gained. They knew that they could navigate and they just wanted to get on to operational flying as soon as possible. But Bob didn’t cheat, he learned the stuff.
They all passed the exam, some high on the list, others – the lazy or those who found it difficult to express themselves – lower down. Bob came out about halfway up the list, but he got his wings, and he got them the way he wanted them.
Bob and he had both been posted to the same Operational Training Unit. They were flying Wellingtons and Bob was working hard, forcing himself to become a first-class navigator. But he didn’t like flying and Peter could tell by his jerky manner, his preoccupied air and the strained look round his eyes that it was getting him down. There had been no accidents at the Navigation School, but here at OTU there was a fatal accident nearly every week.
And then one night while Bob’s crew were out on a cross-country flight the wireless broke down, and they ran into foul weather and lost themselves. He could just imagine Bob checking and rechecking his course and refusing to land at some unknown airfield having failed to complete the exercise. At last he got them home. Just as they were making the circuit of the airfield, one of the engines cut from lack of petrol. The pilot carried out his single-engine procedure, but as he made his approach the other engine cut and they crashed. Six of the crew got out without much damage, but the pilot was killed.
He had taken Bob down to the local for a few beers that evening, but it had been no good. Bob wasn’t the type for whom a few gills of beer would make black white, or wrong anything else but wrong. He was convinced that the whole thing had been his fault, and nothing that Peter could say would make him change his view. He pointed out that the petrol cocks were the pilot’s responsibility but Bob simply said that it was his fault for getting lost, and took the whole blame upon himself.
A few days after that they strolled down to the ‘flights’ after breakfast and, just as they arrived, an aircraft crashed on take-off. One of the engines had cut, and the pilot tried to turn, spun into the deck and burst into flames. Bob turned round, walked straight into the flight commander’s office and said that he wouldn’t fly again. The flight commander suggested that he went on leave, but Bob said that wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t change his mind.
Afterwards he told Peter that he had always been frightened of flying but had thought he could force himself to carry on. Now he found that he couldn’t, and he thought the best thing was to say so, and quit. Peter remembered telling him that they were all scared but lacked the courage to admit it. He suggested that Bob should apply for a posting as an instructor. Bob said he couldn’t instruct others to do what he was afraid to do himself.
He was sent down south for a special board. When he came back he told them that he was off flying. His papers were ‘LMF’ – lack of moral fibre.
Peter wondered what he was doing now.
Later that evening they steamed into Cologne.
The platform was crowded, and the corporal made them remain in the compartment until all the passengers had left the train and the platform was clear. Then he drew his pistol and marched Peter down the deserted platform towards the booking hall. It was icy cold after the damp cold of the railway carriage, and Peter began to wonder whether it would be a better idea to wait until he reached the prison camp before he attempted to escape. He was very conscious of the muzzle of the automatic pistol a few inches from his back. After all, he would have time to prepare in the camp, make civilian clothes and collect food. If he got away now; in uniform, in the heart of Cologne, he would not last for long.
Again the corporal cleared all the passengers out of the waiting-room, and Peter noticed that they resented the bullying way in which they were ordered out. The corporal
They all passed the exam, some high on the list, others – the lazy or those who found it difficult to express themselves – lower down. Bob came out about halfway up the list, but he got his wings, and he got them the way he wanted them.
Bob and he had both been posted to the same Operational Training Unit. They were flying Wellingtons and Bob was working hard, forcing himself to become a first-class navigator. But he didn’t like flying and Peter could tell by his jerky manner, his preoccupied air and the strained look round his eyes that it was getting him down. There had been no accidents at the Navigation School, but here at OTU there was a fatal accident nearly every week.
And then one night while Bob’s crew were out on a cross-country flight the wireless broke down, and they ran into foul weather and lost themselves. He could just imagine Bob checking and rechecking his course and refusing to land at some unknown airfield having failed to complete the exercise. At last he got them home. Just as they were making the circuit of the airfield, one of the engines cut from lack of petrol. The pilot carried out his single-engine procedure, but as he made his approach the other engine cut and they crashed. Six of the crew got out without much damage, but the pilot was killed.
He had taken Bob down to the local for a few beers that evening, but it had been no good. Bob wasn’t the type for whom a few gills of beer would make black white, or wrong anything else but wrong. He was convinced that the whole thing had been his fault, and nothing that Peter could say would make him change his view. He pointed out that the petrol cocks were the pilot’s responsibility but Bob simply said that it was his fault for getting lost, and took the whole blame upon himself.
A few days after that they strolled down to the ‘flights’ after breakfast and, just as they arrived, an aircraft crashed on take-off. One of the engines had cut, and the pilot tried to turn, spun into the deck and burst into flames. Bob turned round, walked straight into the flight commander’s office and said that he wouldn’t fly again. The flight commander suggested that he went on leave, but Bob said that wasn’t necessary, he wouldn’t change his mind.
Afterwards he told Peter that he had always been frightened of flying but had thought he could force himself to carry on. Now he found that he couldn’t, and he thought the best thing was to say so, and quit. Peter remembered telling him that they were all scared but lacked the courage to admit it. He suggested that Bob should apply for a posting as an instructor. Bob said he couldn’t instruct others to do what he was afraid to do himself.
He was sent down south for a special board. When he came back he told them that he was off flying. His papers were ‘LMF’ – lack of moral fibre.
Peter wondered what he was doing now.
Later that evening they steamed into Cologne.
The platform was crowded, and the corporal made them remain in the compartment until all the passengers had left the train and the platform was clear. Then he drew his pistol and marched Peter down the deserted platform towards the booking hall. It was icy cold after the damp cold of the railway carriage, and Peter began to wonder whether it would be a better idea to wait until he reached the prison camp before he attempted to escape. He was very conscious of the muzzle of the automatic pistol a few inches from his back. After all, he would have time to prepare in the camp, make civilian clothes and collect food. If he got away now; in uniform, in the heart of Cologne, he would not last for long.
Again the corporal cleared all the passengers out of the waiting-room, and Peter noticed that they resented the bullying way in which they were ordered out. The corporal
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