"they're here?" she said. "Arriving." to his. Again he held her with one Again she leaned her shoulder encircling arm. "Damn, the bastards just can't nliss," he said, "with those fires to guide them." "Berlin can catch fire, too." Pamela suddenly looked about as ugly as she could: a grim, nasty face with hate scored on it in the red paint of her mouth. New fires sprang up along the river, and spread and ran into the big fire. More blazes flared out of the darkness far from the Thames. Still, most of the vast city remained black and still. A tiny bomber came toppling down through the smoky sky, burning like a cancllewick, transfixed by two crossing searchlights. t more of them. Please." "Oh God, they got him. They got one. Ge And in short order two more bombers fell-one plunging straight down in a blaze like a meteor, the other circling and spiralling black smoke until it exploded in midair like a distant firecracker. In a moment they heard the sharp pop. "Ah, lovely. Lovely!" The telephone rang. "Well!" she laughed harshly. "Uxbridge, no doubt, screaming for their little fugitive from duty. Possibly inviting me to a court-martial." She returned after a moment with a puzzled face. "It seems to be for YOU." "Who?" "Wouldn't say. Sounded important and impatient." General Tillet said, "Ah, Henry. jolly good. Your friend Fearing suggested I try you here. Ah, you do recall, don't you, when you paid a little morning call a couple of weeks ago on a portly old gentleman, he mentioned that you might want to go along on a little expedition that was in the works? A trip to familiar foreign scenes?" A tingle ran down Victor Henry's spine. 'I remember." "Well, the trip seems to be on. I'm to meet you tonight when this nuisance stops, to give you the details, if you're interested.-I say, are you there, Henry?" 'Yes, General. Will you be going on the trip?" "Me? Good God, dear chap, no. I'm a timid old fellow, quitL4 unsuited for the rigors of travel. Besides, I haven't been asked." "When is the trip?" "I gather they'll be leaving tomorrow, some time."'Can I call you back?" 'I'm supposed to pass your answer along within the hour." 'I'll call you back very soon." 'Jolly good." "Tell me this. Do you think I should go?" 'Why, since you ask, I think you'd be insane. Damned hot where they're going. Worst time of year. You have to be very fond of that kind of scenery. Can't say I an-L" "Are you at the same number?" 'No." Tillet gave him another number. "I'm sitting here and waiting. As he came out on the balcony, she turned to well, her face alight. "They've got two more. Our night fighters must be up. At least we're getting some of our own back." Pug peered out at the fantastic show-the fires, the searchlight beams, the skybing pillars of red and yellow smoke over the lampless city. "I gave you some good advice in Washington. Or you thought it was good advice." "Yes, indeed." Her eyes searched his. "Mo telephoned you?" "Come inside. I'll take that drink now." They sat in two armchairs near the open french windows to the balcony. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, holding the glass in his cupped hands. "Pamela, the R.A.F will be bombing Berlin tomorrow night, and it seems I'm invited along as an observer." The girl's face in the shadowy light went taut. She took her lower lip in her teeth, and looked at him so. It was not an attractive expression. Her eyes were round as an owl's. "I see. Shall you go?" "That's what I'm wondering. I think it's a goddamned idiotic notion, and General Tillet agrees, but meantime he's reported the invitation. I've got to accept it or duck it." "Strange they'd ask you. You're not Air Force." "Your Prime Minister mentioned it in passing when I saw him. He apparently has a good memory." "Do you want my opinion?" "That's what I'm asking for." "Decline. Quickly, firmly, and finally." "All right, why?" "It's not your business. It's especially not the business of America's naval attache in Berlin." "True.""Your chances of returning are something like three out of five. It's miserably unfair to your wife." "That N,a' my'first thought." Pug paused, looking out of the balcony doors, In the night the A.A. snapped and thumped, and searchlights swayed blue fingers across the blackness. "Still, your Prime Minister thinks there'd be some purpose in my going." Pamela Tudsbury Hipped her hand in a quick irritated gesture. "Oh, rot. Winnie