jove! That’s wizard!’ Westrop’s voice was boyish and eager. ‘What happened? How did you get the plane?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ I said awkwardly.
‘Oh, but dash it. I mean-’
‘I tell you, I don’t want to talk about it.’ Damn it! Suppose his parachute didn’t open? I didn’t want any hero-worship. I must keep apart from the crew until after the first night flight.
‘I only thought-’
‘Shut up!’ My voice sounded harsh and violent.
‘Here’s your drink,’ Tubby said quietly, pushing the glass towards me. Then he turned to Westrop. ‘Better go and check over your radar equipment, Harry.’
‘But I’ve just checked it.’
‘Then check it again,’ Tubby said in the same quiet voice. Westrop hesitated, glancing from Tubby to me. Then he turned away with a crestfallen look. ‘He’s only a kid,’ Tubby said and picked up his drink. ‘Well, here’s to the airlift!’ Here’s to the airlift! I wondered whether he remembered the four of us drinking that toast in the mess room at Membury. It all seemed a long time ago. I turned to Field. ‘What planes were you navigating on the lift?’ I asked him.
‘Yorks,’ he replied. ‘Wunstorf to Gatow with food for the bloody Jerry.’ He knocked back his drink. ‘Queer, isn’t it? Just over three years ago I was navigating bombers to Berlin loaded with five hundred pounders. Now, for the last four months I’ve been delivering flour to them — flour that’s paid for by Britain and America. Do you think they’d have done that for us?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Well, here’s to the Ruskies, God rot ‘em! But for them we could have been a lot tougher.’
‘You don’t like the Germans?’ I asked, glad of the change in conversation.
He gave me a thin-lipped smile. ‘You should know about them. You’ve been inside one of their camps. They give me the creeps. They’re a grim, humourless lot of bastards. As for Democracy, they think it’s the biggest joke since Hitler wiped out Lidice. Ever read Milton’s Paradise Lost? Well, that’s Germany. Don’t let’s talk about it. Do you know Wunstorf?’
‘I bombed it once in the early days,’ I said.
‘It’s changed a bit since then. So has Gatow. We’ve enlarged them a bit. I think you’ll be quite impressed. And the run in to Gatow is like nothing you’ve ever done before. You just go in like a bus service, and you keep rolling after touchdown because you know damn well there’s either another kite coming down or taking off right on your tail. But they’ll give you a full briefing at Wunstorf. It’s reduced to a system so that it’s almost automatic. Trouble is it’s bloody boring — two flights a day, eight hours of duty, whatever the weather. I tried for B.O.A.C., but they didn’t want any navigators. So here I am, back on the airlift, blast it!’ His gaze swung to the entrance. ‘Ah, here’s the governor,’ he said.
Harcourt was one of those men born for organisation, not leadership. He was very short with a small, neat moustache and sandy hair. He had tight, rather orderly features and a clipped manner of speech that finished sentences abruptly like an adding machine. His method of approach was impersonal — a few short questions, punctuated by sharp little nods, and then silence while shrewd grey eyes stared at me unblinkingly. Lunch was an awkward affair carried chiefly by Tubby, Harcourt had an aura of quiet efficiency about him, but it wasn’t friendly efficiency. He was the sort of man who knows precisely what he wants and uses his fellow creatures much as a carpenter uses his tools. It made it a lot easier from my point of view.
Nevertheless, I found the test flight something of an ordeal. It was the machine that was supposed to be on test. He’d only just taken delivery. But I knew as we walked out to the plane that it was really I who was being tested. He sat in the second pilot’s seat and I was conscious all through the take-off of his cold gaze fixed on my face and not on the instrument panel.
Once in the air, however, my confidence returned. She handled very easily and the fact that she was so like the one we’d flown only a few days before made it easier. Apparently I satisfied him, for as we walked across the airfield to the B.E.A. offices, he said, ‘Get all the details cleared up, Eraser, and leave tomorrow lunchtime. That’ll give you a daylight flight. I’ll see you in Wunstorf.’