it, Gehlen’s ghost bought it too. And that would not be in the scheme of things . . .
I realized that what I was thinking was quite insane. The only comfort was that we six could huddle in a group, sharing a common insanity. For a bit. Like Reaper’s lot; like Edwards’ . . . the names tolled in my head like a funeral bell that would not stop.
Why hadn’t Reaper reported it? He had, the only way anyone would believe. He had told the ground-crew sergeant to see to the RT. Something was wrong with it. Oh my, was something wrong with it! But what else could Reaper have done? Told Groupie his squadron contained a haunted bomber? That would have got him one of two rewards: either sitting flying a bomber in Colchester mental hospital, like Blackham, or else found to be LMF – lacking in moral fibre – reduced to the rank of AC2 – the lowest rank of erk – and put on cleaning out the bogs on your own station, with all your mates either trying to look you in the face or trying not to look you in the face. That crafty bastard Gehlen had it all taped. My eyes filled with tears of helpless rage. I’d like to kill Gehlen, for what he was doing. But that wasn’t possible, was it?
The barrack-room door was flung open with a bang, making me jump a yard in the air. I hadn’t realized I had that amount of life left in me. It was Kit. He didn’t look as if he wished he was dead. Instead, he looked slightly and gleefully insane. I retired into my pit, and he sat on the end of it, swinging his flying-boots.
‘You look terrible,’ he said.
‘I feel terrible.’
‘What you reckon to last night, then?’
‘Ghost?’ I said feebly.
‘That bastard knew what he was doing.’ He spoke as if Gehlen was a living man. ‘He kept on playing himself different ways, for maximum possible effect. Like a dirty old man flashing himself to schoolgirls in the park.’
‘How did you cope?’
‘Oh, we all got in a bunch. I stood behind Dadda’s seat, with a hand on Matt’s shoulder. Being three together wasn’t so bad. It was being alone in the tail that did for poor old Billy.’
‘What about Paul in the front?’
‘We kept kicking him up the backside. That kept him going. And he popped away at the light flak and searchlights. He didn’t hit a thing, but he said it relieved his feelings. He’s out there now, fiddling with his motorbike. Doing wheelies up the runway and driving the WO mad.’
‘It must help to be mad,’ I said. ‘How’s Billy?’
‘No worse than you. He’s still with us; just.’ He stared out of the window. Then he said, ‘That bloody thing didn’t scare Dadda at all, you know. All Dadda said was “poor soul”. That’s what kept me going. That, and the fact that the bastard went on too long. When he was starting to fade, at the end, he sounded like a worn-out gramophone record. I got up enough nerve to walk to the back of the crate after that. You and Billy were curled up like a pair of babes in the wood. I even took a spell in the back turret. Didn’t see anything. After that thing, what’s a Jerry fighter?’
‘Well, Gehlen’s done for me,’ I said. ‘Like he did for Reaper and Edwards . . .’
Kit gave me a long hard stare. ‘I’ve got news for you, son. Just had a report on C-Charlie. She’s in need of two new engines. Next time we go out, we go out in Blackham’s again.’
My world fell in. I didn’t think I could have felt worse, but I did. ‘I’m not going. It’s LMF for me. How do you hold a bog brush?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kit. ‘But d’you fancy helping me do something first? I scrounged this out of Paul’s bike.’ He pulled a stubby, flat whisky bottle out of his sagging tunic pocket. It was full of clear liquid. He let me smell it. Petrol.
‘You don’t mean—’
‘I bloody do! Burn the sod out. If S-Sugar burns up, Gehlen can waste his time haunting the aircraft knacker’s yard.’
‘You wouldn’t dare . . .’
‘Try and stop me. What can they do to us, even if they can prove it wasn’t a careless fag-end? How about three years in a nice quiet cell?’
‘Bliss,’ I said, feeling suddenly a whole lot better. ‘When?’
‘Now,’