牧羊人

　　在寒冬月光的照耀下，沉睡的大地显得洁白而又清新。我的身后是位于西德的一个英国皇家空军基地的界栏。在界栏外面，积雪覆盖了平展展的农田，一直伸展到3公里以外的松林边。我的前面就是跑道，犹如一条滑溜溜的黑色绸带，两旁排列着两行明亮的灯光。灯后面是隆起的雪堆，雪是上午下的，被扫雪机推铲的积雪再次冻得硬梆梆的。机场的塔台耸立在我的右侧，相距很远。它像一支巨大的熊熊燃烧的蜡烛。在机库值勤的士兵裹得严严实实。

　　我知道，塔台内处处都洋溢着温暖和欢乐。工作人员就等着我离开后，好关闭机场。可以想像我走后要不了几分钟，灯光就会熄灭，剩下缩成一团的飞机库，好像是弯着背在抵御夜晚刺骨的寒风。还有其他遮盖起来的战斗机、沉睡的加油车和那只孤零零的航站灯标——它在黑白分明的机场上方闪烁着红光，用莫尔斯电码向天空发射出该基地的名称——策勒。看来今天晚上，不会有任何迷航的飞行员要向下观望并核对他们的方位，因为今晚是圣诞节的前夕。

　　我是一个年轻的飞行员，正准备飞回英国的布莱蒂去欢度圣诞节。座舱像是一个茧壳，空间不大，但暖和而又舒适。暖气已经开足，以防止有机玻璃罩上结满冰霜，同时也使我免受外面刺骨的寒风的侵袭，使我在滴水成冰的黑夜安然无恙。座舱里的仪表在颤动、在跳跃。我借助仪表板上投下的暗蓝色的辉光看了一下自己的手表，此时正是晚上10点15分。

　　“查利·德尔塔……”

　　调度员的声音使我从遐想中醒悟过来，似乎他就在这小小的座舱喊我一样，声音很大。

　　“查利·德尔塔……塔台。”我答道。

　　“查利·德尔塔，可以起飞。”他说。

　　我想没有必要答话了。我用左手慢慢地向前推油门，并把飞机稳定在跑道的中线。发动机的隆隆声在我的身后响了起来，而且越来越大。飞机向前滑行着，跑道两旁的灯光接连不断地从身边闪过。当飞掠而过的灯光成了一道模糊的光线时，飞机变得轻飘飘的，机头渐渐地抬起，前轮脱离了跑道，隆隆的响声立即减小了。几秒钟之后，主轮也离地了。我没有让飞机迅速增加高度，而是尽快加大航速，直到我瞥见空速表上指示出航速已超过每小时220公里并在向每小时270公里的速度逼近。当跑道的尽头在我脚下疾驰而过时，我把飞机平稳地拉起，并向左飞去。与此同时，我把起落架操纵杆慢慢地往回拉。

　　当我听到起落架收进起落架舱时眶当一声闷响后，起落架的阻力一下子消失了，飞机猛然向前一跃。在我面前，三个标示轮子的红色指示灯自动熄灭了。我使飞机继续上升转弯，同时用左手的拇指按了一下电台开关。

　　“查利·德尔塔，已经离开机场，起落架收起并锁好了。”我对着话筒说道。

　　“查利·德尔塔，明白，转D波道。”调度员说道。然后，在我转换无线电波道之前，他补充说道，“圣诞节愉快！”

　　当然，那是严重违反无线电使用规则的。那时我的年纪还很轻，很谨慎，然而，我答道：“谢谢你，塔台，祝您节日愉快。”然后我把波道转换到皇家空军德国北部空中交通控制的频率上。

　　我臀部的右侧绑着一份地图，上面用蓝墨水标着我的航线，但我并不需要它。我对一切细节都背得滚瓜烂熟，早先在领航室里就与领航员都安排好了。在策勒机场上空取转弯265度的航向，继续爬升到8235米的高空。到达这个高度之后保持这一航向，使飞行速度保持在每小时848公里，与D波道联络，并告诉他们飞机已在该空域中，然后直接飞越贝弗兰岛南边的荷兰海岸进入北海上空。经过44分钟的飞行之后，改换到F波道，向拉肯希思领航台呼叫，要求“校正航向”。14分钟以后，将飞越英国的拉肯希思的上空。在那以后，听从指示，他们将用无线电引导我着陆。没有问题，一切都是惯常的程序。66分钟的飞行时间，包括下降和着陆在内，而飞机携带的燃料足够在空中飞行80多分钟。

　　在1520米的上空转弯离开策勒机场之后，我直起身子，望着罗盘上的指针令人欣喜地停留在265度的航向上。寒夜苍茫的天空，繁星密布，银光闪烁，有些刺眼。下面，德国北部黑白分明的地面图景变得越来越小了，松林的黑影与白茫茫空旷的原野逐渐成为浑然一体。高度是8235米。我加大油门使航速达到每小时800公里，并使飞机稳定在265度的航向。我身下就是荷兰边界，它在朦胧中悄然逝去。我已在空中飞行了21分钟。

　　北海上空飞行了10分钟之后，问题就开始发生了。那是在无声无息之中冒出来的，以致隔了几分钟的时间我才发现。有一段时间我并没有注意到我头戴的受话器已不再发出那种轻轻的嗡嗡声，而被一种奇异的寂静所取代。我的注意力肯定是分散了，我在想家，在思念正等待着我归去的家人。当我向下扫了一眼以便检查一下罗盘上我的航向时，才开始意识到指针不是牢牢地稳定在265度上，而是懒散地在罗盘上摇来摇去，根本分不出东南西北。我怀着非常怨恨的心情诅咒了罗盘和仪表安装工：他本来应该把罗盘检查得万无一失才是。罗盘发生故障，即使对于像座舱罩外面明月当空照这样一个夜晚来说，也绝不是儿戏。尽管如此，那还不是太严重的，因为还有一个备用的罗盘——是用酒精的那一种。但是，当我扫了它一眼时，那只罗盘似乎也发生了故障，指针在乱动。显而易见，不知什么东西卡住了罗盘液缸——这倒是常有的事。

　　不管怎样，过几分钟我就能向拉肯希思呼叫，他们将向我提供地面支持，一个设备精良的飞机场在最恶劣的气象条件下可向一位飞行员逐秒逐秒地发出指令，引导飞机着陆。我瞥了一下我的手表，已在空中飞行了34分钟。我现在开始在无线电通讯的极限范围内试着与拉肯希思联络。

　　在与拉肯希思联络之前，正确的程序就是把我所遇到的问题通过D波道发出。这样，他们就能通知拉肯希思机场，我的罗盘发生了故障。我把频率调到D波道，按了一下发射机按钮，并发出呼叫：“策勒，查利·德尔塔。策勒，查利·德尔塔，呼叫北贝弗兰控制台……”

　　我停了下来。继续呼叫下去是毫无意义的。我的氧气面罩中有一种沉闷的嗡嗡声，而不是静电干扰那种轻快的噼啪声。我自己的声音又返回到我自己的耳朵里，根本就没有传出去。我又试了一次，结果相同。身后远远隔着漆黑一团、汹涌澎湃的北海波涛的是北贝弗兰控制台温暖而又欢畅的钢筋混凝土建筑物，那里的人们正悠闲地坐在他们的控制台前，边聊天边喝着热气腾腾的咖啡和可可，而他们无法听到我的声音。无线电失灵了。

　　没有任何其他的因素能比惊惶失措更快地置飞行员于死地。我竭力克制着自己越来越惊慌的心情，抑制住自己的感情，并慢慢地数到了10。我把频率调到F波道，并试图与拉肯希思沟通联系，它就在我的前方，位于萨福克（在英格兰东部，濒临北海）的乡村地区。这座机场设在塞特福德以南的松树林中，配备有精良的地面控制进场设备，可以用来引导迷航的飞机返回地面。无线电的F波道依然是沉寂无声。我自己对着氧气面罩轻声低语，然而声音都被面罩里面的橡皮垫吸收了。我身后喷气发动机平稳的呼啸声是我得到的惟一回音。

　　天空是一个非常孤独的地方，尤其是在这样一个寒冬之夜。而一架单座喷气式战斗机就是一个孤零零的家，像是高高安在又粗又短的双翼上的一只钢铁小盒子，它被发动机以6000马力的力量，推动着飞速穿过空旷无垠的寒夜。但是，飞行员知道只要按一下按钮，他就可以与其他关心着他的人，与各地航站网络的值勤人员联络，以抵消这种孤独之感。可是，要消除孤独感，飞行员必须有无线电通讯设备。在我试完了J波道（国际通用求救信号波道），并在获得同样是失灵的结果之后，我知道我的十波道无线电通讯机已像渡渡鸟（此鸟已在地球上绝迹）一样安息了。

　　英国皇家空军花费了两年的时间对我进行培训，才使我能驾驶这种战斗机。培训的大部分时间，恰恰是花在训练如何处理紧急情况的程序上面。以前在飞行学校中教官常常教导我们，重要的事情并不在于知道如何能在飞机完好的状态下飞行，而是在于能否在紧急状态中驾机生存。现在，训练开始起作用了。

　　在我徒劳地测试无线电波道的过程中，我的眼睛扫视了一下我面前的仪表板。仪表指示出了各自的信息。罗盘和无线电同时发生故障并非巧合，两个仪表都连接在飞机的电气线路上。我猜测，在我脚下的某个地方，在由几公里长的色泽鲜明的导线组成的电气线路中，一定有某一个主要的熔断器烧坏了。我像白痴一般地提醒自己要原谅那位仪表安装工，而应责怪电工。然后，我估量了一番我的灾难属于什么样的性质。我记得飞行学校里的空军上士诺里斯曾对我们说，在这样情况下首先要干的事情，是要收油门，把巡航速度减慢下来，以最大限度地延长续航时间。“我们不能浪费宝贵的燃油，因此，要将发动机转速从每分钟10000转减到7200转。这样做，我们将飞得慢一点，但我们将在空中停留得更长一些。”诺里斯上士就是这样教我们的，他总是使我们想像大家都处于紧急状态之中。我把油门杆往回收，并观察着转数表。我一直等候到“恶鬼”发动机的转速降到每分钟7200转左右，才停止收油门，并明显感到飞机的航速降下来了。

　　在飞行员眼前的主要仪表，包括罗盘在内，共有6只。其它5只是空速表、高度表、升降速率指示器、倾斜仪（它告诉飞行员飞机是否倾斜，也就是说，向左或向右转弯）和侧滑仪（它告诉飞行员飞机是否像螃蟹横行那样在天空中侧滑）。其中两只仪表是靠电工作的，它们像我的罗盘那样已失效了。这样就使我只剩下3只靠压力工作的仪表——空速表、高度表和升降速率指示器。换句话说，我知道我飞得有多快，有多高，以及是在俯冲还是在爬升。

　　仅靠这三种仪表，此外再辅以那自古以来航行的助手，即肉眼，来进行判断，当然有可能使飞机着陆。这里说是可能的，那是指在晴朗的天气条件下。在白天，在天空中万里无云的条件下，靠推测航行法来驾驶一架高速飞行中的喷气式飞机，即用眼睛向下观察并判别弯弯曲曲的海岸线，找到一个奇形怪状的水库和微光闪烁的河流，这可以做到。然而在夜晚，那是不可能的。在晚上，即使是明月当空的夜晚，能显现出来的惟一东西，是灯光。

　　从空中遥望下去，灯光是有图形的。曼彻斯特看上去与伯明翰不一样。南汉普顿庞大的港口和索兰特河显示的黑色形状（海看上去也是黑的），在大片城市灯光的衬托之下，是可以辨认出来的。我对诺里奇非常熟悉。如果我能认出从洛斯托夫特绕过亚茅斯到克罗默尔凸出来一大块的诺里奇海岸线，我就能找到诺里奇。只有在那儿一段海岸线上散布着明亮的灯光，向内陆一直伸展30多公里。我知道，在诺里奇以北8公里的地方就是可降落的梅里安·圣乔治战斗机机场，机场上红色的指示灯将向夜空发射出它那莫尔斯电码式的识别信号。在那儿，当我在机场低空来回飞行时，只要他们听到轰鸣声后，还晓得该去打开机场的航行灯的话，我是能安全着陆的。

　　我开始让我的飞机“吸血鬼”慢慢地朝即将逼近的海岸下降高度，我的心里拼命在盘算着减速以来比预定的时间晚了多少。我的手表告诉我已在空中飞行了43分钟。诺福克的海岸应当就在我前面8公里远的某个地方。我抬头扫视了一下圆圆的月亮，它在星光灿烂的夜空像是一盏探照灯，我对凌空的皓月深怀感激的心情。

　　当战斗机朝诺福克飞去的时候，孤独的感觉越发紧紧地攫住了我。当我从位于西德下萨克森的飞机场起飞升空时，一切曾显得那样美好，现在看来都成了我最凶恶的敌人。灿烂的星光已不再那么动人，似乎也怀着敌意。浩瀚的宇宙无边无垠，闪烁的星光消失在其中。同温层的温度是固定的，白天和黑夜都保持在摄氏零下56度。在我的心目中，夜空成了一座寒气逼人的巨大监狱。尤其糟糕的是，我的身下是残酷无情的北海，正等着把我和飞机吞噬掉，并把我们永远葬身于漆黑的水穴之中。那里万籁俱寂，不会再有任何动静，而且没有任何人会知道。

　　在4600米的高空，飞机还在俯冲，我开始认识到一个新的敌人。对我来说，也是最后一个敌人已经进入了战场。在我身下5公里的地方没有墨黑的大海，前方没有宛如项链一般微光闪烁的海岸灯光。在远处，在我的面前，在我的左右两侧，毫无疑义，还有我的身后，月光在平整无边的一片白色的雾海上反射过来。也许茫茫的白雾只有几十米厚，但那就足够了，足以遮掩所有的视域，足以置我于死地。何况东英吉利地区已起了浓雾。

　　当我从德国向西飞行的时候，北海上空刮起了微风，风向朝着诺福克，而气象台并没有预测出来。在前一天，东英吉利平坦、空旷的地面在寒风和零下低温中冰冻了起来。傍晚，从北海向东英吉利平原吹进了较为温暖的气团。在那儿，海洋空气中无数的水分子，在与冰凉的地面接触之后，便凝聚了起来，在大约30分钟的时间内即可形成那种可以遮蔽五个郡的浓雾。至于雾向西伸展到什么地方，我不得而知，也许伸展到英格兰中部地区的西侧，贴着彭奈恩山脉的东山坡萦绕。

　　要想向西飞行越过浓雾是根本不可能的。没有导航设备和无线电的话，我将在陌生的异乡中迷失方向。要想掉转机头，飞回到荷兰沿海的某个荷兰空军基地上着陆，也是根本不可能的。我没有多少燃料了。仅仅依靠自己的眼睛进行导航，那就只有在梅里安·圣乔治机场降落，否则就随同“吸血鬼”的残骸葬身在诺福克某个为白雾封闭的沼泽地之中。

　　在3000米的高空，我停止了俯冲，稍微加大了油门以使我的飞机不致坠落下去，这样就多消耗了一些宝贵的燃料。仍然是那个培训我的人——诺里斯上士，我又想起了他的教诲：“当我们在无边无际的云层上面完全迷航的时候，先生们，我们必须考虑从我们的飞机中跳伞的必要性，不是吗？”当然，上士！遗憾的是，“马丁·贝克”式弹射座椅不能装在单座“吸血鬼”型飞机上，要跳伞是几乎不可能的，由此而使得这种飞机臭名远扬。跳伞过程中只有两个人是成功的，然而他们丧失了双腿。

　　“因此，我们的第一个步骤是让飞机向公海飞去，离开所有那些人口密集的地区。”你的意思是指城镇，上士！下面那儿的那些老百姓掏了腰包让我们为他们驾驶飞机，可不要在圣诞节的前夕往他们的头上扔下这样一个10吨重的尖声爆叫的钢铁怪物。下面有孩子、有学校、医院和住宅。掉转机头朝大海飞去吧。这些程序都早就制订好了。但他们并没有提到，寒冬的夜晚，在北海的水面上随波逐流的飞行员可能会是什么样的遭遇。刺骨的寒风会像鞭子一样抽打着他冻僵的面孔，靠一套黄色的救生衣支撑着浮在海面，冰花盖住了他的嘴唇，眉毛，耳朵，而5公里之外的人们坐在温暖的家里呷着圣诞节的潘趣酒，全然不知道他的下落。摆在他面前的可能性是，即使100人中也不会有一个人活满一个小时。在供训练用的电影上，他们向你展示的是那些幸运的飞行员，他们通过无线电发报，告诉人们他们正被迫在海面上降落，不到几分钟直升机便会把他们捞起来。何况那都是在和煦明朗的夏天。

