Part 21 (2/2)

'Fly your plane back to Gatow.'

'What a bout me?'

'You're coming, too.'

There was a pause and then he said, 'You're wounded, aren't you?'

'Yes,' I said. 'But don't worry. I'll make it.'

'And if you don't?'

'If I don't you'll be able to take over and fly where you like.' It wasn't subtlety on my part that made me say that. But looking back on it I think that was why he didn't make a break for it there on Hollmind airfield. Maybe he was too weak. He had been out for a h.e.l.l of a long time. But if he'd jumped from the cart right then he'd have had a chance.

Else and Kleffmann appeared at the fuselage door again. 'Get in!' I told Saeton. I had the gun in my hand now. 'And don't try anything,' I said. 'I'm quite willing to fire.'

He got up without a word. His movements were slow, but that was the only indication he gave that he had been hurt. I followed him, feeling sick and a little giddy as I moved my cramped limbs. Kleffmann dropped into the cart and picked up the reins, clicking his tongue to the horse. I called my thanks to him from the door of the fuselage, but he didn't answer. Where horse and cart had, been there was nothing but the blackness of the airfield and only the faint creaking of the cart told me that a moment before it had stood there beside the plane.

'Herr Kleffmann is glad to go, I think,' Else said in a strained voice.

I couldn't blame him, but I wished I could have done something to compensate him for what had hap pened. He and his wife had been very good to Tubby. 'All right, get the door closed,' I said. I switched the lights on and for the first time I saw Saeton's face. It was streaked with mud and blood and the skin was quite white. His left arm hung limp at his side and blood trickled from his shot-pitted hand. 'Sit down,' I said.

He began to move towards the long line of seats that flanked the fuselage. Then he stopped and faced me again. 'Neil. Can't we come to an arrangement?'

'No,' I said. 'You know d.a.m.n well we can't.'

'Because of Tubby?'

'Yes.'

He grunted and pushed his hand across his face, smearing the blood. 'It was necessary,' he said heavily. 'You made it necessary.'

'It was cold-blooded murder,' I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. 'You left me no alternative. It's a pity you can't see the wider issues. What's one man's life against what we planned?'

'The man was your friend,' I said.

'Do you think I enjoyed doing what I had to?' he said with a trace of anger. And then, almost to himself: 'He took rime to die and he knew what I was going to do as I pulled the pillow from under his head. I hated doing it. And I hated you for making me do it.' My hand clenched round the b.u.t.t of the revolver at his sudden violence. 'Now it's done,' he added, 'why not leave it at that? Why make his death pointless?'

It was the same argument that he'd used before when he had been trying to stop me making that report. The man could see things only from the standpoint of his own ambition. 'Sit down!' I said again and turned to Else. 'You'll have to watch him. Do you know how to use one of these?'

She took the gun from me and examined it. 'Is the safety catch on now or is it off?'

'It's off,' I told her.

She nodded. 'That is all I have to know. I understand how to use it.'

Saeton had sat down now. 'Sit over there,' I told her. 'And keep well away from him. If he moves from that seat, you're to shoot. You understand? Are you capable of firing just because a man moves?'

She glanced at Saeton. 'You do not have to worry. I know how to shoot.' Her hand had closed over the gun and she had the muzzle of it pointing towards Saeton. Her eyes were steady and her hand did not tremble. I knew she would fire if Saeton moved and I started forward towards the c.o.c.kpit. But she put out her hand. 'Are you all right, Neil? Do you need some help?'

'I'll be all right,' I said.

She smiled and pressed my sound arm. 'Good luck!' she whispered.

But I wasn't so sure I would be all right. When I had struggled into the pilot's seat a wave of dizziness came over me and I had to fight it off. The engines started without difficulty and I left them running to warm up whilst I went back to the navigator's table and worked out my course. It would be easy enough getting back to Berlin once I had got the plane into the air. What worried me was the airlift. I could go in above the lift-stream, but when I was over Berlin I should have to come down to the line of flight of the other planes. Somehow I'd have to fit myself into the pattern and with the weather closing in I might have to do this in cloud. There would be a big risk of collision then.

For a moment I sat there, fighting a growing weakness and the frightened emptiness of my belly. I needn't go in to Berlin. I could make for one of the base airfields - Wunstorf, or Celle, which was nearer - or I could fly north to Lubeck, which was nearer still. But I had no navigator and I was very conscious of the fact that I was in no fit state to pilot a plane. Lubeck was the better part of 150 miles away, nearly an hour's flying, whereas I could be in Gatow in twenty minutes.

I reached up to the throttle levers and revved the engines. It would have to be Gatow. I switched on the twin spotlights, released the brakes and taxied out to the runway end. As I swung the plane into position for take-off I called to Else: 'All set? Have you fixed your safety belt?'

'Yes,' she called back. 'I am okay.'

'Fine,' I shouted and reached up to the throttle levers. Reaching up to control the engines stretched the muscles of my back and I bit my lip with the pain of my shoulder. My right hand was useless. To adjust the engines I had to let go of the control column. Again I was conscious of that feeling of emptiness in my stomach. I was a fool to try and fly in the state I was in. But there was no alternative. We had to get out of the Russian Zone.

