Christopher Priest - The Separation

While I was standing there, I heard the sound of an engine and I saw a small RAF truck running along the inside of the perimeter wire towards me. An officer was sitting in the front seat, next to the driver. More men stood precariously on the open platform at the back. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked along the road in the direction of the main gate, trying to seem immersed in my own thoughts. The occupants of the truck did not look interested in me, but the officer gazed long enough to acknowledge me.

After the vehicle moved on out of sight I retraced my steps and found a narrow, unmade path that followed the outside of the perimeter fence. On the far side of the main runway and its apron, where the fence doubled back towards the main part of the base, there was a thicket of trees. I climbed over an old stile and moved among the trees. After a short walk I came to a place from which I could gain a clear view of the end of the runway, yet where I would not be easily spotted from the airfield.

I stood there for an hour or more, rewarded in mid-afternoon by the sight of several of the bombers being flown on test circuits low around the field. When the pilots opened the throttles and the propellers turned at full speed for take-off, the sound was exhilarating. I was close enough to be able to see the man at the controls, but because of the thick jackets and helmets it was impossible to tell if any of the pilots was Jack.

By about four in the afternoon I was feeling cold, hungry and thirsty. I had intended to stay on at the side of the airfield as long as possible, but I had not planned properly. I left my position in the trees and started the long walk back to town.

The next day I killed time in the town during the morning and most of the afternoon. After lunch I telephoned the airfield and asked to speak to Jack. He was not available, so I left a message that I was staying at the White Hart in Barnham and would like him to contact me there. When I said that I was Jack’s brother, the officer who had answered the phone unbent a little and said he would pass on the message but added that Flight Lieutenant Sawyer would be on operational standby for a few more days.

I made suitable preparations for the second expedition, buying some sandwiches and a large bottle of lemonade from the pub. I dressed as warmly as I could.

It was already evening as I passed the main gate. In the west the clouds were clearing to reveal a golden sunset. It took me another twenty minutes to walk round the far end of the airfield to the thicket of trees. It was still just about light, a calm, silvery twilight. I stumbled through the small wood, making my way to the position I had found the day before.

As soon as I was there I realized that a raid of some kind was about to be launched. Low lights glinted from within one of the small buildings near the end of the runway. Several vehicles stood about, including a fire tender.

I waited, sitting with my back against the bole of a tree. I ate my sandwiches and drank the lemonade, keeping a watchful eye open for activity. When my back became sore I stood up, flexed my legs and arms, trying to ease the growing stiffness. Eventually things began to happen. Two people wobbled slowly down the side runway on bicycles, leaned them against the hut and went inside. A few minutes later, somewhere down in the main part of the airfield, I heard a plane starting its engines. Soon it was joined by another, then another, then more. Red and green signal lights fluttered along the runway, shone briefly and went out. I heard a telephone bell ringing.

The engine noise grew louder and in a few moments I saw the first of the bombers taxiing slowly down the side runway towards the turning point. It came slowly on, the wings rocking up and down as the plane lurched along the uneven surface. It passed only a short distance from me, turning towards the main runway but coming to a halt. The stream of air thrown back by the propellers blustered against me, tainted with the rich smell of gasoline.

Already a second bomber was lumbering down the side runway, with another following. On the far side of the airfield I could see others moving along too. The noise of the engines was swelling. The plane closest to me suddenly roared more loudly, the blast of air against me stiffening. The plane rolled to the end of the runway, turned smoothly, headed down the long concrete strip. At first it was travelling so slowly I was convinced a running man could easily overhaul it, but gradually the heavily loaded machine began to pick up speed. Green signal lights glared ahead of it.

A second Wellington was already moving from the far side to the end of the runway. The signal briefly turned red, then green again. The plane rumbled forward slowly, in a great commotion of power.

Behind it, the next plane was already taking up position.

I counted twenty-two aircraft in all. From the first plane to the last the whole procedure of launching them into the air lasted less than fifteen minutes. Silence fell on the airfield as the last plane climbed away into the gathering night.

Stumbling through the trees, I set off on the long walk back to the inn.

For the next three days I took the walk along the country roads to the airfield, trying to see what was going on, making myself feel that in some way I was participating. I never failed to thrill to the spectacle of the heavy planes clawing their way into the air.

Early in the morning of the fourth day I was woken by the landlord of the White Hart, telling me in an aggrieved voice that I was wanted on the telephone. Dull with sleep, I followed him downstairs to the small phone cubicle at the back of the public bar. It was Jack.

He said he was surprised that I was there in Barnham, in the neighbourhood of the airfield, but he did not ask any questions over the telephone and suggested that we should meet straight away. He told me he was about to go on leave for forty-eight hours and was anxious to be on his way.

Once more I trudged along the road through flat Lincolnshire fields, arriving at the gate a little before ten in the morning. Jack was waiting for me. He was in the road outside the main entrance, smoking a cigarette and with a newspaper folded under his arm. He looked the picture of the romanticized RAF pilot that you sometimes saw in the newspapers and on the newsreels: young, dashing, carefree, taking on the Hun with bravery, good humour and an unwavering sense of British fair play. I couldn’t remember how long it was since we had last been together, but as soon as I saw him I felt a familiar surge of many of the old feelings about him: love, envy, resentment, admiration, irritation. He was still my brother.

Jack was in no good humour as I walked towards him.

‘What in blazes are you doing around here?’ he said at once, with no greetings, no expression of warmth, no hint that it must have been more than a year since our last meeting. ‘This is no place for civilians. Several of the patrols have seen you out there, hanging about on the perimeter fence. That makes people nervous. It was only because I was able to intervene that you haven’t been arrested.’

JL,’ I said. ‘It’s me. Can’t you even say hello?’

‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

‘I’m not doing any harm,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘Lurking around in the woods at the end of the runway isn’t the way. Why didn’t you drop me a line first?’

‘It was something I did on an impulse. I have to talk to you face to face.’

‘Couldn’t you have put it in a letter?’

‘No, it’s too . . . sensitive. If it was opened by someone else -’

I saw something change in Jack’s expression: a fleeting evasiveness, a guilty look. He fiddled with the cigarette he was holding.