The second leg of the trip meant we were making progress, said Nash. ‘The Alpha Rats are on their way.’
‘Skimming along at 120 knots,’ said Rose.
‘How much is that in Dolly Mixtures?’ asked Appleyard.
‘Damn near a hundred-and-roaring-forty, if you’re talking about statute miles,’ said Bennett. ‘The speedier this old bird shivers along, the better for my blood pressure.’
‘Do you measure that in millibars?’ Wilcox wanted to know.
‘Mars Bars,’ said Appleyard.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Armatage.
‘If you aren’t careful,’ said Rose, ‘I’ll sing “The Navigator’s Lament”.’
‘I put men on a charge for less,’ Bennett said, ‘when I was Orderly Officer.’
Rose took another look at the sun, and Nash hoped he wouldn’t drop his Mark IXA Celestial. My eavesdroppings were brief. I roamed to either side of three chosen frequencies, and static sounded as if the world was wrapped in a scarf of water, heightened crackles like rocks or fallen trees in the way of the liquid’s headlong route. I caught news-agency morse from Tass in Moscow, crackpot claims about life in Stalin’s paradise. Silence on my own frequency was more golden. ‘The less heard, the better, Sparks,’ Bennett said. ‘We want to be the only ones in a thousand-mile radius when we get there.’
‘As long as we have no trouble from the Gremlins, Skipper,’ said Wilcox.
I cursed the jungle of static. ‘Or the Marcolins. They eat the filaments out of the valves, and chew at the connections, and gnaw the impedences.’
‘I’ll sing “The Navigator’s Lament”,’ said Rose.
Bennett at the controls lit a cigar. ‘Let rip, if you like. We can be happy till it’s time to dig up the doings, pull out the plum, refuel our tanks, and fly away like good little blackbirds. God is with us, don’t forget. He’d better be.’ His laugh swamped all rejoinders.
Rose was so busy that his Dalton computer was in danger of seizing up – he said. But maybe he could spare a moment. Appleyard was duty cook: ‘Like me: both burners going, and a stack of plates to fill.’
‘Gangway!’ Nash called. ‘I hear a throat being cleared.’
Rose tapped his tuning fork against the Bygrave slide-rule.
‘Stap me if I too didn’t hear the dull click,’ said Wilcox. ‘He can use the tattooed gunners for a chorus.’
‘Shut your soupbox,’ Nash growled. ‘If you put him off you’ll be confined to the port float on bread and seaweed. Jankers has nothing on that.’
‘Navigators never lament. If they can’t get a fix they break down and cry.’
‘You remember “O My Darling Clementine”?’ said Rose. ‘Well, my song sings to that banshee wail. I didn’t write the music.’
Armatage came up from the depths of his boozy snooze. ‘You bloody wronged it, if I remember.’
‘It was the highlight of the old squadron concert party. The comb-and-paper melted in my mouth at the thought of how many of us would be gone by the morrow.’ When he could get space on the intercom he put out his melody, in which the others joined without waiting for the chorus:
Taking bearings on a lightship,
Don’t know where the hell we are –
Flying round in oblate spheroids
Will not get us very far.
O my darling, O my darling
O my darling Clementine
Book of Tables full of misprints,
O my darling Haversine.
Take a sight on old Capella
From the leaky astrodome
Got two bubbles for my trouble
Will this sextant get us home?
Don’t known how far is Polaris
Lost my pencil and my rule
When I get back (if we get back)
You can send me back to school.
Deviation, variation
QDMs and QTEs
If you’ve got ’em, I can’t plot ’em
Can’t you see, I’m on my knees?
Lost my stopwatch, broke my sextant
Torn my logbook, burnt my map.
I’ve gone blind and lost my fingers:
Skipper, can I take a nap?
God will help us, God will help us
God will help us, don’t you know?