is a perpetual undergraduate about combat. He probably wishes he could go himself, and imagines everyone's like him. He got himself unnecessarily captured in South Africa long ago. Why, in May and June he flew over to France time after time, got in the hair of the generals, and skittered around the front making a frightful nuisance of himself. He's a great man, but that's one of his many weaknesses." Victor Henry lit a cigarette and took deep puffs, turning the match packet round and round in his fingers. "Well, I'm supposed to call General Tillet pretty damn quick. I'd better do that." He reached for the telephone. She said quickly, "Wait a minute. What are you going to say?" "I'm going to accept." Pamela drew a sharp noisy breath, and said, "Why did you ask my opinion, then?" "I thought you might voice a good objection that hadn't occurred to "You gave the best objection yourself. It's idiotic." "I'm not positive. My job is intelligence. This is an extraordinary opportunity. There's also a taunt in it, Pamela. The U.S. Navy's out of the war, and I'm here to see how you're taking it. Question, how will I take it? It's hard to duck that one." "You're reading too much into it. What would your President say to this? Did he send you here to risk getting killed?" "After the fact he'd congratulate me." 'If you returned to be congratulated." As he reached for the telephone again, Pamela Tudsbury said, 'I shall wind up with Fred Fearing. Or his equivalent" That. stopped the motion of Pug's arm. She said, 'I'm in dead earnest. I miss Ted horribly. I shall not be able to endure missing you. I'm much more attached to you than you are. And I'm not at all moral, you know. You have very wrong ideas about me." The seams in his face were sharp and deep as he peered at the angry girl. The thumping of his heart made speechdifficult. "It isn't very moral to hit below the belt, I'll say that." "You don't understand me. Not in the least. On the Bremen you took me for a schoolgirl, and you've never really changed. Your wife has somehow kept you remarkably innocent for twenty-five years." Victor Henry said, 'Pam, I bonesdy don't think I was born to be shot down over Berlin in a British bomber. I'll see you when I get back." He telephoned Tillet, while the girl stared at him with wide angry eyes. "Ass!" she said. "Ass?" YOUNGSTER in greasy coveralls poked his head through the open door. A "Sir, the briefing's begun in B flight crew room." "Coming," said Pug, struggling with unfamiliar tubes, clasps, and straps. The flying suit was too big. It had not been laundered or otherwise cleaned in a long time, and smelled of stale sweat, grease, and tobacco. Quickly Pug pulled on three pairs of socks and thrust his feet into fleccelined boots, also too big. "What do I do with these?" Pug gestured at the raincoat and tweed suit he had folded on a chair. "They'll be right there when you get back, sir." Their eyes met. In that glance was complete mutual recognition that, for no very good reason, Pug was going out to risk death. The young man looked sorry for him, and also wryly amused at the Yank officer's predicament. Pug said, "What's your name?" "Aircraftsman Horton, sir." "Well, Aircraftsman Horton, we seem to be about the same size. If I forget to pick up that suit or something, it's all yours." "Why, thank you, sir." The young man's grin became broad and sincere. "That's very fine tweed." Several dozen men in flying clothes slouched in the darkened room, their pallid faces attentive to the wing commander, who motioned the alking about the primary and secondary targets in Berlin, using a long pointer at a gray, grainy aerial picture of the German capital blown up on a large screen. Victor Henry had driven or walked past both targets often. One was a power plant, the other the main gasworks of Berlin. It made him feel decidedly odd to discern, in the Grunewald area, the lake beside which the Rosenthal house stood. "All right, let's have the opposition map."Another slide of Berlin flashed on the screen, marked with red and orange symbols, and the officer discussed anti-aircraft positions and search light belts. The tiers listened to the dull droning voice raptly. "Lights." Bare lamps in the ceiling blazed up. The bomber crews blinked and shifted in their chairs. Rolled up, the screen uncovered a green-and-brown map of Europe, and over it a sign in large red block letters: BETTER