　　“在极其紧迫的关头，先生们，可以采用最后一种方法。”这就更好了，诺里斯上士，我正处于这种极其紧迫的关头呢。“所有逼近英国海岸的飞机在我们早期预警系统的雷达荧光屏上都可以显示出来。因此，如果我们失去了无线电联络而不能把紧急情况报告出去，我们可以通过采用一种奇特的飞行姿态而引起我们雷达网的注意。要这样做的话，可以向海面飞去，然后按小三角形飞，向左转弯，向左转弯，再向左转弯，三角形的每条边都飞行两分钟的时间。这样，我们希望能吸引人们的注意力。当我们被发现的时候，空中交通管制人员就会派出另一架飞机来寻找我们。这架飞机当然有无线电通讯设备。当救护飞机发现了我们的时候，我们就要同它编队飞行，而它就带领我们穿云破雾，安全降落到地面上。”是的，那是挽救一个人生命的最后尝试。现在我更清晰地想起了具体的细节。那种与你并翼展翅飞行，带领你安全返回地面的救护飞机被称为“牧羊人”。

　　我瞥了一下我的手表，已续航51分钟，大约还剩下可以飞行30分钟的燃料。我望了望燃料表，看到那只表与其他仪表一起已失灵了。我的心凉了半截，然后我想起了那只应急按钮——按一下那只按钮，可以得到一个大致的读数。燃料表指示出燃料箱中还剩下三分之一的燃料。我意识到自己离诺福克的海岸还有一段距离，在月光中的飞行高度3000米，就驾着“吸血鬼”向左拐弯，并开始飞第一个三角形的第一段航程。两分钟以后，我又向左边拐去。在我的身下，雾海一望无际，在我的前面，朝诺福克的方向，情况别无二致。10分钟过去了，我差不多已飞完了两个三角形。多年来，我一直没有祈祷过，没有作过什么真正的祷告，这个习惯很难形成。上帝，请超度我脱离这个海……不，你决不能那样对他说话。“天父，你在天国……”他听到那样的话语已上千次了，今晚将再听上一千次。当你求助的时候，你对他说什么呢？上帝，请让人注意到我在这儿的天空中吧！请使人看到我在飞三角形吧，请派一架“牧羊人”来帮助我平安降落吧！请助我一臂之力吧！我保证——我究竟能向“他”做出什么样的保证呢？他并不需要我，而我现在却需要他。我已经这么久对他置之不理，他也许已把我全然抛到了脑后。

　　我在空中飞行第72分钟的时候，我完全失望了，我知道没有任何人会来救我。罗盘仍然盲目地在整个圆圈内四处漂移，其余的电气仪表都失效了，它们的指针全都在原来停下来的那个地方呆着不动。高度表上的读数是2000多米，说明我在转弯的过程中掉下了900多米。这不用管它。燃料表上的读数是在零与四分之一之间——也就是说还可以再飞10分钟。我感到绝望。我开始朝着僵死的麦克风吼叫：“你们这些蠢猪，干吗不看着你们的雷达荧光屏呢？为什么没有人看到我在这儿的天空中呢？全都喝得酩酊大醉！你们连自己的公务都干不好。啊，上帝，为什么没有人听见我的声音呢？”我像是一个小孩完全是出于无可奈何而哭了。

　　我知道，那天晚上再过5分钟以后，我准会一命呜呼，那是毫无疑问的。奇怪的是，我甚至并不再感到害怕了，只不过是感到极度的悲伤，为所有那些我再也不能干的事情，为那些我再也不能见到的地方，为再也不能向人们问候而感到悲伤。在20岁这样的年纪，当你还没有享受生活的乐趣时就离开人世，那是一件糟糕的事情。最糟糕的还不在于死，而在于所有那些还没有于成的事情。

　　透过有机玻璃，我可以看到月亮正在落下去，在白茫茫的浓雾边缘徘徊。再过两分钟，夜空将陷入完全的黑暗；几分钟之后，我将不得不赶在飞机最后一次向下俯冲，并摇晃着坠入北海之前，从这架垂危的飞机上跳伞；再过一个小时，我也将一命归天，嫩黄色的救生衣将托着一具冻僵了的尸体在冰冷的水面上四处漂流。

　　我倾斜“吸血鬼”的左翼，朝着月亮使飞机飞完最后一个三角形的一段航程。就在冀梢的下面，在我前方朝着月亮的方向，突然有一个黑影在雾光反衬下掠过了茫茫的天边。在一瞬间，我以为那是我自己的阴影。但月亮在前上方，我自己的阴影应该是在我的后面。那是另一架飞机，在天空下面隔着云雾同我相距两公里左右。在我转弯的过程中，它始终和我保持编队。那另一架飞机就在我的下方。我继续倾斜机翼转弯，那架飞机也跟着转弯子，直到我们两个都转完了一个整圈。这时候我才明白那架飞机为什么飞得离我这样远，为什么那位飞行员没有爬升到我的高度并跟着我的翼梢保持编队的位置。原因就是他飞得比我慢，如果他试图在我的旁边飞行，他就不能跟上。

　　我一边慢慢地向后拉回油门，一边朝他滑移下去。他接连不断地在转弯，我也是一样。到1500米的高度时，我知道我的航速对他来说仍然是太快了。我不能再继续收油门，惟恐使“吸血鬼”失速而倒栽下去。为进一步降低速度，我打开了减速板。当减速板使“吸血鬼”的航速降到每小时520公里时，飞机颤动抖了起来。

　　他朝我迎了上来。借着下面云雾昏暗的白光，我可以看清他那黑色的身躯。随后他和我一起飞行，与我的翼梢相隔30米远。我们一起作了些调整，当我们尽力保持队形时，飞机摇动着。月亮在我的右侧，我自己的阴影遮住了他的容貌和体形，但即令如此，我尚能看清他前面两只转动的螺旋桨发出的闪烁微光。当然，他不能与我齐头并进，我是在一架喷气式战斗机之中，而他驾驶的是一架由活塞式发动机推进的老式飞机。

　　有几秒钟的时间，他在我旁边保持着飞行队形，然后朝我身后月亮的方向掉队下去，几乎看不见了，又慢慢地盘旋到我的左侧。我跟着盘旋，以和他保持队形，因为，很明显，他就是派来带领我降落的“牧羊人”。他有罗盘和无线电，而我一无所有。他作了180度的转弯，然后调整航向，径直朝前保持水平飞行，月亮就在他的后面。我从落下去的月亮的位置可以得知，我们又朝着诺福克海岸飞去，而这时我第一次可以把他看得清清楚楚。使我感到惊奇的是，我的“牧羊人”是一架德哈维兰“蚊”式飞机，这是一种第二次世界大战时期的老式战斗轰炸机。于是我想起，位于格洛斯特的气象飞行中队是使用“蚊”式飞机的，是执行飞行任务的最后一批这种型号的飞机了。它用来在高层大气中进行采样，为天气预报做准备工作。我曾在“不列颠之战”航行表演中见过他们驾着“蚊”式飞机从低空掠过，使观众们看得喘不过气来。

　　我借着月光，能看见“蚊”式飞机座舱中那位飞行员戴着面具的头部。当他从侧窗中向外朝我看来的时候，能看到他护目镜的两个圆圈。他小心翼翼地举起他的右手直到我可以看到他窗户中的手，手指伸直，手掌朝下。他把手指朝前和向下捅，意思是说：“我们马上往下降，与我保持队形。”我点点头，并迅速举起我自己的左手，这样他就能看见我的手，左手的食指朝前指向我自己的控制面板，然后竖起五只散开的指头。最后，我收回我的那只手在自己的喉头扫了一下。谁都知道，这个手势表示我剩下的燃料只能飞5分钟了，接着我的发动机就要熄火。我看到他点头表示理解。他的头裹得严严实实，戴着护目镜和氧气面罩。然后我们向下朝着层层云雾降落。他的速度加快了，我把减速板收了回来。“吸血鬼”停止了颤抖，并冲到了“蚊”的前面。我把油门收了回来，听到发动机的声音减低到成了一种轻轻的啸声，“牧羊人”重又回到了我的旁边。

　　我们径直向诺福克笼罩在云雾中的地面俯冲，我瞥了一下我的高度表：600米。飞机依然在俯冲。他在500米的高度改为水平飞行，我们身下仍然是浓雾。也许云雾的边缘离地面只有30米高。要是没有地面进场导航的话，那就完全无法让飞机安全着陆，我可以想像得到，从雷达站接连不断传入我旁边那个飞行员的耳机中的声音是些什么样的指示。我们两架飞机两层有机玻璃窗之间相隔的距离是25米，我们之间冰冷的气流的速度是每小时660公里。我的眼睛紧盯着他，尽最大的可能与他靠近在一起编队飞行，惟恐在一刹那之间看不到他。我注视着他的每一个手势。借着白茫茫的雾海，即使月亮在沉落下去，我也不能不对他那一架飞机的雄姿感到惊异——飞机的机头不长，座舱是用透明防弹玻璃制成的，机头的固定炮塔盖着有机玻璃，两只发动机吊舱又细又长，各装有一台罗尔斯·罗伊斯公司制造的“默林”型发动机。这是一种精工制作的优质发动机，它发出隆隆的轰鸣声，穿过夜幕飞向机场。

　　两分钟以后，他在窗口举起他握紧成拳头的左手，然后贴着玻璃松开拳头散开五个指头：“请放下你的起落架。”我把控制杆朝下面推去，并感到所有三只轮子放下时沉闷的铿铿响声。令人高兴的是，起落架是由液压系统操动的，而不是依助于已经失效的电气系统。

　　“牧羊人”飞机的飞行员又朝下指着要再一次下降。而当他在月光之中急转过去时，我看到了“蚊”的机头，上面漆着又大又黑的两个字母——JK，也许表示“吉格·金”这样一种呼叫信号。随后我们又开始下降高度，这一次更为平缓。他就在云雾层的上面改为水平飞行，高度已很低了，犹如糖丝一般的雾絮抽打着我们的机身，我们作了一次稳定的盘旋。我设法向我的燃料表扫了一眼，指针已指向零位，在有气无力地抖动着。上帝保佑，赶快，我祈祷着，因为一旦我的燃料消耗光，就再也没有时间爬升到跳伞所需的210米的最低高度。对于一架发动机熄火的喷气式战斗机来说，30米的高度是死亡的牢笼，绝无幸存的可能。

　　有那么两三分钟的时间，他看来像是满足于保持他缓慢的盘旋飞行，而汗珠却从我的颈后部冒了出来，并开始像涓涓细流一般沿着我的背部往下淌，把我的尼龙轻便飞行服都粘到了我的皮肤上。赶快，伙计，赶快。

　　他差不多是突如其来地直朝前飞去，速度是如此之快，以至我还继续在盘旋，几乎被他甩掉了。转瞬之间我跟上了他，并看到他的左手在向我急速挥动着“俯冲”的手势。然后他在雾中急降下去，我紧跟不放，我们就这样往下降，尽管下降的角度很平缓，但仍然是一种下降，是从只有30米的高度朝不知何地降落下去。

　　从朦胧的天空飞进云雾之中，就像进入了一团团的灰暗色棉絮。突然之间，除了灰茫茫涡流般转动的缕缕雾丝之外，什么也没有，千丝万缕的触须伸出来捕捉你，要把你掐死，每一根触须都飞快地来抚摸座舱罩，然后就消失在虚无缥缈之中。能见度几乎降到零，没有形状，没有大小，没有形式，没有实质。只有在我的左翼梢之外，现在两架飞机相隔只有12米，可以看到“蚊”的影子，它满有把握地飞向某个我无法看到的目标。只是在这时我才认识到他飞行的过程中没有把灯打开。我一度为我的发现感到惊异和毛骨悚然，随后我认识到了那个人这样做是明智的，灯光在云雾中不仅变化莫测，而且容易使人产生幻觉而误入歧途。你可能为灯光所吸引，而搞不清楚灯光离你是12还是30米。你可能不由自主地朝灯光靠近，对于两架在云雾中编队飞行的飞机来说，将酿成大祸。那个人是对的。

　　在与他保持飞行队形的过程中，我知道他正在减低速度，因为我也在慢慢地拉回油门，降低高度和减慢速度。刹那间，我扫视了一下我所需要的两只仪表。高度表的读数是零，燃料表也同样如此，甚至指针都不抖动一下。我同时也看到那只空速表指向每小时220公里。而降到每小时175公里的话，这具该死的棺材就将从天空中摔下去。

　　“牧羊人”不打招呼就向我伸出一只食指，然后向前指向挡风玻璃。那意思是说：“你到了，向前飞就可以着陆。”我透过受气流冲击的挡风玻璃向前凝视，什么也没有。过了一会，是的，似乎有什么了，左侧是模糊不清的东西，右侧是另一个模糊不清的东西，然后是两个，一边一个。在我的两侧出现了灯光，由于雾的关系而套上了环，成对地从我身边闪过。我迫使自己的眼睛去注视灯光之间铺着什么样的东西。什么也没有，漆黑一团。然后，一缕油漆的标记从我的脚下飞驰而过。中线。我稳住机身为“吸血鬼”祈祷平安着陆。现在灯光越来越多了，几乎就在齐眼高的地方，然而，飞机还没有触地。砰！我们着地了，我们接触到了火红的跑道。砰——砰！又一次着地，飞机又在飘荡，离开潮湿的黑色跑道有几厘米的高度。砰——砰——砰——砰——砰——轰隆隆。飞机着陆了。主轮贴在地面不飘了。“吸血鬼”在灰茫茫的雾海中滑跑着，速度超过每小时270公里，我开始刹车，前轮也砰地一声向下落到了跑道上。现在要慢慢施加压力，不能侧滑，使飞机直朝着前面滑行而防止滑到侧面去。我用力刹车，否则我们会冲出跑道的。现在灯光从身边闪过的速度慢得多了，正在减慢下来，更慢，更慢……“吸血鬼”停了下来。我发现我的两只手都紧紧地握住操纵杆，并把刹车手柄紧紧地往里面挤。我把手柄握住不放，足有几秒钟，直到我相信我们已停下来了。最后，我确信真的是着陆了。

　　我拉上停机刹车，把主刹车松开了。我想应该将发动机熄火，因为在这样的浓雾之中试图滑行是毫无用处的。他们将不得不用吉普车把战斗机拖回去。但是已没有必要去关发动机了。当“吸血鬼”向跑道猛冲的时候，燃料已消耗完了。我关掉其余的各个系统——燃料、液压、电气和压力——并开始慢慢地解开把我缚在座椅和降落伞救生包上的带子。

　　在我解带子的过程中，有一种动静引起了我的注意。在我的左侧，相距不超过15米，“蚊”贴近地面穿过雾霭从我旁边掠过，发出隆隆的吼声。我瞥见了飞行员在侧窗挥手，然后他就扬长而去，爬升进了雾海之中。他没能来得及看到我接连不断地在招手致意，但我已拿定主意从军官食堂那儿给格洛斯特皇家空军打电话，并亲自向他表示感谢。

　　我打开座舱罩，并用手摇着曲柄把罩盖退回到锁定拉置。当我站起身来的时候，我意识到天气是多么寒冷。我身穿尼龙轻便飞行服，即使有加热器贴着我的身体，衣服还是在冰冻起来。我期待着塔台的卡车立即就会开到我的旁边。因为即使在圣诞节的前夕，只要是紧急着陆，消防车、救护车和六、七辆其他的车辆总是随时准备好出动的。但什么动静也没有。至少有10分钟的时间，毫无动静。到亮着两只头灯的汽车摸索着穿过雾层开来时，我已快冻僵了。

　　灯光在离纹丝不动的“吸血鬼”6米远的地方停住了。一个声音喊道：“喂，有人吗？”

　　我跨出座舱，从机翼上跳到柏油碎石路面上，并朝着灯光跑去。原来是一辆破旧不堪的“乔伊特·贾弗琳”牌汽车上的头灯，看不到什么空军的识别标记。在汽车方向盘后面是一张虚胖的、略带醉意的脸庞，上唇蓄着一簇浓密的小胡子。至少他戴着一顶空军的军官帽。当我从浓雾中闪现出来时，他目不转睛地盯着我。

　　“那是你的吗？”他朝着“吸血鬼”朦胧的影子点着头。

　　“是的，”我说。“我是刚才降落下来的。”

　　“异乎寻常，”他说，“真是异乎寻常。你最好上车吧。我马上把你带到食堂去。”

　　我对汽车中的暖气怀着感激的心情，对于依然活在人世则更是感激不尽。他把汽车的排档推入低速挡，便开始慢慢地把破车子开回到滑行道上。很明显，车子是朝着塔台驶去。过了塔台，又朝着食堂楼驶去。当我们驶离“吸血鬼”时，我看到它停在跑道的顶端，距离一块犁过的农田只有6米。

