Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the wet grass arguing about engines and firepower and girls and promotion and medals.

      No matter how much Löwenherz disapproved of their unsoldierly appearance it was a standing order of Major Redenbacher that at their Alert Huts the aircrews could ‘dress informally, always providing that the regulations concerning the wearing of identity tags around the neck are not disobeyed’.

      Three flyers were standing in the hut doorway. Himmel looked at his watch and guessed that they were listening to the BBC, for this was the time that they broadcast the flyers’ programme. The carefully written technical talks always ended with a list of Luftwaffe personnel newly captured and newly dead.

      Suddenly there was a loud thunder of cannon-fire and they all swung round to the firing butts. Above it a thin veil of blue smoke showed where Löwenherz’s plane was having its guns harmonized by the armourers. Someone made a joke, and then Himmel saw them all laugh and relax. It was the long wait for nightfall that built up the tension. That’s why Himmel always left his air test as late as possible.

      One of Himmel’s ground crew removed the rudder lock and then walked round the aeroplane to check the ailerons and control surfaces. Himmel slipped his toes under the rudder-bar loops and fastened his seat straps. He ran his hand down his oxygen-lead connection to check it and then moved the control column forward and back and twisted the antlers to be sure that the controls were free of obstruction. Old Krugelheim, the chief mechanic, was getting a little impatient. Under his black overalls he was shirtless and without trousers, but still he sweated as he paced about under the nose of Himmel’s machine. He kept looking across to the hangar and Major Redenbacher’s aircraft. The cowling had been removed from its port motor and its most intimate parts bared to the oily inquiring hands of the fitters. The black-garbed men stood on a platform, arrayed around the disembowelled motor like witch-doctors at a Black Mass. One of them, chanting a line from a textbook, bent low into its entrails and flashed a torch deep inside. His open hand appeared and worldlessly a spanner was put into it.

      Krugelheim looked up to where Himmel sat in the cockpit high above him. ‘The fuel pump,’ explained Krugelheim.

      Himmel hoped sincerely that the black men would work their healing magic soon, for it was 15.20 hours already and if his own plane was not in service by nightfall, when the killing began, the Major had a habit of taking the nearest one. Himmel’s plane – Katze Four – was the nearest.

      He slid the cockpit fully open and called down to the chief mechanic, ‘Have you seen Unteroffizier Pohl?’

      ‘No,’ said old Krugelheim. ‘He’s probably still talking to the Signals Officer.’

      ‘These aerials are a trial to us,’ said Christian Himmel. The old man walked under the nose to look closely at the ‘toasting fork’.

      ‘It’s the rain,’ he said. ‘If they stay dry for a few days they work perfectly. Here comes Pohl now.’

      Someone in flying overalls, yellow lifejacket and parachute harness emerged from the hut, but it wasn’t Himmel’s radar operator. For a few paces he was obscured by the tail of another Junkers 88, but as he came round it they recognized Löwenherz. On this warm day none of the other flyers were wearing flying overalls. Like Himmel most wore lightweight helmets, shirts, shorts and lifejackets. It was just like Löwenherz to be in full flying gear.

      ‘What does the bloody Staffelkapitän want?’ said old Krugelheim. As if having a faulty fuel-line on Major Redenbacher’s machine wasn’t enough trouble for one day.

      ‘Cheer up, Kugel,’ said Himmel. ‘We’ll soon find out.’ To call the grumpy old Oberfeldwebel ‘Kugel’ was a privilege earned by only the most seasoned of Kroonsdijk’s NCOs. Although it meant ‘bullet’, the pot-bellied old chief mechanic was short enough in stature to realize that it also meant ‘globe’. Kugel came close under the cockpit.

      ‘You were in his Staffel during the Kanalkampf, weren’t you, young Himmel?’

      ‘He was in mine. I took him on his first operational sortie as my wingman. He was a lively fellow in those days.’

      ‘Then the war has sobered him,’ said the old man.

      ‘It’s sobered a lot of us,’ agreed Himmel.

      ‘Huh,’ exclaimed the mechanic bitterly.

      Himmel smiled at the old Oberfeldwebel. His misanthropy was what kept these aeroplanes in such good order. The old man too had been a lively youngster once, but there are more casualties of war than the doctor ever sees. Kugel clicked his heels as Löwenherz walked past him without a word and proceeded to inspect and waggle each control surface to be sure they were unlocked and free of obstruction.

      Himmel looked down to the hatch as Löwenherz climbed up the metal ladder. The soft inner hatch opened and his head appeared level with the floor of the cockpit behind Himmel’s feet. ‘I’m flying with you instead of Pohl,’ he said. One of the ground staff passed Löwenherz’s briefcase up through the hatch.

      Himmel nodded and turned to exchange a pained glance with the chief mechanic below while Löwenherz strapped himself into the radar operator’s seat behind him. The backs of their heads almost touched, but between their seats there was a slab of steel armour. The Staffelkapitän carefully made sure that his intercom cable went down his back and was clipped to his overall. It was an inconvenience, but Löwenherz had read of several cases of aircrew being strangled by their own radio leads and it was a pet subject for his memos. Himmel hoped that he wouldn’t notice that his leads were not correctly positioned.

      ‘All set, Christian?’ fussed Kugel. ‘It’s warm today, radiator gills full out while you’re taxiing, then fully closed for take-off. Watch the cooling indicator.’ Himmel nodded. ‘Frei!’ yelled Kugel.

      ‘Frei!’ replied Himmel and pushed the button. The starter motor whined, jerking the blades. A bright blue flame escaped from the exhaust, in spite of the dampers. Then there was an ear-splitting roar. The panel vibrated and the instruments blurred. Himmel throttled back. He started the other motor and waited while the fuel- and oil-pressure needles came alive. The whole plane was rocking on its tyres now. He slid the side window closed in spite of the heat, for it was one of Löwenherz’s well-known instructions. The instrument panel and the windscreen chattered with the pulse of the motors. He pushed the throttles wide open and saw the rev counters flick around to 2,800. Even through his flying helmet the sound was piercing. The ground crew had hands clamped against their ears and their black overalls rippled in the wind. Two of them tugged the chocks away from the wheels.

      Himmel took an extra look round the cockpit: flaps up, mags off, undercarriage locked, fuel full, straps fastened, oxygen ready, brakes on. The instruments were colour-coded: yellow for fuel, brown for oil and blue for air. Each of them read correctly and yet still Himmel worried. All pilots did, this was the moment of worry, once they were airborne the tenseness would ease a little.

      Himmel hooked his oxygen mask into the forehead of his helmet and pushed closed the studs of his throat mike. Löwenherz, taller than little Pohl, struggled to notch the seat back. Himmel was about to help but decided that Löwenherz was not the sort of man who liked being helped.

      ‘Pilot to radar operator,’ said Himmel self-consciously. ‘All correct?’

      ‘All correct,’ said Löwenherz.

      In his rear-view mirror Himmel saw Löwenherz fingering the radar controls.

      ‘Katze Four to Control, request permission СКАЧАТЬ