We left Northolt the following day in cold, brittle sunshine that turned to cloud as we crossed the North Sea. Field was right about Wunstorf. It had changed a lot since I’d been briefed for that raid nearly eight years ago. I came out of the cloud at about a thousand feet and there it was straight ahead of me through the windshield, an, enormous flat field with a broad runway like an autobahn running across it and a huge tarmac apron littered with Yorks. There were excavations marking new work in progress and a railway line had been pushed out right to the edge of the field. Beyond it stretched the Westphalian plain, grim and desolate, with a line of fir-clad hills marching back along the horizon.
I came in to land through a thick downpour. The runway was a cold, shining ribbon of grey, half-obscured by a haze of driven rain. I went in steeply, pulled back the stick and touched down like silk. I was glad about that landing. Somehow it seemed an omen.
I kicked the rudder and swung on to the perimeter track, the rain beating up from the concrete and sweeping across the field so that the litter of planes became no more than a vague shadow in the murk.
‘Dear old Wunstorf!’ Field’s voice crackled over the intercom. ‘What a dump! It was raining when I left. Probably been raining ever since.’
A truck came out to meet us. We dumped our kit in it and it drove us to the airport buildings. They were a drab olive green; bleak utilitarian blocks of concrete. The Operations Room was on the ground floor. I reported to the squadron leader in charge. ‘If you care to go up to the mess they’ll fix you up.’ Then he saw Field. ‘Good God! You back already, Bob?’
‘A fortnight’s leave, that’s all I got out of getting demobilised,’ Field answered.
‘And a rise in pay I’ll bet.’ The squadron leader turned to me. ‘He’ll get things sorted out for you. Report here in the morning and we’ll let you know what your timings are.’
The station commander came in as he finished speaking, a big blond Alsatian at his heels. ‘Any news of that Skymaster yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir,’ replied the squadron leader. ‘Celle have just been on again. They’re getting worried. It’s twenty minutes overdue. There’s been a hell of a storm over the Russian Zone.’
‘What about the other bases?’
‘Lubeck, Fuhlsbuttel, Fassberg — they’ve all made negative reports, sir. It looks as though it’s force-landed somewhere. Berlin are in touch with the Russians, but so far Safety Centre hasn’t reported anything.’
‘Next wave goes out at seventeen hundred, doesn’t it? If the plane hasn’t been located by then have all pilots briefed to keep a lookout for it, will you?’ He turned to go and then stopped as he saw us. ‘Back in civvies, eh, Field? I must say it doesn’t make you look any smarter.’ He smiled and then his eyes met mine. ‘You must be Fraser.’ He held out his hand to me. ‘Glad to have you with us. Harcourt’s up at the mess now. He’s expecting you.’ He turned to the squadron leader. ‘Give the mess a ring and tell Wing-Commander Harcourt that his other Tudor has arrived.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘We’ll have a drink sometime, Fraser.’ The station commander nodded and hurried out with his dog.
‘I’ll get you a car,’ the squadron leader said. He went out and his shout of ‘Fahrer!’ echoed in the stone corridor.
The mess was a huge building; block on block of grey concrete, large enough to house a division. When I gave my name to the German at the desk he ran his finger down a long list. ‘Block C, sir — rooms 231 and 235. Just place your baggage there, please. I will arrange for it. And come this way, gentlemen. Wing-Commander Harcourt is wishing to speak with you.’ So Harcourt retained his Air Force title out here! We followed the clerk into the lounge. It had a dreary waiting-room atmosphere. Harcourt came straight over. ‘Good trip?’ he asked.
‘Pretty fair,’ I said.
‘What’s visibility now?’
‘Ceiling’s about a thousand,’ I told him. ‘We ran into it over the Dutch coast.’
He nodded. ‘Well, now we’ve got six planes here.’ There was a touch of pride in the way he said it and this was reflected in the momentary gleam in his pale eyes. He’d every reason to be proud. There was only one other company doing this sort of work. How he’d managed to finance it, I don’t know. He’d only started on the airlift three months ago. He’d had one plane then. Now he had six. It was something of an achievement and I remember thinking: This man is doing what Saeton is so desperately wanting to do. I tried to compare their personalities. But there was no point of similarity between the two men. Harcourt was quiet, efficient, withdrawn inside himself. Saeton was ruthless, genial — an extrovert and a gambler.
‘Fraser!’
Harcourt’s voice jerked me out of my thought. ‘Yes?’
‘I asked you whether you’re okay to start on the wave scheduled for 10.00 hours tomorrow?’
I nodded.
‘Good. We’ve only two relief crews at the moment so you’ll be worked pretty hard. But I expect you can stand it for a day or two.’ His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘“Overtime rates are provided for in your contracts.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time I was moving. There’s a wave due to leave at seventeen hundred. Field knows his way around.’
He left us then and we went in search of our rooms.
It was a queer place, the Wunstorf Mess. You couldn’t really call it a mess — aircrews’ quarters would be a more apt description. It reminded me of an enormous jail. Long concrete corridors echoed to ribald laughter and the splash of water from communal washrooms. The rooms were like cells, small dormitories with two or three beds. One room we went into by mistake was in darkness with the blackout blinds drawn. The occupants were asleep and they cursed us as we switched on the light. Through the open doors of other rooms we saw men playing cards, reading, talking, going to bed, getting up. All the life of Wunstorf was here in these electrically-lit, echoing corridors. In the washrooms men in uniform were washing next to men in pyjamas quietly shaving as though it were early morning. These billets brought home to me more than anything the fact that the airlift was a military operation, a round-the-clock service running on into infinity.
We found our rooms. There were two beds in each. Carter and I took one room; Westrop and Field the other. Field wandered in and gave us a drink from a flask. ‘It’s going to be pretty tough operating six planes with only two relief crews,’ he said. ‘It means damn nearly twelve hours’ duty a day.’
‘Suits me,’ I replied.
Carter straightened up from the case he was unpacking. ‘Glad to be back in the flying business, eh?’ He smiled.
I nodded.
‘It won’t last long,’ Field said.
‘What won’t?’ I asked.
‘Your enthusiasm. This isn’t like it was in wartime.’ He dived across the corridor to his room and returned with a folder. ‘Take a look at this.’ He held a sheet out to me. It was divided into squares — each square a month and each month black with little ticks. ‘Every one of these ticks represents a trip to Berlin and back, around two hours’ flying. It goes on and on, the same routine. Wet or fine, thick mist or blowing half a gale, they send you up regular as clockwork. No let-up at all. Gets you down in the end.’ He shrugged his shoulders and tucked the folder under his arm. ‘Oh, well, got to earn a living, I suppose. But it’s a bloody grind, believe you me.’
After tea I walked down to the airfield. I wanted to be alone. The rain had stopped, but the wind still lashed at the pine trees. The loading apron was almost empty, a huge, desolate stretch of tarmac shining wet and black in the grey light. Only planes undergoing repairs and maintenance were left, their wings quivering soundlessly under the stress of the weather. It was as though all the rest had been spirited away. The runways were deserted. The place looked almost as empty as Membury.