To the other side was another board, announcing OFFICERS’ MESS. We walked inside.

The front hall was large and spacious, but evidently built in the prewar years when metal window frames, service issue, were in fashion. The place reeked of the expression “It has seen better days.” It had, indeed. Only two cracked-leather club chairs occupied the anteroom, which could have taken twenty. The cloakroom to the right contained a long empty rail for nonexistent coats. My host, who told me he was Flight Lieutenant Marks, shrugged off his sheepskin coat and threw it over a chair. He was wearing his uniform trousers but with a chunky blue pullover for a jacket. It must be miserable to spend your Christmas on duty in a dump like this.

He told me he was the second-in-command, the C.O. being a squadron leader now on Christmas leave. Apart from him and his C.O., the station boasted a sergeant, three corporals, one of whom was on Christmas duty and presumably in the corporals’ mess also on his own, and twenty stores clerks, all away on leave. When not on leave, they spent their days classifying tons of surplus clothing, parachutes, boots and other impedimenta that go to make up a fighting service.

There was no fire in the vestibule, though there was a large brick fireplace, nor any in the bar, either. Both rooms were freezing cold, and I was beginning to shiver again after recovering in the car. Marks was putting his head through the various doors leading off the hall, shouting for someone called Joe. By looking through after him, I took in at a glance the spacious but deserted dining room, also fireless and cold, and the twin passages, one leading to the officers’ private rooms, the other to the staff quarters. RAF messes do not vary much in architecture; once a pattern, always a pattern.

“I’m sorry it’s not very hospitable, old boy,” said Marks, having failed to find the absent Joe. “Being only the two of us on station here, and no visitors to speak of, we’ve each made two bedrooms into a sort of self-contained apartment where we live. Hardly seems worth using all this space just for the two of us. You can’t heat it in winter, you know; not on the fuel they allow us. And you can’t get the staff.”

It seemed sensible. In his position, I’d probably have done the same.

“Not to worry,” I said, dropping my flying helmet and attached oxygen mask onto the other leather chair in the anteroom. “Though I could do with a bath and a meal.”

“I think we can manage that,” he said, trying hard to play the genial host. “I’ll get Joe to fix up one of the spare rooms—God knows we have enough of them—and heat up the water. He’ll also rustle up a meal. Not much, I’m afraid. Bacon and eggs do?”

I nodded. By this time I presumed old Joe was the mess steward.

“That will do fine. While I’m waiting, do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Certainly, certainly, of course, you’ll have to check in.”

He ushered me into the mess secretary’s office, through a door beside the entrance to the bar. It was small and cold, but it had a chair, an empty desk and a telephone. I dialed 100 for the local operator and while I was waiting, Marks returned with a tumbler of whisky. Normally, I hardly touch spirits, but it was warming, so I thanked him and he went off to supervise the steward. My watch told me it was close to midnight. Hell of a way to spend Christmas, I thought. Then I recalled how, thirty minutes earlier, I had been crying to God for a bit of help, and felt ashamed.

“Little Minton,” said a drowsy voice. It took ages to get through, for I had no telephone number for Merriam St. George, but t

he girl got it eventually. Down the line I could hear the telephone operator’s family celebrating in a back room, no doubt the living quarters attached to the village post office. After a few minutes, the phone was ringing.

“RAF Merriam St. George,” said a man’s voice. Duty sergeant speaking from the guardroom, I thought.

“Duty Controller, Air-Traffic Control, please,” I said. There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the voice, “may I ask who’s calling?”

I gave him my name and rank. Speaking from RAF Minton, I told him.

“I see, sir. But I’m afraid there’s no flying tonight, sir. No one on duty in Air-Traffic Control. A few of the officers up in the mess, though.”

“Then give me the Station Duty Officer, please.”

When I got through to him, he was evidently in the mess, for the sound of lively talk could be heard behind him. I explained about the emergency and the fact that his station had been alerted to receive a Vampire fighter coming in on an emergency GCA without radio. He listened attentively. Perhaps he was young and conscientious, too, for he was quite sober, as a station duty officer is supposed to be at all times, even Christmas.

“I don’t know about that,” he said at length. “I don’t think we’ve been operational since we closed down at five this afternoon. But I’m not on Air-Traffic. Would you hold on? I’ll get the wing commander—flying. He’s here.”

There was a pause and then an older voice came on the line.

“Where are you speaking from?” he said, after noting my name, rank and the station at which I was based.

“RAF Minton, sir. I’ve just made an emergency landing here. Apparently, it’s nearly abandoned.”

“Yes, I know,” he drawled. “Damn bad luck. Do you want us to send a Tilly for you?”

“No, it’s not that, sir. I don’t mind being here. It’s just that I landed at the wrong airfield. I believe I was heading for your airfield on a ground-controlled approach.”

“Well, make up your mind. Were you or weren’t you? You ought to know. According to what you say, you were flying the damn thing.”

I took a deep breath and started at the beginning.

“So you see, sir, I was intercepted by the weather plane from Gloucester and he brought me in. But in this fog it must have been on a GCA. No other way to get down. Yet when I saw the lights of Minton, I landed here, assuming it to be Merriam St. George.”

Tags: Frederick Forsyth Thriller
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