27.

I closed up my house for the last time and drove to the airfield. The journey took about four hours, which meant that even if the problems of officialdom were to disappear it would be too late to start my flight. I needed all the daylight hours possible.

The airfield where I had first arrived was in an area of hilly pastures, not forested but well covered with mature trees. It was in the south-eastern quarter of the island. I had found it by chance as I flew across Prachous in the gathering twilight, running low on fuel and desperate to find anywhere at all that I could put down the wheels.

Following my arrival, learning about the everyday life of Prachous, and especially my search for Tomak, had absorbed me. The adventure of the long flight soon dimmed. There had been so many other flights in my life before that one, unique though it was. As my intention to leave the island became certain, I returned several times to the airfield, trying to work my way out of the maze of difficulties I had made for myself. The staff there now knew me. They were fully aware that once the aircraft was released from the bond I would want to fly in it.

The height of the hills above sea level gave the area a pleasantly temperate climate. I relished my visits, because they provided an escape from the humidity of the town. I enjoyed watching the local people flying their light planes in and out of the airfield, envying them a little, but also knowing that locked away in the bonded hangar I had one of the most beautiful and powerful aircraft ever built. I ached to fly it again.

During my visits I would lie in the long gra.s.s at the perimeter of the field, soaking up the familiar sounds and smells as the aero engines revved up for take-off. I longed to feel the vibration of the aircraft engines and the pressure of the slipstream pouring back violently from the propellers. Safety regulations meant I could not approach too close. On one visit I was invited into the flimsily built control tower, actually erected on top of the hangar where my plane was being kept, and listened with painful familiarity to the curt, polite conversations with the pilots, about wind bearing, alt.i.tude and approach paths.

When I arrived at the airfield the news was good: the t.i.thing agency had been looking into my finances. My loan account had established a credit rating equivalent to twelve per cent of the estimated value of my aircraft. I had no idea how any of this was worked out, but the commodore of the air club sat down with me and explained the calculation. I was none the wiser, but it did mean that as far as he and the authorities were concerned I could guarantee the t.i.the value of the impounded plane. This, it transpired, was one of the main reasons the aircraft had been impounded in the first place. I asked about the breach of neutrality, but the man knew nothing about that. He told me that provided I did not attempt to leave the island's airs.p.a.ce and surrendered the aircraft again on my return, it should not affect the outcome of the hearing.

What it all amounted to was that the t.i.the bond would be discharged at midnight, and I would be allowed to take my aircraft up for a short proving flight first thing in the morning.

I was allowed into the hangar where two mechanics were conducting a final check of the instruments, wiring, and control surfaces. The engine, they told me, was in good working condition, or so they believed. It was unfamiliar to them, and they asked me several questions about its technical specifications, none of which I could answer. I wanted to touch the plane, even put my arm across its slender fuselage, but the mechanics had clearly been told to keep me away from it.

There were more questions to answer about the quant.i.ty of fuel I had ordered. 100-octane aviation fuel had been obtained specially, and was available, but the maintenance crew had of course discovered the auxiliary tank in the rear of the aircraft. They were concerned about the sheer quant.i.ty of fuel I was asking for. I needed both tanks filled to capacity for my main flight, but I did not want to arouse suspicions about my destination. I said that at first I would need only enough fuel for the short proving flight, but if that went well I intended to make a longer flight around the coast of the island. That was why I needed the extra fuel.

I went to a house where I had stayed on earlier visits to the airfield, slept well in spite of my feelings of excitement, and in the morning I returned to the airfield as early as I could. Several of the ground crew were already working but I was the only pilot there. I went to the met office for a weather report it was expected to be another fine day with a high pressure system stable over the eastern part of the island. There was a seventy per cent likelihood of storms in the north and west of the island. Visibility was excellent. There would be low winds at all alt.i.tudes. The storm warning did not concern me I was planning to be far away by the time it arrived.

I collected my flying jacket and helmet, then walked across to the bonded hangar. I noticed at once that the main doors were open. The official tags of t.i.the bondage had been unclipped from the aircraft's propeller, undercarriage and fin. One of the mechanics gave me a cheerful wave, which I took to mean all was clear. After a short wait, the plane was pulled out by the club tractor and turned around. The wheels were chocked.

I climbed into the c.o.c.kpit, trying to act as if I had done it a hundred times before, although in fact I had only ever been inside this Spitfire twice: once when I began the outward flight, then again after arrival, when I had nowhere to stay and was forced to go through the night in the c.o.c.kpit. Now I eased a leg over the edge of the c.o.c.kpit with the canopy pushed wide open, lowered my backside on to the hard seat, pushed my legs around the joystick, found the rudders, wriggled and shifted to get into the right position.