　　“你真是幸运极了！”他说道，更确切地说，他是在大声喊叫。因为汽车在用高速挡行驶，发动机发出了隆隆的吼声。他在踩脚踏板时显得动作呆滞。从他呼气中夹带的威士忌酒味来判断，那是没有什么令人奇怪的。

　　“幸运极了，”我附和着说。“当我刚好在着陆的时候，我的燃料已消耗完了。将近50分钟以前，我的无线电和所有的电气系统在北海上空就发生了故障。”

　　他用了几分钟的时间在仔细地消化这个信息。“异乎寻常，”他最终说道。“没有罗盘吗？”

　　“没有罗盘。根据月亮的位置按大约的方向飞行，一直飞到了海岸，或者我估计是海岸的那个地方。在那以后……”

　　“没有无线电吗？”

　　“没有无线电，”我说。“所有的波道都出了毛病。”

　　“那么你是怎样找到这个地方的呢？”他问道。

　　我变得不耐烦起来。显而易见，这个人属于那些已被淘汰的空军上尉中的一员，尽管蓄着一簇浓密的小胡子，也许不是一个飞行员，而是一位地勤人员，而且已喝得醉醺醺的。在夜间这样的时刻，作为一个作战机场来说根本不应该让他值勤。

　　“我是靠别人带领下来的。”我耐着性子解释道。“那套应急的办法是行之有效的，可它常常被人们淡忘了。这一次就是这个老办法把我救了。我左转弯飞小三角形，就像规范中说的那样，而他们就派了一架‘牧羊人’飞机上来把我带到地面。”

　　他耸了一下肩膀，像是在说：“如果你执意要那样说的话。”最后，他说：“幸运极了，不管怎么说，那另一个家伙设法找到了这个地方，真使我感到奇怪。”

　　“那不成问题，”我说。“那是一架属于格洛斯特皇家空军搞气象的飞机。很明显，他有无线电。因此我们是靠地面控制进场，编队飞行来到这儿的。然后，当我看到跑道起点的灯光时，我自己就着陆了。”

　　显而易见，那个人不仅喝醉了，而且反应是迟钝的。“异乎寻常，”他说，嘴里吸着他小胡子上滴下去的一颗水珠。“我们没有地面控制进场设备。我们根本没有任何导航设备，甚至连一只灯标都没有。”

　　现在该是轮到我来仔细琢磨这个信息了。“这儿不是梅里安·圣乔治皇家空军基地吗？”我低声问道。

　　他摇摇头。

　　“马哈姆？奇克桑兹？拉肯希思？”

　　“不是，”他说，“这是皇家空军明顿站。”

　　“我从来没有听说过这个名字。”我最终说道。

　　“这我并不感到奇怪。我们不是一个作战基地，多年来就不是了。明顿是一个仓库。请原谅。”

　　他把汽车停了下来，并走出了车子。我看到我们正站在离塔台灰暗的轮廓只有几米远的地方。塔台与一长排活动房屋相毗邻。很明显，这些房屋曾经是飞行室、导航室和受命室。塔台狭窄的房门上方挂着一只没有灯罩的灯泡，那位军官穿过小门走进去不见了。借着这只灯我可以看清破损的窗户和用挂锁上了锁的房们，呈现出一副为人遗弃、无人料理的样子。

　　那个人走回来了，摇摇晃晃地爬回到方向盘后面。“只不过去把跑道上的灯熄掉。”他说，一边打着嗝。

　　我的头脑里是乱麻一团。这真是像疯了一样，离奇，不合逻辑，然而，肯定会有完全合乎情理的解释的。

　　“你干嘛要把灯打开呢？”我问道。

　　“那是你发动机的声音，”他说。“我正在军官食堂中喝一杯，老乔提示我听一听窗外的动静。是你们在那儿，就在我们的头顶上盘旋。你们的声音小极了，几乎像是你们匆匆忙忙马上就要降落的样子。我记得当他们拆毁这个机场时从来就没有把老跑道上的航行灯拆掉，我想也许可以派点用场，所以我一直跑到塔台上把灯打开了。”

　　“我明白了。”我说，其实我并不理解。但肯定会有一种解释的。

　　“那就是我为什么这么晚才来接你的原因。等到我听见你在那儿着陆了，我必须回到食堂去把汽车开出来，然后，我得把你找到。该死的雾夜。”

　　你可以再说那样的话。我想。这个谜又有好几分钟时间使我摸不着头脑，然后我想到了如何解释。

　　“确切说来，皇家空军明顿站是在什么位置上？”我问他。

　　“离海岸有1.5公里。从克罗默尔往内陆走就是我们的位置。”他说。

　　“那么配备有全套无线电辅助设备，其中包括地面控制进场设备，又离这儿最近的皇家空军作战基地在哪儿？”

　　他思索了一分钟。“应该是梅里安。圣乔治，”他说。“他们肯定配备所有那些东西，你听着，我只不过是一个管仓库的人。”

　　那就解释得过去了。我那位素不相识、驾驶气象飞机的朋友一直是从海岸径直把我带到梅里安·圣乔治去的。而现在这个废弃不用的老仓库，跑道的航行灯都布满了蜘蛛网，又加上有一位喝醉酒的指挥官的明顿，恰好位于通向梅里安跑道的飞行路线上。梅里安的调度员曾要求我们做两次盘旋，这时他在16公里之外好打开跑道上的灯光，可是这个老糊涂也把他的灯光拧亮了，结果在飞最后一段60公里的航程时我扑通一声把“吸血鬼”降错了飞机场。

　　我正要启口埋怨他干扰了他所无法理解的现代化程序时，我把话从嘴边咽了回去。我的燃料在降临跑道的半路上就用完了，我根本就不可能飞到3公里之外的梅里安机场，不到着陆就会栽到田野里去。正如他所说的，我是幸运极了，真是万分侥幸。

　　当我为来到这个近乎废弃的机场找到了合乎情理的解释时，我们已到了军官食堂。我的主人把他的汽车停在大门前面，我们爬出了车外。在门厅上面有一只灯放射出光芒，驱散了雾气，照亮了门廊上方雕刻出来但已碎裂的皇家空军军徽，旁边是一块用螺丝钉固定在墙壁上的牌子，上面写着“皇家空军明顿站”。另一边是标着“军官食堂”的另一块牌子。我们走了进去。

　　前厅大而宽敞，但很明显是在大战前的年代里建造的。当时军队配给的金属窗框架正合乎时尚。这个地方处处都显示出“每况愈下”的迹象。那是真的，确实是这样。休息室中只有两张皮革已裂开的沙发圈椅，而房间中完全摆得下20张椅子。右侧的衣帽室中有一长排空空的挂衣架，用来悬挂根本不存在的外衣。

　　我的主人告诉我，他就是马克斯空军上尉，他一扭身子脱掉了身上的羊皮外衣，并把衣服扔在一张椅子上。他穿着一条制服裤，但上身穿着一件结实的蓝色套衫，而没有穿短上衣。在像这样的一个地方值勤度过你的圣诞节，肯定是很凄凉的。

　　他对我说，他是第二把手，指挥官是一个空军少校，现在正在度他的圣诞节假期。除了他自己和他的指挥官以外，这个站还有1个中士、3个下士和20个仓库保管员，其中一位下士也在圣诞节期间值勤，可能也是独自一人在他的士官食堂里。仓库保管员们都离开这儿去度假了。在不放假的时候，他们从早到晚把数以吨计装备战斗部队的剩余被服、降落伞、皮靴和其他辎重物资分类整理。

　　尽管在前厅中有一个很大的砖砌火炉，但并没有生火，酒室中也没有生火炉，两间房子都冰冷刺骨。在汽车中暖和了一下之后，我又开始打起寒战来。马克斯正在把头伸到前厅出口处的一扇门后面去，喊着某个名叫乔的人。我从他后面望过去，一眼就看到宽敞而又空无一人的餐室，里面也没有生火炉而冷森森的；还看到两条走廊，一条通向军官的卧室，另一条通往职员住宅区。皇家空军的食堂在建筑方面并无多大的差别，一旦采用一种式样，就到处都一样。

　　“招待不周，很对不起，老伙计。”马克斯在没有找到乔之后这样说。“这儿站上就只有我们两个人，也说不上有什么客人，我们各人把两个房间并成一个房间，里面一应俱全，作为我们的卧室。看上去我们两个人用不着把所有这些地方都用上。你知道，在冬天你无法取暖，用他们发给我们的燃料是无法取暖的，而且你也找不到人。”

　　那看来是明智的。设身处地，我可能也会这样子的。

　　“不要费心。”我说，一边把我的飞行帽和连带在上面的氧气面罩扔在休息室中的另一张皮椅上面。“不过，我需要洗个澡，并吃点东西。”

　　“我想这可以办到。”他说，并在尽力扮演一位和蔼可亲的主人。“我将让乔安排一个空房间——老天知道我们的空房间够多的了，并且把热水烧好。他还会弄点吃的东西，恐怕不会太多。烤咸肉和鸡蛋行吗？”

　　我点点头，到这时为止，我设想老乔是个食堂管理员。“那太好了。在我等候的过程中，你是否能让我用一下你的电话？”

　　“当然，当然，没问题，你得向上级报告一下。”

　　他领着我穿过酒室入口处旁边的一扇门，走进了食堂秘书办公室。办公室又小又冷，但里面有一把椅子、一张空的写字台和一架电话机。我拨了“100”要当地分局的话务员接电话。当我在等待的过程中，马克斯拿着一杯威士忌酒回来了。平常，我是很少喝烈酒的，但喝了它会使人热乎乎的，所以我领了情。他又出去吩咐那位食堂管理员去了。我的手表告诉我时间已接近午夜。这样度过圣诞节真是太糟糕了，我想。然后，我回想起30分钟之前我还在祈求上帝帮助，内心感到很羞愧。

　　“小明顿。”一个昏昏欲睡的声音说道。电话花了很长一段时间才接通，因为我没有梅里安·圣乔治机场的电话号码，但那位姑娘最终还是接通了。我可以听到电话线路那端传来话务员家中的人正在里屋欢度节日，毫无疑问，住宅区与村庄的邮局是毗邻的。

　　几分钟之后，电话铃响了。“梅里安·圣乔治皇家空军。”一个男人的声音说道。那是值班中士在警卫室中接电话，我想。

　　“请找空中交通控制值班调度员接电话。”我说，停顿了一阵。

　　“先生，对不起，”那声音说道，“请问是谁在打电话？”

　　我报了我的名字和军衔。我告诉他，我是在明顿皇家空军站打电话。

　　“我明白了，先生。但恐怕今天晚上没有飞行任务，先生，空中交通控制台上没有人在值班。不过，有一些军官在食堂里呢。”

　　“那么请给我接航站值班军官。”

　　当我们通话时，很明显他是在食堂里，因为可以听到他谈笑风生的声音。我对有关紧急着陆的事，以及他的航站曾被告知有一架无线电失灵的“吸血鬼”式战斗机将要靠地面控制进场着陆的事作了一番解释。他聚精会神地听着。也许，他也是一位办事一丝不苟的年轻人，因为他相当认真，正像一位航站值班官始终应该做到的那样，即使是在圣诞节假日期间也是这样。

　　“我不知道有这么回事。”他最终说道。“我想我们自从今天下午5点钟关闭以来就没有工作过，但我不在空中交通台工作。请不要挂断电话好吗？我来找中校——管飞行的——接电话。他就在这儿。”

　　一阵停顿，接着从线路上传来一个年纪较大的人的声音。“你是从哪儿打来电话？”在听到了我的姓名、军衔和我工作所在的航站之后，他说道。

　　“明顿皇家空军站，长官。我刚才在这儿作了紧急着陆。很明显，这个航站几乎是废弃不用了。”

　　“是的，我知道。”他慢吞吞地说。“真是不幸。你是否想要我们为你派一辆‘蒂利’车子来？”

　　“不，不是那样，长官。我待在这儿是无所谓的。只不过是我降落错了机场，我认为我是按地面控制进场程序飞向你们机场的。”

　　“嗯，拿定主意吧。你是来呢，还是不来？你应该知道，按你所说的，你驾驶的是一架该死的飞机。”

　　我深深吸了一口气，并开始从头讲起。“因此，你知道，长官，我遇上了格洛斯特航站的气象飞机，是他带着我飞进来的。但在这样的浓雾之中，那肯定是通过地面控制进场的，没有其他的方法可以着陆。然而，当我看到明顿的航行灯时，我就降落在这儿，以为这儿是梅里安·圣乔治机场。”

　　“太好了。”他终于说道。“格洛斯特的那个飞行员飞得好极了。当然，那些伙计是什么天气都要飞的，那是他们的工作。关于这件事你想要我们干什么呢？”

　　我开始冒起火来。尽管他是空军联队的指挥官，但在这个圣诞节前夕他已喝足了酒。

　　“长官，我给你们打电话是为了让你们的雷达和空中交通控制的值勤人员下班休息。他们肯定正在等着一架决不会飞来的‘吸血鬼’。它已经来到明顿了。”

　　“但我们机场已经关闭了。”他说。“我们在5点钟就把所有系统都停机了，没有任何人要求我们出动。”

　　“但梅里安·圣乔治机场有地面控制进场设备。”我坚持说道。

　　“我知道我们是有的，”他大声回答说，“但在今天晚上没有使用它，从5点钟以来它就停机了。”

　　我不慌不忙而又小心翼翼地问了下面一个、也是最后的一个问题。“长官，你是否知道附近哪儿有使用121.5兆赫频带昼夜值勤的皇家空军航站？离这儿最近、而又昼夜24小时都有人监听的航站？”

　　国际通用的航空求救信号频率是121.5兆赫。

　　“知道。”他同样也不慌不忙地说道。“向西是马哈姆皇家空军基地。向南是拉肯希思皇家空军基地。祝你晚安，圣诞节愉快。”

　　我放下受话器，躺在椅子里，并深深地呼吸着。马哈姆位于诺福克的另一侧，相隔50公里。拉肯希思在萨福克郡，向南65公里。用我所带的燃料，我不仅不可能飞到梅里安·圣乔治，而且它根本就没有开放。因此，我怎么可能飞到马哈姆或者拉肯希思呢？而且我曾对那位“蚊”式飞机的飞行员说我剩下的燃料只能飞5分钟了，他承认他懂得了我的意思。无论如何，在我们俯冲进了雾层以后要像那样飞行65公里，他飞得实在太低了。那个人准是疯了。

　　我开始认识到，真正救了我命的不是那位来自格洛斯特的气象飞行员，而是那位有些喝醉了酒的马克斯上尉，那位说话结结巴巴、上了年纪、被淘汰了的马克斯上尉。他对飞机不甚了解，但由于他听到了喷气式飞机发动机在头顶上低空盘旋，便在浓雾中跑了360米去打开废弃的跑道上的航行灯。不过，现在“蚊”肯定已返回格洛斯特了，而他应该知道，不管怎么说，我还活着。

　　“要格洛斯特吗？”话务员说。“夜里这么晚还打电话吗？”

　　“是的，”我坚定地答道，“格洛斯特，就在夜里这么晚的时刻。”

　　气象中队有这么个特点，就是他们始终是有人值班的。值班的气象员接了电话，我把情况向他作了解释。

　　“恐怕是搞错了，飞行官，”他说，“那不可能是我们的飞机。”

　　“这是格洛斯特皇家空军，对吗？”

　　“对的，是这儿。我是值班员。”

　　“好的。你们单位是用‘蚊’式飞机飞到高空去采集气压和气温的数据，对吗？”

　　“不对。”他说。“我们以前常用‘蚊’式飞机。3个月以前它们就退役了。我们现在用‘堪培拉’式飞机。”

　　我手握着话筒坐在那儿，带着怀疑的神情凝视着它。然后我想起了一个主意。

　　“它们怎么啦？”我问道。在那么晚的时刻对这样愚蠢得要命的问题采取宽容的态度，他肯定是个上了年纪的科技人员，而且彬彬有礼，耐心极好。

　　“它们报废了，我认为，或者更有可能是送到博物馆去了。眼下它们是难得看见了，你知道。”

　　“我知道。”我说。“它们之中是否有一架可能已卖给私人了呢？”

　　“我想那是可能的，”他最终说道，“那将取决于空军部的政策。但我认为它们进了飞机博物馆。”

　　“谢谢你。非常感谢你，圣诞节愉快。”