For we’re lost and gone forever
To the land of ice and snow …
Bennett broke in: ‘Cut it out. Nash, get those guns into position.’ A lace-curtain network of high frequency stations came to pieces before an onslaught of atmospherics. Blinded by so much din, I put down the volume, detached the headphones and stood by Wilcox to look into the dazzle of oncoming sky that was like drink to my spirit. Space we needed, space we got. Four engines propelling the weight of our flying boat, we rode the air smoothly, however the boiling sea behaved two miles below. I had known no other life. The rest was a dream. Nothing and no existence prospered beyond our fuselage.
Wilcox held the controls so that Bennett could go to a meal in his room. By rights on a long journey over the sea there should have been a double crew. A nineteen-hour stretch or more at the wheel, wireless rig, navigation table, or engineer’s panel was too long a time for comfort or safety. But a double crew, as well as entailing double cost, would also mean double weight, and almost equal that which we expected to load on board.
Below, on another floor level, Nash manoeuvred a Browning towards the front turret. We would defend ourselves from all directions. Elaborate rearmament was not carried out unless to stop others taking the gold. ‘We should run up the skull-and-crossbones.’
Wilcox coughed his cough to the end. ‘If we get into a jolly-roger scrap, we’ll blow ’em out of sea or sky. We haven’t come this far to take chances. Anybody tries to stop us, and they’ll walk the plank.’
I was a prisoner of their harebrained scheme, and had too much pride to express regret at the speed of my conversion to the general cause.
8
The skipper wanted to see me, Appleyard said, so I climbed the ladder and found him at a table laid not with odd knives and forks but a silver set resting across the remains of his meal on a large dinner plate – a pitcher of water and half filled glass by his elbow.
‘Hearing any funny noises on your box of tricks, Sparks?’
‘Not so far.’
Plywood walls made his compartment seem solid and soundproof. A plantpot adorned a metal shelf under the porthole, and a small plan chest against a partition had the bottom two drawers half open. He told me to sit down. ‘The time to glue yourself to the radio is when we’re five or six hundred miles away. In the meantime, take a rest if you feel like it. I want you as sharp as a needle for the few hours before landfall.’
The bunk opposite had its bedding neatly stacked, and above was a framed photograph of a Lancaster bomber, Bennett prominent among the crew lined up on the ground. ‘What exactly should I listen for?’
Appleyard put down a dish of pineapple and went out. ‘The faintest bleat or crackle.’
‘I hear all sorts of noises. None make sense.’
‘When they do, tell me.’
A chart on the plan chest was held down by a sliderule, which suggested he kept a constant check on Rose’s navigation. ‘If two ships are in contact they might use duplex, so I’d hear only one.’
He picked at the fruit. ‘The boats I’m thinking about have simple rigs.’
‘I’ll keep tabs on the calling frequency, log everything, and let you see it by the half hour.’
‘Be sure to miss nothing. And I want to say this, Sparks: piloting the plane is a normal job. I’ve got the controls in my hands, and can see the engines going full spin out of the windows. As for navigation, Rose is second to none. And Wilcox has the panel to tell how the engines are functioning, and what fuel’s still floating around. But you’ve not only to listen: you must also hear. Everything. I can’t tell you what to listen for. You have to decide that for yourself. You’ll know what to tell me when yo
u hear it. The least thing will make the difference between us getting home dry, or ending up in the drink.’
Appleyard came in for his plate and dish. ‘Bring a cup of coffee for the radio officer.’ Bennett looked at me: ‘I suppose you’ve seen the measures we’re taking for self-defence?’
‘As if we’re going to war.’
‘The last of a tour of ops.’
‘I can’t get a straight answer from anybody.’
He rolled several white papers around a cigar. ‘Straight answers stop you thinking. Another thing to remember, Adcock, is that busy people don’t like to talk much. You’ve got eyes, and you’re supposed to use them. But look not too long in the face of fire. I’m in command of this ship, and I’ll bring her through. That’s what I’m here for.’
My guts went cold, no embers apparent. He was testing my fitness for some devastating encounter which he clearly expected. I wanted to be trusted. He could rely on me, in spite of my aversion, not from loyalty but because I felt a stronger urge than his to get into the unknown. I was afraid and exhilarated, and wouldn’t have traded such mixed feelings for anything. I was more willing than he was because, not sharing his obsession, I felt the kind of gung-ho keenness that he had probably forgotten about.
