Day (31 page)

And then you cup your own hand around his, around that thumb, because he is lonely in this and loneliness is never good for crew and shouldn't catch them. And also the slide of what you can't face is roaring towards you and you know he sees it, too. So you tell him quick, ‘But you shouldn't say. Yo cor say. Not about this.'

‘But am I right?'

‘Our kid –'

‘Am I right?' Puzzled like a boy and soft when he asks you. ‘When we did what we did this week – that was the end of heaven.'

‘Dickie –'

‘It's all right.' He squeezes your hand to comfort you. ‘I know it. I understand. I'll have to go to hell now, that's all.'

And then it bares your teeth and licks them, holds you so you smell how glad it is you've let it out. The harmful thing. And it makes you forget Molloy and everything else but the way it was, the way it still is, repeating itself against your bones.

Such a good job you did, such a perfect, perfect job – back over Hamburg and the target indicators had gone down so tight, backed up so tight, and then every stick of bombs – it didn't seem that anyone could miss, did miss.

Its hand in your throat and pushing up, filling your mouth and the fist pressing on, cracking you, having your skull, fingers in your skull, digging this out of your brain to show you.

A light you'd never known, a red day swelling up ahead. Made everyone quiet on the intercom. You could feel it: you could tell it was thinking of you. And you're doing your job and you're keeping your eyes on the black, saving them – but the black isn't black any more – it's smoke and ash at 20,000 feet and a life in it, shifting, glowing – bombs go down and you buck higher, rattle over something like a prop wash, an odd turbulence, a fat, high writhe of air.

Never known it before, the way it touched you, batted at the Lanc as if she were paper, a foolish thought.

And slowly, slowly as you arc there is the shape of what you've done – a twist of fire – a whole new kind of fire – one solid flame that sees you and gives you a name that is no name, no word – christens you outside words.

Has to be a mile wide, wider – colours in it that aren't colours, that rise from somewhere human beings cannot be, that fatten and swell – and there's a howl in it, you could swear, the sound of a monster.

Imagining the war must be over tomorrow. It must surely be done after this. Who could stand this?

And the howl dogging you home: screaming beneath the Merlins, raging, and you think

This is death.

This is the edge of the real face of death, its size – we burned the sky open today and now death will come in.

Trip twenty-six.

Never knew another like it.

But twenty-seven was the worst. It was our ruination. When they ordered us back two days later and we went.

‘Jesus, you can see it from here.'

‘Shut up.'

‘Still hot.'

‘Shut up.'

‘Still burning.'

‘Poor fucking bastards.'

We went back and we bombed them again.

drop

At the end of the concert party filming things went peculiar – and it was Alfred's fault. He was very happy to admit that it was entirely his fault.

They'd worked past dinner and into the evening and then the night, everyone tired and the actors seeming nervous of their audience – which struck Alfred as a queer thing: actors not wanting to be watched. Then again, the hall was growing less and less sympathetic. Of course, every time somebody made a mistake, it meant the whole squad of them had to stay longer, had to repeat themselves – but actually inducing another balls-up, that had turned out to be fun: staring, clapping a shade too slowly, turning the tone just a little vicious – that did satisfy, you couldn't deny it. The film wasn't quite in charge any more and neither were its stars, the chaps that you'd seen at the pictures – they didn't altogether cut it here.

The last bod the audience sent packing seemed nearly tearful, said a mouthful to his mates when he'd got off – didn't care who saw him, creating on the sidelines, scrubbing at his make-up with one hand and flapping about with the other.

So the director picked this point to have a sing-song, boost morale. And he wasn't completely wrong. After they'd had a couple of goes at ‘Run Rabbit Run' and then ‘Lili Marlene' they did all feel sweeter. Beyond that was the usual Vera Lynn finale and the usual handful kicking off by singing ‘Whale Meat Again' instead of the proper words. But then the proper words won through while everyone was laughing, not keeping watch: the thick, wide emptiness of them pushed in and made it plain each man here was alone and far from home and far from the time that hurt him and held him and let him live.

Which was no way to finish anything, in Alfred's opinion – and really shouldn't be borne. The day had been bloody enough as it was and needed changing, shaking up.

Not that he'd thought it would work, had thought there would be enough Kriegies about to catch on and help him – not that he'd truly thought at all. He'd only broken out into howling because he had to.

That was how you started it up and running – the orchestra, the old, old orchestra. Open your throat and crank your jaws back and let out the sound of an air-raid siren, that particular climb of warning.

And the others heard him, maybe were half waiting for him: piled straight in with more of the siren, louder and broader – they understood. Soon about half the hall was winding up and down through the siren wails, new voices joining just because they recognised the noise, yelling away in it for the joy of letting go, doing what they liked.

The film people were mainly staying still, Alfred thought, but he mainly paid them no attention, closed his eyes while the whole place lifted into the scream of a raid – the scream they'd made to bait the goons – and old Kriegies started in with the whistles of fluted tail fins, the whistles of falling bombs: battered their feet down in the pantomime of bombing, of Bomber Harris sending up his boys to knock seven shades of shit out of the Fatherland.

Never felt bad about the orchestra – never had, never would – there was no confusion, no guilt in shaping up the sound of the work you hadn't finished, the war you were locked away from. You were in the bag, but you were still noisy, bolshy. You had things to be proud of.

By the time the orchestra was done, most of the film crew were packing up or gone, the actors had dispersed and that meant the phoney prisoners could pretty much order themselves off towards lights-out and sleep, stump cheerfully enough away with small reminders of when they should wake and what would be needed tomorrow, their obligations.

Alfred went and got himself ready, donned his pyjamas, but couldn't quite consign himself to bed. Instead he stood by an open hut window and looked out. The night air was tender, full of grasses and heat and a mindless calm, a little taste of autumn there as well, just a clue that the year was spinning and the big plane leaves would soon start pitching down when he got back to London.