Was it the plane that was going to be proved, or was it me? I was aware that what I was doing was attracting attention. All the ground crew had followed the Spitfire out of the hangar, and were now watching to see me start up. When I craned my neck and peered up towards the control tower I could see that a handful of people were standing at the window, looking down at me. I began the c.o.c.kpit check, trying to appear calm.

The sequence was the familiar one all pre-flight checks are similar, and I had memorized the Spitfire variations the previous year. Undercarriage: locked down, confirmed by the green light. Flaps: up. Lamps: up. Fuel c.o.c.k levers: both on. (I had to search quickly for the second fuel c.o.c.k.) Throttle: a finger-width open. Next to that, the mixture switch: rich. This c.o.c.kpit check was starting to feel natural, habitual. Airscrew control: back. Radiator shutter: open. All OK. Next was the priming pump, on the starboard side. I tipped my head out of the c.o.c.kpit on both sides, making sure no one was standing by the propeller, switched on the ignition, pulled the priming pump handle, pushed the starter.

The prop turned, the engine fired. I held in the starter b.u.t.ton until the engine was running smoothly, then screwed down the priming pump.

My hands were shaking with relief. While the engine warmed up, I looked at all the instruments, checked they were working and zeroed. No one had changed the seat position, so my legs naturally reached down to the rudder pedals.

Now that the engine was running my nervousness was cured. I ran through the normal warm-up procedure. Brake pressure correct. Canopy locked open. Throttle opened on weak mixture, propeller pitch working OK. Throttle back, select rich mixture, throttle to maximum boost. Magnetos checked. All working. All ready.

I spoke to the control tower and was cleared for take-off. I waved a hand through the open c.o.c.kpit and two of the mechanics scrambled forward and pulled the chocks away.

My Spitfire began to move forward. I eased the throttle open, and the plane taxied at normal speed.

When a Spitfire was on the ground it was always at a nose-up att.i.tude because of the low tail-wheel, which meant there was no forward visibility, and because of the low wings there was only a restricted sight-line at the sides. When visiting this airfield before I made a point of learning what I could of the landing strip by walking up and down alongside. It was a gra.s.s airfield but the gra.s.s was kept short and there were few b.u.mps or sudden inclines that could throw the plane into the air before it had gained enough airspeed.

I checked the wind direction once again, then taxied the plane out to the strip. As soon I was in position, the final check: elevator one click down from neutral, rudder full starboard to trim for takeoff, mixture rich, propeller pitch fine, fuel on, flaps up, radiator shutter open.

I opened the throttle and the Merlin engine ran smoothly up to full power. The plane accelerated forward.

Moments later I was flying. The ground fell away, trees and fields at an angle below, white clouds above, the fabulous roar of the Merlin, the rush of air through the open canopy. I closed the canopy.

28.

I flew the Spitfire carefully in a long circuit of the field. I was high enough to be able to catch sight of the ocean far away to the south, and even gain a glimpse of part of the great central desert, not so far away but beginning beyond a range of hills to the west. I was not up there to look at scenery I took the plane through a sequence of basic flight tests: a climb, a turn, a dive, an incipient stall. I raised and lowered the undercarriage and monitored the reading of each of the instruments as I changed speed, direction and height. I looked at the instruments as if they were old friends: the artificial horizon, the altimeter, the air speed indicator, the fuel gauges.

Everything was working normally on the superb aircraft. As I realized what this day might hold for me I was briefly almost giddy with excitement. I radioed my intentions to the tower, was given permission to land and had the approach bearing confirmed, then I headed down towards the airstrip. As I pa.s.sed over the field towards the turn-in point I could not resist testing the potential of the engine. I opened the throttle, felt a brief kick of acceleration. The countryside of this part of Prachous was pa.s.sing swiftly below, a blur of green and brown all I wanted now was to be done with the island, to be in the air, heading home.

I landed, waited as the staff recorded the necessary details of my flight, and while I went across to the control office they drove forward the fuel bowser and started to fill the tanks.

I filed my flight plan, which was a decoy to my real intentions: I drafted an extended flight along the coast, up to Beathurn, then briefly out across the neutral sea a knowing concession to the law, as to continue up the coast from Beathurn would take me into the zone around the officially non-existent place called Adjacent. This route then made a return across the coast further north, a flight across part of the desert, down to the southern beaches, and a high-alt.i.tude dash across the sea before curving back for the last leg of the return flight to the airfield.

