The question might have been tainted with insult to a certified and experienced wireless officer, young though I might be in comparison to the rest of the crew. If I had known myself to be untrustworthy, would I have given him an answer? Yet who could be certain until a crisis proved it one way or the other? I felt the same query going through him. He seemed burdened by such anxiety that, though it was automatic that he have my loyalty, it was far from guaranteed that he had my confidence. Yet anxiety seemed his normal condition, and because I did not want it to increase, I shook his hand when he stood up. The flesh was like that of a lizard, where it had previously been warm and moist. I supposed he had been through the same procedure with the others.
Shaking hands is often a competition to see who can crush most fingers. I’ve never liked the practice. There are those who assume that afterwards they won’t see you again, and maim your fingers to give you something to remember them by. Others, who have already been caught out, slide their hand immediately away. Or they dread touching either man or woman, fearing strangers as much as they distrust themselves. There’s no sincerity in it.
Hand-shaking is a language whose messages are peculiar to the moment, and Bennett indicated by his that he wanted to rely on me. Yet how could he expect such loyalty when he would not say why it was needed? If I knew what was in his mind I might have been sincere in my agreement to do more than the duty I was paid for. The text of my returned handshake must have been understood, however. He tapped the photo-triptych of his family, maybe by accident, so that I wondered if he had indicated it to the others on their separate briefings. I nodded, my hand on the doorknob.
‘I’m going to need your loyalty above that of everyone else, Adcock. I hope you understand.’
There’s a mock-solemn, patronizing quality about those who continually speak your name when talking to you. I don’t like it. They look upon you as a child, and have an unjustified feeling of their own significance. Yet Bennett seemed less of the type. Whether his hands trembled from too much drink (the bottle was again half empty) or from sleeplessness, or from fear of something he would rather die than tell, I couldn’t say. It seemed an act of mercy rather than friendship to affirm, before opening the door: ‘I’ll do all I can.’
Such candour, while helpful to him, got me nowhere. My curiosity was at its highest, but if I wanted to satisfy it I would have to wait till such time as I, and maybe the rest of us, became a victim to whatever was intent on destroying him – because when, in an aircraft flying at eighteen thousand feet above the ocean, the captain discovers himself beset by enemies from within or without, then surely those foes – whoever and whatever they might be – become equally dedicated to the destruction of everyone else who has the misfortune to be on board with him. Bennett wanted to be the master of his own destiny, but I questioned the validity of this desire to involve me in any way.
A dream-serial played while I slept off the food and drink. A flying boat was hundreds of miles out, with but two of its four engines working. Instead of a normal aircraft interior there were the domestic furnishings of an ordinary house. There was no fuel left, and the flying boat came down on a rough sea and began to disintegrate. Waves spun and splashed with malevolence over the windscreen. When the perspex panels fell away I woke from the horrors.
Nash banged from next door: ‘You all right, Sparks?’
16
Rose sat in the smoking room, reading a copy of Flight Magazine, legs straight out as if ‘don’t disturb’ was printed on the soles of both shoes. The high leather armchair in the shade of the aspidistra hid most of his body, and he was so engrossed in whatever piece of technical exposé had taken his fancy that I could hardly believe he was alive. He seemed in a state of repose that would be impossible to disturb, as if blessed with a power of automatic detachment that had been with him since childhood; and because the devastation of the scar was turned away from me, I saw him as if before his accident. Just as a person who has lost an arm eventually finds more strength than he originally had in the two together, so perhaps the livid corrugation of bone and flesh had in some compensatory way beautified the side I looked at and made it more perfect than if the other part had never been injured. Yet the boyishness that would stay even if he lived to be a hundred was only marred by a painful sensitivity which made his head too big for his body.
I had decided to tackle him about the real nature of our trip in the hope that his replies would at least indicate the direction in which any further questions ought to point. As chief mate, he was not exactly matey; but if he told me to vanish or get dive-bombed I would leave him alone.
A navigator, like others of the aerial fraternity, was jealous of his guild-secrets even when they were obsolescent, or sufficiently simplified that they could be passed on without revelation. I felt the same about my own trade. Questioned by an outsider, I would tell nothing because, unless to save life, my time would be wasted. Those who asked from friendliness might learn that I sat at a table sending and receiving messages in morse code; but that was all.
The roles of aircrew sometimes overlapped, but the fundamental part of each skill could not be passed on. If such details were handed over it was only to give the illusion that we were capable of sharing secrets, which built up our comradeship for the day when, as crew members, we would care for each other and the plane. If Rose was party to any secret with Bennett as to the true purpose of our expedition, would he be able to unshackle these principles sufficiently to tell me something?
There was no saying, but private communication between one crew member and the next would be impossible once we were airborne. To hugger-mugger in hole or corner would stink of conspiracy. Cool and intelligible words must go via the intercom, and any others must be kept healthily suppressed. Working as an eighth part of the common voice, a good crew has no use for secrecy.
I had very much wanted to believe in the neat package of a single task for one and all, as I looked at the flying boat the previous evening, seeing it as a refuge that I had spent a lifetime looking for, floating on the placid water like a white mansion under the moon, four engines in their sturdy cowlings, wings stretching as if they might grow to span the whole town, and the steeply sloping hull which, if it weren’t for the wings, would be a galleon waiting for its pirate crew.
The flying boat showed only its registration sign, and I wondered what true colours it would be under when on the move, what flash should decorate its tailplane. Probably a constellation of blue stars on a white background, Ursa Major, or the buckle of Orion’s Belt, or the seven visible stars of the Pleiades. Each crew member could no doubt stamp his individual badge on the Aldebaran according to how he defined the pattern of his own life.
The pennant would have been harmless, even humorous, because trust bound us together when we played cards and drank in the bar or lounge of the hotel, analysing endlessly some bombing operation over Europe during the war. In the space of a few days we had time to observe all mannerisms, assess each other’s virtues, weigh up generosities and catch flickers of deviousness or diffidence with which we would have to live come what may. Our bodies and mortal souls depended on each man’s inner emblem, and there was no way of knowing what they portended because all were buried under the common denominator of crew-like characteristics. We were to earn our money, and afterwards flee to the eight points of the compass. As long as we didn’t talk about the purpose of the journey, we were content.