If he ever did.

No need to decide now, though – this was more a night to look for something good, to uncover your happiness.

I don't have to read it any more; I remember.

The first of the letters I still have.

From the camp.

To the camp.

No idea if they'd sent her mine, or what would get through, or what she'd heard, been able to find out. No idea of anything.

And then a letter.

When you'd given up.

My Dearest Alfie

That in itself almost too heavy, too wonderful for the paper, and the other chaps leaving you be, but paying attention all the same and nowhere private enough, or clean enough for this. Warming the paper with your breath and finding the scent of her house, her dressing gown, her kitchen table.

I did sort of know that you hadn't truly gone and then sometimes I was afraid it was just shock and I shouldn't be so stupid. But I did know. I hope you could tell I was here and being terribly solid about it all. Always. And then your wonderful letter and everything all right. As long as you really are well and being treated decently.

Her voice in your hands: her mouth, lips, tongue.

I should say that I dreamed of us being together at this strange kind of party. You were wearing a mask, but I knew it was you. And we sat together and you showed me your face and you looked a little ill, but very handsome and yourself and then someone gave you a medal and you were happy and I was happy for you. Funny dream to have, but it won't annoy the censor, I suppose. Or amuse him. It was like seeing you. Which I want to.

The start of whispering to each other, dreaming, playing in and out of each other's minds: a closeness you hadn't quite reached with her before. The sole mercy your prison gave you, this near, new Joyce.

My Dearest Alfie

That somehow you were curled whole in her palm and resting.

You really should remember that I always sleep with you. I think from the start I may have. Now it's sure. When I lie down under the quilt and I know you are lying somewhere, too, then I think we are almost touching, we are not far. That will be always.

That one person knew you in the world and loved what they knew.

Do please take care.

Not just your crew self – the man you might become, she'd known all that: she'd understood the way you'd be complete.

My Dearest Alfie

Which meant that you might sleep for one more night, pretending you were a real person and had a future and no cause to run away.

And you stepped back from the window comfortable, walked carefully so as not to break the dream that already thinned the air around you, adjusted it to be a gentle fit while you climbed into your phoney bunk and covered up and closed your eyes.

But she didn't come for you, not when the dark spilled in and took you to sleep. The boys came and found you instead, because they could tell you were ready and this would be their time.

Thick din of boots on the concrete and you're with them, clumping along through rain to the blood wagon and a blinded night above you – low, solid cloud – and somewhere inside it a bird singing, a trail of fine, metallic notes across the engines and engines and engines.

‘Poor little bugger. We've woken him up.' Molloy sniffing, then rubbing his face now he's settled in the truck, tapping his fingers against the canvas sides the way he always does. ‘Still, I've to be awake, so why not. And aren't we doing it for him, anyway? He'd not want to be a Nazi bird, I'm certain.' The weather taps at the cloth in reply and then a bluster of wind elbows it for a moment, pushes then tugs.

The Bastard loading himself inside, last as usual. ‘You don't half talk bollocks, Paddy.'

‘And I'd say I was glad you could join us, but there's some bollocks I won't talk.'

And the first jolt of motion shaking you all, rocking you shoulder to shoulder as you head out along the peri track. Feel the lean of your skipper beside you, feel the seams in the concrete as the truck goes on, feel the wet, fenland breeze changing to something hungry with so many Merlins ripping it open, waking.

Other bods riding out with you – seem fairly new, but you keep your eyes away from them. Torrington lights his pipe and you concentrate on the red disc of his breathing while the wagon halts at T for Tommy and unloads a crew. Don't watch the sprogs as they leave, because they are dead, it's clear to you: they're smoky and fading and you don't want them to see that in your face. They give you a cool type of sadness that lasts until you jump down at the side of B for Beer.

‘After you.'

‘No, after
you
.'

‘No, after
you
.'

Parks and Torrington mucking about, dim at the foot of the steps.

‘Now, boys.' Skip whacking at shoulders, arms. ‘Let's do the job.' He starts to climb, shouts back to them, ‘And have the sense to get out of the bloody rain.' A buffet of wind loosens his cap – always wears his cap out to the plane – sets it rolling and Miles jogs after it, scoops it up and brings it back.

For some reason, Alfred takes it from him and hurries up the ladder.

‘Thanks, Boss.' Skip nodding as he turns to go forward.

‘No trouble.' And Alfred starts the usual scramble for his turret as the others come aboard – spin, slide, swing out and drop and that means you're home.

Trip twenty-eight.

Checking: intercom, oxygen, feed belts, breeches, door locks, check the electrics for your suit.

Check everything twice. Then check again.

Passes the time, this bloody bit of time.

Her hat on your head, her work, her care.

Sandwiches and Thermos, get them stowed.

Set your feet in right, set them where you want them, then you won't have to think.

And she speaks then, your other girl, your Lanc – that first tumble into ignition and the port inner fires up, drums in your bones.

Port outer and she's raging already but you want more of her, while you try to sink into your place, to soften as she rattles you from skull to boots.

Starboard inner starts and this isn't sound any more: it's touch, it's your breath matching her breath and the push of her behind you, her need to leap, to spring.

Starboard outer finally turning and she has to go, she couldn't not, and so many noises in her great, hard, beautiful voice: the cycle of shivers and clatters inside her roar and something like the canter of horses – a dash of animals – and your hands feeling blurred but comfortable, resting on the bicycle grip, just so – yourself in your gunner's shape and herself aching, twitching to run and drag you up – first off the ground, you'll always be first off the ground – off it now, chasing, keen as fuck – tailwheel clear and her spine flexing – flesh and metal and crew and her and your blood and the new thing that she makes you, red and new.