Free The Lost Flying Boat by Alan Silltoe Page A

because, unless to save life, my time would be wasted. Those who asked from friendliness might learn that I sat at a table sending and receiving messages in morse code; but that was all.
    The roles of aircrew sometimes overlapped, but the fundamental part of each skill could not be passed on. If such details were handed over it was only to give the illusion that we were capable of sharing secrets, which built up our comradeship for the day when, as crew members, we would care for each other and the plane. If Rose was party to any secret with Bennett as to the true purpose of our expedition, would he be able to unshackle these principles sufficiently to tell me something?
    There was no saying, but private communication between one crew member and the next would be impossible once we were airborne. To hugger-mugger in hole or corner would stink of conspiracy. Cool and intelligible words must go via the intercom, and any others must be kept healthily suppressed. Working as an eighth part of the common voice, a good crew has no use for secrecy.
    I had very much wanted to believe in the neat package of a single task for one and all, as I looked at the flying boat the previous evening, seeing it as a refuge that I had spent a lifetime looking for, floating on the placid water like a white mansion under the moon, four engines in their sturdy cowlings, wings stretching as if they might grow to span the whole town, and the steeply sloping hull which, if it weren’t for the wings, would be a galleon waiting for its pirate crew.
    The flying boat showed only its registration sign, and I wondered what true colours it would be under when on the move, what flash should decorate its tailplane. Probably a constellation of blue stars on a white background, Ursa Major, or the buckle of Orion’s Belt, or the seven visible stars of the Pleiades. Each crew member could no doubt stamp his individual badge on the Aldebaran according to how he defined the pattern of his own life.
    The pennant would have been harmless, even humorous, because trust bound us together when we played cards and drank in the bar or lounge of the hotel, analysing endlessly some bombing operation over Europe during the war. In the space of a few days we had time to observe all mannerisms, assess each other’s virtues, weigh up generosities and catch flickers of deviousness or diffidence with which we would have to live come what may. Our bodies and mortal souls depended on each man’s inner emblem, and there was no way of knowing what they portended because all were buried under the common denominator of crew-like characteristics. We were to earn our money, and afterwards flee to the eight points of the compass. As long as we didn’t talk about the purpose of the journey, we were content.
    But there was little else that I wanted to discuss, and on wondering how I could open the matter with Rose I felt strongly that the journey had little interest for him. When he and the others had been told to bomb Hamburg or Frankfurt or Essen, they asked no questions. So it was now. At take-off they would get their fingers out and do their stuff. Compared to the war it was a piece of cake. In view of which, it did not matter that, once airborne, there would be no possibility of private conversation. Being a prisoner of my own small private life, I was a perfect specimen for the job I had stumbled into by my senseless whistling of morse code in a London pub.
    I sat opposite Rose. ‘There’s something I want to ask.’
    He didn’t look up. His arm squeaked along the leather from the pressure of turning the page. ‘What about?’
    â€˜A simple question.’
    He flipped another page, and cigarette ash fell onto the worn carpet. ‘One of the cheapest planes you can buy today is an Auster. I flew one once. A strong wind almost pushed me backwards.’
    I fetched an ashtray from the table laden with old magazines. ‘What’s that star