　　我放下电话，并迷惑不解地摇着头。多么不平常的夜晚！多么不可思议的夜晚！我先是失去了我的无线电和所有的仪表，然后我迷航了，而且燃料短缺，随后某个爱好用老式飞机夜航的莽撞家伙驾着他自己的“蚊”式飞机在夜里为我领航，他碰巧发现了我，飞过来靠近我，近得差一点使我丧命，最后有一位喝得半醉的地勤人员挺有头脑及时打开了跑道的航行灯而救了我的命。再没有什么比这更幸运的了。但有一点是肯定的：那位业余的王牌飞行员丝毫也不知道他正在干着什么样的事情。另一方面，要是没有他的话，我将身居何处呢？我问着自己。现在我的死尸该在北海中四处漂流。我为他和他对驾驶老式飞机私下飞行的奇特的爱好举起了最后剩下的威士忌酒，并一饮而尽。

　　马克斯上尉把他的头从门口探了进来。“你的房间准备好了。”他说。“17号房间，就在走廊那头。乔正在为你生火炉，洗澡水也在烧起来。如果你不介意的话，我想我就要睡了。你自己一个人不会有什么问题吧？”

　　我用比先前更为友好的态度向他致意，这是他应该受到的报答。“当然，不会有问题。非常感谢你对我的一切帮助。”

　　我拿起我的飞行帽，顺着走廊慢步走去。两边是单身军官们的卧室，而他们早已被派到其他的地方去了。一条光带从17号房间的门口照射到走廊之中。当我走进房间时，一位老人在火炉前面站起身来。他使我吃了一惊。食堂通常是皇家空军的现役军人管理，但这个人年近70，一眼便可看出，他是一个就地招收的老百姓雇员。

　　“长官，晚安。”他说，“我是乔，长官。我是食堂管理员。”

　　“是的，乔，马克斯先生对我说了你的情况。在夜里这么晚的时刻给你招来这么多的麻烦，很抱歉。正如你也许会说的，我只不过是无意中来到这儿的。”

　　“是的，马克斯对我说了。我马上就把你的房间准备好。这火炉烧起来以后，房间里就相当暖和舒适了。”

　　房间中的寒气还没有消去，我穿着件尼龙飞行服冻得发抖。我应该向马克斯借一件毛衣，可是忘记了。我决定在我的房间中独自一人吃我的晚饭。当乔去取饭菜时，我很快洗好了澡，因为水已够热的了，在我用毛巾把身子擦干并用老乔带来的那件破旧然而暖和的晨衣裹在身上的当儿，他已摆好了一张小桌子，上面放着一盘用油煎得咝咝响的咸肉和鸡蛋。这时候，房间里已很暖和，使人感到舒适。火炉中的煤块烧得通红，窗帘都拉上了。我只花了几分钟就吃完了，因为我已饥肠辘辘。在我吃饭的过程中，年老的食堂管理员留在那儿与我聊天。

　　“你在这儿已待了很长时间，乔？”我问他，与其说是出于真正的好奇心，还不如说是出于礼貌。

　　“哦，是的，长官，将近有20年了，就在战争刚爆发之前，那时这儿才开设机场。”

　　“你已看到一些变化了，嗯？是不是一直是像这样的？”

　　“不是像这样的，长官，不是像这样的。”

　　他对我说了昔日的情况。那时房间里都塞满了热情洋溢的年轻人，餐室中盘子、刀叉等餐具的撞击声响个不停，酒室中有人高唱爱情歌曲。他还提到以往的岁月，那时活塞式发动机的声音响彻机场的上空，推动着飞机，飞往前线，并又返回机场。

　　在他说话的过程中，我把他从酒室藏柜中拿来的半瓶红葡萄酒所剩下的部分喝完了。乔确实是个好管理员。

　　吃完之后，我从桌旁站起身来，从我飞行服的口袋中掏出一支香烟，点燃之后便在房间中来回漫步。食堂管理员开始收拾桌子上的盘子和玻璃杯。

　　我在一幅陈旧的照片前面收住了脚步。照片装在镜框里，孤零零地竖在壁炉台上，炉中的火苗发出劈劈啪啪的响声。我还没有把香烟放到嘴唇边便停住了，顿时感到房间骤然变冷了。

　　那张照片已很旧了，而且已经褪色，但透过镜框的玻璃看上去还是挺清楚的。照片上面是一个与我年纪相仿的年轻人，20出头，身穿一套飞行服，但不是今天这种灰色的衣服和亮锃锃的塑料防撞头盔。他脚穿用羊皮衬里的厚实靴子，身穿粗哗叽裤子和厚羊皮拉链上衣。他的左手拎着一顶飞行员以前常戴的软皮飞行帽，帽子连着护目镜，而不是现代的飞行员用的着色面罩玻璃。他两腿叉开站着，右手搭在臀部，一副天不怕地不怕的架势，但他并不在微笑。他极其严肃地盯着照相机，在他的眼睛里有某种忧伤的神情。在他的后面，可以清楚地看到他的飞机：“蚊”式战斗轰炸机细长、雅致的轮廓是决不会使人认错的，两只低悬的吊舱也是不会摘错的，吊舱中安装的“默林”型发动机为它提供了优良的性能。

　　当我感到一阵冷空气吹到我的背部，我正要开口对乔说什么话时，有一扇窗户被吹开了，冰冷刺骨的寒气席卷而入。

　　“我来关窗，长官。”老人说道，并把所有的餐具重新放了下来。

　　“不，我来关窗。”

　　我跨了两大步来到装那扇窗户的钢窗框旁。浓雾被从窗户中排出的暖气流所扰动而沿着破旧的食堂房屋阵阵翻滚着。我关上窗户，弄准了它确已关好，便转身回到房间里。

　　“这飞行员是谁，乔？”

　　“飞行员，长官？”

　　我朝着壁炉台上那张孤零零的照片点点头。

　　“哦，我明白了，长官。这是约翰尼·卡瓦纳的照片。在大战期间他是这儿的，长官。”他把玻璃酒杯放在最上面的一只盘子上。

　　“卡瓦纳吗？”我走回到照片跟前，并仔细端详着那张照片。

　　“是的，长官。一位爱尔兰先生。一个很好的人，如果我可以这样说的话，实际上，长官，这是他曾住过的房间。”

　　“那是什么飞行中队，乔？”我仍然在凝视着背景中的飞机。

　　“导航飞机，长官。他们飞的是‘蚊’式飞机。他们全都是很优秀的飞行员，长官。但我敢说，我认为约翰尼是所有飞行员中最好的。不过，我是偏心的，长官。我是他的勤务兵，你瞧。”

　　那是毫无疑问的。照片中人背后“蚊”的机头上隐约可辨的字母是JK，不是“吉格·金”，而是“约翰尼·卡瓦纳”。整个事情已水落石出了。卡瓦纳曾经是一个优秀的飞行员，战争期间在一个精锐的飞行中队中任职。战后他离开了空军部队，也许去搞他的旧汽车交易，正如相当一部分人所干的那样。这样，他在繁荣的50年代发了一大笔财，也许自己买了一幢漂亮的乡村别墅，而且还剩下足够的钱可以从事他真正的爱好——飞行。或者说得更确切些，重新创建他的过去，他那光荣的日子。他在皇家空军定期举办的一次老式飞机拍卖会上买了一架旧的“蚊”式飞机，把它重新装配起来，什么时候想飞就私下里展翅飞翔。要是你有钱的话，这样消磨你的业余时间是挺不错的。这样说，他是在从赴欧洲旅行返回的航程中发现了我在云层上飞三角形，认识到我陷入了困境，并领着我返航了。他通过无线电信标相交的方法准确地测定了他的方位，由于对这段海岸的情况了如指掌，他就抱着侥幸的心理甚至冒着浓雾来寻找位于明顿的老机场。那是冒了极大的风险的。但不管怎么说，我的燃料已消耗殆尽，因此，不是那样的话，也只得砸锅了。也许，通过皇家航空俱乐部我可以找到这个人，对此我笃信无疑。

　　“他肯定是一个好飞行员。”我若有所思地说道，心中想到今天晚上的飞行情况。

　　“最好的飞行员，长官。”老乔在我身后说，“他们认为，他有一双像猫一样的眼睛，约翰尼先生确实是这样。我记得有许多次当中队在德国轰炸目际上空投放目标照明弹返回后，其余的年轻先生会走进酒室喝一杯，很可能是喝上好几杯。”

　　“他不喝酒吗？”我问道。

　　“哦，喝的，长官。但他多半把他的‘蚊’式飞机重新加满油，独自一个人又起飞了，再次回到海峡或北海上空，去看看是否能找到伤残的轰炸机在向海岸飞来，并把它带回机场。”

　　我皱起了眉头。那些巨型轰炸机都有各自返航的基地。

　　“但其中有些飞机会遭到敌人密集的高射炮火的攻击，有时，飞机上的无线电设备被打坏了。这些飞机来自四面八方——马哈姆，斯坎姆普顿，沃丁顿，还有四引擎巨型轰炸机，来自哈利法克斯，斯特林和兰开斯特。比你服役的时间要早一些，如果你原谅我这样说的话，长官。”

　　“我已看过它们的电影。”我表示认可。“其中有一些飞机参加阅兵式的飞行表演。他以往常常为它们领航回来吗？”

　　在我的心目中我可以想像出它们是什么样子的飞机，机身、机翼和尾舵上弹孔累累，当飞行员试图使飞机在返航途中保持稳定时，机身发出吱吱嘎嘎的响声，机体在晃动着，机务人员受伤了，或处于垂危之中，无线电设备被打得粉碎。而且我从新近的经历中知道了冬天夜空令人寒心的寂寞。没有无线电，没有任何人为你导航返回机场，云雾遮盖了大地。

　　“是这样的，长官。他过去常常在同一天晚上作第二次飞行，在北海上空巡逻，寻找受伤的飞机。然后他把飞机领航回来，回到明顿这儿，有时候穿过伸手不见五指的浓雾。他们说他有第六感觉——在他身上有某种爱尔兰人的东西。”

　　我从照片那儿转过身来，把我的烟蒂在床边的烟灰缸中捻熄。乔到了门口。

　　“真是个男子汉大丈夫。”我说。我说这话是当真的，即令今日，到了中年，他仍然是个技艺高超的飞行员。

　　“喔，是的，长官，约翰尼先生真是个男子汉大丈夫。我记得他曾站在你站的那个地方，就在火炉前面，对我这样说。‘乔，’他说，‘不管什么时候空中还有一个人尽力想摸黑回来，我就将出去把他领回家。’”

　　我严肃地点点头。那位老人对他战时的长官是如此的崇敬。

　　“嗯，”我说，“从外表就看得出来，他现在还在这样干吗？”

　　“哦，长官，我可并不认为是这样。约翰尼先生在1943年圣诞节除夕夜晚出去作了他最后的一次巡逻，恰好是14年前的今天晚上。他再也没有回来，长官。他连同他的飞机一起栽入了北海之中。晚安，长官。圣诞节愉快。”

　　（完）

英文版

First Edition

THE SHEPHERD

Frederick Forsyth

De-Havilland-D.H.100-Vampire-dark

For a brief moment, while waiting for the control tower to clear me for take-off, I glanced out through the perspex cockpit canopy at the surrounding German countryside. It lay white and crisp beneath the crackling December moon.

Behind me lay the boundary fence of the Royal Air Force base, and beyond the fence, as I had seen while swinging my little fighter into line with the take-off runway, the sheet of snow covering the flat farmland stretched away to the line of the pine trees, two miles distant in the night yet so clear I could almost see the shapes of the trees themselves.

Ahead of me as I waited for the voice of the controller to come through the headphones was the runway itself, a slick black ribbon of tarmac, flanked by twin rows of bright-burning lights, illuminating the solid path cut earlier by the snow-plows. Behind the lights were the humped banks of the morning’s snow, frozen hard once again where the snow-plow blades had pushed them. Far away to my right the airfield tower stood up like a single glowing candle amid the hangars where the muffled aircraft men were even now closing down the station for the night.

Inside the control tower, I knew, all was warmth and merriment, the staff waiting only for my departure to close down also, jump into the waiting cars and head back to the parties in the mess. Within minutes of my going, the lights would die out, leaving only the huddled hangars, seeming hunched against the bitter night, the shrouded fighter planes, the sleeping fuel bowser trucks, and above them all the single flickering station light, brilliant red above the black and white airfield, beating Out in Morse code the name of the station CELLE to an unheeding sky. For tonight there would be no wandering aviators to look down and check their bearings; tonight was Christmas Eve, in the year of grace 1957, and I was a young pilot trying to get home to Blighty for his Christmas leave.

I was in a hurry and my watch said ten-fifteen by the dim blue glow of the control panel where the rows of dials quivered and danced. It was warm and snug inside the cockpit, the heating turned up full to prevent the perspex icing up. It was like a cocoon, small and warm and safe, shielding me from the bitter cold outside, from the freezing night that can kill a man inside a minute if he is exposed to it at 600 miles an hour.

“Charlie Delta…”

The controller’s voice woke me from my reverie, sounding in my headphones as if he was with me in the tiny cockpit, shouting in my ear. He’s had a jar or two already, I thought. Strictly against orders, but what the hell? It’s Christmas.

“Charlie Delta… Control,” I responded.

“Charlie Delta, clear take-off,” he said.

I saw no point in responding. I simply eased the throttle forward slowly with the left hand, holding the Vampire steady down the central line with the right hand. Behind me the low whine of the Goblin engine rose and rose, passing through a cry and into a scream. The snub-nosed fighter rolled, the lights each side of the runway passed in ever quicker succession, till they were flashing in a continuous blur. She became light, the nose rose fractionally, freeing the nose-wheel from contact with the runway, and the rumble vanished instantly. Seconds later the main wheels came away and their soft drumming also stopped. I held her low above the deck, letting the speed build up till a glance at the airspeed indicator told me we were through 120 knots and heading for 140. As the end of the runway whizzed beneath my feet I pulled the Vampire into a gently climbing turn to the left, easing up the undercarriage lever as I did so.

From beneath and behind me I heard the dull clunk of the main wheels entering their bays, the lunge forward of the jet as the drag of the undercarriage vanished. In front of me the three red lights representing three wheels extinguished themselves. I held her into the climbing turn, pressing the radio button with the left thumb.

“Charlie Delta, clear airfield, wheels up and locked,” I said into my oxygen mask.

“Charlie Delta, roger, over to Channel D,” said the controller, and then, before I could change radio channels added, “Happy Christmas.”

Strictly against the rules of radio procedure, of course. I was very young then, and very conscientious. But I replied, “Thank you, Tower, and same to you.” Then I switched channels to tune in to the R.A.F’s North-Germany Air Control frequency.

Down on my right thigh was strapped the map with my course charted on it in blue ink, but I did not need it. I knew the details by heart, worked out earlier with the Navigation Officer in the Nav hut. Turn overhead Celle airfield on to course 265 degrees, continue climbing to 27,000 feet. On reaching height, maintain course and keep speed to 485 knots. Check in with Channel D to let them know you’re in their airspace, then a straight run over the Dutch coast south of Beveland into the North Sea. After forty-four minutes flying time, change to Channel F and call Lakenheath Control to give you a steers. Fourteen minutes later you’ll be overhead Lakenheath. After that, follow instructions, and they’ll bring you down on a radio-controlled descent. No problem all routine procedures. Sixty-six minutes flying time, with the descent and landing, and the Vampire had enough fuel for over eighty minutes in the air.

Swinging over Celle airfield at 1,000 feet, I straightened up and watched the needle on my electric compass settle happily down on a course of 260 degrees. The nose was pointing towards the black freezing vault of the night sky, studded with stars so brilliant they flickered their white fire against the eyeballs. Below, the black-white map of north Germany was growing smaller, the dark masses of the pine forests blending into the white expanses of the fields. Here and there a village or small town glittered with lights. Down there amid the gaily lit streets the carol singers would be out, knocking on the holly-studded doors to sing Silent Night and collect pfennigs for charity. The Westphalian housewives would be preparing hams and geese.

Four hundred miles ahead of me the story would be the same, the carols in my own language but many of the tunes the same, and it would be turkey instead of goose. But whether you call it Weihnachten or Christmas, it’s the same all over the Christian world, and it was good to be going home.

From Lakenheath I knew I could get a lift down to London in the liberty bus, leaving just after midnight; from London I was confident I could hitch a lift to my parents home in Kent. By breakfast time I’d be celebrating with my own family. The altimeter said 27,000 feet. I eased the nose forward, reduced throttle setting to give me an airspeed of 485 knots, and held her steady on 260 degrees. Somewhere beneath me in the gloom the Dutch border would be slipping away, and I had been airborne for twenty-one minutes. No problem.

