St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(99)
There was a bump and the aircraft lurched. Berlin stopped, hands on the seatbacks either side of the aisle to steady himself. This was about where the mid-upper Fraser Nash turret would be, with Jock scanning the skies for night fighters, his twin .303 machine guns sweeping the blackness in bold arcs. Berlin looked down at the carpeted floor. Underneath him he guessed was the cargo hold, full of suitcases and mailbags and freight. A better load than the 14 000 pounds of incendiaries and high explosives he had carried inside his Lancaster. He moved on towards the rear, towards what would have been Lou’s lonely, unheated outpost.
There was no tail gunner here, of course, just a couple of sleepy hostesses, who smiled and looked up at him inquiringly from their seats. First class passengers were looked after by male stewards in white jackets and black bow ties, and tourist was the same, with the addition of the two young women in their aqua uniforms. He told them he was fine, just having trouble sleeping and refused the offer of a whisky.
Lou would have loved the company of a couple of pretty Aussie girls at his freezing outpost but they would have needed helmets and goggles and coats and gloves. Especially gloves, since the centre glass panel of Lou’s turret had been removed for better visibility and bare skin would freeze instantly on contact with the metal casing of the turret or any part of its four Browning machine guns.
There was a sudden sloshing, gurgling sound from one of the aircraft lavatories. Not long out of Sydney and after they reached their cruising altitude, a first-class passenger had complained loudly about the cramped space in the lavatory. Berlin had shaken his head, remembering the Lancaster’s toilet facilities, the detested Elsan, a metal barrel with a wooden seat. It was set out in the open, in the centre of the fuselage, back by the crew entry door towards the rear of the bomber. In turbulence, waves of noxious chemicals sloshed about inside, the stink strong enough to kill any but the most urgent need to use the evil thing. The crew avoided it where possible, aided by a real and ongoing fear of flak and night fighters that puckered sphincters tightly shut. Besides, getting out of a heavy flying suit was awkward, and the cold at 20 000 feet shrivelled a man’s cock, and with testicles already drawn up tight against the body in terror of impending death by cannon shells or fire or explosion the whole exercise was demoralising and emasculating.
The lavatory door opened and a man stepped out, a shaft of light from the small room cutting across the floor. He was wearing the Qantas aircrew uniform and he smiled at Berlin.
‘Can’t sleep? The girls offer you a nightcap?’
Berlin nodded.
‘You’re up in first, right? Mr Berlin, is it?’
‘That’s right. Charlie.’
‘Come up front and stick your head in the cockpit if you like. My name’s Hughie. You can have a chat and a look-around to pass the time. Hopefully someone up there is still awake too.’
He winked to show Berlin it was a joke and Berlin followed him up the aisle, pausing briefly in the first-class section to adjust the thick woollen blanket draped over the sleeping Rebecca. He was glad for Rebecca that they were in the comfort of first class for the long trip even though they had originally been booked in tourist.
They had flown up to Sydney from Melbourne in an Ansett-ANA 727 jet to connect with their Qantas flight to Europe. It was Berlin’s first flight in an aircraft without propellers. In Sydney, boarding was a short walk over a concrete tarmac shimmering in the February heat. The smell of burning kerosene from jet engines had irritated Berlin’s nose. A line of elegantly dressed passengers had snaked ahead of them, walking towards a Qantas 707, its tail painted bright red with ‘V-Jet’ lettered in white. We could all be going to the theatre, Berlin had said to himself, apart from the fact that a number of hatted and gloved female passengers were carrying oval make-up cases. Berlin was wearing his best suit, and the summer heat of Sydney already had him sweating.
He’d looked at the two engines he could see suspended on pylons under the severely swept-back starboard wing. Was the numbering system the same? he’d wondered. Was he looking at engines three and four or one and two? Passengers at the head of the line were starting to climb a mobile stairway at the rear of the aircraft, the entrance to tourist class, when he’d heard a woman’s voice calling from behind them.
‘Mr and Mrs Berlin, Mr and Mrs Berlin.’
The woman who had done their seat allocation inside the terminal was running after them, waving some papers and holding on to her hat with the other hand. Had he left his passport on the counter? He touched Rebecca on the elbow. She hadn’t heard the voice calling for them and was surprised. The local doctor who was treating her had found nothing physically wrong but had diagnosed depression, which was not news to Berlin. They stepped out of the line and waited.
The woman was out of breath when she caught up to them and took a minute to recover.
‘We just got a telex from Melbourne. Can I see your tickets, please?’
Berlin searched through the red vinyl bag the travel agent had presented to him with great ceremony when he had paid their fares. The bag had a white handle and white piping round the edges and white lettering identifying the carrier as a Qantas V-Jet passenger. Apparently the bag was a prestigious item to own, though the travel agent had no idea of what its acquisition had actually cost Charlie and Rebecca.
The tickets had baggage claim checks stapled to the front and were quite bulky. Flight QF759 was making stops in Perth, Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, and there was a page for each leg of the trip. The Qantas ground hostess was holding a printed sheet and two new tickets. She exchanged the documents, making sure to give them back the baggage claim stubs.