Gavin Lyall - Flight From Honour

Instead, the Oriole gradually developed a rocking, switchback movement. It was taking over. Maybe that bird had done more damage, maybe half the tail was fluttering loose – he daren’t look round – but then he realised he was over-controlling. He clamped the stick still and let the aeroplane sort itself out – in a slight downward turn – then corrected that. Moment by moment, it got easier.

“Not far now,” he said aloud. But perhaps he was talking to himself.

Time in the dungeon was very exact, no “abouts” or “nearlys”; there was nothing else to do but note exactly when anything happened. Fifty-three minutes after Ranklin had been locked up, a guard came in with a metal jug of water and a worn but clean towel. Pero thoughtfully gestured for Ranklin to have first go, then muddied the towel without making too much difference to his face and hands.

One hour and seven minutes later, the door opened and Captain Novak came in. “I must apologise for the overcrowding, but this is the high season,” he smirked in German. Then he reached behind him and effortlessly hauled the Conte di Chioggia past. “ Auf wiedersehn .”

As the heavy wooden door slammed shut, the Count got his breath back, and spent nearly two minutes being outraged in alternate Italian and German. He promised to report everybody concerned to the Comandante (when he returned), the Chief of Police, and the Governor of Trieste. He was starting to list his connections in Vienna when a guard came back and shoved an armful of bedding at him. The Count dropped it, kicked it, but then seemed exhausted; he glared around.

“James Spencer,” Ranklin said. “We met – briefly – in the Cafe San Marco.”

“Ah? Then you know who I am. My humblest apologies for not recognising you immediately, but I had not expected . . . And our friend here?”

“His name’s Pero. He seems to speak only Slovenian.”

“My God! This is the final insult!” He swung round to tell the door, in German: “Police Captain Novak will be walking a beat in the sewers next week!”

Pero had been gazing at the Count with a loose smile. Now he got off the bed and stuck out a welcoming hand, along with a quick burst of Slovenian. The Count stared at the hand as he would at a plague rat, spat some insult that rocked Pero back on his heels, and sat firmly on a chair.

Then all the firmness vanished, and he was suddenly old and frail. Ranklin sat up, expecting him to slide to the floor, but the Count raised a thin, trembling hand. “Please, I am just a little tired. Do you have a cigarette? Ah, thank you, thank you . . .” Ranklin lit it for him. Now he had only five left. He mentally shrugged and took one for himself.

Abruptly, the way things seemed to happen from the air, the city was there. An unmistakable terracotta-coloured shape, split by the bold S of the Grand Canal, had magicked itself out of the haze. And this was one city that didn’t sprawl: where it ended, the sea began in swirled blue and green streaks of channels and mudbanks.

“I got Venice!” O’Gilroy shouted triumphantly. “Ye say there’s an aerodrome here? No – don’t try to look! Jest tell me!”

Andrew stopped struggling upright and, presumably, was trying to imagine the city below (actually, off their left wing). “On the Lido . . . big, long island . . . just east, out to sea, runs north-south . . . can you see that?”

The Oriole rocked as O’Gilroy craned to look. The blasted place was a spillage of islands . . . Then he realised the Lido was bigger than he’d thought, already stretching out on both sides of them.

“Got it. Bang over it.”

“Right at the northern end . . . Should be there.”

O’Gilroy began a cautious circle over the sea, peering down past Andrew. It must be there . . . yes . . . was it? That thing? Just a few sheds, a low line of what seemed to be fortification, and in the middle a patch of sun-baked mud.

“I’ve got the aerodrome,” he said more soberly.

“Does it look okay?”

No, it didn’t. But it was all he was going to get. “I’m going down for a look.”

“Try to touch down at forty.”

“Forty. Right.” Only he wouldn’t know, because when he was down on the edge of the stall he’d have no time to lean over and consult the indicator. And he still couldn’t reach the engine levers . . . “Can ye reduce the power a bit? By the sound of the engine?”

Andrew’s blind but experienced hand fell immediately on the levers and the engine buzz slowed fractionally. The Oriole sagged and O’Gilroy lifted her back. And a little more – the engine stuttered and so did O’Gilroy’s heart, but it caught again.

“Best I can do,” Andrew panted. “Should be around a thousand revs.”

As the Oriole slowed, her grip on the air became less firm. “It’ll do,” O’Gilroy called, and let the nose drift down. Chimney smoke showed the wind as coming from almost due south, so he came in a gentle swoop from the north, over the sea, blipping the engine to keep in a shallow dive. But each time the engine restarted, the nose came up unless he synchronised it with a downward push. And the wings rocked more in the uneven low-level currents, and she pulled right as she slowed . . .

“Left rudder!” he yelled, then, as the Oriole swerved wildly, had a better idea. “Get yer right foot off!” And managed to kick his left foot onto the rudder bar. Now he had more control, but was using his wrong foot – would he remember that in a moment of decision?

Suddenly his anger flared again. They’d expect him to get this right, think because he’d flown the thing for half an hour without crashing, he should at least be able to land safely . . . And then he shook his head, splattering sweat and oil. Self-pity was no help now. Who were they? Fuck they. He was a pilot, and he had a problem – just like any pilot. And whatever happened, pilots would understand. And that was what mattered.

But he was going to land off this attempt. Andrew would never get the engine revved up in time to drag them around for a second chance.

“Keep yer foot pushing steady,” he ordered. So, in effect, Andrew’s foot spring-loaded the rudder into a left turn which O’Gilroy could override with his own foot.

“If we’re over the sea,” Andrew warned, “you’ll get an up-draught coming over the land.”

“Right.” He should have thought of that himself, but at least he was ready with a forward push and a final blip to cut the engine when the Oriole tried to rear. They rushed over a brief beach, a very solid line of wall and then floated, floated, a foot or two above the landing-field. Then fell with a thump and a swerve, rocking as O’Gilroy rammed his foot on the bar. And couldn’t relax in time when the swerve reversed. He heard the bang as a tyre blew, but then they were still. And upright.

“Beautiful,” Andrew croaked. “Just beautiful.” He sounded very loud in the silence, and O’Gilroy realised the engine had stopped. He reached across to pull back the levers and turn off the petrol and ignition. It took all the strength he had left. And he still had to try and explain to the running men . . .

The cell darkened gently in the silence, the tiny semicircle of sky beyond the window turned yellow, then quickly russet and slowly grey. At 5.05 a bugle sounded, then at 5.35 a guard came in with a lit paraffin lamp and hung it on a bracket on the wall, warning that if they fiddled with it and burned themselves to death, no pension would be paid to their relatives.

“So now we know a little history,” the Count observed. “Once such a thing happened and now it is in the regulations that such a warning must be given. Is there another cigarette?”