The problem started ten minutes out over the North Sea, and it started so quietly that it was several minutes before I realized I had one at all. For some time I had been unaware that the low hum coming through my headphones into my ears had ceased, to be replaced by the strange nothingness of total silence. I must have been failing to concentrate, my thoughts being of home and my waiting family. The first thing I knew was when I flicked a glance downwards to check my course on the compass. Instead of being rock steady on 260 degrees, the needle was drifting lazily round the clock, passing through east, west, south and north with total impartiality.

I swore a most unseasonal sentiment against the compass and the instrument fitter who should have checked it for 100 per cent reliability. Compass failure at night, even a brilliant moonlit night such as the one beyond the cockpit perspex, was no fun. Still, it was not too serious; I could call up Lakenheath in a few minutes, and they would give me a GCA Ground Controlled Approach the second-by-second instructions that a well-equipped airfield can give a pilot to bring him home in the worst of weathers, following his progress on ultra-precise radar screens, watching him descend all the way to the tarmac, tracing his position in the sky yard by yard and second by second. I glanced at my watch: thirty-four minutes airborne. I could try to raise Lakenheath now, at the outside limit of my radio range.

Before trying Lakenheath, it would be correct procedure to inform Channel D, to whom I was tuned, of my little problem, so they could advise Lakenheath I was on my way without a compass. I pressed the transmit button and called.

“Celle Charlie Delta, Celle Charlie Delta, calling North Beveland Control…”

I stopped. There was no point in going on. Instead of the lively crackle of static and the sharp sound of my own voice coming back into my own ears, there was a muffled murmur inside my oxygen mask. My own voice speaking… and going nowhere. I tried again. Same result. Far back across the wastes of the black and bitter North Sea, in the warm cheery concrete complex of North Beveland Control, men sat back from their control panel, chatting and sipping their steaming coffee and cocoa. And they could not hear me. The radio was dead.

Fighting down the rising sense of panic that can kill a pilot faster than anything else, I swallowed and slowly counted to ten. Then I switched to Channel F and tried to raise Lakenheath, ahead of me amid the Suffolk countryside, lying in its forest of pine trees south of Thetford, beautifully equipped with its GCA system for bringing home lost aircraft. On Channel F the radio was as dead as ever. My own muttering into the oxygen mask was smothered by the surrounding rubber. The steady whistle of my own jet engine behind me was my only answer.

It’s a very lonely place, the sky, even more so the sky on a winter’s night. And a single-seater jet fighter is a lonely home, a tiny steel box held aloft on stubby wings, hurled through the freezing emptiness by a blazing tube throwing out the strength of six thousand horses every second that it burns. But the loneliness is offset, canceled out, by the knowledge that at the touch of a button on the throttle the pilot can talk to other human beings, people who care about him, men and women who staff a network of stations across the world; just one touch of that button, the transmit button, and scores of them in control towers across the land that are tuned to his channel can hear him call for help. When the pilot transmits, on every one of those screens a line of light streaks from the centre of the screen to the outside rim, which is marked with figures, from One to Three Hundred and Sixty the number of degrees in a complete compass. Where the streak of light hits the ring, that is where the aircraft lies in relation to the control tower listening to him. The control towers are linked, so with two cross-bearings they can locate his position to a few hundred yards. He is not lost any more. People begin working to bring him down.

The radar operators pick up the little dot he makes on their screen from all the other dots; they call him up and give him instructions. Begin your descent now, Charlie Delta. We have you now…. Warm, experienced voices, voices who control an array of electronic devices that can reach out across the winter sky, through the ice and rain, above the snow and cloud, to pluck the lost one from his deadly infinity and bring him down to the flare-lit runway that means home and life itself.

When the pilot transmits. But for that he must have a radio. Before I had finished testing Channel J the international emergency channel, and obtained the same negative result, I knew my ten-channel radio set was as dead as the Dodo.

It had taken the R.A.F two years to train me to fly their fighters for them, and most of that time had been- training precisely in emergency procedures. The important thing, they used to say in flying school, is not to know how to fly in perfect conditions; it is to fly through an emergency and stay alive. Now the training was beginning to take effect.

While I was vainly testing my radio channels, the eyes scanned the instrument panel in front of me. The instruments told their own message. It was no coincidence the compass and the radio had failed together; both worked off the aircraft’s electrical circuits. Somewhere beneath my feet, amid the miles of brightly coloured wiring that make up the circuits, there had been a main fuse blow-out. I reminded myself, idiotically, to forgive the instrument fitter and blame the electrician. Then I took stock of the nature of my disaster.

The first thing to do in such a case, I remembered old Flight Sergeant Norris telling us, is to reduce throttle setting from cruise speed to a slower setting, to give maximum flight endurance.

“We don’t want to waste valuable fuel, do we, gentlemen? We might need it later. So we reduce the power setting from 10,000 revolutions per minute to 7200. That way we will fly a little slower, but we will stay in the air rather longer, won’t we, gentlemen?” He always referred to us all being in the same emergency at the same time, did Sergeant Norris. I eased the throttle back and watched the rev-counter. But it too was an electrical instrument, and I had lost the lot when the fuse went. I judged by engine note when the Goblin was turning over at about 7200 rpm, and felt the aircraft slow down. The nose dropped fractionally, so I adjusted the flight-trim to keep her straight and level.

The main instruments in front of a pilot’s eyes are six, including the compass. The other five are the airspeed indicator, the altimeter, the bank indicator (which tells him if he’s banking, i.e. turning, to left or right), the slip indicator (which tells him if he’s skidding crabwise across the sky) and the vertical speed indicator (which tells him if he’s diving or climbing and if so how fast). The last three of these are electrically operated, and they had gone the same way as my compass. That left me with the two pressure-operated instruments, airspeed indicator and altimeter. In other words, I knew how fast I was going and how high I was.

It is perfectly possible to land an aircraft with only these two instruments, judging the rest by those old navigational aids, the human eyes. Possible, that is, in conditions of brilliant weather, by daylight and with no cloud in the sky. It is possible, just possible though not advisable, to try and navigate a fast-moving jet by pilotage, using the eyes, looking down and identifying the curve of the coast where it makes an easily recognizable pattern, spotting a strange-shaped reservoir, the glint of a river that the map strapped to the thigh says can only be the Ouse, or the Trent, or the Thames. From lower down it is possible to differentiate Norwich Cathedral tower from Lincoln Cathedral tower, if you know the countryside intimately. By night it is not possible.

The only things that show up at night, even a bright moonlit night, are the lights. These have patterns when seen from the sky. Manchester looks different from Birmingham; Southampton can be recognized from the shape of its massive harbour and the Solent, cut out in black (the sea shows up black) against the carpet of the city’s lights. I knew Norwich very well, and if I could identify the great curving bulge of the Norfolk coastline from Lowestoft, round through Yarmouth to Cromer, I could find Norwich, the only major sprawl of lights set twenty miles inland from all points on the coast. Five miles north of Norwich I knew was the fighter airfield of Merriam Saint George, whose red indicator beacon would be blipping out its Morse identification signal into the night. There, if they only had the sense to switch on the airfield lights when they heard me screaming at low level up and down the airfield, I could land safely.

I began to let the Vampire down slowly towards the oncoming coast, my mind feverishly working out how far behind schedule I was through the reduced speed. My watch told me forty-three minutes airborne. The coast of Norfolk had to be somewhere ahead of my nose, six miles below. I glanced up at the full moon, like a searchlight in the glittering sky, and thanked her for her presence.

As the fighter slipped towards Norfolk the sense of loneliness gripped me tighter and tighter. All those things that had seemed so beautiful as I had climbed away from the Westphalian airfield now seemed my worst enemies. The stars were no longer impressive in their brilliance; I thought of their hostility, sparkling away there in the timeless, lost infinities, of endless sub-zero space. The night sky, its stratospheric temperature fixed, night and day alike, at an unchanging fifty-six degrees below zero, became in my mind a limitless prison creaking with the cold. Below me lay the worst of them all, the heavy brutality of the North Sea, waiting to swallow up me and my plane and bury us for endless eternity in a liquid crypt where nothing moved, nor would ever move again. And no one would ever know.

At 15,000 feet and still diving, I began to realize that a fresh, and for me the last, enemy had entered the field. There was no ink-black sea three miles below me, no necklace of twinkling seaside lights somewhere up ahead. Far away, to right and left, ahead and no doubt behind me, the light of the moon reflected on a flat and endless sea of white. Perhaps only a hundred, two hundred, feet thick, but enough. Enough to blot out all vision, enough to kill me. The East Anglian fog had moved in.

As I had flown westwards from Germany a slight breeze, unforeseen by the weather men, had sprung up blowing from the North Sea towards Norfolk.

During the previous day the flat, open ground of East Anglia had been frozen hard by the wind and the sub-zero temperatures. During the evening the wind had moved a belt of slightly warmer air off the North Sea and on to the plains of East Anglia. There, coming in contact with the ice-cold earth, the trillions of tiny moisture particles in the sea air had vapourized, forming the kind of fog that can blot out five counties in a matter of thirty minutes. How far westward it stretched I could not tell; to the West Midlands, perhaps, nudging up against the eastern slopes of the Pennines? There was no question of trying to overfly the fog to the westwards; without navigational aids or radio, I would be lost over strange, unfamiliar country. Also out of the question was to try and fly back to Holland, to land at one of the Dutch air force bases along the coast there; I had not the fuel. Relying only on my eyes to guide me, it was a question of landing at Merriam Saint George or dying amid the wreckage of the Vampire somewhere in the fog-wreathed fens of Norfolk.

At 10,000 feet I pulled out of my dive, increasing power slightly to keep myself airborne, using up more of my precious fuel. Still a creature of my training, I recalled the instructions of Flight Sergeant Norris again.

“When we are totally lost above unbroken cloud, gentlemen, we must consider the necessity of bailing out of our aircraft, must we not?”

Of course, Sergeant. Unfortunately the Martin Baker ejector seat cannot be fitted to the single seat Vampire which is notorious for being almost impossible to bale out of, the only two successful candidates living lost their legs in the process. Still, there has to be a first lucky one. What else, Sergeant?

“Our first move, therefore, is to turn our aircraft towards the open sea, away from all areas of intense human habitation.”

You mean towns, Sergeant. These people down there pay for us to fly for them, not to drop a screaming monster of ten tons of steel on top of them on Christmas Eve. There are kids down there, schools, hospitals, homes. You turn your aircraft out to sea.

The procedures were all worked out. They did not mention that the chances of a pilot, bobbing about in a winter’s night in the North Sea, frozen face lashed by sub-zero wind, supported by a yellow life-jacket, ice en crusting on his lips, eyebrows, ears, his position unknown by the men sipping their Christmas punches in warm rooms three hundred miles away that his chances were less than one in a hundred of living longer than one hour. In the training films they showed you pictures of happy fellows who had announced by radio that they were ditching, being picked up by helicopters within minutes, and all on a bright, warm summer’s day.

“One last procedure, gentlemen, to be used in extreme emergency.”

That’s better, Sergeant Norris, that’s what I’m in now.

“All aircraft approaching Britain’s coasts are visible on the radar scanners of our early warning system. If, therefore, we have lost our radio, and cannot transmit our emergency, we try to attract the attention of our radar scanners by adopting an odd form of behaviour. We do this by moving out to sea, then flying in small triangles, turning left, left, and left again, each leg of the triangle being of a duration of two minutes flying time. In this way we hope to attract attention. When we have been spotted, the air traffic controller is informed, and he diverts another aircraft to find us. This other aircraft of course has radio. When discovered by the rescue aircraft, we formate on him, and he brings us down through the cloud or fog to a safe landing.”

Yes, it was the last attempt to save one’s life. I recalled the details better now. The rescue aircraft who would lead you back to a safe landing, flying wing-tip to wing-tip, was called the shepherd. I glanced at my watch; fifty-one minutes airborne, thirty minutes left of fuel. The fuel gauge read one-third full. Knowing myself to be still short of the Norfolk coast, and flying level at 10,000 feet in the moonlight, I pulled the Vampire into a left-hand turn and began my first leg of the first triangle. After two minutes, I pulled left again, hoping (without a compass) to be able to judge 120 degrees, using the moon as a rough guide. Below me the fog reached back as far as I could see, and ahead of me also, towards Norfolk, it was the same.

Ten minutes went by, nearly two complete triangles. I had not prayed, not really prayed, for many years and the habit came hard. Lord, please get me out of this bloody mess… no, you mustn’t talk like that to Him. Our Father, which art in Heaven… he’d heard that a thousand times, would be hearing it another thousand times tonight. What do you say to Him when you want help? Please, God, make somebody notice me up here, please make someone see me flying in triangles and send up a shepherd to help me down to a safe landing. Please help me, and I promise… What on earth could I promise Him? He had no need of me, and I who now had need of Him had taken no notice of Him for so long He’d probably forgotten all about me.

By seventy-two minutes airborne on my watch I knew no one would come. The compass still drifted aimlessly through all the points of the circle, the other electrical instruments were dead, all their needles pointing at zero. My altimeter said 7,000 feet, so I had dropped 3,000 feet while turning. No matter. The fuel read almost one-eighth full say ten minutes more flying time. I felt the rage of despair welling up. I began screaming into the dead microphone.

You stupid bastards, why don’t you look at your radar screens? Why can’t somebody see me up here? All so damn drunk you can’t do your jobs properly. Oh God, why won’t somebody listen to me? By then the anger had subsided and I had taken to blubbering like a baby from the sheer helplessness of it all.

Five minutes later I knew, without any doubt of it, that I was going to die that night. Strangely, I wasn’t even afraid any more. Just enormously sad. Sad for all the things I would never do, the places I would never see, the people I would never greet again. It’s a bad thing, a sad thing, to die at twenty years old with your life unlived, and the worst thing of all is not the fact of dying but the fact of all the things never done.

Out through the perspex I could see the moon was setting, hovering above the horizon of thick white fog; in another two minutes the night sky would be plunged into total darkness and a few minutes later I would have to bale out of a dying aircraft before it flicked over on its last dive into the North Sea. An hour later I would be dead also, bobbing around in the water, a bright yellow Mae West jacket supporting a stiff, frozen body. I dropped the left wing of the Vampire towards the moon to bring the aircraft on to the final leg of the last triangle.

Down below the wing-tip, against the sheen of the fog bank, up moon of me, a black shadow crossed the whiteness. For a second I thought it was my own shadow, but with the moon up there my own shadow would be behind me. It was another aircraft, low against the fog bank, keeping station with me through my turn, a mile down through the sky towards the fog.

The other aircraft being below me, I kept turning, wing down, to keep it in sight. The other aircraft also kept turning, until the two of us had done one complete circle. Only then did I realize why it was so far below me, why he did not climb to my height and take up station on my wing-tip. He was flying slower than I, he could not keep up if he tried to fly beside me. Trying hard not to believe he was just another aircraft, moving on his way, about to disappear for ever into the fog bank, I eased the throttle back and began to slip down towards him. He kept turning; so did I. At 1,000 feet I knew I was still going too fast for him. I could not reduce power any more for fear of stalling the Vampire and plunging down out of control. To slow up even more I put out the air brakes. The Vampire shuddered as the brakes swung into the slipstream, slowing the Vampire down to 280 knots.

And then he came up towards me, swinging in towards my left-hand wing-tip. I could make out the black bulk of him against the dim white sheet of fog below, then he was with me, a hundred feet off my wing-tip, and we straightened out together, rocking as we tried to keep formation. The moon was to my right, and my own shadow masked his shape and form, but even so I could make out the shimmer of two propellers whirling through the sky ahead of him. Of course he could not fly at my speed; I was in a jet fighter, he in a piston-engined aircraft of an earlier generation.

He held station alongside me for a few seconds, down moon of me, half invisible, then banked gently to the left. I followed, keeping formation with him, for he was obviously the shepherd sent up to bring me down, and he had the compass and the radio, not I. He swung through 180 degrees then straightened up, flying straight and level, the moon behind him. From the position of the dying moon I knew we were heading back towards the Norfolk coast, and for the first time I could see him well. To my surprise, my shepherd was a De Havilland Mosquito, a fighter-bomber of Second World War vintage.

Then I remembered that the Meteorological Squadron at Gloucester used Mosquitoes, the last ones flying, to take samples of the upper atmosphere to help in the preparation of weather forecasts. I had seen them at Battle of Britain displays, flying their Mosquitoes in the fly-pasts, attracting gasps from the crowd and a few nostalgic shakes of the head from the older men, such as they always reserved on September 5th for the Spitfires, Hurricanes and Lancasters.

Inside the cockpit of the Mosquito I could make out, against the light of the moon, the muffled head of its pilot and the twin circles of his goggles as he looked out of the side window towards me. Carefully he raised his right hand till I could see it in the window, fingers straight, palm downwards. He jabbed the fingers forward and down, meaning, “We are going to descend, formate on me.”