TO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AND LET PEOPLE THINK YOU'RE A FOOL, THAN TO OPEN IT AND REMOVE ALL DOUBT. "All right, that's about it. Berlin will be on the alert after all the stuff they've been dumping on London, so look alive." The wing commander leaned his pointer against the wall, put hands on hips, and changed to an offhand tone: "Remember to be careful of the moon. Don't fly directly into it, you'll look like a cat on a Christmas card. When you've done your stuff, get your photographs, shove the nose down, and pedal home downMI as fast as you can. Keep Very pistols loaded and have those photoflash bombs handy. Work fast, the flak will be heavy. Incidentally, our American observer will be flying in F for Freddie. He's Admiral Victor Henry, one of the least prudent officers in the United States Navy." Faces turned to Pug, who cleared his throat. 'Sir, maybe I'll be entitled to the field promotion when I get back, but I'm only Captain Henry." "The promotion stands for this mission," said the wing commander with a laugh. "You deserve it!" He went out. After a silence a boy's voice behind Pug piped, "Anybody who'd go on a ruddy mission like this when he ruddy well doesn't have to, should be in a ruddy loony bin." A short skinny flier with heavy, crinkling black hair and bloodshot little eyes approached him, holding out a paper box crudely tied with red ribbon. "Admiral, a little token of welcome from the squadron." Pug opened the box and took out a roll of toilet paper. He glanced around at the expectant white amused faces. "I'm touched. But I don't think I'll be needing this, inasmuch as I'm already scared shitless." He got a good laugh. The little flier offered his hand. "Come along with me, Admiral. I'm Peters, the sergeant navigator of F for Freddie." He took him to a row of lockers and gave the American his parachute, showing him how to clip it to his chest. He also handed him a paper sack with his ration. 'Now you don't wear your chute. That's a good chute. You just stow it where it'll be handy in a hurry. It's hard enough moving around inside the Wimpy, you'll find, without that thing on. Now you'll want to meet the pilots. They're Flight lieutenant Kirlian and Sergeant PilotJohnson. Tiny, we call the sergeant." He conducted Victor Henry to a small room where the two pilots were studying and marking up maps of Berlin. The lieutenant, who had the furrowed brow and neat little mustache of an assistant bank manager, was using a magnifying glass. Sergeant Tiny Johnson, booted feet on the desk, was holding the map up and glaring at it. "HuJ]o! Brassed off, I ain, Adii-ural," he said, ",ben Peters introduced Victor Henry. "Ruddy well brassed off." He was a large fellow with a ham face and thik lips. "Pack it up, Tiny," said the first pilot. "Brassed off, I say. A nine-hour sweat just for us. While those twerps i the Channel coast to hit in all the other sqlladrons go for a quick one on the invasion barges, and then home for tea, mother. I've been over Berlin. I don't like it." "You've Then,er stopped boasting about being over Berlin," said the skipper, drawing lines on the map. "Rottenest moment of my life," said the sergeant, with a rolling side glance at Victor Henry. "Ruddiest thickest flak you ever saw. Masses of searchlights turning the night into day." He got up yawning. "Brassed off, that's what I am, mates. Brassed off. You're a brave man, Admiral." He went out. "Tiny's a good pilot," said the first pilot in upper-class tones, tucking the map into a canvas pouch. "He does talk a lot." The six men of the F for Freddie crew gathered under a naked light in a hallway for a last word from Flight Lieutenant Killian, reading notes on a clipboard Aside from the theatrical-looking flying suits and life vests, they seemed like any half-dozen young men off any London street. The wireless operator was thin and somewhat ratty; the rear gunner was a fresh-faced boy-almost a child, Pug thought-on his first operational flight; the pimply front gunner vulgarly worked chewing gum in long jaws. Only their nervy, apprehensive, adventurous, and cheerful look was unusual. The night studded with summer stars: Vega, Deneb, Altair, Arcturus-the old navigation(warm) aidsreliabl(was) y twinklidg away. The senior pilot went aboard the plane. The crew lounged on the grai;s nearby.