He was alone, and lonely, but instead of being sorry I knew I had to be on my guard. He lit his cigar. ‘This ship will be my last. No more flying. My life’s been a long chase after freedom. I don’t suppose that means much to you, Sparks. But I’ve noticed that the longer you go chasing freedom, the more it dodges you. You can’t find it. Can’t grip it. The pursuit of freedom has always led me into captivity. Funny, eh? Into a profession, into the Air Force, into a marriage that never happened. Yet I thought each one would give me the freedom to know myself. It never did. The end of freedom is always the beginning of it. I got out of those institutions, and even then didn’t find what I wanted. Do you know what freedom is, Adcock?’
His question surprised me. Though hardly listening, I took everything in while not caring to. I supposed freedom is not to worry about what the hell happens to you. I drank the coffee. He let his go cold, and smoked the cigar as if it were suckling him. ‘In this flying boat I’m as close to freedom as I’ll ever get. It’s my natural state. But when the gold’s been disposed of, I’ll be free for the rest of my life. I won’t live on Vortex Street anymore.’
He paused, his grey eyes staring at the photograph of the Lancaster. ‘There’s no more beautiful sight than that of an aircraft going across the sky. It’s got engines, and fuel, and a crew on board. It’s my reality.’
I wanted to sleep, or eat, or be at my wireless – anything but listen to a rambling I didn’t understand.
‘We are all inside that aircraft,’ he said.
He’s not well, I thought, determined to say nothing while he was talking to me. As long as he doesn’t get stricken, and forget the drill when at the controls.
‘I had an uncle who lived to be ninety. When I was on leave, the last time I saw him, he went for a walk. He seemed to have all his faculties, but he got lost, and the family had to search the streets for him.’
I knew younger people who would get lost if they went out alone. He only wanted me to listen, and I didn’t think much of my luck in having been chosen.
‘I’ll never want to be taken away from myself, either by not being my own master, or by a senile old age. You understand?’
I said I did. And I did, though I wondered why he felt the matter important when he was so far from such a state. Everything happened for a purpose. He was sounding me out, to set us apart from the rest.
He thought I understood: ‘I like my crew to function as one unit. Therein lies our survival. How do you get on with the others?’
‘I’ve known them a fortnight.’
‘You and I, Sparks, could get this aircraft from Point A to Point B on our own, if we had to.’
‘I suppose we could.’
‘I fly, and you navigate – by radio. Why do you think I picked an expert in direction-finding? Because you can get us home on wireless bearings, or at least make landfall, with me at the controls.’
He refilled his water glass. I was also thirsty. His words made me bone dry. Thoughts were rushing into my head that I didn’t want. ‘It wouldn’t be impossible.’
‘One has to anticipate all eventualities, that’s what I’m saying. I want someone who is loyal, simple and clever.’
‘Can anyone be simple and yet clever?’
He seemed out of touch. We were in the same aircraft, but of a different world.
‘They can be, if they’re loyal.’
‘Loyal to what?’ The question seemed important to my chances of getting out alive.
‘To me.’
Self-preservation was paramount. ‘You have all the loyalty I’ve got,’ I heard myself saying.
He imagined it to be more than he needed. ‘I expected no less. Getting to Kerguelen is easy enough, but knowing what we might find before we arrive – that’s where you come in. I know you’ll do it.’
The trunk of ash fell from his cigar.
‘I’ll try,’ I said, having no idea what he meant.
9
Bull sat at the galley table and ordered slum-gullion. ‘Every hour I’m in the air without eating seems as long as a day.’
I unwrapped my knife-fork-and-spoon. ‘That’s because you’re cut off from mother earth.’
‘I’d stay with her longer if she liked me.’
‘You offend her with those obscene tattoos,’ said Nash.
‘I thought she was my friend, all the same.’
Rose dipped a biscuit into his scalding tomato soup. ‘Friends are the easiest to offend. Enemies know where they stand.’