Although it is dangerous and illegal to file a false flight plan, I needed to justify the full load of fuel I was taking. I would never be given permission for what I really intended. The flight plan was calmly accepted and recorded. I was authorized for take-off.

I went to my car, collected my personal belongings and crammed them down into the spare s.p.a.ces inside the narrow c.o.c.kpit and behind my seat. The sun was climbing high, the heat beating down on my back as I stood on the Spitfire's wing and leaned into the aircraft. My hands were sweating, my heart was racing. With an effort I stayed outwardly calm. I shook hands with the crew on the ground, waved towards the tower, then at last climbed down into the small c.o.c.kpit, my elbows pressing against the sides of the fuselage. I ran through the c.o.c.kpit check again and taxied down to the end of the runway. I left the canopy partly open. I wanted to feel the rush of the air, hear the sublime roaring noise of the Merlin engine. How many times again would I enjoy the unique experience of flying this plane?

A minute later I was in the air, the engine racing, the slipstream beating against my head through the open canopy, the dome of the sky above, the slipping green of the land below. I climbed quickly. I turned the Spitfire towards the north and east, my first departure from the flight plan I had filed. Already the airstrip was a long way behind me.

I was flying at the same alt.i.tude as the cloud base. Great white c.u.muli were billowing up on the thermals from the rapidly warming land below. I closed the canopy, adjusted the pitch of the propeller, selected weak mixture, held the speed at an indicated two hundred knots. I was in the loveliest aircraft ever built. I had become part of it, joined to it, flown by it. I felt the relentless thrust of the engine, its roar now a steady drone because I was cruising. There was hardly any vibration inside the supremely trimmed machine. I skirted close to a white cloud, dived deliberately into the next, felt the kick of the internal turbulence, emerged into the blue, still climbing steadily. I soared past the other clouds, wanting to leave all trace of the land beneath me. With the canopy securely closed I switched on the air pressurization. I stared bewitched at the open sky around me, the land far below, a distant glimpse of the ultramarine sea and a clutch of islands, white-fringed.

29.

I reached the height of about six thousand feet, which allowed a good view of the ground but was also above the rising clouds. I trimmed the plane for the best range at this alt.i.tude: engine speed of 1,750 r.p.m., weak mixture, coa.r.s.e pitch, which gave me an indicated airspeed of about 160 knots. It was going to be a long flight, but I needed to conserve fuel the distance the plane could cover mattered more to me than how long it might take. I was following a heading of 35 degrees by dead reckoning, a clumsy and often unreliable kind of navigation forced on me by the inferior maps that were the only ones I could find in Beathurn. The lack of maps was a constant problem on Prachous. If I had wished to find picnic grounds, beaches where there was safe swimming, or historic buildings where I could admire cultural artefacts, then the mapping of Prachous was first-cla.s.s. But for any serious navigation, by car as I had discovered many times, or by air as I was now experiencing, technically reliable charts or maps simply did not exist, or at least were unavailable on the open market.

I watched the ground as well as I could, seeking the rough navigational landmarks I had identified. I had noted them during my many car journeys across the island, in preparation for this flight without maps: certain lakes, rivers, an estuary, mountains, a conglomeration of tall buildings. The Spitfire's compa.s.s aided me in maintaining a steady course, while the known distance to the part of the coast I wanted was soon eaten up by the speed of the aircraft.

As I scanned the ground ahead of me I saw the coast coming into sight: that brilliant blue streaked with the white of Prachous's troubled waves. The sun was now much higher, casting a golden halation across the distant deeps. While I was living in the town I had searched the hinterland of Beathurn for markers, and I picked out two headlands to the south. These indicated a particular group of offsh.o.r.e islets, and contained a bay with an almost geometrically precise half-moon curve. From this I would of course be able to pick out Beathurn itself, whose overall shape and layout I had measured and mapped for myself.

Not long after I had located the coast and was flying offsh.o.r.e, parallel to the beaches, I saw one of the headlands and knew at once where I was. I corrected my course marginally and headed swiftly along the coast. I came to the sprawl of Beathurn itself. The air was so clear in the morning light that almost as soon as I spotted the town I was able to distinguish local landmarks: the central park, the estuary where the port was built, the area where my house had been, even the Il-Palazz theatre.

Now that I was certain where I was I headed directly towards the mountain range to the north. When I lived in Beathurn these mountains had seemed from street level to present a solid barrier, a termination of the town's territory, but from the height I was flying the same peaks appeared insignificant, pa.s.sing beneath the Spitfire with at least a thousand feet to spare. I could see the full extent of the range the first slopes were far inland, at the edge of the desert. The peaks closer to the sea were higher and more rugged.

