Free The Crew by Margaret Mayhew Page A

didn’t do to think too much about the women and children and old people they might have killed and maimed in the process. The Jerries had done the same, after all. They were the ones who’d started it. That was what he told himself when he saw the burning buildings. He watched the crimson smudge getting further away until it vanished. Only another couple of hours and they’d be home. Another op done. He was looking forward to his egg and a nice long kip.
    â€˜Fighter! Fighter! Corkscrew port! Corkscrew port – Go!’
Bert was yelling from the mid-upper turret; the skipper rolled D-Dog left. Charlie knew what was coming. They’d practised it lots of times. They’d dive port, then climb port, roll, climb starboard, dive starboard, roll and then dive port all over again – trying to get away from the enemy fighter.
    They went down in a dive that turned his stomach worse than anything he’d ever been on at a fairground. His head was jammed up against the turret roof, vomit spewed up into his mouth. He screwed his eyes tight shut until he felt the Lane slowing, levelling out.
    â€˜Climbing port, gunners.’
    â€˜He’s still there, skipper. Two o’clock high.’
    Bert’s guns clattered from the mid-upper turret. ‘Missed him, skipper. Going low astern. Watch out for him, Charlie.’
    Charlie couldn’t see him. Had never seen him. Where on earth was he? His night vision was good enough to see anything. Maybe the fighter had scarpered after Bert had taken that shot at him. Maybe Bert had only imagined him?
    Then he saw a dark, winged shadow flash past belowthe turret and skid into a turn. ‘Rear gunner to mid-upper. I see him now.’
    It was an Me110 – coming straight for them – still out of range, but closing fast. A stream of brilliant tracer snaked by the tail before he had him properly in his sights: lined up, smack on. Ready to fire. Then all of a sudden his fingers seemed to freeze on the triggers.
    Bert’s voice yelled in his ears. ‘Shoot the bugger down, Charlie!
Get him!
’
    He opened fire and the bullets from his guns curved away in a line of bright beads. He thought he saw a chunk of the Messerschmitt’s port wing fly off before it flipped over on its back and dived away, vanishing into cloud below.
    â€˜Rear gunner to pilot. I think I hit his wing, skipper. He’s cleared off.’
    â€˜Well done, Charlie. Good shooting.’
    Bert was crowing away in his turret and the rest were really chuffed. He should have been feeling a bit pleased himself, too, but all he could think of was that if Bert hadn’t yelled at him like that he might not have fired until it was too late, and the Jerry would have got
them
instead. And if he’d fired sooner, when he should have done, he could’ve scored a direct hit in the nose and finished him off good and proper, not just clipped him. He didn’t know why he’d gone and frozen up like that. Gone rigid for those few seconds. He’d always thought it would be easy to shoot at the enemy but when it’d come to it, he’d funked it.
    They crossed the English coast at Dungeness and flew north to Beningby in the cold grey light of dawn. Piers got it on the button this time, thank Christ, but they had to wait their turn to land, circling slowly overthe fields with other returning Lanes. This was the ball-breaking part that Van hated most of all. He was tired. They were all tired. And they had to go around and around and around, waiting for the OK from Control before they could get down on the ground.
    At last it was their turn and he brought D-Dog in a curve onto the downwind leg. He made himself concentrate hard. Wheels down, half flap, then full flap from Jock – pronto as ever. D-Dog sank obediently. Van brought the nose up a fraction as they crossed the threshold lights and she floated on down the runway. When he could feel her on the point of stall,