Frederick Forsyth: The Shepherd

“It was the sound of your engine,” he said. “I was in the officers mess having a noggin, and old Joe suggested I listen out the window for a second. There you were, circling right above us. You sounded damn low, almost as if you were going to come down in a hurry. Thought I might be of some use, remembered they never disconnected the old runway lights when they dismantled the station, so I ran down to the control tower and switched them on.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. But there had to be an explanation.

“That was why I was so late coming out to pick you up. I had to go back to the mess to get the car out, once I’d heard you land out there. Then I had to find you. Bloody foggy night.”

You can say that again, I thought. The mystery puzzled me for another few minutes. Then I hit on the explanation.

“Where is R.A.F Minton, exactly?” I asked him.

“Five miles in from the coast, inland from Cromer. That’s where we are,” he said.

“And where’s the nearest operational R.A.F station with all the radio aids including GCA?”

He thought for a minute.

“Must be Merriam Saint George,” he said. “They must have all those things. Mind you, I’m just a stores Johnny.”

That was the explanation. My unknown friend in the weather plane had been taking me straight from the coast for Merriam Saint George. By chance Minton, abandoned old stores depot Minton, with its cobwebbed runway lights and drunken commanding officer, lay right along the in-flight path to Merriam’s runway. Merriam controller had asked us to circle twice while he switched on his runway lights ten miles ahead, and this old fool had switched on his lights as well. Result: coming in on the last ten-mile stretch, I had plonked my Vampire down on the wrong airfield. I was about to tell him not to interfere with modern procedures that he couldn’t understand when I choked the words back. My fuel had run out halfway down the runway. I’d never have made Merriam, ten miles away. I’d have crashed in the fields short of touchdown. By an amazing fluke I had been, as he said, damned lucky.

By the time I had worked out the rational explanation for my presence at this nearly abandoned airfield, we had reached the officers mess. My host parked his car in front of the door and we climbed out. Above the entrance hall a light was burning, dispelling the fog and illuminating the carved but chipped crest of the Royal Air Force above the doorway. To one side was a board screwed to the wall. It said ‘R.A.F Station Minton’. To the other side was another board announcing ‘Officers Mess’. We walked inside.

The front hall was large and spacious, but evidently built in the pre-war years when metal window-frames, service issue, were in the fashion. The place reeked of the expression ‘it had seen better days’. It had indeed. Only two cracked leather club chairs occupied the ante room, which could have taken twenty. The cloakroom to the right contained a long empty rail for non-existent coats. My host, who told me he was Flight Lieutenant Marks, shrugged off his sheepskin coat and threw it over a chair. He was wearing his uniform trousers, but with a chunky blue pullover for a jacket. It must be miserable to spend your Christmas on duty in a dump like this.

He told me he was the second-in-command, the CO being a squadron leader now on Christmas leave. Apart from him and his CO the station boasted a sergeant, three corporals, one of whom was on Christmas duty and presumably in the corporals mess also on his own, and twenty stores clerks, all away on leave. When not on leave, they spent their days classifying tons of surplus clothing, parachutes, boots, and other impedimenta that goes to make up a fighting service.

There was no fire in the vestibule, though there was a large brick fireplace, nor any in the bar either. Both rooms were freezing cold, and I was beginning to shiver again after recovering in the car. Marks was putting his head through the various doors leading off the hall, shouting for someone called Joe. By looking through after him, I took in at a glance the spacious but deserted dining room, also fireless and cold, and the twin passages, one leading to the officers private rooms, the other to the staff quarters. R.A.F messes do not vary much in architecture; once a pattern, always a pattern.

“I’m sorry it’s not very hospitable, old boy,” said Marks, having failed to find the absent Joe. “Being only the two of us on station here, and no visitors to speak of, we’ve each made two bedrooms into a sort of self-contained apartment where we live. Hardly seems worth using all this space just for the two of us. You can’t heat them in winter, you know; not on the fuel they allow us. And you can’t get the stuff.”

It seemed sensible. In his position I’d probably have done the same.

“Not to worry,” I said, dropping my flying helmet and attached oxygen mask into the other leather chair. “Though I could do with a bath and a meal.”

“I think we can manage that,” he said, trying hard to play the genial host. “I’ll get Joe to fix up one of the spare rooms, God knows we have enough of them, and heat up the water. He’ll also rustle up a meal. Not much, I’m afraid. Bacon and eggs do?”

I nodded. By this time I presumed old Joe was the mess steward.

“That will do fine. While I’m waiting, do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Certainly, certainly, of course, you’ll have to check in.”

He ushered me into the mess secretary’s office, a door beside the entrance to the bar. It was small and cold, but it had a chair, empty desk and a telephone.

I dialed 100 for the local operator, and while I was waiting Marks returned with a tumbler of whiskey. Normally I hardly touched spirits, but it was warming, so I thanked him and he went off to supervise the steward. My watch told me it was close to midnight. Hell of a way to spend Christmas, I thought. Then I recalled how thirty minutes earlier I had been crying to God for a bit of help, and felt ashamed.

“Little Minton,” said a drowsy voice. It took ages to get through, for I had no telephone number for Merriam Saint George, but the girl got it eventually. Down the line I could hear the telephone operator’s family celebrating in a back room, no doubt the living quarters attached to the village post office. Eventually the phone was ringing.

“R.A.F Merriam Saint George,” said a man’s voice. Duty sergeant speaking from the guard-room, I thought.

“Duty Controller, Air Traffic Control, please,” I said. There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the voice, “may I ask who’s calling?”

I gave him my name and rank. “Speaking from R.A.F Minton,” I told him.

“I see, sir. But I’m afraid there’s no flying tonight, sir. No one on duty in Air Traffic Control. A few of the officers up in the mess though.”

“Then give me the station duty officer, please.”

When I got through to him he was evidently in the mess, for the sound of lively talk could be heard behind him. I explained about the emergency and the fact that his station had been alerted to receive a Vampire fighter coming in on an emergency GCA without radio. He listened attentively. Perhaps he was young and conscientious too, for he was quite sober, as a station duty officer is supposed to be at all times, even Christmas.

“I don’t know about that,” he said at length “I don’t think we’ve been operational since we closed down at five this afternoon. But I’m not on Air Traffic. Would you hold on. I’ll get the Wing Commander (Flying) . He’s here.”

There was a pause and then an older voice came on the line. I explained the matter again.

“Where are you speaking from?” he said after noting my name, rank and the station I was based at.