“Shut up, Kak,” he said.
I tugged his sleeve. “But, Lofty.”
“Shut up, will you?”
He turned away, crossing his legs. So I looked to Pop, on my other side, and told him, “We can't go. We can't go to Hamburg.”
The old guy patted my knee. “Shush, shush,” he whispered. “I don't think we'll be going, Kid.”
But the erks did. They promised us, as though they thought it such a favor, that they would do their best. “Touch and go,” said Sergeant Piper. “That's how I see it. You'll have to taxi from the hangar. Yes, you'll have to taxi right from here. But
Buster
should be ready.”
I had never spent an evening in such horror. Anyplace but Hamburg, I told myself. Anyplace but there. I couldn't go back to that burning city, to the solid flak and the searchlights. I couldn't go back without my ray-gun ring, that stupid, stupid ring. If I didn't have that, I was Captain Marvel without his powers, just a regular boy with nothing to save me.
For hours I hung around the hangar, listening to the hammering. I imagined they were building a scaffold, a gallows, in there. Whenever Sergeant Piper came out, I pestered him to tear the flare chute apart and see if there wasn't something in it.
“Like what?” he snapped when he was sick of the sight of me. “Something like what?”
“I don't know,” I said.
“Then how can I look?” he asked. “How can I look for nothing?”
I grabbed him as he turned away. “My ray gun,” I said desperately. “My ray-gun ring.”
He laughed. “Do I look like a wet nurse, boy? Is that what I look like? Go on; leave us alone.”
I went to Lofty, hoping he would help. I was sure he would take one look at me and say, “Oh, Kid, you're sick. You can't go flying.” But he didn't notice how I sweated, how I trembled. He was sitting on his bed, writing a letter, and was neither startled nor worried to see me. He
smiled.
“Hi, Kid,” he said.
His pipe was in his teeth, and he seemed as calm as the padre who spent his days sitting in the sun. It was the closest I'd ever seen him to the way he must have been before the war. Perched on the side of his bed, the paper on his lap, he might have been a shoe salesman again, getting ready to slip a pair of oxfords on my feet.
“I'm writing to my dad,” he said. “Telling him that . . . Sorry, you wouldn't understand.”
“Why not?” I said.
He was embarrassed. “Being an orphan and all.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said stupidly. I'd almost forgotten that he thought I was an orphan.
“Well, anyway.” He folded his sheet of paper. “Listen, Kid. About the briefing. I'm sorry I binded you.”
“It's okay,” I said.
“You're a good guy, Kak. I guess I never told you that.”
I knew then that he was getting ready to die. He was saying so long to his dad, and apologizing for things that bothered him. But he didn't look frightened, or even very sad. I didn't know how he could settle down so calmly to put everything in order.
“Lofty?” I said.
“Yes?”
I meant to tell him everything, all my lies and all my fears. I knew he might laugh, but I didn't care anymore. I was sure that
I
would sob and weep, but even that didn't bother me. I just didn't know how to tell him, or where to start, so I blurted out, “I lost my lucky ring!”
It was worse than I'd feared. He
did
laugh, just a giggle at first, then more and more, until it exploded out of him. He had to take his pipe from his mouth and wipe at his eyes. “Your lucky ring,” he said, and started off again.
“It's true,” I told him. “I dropped it down the flare chute, I think. But Sergeant Piper won't go looking. Oh, I hate him, Lofty.”
He couldn't have ever laughed harder at Buster Keaton or Laurel and Hardy. He laughed like a crazy man. And I sat there on the bed, my insides shaking themselves apart. It was true, I thought: my moral fiber
was
unraveling.
Lofty finally gathered himself together. Tears were smudged across his cheeks. “Your lucky ring,” he said. “Look what it's got us. Shot up and shot
at
and damn nearly killed. Kakky, if that's what's been bringing us our luck, you should have thrown it away after the first op.”
I heard engines outside: a kite coming in with a wounded rattle, one engine missing in its beat, another missing altogether.
“Who's that?” I asked.
“Who's what?”
Wheels touched the runway; engines growled, propellers changing pitch.