I flew across them, glimpsing the large houses and estates on the lower slopes, the extensive system of cable-cars that ascended to the heights. The Spitfire was buffeted by strong updraughts from the windward slopes. The plane stabilized itself, almost as if it had a machine intelligence that relished coping with the irregularities of the sky and the climate.

Once past the mountains I was looking as far ahead as I could, anxious for my first glimpse of the closed zone containing the shanty town called Adjacent. What I was seeking was another estuary, much wider and more complex than the one that ran beside Beathurn, with several distributaries comprising a small but intricate delta. Alongside this, on the northern bank, would be the area of reedland I had seen on the old maps.

I eased the plane lower. I was pa.s.sing over an area of farmland, with small fields marked out by hedges or stone walls. Ahead was a river plain. As I approached I could see the shape of the delta, a wide arrangement of sandbanks and channels flowing out into the shallow sea. I slowed the Spitfire to just over a hundred knots, which was above stalling speed with the aircraft so full of fuel, but without much margin of safety. I did not like the way the Spitfire handled at such a low speed, but I wanted to be able to take a good look at whatever there was on the ground.

I crossed over the delta and beyond was a huge area of marsh and undrained flood-plain. It was a forest of tall reeds, pale beige in colour, with dark seed pods clinging to the top of every stem. They waved constantly the wind carved patterns in all directions, as the stems flexed to and fro. I stayed at about a thousand feet. Any lower than that was a risk. At a low height I could not be able to count on the altimeter giving an accurate reading, and the moving reeds were already making it difficult for me to estimate height by eye alone.

I could see no sign of habitation. In fact it did not seem possible that this land could ever be made habitable without major drainage schemes and tidal barriers. I flew for about five minutes, constantly aware of the fuel I was using up even at this slow speed, but the presence of the Adjacent zone on Prachous was the one matter I had never entirely understood.

I flew across the blackened ground almost without realizing what it was. I had been trying to see ahead, and I pa.s.sed an area on the starboard that appeared suddenly, but seemed to flicker and disappear as I looked towards it I was aware of a sense of something missing, a black absence.

I circled around, gained a little alt.i.tude. As I headed back I saw the full extent of what I had somehow missed when I flew past. There was an area of deep blackness on the ground black, as if everything had been incinerated to the point of total destruction. It did not look like burned vegetation or the wreckage of something that had been there before. It was an annulment, an absence, a piece of negative terrain.

I flew across it, deeply disturbed by the sight. As I once more reached the plain of reeds, I gained height and circled around for another look. This time, as I flew towards the blackened ground I could see its full extent. It was immense, spreading out far to my starboard, less so on the port side. There I could see the terminator between the black impression of absence and the edge of the reed bank. It appeared to be a precise line, as straight as if it had been carved out with a ma.s.sive knife.

I increased speed I was feeling exposed while flying so slowly. I gained another five hundred feet of alt.i.tude, circled around again. This time I was high enough to take in the whole area of blackness. I could now see that it was an exact and regular triangle, carved out of the reedland. It spread for miles.

I headed towards it, but something about it gave me fright, and I shied instinctively away. There was something horrible about that negative sight, as if to venture too close would lead to my being drawn inexorably into it. I banked the aircraft, turning away, but then I changed my mind and held the turn, went back yet again for another look.

The triangle had disappeared.

I immediately thought that I had lost my bearings, but I had been flying by the compa.s.s and I knew that I was now heading back directly towards where the mark had been.

There were buildings ahead of me.

Where the triangle had been there was now what looked like part of a town. I saw houses, streets, an area of green parkland, a church spire. There was no movement, no traffic driving along the roads, no people in sight, just the buildings, the roads, the solid exoskeleton of a modern city. I could see the shadows thrown by the bright sunlight.

The townscape also took the shape of an equilateral triangle, carved out of the reeds. It was the same size: each of the equal sides was at least two miles in length.

I flew across it, banked, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, went back. How could I have missed it before? This time I saw tall buildings, concrete and gla.s.s, rising up above the ordinary houses and streets. I saw long terraces, cars parked outside. Many of the roads were lined with mature trees. The piece of park, which ran as far as one of the straight-line sides, also had many trees, a small lake, paths laid across the gra.s.s.

I flew away, banked again, headed back.

The town had disappeared. The triangle of black nullity had returned in its place.

I began to feel frightened again of what was down there, as if it were unreal, a decoy or a trap, something that was dangerous to see or know. Yet the aircraft in which I was flying gave me a feeling of immunity from what was outside. I took control of myself, tried to decide what to do. While I thought about this I had once again crossed the zone, and was on a bearing towards the sea. I made a decision.

