LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Eight

      The River Ouse bisects pathfinder country. To the north of the river, acres of the ancient forestlands darken the road with shadow, but suddenly through a gap in the trees the far horizon is glimpsed across the dead-flat peaty land that slopes down towards the south-west. Rain draining off the airfields could make the sleepy, almost motionless, Ouse into a torrent that overflooded its banks and filled the shady lanes with deep mud even in high summer. For there were many airfields, or, put another way, just one airfield, and over it the winged monsters slid, as once went the pterodactyls that are still found fossilized in the nearby chalk quarries.

      The day was half gone. The machines were ready and the Daily Inspection Forms initialled. The drone of circuiting bombers had not ceased since early morning. Creaking Door got the green light from control and Lambert’s right hand pushed the throttles gently forward as he had a thousand times. He kept the port ones slightly ahead to correct the swing. Behind his shoulder he felt young Battersby leaning against him to let him know he was there. He brought the tail up quickly. There was that exhilarating feeling of the back of the seat pushing hard against the spine as five thousand horsepower gripped the air and fifty thousand pounds of aeroplane teetered on tiptoe before relinquishing the last touch of spinning tyres on runway. Battersby took the throttles, sliding his hand under the pilot’s as before him Micky Murphy had done for fifteen NFTs and the fifteen operations that followed them. Now Lambert needed both hands to haul back upon the control column and force the dark nose up through the horizon. Lambert gave the rudder bar an extra touch, for Battersby hadn’t kept the port throttles quite far enough ahead.

      Cohen was calling out the air-speeds from his indicator beside the navigation desk: 95, 100, 105, and then suddenly Creaking Door was airborne. Battersby had seen the rudderbar movement and corrected the throttles precisely.

      ‘Climbing power,’ chanted Lambert.

      ‘Climbing power,’ Battersby answered.

      ‘Wheels up.’

      ‘Wheels up.’

      There was only sky. The horizon had dropped out of sight like a spent hoop.

      ‘Flaps up.’

      ‘Flaps up.’ Battersby closed the flaps and there was a grinding sound as they slid back into the wings.

      ‘Cruising power.’ Battersby didn’t move the throttles with the considerate slowness that an airline check captain would approve. He altered their position with an abrupt indifference that slowed the forward speed with a jerk and changed the roar to a lower tone.

      The nose dropped a trifle. The Lancaster assumed its flying stance.

      ‘Just one round the garden,’ said Lambert. It was a way of telling Cohen that he wouldn’t need fixes or navigation for the short trip.

      There was a click as a microphone was switched on. ‘It’s meat pie,’ said Digby from the front turret. He should have been behind Lambert on take-off but he preferred to be in front and Lambert didn’t mind. ‘But late lunches will probably have potato cheese.’

      ‘Skipper,’ said Binty Jones from the top turret, ‘is that glycol on the port inner?’

      Lambert looked out. He was fond of this aeroplane. Seen through this aged Perspex, the world was not bright and new but ancient and yellowed like parchment. Polished a thousand times, the windows had become a delicate optical system that edged the landscape with haloes and made of the sun a bundle of gold wire. He looked at the engine-covers. Battered by riggers’ feet and chunks of ice, there was around each panel screw a white calligraphic crosshatching of screwdriver scratches. From the exhaust dampers came a blue feather-like jet of flame. Its heat had baked the oil spill upon the cowlings. Like antique enamelware the dark-brown stains shone with a patina of deep reds and rich greens. Above the exhaust pipes upon the matt paint of the engine-cover there was one shiny patch. It was catching the bright afternoon sunlight and gleaming like a newly minted penny. Battersby also glanced at it briefly, then turned back to his panel. He was determined to do his job by the book, better than Murphy even.

      ‘Fuel pumps of all tanks off,’ reported Battersby. ‘No warning lights.’

      ‘A coolant leak can be real big trouble,’ said Binty, always a Jeremiah.

      ‘What do you think, engineer?’ asked Lambert.

      ‘It’s just an oily footmark,’ said Battersby. ‘I saw the rigger do it. I should have had it wiped, I’m sorry.’

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