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

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СКАЧАТЬ he counted them, pulling each bomb trying to shift it within the jaws of the grip. He clasped a 2,000-lb bomb and lifted his feet off the ground so that the jaws took his weight too.

      ‘I wish you’d come out and do that before we get here,’ complained Lambert.

      ‘Have a little faith,’ said Digby.

      Automatically Lambert took his wallet from his battledress blouse and folded into it the gold fountain pen that had been his twenty-first birthday present from his parents. It was an unspoken arrangement that if anything happened to him the wallet with all his letters and documents, and a last letter that he’d rewritten from time to time, should go to Ruth. The fountain pen was for Worthington to keep and the money was for drinks all round in the Sergeants’ Mess. Worthington nodded and looked at Lambert with concern. It seemed to him a bloody awful sort of war. He’d seen a seemingly endless progression of young kids go to war and eventually not come back. Carefully he put the wallet into his inner pocket.

      Lambert was just going to climb aboard to start the motors when he saw the Group Captain’s Humber coming round the peri track. It stopped beside the plane.

      ‘O for Orange; Flight Sergeant Lambert,’ murmured Flying Officer Griffith, the Admin Officer, into the Groupie’s ear. Griffith ticked his piece of paper.

      ‘Bloody cold, Lambert, what?’ said the Groupie stamping the ground energetically.

      ‘Yes, sir, freezing,’ said Lambert. He pushed his battered rag doll into his tunic.

      Lambert and the Group Captain looked at each other without knowing what to say and yet both were reluctant to turn away.

      ‘Your lucky doll?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Lambert. Self-consciously he produced the rag doll: a cross-eyed figure in a black velvet suit.

      ‘She’s getting pretty old now,’ said the Groupie.

      ‘Yes, sir, it’s the altitude,’ joked Lambert.

      ‘Really?’ said the Groupie. At one time the aircrew were bright middle-class boys with style and a sense of fun. Now they were working-class lads with no proper schooling and accents he could scarcely understand. What did Lambert mean about the altitude? So many of these young scoundrels had got their sergeant’s rank too easily and the result was a familiarity of manner that he didn’t readily take to.

      ‘Not the first trip you’ve done to the Ruhr, eh, Flight Sergeant?’

      ‘That’s right, sir.’

      Usually the Group Captain listened to the BBC news broadcast at nine o’clock. That gave him something to talk about as he visited the planes.

      ‘I missed the news tonight,’ said the Groupie.

      ‘I heard it,’ said Lambert. ‘An American fortress raid on the Channel ports. And there’s a big new German attack upon Rokossovsky around Kursk from Orel and Byelgorod. In the first day’s fighting alone the Red Army destroyed five hundred German tanks and over two hundred aircraft.’

      ‘Splendid,’ said the Groupie and turned on his heel and hurried back to his car. He wound up the window against the cold night air.

      ‘Bloody Bolshie,’ said the Group Captain.

      ‘Pardon, sir,’ said the Admin Officer who hadn’t heard the conversation.

      ‘Lambert, a bloody Bolshie I say.’

      ‘Lambert, sir?’

      ‘Why else would he have “Stalin for King” written on his aeroplane?’

      ‘I don’t think it’s there now,’ said the Admin Officer tactfully. He knew it was Carter’s aeroplane to which the Groupie referred.

      ‘I know it isn’t there now,’ said the Groupie sarcastically. ‘He’s had a fresh aircraft given to him today.’

      The Admin Officer was about to correct the Group Captain but it seemed such a small matter to argue about. He’d be with the Groupie for most of the night. Why put him in a bad mood.

      ‘I see, sir,’ he said. He watched the red sparks fly as the Group Captain lit his pipe and puffed at it angrily.

      ‘Just gave me a lecture about his glorious Red Army.’

      ‘Really, sir?’

      ‘Well, of course I’m not going to put up with that sort of thing. Take me to see that young officer who’s on his first trip tonight.’

      ‘Pilot Officer Fleming, sir. Z for Zebra. Parked near the trees, driver.’

      The car turned and crossed the peri track. The Groupie seemed not to have heard. ‘I’ll get rid of him, Griffith.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Young Sweet was on about him only today.’

      ‘Was he, sir?’

      ‘Hinted that he was a Red.’ The Groupie gave a short humourless laugh. ‘Only I was too damned stupid to see what young Sweet was driving at.’

      ‘He said that Lambert was a Red?’ asked Pilot Officer Griffith in amazement.

      ‘No, he didn’t. Too loyal to his flight, too damned fine a young officer to even suspect a senior NCO of such a thing. No, Sweet just reported a piece of Lambert’s bloody propagandizing Communist bilge in the Mess. As I say, young Sweet was so hesitant that it’s not until I had the full force of it myself that I’ve tumbled to what’s going on. What say you to that, Griffith?’

      ‘Remarkable, sir.’

      ‘Bloody remarkable, Griffith. If the AOC had got wind of it I’d have been remarkable on my bloody earhole, Griffith.’ No sooner had the Group Captain got his pipe alight than he rapped it against the metal ashtray to empty it.

      ‘Indeed you would, sir.’

      ‘Who did you say this next one was?’

      ‘Z for Zebra, sir. Three officers in the crew. The captain is Pilot Officer Fleming. His first operation.’ The car stopped and Griffith ticked his list of names.

      ‘Bloody cold, eh, Fleming?’ boomed the Groupie striding across the tarmac. The Admin Officer prodded the smouldering tobacco to be sure it was quite extinguished. With all this petrol about smoking was strictly forbidden.

      Voices carry a long way on an airfield, especially at night. Battersby had heard the WAAF driver stop at S Sweet on the far pan.

      ‘All change,’ she called. There were laughs and shouts and then he heard her say, ‘Good luck, sir,’ and knew she was talking to Sweet. Battersby felt a stab of jealousy. After all, she had blown him a kiss. He walked around, checking the exterior of his aircraft. Officers always got the pretty ones.

      A Corporal rigger poured hot sweet tea for all of them. The enamel cups were chipped and smelled faintly of oil but it was hot and welcome. Digby was still leaning against the wheel and dreaming when he heard the distant СКАЧАТЬ