They reached F-Fox at dispersal and dismounted from the bus. Even at this point Teddy was expecting the red light that would tell them that the raid had been scrubbed. But apparently this was not to be, so he carried on, going over the aircraft with the new pilot, the flight engineer and the ground crew. The engineer was called Roy, Teddy reminded himself. The mid-upper was a Canadian called Joe, the tail-end Charlie was—helpfully—called Charlie. He looked about twelve years old. The tail-gunner’s Perspex was getting a final polish with the blackouts.
Teddy offered cigarettes all round. Only the bomb-aimer didn’t smoke. “Clifford,” he reminded Teddy when he could see him struggling. “Clifford,” Teddy murmured. All of the ground crew smoked like chimneys. Teddy wished that he could take them up on a raid, a safe one from which they would all be guaranteed to return. It seemed a shame that they never experienced what “their” aircraft went through, never saw the view through that well-polished Perspex. At the end of the war, the RAF did “Cook’s tours,” flying the earthbound personnel over Germany so they could see the havoc that they had helped to wreak. Ursula managed to wangle her way on to one, Teddy had no idea how but he wasn’t surprised. The war had proved his sister to be rather good at negotiating the great game of bureaucracy. It was terrible, she reported, to see a country in total ruin.
Teddy’s sprogs all urinated on the wheel of F-Fox and then looked slightly abashed when they realized that Teddy wasn’t going to partake of this masculine ritual. He was their sadhu, Teddy thought, a guru. He could have told them to climb up to the control-tower roof and throw themselves off in an orderly sequence and they would have done. He sighed and fumbled with his enormous amount of clothing and took an unnecessary piss against the wheel. The sprogs gave each other covert grins of relief.
Then the ground crew made their usual unshowy, optimistic farewells, shaking hands all round. “Good luck, see you in the morning.”
Teddy stood next to the pilot for take-off. The pilot was called Fraser, from Edinburgh, a student at St. Andrews. A different kind of Scot from Kenny Nielson. No second dickey flight for him, instead his wing commander riding shotgun. He remembered the crew of W-William. This aircraft took off at 16:20 hours and failed to return. It has therefore been reported as missing.
The Bristol Hercules engines whined as the propellers made their first few jerky revolutions before catching and turning to the familiar staccato. Good engines, Teddy told Fraser when they were doing their checks. Fraser, of necessity, was interested in the mechanics of bombing.
Port outer, port inner, followed by starboard inner, starboard outer. Once all the checks were done—the mag drops and oil pressures and so on—Fraser asked control for permission to taxi. He glanced at Teddy as if he needed his approval more than he needed the control tower’s and Teddy gave him a thumbs-up. The chocks were removed and they edged forward to join the procession on the perimeter track, the engines throbbing and rumbling, a vibration that passed through muscle into bone and lodged in the heart and lungs. There was something magnificent about it to Teddy’s mind.
They were fifth in line to take off and they swung on to the runway, engines to full boost, waiting, a greyhound in a trap, ready to go when the controller’s Aldis light showed green. Teddy was still expecting the red light from the control tower, cancelling the op. It never came. Sometimes they were even recalled once they were in the air. Not this time.
The usual flare-path farewell party had gathered at the controller’s caravan. Assorted WAAFs, cookhouse and ground crew. The CO was there, the air vice-marshal too, saluting every aircraft as it passed. Those who are about to die do not salute you back, Teddy thought. Instead he gave a thumbs-up to Stella, who was also there, holding Lucky in her arms, and as they rolled down the runway she lifted one of the dog’s paws and waved it. Better than any scrambled egg’s salute in Teddy’s book. He laughed and Fraser glanced at him in alarm. Taking off was a serious business, especially when it was your first operational sortie and your wing commander was your second pilot. And that same Wing Co was showing signs of eccentric behaviour.
The green light showed and they began to lumber along the runway like an overweight bird, trying to reach the necessary 105 mph that would “unstick” twelve tons of metal and petrol and explosive from the earth. Teddy helped with the engine throttles and felt the usual relief as Fraser eased back on the yoke and F-Fox strained to drag herself off the ground. Unconsciously, Teddy touched the little silver hare in his breast pocket.