The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [199]
I didn’t need him to describe what happened. Soon as I heard, I knew how it would have been.
They’d been called to scramble that morning. Their squadron flew night-fighters, fragile black-painted wooden Mosquitos that took two men to crew them, pilot and navigator. Donald, and Davey crammed in behind his shoulder, watching the flickering screen of the AI to guide them onto the tail of their target.
‘Tired,’ said Mr Keiller. ‘Poor devils, they’d been out half the night, and the squadron was under strength. Abortive sortie over Weston-super-Mare, chasing a report of some Junkers 88s, coming in to do Bristol some damage. Missed ‘em completely. Called back home, landed, as another set of bombers started slinking up from the south–broad daylight by now, mind, but Jerry could count on the weather giving cover that afternoon. Every other airfield within reach had their hands full with the raid on Bristol and, with the forecast so bad, inevitable Donald’s squadron of night-fighters would be scrambled again. Donald needn’t have gone, but he insisted.’
The little black wooden planes flying down the belly of Britain, out over the Channel towards Normandy, sunlight pinning them against blue sky at first, like night-flying moths caught in daylight. Not long before they were flying into weather, invisible among the massing black clouds. Davey in the navigator’s seat, tired, scared. Donald Cromley piloting, cocky, believing he could get away with anything, determined to bag a kill. Relying on the AI, the Airborne Interceptor, what they called radar later on, that Davey had trained on special. Looking for them Nazi bastards, finding bugger all, missed ‘em again. They Germans was already blowing holes in Drove Road, aiming for the Plessey factory, but instead hitting houses where little girls had been playing hopscotch on the pavement. Donald insists they keep going, looking for trade as he puts it. Pushing it as usual, flying that bit further than he should have. Out over the Channel, the boys had a skirmish with a couple of Messerschmitts–at least they think they’re Messerschmitts, hard to tell in the murk until you’re up close. Donald looses off a few rounds, some other bugger fires back, could have been one of them or one of us. Holes in the fuselage, doesn’t feel like there’s too much damage but all the same it’s given them a scare and they’ve lost the target anyway in the murk. There’s a lot of dense cloud around and it’s easy playing hide and seek. Weather too bad now, anyway, where Davey and Donald was, and fuel too low to do much more than turn round and set a course for home and hope to God they made it back.
Never afraid when we take off. It’s coming back
Poor Davey. Should’ve stayed an erk.
And you know what’s the worst? When there’s no contact, and we fly all over the sky looking for the buggers and they never show up. When the order comes over the radio to head for home, I think, That’s torn it
Afraid, always, of the luck running out just when they thought they were safe. He sat in the car on Marlborough Common that day, telling me how scared he was of not coming back. Heart pounding, every time they flew, like it must have coming back from France that afternoon. Listening to the note of the engine and thinking any minute God’ll change his mind and we’re going to fall out of the sky
‘They were nearly home,’ said Mr Keiller. ‘Nearly bloody made it. Sorry about the language, ladies. Bit upset.’
Davey reciting the Navigator’s Prayer. When we see the Kennet and Avon canal, I know we’re nearly home…If they could see the canal. They’re flying through a terrible thunderstorm. Sky black as night.
Rain coming down in sheets. And Donald Cromley, watching his instruments as they fly towards the darkened escarpment of the Marlborough Downs,