“
That,
” I said. “Who's that coming in?”
“Kid, are you okay?”
Lofty hadn't heard the sounds. I didn't know if I was imagining things or if he was deaf. So I went to the window, and looked out.
There was nothing on the runway.
CHAPTER 15
LOFTY SAID I HAD the twitch. The jitters. “A lot of guys get them.” He put on his British mutter, as he always did when he was a bit uncomfortable. “I say, old boy. It's the waiting, you know.”
He puffed through his empty pipe again. He kept folding the corner of his letter, bending it open and shut.
“You'll feel okay when you get in the kite,” he said. “When you're on your way it's not so bad.”
“Do
you
ever get scared?” I asked.
He looked at me for quite a long time. Then he smiled. “Don't worry, Kid,” he said. “Last time was a dicey do. Tonight will be a piece of cake.”
“But
do
you?”
“Naw,” he said with a flip of his hand. “Now go for a walk. Get your mind on something else.”
He didn't want me around, that was all. He didn't want to listen to my worries. So I left the hut and went walking. I passed a group of airmen sitting in the sun, in canvas chairs. Most of them wore their blue jackets and their blue trousers, but one was lounging in leather flying clothes, in big, unbuckled boots. He lifted his head as I passed.
It was Donny Lee.
I forgot in that instant that he was dead. I whirled around to smile at him. “Hey, Donny!” I was going to shout. But he wasn't there at all, and I remembered that he could
never
be there. A flying jacket was draped across the canvas, and a pair of boots stood empty on the grass. I stared at them with the oddest feeling; I was
sure
there'd been a person in the chair. Then I turned around again and stumbled off. I went faster and faster, and I went straight to Uncle Joe.
He was sitting at his desk when I got there. I saluted, but he only waved that off. “Sit down,” he said, watching me. “I know you, don't I?”
“Sir, I . . .”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “You're the bloke who laughed at all the flak.”
That day, my first briefing, seemed so long ago that I could hardly remember.
Uncle Joe snapped his fingers twice. “Kakabeka,” he said. “Have I got it?”
“Yes, sir.” If he wanted to think that was my name, I wasn't going to correct him.
“What's on your mind, son?”
I told him straight out. My voice trembled and creaked. “I don't think I can fly anymore,” I said.
He sat up in his chair behind the desk. There were pages of lists laid out, and he spread his hands across them. “Why not?” he said.
“I'm scared,” I told him.
Right away I regretted coming.
“You're scared,” he said flatly.
“Yes, sir.”
He grunted, and it was as though he coughed out all his kindliness. He changed suddenly into someone fierce and angry-looking. Uncle Joe became my old man.
“Where are you from, Kakabeka?” he asked.
“Kakabeka,” I told him.
Things like cables tightened in his neck. He must have been trying to figure out if I was a fool, or if I was trying to show that he was one.
“Well,
Mister,
” he said, “how do you want the folks in Kakabeka to remember you? As a coward?”
I really didn't care how they remembered me.
“And what about your crew?” asked Uncle Joe. “Do you care about
them
?”
“Someone else can take my place,” I said. “There's lots of sprogs, sir.”
“I see. So it's just your own sorry self you worry about, and the devil with anyone else?”
“It's only me who's scared,” I said.
A look of utter disgust came over his face. He shoved back his chair and stood up. “If every frightened boy came to see me, there'd be a queue from here to York,” he said. “They're
all
frightened, Mister. I'm scared to hell myself. But we do the job and we don't let anybody down.”
I looked at the floor. I didn't want to cry, but I couldn't help it. Uncle Joe didn't understand at all.
“You volunteered for this,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I sobbed.
“Do you think you can just change your mind? Do you think you can just tell me, âSorry, I don't belong here'?”
“But I
don't
belong here,” I said.
“Who does?” he snapped. “Your pilot's a shoe salesman. Your navigator trimmed hedges and planted flowers. I was one year away from being a doctor, so what makes you think you're different from anyone else?”
His shadow lay on the planks, on my feet and my ankles. I wished I could disappear into its darkness.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because I lied, sir,” I said.
“What?”
“I'm only sixteen.”
