The Crew Read Free

he’d thought they were going to throw him out of the Unit then and there. Like a condemned man, he’d pleaded for another chance and they’d let him do a special two-day course to catch up. Now, he wasn’t so sure he should have been so flaming keen. If he’d kept his mouth shut they’d’ve replaced him and he’d’ve ended up with another crew, not this lot. Still, too late now. Too bloody bad, sport!
    Christ, what a way to crew-up! They stuck you in a hangar with a hundred or more other blokes you didn’t know from Adam – pilots, navigators, bomb aimers, wireless operators, gunners – all milling about,and told you to sort yourselves out, chaps! You were expected to pick your partners like you were at a bloody dance. Only you weren’t choosing partners for an evening’s hoofing; you were trying to pick the men you were going to have to trust with your own sweet life.
    He’d wandered about the hangar, not knowing what the hell to do for the best, and when he’d stopped for a fag his lighter had gone u/s on him. A bloke standing nearby with pilot’s wings and a Canada shoulder flash had given him a light and it had seemed a good idea to join up with another colonial, not being too sure about the Poms, so they’d shaken hands on it. Later, of course, he’d discovered that Van was really a Yank in disguise. Pretty soon Harry had come by with the kid Charlie in tow, like a minnow on a line. They’d still needed a navigator, until Piers had come up, stammering and blushing like a sheila, and asked if they’d mind
awfully
if he butted in. If they’d known then that he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, they’d’ve minded quite a lot. Bert had teamed up with them as mid-upper gunner when they’d gone on from Wellingtons to Lanes, and their flight engineer had been assigned whether he liked it or not. Poor old Jock, he’d had lousy luck to get stuck with them. Well, they were all stuck with each other and all you could do was bloody pray.
    It was a frightful scrum in the Officers’ Mess. Piers waited his turn patiently to order a sherry and stand his skipper a beer – the least he could do after the mess he’d made of navigating. ‘I’m terribly sorry about making such a hash of things again today, Van.’
    â€˜Forget it. I’m just as sorry about that landing.’
    â€˜Gosh, that’s all right. It can happen to anyone, I expect.’
    â€˜Not to most guys. Maybe we’ll both improve, in time. Cigarette?’
    â€˜Thanks awfully. I rather like your American ones.’
    He took one of Van’s Chesterfields. The smoke felt good going into his lungs; so did the sherry going down his throat. They both made him feel better. After all, he wasn’t the only one who’d messed up; that landing
had
been bloody awful. He’d really thought they were going to cartwheel, in which case that would probably have been that. He’d seen a Halifax do it: stand on one wingtip and flip right over like an acrobat before it had gone up in a mighty whoomph. No-one had got out. And he couldn’t see them getting out of a Lanc quickly, either. If anything happened in the air, they were all supposed to bail out by the nose escape hatch so they didn’t go and smash into the tail. On the ground, in flames, God knows if they’d be able to get to
any
exit in time. They’d probably be caught like rats in a trap. He tried not to think about that. Not much point. In fact, absolutely no point at all.
    Just the same, he’d no regrets about volunteering. The parents would have preferred him to go into the Army, following family tradition, but he’d always liked the idea of flying. If he hadn’t failed the course, he’d have been a pilot, but navigator wasn’t a bad alternative. And it wasn’t as though he didn’t know his stuff – you couldn’t