Part 10 (1/2)

'Ceiling's about a thousand,' I told him. 'We ran into it over the Dutch coast.'

He nodded. 'Well, now we've got six planes here.' There was a touch of pride in the way he said it and this was reflected in the momentary gleam in his pale eyes. He'd every reason to be proud. There was only one other company doing this sort of work. How he'd managed to finance it, I don't know. He'd only started on the airlift three months ago. He'd had one plane then. Now he had six. It was something of an achievement and I remember thinking: This man is doing what Saeton is so desperately wanting to do. I tried to compare their personalities. But there was no point of similarity between the two men. Harcourt was quiet, efficient, withdrawn inside himself. Saeton was ruthless, genial - an extrovert and a gambler.

'Fraser!'

Harcourt's voice jerked me out of my thought. 'Yes?'

'I asked you whether you're okay to start on the wave scheduled for 10.00 hours tomorrow?'

I nodded.

'Good. We've only two relief crews at the moment so you'll be worked pretty hard. But I expect you can stand it for a day or two.' His eyes crinkled at the corners. '”Overtime rates are provided for in your contracts.' He glanced at his watch. 'Time I was moving. There's a wave due to leave at seventeen hundred. Field knows his way around.'

He left us then and we went in search of our rooms.

It was a queer place, the Wunstorf Mess. You couldn't really call it a mess - aircrews' quarters would be a more apt description. It reminded me of an enormous jail. Long concrete corridors echoed to ribald laughter and the splash of water from communal washrooms. The rooms were like cells, small dormitories with two or three beds. One room we went into by mistake was in darkness with the blackout blinds drawn. The occupants were asleep and they cursed us as we switched on the light. Through the open doors of other rooms we saw men playing cards, reading, talking, going to bed, getting up. All the life of Wunstorf was here in these electrically-lit, echoing corridors. In the washrooms men in uniform were was.h.i.+ng next to men in pyjamas quietly shaving as though it were early morning. These billets brought home to me more than anything the fact that the airlift was a military operation, a round-the-clock service running on into infinity.

We found our rooms. There were two beds in each. Carter and I took one room; Westrop and Field the other. Field wandered in and gave us a drink from a flask. 'It's going to be pretty tough operating six planes with only two relief crews,' he said. 'It means d.a.m.n nearly twelve hours' duty a day.'

'Suits me,' I replied.

Carter straightened up from the case he was unpacking. 'Glad to be back in the flying business, eh?' He smiled.

I nodded.

'It won't last long,' Field said.

'What won't?' I asked.

'Your enthusiasm. This isn't like it was in wartime.' He dived across the corridor to his room and returned with a folder. 'Take a look at this.' He held a sheet out to me. It was divided into squares - each square a month and each month black with little ticks. 'Every one of these ticks represents a trip to Berlin and back, around two hours' flying. It goes on and on, the same routine. Wet or fine, thick mist or blowing half a gale, they send you up regular as clockwork. No let-up at all. Gets you down in the end.' He shrugged his shoulders and tucked the folder under his arm. 'Oh, well, got to earn a living, I suppose. But it's a b.l.o.o.d.y grind, believe you me.'

After tea I walked down to the airfield. I wanted to be alone. The rain had stopped, but the wind still lashed at the pine trees. The loading ap.r.o.n was almost empty, a huge, desolate stretch of tarmac s.h.i.+ning wet and black in the grey light. Only planes undergoing repairs and maintenance were left, their wings quivering soundlessly under the stress of the weather. It was as though all the rest had been spirited away. The runways were deserted. The place looked almost as empty as Membury.

I turned back through the pines and struck away to the left, to the railway sidings that had been built out to the very edge of the landing field. A long line of fuel wagons was being shunted in, fuel that we should carry to Berlin. The place was bleak and desolate. The country beyond rolled away into the distance, an endless vista of agriculture, without hedges or trees. Something of the character of the people seemed inherent in that landscape - inevitable, ruthless and without surprise. I turned, and across the railway sidings I caught a glimpse of the wings of a four-engined freighter - symbol of the British occupation of Germany. It seemed suddenly insignificant against the immensity of that rolling plain.

We were briefed by the officer in charge of Operations at nine o'clock the following morning. By ten we were out on the perimeter track waiting in a long queue of planes, waiting our turn with engines switched off to save petrol. Harcourt had been very insistent about that. 'It's all right for the R.A.F.,' he had said. 'The taxpayer foots their petrol bill. We're under charter at so much per flight. Fly on two engines whenever possible. Cut your engines out when waiting for take-off.' It made me realise how much Saeton had to gain by the extra thrust of those two engines and their lower fuel consumption.