The shadow flowed up my legs, over my hands and my lap. I saw his hand reach out, and I cringed away. I thought he was going to slap me, but he only touched the top of my head, his fingers in my hair. “Really?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Uncle Joe tipped back my head until I
had
to look at him. He stared right into my eyes.
“Well,” he said. “This changes things.”
My heart lifted. It soared to twenty thousand feet.
He was Uncle Joe again, smiling and friendly, the CO that all the sprogs met and loved right away. He took his own handkerchief from his back pocket and gave it to me. I dabbed my eyes, proud to be using it.
“There's only one problem.” He stepped back. “How do I know you didn't tell the truth then, and
now
you're telling me lies?”
“You can ask my old man,” I said.
“You told me you were an orphan.”
“I lied about that, too,” I said. “I've got a dad. And a mom. I'm not really an orphan, sir. I lied about everything.”
Uncle Joe sighed. “All right, son,” he said. “If you're telling the truth, I'll see what I can do. I can get you off ops, but I won't get you out of the air force. I'll move you to other duties.”
“I could look after the pigeons,” I said.
“Well, yes, I suppose you could.” He jammed his fingers together. “But I think we can find something moreâ more
meaningful
âthan that.” He went round his desk and picked up his papers. “I wish you'd come sooner, son.”
So did I. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I wanted to, butâ”
“You'll have to fly tonight. If your kite's ready.”
My heart plummeted again.
“There's no choice, son,” he said. “It's a Goodwood.”
“All right, sir,” I said. I thought I could do it once more if I knew it was the last time.
“Fly tonight, and in the morning come and see me. We'll get this straightened out,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
He rolled his papers into a tube, then wedged them in his tunic. “We'll both have to hurry now,” he said.
I stood up and saluted. His handkerchief, still in my hand, waved like a white flag. I put it on his desk and walked to the door.
“And, Mister.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Not a word to your crew. Not yet.”
“No, sir,” I said.
“And if it turns out you're lying, I won't have any mercy. You know what happens when someone refuses to fly, don't you?”
“LMF, sir,” I said.
He nodded. “But do you know what that means?”
“Not really, sir,” I said.
“You'll be stripped of your rank, your stripes, and your badges. You'll be called a coward, and everyone will know it. You'll lose every friend you have, and I doubt you'll ever find another.” He took his flying jacket from the rickety coat stand. “And if you think that's the end of it, you're wrong, Mister. It's just the start. If you're lucky, you'll be shifted into a drudge of a job. If not, you'll be put in the infantry and your cowardice will go with you. For the rest of your life it will follow you, wherever you go and whatever you do.” He took his hat next, and jammed it on the back of his head. “You might find yourself in prison. Or maybe in a coal mine, and there isn't much difference. Whatever happens, you'll regret it every day you live.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“If you don't believe me, ask the pigeoneer.”
“The
pigeoneer,
sir?” I said.
“Yes. He'll tell you a story about a fellow who was branded LMF.”
I imagined that Bert had watched a lot of people come and go. He must have known at least one who refused to fly. Maybe he'd known hundreds.
“But listen, son.” Uncle Joe touched my arm. “If you're telling the truth, you're all right. You're not âhome' yet, as you might say. But you're, um, âsafe on third.'” He blushed wonderfully. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now you'd better hurry up.”
Hamburg was still a terror for me, the flak and the night fighters as frightening as ever. But I kept pushing my thoughts ahead to the moment that we'd land. I imagined myself stepping from the kite for the last time, down to the grass and clovers. And I felt a calmness then. If
Buster
was ready, so was I.
I ate all my eggs and bacon. I swabbed up the grease with a slice of bread, and ate that, too. In the hope that someone would notice, I rattled my empty plate. I patted my stomach as though it was fit to burst. But the only thing the others were interested in was
Buster,
and the only thing they talked about was whether she'd be ready or not.
When we got to the hangar, the erks were still working. They had wheeled
Buster
onto the tarmac, and she looked bigger than ever now, all by herself on those acres of gray. There were new metal patches here and there, and especially around my little part of the kite, where the airscrew had torn through the fuselage.
