Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“Buddy, tough situation. Come and see me when you want.”

Rob nodded and followed Kilton into his office.

Kilton shut the door.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. We were at three hundred, as planned. It was all fine. I looked at the chart just for a few seconds and we struck the ground. It must have been a glancing blow, as we went back up. But the port side was wrecked and we rolled. Speedy ejected when we were banked over. Millie and Brighty got themselves out of their seats, but not much more…” He tailed off.

“Speedy had control?”

“Yes.”

Kilton made a note.

“Millie didn’t want us to go down to three hundred. In fact, he—”

“Of course he didn’t. We knew he was against it. But it’s what we agreed. You were right.”

Rob furrowed his brow. “But we didn’t listen to him—”

“Robert.” Kilton held up a hand. “We did. Look, there’s a procedure to follow. We will recover the wreckage and find out what happened. Do not, and I repeat, do not speculate to anyone about the cause, is that clear? Be especially careful what you tell Georgina. She doesn’t need an unpleasant situation made worse with ill-informed speculation.”

Kilton opened his office door and motioned Rob to leave.

“Can I go home?”

“We drink tonight for the men. You need to be there. So, come back. Understood?”

“I don’t want to.”

“You need to. I’ll see you later.”

CARS LITTERED the street around Millie and Georgina’s married quarter. Rob approached and paused for a moment, listening to the sounds of tea and sympathy within.

He pushed open the door.

Mary appeared in the hallway and rushed up to him. She hugged him tightly, and he screwed his face up, willing the tears to stay away.

He wrapped his arms around her, gripping her shoulders. He didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but in her arms.

She pulled back and kissed him.

“Are you OK? Mark says you ejected.”

He nodded.

“What happened?”

“What did he tell you?”

Her arms slipped down his body and she held on to his hands.

“Only that it was routine. There was some sort of problem and that the others didn’t make it out.”

She let go of one hand.

“He also phoned a few moments ago and told us that you should go to the mess tonight. He says it’s important you’re all together. I honestly don’t mind and I think he’s right. You need your friends tonight.”

Rob stared at her and saw something terrible in her eyes: relief.

She had the winning ticket. Her husband had come home.

She led him into the living room. “Come and see Georgina first.”

The new widow sat on the sofa, eyes puffy, a hanky in her hand.

He couldn’t bear it. He shouldn’t be there.

She spotted him and let out a little yelp.

“Darling, darling, Robert.”

She held out her arms, beckoning him in. He knelt down. They locked together in another tight hug. He inhaled, trying to smell Millie on her clothes.

Rob felt dizzy. The room was warm. He pulled back from the hug but remained on his knees. Someone put a small glass of whisky in his hands. The smell brought a smiling Millie to mind.

He downed it in one gulp. The smoky scotch tasted sweet.

“Are you OK?” Georgina asked.

He stared at her; the room was spinning.

“Rob?”

Mary eased him back into a soft chair. The room settled down.

He leant back and closed his eyes, listening as they talked about Charlie.

He was still at Oxford, helping with the summer school. The college bursar had relayed the news and he was on his way back home.

Mary appeared in front of him.

“Are you OK? You went very pale.”

He nodded.

“I think Kilton’s right. I should go.”

OFFICERS from every quarter of West Porton crowded into the mess bar; men and women from Boscombe Down, too.

Everyone knew Millie.

Everyone loved Millie.

As Rob stumbled into the room, a few heads turned.

Red led him to the bar. On the way, he received several pats on the shoulder and a few muttered words of sympathy.

Red pushed his way through the throng and held up a hand to attract a white-coated steward.

He turned back to Rob to check what he wanted and ordered a couple of beers.

As the pints appeared, the TFU boys gathered around them.

“Put this on Squadron Leader Christopher Milford’s tab,” Red told the barman, following the tradition to drink on the dead man’s bill, knowing it would never be settled.

The boys raised their glasses in unison.

“To Speedy, Brighty and Millie,” someone said. They all muttered their own personal toasts.

Rob downed half a pint in a single go.

There was an awkward silence. Rob stared at the rising bubbles in his Skol.

Red broke the moment by putting a hand on his shoulder. “You wanna talk about it, buddy?”

He desperately wanted to talk to him. He wanted to tell him everything.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Listen, man, you need to get this off your chest. If you want to talk over the weekend, just holler. Remember, we all have to go flying again on Monday.”

“I can’t imagine ever flying again.”

Red squeezed his shoulder. “You will, buddy, and you’ll make Millie proud. Y’know, I think you always were the son he really wanted.” He picked up the empty glasses. “I’ll get a refill.”

The other pilots talked among themselves: tales of Millie, and the many comical moments he had presented them with over the fourteen months of TFU’s existence.

“He was clumsy, but no-one knew the electronics like him,” one said.

Rob stood on the edge of the group. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see one of the oldest officers at West Porton: JR from the Maintenance Unit, and two of his colleagues.

Rob stepped away from the TFU set.

“We wanted to pay our respects, Robert. Millie was a fine man. More one of us than one of you, I think.” He smiled, nodding toward the gaggle of TFU pilots. “And I know you two were close, so we just want to say how sorry we are. If there’s anything we can do, Rob… If you need to finish anything Millie started, you know where we are.”

“Here you go, buddy.” Red appeared next to them and handed him his second drink. JR smiled a greeting at Red and then looked back at Rob.

“As I say, you know where we are.” He and the other MU men headed back to their corner of the bar.

Red laughed. “Living fossils. Quite something to see.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

He rejoined the TFU men and downed his next pint.

The crash had left him aching, particularly his lower back. His head was slowly spinning. If it was the beer, why wasn’t it helping with his emotional pain?

He found the drinking ritual distasteful. He looked around at the sea of laughing and smiling heads in the bar, but he couldn’t bring himself to join in.

This was the RAF way. To tell stories of the fallen, to drink. And to forget.

Perhaps it was OK for everyone else, but not him.

The thick fog of cigarette smoke and stench of booze was a comfort blanket for them, but Rob was surrounded by jagged edges. He was still in the centre of the broken remains.

Another vision: Millie’s cold, dead arm in the dark on the Welsh hillside.

In the centre of the room, his eyes rested on Mark Kilton. The boss stood by a pillar with two junior pilots.

Something told him his only salvation was through the boss. The man in charge, whose orders he followed.

The two men with Kilton made their excuses as he approached.

“May,” Kilton said in greeting, before sipping his pint.