The thought of Saeton reminded me of the thing I'd promised to do. I wished it could have been this first flight. I wanted to get it over. But it had to be a night flight. I glanced at Tubby. He was sitting in the second pilot's seat, the earphones of his flying helmet making his face seem broader, his eyes fixed on the instrument panel. If only I could have had a different engineer. It wasn't going to be easy to convince him.

The last plane ahead of us swung into position, engines revving. As it roared off up the runway the voice of Control crackled in my earphones. 'Okay, Two-five-two. You're dear to line up now. Take off right away.' Perhaps it was as well to fly in daylight first, I thought, as I taxied to the runway end and swung the machine into position.

We took off dead on time at 10.18. For almost three-quarters of an hour we flew north-east making for the entry to the northern approach corridor for Berlin. 'Corridor beacon coming up now,” Field told me over the inter-com. 'Turn on to 100 degrees. Time 11.01. We're minus thirty seconds.' That meant we were thirty seconds behind schedule. The whole thing was worked on split-second timing. Landing margin was only ninety seconds either side of touch-down timing. If you didn't make it inside the margin you just had to overshoot and return to base. The schedule was fixed by timings over radar beacons at the start and finish of the air corridor that spanned the Russian Zone. Fixed heights ensured that there were no accidents in the air. We were flying Angels three-five -height 3,500 feet. Twenty miles from Frohnau beacon Westrop reported to Gatow Airway.

As we approached Berlin I began to have a sense of excitement. I hadn't been over Berlin since 1945. I'd been on night raids then. I wondered what it would look like in daylight. Tubby seemed to feel it, too. He kept op looking down through his side window and moving restlessly in hi? seat. I pushed my helmet back and shouted to him. 'Have you seen Berlin from the air since the war?'

He nodded abstractedly. 'I was on transport work.'

'Then what are you so excited about?' I asked.

He hesitated. Then he smiled - it was an eager, boyish smile. 'Diana's at Gatow. She's working in the Malcolm Club there. She doesn't know I'm on the airlift.' He grinned. 'I'm going to surprise her.'

Westrop's voice sounded in my earphones, reporting to Gatow Airway that we were over Frohnau beacon. We switched to contact with Traffic Control, Gatow. 'Okay, Two-five-two. Report again at Lancaster House.' So Diana was at Gatow. It suddenly made the place seem friendly, almost ordinary. It would be nice to see Diana again. And then I was looking out of my side window at a bomb-pocked countryside that merged into miles of roofless, shattered buildings. There were great flat gaps in the city, but mostly the streets were still visible, bordered by the empty sh.e.l.ls of buildings. From the air it seemed as though hardly a house had a roof. We were pa.s.sing over the area that the Russians had fought through. Nothing seemed to have been done about it. It might have happened yesterday instead of four years ago.

Over the centre of the city Field gave me my new course and Westrop reported to Gatow Tower, who answered, 'Okay, Two-five-two. Report at two miles. You're Number Three in the pattern.' There was less damage here. I caught a glimpse of the Olympic stadium and then the pine trees of the Grunewald district were coming up to meet me as I descended steeply. Havel Lake opened out, the flat sheet of water across which the last survivors from the Fuhrer Bunker had tried to escape, and Westrop reported again. 'Clear to land, Two-five-two,' came the voice of Gatow Control. 'Keep rolling after touchdown. There's a York close behind you.'

I lowered undercarriage and landing flaps. We skimmed the trees and then we were over a cleared strip of woods dotted with the posts of the night landing beacons with the whole circle of Gatow Airport opening up and the pierced steel runway rising to meet us. I levelled out at the edge of the field. The wheels b.u.mped once, then we were on the ground, the machine jolting over the runway sections. I kept rolling to the runway end, braked and swung left to the offloading platform.

Gatow was a disappointment after Wunstorf. It seemed much smaller and much less active. There were only five aircraft on the ap.r.o.n. Yet this field handled more traffic than either Tempelhof in the American Sector or Tegel in the French. As I taxied across the ap.r.o.n I saw the York behind me land and two Army lorries manned by a German labour team, still in their field grey, nosed out to meet it. I went on, past the line of Nissen huts that bordered the ap.r.o.n, towards the hangars. Two Tudor tankers were already at Piccadilly Circus, the circular standing for fuel off-loading. I swung into position by a vacant pipe. By the time we had switched off and got out of our seats the fuselage door was open and a British soldier was connecting a pipeline to our fuel tanks.

