But there was little else that I wanted to discuss, and on wondering how I could open the matter with Rose I felt strongly that the journey had little interest for him. When he and the others had been told to bomb Hamburg or Frankfurt or Essen, they asked no questions. So it was now. At take-off they would get their fingers out and do their stuff. Compared to the war it was a piece of cake. In view of which, it did not matter that, once airborne, there would be no possibility of private conversation. Being a prisoner of my own small private life, I was a perfect specimen for the job I had stumbled into by my senseless whistling of morse code in a London pub.
I sat opposite Rose. ‘There’s something I want to ask.’
He didn’t look up. His arm squeaked along the leather from the pressure of turning the page. ‘What about?’
‘A simple question.’
He flipped another page, and cigarette ash fell onto the worn carpet. ‘One of the cheapest planes you can buy today is an Auster. I flew one once. A strong wind almost pushed me backwards.’
I fetched an ashtray from the table laden with old magazines. ‘What’s that star called at the top left-hand corner of the Square of Pegasus?’
‘Alpheratz. Why?’
‘The word came to me in a dream. I knew it was the name of a star, but couldn’t place it till I looked it up.’
He put the magazine on his knee. ‘Why Alpheratz?’
‘Because that’s what all eight of us are: Alpha Rats – stuck in the front line, and numbered for this stunt of Bennett’s that none of us knows anything about. What are we going to pick up at the Kerguelen Islands? I think you know.’
He hadn’t navigated for two years but, after giving up his tramp around the country, had a desk job with Little Island Air Lines, until bankruptcy was fended off by amalgamation – and his own redundancy. A navigator has to work every day, otherwise he might lose his way through sight-reduction tables and relinquish that sixth sense by which, on long flights over the sea, he looks at the waves and knows his drift almost by instinct. Bennett must have pondered the issue, but he was God in his flying boat, and all was right in Heaven, so who could tell what he thought?
‘There are nearly five thousand stars in the heavens,’ Rose said, ‘which are visible to the naked eye, so why choose Alpheratz?’
‘Because,’ I said, ‘Alpheratz chose me – and the rest of us.’
‘Not a very bright star,’ he observed. ‘You’re not a particularly bright Sparks, either, if you ask me.’
‘Nash thought it bright enough. We laughed about it last night over a couple of bottles of Alphen Red. He said this trip was a matter of life and death eight times over, and that even if we did find the island, and I suppose we actually might, with a shit-hot navigator like you, the sea’s likely to be so jumped-up there’ll be no hope of landing without getting the whole rig smashed. And if we do land, we might never find whatever it is. And even if we do, who knows whether we’ll be able to refuel, especially if, in the time it’s taken to find what we’re looking for, the weather worsens as it’s likely to do in those latitudes. Because you know as well as I do, Rose, that forecasting is non-existent, as are navigational facilities, and the scarcity of radio stations is positively bloody horrifying. Now I don’t mind all this. It’s insane, I know, but I signed up for a taste of adventure so I’m prepared to have a go and do my bit at the wireless. But I would like to know what I’m risking my neck for.’
I tried to sound amiable, but he went nonchalantly back to his reading as if I were a rat that had eaten its way out of his Dalton computer with a bit of topographical map in its mouth. I stood so as to see the devastated side of his face, and made sure he knew it. If I had stayed immobile there would have been no bust up. Silence and stillness were good for both, the way things were going. But the contemptuous way he ignored me, and allowed his fingers to search blindly for the top right corner of the magazine before turning the page, enraged me. He was a better actor than a navigator, unless he really had forgotten my existence.
I snatched the magazine and threw it towards the door: ‘Listen, Scarface, I asked a question. Either answer, or give a fair reason why you can’t.’
The good part of his face turned white. I had gone too far, but because of his contempt he couldn’t say so. He stood, and picked up the magazine: ‘Last night I dreamed I was pissing blood, but it was sheer happiness compared to dealing with a bod like you. What we’re going to Kerguelen for is no concern of yours. We’re looking for harbours that future cruise ships will be able to anchor in with a fair degree of safety. That’s all I know, and all I want to know. What do you imagine we’re looking for, for Pete’s sake? If we hadn’t had to wait so long you wouldn’t suspect anything. Look up your callsigns, get familiar with the frequencies, or calculate a few skip distances – or whatever you do these days. I suppose this South African wine’s too potent for a head like yours. Can’t take the stuff myself. As for my scar, I don’t suppose I can object to you using it as an identifying mark, but be careful you don’t attach a moral stigma to it. That would be unjust, and injustice is something that might make me lose my temper.’
I regretted letting go of mine. He lifted the magazine, then lowered it: ‘You know how I got this scar? It was no accident. Somebody tried to kill me because he thought I’d betrayed him. I used to think more of the world than I do now.’
He held out his hand, and I was glad to accept that he knew nothing I didn’t know. Too cowardly to tackle the pilot, I had gone for the navigator, and discovered he was better than I thought.
‘I’m sorry, Rose.’
He was back behind his magazine.
But as I walked down the stairs I still wasn’t satisfied. I never was, and never would be. Only the final death-shave, that I wouldn’t wake up to know about, would cure me. Rose had brought up the concept of morality with regard to his disfigurement, and I wished he hadn’t because from then on the word gripped me and wouldn’t let go.
17
With a dozen of beer on the table, and two of Voortrekker’s Gin from which the corks were lost as soon as extracted, Nash opted for the Lancaster because of its range and bomb load. Except for the absence of a belly-gun, there wasn’t much to gripe about by way of armament. A. V. Roe did a good job when they turned up with the Lanc, a kite that generally got through, and often came back. You had to say that for it.
Wilcox, in spite of his coughing, shouted him to a standstill. Too many had exploded in mid-air, or piled up on the runway after seven or eight poor buggers had slogged six hundred miles to get back. Inside the plane you sweated blood crawling over the bomb bays from one part to another. He filled his glass, foaming the table. His cough was no trouble while he drank a pint.
Discussing the best plane of the war was like talking about the merits of Milltown United as against those of Weathersfield Wednesday, but I placed my bet on the Spitfire. Without the Spit there’d have been no Lancaster. We would have been beaten into the ground. To see a Spit doing aerobatics was something never forgotten. The sight was like recalling a good dream.
‘Good dreams are few and far between,’ Appleyard said.
‘Especially wet ones,’ said Bull.
‘The sky was its background,’ I went on. ‘Man and machine were wedded to each other, the highest achievement of technique and art! What more could you want?’
‘Bloody hellfire!’ Rose exclaimed.
‘Schoolboy crap.’ Nash went on to say that I should get some in. He was in Baghdad before I was in my Dad’s bag. All the old laughter clattered out.