Buster'
s kicking mule had lost a hoof, and the little Hitler had lost his arms now, as well as his legs.
Lofty went straight to the erks. “What's the gen?” he asked.
“No worries,” said Sergeant Piper. “Yes, sir, no fear. You'll be going to be Germany, and that's for certain.”
Buzz dropped his chute and his gear. He dashed away in his heavy boots, in a jangle from all his buckles and harness fittings. Ratty called after him, “Hey! Where are you going?”
I thought he had given up; I really did. I thought Buzz had packed it in, and just wouldn't fly to Hamburg. He was fleeing toward the hangar, as though he hoped to hide in there, and I envied him for it, and admired him. But mostly I just hated him for doing what I had thought so long of doing. “He's scared!” I shouted. “He's cracked.”
“Oh, shut up, Kid,” said Ratty.
Buzz kept running. Even the erks watched him go, a brown bulk like a charging bear. Ratty cupped his hands to his mouth. “What are you doing?” he bellowed.
Buzz held up his arms and waved them as he ran. “My clover, my clover!” he cried.
Pop rolled his eyes, and Simon chuckled. But everyone looked toward Buzz with the same fond smile, and I wondered,
Will they do that for me?
Will they be sad or angry when
I
run away? Will they be disappointed?
Buzz reached the hangar and threw himself down at the little strip of green along the base of the wall. He bent into his old bloodhound position, head down and bottom up, and a laugh rose from the erks. Sergeant Piper yelled at them. “Get to work, you miserable lot!”
We gathered in
Buster
's shade, below the starboard wing. But even there, bubbles of pitch oozed on the tarmac, and we couldn't lie down, or even sit. On any other day I would have had a pigeon box to use for a seat, but Bert had finally got his motorized loft running, and I had to wait until he brought out the boxes himself.
My feet were baking in my boots when I saw that thing puttering toward us. Simon pointed and said, “Take a squint at that.”
The motorized loft shimmered in the heat of the tarmac. Like a mirage on a desert, it was warped and stretched until it seemed as thin as a pencil floating on wheels that were six feet high.
“What the heck is that?” asked Ratty.
“It's the pigeoneer,” I said. “It's old featherhead.” Then I felt embarrassed for myself, and hot with shame, and I hoped my voice wasn't loud enough to carry to the loft.
“He's got kangaroos loose in his upper paddock,” said Simon.
They kept joking about the pigeoneer as I went off toward him. I didn't run, but walked as quickly as I could. I didn't like the others to hear me talking to Bert, or Bert talking to me. Behind me Ratty was shouting in a funny high voice, “Pigeons, pigeons! Get your fresh, hot pigeons!”
Bert stopped the loft, but didn't shut off the motor. He didn't even get out of the cab. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “But I'm late. No time to chat.” He put his head out the window, and I saw Percy on his shoulder, standing at attention. “Could you 'elp yourself to Gilbert, sir?”
“Okay,” I said.
“At the back, sir.”
I found the proper little box; it was marked with Lofty's name and
Buster
's numbers. I took it out and slapped the side of the loft. Bert drove away in a puff of smoke. “Thank you, sir,” he cried. His arm jutted from the window, his hand waving. “Good luck, sir.”
He went off toward the other kites, and I carried the box back to
Buster.
I sat on it, then lifted my feet from the hot tarmac. “See?” I said. “I told you the pigeons were useful.”
“Yeah,” said Ratty. “It's going to bake just right in that little tin oven.”
I thought of the box heating on the ground. I stood and picked it up, and I waited as the others did, shuffling my feet as the box seemed to stretch my arm.
Lofty signed the 700 on Sergeant Piper's clipboard. He took out his pipe and wedged it in his mouth. “Right,” he said. “Let's go.”
We formed a queue at
Buster
's door. I was at the end, shuffling forward as the others stepped up and disappeared into the fuselage. I saw Will take a peek inside his helmet. I saw Ratty touch his rabbit's foot, Pop his hidden crucifix, and I smelled perfume as Simon patted across his pockets. Suddenly I missed my lucky ray-gun ring so strongly that I didn't want to go.