I nodded and quickly brought up my own left hand so he could see it, pointing forwards to my own control panel with one forefinger, then holding up my five splayed fingers. Finally I drew my hand across my throat. By common agreement this sign means I have only five minutes fuel left, then my engine cuts out. I saw the muffled, goggled, oxygen-masked head nod in understanding, then we were heading downwards towards the sheet of fog. His speed increased and I brought the air brakes back in.

The Vampire stopped trembling and plunged ahead of the Mosquito. I pulled back on the throttle, hearing the engine die to a low whistle, and the shepherd was back beside me. We were diving straight towards the shrouded land of Norfolk. I glanced at my altimeter: 2,000 feet, still diving.

He pulled out at three hundred feet, the fog was still below us. Probably the fog bank was only from the ground to 100 feet up, but that was more than enough to prevent a plane from landing without a GCA. I could imagine the stream of instructions coming from the radar hut into the earphones of the man flying beside me, eighty feet away through two panes of perspex and a wind stream of icy air moving between us at 280 knots. I kept my eyes on him, for mating as closely as possible, afraid of losing sight for an instant, watching for his every hand-signal. Against the white fog, even as the moon sank, I had to marvel at the beauty of his aircraft; the short nose and bubble cockpit, the blister of perspex right in the nose itself, the long, lean, underslung engine pods, each housing a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, snarling through the night towards home. Two minutes later he held up his clenched left fist in the window, then opened the fist to splay all five fingers against the glass. Please lower your undercarriage. I moved the lever downwards and felt the dull thunk as all three wheels went down, happily powered by hydraulic pressure and not dependent on the failed electrical system.

The pilot of the shepherd aircraft pointed down again, for another descent, and as he jinked in the moonlight I caught sight of the nose of the Mosquito. It had the letters J K painted on it, large and black. Probably for call-sign Juliet Kilo. Then we were descending again, more gently this time.

He leveled out just above the fog layer, so low the tendrils of candy-floss were lashing at our fuselages, and we went into a steady circular turn. I managed to flick a glance at my fuel gauge: it was on zero, flickering feebly. For God’s sake, hurry up, I prayed, for if my fuel failed me now there would be no time to climb to the minimum 500 feet needed for bailing out. A jet fighter at 100 feet without an engine is a death-trap with no chances for survival.

For two or three minutes he seemed content to hold his slow circular turn, while, the sweat broke out behind my neck and began to run in streams down my back, gumming the light nylon flying suit to my skin.

HURRY UP, MAN, HURRY.

Quite suddenly he straightened out, so fast I almost lost him by continuing to turn. I caught him a second later and saw his left hand flash the dive signal to me. Then he dipped towards the fog bank, I followed, and we were in it, a shallow, flat descent, but a descent nevertheless, and from a mere hundred feet, towards nothing.

To pass out of even dimly lit sky into cloud or fog is like passing into a bath of grey cotton wool. Suddenly there is nothing but the grey whirling strands, a million tendrils reaching out to trap and strangle you, each one touching the cockpit cover with quick caress then disappearing back into nothingness. The visibility was down to near zero, no shape, no size, no form, no substance. Except that dimly off my left wing-tip, now only forty feet away, was the form of a Mosquito flying with absolute certainty towards something I could not see. Only then did I realize he was flying without lights. For a second I was amazed, horrified by my discovery; then I realized the wisdom of the man. Lights in fog are treacherous, hallucinatory, mesmeric. You can get attracted to them, not knowing whether they are forty or a hundred feet away from you. The tendency is to move towards them; for two aircraft in the fog, one flying formation on the other, that could spell disaster. The man was right.

Keeping formation with him, I knew he was slowing down, for I too was easing back the throttle, dropping and slowing. In a fraction of a second I flashed a glance at the two instruments I needed: the altimeter was reading zero, so was the fuel gauge, and neither was even flickering. The airspeed indicator, which I had also seen, read 120 knots and this damn coffin was going to fall out of the sky at 95.

Without warning the shepherd pointed a single forefinger at me, then forward through the windscreen. It meant ‘There you are, fly on and land’. I stared forward through the now streaming windscreen. Nothing. Then, yes, something. A blur to the left, another to the tight, then two, one each side. Ringed with haze, there were lights either side of me, in pairs, flashing past. I forced my eyes to see what lay between them. Nothing, blackness. Then a streak of paint, running under my feet. The centre line. Frantically I closed down the power and held her steady, praying for the Vampire to settle.

The lights were rising now, almost at eye level, and still she would not settle. Bang. We touched, we touched the deck. Bang-bang. Another touch, she was drifting again, inches above the wet black runway. Bam-barn-barn-babam-rumble. She was down. The main wheels had stuck and held.

The Vampire was rolling, at over ninety miles an hour, through a sea of grey fog. I touched the brakes and the nose slammed down on to the deck also. Slow pressure now, no skidding, hold her straight against the skid, more pressure on those brakes or we’ll run off the end. The lights moving past more leisurely now, slowing, slower, slower.

The Vampire stopped. I found both my hands clenched round the control column, squeezing the brake lever inwards. I forget now how many seconds I held them there before I would believe we were stopped. Finally I did believe it, put on the parking brake and released the main brake. Then I went to turn off the engine, for there was no use trying to taxi in this fog; they would have to tow the fighter back with a Land-Rover. There was no need to turn off the engine; it had finally run out of fuel as the Vampire careered down the runway. I shut off the remaining systems, fuel, hydraulics, electrics and pressurization, and slowly began to unstrap myself from the seat and parachute dinghy pack. As I did so a movement caught my eye. To my left, through the fog, no more than fifty feet away, low on the ground with wheels up, the Mosquito roared past me. I caught the flash of the pilot’s hand in the side window, then he was gone, up into the fog before he could see my answering wave of acknowledgment. But I’d already decided to call up R.A.F Gloucester and thank him personally from the officers mess.

With the systems off, the cockpit was misting up fast, so I released the canopy and pushed it upwards and backwards by hand until it locked. Only then, as I stood up, did I realize how cold it was. Against my heated body, dressed in light nylon flying suit, it was freezing. I expected the control-tower truck to be alongside in seconds, for with an emergency landing, even on Christmas Eve, the fire truck, ambulance and half a dozen other vehicles were always standing by. Nothing happened. At least, not for ten minutes.

By the time the two headlights came groping out of the mist I felt frozen. The lights stopped twenty feet from the motionless Vampire, dwarfed by the fighter’s bulk. A voice called:

“Hallo there.”

I stepped out of the cockpit, jumped from the wing to the ground and ran towards the lights. They turned out to be the headlamps of a battered old Jowett Javelin. Not an Air Force identification mark in sight. At the wheel of the car was a puffed, beery face and a handlebar mustache. At least he wore an R.A.F officer’s cap. He stared at me as I loomed out of the fog.

“That yours?” He nodded towards the dim share of the Vampire.

“Yes,” I said, “I just landed it.”

“Straordinary,” he said, “quite straordinary. You’d better jump in. I’ll run you back to the mess.” I was grateful for the warmth of the car, even more so to be alive.

Moving in bottom gear he began to ease the old car back round the taxi-track, evidently towards the control tower and beyond them the mess buildings. As we moved away from the Vampire I saw that I had stopped twenty feet short of a plowed field at the very end of the runway.

“You were damned lucky,” he said, or rather shouted, for the engine was roaring in first gear and he seemed to be having trouble with the foot controls. Judging by the smell of whisky on his breath, that was not surprising.

“Damned lucky,” I agreed. “I ran out of fuel just as I was landing. My radio and all the electrical systems failed nearly fifty minutes ago over the North Sea.”

He spent several minutes digesting the information carefully.

“Straordinary,” he said at length. “No compass?”

“No compass. Flying in the approximate direction by the moon. As far as the coast, or where I judged it to be. After that…”

“No radio?”

“No radio,” I said. “A dead box on all channels.”

“Then how did you find this place?” he asked.

I was losing patience. The man was evidently one of those passed-over flight lieutenants, not terribly bright and probably not a flyer, despite the handlebar mustache. A ground wallah. And drunk with it. Shouldn’t be on duty at all on an operational station at that hour of the night.

“I was guided in,” I explained patiently. The emergency procedures, having worked so well, now began to seem run-o’-the-mill, such is the recuperation of youth. “I flew short, left-hand triangles, as per instructions, and they sent up a shepherd aircraft to guide me down. No problem.”

He shrugged, as if to say if you insist. Finally he said:

“Damn lucky, all the same. I’m surprised the other chap managed to find the place.”

“No problem there,” I explained patiently. “It was one of the weather aircraft from R.A.F Gloucester. Obviously he had radio. So we came in here in formation, on a GCA. Then when I saw the lights at the threshold of the runway, I landed myself.”

The man was obviously dense, as well as drunk.

“Straordinary,” he said, sucking a stray drop of moisture off his handlebar. “We don’t have GCA. We don’t have any navigational equipment at all, not even a beacon”.

Now it was my turn to let the information sink in. “This isn’t R.A.F Merriam Saint George?” I asked in a small voice. He shook his head. “Marham? Chicksands? Lakenheath?”

“No,” he said, “this is R.A.F Minton.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said at last.

“I’m not surprised. We’re not an operational station. Haven’t been for years. Minton’s a storage depot. Excuse me.”

He stopped the car and got out. I saw we were standing a few feet from the dim shape of a control tower, adjoining a long row of Nissen huts, evidently once flight rooms, navigational and briefing huts.

Above the narrow door at the base of the tower through which the officer had disappeared hung a single naked bulb. By its light I could make out broken windows, padlocked doors, an air of abandonment and neglect. The man returned and climbed shakily back behind the wheel.

“Just turning the runway lights off,” he said, and belched.

My mind was whirling. This was mad, crazy, illogical. Yet there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“Why did you switch them on?” I asked.

“It was the sound of your engine,” he said. “I was in the officers mess having a noggin, and old Joe suggested I listen out the window for a second. There you were, circling right above us. You sounded damn low, almost as if you were going to come down in a hurry. Thought I might be of some use, remembered they never disconnected the old runway lights when they dismantled the station, so I ran down to the control tower and switched them on.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t. But there had to be an explanation.

“That was why I was so late coming out to pick you up. I had to go back to the mess to get the car out, once I’d heard you land out there. Then I had to find you. Bloody foggy night.”

You can say that again, I thought. The mystery puzzled me for another few minutes. Then I hit on the explanation.

“Where is R.A.F Minton, exactly?” I asked him.

“Five miles in from the coast, inland from Cromer. That’s where we are,” he said.

“And where’s the nearest operational R.A.F station with all the radio aids including GCA?”

He thought for a minute.

“Must be Merriam Saint George,” he said. “They must have all those things. Mind you, I’m just a stores Johnny.”

That was the explanation. My unknown friend in the weather plane had been taking me straight from the coast for Merriam Saint George. By chance Minton, abandoned old stores depot Minton, with its cobwebbed runway lights and drunken commanding officer, lay right along the in-flight path to Merriam’s runway. Merriam controller had asked us to circle twice while he switched on his runway lights ten miles ahead, and this old fool had switched on his lights as well. Result: coming in on the last ten-mile stretch, I had plonked my Vampire down on the wrong airfield. I was about to tell him not to interfere with modern procedures that he couldn’t understand when I choked the words back. My fuel had run out halfway down the runway. I’d never have made Merriam, ten miles away. I’d have crashed in the fields short of touchdown. By an amazing fluke I had been, as he said, damned lucky.

By the time I had worked out the rational explanation for my presence at this nearly abandoned airfield, we had reached the officers mess. My host parked his car in front of the door and we climbed out. Above the entrance hall a light was burning, dispelling the fog and illuminating the carved but chipped crest of the Royal Air Force above the doorway. To one side was a board screwed to the wall. It said ‘R.A.F Station Minton’. 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 pre-war years when metal window-frames, service issue, were in the fashion. The place reeked of the expression ‘it had seen better days’. It had indeed. Only two cracked leather club chairs occupied the ante room, which could have taken twenty. The cloakroom to the right contained a long empty rail for non-existent 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 CO being a squadron leader now on Christmas leave. Apart from him and his CO 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 goes 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. R.A.F 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 them in winter, you know; not on the fuel they allow us. And you can’t get the stuff.”

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 into the other leather chair. “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, a door beside the entrance to the bar. It was small and cold, but it had a chair, empty desk and a telephone.

I dialed 100 for the local operator, and while I was waiting Marks returned with a tumbler of whiskey. Normally I hardly touched 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 Saint George, but the 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. Eventually the phone was ringing.

“R.A.F Merriam Saint George,” said a man’s voice. Duty sergeant speaking from the guard-room, 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 R.A.F 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. I explained the matter again.

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

“R.A.F 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 Saint George.”

“Splendid,” he said at length. “Marvellous bit of flying by that pilot from Gloucester. Course, those chaps are up in all weathers. It’s their job. What do you want us to do about it?”

I was getting exasperated. Wing commander he might have been, but he had had a skinful this Christmas Eve.

“I am ringing to alert you to stand down your radar and traffic control crews, sir. They must be waiting for a Vampire that’s never going to arrive. It’s already arrived here at Minton.”

“But we’re closed down,” he said. “We shut all the systems down at five o’clock. There’s been no call for us to turn out.”

“But Merriam Saint George has a GCA,” I protested. “I know we have,” he shouted back. “But it hasn’t been used tonight. It’s been shut down since five o’clock.”

I asked the next and last question slowly and carefully.

“Do you know, sir, where is the nearest R.A.F station that will be manning 121.5 band throughout the night, the nearest station to here that maintains twenty-four-hour emergency listening?” The international aircraft emergency frequency is 121.5 megacycles. “Yes,” he said equally slowly. “To the west, R.A.F Marham. To the south, R.A.F Lakenheath. Good night to you. Happy Christmas.”

He put the phone down. I sat back and breathed deeply. Marham was forty miles away on the other side of Norfolk. Lakenheath was forty miles to the south, in Suffolk. On the fuel I was carrying, not only could I not have made Merriam Saint George, it wasn’t even open. So how could I ever have got to Marham or Lakenheath? And I had told that Mosquito pilot that I only had five minutes fuel left. He had acknowledged that he understood. In any case, he was flying far too low after we dived into the fog ever to fly forty miles like that. The man must have been mad.

It began to dawn on me that I didn’t really owe my life to the weather pilot from Gloucester, but to Flight Lieutenant Marks, beery, bumbling old passed-over Flight Lieutenant Marks, who couldn’t tell one end of an aircraft from another, but who had run four hundred yards through the fog to switch on the lights of an abandoned runway because he heard a jet engine circling overhead too close to the ground. Still, the Mosquito must be back at Gloucester by now, and he ought to know that despite everything I was alive.

“Gloucester?” said the operator. “At this time of night?”

“Yes,” I replied firmly, “Gloucester, at this time of night.”

One thing about weather squadrons, they’re always on duty. The duty meteorologist took the call. I explained the position to him.

“I’m afraid there must be some mistake, Flying Officer,” he said. “It could not have been one of ours.”

“Look, that is R.A.F Gloucester, right?”

“Yes, it is. Duty Met Officer speaking.”

“Fine. And your unit flies Mosquitoes to take pressure and temperature readings at altitude, right?”

“Wrong,” he said. “We used to use Mosquitoes. They went out of service three months ago. We now use Canberras.”

I sat holding the telephone, staring at it in disbelief. Then an idea came to me.

“What happened to them?” I asked. He must have been an elderly boffin of great courtesy and patience to tolerate darn fool questions at this hour of the night.

“They were scrapped, I think, or sent off to museums, more likely. They’re getting quite rare nowadays, you know.”

“I know, I said. Could one of them have been sold privately?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” he said at length. “It would depend on Air Ministry policy. But I think they went to aircraft museums.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. And Happy Christmas.”

I put the phone down and shook my head in bewilderment. What a night, what an incredible night. First I lose my radio and all my. instruments, then I get lost and short of fuel, then I am taken in tow by some moonlighting harebrain with a passion for veteran aircraft flying his own Mosquito through the night, who happens to spot me, comes within an inch of killing me and finally a half-drunk ground-duty officer has the sense to put his runway lights on in time to save me. Luck doesn’t come in much bigger slices. But one thing was certain: that amateur air ace hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing. On the other hand, where would I be without him, I asked. Bobbing around dead in the North Sea by now.

I raised the last of the whisky to him and his strange passion for flying privately in out-dated aircraft and tossed the drink back. Flight Lieutenant Marks put his head round the door.

“Your room’s ready,” he said. “Number Seventeen, just down the corridor. Joe’s making up a fire for you now. The bath water’s heating. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. Will you be all right on your own?”

I greeted him with more friendliness than last time, which he deserved.

