Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton
August’s cousin looked so surprised that both Anna-Luisa and August laughed. ‘Is it so awful?’ Anna-Luisa asked him.
‘It’s wonderful news,’ said Gerd Böll.
‘It looks like it,’ August said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gerd.
‘Herr Oberleutnant,’ called a rough voice from the roadway. Parked against the kerb there was a Kübelwagen, the military version of the Volkswagen. Its camouflage was hidden under ancient mud and its equally dirty windscreen was folded flat upon the bonnet. There were dents in its side and four rusting bullet holes ran in a line above the rear wheel. The car bore SS registration plates and the rear seat was piled high with kit. In the front sat an unmistakably Russian driver and alongside him a Waffen SS officer in a very battered leather coat and dust goggles. The officer threw Bach a perfunctory military salute. ‘There is an SS unit here?’ He looked at Anna-Luisa appreciatively.
‘The Wald Hotel,’ said August.
‘Which way?’
Gerd said, ‘Go to the end of this road and then turn right following the old walls. The Wald Hotel is where the trees begin. You’ll see the black-and-white sentry boxes.’
‘Thank you,’ said the officer.
‘It’s no trouble,’ said Gerd.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said the officer. He glanced at Anna-Luisa again and without waiting for Gerd to return his salute he gave the driver his instruction in a language unknown to the others. They watched the car pull away with a roar. It steered round the horses and carts that moved slowly past the Liebefrau church, their metal wheels rattling on the cobblestones like drum-rolls. They stared after it for a few minutes.
‘What was it you wanted?’ August asked Gerd.
‘It can wait until your next leave.’
‘I’ll be back here in two weeks,’ said August.
‘That’s fine,’ said Gerd. All three looked at each other in silence, wishing to break away and yet not knowing how.
‘I go back to my unit in an hour,’ said August. ‘But first we must buy a ring, and then I will write to Anna-Luisa’s parents.’
‘I mustn’t delay you,’ said Gerd, but he didn’t take his leave.
‘There’s something wrong, Gerd.’
Gerd took August’s hand and gripped it warmly. ‘Enjoy yourself, August, and you too, Anna-Luisa. There is little happiness in the war for anyone.’
They walked slowly across Liebefrauplatz. ‘He’s usually such a cheerful man,’ said August. Gerd drove past them and waved again.
‘He’s a funny man,’ agreed Anna-Luisa. ‘Everyone says that he’s the jolliest man in Altgarten.’
‘He’s not jolly today,’ said August Bach. ‘He’s in a very strange mood.’
‘Anyway it didn’t rain,’ said Anna-Luisa, anxious to make him smile again.
‘That’s true,’ said August, smiling down upon her and hugging her arm secretly. ‘Although they say the farms need some rain. The countryside is very dry.’
The River Ouse bisects pathfinder country. To the north of the river, acres of the ancient forestlands darken the road with shadow, but suddenly through a gap in the trees the far horizon is glimpsed across the dead-flat peaty land that slopes down towards the south-west. Rain draining off the airfields could make the sleepy, almost motionless, Ouse into a torrent that overflooded its banks and filled the shady lanes with deep mud even in high summer. For there were many airfields, or, put another way, just one airfield, and over it the winged monsters slid, as once went the pterodactyls that are still found fossilized in the nearby chalk quarries.
The day was half gone. The machines were ready and the Daily Inspection Forms initialled. The drone of circuiting bombers had not ceased since early morning. Creaking Door got the green light from control and Lambert’s right hand pushed the throttles gently forward as he had a thousand times. He kept the port ones slightly ahead to correct the swing. Behind his shoulder he felt young Battersby leaning against him to let him know he was there. He brought the tail up quickly. There was that exhilarating feeling of the back of the seat pushing hard against the spine as five thousand horsepower gripped the air and fifty thousand pounds of aeroplane teetered on tiptoe before relinquishing the last touch of spinning tyres on runway. Battersby took the throttles, sliding his hand under the pilot’s as before him Micky Murphy had done for fifteen NFTs and the fifteen operations that followed them. Now Lambert needed both hands to haul back upon the control column and force the dark nose up through the horizon. Lambert gave the rudder bar an extra touch, for Battersby hadn’t kept the port throttles quite far enough ahead.
Cohen was calling out the air-speeds from his indicator beside the navigation desk: 95, 100, 105, and then suddenly Creaking Door was airborne. Battersby had seen the rudderbar movement and corrected the throttles precisely.
‘Climbing power,’ chanted Lambert.
‘Climbing power,’ Battersby answered.
‘Wheels up.’
‘Wheels up.’
There was only sky. The horizon had dropped out of sight like a spent hoop.
‘Flaps up.’
‘Flaps up.’ Battersby closed the flaps and there was a grinding sound as they slid back into the wings.
‘Cruising power.’ Battersby didn’t move the throttles with the considerate slowness that an airline check captain would approve. He altered their position with an abrupt indifference that slowed the forward speed with a jerk and changed the roar to a lower tone.
The nose dropped a trifle. The Lancaster assumed its flying stance.
‘Just one round the garden,’ said Lambert. It was a way of telling Cohen that he wouldn’t need fixes or navigation for the short trip.
There was a click as a microphone was switched on. ‘It’s meat pie,’ said Digby from the front turret. He should have been behind Lambert on take-off but he preferred to be in front and Lambert didn’t mind. ‘But late lunches will probably have potato cheese.’
‘Skipper,’ said Binty Jones from the top turret, ‘is that glycol on the port inner?’
Lambert looked out. He was fond of this aeroplane. Seen through this aged Perspex, the world was not bright and new but ancient and yellowed like parchment. Polished a thousand times, the windows had become a delicate optical system that edged the landscape with haloes and made of the sun a bundle of gold wire. He looked at the engine-covers. Battered by riggers’ feet and chunks of ice, there was around each panel screw a white calligraphic crosshatching of screwdriver scratches. From the exhaust dampers came a blue feather-like jet of flame. Its heat had baked the oil spill upon the cowlings. Like antique enamelware the dark-brown stains shone with a patina of deep reds and rich greens. Above the exhaust pipes upon the matt paint of the engine-cover there was one shiny patch. It was catching the bright afternoon sunlight and gleaming like a newly minted penny. Battersby also glanced at it briefly, then turned back to his panel. He was determined to do his job by the book, better than Murphy even.
‘Fuel pumps of all tanks off,’ reported Battersby. ‘No warning lights.’
‘A coolant leak can be real big trouble,’ said Binty, always a Jeremiah.
‘What do you think, engineer?’ asked Lambert.
‘It’s just an oily footmark,’ said Battersby. ‘I saw the rigger do it. I should have had it wiped, I’m sorry.’