The Final Flight by James Blatch (fastest ebook reader .TXT) 📕

difficult day for TFU. We’re a young unit, but we practice a high-risk profession. We must remain operational and dedicated. It serves no-one to dwell on the past.”

After the brief, Rob walked back into the planning office with the twenty other pilots.

Red Brunson appeared beside him. “How you holding up, buddy?”

“Look. I’m sorry about Saturday—”

“No apology necessary, friend. We know it’s tough on you. Hell, it’s tough on all of us. I thought you might come over yesterday.”

“I wanted to stay with Mary. Sorry.”

“That’s fine, but anytime. OK?”

Rob looked across as Kilton disappeared back into his office. “The boss made it sound like we’re done with it. Time to move on. What was it he said? ‘It doesn’t do to dwell on the past’? It was only bloody Friday, Red. Is that it now? We just move on?”

Red put a hand on his arm. “I don’t know what to say, buddy. No-one’s going to find this easy, but we pretend, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Yes, you can.”

Red’s crew called him over for planning. Rob scanned the flying programme but couldn’t see his name.

“Flight Lieutenant May?” It was Jean, Kilton’s secretary.

“Hello, Jean.”

“You’re to report to medical for an examination. After that, the wing commander would like your written report of Friday’s incident.”

“I give my report to Wing Commander Kilton, not the Board of Inquiry?”

“I’m just relaying the request.”

“OK. Thank you, Jean.”

With his colleagues getting on with their morning routines, Rob wandered alone to the Station Medical Officer.

The thin, wrinkled doctor drew heavily on his cigarette and proffered the open packet toward Rob.

“No, thank you.”

The doctor looked in his ears, eyes and throat before prodding him a few times and declaring him fit.

“Is that it?” Rob asked.

“That’s the physical side. How are your nerves? Must have been quite a moment.”

Rob looked down at the floor. He wanted to tell the SMO that he felt on the verge of tears at every waking moment.

“I’m fine.”

The SMO smiled. “Well, cigarettes can help with nerves and of course a wee dram of the hard stuff if it all gets too much.” He finished writing a brief report with a flourish of his fountain pen.

“That’s it. You can go.”

Back in TFU, Rob sat down at Millie’s old desk with a pile of blank report pages, each one pre-marked SECRET.

He ran his fingers over the wooden surface, savouring the soft indentations that could well have been made by his old friend’s pen.

He set about a longhand description of the flight.

When it came to the last few seconds, he composed every word with careful precision.

He had checked the chart, assessing the area ahead for a suitable place to disengage Guiding Light and climb out of low-level.

Speedy had said something to him, but he couldn’t remember what. He just remembered Johnson, oxygen mask on, head turned, peering across at the chart.

Neither of them looking forward.

The initial jolt had dazed him, and he struggled to recall any immediate detail beyond the feeling of disorientation.

He described the moment Johnson ejected. He knew it was the wrong time, but his only concern was the rear crew.

After he noted the final traumatic seconds, he set the pen down.

Something small had lifted from his shoulders. He couldn’t place what, exactly, but somehow describing the experience had helped.

In the afternoon, he felt at a loose end. Officers and NCOs worked around him. The sense of normality grated.

At 4PM he tapped on Kilton’s door.

“Come.”

The boss looked at him, eyebrows raised. Opposite him was a security officer. The conversation stopped as he stood in the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt. I thought I might go home to Mary, if that’s alright with you, boss?”

“Yes, that’s fine, May.” Kilton picked up a piece of paper from his desk; Rob recognised the SMO’s writing. “Check the flying programme in the morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rob said, backing out and closing the door.

Without saying goodbye to anyone else, he walked to his Healey and sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, thinking.

He drove off.

Staff at the gate checked his boot and carried out a search of the footwells before letting him go.

At the main road, he turned left.

The gate to the peace camp field was only a few hundred yards along the road. As he got closer, he slowed, finally pulling over about twenty yards short.

He put a hand on the door handle, but a green military Land Rover with a blue light on top appeared in his wing mirror. West Porton Security Police.

He waited as it passed, and then drove home.

22

Tuesday 28th June

Next morning, the tea bar chatter was less subdued than the day before. Rob supposed it would take just one more day before everything was back to normal, with Millie, Brighty and Speedy consigned to the past.

Red Brunson found him sitting at Millie’s old desk.

“Hey, you look like you need a distraction, and I’ve got one for you.”

They walked over to the admin hatch.

The top line of the flying programme read:

Fl lt May. - HUNTER F.4 - XF940 - REFAMIL

Kilton had tasked him with a re-familiarisation flight in a single seat Hunter. The most basic of flying tasks.

“Now that will be fun,” Red said.

“Or perhaps he thinks I might be a liability in a crew.”

“Just enjoy it, buddy.”

Back in the planning room, men gathered around charts and drew lines on maps. Rob walked through in his coveralls, carrying a yellow Mae West life jacket, silver flying helmet and oxygen mask.

On the apron, he inhaled the fresh air and got a nose full of burnt paraffin.

It took his mind back to the smoking wreck on the ground in Wales.

The twisted fragments of metal, the acrid smoke.

The outstretched arm.

He steadied himself on the wall of the building, then found a bench near the door and sat down.

A group of chaps emerged, laughing and heading out to a waiting Victor.

They glanced at him and he pulled out his local area chart and studied it.

The men piped down and carried on.

A couple of junior marshallers