with their prisoner. They drank hot ersatz coffee from vacuum flask water-bottles and smoked foul, loosely packed cigarettes.
Several times the corporal attempted to engage Peter in conversation, but his non-committal and conclusive replies dropped each topic stillborn into the moist and smoke-filled atmosphere.
He sat, hunched up against the cold, on the wooden seat and wondered about the rest of his crew. Had they been captured or were they even now hiding up under hedges and waiting for darkness to fall? None of them spoke German; but Kim, the Canadian wireless operator, spoke French. Wally was in German hands, he knew that, but what about the others …
They had shared a car, the old Aston Martin without a silencer which had so often made the night hideous between Cambridge and the aerodrome. She had run on hundred-octane aviation spirit and, maintained by the aircraft’s ground crew, had ‘gone like a bomb.’ What would happen to her now? He would write as soon as he could to his young brother Roy, telling him that he could have her. He felt sure that the rest of the crew would agree – that is, if none of them got back, of course. If one of them got back the car would belong to him. He imagined himself driving her again, the slim wheel in his hands and the crew piled in on top of him, the exhaust blaring defiance at the police as they roared into Cambridge …
He must get out of this. The thought of spending the rest of the war behind barbed wire filled him with a sudden panic. If only he had made more of his chances while he was still free … He checked himself and tried to think constructively. The corporal had told him that they would change trains at Cologne and then travel eastward to Frankfurt-on-Main. He would try to give them the slip during the change of trains. In the meantime he must try and sleep and let them think that he had given up all hope of escape.
But he could not sleep and sat with his eyes closed trying to imagine what the station would be like and how he would make his getaway. He thought of Waterloo and Victoria stations with their many entrances and exits, and dreamed fantastic chases through subways with the guards unable to shoot because of the crowds. He imagined himself out in the busy streets, dodging through the traffic and burying himself down narrow alleys between tall houses. It was a fine dream while it lasted but in the end he found himself still in the stuffy carriage with the corporal watching him and the soldier snoring in the opposite seat.
He thought again of the squadron, of the soft murmuring evenings in late summer when his crew were grounded, and the clak-clank of the reaper in the cornfields was stronger than the faint hum of aircraft in the sky; of nights when he, not flying, sat in the control tower waiting for the returning squadron. Waiting until S for Sugar, his brother’s aircraft, had been signalled in, and then going to bed because he did not wish his brother to know that he had waited up. There were ten years between them. They had gone to the same school, but in different generations; he, already moustached, leaving as his brother entered. Then, years later, when he was a flight lieutenant Roy had come, as a sergeant, to the same airfield. The wing commander had told him the day before he was shot down that Roy had been recommended for a commission and would soon join him in the mess.
He thought of the fear at take-off, and how relieved he had been when flying was cancelled for the day; of how the fear of seeming afraid was greater than the fear itself.
Bob had packed it in. Perhaps his fear of death was greater than his fear of being thought afraid. Perhaps he was, in fact, braver than any of them. Peter had met him when they had first joined the RAF, on the first day. They were all lined up in front of a corporal, most of them dressed in old flannel trousers and tweed jackets. War was going to be an adventure for them – a release from civilian
Several times the corporal attempted to engage Peter in conversation, but his non-committal and conclusive replies dropped each topic stillborn into the moist and smoke-filled atmosphere.
He sat, hunched up against the cold, on the wooden seat and wondered about the rest of his crew. Had they been captured or were they even now hiding up under hedges and waiting for darkness to fall? None of them spoke German; but Kim, the Canadian wireless operator, spoke French. Wally was in German hands, he knew that, but what about the others …
They had shared a car, the old Aston Martin without a silencer which had so often made the night hideous between Cambridge and the aerodrome. She had run on hundred-octane aviation spirit and, maintained by the aircraft’s ground crew, had ‘gone like a bomb.’ What would happen to her now? He would write as soon as he could to his young brother Roy, telling him that he could have her. He felt sure that the rest of the crew would agree – that is, if none of them got back, of course. If one of them got back the car would belong to him. He imagined himself driving her again, the slim wheel in his hands and the crew piled in on top of him, the exhaust blaring defiance at the police as they roared into Cambridge …
He must get out of this. The thought of spending the rest of the war behind barbed wire filled him with a sudden panic. If only he had made more of his chances while he was still free … He checked himself and tried to think constructively. The corporal had told him that they would change trains at Cologne and then travel eastward to Frankfurt-on-Main. He would try to give them the slip during the change of trains. In the meantime he must try and sleep and let them think that he had given up all hope of escape.
But he could not sleep and sat with his eyes closed trying to imagine what the station would be like and how he would make his getaway. He thought of Waterloo and Victoria stations with their many entrances and exits, and dreamed fantastic chases through subways with the guards unable to shoot because of the crowds. He imagined himself out in the busy streets, dodging through the traffic and burying himself down narrow alleys between tall houses. It was a fine dream while it lasted but in the end he found himself still in the stuffy carriage with the corporal watching him and the soldier snoring in the opposite seat.
He thought again of the squadron, of the soft murmuring evenings in late summer when his crew were grounded, and the clak-clank of the reaper in the cornfields was stronger than the faint hum of aircraft in the sky; of nights when he, not flying, sat in the control tower waiting for the returning squadron. Waiting until S for Sugar, his brother’s aircraft, had been signalled in, and then going to bed because he did not wish his brother to know that he had waited up. There were ten years between them. They had gone to the same school, but in different generations; he, already moustached, leaving as his brother entered. Then, years later, when he was a flight lieutenant Roy had come, as a sergeant, to the same airfield. The wing commander had told him the day before he was shot down that Roy had been recommended for a commission and would soon join him in the mess.
He thought of the fear at take-off, and how relieved he had been when flying was cancelled for the day; of how the fear of seeming afraid was greater than the fear itself.
Bob had packed it in. Perhaps his fear of death was greater than his fear of being thought afraid. Perhaps he was, in fact, braver than any of them. Peter had met him when they had first joined the RAF, on the first day. They were all lined up in front of a corporal, most of them dressed in old flannel trousers and tweed jackets. War was going to be an adventure for them – a release from civilian
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