Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“Brilliant,” Rollo said. “Superb.”

“Thanks. You’d better go to your landing position now.”

Rollo sat with his back to the main spar. Kate and Woodman sat beside him. Campbell was strapped to the bed, mask off, face down. The note of the engines changed subtly as Silk entered the landing circuit. That was when Rollo realized that he was not going to die tonight. He had begun to suspect it when he drank the coffee. Benzedrine confirmed it. Now he could relax and enjoy survival.

The nearer Dog got to landing, the less Rollo saw himself as a passenger, mere civilian baggage, and the more he became his true self: a cameraman, a guy who shot movies. This movie was approaching its happy ending. Campbell was wounded, nothing serious, enough to remind the audience that war had its price, just as Rollo had scripted it. Soon this Wimpy would taxi to a halt, the crew would climb down from the nose, weary but triumphant in the usual understated RAF way, and Campbell would be stretchered to a waiting ambulance. He might give a thumbs-up. At the very least he would smile bravely. It would be a hell of a scene. An absolutely crucial, rewarding, clinching moment. Rollo knew he had to have it. Otherwise, everything else was so much preparation without conclusion.

He would have to work fast. No chance of rehearsal. Right first time, or never. But Rollo was good at this, he’d grabbed moments of drama just like it, all through the Blitz. The kind of thing that made other cameramen ask, “Jesus, Rollo, how the hell did you do that?” The kind of shot that got your name in books on the history of the cinema. The big problem was how to leave the airplane before the others did. That was the trick.

There would be lights out there, the headlights of the crew truck, and an ambulance, maybe more. They would have to be aimed at the nose hatch. What about sound? He abandoned sound. Dub in any dialogue later. Maybe cover everything with music. He didn’t need Kate for this, he could move faster alone.

But how to get out before the others? The cockpit area would be blocked by crew members. Rollo stared at the blackness of the fuselage and saw the answer: the rear gunner’s turret. It had a quick exit. When it was swung to the right, it exposed a door on the left. That was how the gunner baled out. Rollo had seen it in daylight when the rear turret was being tested. He wasn’t sure of the details but he knew the idea was right. Tell Chubby to rotate his turret. When Dog stopped, Rollo would dive out through that hole.

As soon as he felt the double bump of Dog’s wheels hitting the flare-path, he took the torch from Woodman’s hands and stood up. Kate shouted. He set off down the fuselage, onto the catwalk that led to the rear turret. The batteries were weak, the beam was dim, and the bulb had worked itself loose. He had to keep shaking the torch to revive it, but even with a healthy torch he was so eager that he probably wouldn’t have seen the hole that flak had blown in the floor. One leg plunged into it and dragged down the rest of his body. The last image his eyes saw was the blurred gleam of flare-path lamps, before his head struck the grass at seventy miles an hour. The impact broke his neck. The tail wheel smashed into his body. Silk felt the small jolt and thought he’d hit a badger, or maybe a big fox. They had been known to wander across the airfield at night.

When he taxied to his place at dispersal, and he completed the after-landing routine, and he led the others down the short wooden ladder from the nose hatch, he asked Kate where Rollo was. She said she assumed he was in the rear turret, filming Chubb by the light of the torch; or something. Already, Dog’s groundcrew had found the hole in the fuselage floor. Soon, they saw strips of flying clothing wrapped around the tail-wheel unit, and that started the search.

The crew followed their familiar routine. Climbed into the truck, drove to interrogation. Clumped into the room and blinked at the light. Drank the coffee with the shot of rum in it. Nobody said anything about Rollo. They were very tired, very glad to be home and alive, and besides, what was there to say? It had been such a freak way to die, you couldn’t really blame the war, it was more like a road accident. Getting the chop in the air over Germany was something everyone was prepared for, even if they never talked about it. Poor old Mac Campbell’s wound wasn’t glorious, but at least his rear end did battle with a chunk of Jerry flak, and now he was in Sick Quarters getting stitched up. Tomorrow they’d all go and visit him and make a lot of bad jokes. But Rollo was in the station mortuary. Nobody would visit him. By all reports, he looked a mess.

Bins asked the usual questions, and Silk let the rest of the crew answer them. Bins wrote fast: good pinpoint at Borkum, night fighter attack, evasion, cu-nim, electrical storm, compass trouble, intercom failed, pinpoint Hamelin, found Hanover. Dog wouldn’t climb, thick smoke over target, estimated the AP, bombed it, bomb doors failed to retract. Campbell mended the intercom, compass mended itself. Reached the coastal belt, got blown ass over teakettle by a near-miss, flew home somehow, God knew how.

“The Wimpy knows how,” Mallaby said. “Tough old kite.”

“And you definitely bombed the target,” Bins said.

“Cookie and incendiaries,” Woodman said. “Definitely.”

“We hit it right on the nose,” Chubb said. “Lovely grub.”

“Well done. Off to your bacon and eggs, chaps.”

“Damned good show,” the group captain said.

They left. Silk remained. He felt grimy, and the rum had not killed the rubbery taste of his oxygen mask. There was a high buzzing in his ears that changed pitch without warning, and then went back to the old note. It was caused by hours of the howl of the propeller tips. None of this was new; it happened after every op. He stayed because the Wingco was there, straddling a chair, chewing on a cold pipe; and Silk felt that someone should say something about Rollo Blazer. He couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t stupidly obvious.

“Hanover took a pasting,” Rafferty said. “Group are very pleased.”

“I don’t suppose Crown Films will be,” Silk said.

“Sod ‘em,” Duff said. “What did they expect?”

“Not our fault,” Bins said. “Bound to be an inquiry, though.”

“Let ’em piss in their hats,” Duff said. “They knew ops were dangerous. That’s why they came here. Inquiry be buggered.”

“You sound as if you enjoyed your trip,” Silk said. “Sir.”

“Compass trouble, like you. All that bloody electricity. Nav got lost, never found Hanover, went to Hamburg instead. Gunners swore it was Bremen, but I knew better. Come on. If we don’t get to the grub soon, some bastard will steal our eggs.”

They walked from the Ops Block. In the east the sky was a soft gray. Birds were waking up and being noisy about it.

“Why can’t they wait for daylight?” Silk said. “What’s so special about flying at night?”

“You didn’t have much to say in there,” Duff said.

“You want to know if our cookie hit the railway station, don’t you? Well, the answer is, God alone knows. God and the station-master. Make a bomb like a dustbin and it’s liable to land anywhere. Same with incendiaries. They fall like confetti.”

“I don’t care. Nobody cares any more. If we keep on bombing the city, then sooner or later we’re bound to hit something valuable.”

“I said that months ago, Pug. It’s nice to know you’ve been paying attention. Langham always reckoned you were my greatest fan.”

“Load of balls.”

“Smallest fan, then. That was his joke. I miss Langham. I don’t miss any other stupid bastard who got the chop. I probably wouldn’t miss you, if you bought it tomorrow. But Langham… what a waste.”