The plane rocked and juddered as the engines revved. My eyes ran over the dials of the control panel. Everything was okay. I peered through the winds.h.i.+eld. It was sheeting with rain now. The spotlights showed a few yards of weed-grown concrete streaming with water and then lost themselves in the steel curtain of the rain.

For a moment I hesitated, unwilling to commit myself to the take-off. Then, quickly, before reason could support my instinctive fear, I released the brakes and the plane began to move forward into the steel rods of the rain. The concrete came at me out of the murk and streamed beneath me, faster and faster. I braced my knees against the control column, steadying it as I adjusted the engines. Then the tail lifted and a moment later my hand was on the control column, pulling it back, pulling the plane up off the ground. Something slid away beneath us - it may have been a tree or the top of one of the ruined airfield buildings. After that I was alone in the lighted c.o.c.kpit, riding smoothly through the inky blackness of the night, seeing nothing in the winds.h.i.+eld but the water was.h.i.+ng down it and the image of my own face, white in the gla.s.s.

I trimmed the engines and banked slowly on to my course, climbing all the time. At 7,000 feet I levelled out clear of the rain clouds in bright starlight and relaxed in my seat. I checked oil pressure and engine revs. Everything was okay. I felt drained of all energy. My eyelids closed for a second, and then I forced them open. It would be so easy to slip into unconsciousness. I fought off the faintness, holding myself against it as one does when one is tight and refusing to go under. I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to five. By five o'clock I should be approaching Gatow. I was s.h.i.+vering with cold.

Once Else came through into the c.o.c.kpit to see if I was all right. She looked tired and her eyes seemed very large in the pallor of her face. She held the gun firmly in her hand and her gaze was concentrated on the door to the fuselage as she spoke to me. 'Is Saeton all right?' I asked her.

'Yes.'

'Has he tried to move?'

'No. He do not try anything. I think he is dazed by what has happened. Also, he has lost much blood. He is very weak I think.' She put her hand on my arm. 'Can you land all right, do you think?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Better get back to your seat. And strap yourself in tight. I'll be going down in a few minutes.'

She nodded. 'Good luck, Neil!'

I didn't say anything and she went back into the fuselage. Below me I could just see the grey fluffy sea that marked the topside of the rain clouds. It was one thing piloting the plane up here in the clear, starlit night. But I had got to go down through that stuff. Somewhere, only a few minutes ahead of me, I had got to go down and contact a single square mile of ground through the impenetrable murk of the rain. The thought of it made me feel sick and I wished now that I had gone north to Lubeck. Maybe the weather would have been better at Lubeck. But I was committed now. It was no good turning back.

As I sat there in the c.o.c.kpit, I was conscious of a growing sense of panic. To go on and on - that was all I wanted - to go on into infinity, into unconsciousness. Automatically I kept glancing at my watch. Just as automatically I pressed forward on the control column, as my watch came up to five, pus.h.i.+ng the nose of the plane down. It was only years of operational training that enabled me to do that, for it was against all reason, against all the instinctive desire of mind and body. It meant action.

The clouds came up to meet me. From a flat sea of grey they became a tenuous, insubstantial drift of mist. Then the stars were blotted out and nothing was visible beyond the pulsating interior of the c.o.c.kpit. I watched the altimeter dial - 6,000 - 5,500 - 5,000. Through my earphones I was picking up instructions from Gatow Airways to planes reporting over Frohnau: Okay York 315. Channel A-able and call Controller. And then another York was in my headphones reporting number and cargo at twenty miles. York 270. Clear to Beacon. I pressed my A b.u.t.ton for automatic radio tuning to Gatow Tower. York 315. Clear to QSY. Channel D-dog and call Gatow director. Channel D-dog. That was Ground Control Approach! Things were bad down there. It meant ceiling zero and driving rain. It meant that I should have to do a controlled approach landing. I'd never done one before. I'd never been talked down in my life. We hadn't had those sort of aids when I had been flying on Ops. I cleared my throat and pressed my B b.u.t.ton.

'Hallo, Gatow Airways!' I called. 'Hallo, Gatow Airways!'

Faint through the earphones came the answering voice from Gatow. 'Gatow Airways answering. Give your number and position please. Give your number and position please. Over.' 'Hallo, Gatow. I have no number. This is Saeton's Dakota returning from Hollmind. Fraser piloting. I am now levelling out at Angels Five and will give you my position from Frohnau beacon. Can you direct me in please? Over.'

'Gatow Airways answering. You cannot land at Gatow. I repeat, you cannot land at Gatow. Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf. Proceed to Wunstorf. Acknowledge please. Over.' A wave of dizziness caught me and for a moment I thought I was going to black out. Then it had pa.s.sed. 'Fraser answering. I must land at Gatow. I am injured. I must land at Gatow.' I started to tell them what had happened to Tubby and how Saeton was wounded, but they cut me short. 'Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf. I repeat: Overshoot and proceed to Wunstorf.' 'I cannot fly any farther,' I cried desperately. 'Am coming down. Repeat I am coming down.'

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