Desmond Bagley - Flyaway

I took some photographs and then we began to brush the sand from the skeleton. Underneath the thin layer of sand was rock so we could not bury Peter Billson. Instead we piled a cairn of stones over the remains, Paul sobbing all the time. Then we went back to Flyaway, Byrne carrying under his arm the tin box which had been next to the body. There were a couple of other things we had buried with Billson; two packets bearing the name of Brock, the pyrotechnic company. One contained flares, the other smoke signals. Neither had been used because a rescue plane had neither been seen nor heard.

Standing next to Flyaway Byrne held out the box to Paul. 'Yours,' he said simply.

He took it and then sat down on the sand and laid the box in front of him. He looked at it for a long time in silence before he stretched out with trembling fingers to open it. This was nothing like opening a Christmas present. There were a lot of papers inside.

In his last days Peter Billson had kept a diary, written in his log-book. I don't propose to go into this in detail because it is most harrowing. A proposal has been made that it be published in a future edition of the Journal of the Royal Aeronautical Society. I'm against the idea. A man's mental agonies when facing death ought to be private.

There was Billson's flying licence, a sealed envelope addressed To my darling, Helen', a worn leather wallet, a pipe and an empty tobacco pouch, a Shell petrol carnet, a sheaf of bank notes — British, French and Nigerian, and it was strange to see the old big British five-pound note — and a few other small odds and ends.

Paul picked up the letter addressed to his mother. His lower lip trembled. 'I ought to have treated her better,' he whispered, then handed it to me. 'Will you burn that, please?

Don't open it.'

I nodded. Byrne stooped and picked up a card. 'The compass deviation card,' he said. 'Not more than a degree and a half out on any course.' He handed it to me. 'It don't matter if a compass has deviation as long as you know what it is.'

Printed on the card was a compass rose around which were written figures in ink. It was signed by the compass adjuster and dated the 4th of January, 1936. I turned it over and saw something scrawled on the back. / wonder how bloody true this damn thing is? I nudged Byrne and showed it to him, and said in a low voice, 'He was beginning to guess in the end.'

The diary told Byrne what he wanted to know about the landing. 'He was a good flier, Paul,' he said. This is how he got down. His engine had quit and he was coming down in a glide with an airspeed of fifty-five knots. There was a low moon and suddenly he saw rocks between him and the moon, so he stalled her. He pulled her nose right up and that lost his speed and his lift at the same time, so he fell out of the sky damn near vertically. What he called a pancake landing. Never heard it called that before. He says, 'The old girl pancaked beautifully but I'm afraid both oleo legs are broken — one badly. Never mind, she wouldn't take off from here anyway.'

I read the diary. He had lasted twelve days on two and a half gallons of water. At first the handwriting was firm and decisive but towards the end it degenerated into a scrawl.' During the last few days he was apparently feverish and had hallucinations, communing with the painted men on the wall of the cave. The last entry was in a surprisingly firm hand and was a plea that his wife and young son be well looked after. The thought of the?100,000 insurance on his life seemed to comfort him a lot.

Byrne grunted and stood up. 'A guy like that deserves better than a heap of stones. He needs a marker.' He strode to Flyaway and jumped up on to the wing, then made his way up the fuselage until he was astride the cowling of the big radial engine. There was a banging and I saw he was unshipping the propeller.

That gave me an idea. I found the piece of aluminium we had cut from the side of the fuselage and, using the chisel and a small hammer began to incise letters. Paul came over to see what I was going and stayed to help. When I thought we had finished I said, 'That's it, Paul.'

'No — there's something I want to add.'

So he guided the blade of the chisel while I thumped with the hammer and we added the fourth line so that our rough plaque read:

PETER BILLSON AIRMAN 1903–1936 Fly away, Peter

That seemingly small task took longer than I thought and by the time we had finished the sun was setting. We had our evening meal and went to sleep early. At dawn the following morning Paul and I helped Byrne take out the last two bolts that held the propeller to the shaft and we lowered it to the ground using a rope made up of bits and pieces of the donkey harness. Byrne and I carried it to the grave in the cave while Paul brought the plaque. We set the propeller upright near the grave and Byrne fastened the plaque to the boss using some wire he had found in Flyaway.

Then we stood there for a while, doing nothing, but just standing there. Byrne said, 'I guess Billson was the first guy to see those pictures in here in a few thousand years. Maybe this propeller and the inscription will still be there in a thousand years from now. Aluminium don't rust and things change slow in the desert. It's a good marker.'

After a while we went away, leaving Paul to his own thoughts.

In spite of the hobbles the donkeys had moved a fair way in search of grazing and it took us a while to find them and it was an hour before we got them back to the camp. Paul had come back looking sombre and helped us load them. It was time to go.

We took one last long look at Flyaway and then began the awkward business of coaxing the donkeys through the narrow cleft in the rock. When we got them out Byrne said, 'Okay — back to Tamrit Maybe three days.'

Paul said, 'Do you mind waiting a minute? I won't be long. I just want…' He swallowed convulsively and looked at me. 'You didn't take a picture of the plaque. I'd like that.'

I glanced at Byrne who said, 'All right, Paul, but not more than fifteen minutes. Tether those donkeys firmly. We'll stroll ahead.' He pointed. 'That's the line we take.'

I unfastened my bag and took out my camera. 'Shall I come with you, or can you take the pictures?'

'I can do it,' he said, so I gave him the camera and he went back through the cleft.

Byrne said, 'Funny thing, this flesh and blood. You wouldn't think he'd feel like that about a man he hardly knew.' He tugged at the donkey rein. 'Let's go; he can catch up.'

We went at an easy pace, threading our way among the rocks for about half a mile. I looked back and said, 'Perhaps we'd better wait for Paul.'

'Huh?' said Byrne abstractedly. He was staring at the ground. 'Been camels here.'

I looked down at the enormous pad marks in the sand. 'You said there were wild camels.'

Byrne dropped on one knee. 'Yeah, I know I did — but wild camels don't repair their own pads.' He traced a line on one of the footprints. 'This one cut its foot and someone put a leather patch on.'

I frowned. 'Can that be done?'

'Sure. I just said so, didn't I?' He stood up and looked around. 'And there it is.'

I turned and, coming up from behind us was a man riding a camel — the Arab who had been with Kissack. He whistled shrilly and from our front came an answering whistle. There were five of them altogether; Kissack and the Arab, and Lash and his two musclemen, all mounted on camels and with no less than six baggage animals. There was no weapons in sight but that didn't mean a thing.

Lash looked down at us from the enormous height a camel confers. 'Mr Byrne,' he said pleasantly. 'And Mr Stafford. Well met. I didn't expect to find you here. Looking for frescoes, I take it?'

Kissack said, 'You're a long way from Kano, Stafford.