Free Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson Page A

be coming back.
    He ducked below the wing and clambered in through a door at the side of the under gunner’s compartment. There was no powered turret; just a cell where the fuselage ended and the tail-boom began. Fancy being alone in here for umpteen hours, sealed in by a bulkhead. Not a cheery prospect. He squeezed sideways through a door in the bulkhead and walked uphill, slowly and clumsily. At its maximum, the Hampden’s interior was three feet wide. So was Gilchrist, carrying a parachute pack and a navigator’s bag; and obstructions narrowed his path: oxygen bottles, fire extinguishers, cables, hydraulic pipes, parachute stowages and awkward-shaped chunks of unidentified equipment.
    He struggled over the main spar, a massive alloy girder that linked the wings to the fuselage. Now he was standing behind the pilot’s seat. Directly above it was the sliding hood. If he had followed Duff through that space, he would have ended up sitting in Duff’s lap, with nowhere to go except back out through the hood. What an idiot he’d been, worrying so much about navigating that he forgot he wasn’t the pilot. Failed before he began.
    A crawl-space under the pilot’s seat led down to the nose cockpit. Gilchrist slid through it feet-first. The nose was roomy; he had a swivel-seat, a folding table, plenty of light. He took out his maps and studied the route again. Almost immediately he knew something was wrong. Panic nibbled at his guts. Once, on stage during a first night, he’d forgotten his lines. Now he felt the same rebellion in his stomach: not butterflies but bats, bloody great bloodsucking bats. The port engine fired and grew to a thunder that made the bomber shake. Gilchrist put on his helmet. Then he remembered. He plugged in the intercom.
    â€œAh,” Duff said. “So glad you could join us.”
    â€œSorry, skipper.”
    â€œSorry isn’t the word. Pathetic is better.”
    At takeoff the navigator’s position was behind the pilot. Gilchrist went up the crawl-space on his hands and knees and sat on the mainspar. Takeoff was exhilarating. Duff built the engine revs higher than Gilchrist would have dared, got the Hampden bounding across the grass faster and into the air sooner than he thought possible. At a thousand feet Gilchrist slid back to the nose cockpit. Plugged in the intercom. A dull roar filled his ears.
    â€œNavigator to pilot. Steer three one zero degrees.”
    No answer.
    He said it again. No answer. His repeater compass showed they were flying on zero eight zero degrees: almost due east, instead of northwest. “Navigator to pilot,” he said, and the Hampden dropped its left wing so steeply that he had to grab the table. Maps, pencils, papers, calculators were scattered. The left wing came up slowly. He relaxed his grip. At once the right wing dropped steeply and he fell out of his seat.
    This went on for some minutes. Then the bomber stopped rolling and began pitching: diving and climbing, plunging and rearing. Gilchrist tasted the wretched memory of his last meal. The pitching ended. He was on the floor, collecting maps, when Duff asked: “Where are we, navigator?” Gilchrist looked out and saw nothing but sea. “Up the creek,” he said.
    â€œThe course we’re on will take us to Norway, if that’s any help.”
    â€œTurn back,” Gilchrist said feebly. “Fly west.”
    â€œToo vague, old son. I need an exact course.”
    â€œIf it’s any help,” the wireless operator said, “we’re twenty miles southeast of Spurn Head.”
    Gilchrist found a map and made a wild guess. “New course two eight zero, repeat
two eight zero.
Please confirm.”
    â€œNo need to shout,” Duff said. “I heard you the first time.”
    The Hampden turned and flew sedately for the next half-hour. Gilchrist recognized landmarks—the great gash of the Humber estuary, the four-square mass of