B for Buster by Iain Lawrence Page A

black dot against a sky that wasn’t much lighter. Sergeant Piper and the other erks stood around their trolley. They leaned back with their arms crossed, digging their toes at the grass. They looked bored and impatient, like people waiting too long for a bus.
    Then at last we got the word. It started at Bomber Command in High Wycombe, filtered down to Group, down to the squadron, and at last to the airmen.
    Lofty cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s get this bus in the air,” he said.

CHAPTER 6
    â€œSWITCH TO GROUND.” That was Lofty, his voice coming through the intercom.
    â€œSwitch to ground,” said Pop.
    â€œLanding gear locked.”
    They ran through their checklist, the old guy sounding bored. He had been a mechanic long before the war began, and he still had that slow, mechanical way of thinking.
    The erks bustled below me. Others wheeled the trolley into place, then stretched out the cable to plug into the fuselage. Every moment brought us closer to the op, and every moment was harder to wait. Other bombers were being readied in just the same way at just the same time—dozens and dozens and dozens of them—at every airfield in every county in all of England. But it seemed that the entire air force, from Bomber Harris down to the lowest erk, had only one task right then—to get old
B for Buster
airborne.
    â€œMaster switches on. Tanks one and three, switches on,” said Lofty.
    â€œSwitches on,” echoed Pop.
    â€œPropeller fully up. Gills open.”
    A pair of erks walked the first propeller around, grabbing the blade tips to roll the engine over.
    â€œIgnition, number one,” said Lofty. “Booster on. Coils on.”
    The outer engine whined. The propeller blades turned and stopped, turned again, then spun in a blur as the engine caught. Number two was started, three and four, and they ran in a ragged, shaking roar until Lofty got them synchronized. He backed the throttles to let the engines idle.
    â€œCompass set to on,” said Lofty. “Ground battery disconnected. Switch to flight.”
    Our lights came on, gleaming on the ground. Along the row of bombers, others sparkled red and green and white.
    â€œDoor closed,” said Pop. “Ready to taxi.”
    â€œRoger that. Switch on, clutch in, gyro out,” said Lofty. “Right, let’s go.”
    Will passed by my station on his way to the cockpit, and I looked up to watch him lower the second dickey seat and settle in at Lofty’s side. He would work the throttles and the pitch levers, letting Lofty put all his strength into the rudders and the column. I heard a rasping sound below me, and saw an erk come running out from the wheel, dragging a chock on its bit of rope. The engines quickened, and we rumbled forward.
    Lofty steered a weaving path along the perimeter, then swung quickly onto the runway with a burst from the starboard inner. We rocked forward as the brakes went on.
    There was still a chance we wouldn’t be flying. At any moment the op could be canceled, the bombers sent back to dispersal.
Hurry up,
I said under my breath.
Just
get us off the ground.
    â€œElevator tabs, two divisions,” said Lofty. “Rudder neutral. Fuel cocks, Pop?”
    â€œAll switches set,” said Pop.
    â€œFlaps down thirty. Gills open one-third.”
    We waited for the flare. My stomach churned from excitement.
    â€œHang on,” said Lofty. “Full throttles, Will.”
    The engines howled.
Buster
shuddered and lurched forward, veering to the left. For a moment I clutched my belts, but Lofty got us straightened out, and the ground blurred below my window, faster and faster.
    â€œThrottles locked,” said Lofty.
    â€œOkay,” said Will. He started calling out the speed. “Forty knots. Fifty knots,” he said. “Sixty knots, Skipper.”
    The tail came up. “Oo-oop,” said Ratty. No one laughed; we’d heard the joke on every