'Where's the Malcolm Club?' Tubby asked Field. His voice trembled slightly.

'It's one of those Nissen huts over there,' Field answered, pointing to the off-loading ap.r.o.n. He turned to me. 'Know what the Army call this?' He waved his hands towards the circular standing. 'Remember they called the cross-Channel pipeline PLUTO? Well, this one's called PLUME - Pipeline-under-mother-earth. Not bad, eh? It runs the fuel down to Havel where it's s.h.i.+pped into Berlin by barge. Saves fuel on transport.'

We were crossing the edge of the ap.r.o.n now, walking along the line of Nissen huts. The first two were full of Germans. 'Jerry labour organisation,' Field explained.

'What about the tower?' I asked. Above the third Nissen hut was a high scaffolding with a lookout. It was like a workman's hut on stilts.

'That's the control tower for the off-loading platform. All this is run by the Army - it's what they call a FASO. Forward Airfield Supply Organisation. Here's the Malcolm Club.' A blue board with R.A.F. roundel faced us. 'Better hurry if you want some coffee.'

Tubby hesitated. 'She may not be on duty,' he murmured.

'We'll soon see,' I said and took his arm.

Inside the hut the air was warm and smelt of fresh-made cakes. A fire glowed red in an Army-type stove. The place was full of smoke and the sound of voices. There were about four aircrews there, in a huddle by the counter. I saw Diana immediately. She was in the middle of the group, her hand on the arm of an American Control officer, laughing happily, her face turned up to his.

I felt Tubby check and was reminded suddenly of that night at Membury when he and I had stood outside the window of our mess. Then Diana turned and saw us. Her eyes lit up and she rushed over, seizing hold of Tubby, hugging him. Then she turned to me and kissed me, too. 'Harry! Harry!' She was calling excitedly across the room. 'Here's Tubby just flown in.' She swung back to her husband. 'Darling remember I told you my brother Harry was in Berlin. Well, here he is.'

I saw the stiffness leave Tubby's face. He was suddenly grinning happily, shaking the big American's hand up and down, saying, 'My G.o.d! Harry. I should have recognised you from your photograph. Instead, I thought you were some boyfriend of Diana's.' He didn't even bother to hide his relief, and Diana never seemed to notice that anything had been wrong. She was taken too much by surprise. 'Why didn't you tell me you were flying in?' she cried. 'You devil, you. Come on. Let's get you some coffee. They only give you a few minutes here.'

I stood and watched her hustling him to the bun counter, wondering whether he had told her what had happened at Membury, wondering what she'd say if she knew I was going to ditch him in the Russian Zone.

'You must be Fraser.' Her brother was at my elbow. 'I've heard a lot about you from Di. My name's Harry Culyer, by the way.' He had Diana's eyes, but that was all they had in common. He had none of her restlessness. He' was the sort of man you trust on sight; big, slow-spoken, friendly. 'Yes, I've heard a lot about you and a crazy devil called Saeton. Is that really his name?' He gave a fat chuckle. 'Seems apt from what Di told me.'

I wondered how much she had told him. 'Are you connected with the airlift?' I asked him.

He shook his head. 'No, I'm attached to the Control Office of the U.S. Military Government. I used to work for the Opel outfit before the war so they figured I'd have to stay on in some sort of uniform and keep an eye on vehicle production in the Zone. Right now I guess you could do with some coffee, eh?'

The coffee was thick and sweet. With it was a potted meat sandwich and a highly-coloured cake full of synthetic cream. 'Cigarettes?' I said, offering him a packet.

'Well, thanks. That's one of the troubles here in Berlin. Cigarettes are d.a.m.ned hard to come by. And it's worse for your boys. They're down to about fifteen a day. Well, what do you think of Gatow?' He laughed when I told him I was disappointed. 'You expected to find it littered with aircraft, eh? Well, that's organisation. Tempelhof is the same. They've got it so that these German labour teams turn the planes round in about fifteen minutes.'

”What brings you out to Gatow?' I asked him. 'Just paying Diana a visit?'

'Sort of. But I got a good excuse,' he added with a grin. 'I had to interview a German girl who has just got a job out here as a checker in your German Labour Organisation. Some trouble about her papers and we urgently need her down at Frankfurt. That's why I came up to Berlin.'

'You're not stationed here then?' I asked.

'No. I'm normally in the Zone. It's nice and quiet down there - by comparison. I just been talking to your SIB major over there. The stories that man can tell!'

'What's he doing up at Gatow?' I asked.