Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse

Cohen pushed his map case to the back of the plotting-table and stood it on end. That obscured the neat metal patch. Flight Sergeant Worthington’s riggers had riveted it over the jagged shrapnel hole. Through that had come the splinter that had entered a navigator’s lung and killed him in this very seat four trips ago.

‘Don’t do that, sport,’ said Digby. He pushed the map case aside. The little adjustable desk lamp hit the new metal at an angle that made it shine like a glass eye. ‘I like to see that,’ said Digby. ‘I figure that lightning don’t strike twice. You and me have got the safest seat in the kite here.’

Cohen looked at the metal plate and felt better about it.

‘Is everybody happy?’ asked Lambert.

To the tune of Abdul the Bulbul-Amir Flash Gordon in the rear turret sang tunelessly:

‘Just an old-fashioned Avro with old-fashioned wings

And a fabric all tattered and torn

She’s got old-fashioned Merlins all tied up with strings

And a heater that never gets warm.

But she’s quite safe and sound, ’cos it won’t leave the ground

And the crew are afraid of the chop.

One day we will try to see if she’ll fly

While Mother looks after the shop.’

Flash waited for a word of appreciation or applause, but none came. Binty said, ‘Man, is yo’ jes’ crazy wid rhythm.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Flash.

‘When you’ve all finished singing and chatting,’ said Lambert, ‘perhaps I could say a word.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Digby. ‘It’s my proud pleasure to introduce to you the captain of our aircraft, your genial host and raconteur, who has given up his eighty-first birthday to be with us here tonight. Gentlemen, your friend and mine, Flight Sergeant Samuel Lambert, DFM.’

‘Now let’s get ourselves organized,’ said Lambert.

‘For a change,’ said Jimmy Grimm.

‘For a change,’ agreed Lambert.

Jimmy Grimm tuned his radio carefully. ‘They’ve given us new winds, Skip. Do you want them?’

‘Give them to Kosh,’ said Lambert.

They flew higher and higher and for every thousand feet they gained the temperature dropped two and a half degrees centigrade. The crew buttoned themselves into their suits or moved closer to the hot-air blowers. At 8,000 feet they began to breathe the oxygen that they had brought with them. Lambert continued to climb. They entered a cloud bank. There is as yet no way to discover if ice awaits you in a cloud, except to fly into it with your fingers crossed. This cloud seemed unending. The cold chilled the aeroplane to its marrow and slowed its circulation. Door’s port outer coughed not once but twice and then didn’t fully recover.

‘Fuel flow?’

‘OK,’ said Battersby.

‘Give it some fully rich.’

‘I have already.’

‘Good boy.’

The motor, appreciative of its luxury diet, roared into full power.

‘Carburettor icing.’

‘Temperature looks OK now.’

‘We’ll be out of it in a moment.’ Lambert put the aircraft into a steeper climb and Battersby adjusted the engines to give him more power.

‘I hate cloud,’ confided Lambert.

It pressed against the windows and made the cabin even darker than before. Battersby fussed over his instruments and was anxious to prove his expertise to Lambert. The engines had only just begun to unsynchronize when Battersby reported, ‘Pressures and temperatures look all right.’ The motor began a weary drone.

‘Do you know why it’s doing that?’

‘Oil getting too cold and stiffening the pitch control?’

Lambert nodded and said, ‘Can you synch them again?’

Battersby waggled his fingertips upon the levers. After choosing the wrong motor and then overcorrecting he finally had the engines back into their regular harmonized roar.

‘Bang on,’ said Lambert. ‘Micky just can’t get the hang of that.’ Battersby had never felt so proud of himself.

One by one the stars pricked the roof of the cabin and they were above the cloud. Lambert’s controls had become slack and mushy now, for Creaking Door had reached its normal ceiling and no amount of pulling on the stick would make it climb higher. This was the stage of the journey where Lambert employed a technique that an old-timer had told him about, way back when he was flying Whitleys. By suddenly lowering the flaps fifteen degrees while flying at cruising speed, Lambert and Battersby caused the aeroplane to hit a wall of air. It shuddered with the impact and the whole aeroplane leaped 200 feet higher. Each time it did this it held its new altitude. By this method Lambert could add over 1,000 feet of height to his ceiling. The first of a series of spine-jarring thumps ran through the aircraft. ‘We’re going up the steps,’ said Lambert. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you.’

Flight Lieutenant Sweet stared out into the night. Beneath him he saw a tiny rectangle of flare path and guessed there was another squadron climbing to join the stream. He had above-average night vision and usually saw pinpoints before the bomb aimer saw them. There were no other aeroplanes in sight. It was odd that no matter what methods of timing were used to pack the bomber stream as tight as possible, the sky was still so immense that he sometimes did a whole trip without catching sight of another aeroplane. He supposed that fellows with below-average night vision went whole tours without seeing anything.

Ahead of him the front turret moved gently from left to right.

‘Bomb aimer. Don’t keep fidgeting about with that turret.’

‘I’m searching, sir. That’s orders.’

‘Then swivel your neck.’ Sweet’s voice rose a tone.

‘I’m keeping the hydraulic fluid warm, sir.’

‘Must you always argue, Spekey?’ Sweet made it into a joke; placatingly he added, ‘Keep still, there’s a good chap.’

‘Pip’ Speke, an eighteen-year-old with a big black moustache and a reputation as a lucky gambler, ducked out of the turret and got down on the floor behind his bomb-sight. Most crews had Sergeant pilots and some crews stuck together. Some went off boozing as a crew. Some had decent officers even. The easiest way for any of those lucky ones to make Sergeant Speke lose his temper was to tell him how fortunate he was to fly with such a fun-loving good sort as that modest Flight Lieutenant Sweet, DFC.

‘Navigator,’ said Sweet, ‘how many miles to the coast?’

‘About ten,’ said the navigator.