“Sure, I’ll be fine. Many thanks for all your help.” I took my helmet and wandered down the corridor, flanked with the numbers of the bedrooms of bachelor officers long since posted elsewhere. From the door of Seventeen a bar of light shone out into the passage. As I entered the room an old man rose from his knees in front of the fireplace. He gave me a start. Mess stewards are usually R.A.F serving men. This one was near seventy, and obviously a locally recruited civilian employee.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “I’m Joe, sir. I’m the mess steward.”

“Yes, Joe, Mr. Marks told me about you. Sorry to cause you so much trouble at this hour of the night. I just dropped in, as you might say.”

“Yes, Mr. Marks told me. I’ll have your room ready directly. Soon as this fire burns up, it’ll be quite cosy.”

The chill had not been taken off the room, and I shivered in the nylon flying suit. I should have asked Marks for the loan of a sweater, but had forgotten.

I elected to take my lonely evening meal in my room, and while Joe went to fetch it I had a quick bath, for the water was by now reasonably hot. While I toweled myself down and wrapped the old but warm dressing gown that old Joe had brought with him round me, he set out a small table and placed a plate of sizzling bacon and eggs on it. By now the room was comfortably warm, the coal fire burning brightly, the curtains drawn. While I ate, which took only a few minutes, for I was ravenously hungry, the old steward stayed to talk.

“You been here long, Joe?” I asked him, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

“Oh, yes, sir, nigh on twenty years; since just before the war when the station opened.”

“You’ve seen some changes, eh? Wasn’t always like this.”

“That it wasn’t, sir, that it wasn’t.” And he told me of the days when the rooms were crammed with eager young pilots, the dining room noisy with the clatter of plates and cutlery, the bar roaring with bawdy songs; of months and years when the sky above the airfield crackled and snarled to the sound of piston engines driving planes to war and bringing them back again.

While he talked I finished my meal and emptied the remainder of the half-bottle of red wine he had brought from the bar store. A very good steward was Joe. After finishing I rose from the table, fished a cigarette from the pocket of my flying suit, lit it and sauntered round the room. The steward began to tidy up the plates and the glass from the table. I halted before an old photograph in a frame, standing alone on the mantel shelf above the crackling fire. I stopped with my cigarette half raised to my lips, feeling the room go suddenly cold.

The photo was old and stained, but behind its glass it was still clear enough. It showed a young man of about my own years, in his early twenties, dressed in flying gear. But not the blue nylon suits and gleaming plastic crash helmet of today. He wore thick sheepskin-lined boots, rough serge trousers and the heavy sheepskin zip-up jacket. From his left hand dangled one of the soft-leather flying helmets they used to wear, with goggles attached, instead of the modern pilot’s tinted visor. He stood with legs apart, right hand on hip, a defiant stance, but he was not smiling. He stared at the camera with grim intentness. There was something sad about the eyes.

Behind him, quite clearly visible, stood his aircraft. There was no mistaking the lean, sleek silhouette of the Mosquito fighter-bomber, nor the two low-slung pods housing the twin Merlin engines that gave it its remarkable performance. I was about to say something to Joe when I felt the gust of cold air on my back. One of the windows had blown open and the icy air was rushing in.

“I’ll close it, sir,” the old man said, and made to put all the plates back down again.

“No, I’ll do it.”

It took me two strides to cross to where the window swung on its steel frame. To get a better hold I stepped inside the curtain and stared out. The fog swirled in waves around the old mess building, disturbed by the current of warm air coming from the window. Somewhere, far away in the fog, I thought I heard the snarl of engines. There were no engines out there, just a motor cycle of some farm boy, taking leave of his sweetheart across the fens. I closed the window, made sure it was secure, and turned back into the room.

“Who’s the pilot, Joe?”

“The pilot, sir?”

I nodded towards the lonely photograph on the mantel shelf.

“Oh, I see, sir. That’s a photo of Mr. Kavanagh. He was here during the war, sir.”

He placed the wineglass on top of the topmost plate in his hands.

“Kavanagh?” I walked back to the picture and studied it closely.

“Yes, sir. An Irish gentleman. A very fine man, if I may say so. As a matter of fact, sir, this was his room.”

“What squadron was that, Joe?” I was still peering at the aircraft in the background.

“Pathfinders, sir. Mosquitoes, they flew. Remarkable pilots, all of them, sir. But I venture to say I believe Mister Johnny was the best of them all. But then I’m biased, sir. I was his batman, you see.”

There was no doubting it. The faint letters on the nose of the Mosquito behind the figure in the photo read J K. Not Juliet Kilo, but Johnny Kavanagh.

The whole thing was clear as day. Kavanagh had been a superb pilot, flying with one of the crack squadrons during the war. After the war he’d left the Air Force, probably going into second-hand car dealing, as quite a few did. So he’d made a pile of money in the booming fifties, probably bought himself a smart country house, and had enough left over to indulge his real passion flying. Or rather re-creating the past, his days of glory. He’d bought up an old Mosquito in one of the R.A.F periodic auctions of obsolescent aircraft, re-fitted it, and flew it privately whenever he wished. Not a bad way to spend your spare time, if you had the money.

So he’d been flying back from some trip to Europe, had spotted me turning in triangles above the cloud bank, realized I was stuck, and taken me in tow. Pin-pointing his position precisely by crossed radio beacons, knowing this stretch of the coast by heart, he’d taken a chance of finding his old airfield at Minton even in thick fog. It was a hell of a risk. But then I had no fuel left anyway, so it was that or bust.

I had no doubt I could trace the man, probably through the Royal Aero club.

“He was certainly a good pilot,” I said reflectively, thinking of this evening’s performance.

“The best, sir,” said old Joe from behind me. “They reckoned he had eyes like a cat, did Mister Johnny. I remember many’s the time the squadron would return from dropping flares over bombing targets in Germany, and the rest of the young gentlemen would go into the bar and have a drink. More likely several.”

“He didn’t drink?” I asked.

“Oh yes, sir, but more often he’d have his Mosquito re-fueled and take off again alone, going back over the Channel or the North Sea to see if he could find some crippled bomber making for the coast and guide them home.”

I frowned. These big bombers had their own bases to go to.

“But some of them would have taken a lot of enemy flak fire, and sometimes they had their radios knocked out. All over, they came from. Marham, Scampton, Cotteshall, Waddington; the big four-engined ones, Halifaxes, Stirlings and Lancasters; a bit before your time if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir.”

“I’ve seen pictures of them,” I admitted. “And some of them fly in air parades. And he used to guide them back?”

I could imagine them in my mind’s eye, gaping holes in the body, wings and tail, creaking and swaying as the pilot sought to hold them steady for home, a wounded or dying crew, and the radio shot to bits. And I knew, from too recent experience, the bitter loneliness of the winter’s sky at night, with no radio, no guide for home and the fog blotting out the land.

“That’s right, sir. He used to go up for a second flight in the same night, patrolling out over the North Sea, looking for a crippled plane. Then he’d guide them home, back here to Minton, sometimes through fog so dense you couldn’t see your hand. Sixth sense, they said he had; something of the Irish in him.”

I turned from the photograph and stubbed my cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bed. Joe was at the door.

“Quite a man, I said, and I meant it. Even today, middle-aged, he was a superb flier.”

“Oh yes, sir, quite a man, Mister Johnny. I remember him saying to me once, standing tight where you are before the fire: ‘Joe,’ he said, ‘whenever there’s one of them out there in the night, trying to get back, I’ll go out and bring him home.’” I nodded gravely. The old man so obviously worshipped his wartime officer.

“Well,” I said, “by the look of it, he’s still doing it.”

Now Joe smiled.

“Oh, I hardly think so, sir. Mister Johnny went out on his last patrol Christmas Eve 1943, just fourteen years ago tonight. He never came back, sir. He went down with his plane somewhere out there in the North Sea. Good night, sir. And Happy Christmas.”

CBC版


The Shepherd - read by Alan Maitland from CBC Radio

THE SHEPHERD

CBC Radio One. December 22, 2017

JD: As we have now nearly every year for the past thirty eight, on our last program before Christmas, we begin tonight's broadcast with our annual reading of Frederick Forsyth's “The Shepherd”. As read by former As It Happens host the late, great Al Maitland. The year is 1957, an RAF pilot is heading home from Germany for Christmas. Fog sets in, all radio communication is lost, and here now is Fireside Al with “The Shepherd”.

　　While waiting for control tower to clear me for takeoff, I glanced out through the cockpit canopy at the German countryside, white and crisp beneath the December moon. Behind me lay the boundary fence of the Royal Air Force Base. Far away to my right, the airfield tower stood up like a glowing candle. Inside the tower I knew all was warmth and merriment — the staff waiting only for my departure to close down and head back to the parties in the mess. Within minutes of my going, the lights would die out, leaving only the flickering red station light beating out in Morse code the name of the station: C.E.L.L.E. to an unheeding sky. For tonight, there would be no wandering aviators to look down and check their bearings. Tonight was Christmas Eve in 1957, and I was a pilot trying to get home for Christmas.

　　My watch read 10:15 by the dim, blue glow of the control panel where the rows of dials quivered and danced. It was warm and snug inside the cockpit, the heating turned up full to prevent the Perspex icing up. It was like a cocoon, small, and warm and safe, shielding me from the bitter cold outside. From the freezing night that can kill a man inside a minute of use exposed to it at 600 miles per hour.

　　“Charlie Delta, clear takeoff”. The controller's voice sounding in my headphones woke me. I eased the throttle forward slowly with the left hand, holding the Vampire steady down the central line with the right hand. Behind me, the low whine of the Goblin engine rose into a scream. The snub-nosed fighter rolled, the lights each side of the runway past till they were flashing and a continuous blur.

　　As the end of the runway whizzed beneath my feet, I pulled the Vampire into a gently climbing turn. Down on my right thigh was strapped the map with my course charted on it in blue ink. But I did not need it. I knew the details by heart: Turn overhead C.E.L.L.E. airfield onto course 265 degrees. Continue climbing to 27,000 feet. On reaching height, maintain course and keep speed at 485 knots. Check in with channel D, the RAF’s North German air control frequency, to let them know you're in their airspace. Then a straight run over the Dutch coast and the North Sea. After 44 minutes flying time, change to channel F, and call Lakenheath control to give you a steer. 14 minutes later, you will be overhead Lakenheath. After that, follow instructions and they'll bring you down on a radio-controlled descent.

　　66 Minutes flying time with the descent and landing and the Vampire had enough fuel for over 80 minutes in the air. From Lakenheath, I knew I could get a lift down to London after midnight. By breakfast time, I’d be in my parents’ home in Kent, celebrating with my own family. The altimeter read 27,000 feet. I eased the nose forward, reduced the throttle setting to give me an air speed of 485 knots, and held her steady on 265 degrees. Somewhere beneath me, the Dutch border would be slipping away, and I had been airborne for 21 minutes. All well.

　　The problem started ten minutes out over the North Sea. And it started so quietly that it was several minutes before I realized I had one at all. The first warning I had was when I flicked a glance downward to check my course on the compass. Instead of being rock steady on 265 degrees, the needle was drifting lazily round the clock. I swore a most unseasonal sentiment against the compass and the instrument fitter who should have checked it. Still, it was not too serious. There was a stand by compass; the alcohol kind. When I glanced at it, the needle was swinging wildly too. Apparently, something had jarred the case, which isn't uncommon. In any event, I could call up Lakenheath and a few minutes and they'd give me a G.C.A — a ground-control approach — the second-by-second instructions a well-equipped airfield can give a pilot to bring him home in the worst of weathers.

　　I glanced at my watch: 34 minutes airborne. Before trying Lakenheath, the correct procedure would be to inform channel D, to which I was tuned, of my little problem so they could advise Lakenheath that I was on my way without a compass. I pressed the transmit button, but instead of the lively crackle of static and the sharp sound of my own voice coming back into my own ears. There was a muffled murmur inside my oxygen mask: my own voice speaking, and going nowhere.

　　The radio was dead. Fighting down the rising sense of panic, I swallowed and slowly counted to ten. Then I switched the channel F, and tried to raise Lakenheath. But the steady whistle of my own jet engine behind me was my only answer. While I was vainly testing my radio channels, my eyes scanned the instrument panel in front of me. The instruments told their own message. It was no coincidence the compass and the radio had failed together. Both worked off the aircraft's electrical circuits. Somewhere beneath my feet, amid the miles of brightly-coloured wiring that make up the circuits, there had been a main fuel blowout. The first thing to do in such a case, I remembered old Flight Sergeant Norris telling us, is to reduce throttle setting to give maximum flight endurance.

　　"We don't want to waste valuable fuel don't we, gentlemen? We might need it later. So we reduce the power settings from 10,000 revolutions per minute to 7,200. That way we will fly a little slower, but we will stay in the air rather longer won't we, gentlemen?"

　　I eased the throttle back and watch the rev counter. It operates on its own generator and so I hadn't lost that at least. I waited until the Goblin was turning over at about 7,200 RPM and felt the aircraft slow down. The main instruments in front of a pilot's eye are six, including the compass. The five others are the airspeed indicator, the altimeter, the vertical speed indicator, the bank indicator, which tells him if he's turning to left or right, and the slip indicator — which tells him if he's skidding crab-wise across the sky. Two of these are electrically operated, and they had gone the same way as my compass. That left me with a three pressure operated instruments: airspeed indicator, altimeter, and vertical speed indicator. I knew how fast I was going, how high I was, and if I were either diving or climbing.

　　It is perfectly possible to land that aircraft with only these three instruments, judging the rest by those old navigational aids the human eyes. Possible, that is, in conditions of brilliant weather by daylight and with no cloud in the sky. By night, it is not possible. The only things that show up at night, even on a bright moonlight night, are the lights. These have patterns when seen from the sky. I knew Norwich very well, and if I could identify the great curving bulge of the Norfolk coastline, I could find Norwich, the only major sprawl of lights set 20 miles inland from the coast. Five miles north of the city I knew was the fighter airfield of Merriam St. George, who’s red indicator beacon would be blipping out its Morse identification signal into the night.

　　I began to let the Vampire down slowly toward the oncoming coast. As the fighter slipped toward Norfolk, the sense of loneliness gripped me tighter and tighter. The night sky — its stratospheric temperature fixed, night and day alike at an unchanging minus 56 — became in my mind a timeless prison creaking with the cold. Below me lay the worst of them all: the heavy brutality of the North Sea, waiting to swallow me and my plane, and bury us in a liquid, black crypt. At 15,000 feet and still diving, I began to realize that a fresh enemy had entered the field far away, to right and left, ahead, and no doubt behind me, the light of the moon reflected on a flat an endless sea of white. The East Anglian fog had moved in. There was no question of trying to overfly the fog to westward. Without navigational aids or radio, I'd be lost over a strange, unfamiliar country. Also out of the question was to try to fly back to Holland. I had not the fuel. Relying only on my eyes to guide me, it was a question of landing at Merriam St. George or dying amid the wreckage of the Vampire somewhere in the fog-wreathed fens. At 10,000 feet, I pulled out of my dive, increasing power slightly to keep airborne, using up more of my precious fuel. Still a creature of my training, I recalled again the instructions of Flight Sergeant Norris: "When we are totally lost above unbroken cloud, gentlemen, we must consider the necessity of bailing out of our aircraft, must we not?" Of course, Sergeant. Unfortunately, the single seat Vampire is notoriously difficult to bail out of. What else, Sergeant? "Our first move therefore is to turn our aircraft towards the open sea, away from all areas of intense human habitation." The procedures were well worked out. They did not mention that the chances of a pilot bobbing about on a winter's night in the North Sea were one and a hundred of living more than half an hour. "One last procedure, gentlemen, to be used in extreme emergency." That's better, Sergeant Norris. That's what I'm in now.

　　"All aircraft approaching Britain's coast are visible on the radar scanners of early warning system. If therefore we have lost our radio and cannot transmit our emergency, we try to attract the attention of our radar scanners by adopting an odd form of behaviour. We do this by moving out to sea, then flying in small triangles turning left, left, left again. Each leg of the triangle being of a duration of 2 minutes flying time. In this way, we hope to attract attention. When we have been spotted, the air traffic control is informed and he diverts another aircraft to find us. When discovered by the rescue aircraft, we formate on him, and he brings us down to the cloud or fog to a safe landing."

　　Yes, it was the last attempt to save one's life. I recall the details better now. The rescue aircraft which would lead you back to a safe landing, flying wingtip to wingtip was called The Shepherd. I glanced at my watch; 51 minutes airborne. About 30 minutes left of fuel. I pulled the Vampire into a left hand turn and began my first leg of the first triangle. Below me, the fog reached back as far as I could see. And ahead toward Norfolk, it was the same. Ten minutes went by; nearly two complete triangles. I had not prayed — not really prayed — for many years. And the habit came hard. Lord, please get me out of this bloody mess.

