The Crew Read Online Free
Author: Margaret Mayhew
landscape below.
He reached down with his right hand for the lever and unlocked the turret on its rotating ring so he could swing round, searching the skies above and each side and below him. He was the eyes in the back of the crewâs head. Theyâd been taught that over and over in training. He had to keep a constant look-out for anything and everything behind and report to the skipper instantly. And if it was an emergency, with a fighter suddenly attacking from the rear, he had to tell the skipper which way to turn fast to get away and not muddle starboard and port because he was facing backwards. You had to think fast and get it right. It was a big responsibility and he worried about it a lot. He must hold his ammo if the fighter was out of range, but if it came near he had to give it everything heâd got. Luckily, he was a good shot. It had come naturally to him in the training and, unlike Bert, his eyesight was perfect: like a cat in the dark. Bert could see allround from his turret, on top in the middle of the kite, but he hadnât got such a good view of what was happening at the rear, and none of them could see the blind spot right underneath without the pilot rocking the wings.
Charlie found it a bit nervy, not to be able to see anything forward. All he could do was listen to what the rest of them were saying about what was happening up front and hope for the best. He could hear them talking to each other over the intercom now: short, crackling exchanges in his headphones. The skipperâs drawling Yank accent, Jockâs Scottish, Piersâs posh one, Stewâs Aussie, Harryâs Yorkshire, and Bertâs chirpy cockney. Easy to tell which was which without them saying, though they nearly always did. You had to be quite sure who was talking so there were no mistakes.
He didnât understand why people kept on telling him horror stories. Maybe because they thought he was the kind to frighten easily. He
was
windy at times, but he wasnât going to show it if he could help it. Still, that take-off story had rattled him and when they were getting into the crew bus to go out to dispersal heâd gone and picked his parachute up by the release handle so it had come undone all over the place. Theyâd had to hang about while he went and got another, and heâd felt a right noddy. Then one of the other crew in the bus had leaned across, grinning, and asked if he could have his egg if he didnât come back. It was a joke, of course, and heâd managed a laugh with everyone else, but inside heâd felt a bit queasy.
It wasnât really the idea of dying that worried him, so much as the way it might happen. None of the possibilities was very comforting, except being blown to little bits, because then you wouldnât know a thingabout it. The thought of having to bail out was almost more terrifying than anything else. He wasnât too good with heights and the idea of throwing himself into space . . . well, he wasnât sure heâd be able to do it. Whatever happened, heâd be on his own unless he could make it all the way up to the nose escape hatch, which wasnât very likely. Nobody envied him being in the coldest and loneliest place on the kite, but the cold wasnât too bad with his electrically heated suit, and he could hear the others and they could hear him.
In training theyâd been told that rear gunners were one of the most important members of the crew, and he had nearly twice as much ammo as the other two turrets put together to prove it. So he was proud of being Tail-End Charlie. And if it came to dying, what really mattered, to his way of thinking, was whether the cause was worth it. He thought it was.
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.
That was out of his poetry book. By Wordsworth. He repeated the words to himself often. Some of them had to die
He reached down with his right hand for the lever and unlocked the turret on its rotating ring so he could swing round, searching the skies above and each side and below him. He was the eyes in the back of the crewâs head. Theyâd been taught that over and over in training. He had to keep a constant look-out for anything and everything behind and report to the skipper instantly. And if it was an emergency, with a fighter suddenly attacking from the rear, he had to tell the skipper which way to turn fast to get away and not muddle starboard and port because he was facing backwards. You had to think fast and get it right. It was a big responsibility and he worried about it a lot. He must hold his ammo if the fighter was out of range, but if it came near he had to give it everything heâd got. Luckily, he was a good shot. It had come naturally to him in the training and, unlike Bert, his eyesight was perfect: like a cat in the dark. Bert could see allround from his turret, on top in the middle of the kite, but he hadnât got such a good view of what was happening at the rear, and none of them could see the blind spot right underneath without the pilot rocking the wings.
Charlie found it a bit nervy, not to be able to see anything forward. All he could do was listen to what the rest of them were saying about what was happening up front and hope for the best. He could hear them talking to each other over the intercom now: short, crackling exchanges in his headphones. The skipperâs drawling Yank accent, Jockâs Scottish, Piersâs posh one, Stewâs Aussie, Harryâs Yorkshire, and Bertâs chirpy cockney. Easy to tell which was which without them saying, though they nearly always did. You had to be quite sure who was talking so there were no mistakes.
He didnât understand why people kept on telling him horror stories. Maybe because they thought he was the kind to frighten easily. He
was
windy at times, but he wasnât going to show it if he could help it. Still, that take-off story had rattled him and when they were getting into the crew bus to go out to dispersal heâd gone and picked his parachute up by the release handle so it had come undone all over the place. Theyâd had to hang about while he went and got another, and heâd felt a right noddy. Then one of the other crew in the bus had leaned across, grinning, and asked if he could have his egg if he didnât come back. It was a joke, of course, and heâd managed a laugh with everyone else, but inside heâd felt a bit queasy.
It wasnât really the idea of dying that worried him, so much as the way it might happen. None of the possibilities was very comforting, except being blown to little bits, because then you wouldnât know a thingabout it. The thought of having to bail out was almost more terrifying than anything else. He wasnât too good with heights and the idea of throwing himself into space . . . well, he wasnât sure heâd be able to do it. Whatever happened, heâd be on his own unless he could make it all the way up to the nose escape hatch, which wasnât very likely. Nobody envied him being in the coldest and loneliest place on the kite, but the cold wasnât too bad with his electrically heated suit, and he could hear the others and they could hear him.
In training theyâd been told that rear gunners were one of the most important members of the crew, and he had nearly twice as much ammo as the other two turrets put together to prove it. So he was proud of being Tail-End Charlie. And if it came to dying, what really mattered, to his way of thinking, was whether the cause was worth it. He thought it was.
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.
That was out of his poetry book. By Wordsworth. He repeated the words to himself often. Some of them had to die
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