"F for Freddie," said the sergeant pilot, giving the fuselage a loud affectionate slap. "Been through many a long sweat, Admiral." This was how Pug found out that a Wellington bomber had a skin of fabric. The slapped cloth sounded just like what it was. He was used to his Navy's metal aircraft. It had never occurred to him that the British could use fabric planes as attack bombers, and this piece of intelligence had not come his way, for he was not an aviator. Victor Henry could still have walked away from the flight, but he felt as compelled to enter this cloth plane and fly over Berlin as a murderer is to climb a gallows to be hanged. In the sweet-smelling quiet night, plaintive birdsongs rose here and there, richly warbling and rolling. "Ever heard nightingales before?" said Tiny Johnson. "No, I never have." "Well, Admiral, you're hearing nightingales." Far down the field, one plane after another coughed and began to roar, shooing out flames in the darkness. A truck rolled up to F for Freddie. A mechanic plugged a cable into its fuselage. The motors caught and turned over, spitting smoke and fire, as other planes trundled to a dimly lit runway and thundered up and away into gauzy blue moonlight. Soon only F for Freddie was left, its crew still lying on the grass, its spinning motors cherry red. A.U at once the engines shut off. Pug heard nightingales again. "Eh? What now?" said Tiny. "Don't tell me we've been scrubbed, due to some splendid, lovely engine trouble?" Mechanics came trotting out and worked rapidly on one engine, with many a vile cheerful curse, their tools clanking musically in the open air. Twenty minutes after the other planes left, F for Freddie tpok off and flew out over the North Sea. After what seemed a half hour of bumping through cold air in a dark shaking machine, Pug glanced at his watch. Only seven minutes had gone by. The crew did not talk. The intercom crackled and buzzed-the helmet, unlike the rest of his clothing, was too tight and hurt his ears-but once the plane left the coast on course, the pilots and navigator shut up. Victor Henry's perspiration from the heavy suit cooled and dried, chilling him. His watch crawled through twenty more minutes as he sat there. The lieutenant gestured to him to look through the plexiglass blister where the navigator had been taking star sights, and then to stretch out prone in the nose bubble, the bombardier position. Pug did these things, but there was nothing to see but black water, bright moon, and jewelled stars. "Keep that light down, navigator," the lieutenant croaked.
The sergeant who had given Pug the toilet paper was marking a chart on a tiny fold-down wooden slat, and trying to squelch the dim beam of an amber flashlight with his fingers. Crouching beside him, watching him struggle with star tables, star sight forms, dividers, ruler, and flashlight, Pug wondered what kind of navigational fix he could possibly come up with. The youngster gave him a harried grin. Pug took the flashlight from his hands and shielded the beam to strike just the chart. Peters gestured his gratitude and Pug squatted there, cramped in the space behind the two pilots, until the navigator had finished his work. The American had imagined that the long-range British bomber would be as big as an airliner, with a control cabin offering ample elbow room. In fact five men sat crowded within inches of each other-the two pilots, the front gunner, the navigator, and the wireless operator. Pug could just see the gunner in the forward bubble, in faint moonlight. The others were faces floating in the glow of dials. Stumbling, crouching, grasping at guy wires, Pug dragged his parachute down the black fuselage to the bubble where the rear gunner sat. The hatless boy, his bushy hair falling in his face, gave him a thumbs-up and a pathetic smile. This was a hell of a lonely, shaky, frigid place to be riding, Pug thought. The bomber's tail was whipping and bouncing badly. He tried to yell over the wind noise and motor roars, then made a hopeless gesture. The boy nodded, and proudly operated his power turret for him. Pug groped to a clear space in the fuselage, and squatted on his parachute, hugging his knees. There was nothing to do. It was getting colder and colder. He took something from his ration bag-when he put it in his mouth he tasted chocolate-and sucked it. He dozed. Garbled voices in his ear woke him. His nose was numb, his cheeks felt frostbitten, and he was shivering. A hand in the dark tugged him forward. He stumbled after the vague figure toward the cockpit glow. Suddenly it was bright as day in the plane. The plane slanted and dived, and Pug Henry fell, bruising his forehead on a metal box. Rearing up on his hands and knees, he saw the bright light go out, come on and go out again as though snapped off. The plane made sickening turns one way and another while he crawled forward. Tiny Johnson, gripping the controls, turned around, and Pug saw his lips move against the microphone. "Okay, Admiral?" The voice gargled in the intercom. "Just passing the coast searchlight belt." 