　　When I had been airborne for 72 minutes, I knew no one would come. I felt the rage of despair welling up. I began screaming into the dead microphone, "You bastards! Why don't you look at your radar screens? Why can't somebody see me? So damn drunk you can't do your job properly." The anger subsides. Five minutes later, I knew that I was going to die that night. Strangely, I wasn't even afraid anymore — just enormously sad. It's a bad thing to die at 20 years of age with your life unlived. And the worst thing is not the fact of dying, but the fact of all the things never done. I dropped the left wing of the Vampire toward the moon to bring the aircraft onto the final leg of the last triangle. Down below the wing tip, against the sheen of the fog bank, a black shadow crossed the whiteness. It was another aircraft, low against the fog bank, keeping station with me through my turn a mile down with the sky toward the fog.

　　Being below me, I kept turning wing down to keep it in sight. The other aircraft also kept turning until the two of us had done one complete circle. Only then did I realize why he did not climb to my height and take up station on my wingtip. I eased the throttle back and began to slip down toward him. He kept turning, so did I. At 5,000 feet, I knew I was still going too fast for him. To reduce speed even more, I put out the air brakes, slowing down to 280 knots. Then he was with me, 100 feet off my wing tip. And we straightened out together, rocking as we tried to keep formation. The moon was to my right, and my own shadow masked his shape and form. Even so, I could make out the shimmer of two propellers whirling through the sky ahead of him. Of course, he could not fly at my speed.

　　I was in a jet fighter; he in a piston-engined aircraft of an earlier generation. He held station alongside me for a few seconds then banked gently to the left. I followed, keeping formation with him for he was, obviously, the shepherd sent up to bring me down. And he had the compass and the radio, not I. For the first time I could see him well. To my surprise, my shepherd was a de Havilland Mosquito, fighter-bomber of World War II vintage. And then I remembered that the meteorological squadron at Gloucester used Mosquitos to help in the preparation of weather forecasts. Inside the cockpit of the Mosquito, I could make out against the light of the moon a muffled head of its pilot, and the twin circles of his goggles as he looked out the side window toward me. Carefully, he raised his right hand till I could see it in the window, fingers straight, palm downwards. He jabbed the fingers forward, and down, meaning we are going to descend, formate on me. I nodded, and quickly brought up my own left hand so he could see it. Pointing forward to my own control panel with one forefinger, then holding up five splayed fingers. Finally. I drew my hand across my throat. By common agreement, this sign means I have only five minutes fuel left. Then my engine cuts out. I saw the muffled, goggled, oxygen masked head nod in understanding. Then we were heading downward toward the sheet of fog. He pulled out at three hundred feet. The fog was still below us. I could imagine the stream of GCA instructions coming from the radar hut into the earphones of the man flying beside me.

　　I kept my eyes on him, afraid of losing sight, watching for his every hand signal. Two minutes later, he held up his clenched left fist in the window. Then opened the fist to splay all five fingers against the glass. Please lower your undercarriage. I moved the lever downward and felt the dull thunk as all three wheels went down. In the moonlight, I caught sight of the nose of the Mosquito. It had the letters “JK” painted on it, large and black. Probably for call sign “Jig King”. He leveled out just above the fog layers, so low the tendrils of candyfloss were lashing at our fuselages. And we went into a steady circular turn. I glanced at my fuel gauge, it was on zero, flickering feebly. For god’s sake! Hurry up I prayed. I saw his left hand flash that dive signal to me. Then he dipped toward the fog bank. I followed and we were in it. The visibility was down to near zero. No shape, no size, no form, no substance, except that off my left wing tip — now only 40 feet away — was the form of a Mosquito flying with absolute certainty towards something I could not see. Only then did I realize he was flying without lights. For a second I was amazed, horrified by my discovery. Then I realized the wisdom of the man. Lights in fog are treacherous, hallucinatory, mesmeric, you can be attracted to them not knowing whether they are 40 or 100 feet away from you. The tendency is to move toward them; for two aircraft in the fog, flying formation that could easily spell disaster. Without warning, the shepherd pointed to a single forefinger at me. Then forward through the windscreen. it meant there you are, fly on, and land. I stared forward through the now streaming windshield, nothing, blackness. Then a streak of paint running underneath my feet; the centerline. Frantically, I closed down the power and held her steady, praying for the Vampire to settle. Bang, we touched. Bang, bang, another touch. She was drifting again, inches above the wet, black runway. Bam, bam, bam ditty bam, rumble, rumble. She was down, the main wheels had stuck and held.

　　Slowly the Vampire came to a stop. I found both of my hands clenched around the control column, squeezing the brake lever inward. I forget now how many seconds I held them there before I would believe we were stopped. There was no need to turn off the engine. It had finally run out of fuel as the Vampire careered down the runway. I shut off the remaining systems, and slowly began to unstrap myself from the seat. As I did so, to my left, through the fog, no more than 50 feet away, the Mosquito roared past me. I caught the flash of the pilot's hand in the side window, and then he was gone up into the fog before he could see my answering wave of acknowledgment. But I had already decided to call up Gloucester and thank him personally. I expected the control tower truck to be alongside in seconds, for with an emergency landing — even on Christmas Eve — the fire truck, ambulance, and half a dozen other vehicles were always standing by. Eventually, two headlights came dropping out of the mist and stopped 20 feet away. A voice called hello there.

　　I stepped out of the cockpit, jumped from the wing to the tarmac, and ran toward the lights. At the wheel of the car was a puffed, bearded face and a handlebar mustache. Is that yours? He nodded toward the dim shape of the Vampire. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I just landed it." "Extraordinary! Quite extraordinary! You'd better jump in, I’ll run you back to the mess." As we moved away from the Vampire, I saw that I had stopped 20 feet short of a plowed field at the very end of the runway. You’re damn lucky he shouted. And he seemed to be having trouble with the foot controls. Judging by the smell of whiskey on his breath, that wasn't surprising. Damn lucky I agreed. I ran out of fuel just as I was landing. My radio and all the electrical systems failed nearly 50 minutes to go over the North Sea. He digested the information carefully. No radio? No radio I said; a dead box and all channels. Then how did you find this place? He said. I was guided in I explained patiently. They sent up a shepherd aircraft to bring me down. It was one of the weather aircraft from R.A.F. Gloster. Obviously, he had radio. So we came in here in formation on GCA. Then when I saw the lights of the threshold of the runway I landed myself. The man was obviously dense as well as drunk. Extraordinary he said. We don’t have a GCA. We don’t have any navigation equipment at all, not even a beacon. Now it's my turn to let the information sink in. "This isn't the RAF Merriam St. George? No he said. This is RAF Minton." "I've never heard of it." "I'm not surprised; we’re not an operational station. Haven't been for years. Minton's a storage depot." He stopped the car and got out. I saw we were standing a few feet from the dim ship of a control tower adjoining a long row of huts, evidently once flight rooms, navigational, and briefing huts. the man returned and climbed shakily back behind the wheel. "Just turning the runway lights off," he said, and he belched. My mind was whirling. "Why did you switch them on?" I asked. "Well, it was the sound of your engine," he said. "I was in the officers’ mess having a nog, and Old Joe suggested I listen out the window for a second. You sounded damn low, almost as if you're going to come down in a hurry. Thought I might be of some use. Remember they never disconnected the old runway lights when they dismantled the station. So I ran down the control tower and switched them on."

　　"I see," I said. But I didn't. "Where is RAF Minton, exactly?" I asked him. Five miles in from the coast he said. And where's the nearest operational RAF station with all the radio aids, including GCA? He thought for a moment. "Must be Merriam St George," he said. "Mind you I am just as stores Johnny." That was the explanation. My unknown friend in the weather plane had been leading me straight in from the coast of Merriam St. George. By chance, abandoned old storage depot Minton lay right along the in flight path of Merriam’s runway. And this old fool had switched on his lights as well. Result coming in on the last ten mile stretch, I had plucked to my Vampire down into the wrong airfield. I was about to tell him not to interfere with modern procedures that he couldn't understand when I choked the words back my fuel had run out halfway down the runway. I'd never have made Merriam ten miles away. I'd have crashed in the field short of the touchdown.

　　We stopped at the officers’ mess and went in. The place had seen better days. My host the Flight Lieutenant Marx shrugged off a sheepskin coat and threw it over a chair. "I'm sorry it's not very hospitable, old boy," said Marx, going to the door and shouting for someone called Joe. "Not to worry," I said, "though I could do with a bath and a meal." "I think me can manage that," he said, trying hard to play the genial host. "I’ll get Joe to fix up a spare room. God knows we have enough of them. He’ll also rough up a meal. Bacon and eggs do?" "That'll do fine. While I'm waiting, do you mind if I use your phone?" He ushered me into the mess secretary's office, and then 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 30 minutes earlier, I had been crying to god for help, and I felt ashamed. After a few minutes the phone was ringing.

　　"RAF Merriam St George." "Duty controller air traffic control please," I said. There was a pause. "I'm sorry sir, but I'm afraid there's no flying tonight, sir. No one on duty in air traffic control." "Then give me the station duty officer, please." When I got through to him, I explained about the emergency and that his station had been alerted to receive a Vampire fighter coming in on emergency landing without radio. He listened attentively. "I don’t know about that. I don't think we've been operational since we closed down at 5:00 this afternoon, but I'm not on air traffic. I'll get the wing commander." An older voice came on the line. "Where are you speaking from?" "RAF Minton, sir. I've just made an emergency landing here. I thought 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." I took a deep breath and started at the beginning. "You see sir, I was intercepted by the weather plane from Gloucester, and he brought me. 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 assuming it to be Merriam St. George. I’m ringing to alert you to stand on your radar and air traffic control crews, sir. They must be waiting for a Vampire that's never going to arrive. It's already arrived here at Minton." "But we shut all the systems down at 5 o'clock. There has been no call for us to turn up." "But Merriam St. George has a GCA." "I know we have, but it's been shut down since 5 o'clock."

　　I asked the next and last question slowly and carefully. "Do you know sir, where is the nearest RAF station that maintains 24 hour emergency listening? Yes, to the west. To the south. Good night to you. Happy Christmas." I put the phone down, on the fuel I was carrying. Not only could I not have made Merriam St. George. It wasn't even open. It began to dawn on me that I didn't really owe my life to the weather pilot from Gloucester, but the bearded, bumbling old, passed over, Flight Lieutenant Marx, who couldn't tell one end of an aircraft from another. Still, the Mosquito must be back at Gloucester by now. And he ought to know that despite everything, I was alive.

AM "Gloucester?" said the operator. "At this time of night!" "Yes," I replied firmly. "Gloucester, even at this time of night." The duty meteorologist took the call and I explained the position to him. "I am afraid there must be some mistake, Flying Officer," he said. "It could not have been one of our Mosquitos went out of service three months ago. We now use Canberras." I stared at the telephone in disbelief. Then an idea came to me. "What happened to them?" "They were scrapped I think or sent off to a museum is more likely." "Could one of them been sold privately?" I asked. "I suppose it's possible." "Thank you. Thank you very much. And happy Christmas." I put the phone down and shook my head in bewilderment. What an incredible night. First, I lose my radio and all my instruments. Then I get lost and short of fuel. Then I'm taken in by some moonlighting hair-brain with a passion for veteran aircraft, flying his own Mosquito through the night, who happens to spot me, comes within an inch of killing me, and finally a half drunk ground duty officer has the sense to put his runaway lights on in time to save me.

　　Luck doesn't come in much bigger slices. Flight Lieutenant Marx put his head through the doorway. "You're room is ready," he said. Number 17 just down the corridor. Joe’s making up a fire, and bath water is heating. If you don't mind I think I'll turn in. Be all right on your own?" "Yes, sure I'll be fine. Many thanks for all your help." I took my helmet and wandered down the corridor. From the doorway of 17 a bar of light shone into the passage. As I entered the room an, elderly man began to rise from his knees in front of the fireplace.

　　"Good evening, sir," he said. "I'm Joe, sir, the mess steward." "Yes Joe," Mr. Marx told me about you. Sorry to cause you so much trouble at this hour of the night. I just dropped in, as you might say." "Yes, Mr. Marx told me. I'll have your room ready directly, soon as this fire burns up it’ll get quite cozy." I ate the plate of sizzling bacon and eggs. The old steward stayed to talk. "You been here long, Joe? "I asked him, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity. "Oh yes sir, nigh on twenty years now. Since just before the war, when the station opened."

　　He told me of the days where the rooms were crammed with eager young pilots. The dining room noisy, the bar roaring with songs of months and years when the sky above the airfields snarled to the sound of piston engines driving planes the war and bringing them back again. I rose from the table, fished a cigarette from the pocket of my flying suit, lit it, and sauntered around the room. The steward began to tidy up the plates. I halted before an old photograph in a frame standing on a mantel above the crackling fire. I stopped with my cigarette half raised my lips, feeling the room go suddenly cold. The photo was old but it was still clear enough. It showed a young man in his early 20s, dressed in flying gear, but not the gray suits and plastic crash helmets of today. He wore thick sheepskin-lined boots, rough Serge trousers and a heavy sheepskin zip up jacket. From his left hand dangled one of the soft leather flying helmets they used to wear with goggles attached instead of the modern pilots’ tinted visor. He stood with legs apart, right hand on hip, a defiant stance. But he was not smiling. It was something sad about his eyes. Behind him stood his aircraft, there was no mistaking the lean, sleek silhouette of the Mosquito fighter-bomber. I was about to say something to Joe and I felt the gust of cold air in my back. One of the windows had blown open. It took me two strides to cross to where the window swung on its steel frame. To get a better hold I stepped inside the curtain and stared out. Somewhere far away in the fog I thought I heard the snarl of engines. But it was probably just a motorcycle of some farm boy. I closed the window, made sure it was secure, and turned back into the room. "Who's the pilot, Joe?" I nodded toward the lonely photograph on the mantel. "That's a photo of Mr. John Kavanagh, sir. He was here during the war, sir. An Irish gentleman. Very fine man if I may say so. As a matter of fact, sir, this was his room." "What squadron was that, Joe?" I was still peering at the aircraft in the background. "Pathfinders, sir. Mosquitos, they flew. Very fine pilots all of them, sir. But I believe Mr. Johnny was the best of them all. But then I’m biased, sir. I was his batman you see." There was no doubting it. The faint letters on the nose of the Mosquito behind the figure in the photo read 'JK’. Not “Jig King”, but “Johnny Kavanagh”. The whole thing was clear as day.

　　Kavanagh had been a fine pilot flying with one of the crack squadrons during the war. After the war, he'd made a pile of money, bought an old Mosquito in one of the periodic auctions of obsolescent aircraft, refitted it, and flew it privately whenever he wished. Not a bad way to spend your spare time if you had the money. So he'd been flying back from some trip to Europe, but spotted me turning in triangles above the cloud bank, realized I was stuck, and taken me in tow. Pinpointing his position precisely by crossed radio beacons. Knowing this stretch of the coast by heart, he'd taken a chance on finding his old airfield at Minton, even in the thick fog. It was a hell of a risk. But then I had no fuel left. So it was that or bust. I had no doubt I could trace the man, probably through the Royal Aero Club. "He was certainly a good pilot," I said reflectively, thinking of this evening's performance. "Oh, the best, sir said Old Joe. They reckon he had eyes like a cat did Mr. Johnny. I recall many's a time the squadron returned. He’d have his Mosquito re-fueled and take off again alone, going back over the channel or the North Sea to see if he could find some crippled bomber making for the coast and guide it home." "I've seen pictures of them," I said. "And he used to guide them back?" I could imagine them in my mind's eye, gaping holes in the body, the wings and the tail creaking and swaying as the pilot sought to hold them steady for home, a wounded or dying crew, and the radio shot to bits.

　　I turned from the photograph and stubbed my cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bed. "Quite a man," I said, and I meant it. Even today, middle-aged, he was a superb flyer. "Oh yes, sir, quite a man, Mr. Johnny." I nodded gravely. The old man so obviously worshipped his wartime officer. "Well," I said. "By the look of it, he's still doing it." Now Joe smiled. "Oh, I hardly think so, sir. My Johnny went out on his last patrol Christmas Eve, 1943, just over 14 years ago tonight. He never come back, sir. Went down with his plane somewhere in the North Sea, he did. Good night, sir. Happy Christmas."

APR RETOLD版

Silhouette of the de Havilland Vampire F.B.5

Silhouette of the de Havilland Mosquito PR34 (a late photo-reconnaisance variant)

THE SHEPHERD...Retold An acoustic adaptation for radio by Greg R. Barron

This new adaptation of The Shepherd features almost all of Maitland’s unaltered original narration, augmented by the late Bill Parker, noted American public radio broadcaster.

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