‘Heads down,’ said Appleyard cheerfully, ‘or your steak and spuds’ll get cold.’
‘If it is’ – Nash moved the peas and carrots around his plate – ‘you’ll go overboard, and no messing. You’ve got worse since the war. One thing I hate, and it’s cold grub, especially in a flying boat.’
‘Vegetables should be fresh, not out of a tin,’ said Rose.
‘Appleyard doesn’t care,’ Nash went on. ‘His guts are like concrete, and we know why. He’s never farted in his life. Oh yes, he did once, one frosty morning at Sullom Voe. He thought the bottom was dropping out of his world. The CO had him on the carpet because he sniffed lack of moral fibre. Took another ten trips to get him back on course – but it was a close-run thing.’
‘You think this is the YMCA?’ Appleyard felt genuinely insulted at complaints about his cooking. ‘I can’t imagine why I came on this bloody trip. After leaving the mob I was so fed up with the Brylcreem Boys, I worked two years down a coalmine to get it out of my system. The money was good, the blokes were marvellous, and I was glad to be doing some proper work for a change. Now I’m back on this stunt.’
‘Why are you, then?’
He looked contrite. ‘Well, you need a change, don’t you?’
Bull was unable to cut his steak. ‘It makes the grub at the Driftwood seem like Mrs Beeton’s best.’
‘The past always looks good,’ Rose drawled. ‘The old Driftwood reminded me of the Jetsome Inn, a hostelry near Guildford where they even ruin black market food.’
Bull’s eyes watered with nostalgia. ‘I wish I was there, all the same.’
‘I’m fed up with being duty cook,’ Appleyard said, though no one took any notice.
‘I think you-know-who’s been boozing,’ said Nash. ‘I can smell it.’
Armatage ate the steak with his side teeth. ‘When we get to Kerguelen, maybe a polar bear will make a meal out of you – though I expect the poor bugger’d sick its guts up if it did.’
‘Your eyes look like piss-holes in the snow already,’ said Nash. A scarf of cloud brushed by the porthole and turned the galley dim, with a grating sound under the hull, as if ropes that held us fast were being pulled loose. ‘Can you cook seal meat?’
Appl
eyard levered a tin of Players from his jacket. ‘We ate whale meat during the war.’
‘You wouldn’t cock a snook at anything,’ said Rose.
‘Or look a seahorse in the mouth.’ Wilcox fought off another bout of coughing. The joke that he should get an X-ray, or that the Kerguelen air would be as good a tonic as the best in Switzerland, had long been worn out, and we could only wonder how he managed to go on doing his job.
‘Better get a move on, or your dessert will get hot,’ said Appleyard as he dispensed bananas. Mine was too green, so I put it in my jacket pocket. He took each plate for washing up. ‘I’ll cook what you like, as long as I don’t have to kill it.’
Armatage joked that for half a bottle of grog he’d kill anything.
‘He’d cook his bloody firstborn for a swig of gut-rot,’ said Bull. A fist flashed, as if powered by the jet of an obscene word, in an arc towards Bull’s face, but collided with the palm of Nash’s open hand, which stopped it dead. ‘Wrap it up, the pair of you.’
A bump underfoot reminded us that we were moving on course to a place where none of us had been. Bull spat – nothing from a dry mouth, and reached for his mug of coffee. Wilcox coughed, his face pale and shining, a reddish spot in the middle of each cheek: ‘We’ll go hedge-hopping after seals, tally-bloody-hunting, like we did across Cambridgeshire when we chased a string of racehorses over the hill and down again. The skipper nearly lost his wings for that.’
Nash could hardly speak from laughter. ‘And then there was that time when the old Sparks let go his trailing aerial and cut a cow in half. They couldn’t decide which plane had done it, but the Air Ministry had to pay up – which was more than the cow could do!’
‘We were bloody hell-bent in those days,’ said Bull.
‘If we mow down a few seals from the rear turret we’ll live off the fat of the land, eh Nashie?’ Armatage chipped in.