'Okay," Henry said. The helmeted lieutenant threw a tight grim glance over his shoulder at Henry, then stared ahead into the night, Tiny waved a gloved hand ai a fixture labelled OXYGIEN. "Plug in, andcome and have a look." Sucking on rubber-tasting enriched air, Pug crawled into the bombardier position. Instead of sparkling sea he saw land grayed over by moonlight. The searchlight beams waved behind them. Straight below, tiny yellow lights winked. Red and orange bags came floating slowly and gently up from these lights, speeding and getting bigger as they rose. A few burst and showered red streaks and sparks. Several balls passed ahead of the plane and on either side of it, flashing upward in blurry streaks of color. The voice of Tiny said, "Coast flak was heavier last time." just as he said this something purple-white and painfully brilliant exploded in Victor Henry's face. Blackness ensued, then a dance of green circles. Pug Henry lay with his face pressed to cold plexiglass, sucking on the oxygen tube, stunned and blind. A hand grasped his. The voice of Peters, the navigator, rattled in his ear. "That was a magnesium flash shell. Ruddy close, Admiral. Are you all right?" "I can't see." "It'll take a while. Sit up, sir." The plane ground ahead, the blindness persisted and persisted, then the green circles jerked in a brightening red mist. A picture gradually faded in like a movie scene: faces lit by dials and the glimmering moonlight. Until his vision returned, Victor Henry spent nasty minutes wondering whether it would. Ahead he saw clouds, the first of this trip, billowing up under the moon. The navigator spoke. "Should be seeing beams and flak now." "Nothing," said Lieutenant Killian. "Black night." "I've got Berlin bearing dead ahead at thirty miles, sir." "Something's wrong. Probably your wind drift again." "D.F. bearings check out, sir." "Well, damn it, Peters, that doesn't put Berlin up ahead." The skipper sounded annoyed but unworried. "It looks like solid forest down there, clear across the horizon. Featureless and black." Tiny Johnson observed bitterly that on his last raid almost half of the planes had failed altogether to find Berlin, and that none of Bomber Command's official navigational procedures were worth a shit.
He added that he was brassed off. The piping voice of the rear gunner broke in to report searchlights far astern, off to the right. At almost the same moment, the pilots saw, and pointed out to Victor Henry, a large fire on the horizon ahead: a yellow blotch flickering on the moonlit plain. After some crisp talk on the intercom, Lieutenant Killian swung the plane around and headed for the searchlights; as for the fire, his guess was that another bomber had overshot the mark and then gone ahead and bombed the wrong target. "That's Berlin," he soon said, pointing a mittened hand at the lights, "All kinds of fireworks shooting off. Well done Reynolds. How goes it back there? The high strained voice of the rear gunner replied, "Oh, I'm fine, sir. This operational stuff's the real thing, isn't it?" As they neared Berlin, the nose gunner was silhouetted black by exploding balls and streaks of color, and fanning rays of blue light. Tiny's voice in the intercom rasped, "Those poor bastards who got there first are catching the heat blisters." The lieutenant's voice came, easy and slow: "It looks worse than it is, Admiral. The stuff spreads apart once you're in it. The sky's a roomy place, actually." F for Freddie went sailing into the beautiful, terrible display, and as the captain had said, it thinned out. The searchlight beams scattered and ran down to the l,it and right. The streaks and balls of flak left great holes of darkness through which the plane bored smoothly ahead. The captain and the navigator talked ra............