I put the Spitfire into a steep turn and flew back towards where the triangle had been. This time I made no attempt to fly across it, or above it, but I set myself a circular course, skirting around all three of the furthest extremities of the immense triangle, close enough that I could see, but not so near to it that I became subjected to the deep fear it invoked in me.

I flew an anti-clockwise course, the dark triangle on my port side. I maintained a steady speed, a safe distance, the plane was cruising. I stared towards the triangle as I went around my circuit.

It changed.

At some points, from some angles, the triangle contained the buildings of a city from other views it became once again that terrifying place of zero colour, black non-existence. Whenever I was close to one of the apexes, the sixty-degree angle at each of the triangle's corners, the image began to flicker with increasing rapidity. As I banked around that angle, the shift between the two became so rapid that it seemed for a moment that all I could see was a part of the reedland, but then, as my course took me along the next side of the triangle, the shifting between the two began to slow, and at the halfway mark what I could see was a steady view: from some sides it appeared as the black triangle of nothingness, from the others it would again be the image of the city.

I circled the zone four times, trying to work out whatever logic there might be in this incomprehensible vision, but as I started a fifth circuit I felt a certain jolt of reality. I had a larger purpose for making this flight, and I was critically wasting valuable fuel.

I made one last crossing of the zone. This time I knew that for the rest of the long flight I had to take the Spitfire to the operating alt.i.tude at which it had been designed to fly, and where I could burn what fuel remained more economically while flying faster. I made a last turn, opened the throttle to gain the best speed for a climb, then flew directly across the zone called Adjacent. As I did so I leaned forward, pressed the switch that until that moment I had never touched, the one that would start the powerful reconnaissance camera installed in the belly of the aircraft. I set it to run automatically, with one picture being taken every two seconds.

I heard the servo motor begin to run, felt its vibration, as I crossed the closest edge of the dark triangle, and moments later I saw the signal light on the operating box flicker on and off, as one frame after another was exposed.

I left the camera running as the great Merlin reached its full power, and the Spitfire climbed at speed to the familiar heights of the open sky.

30.

An hour later I was on a bearing of 260 degrees and had long ago pa.s.sed safely out of Prachous air s.p.a.ce. I was in a sky of high, billowing clouds. Below me was the sea with many islands in sight. Increasingly I saw larger pieces of land pushing out towards the islands, and I knew that before long this course would take me over the continental ma.s.s for most of the remainder of the flight. I was at just over twenty-five thousand feet, much lower than the operating ceiling at which the Spitfire reconnaissance pilots normally flew, but at this alt.i.tude the plane was cruising at high speed on a weak mixture. Because I was flying without maps, I needed to be able to see the ground from time to time. The aircraft's c.o.c.kpit heater blew warm air gently across me.

An immense column of heavy cloud lay ahead, blinding white at its anvil-shaped crest, but a thunderous dark below. I knew what it was, knew I should avoid it, but I had been trying to dead reckon from looking at the ground. The long trailing shelf of the anvil was already above me and a stinging shower of hail was falling. It drummed terrifyingly on the Spitfire's wings and fuselage, crashing against the canopy. The c.u.mulonimbus stretched across the sky in front of me. My only option in the time left to me was to attempt to climb above it. Once again I raised the nose of the aircraft, but I was still climbing when I rushed against the wall of the cloud and slipped headlong into the turbulent darkness within.

31.

I struggled through the dense cloud for nearly half an hour. Lightning streaked around me and violent up- and down-draughts battered the aircraft. The constant hailstones sounded like the impact of bullets. I was repeatedly thrown against the canopy or the fuselage once the Spitfire acted as if it had rammed headlong into a solid obstruction. I was jerked forward in my seat against the control column, causing an unwanted dive. Any hope of maintaining my bearing was lost the moment I entered the cloud, because the internal currents were so violent and unpredictable that I could only hope the aircraft would stay in one piece and the engine would not fail or overheat. Sometimes it was impossible even to be sure the plane was still upright. This was the first and only time in all my solo flying that I felt out of control and in danger of crashing. Several times I was convinced I was going to die. The best I could do was cling on to the joystick, nursing the throttle with one hand, trying to keep the aircraft safely in the air.

I escaped from the cloud as suddenly as I had blundered into it. I flew out, more or less straight and level, moving in a few seconds from the terrifying up-draughts into calm, still air, blue and blue and blue around me. I was dazzled by brilliant sunshine.

I immediately checked my instruments, looking for any clue that the plane might have suffered critical damage, to the engine, to the flying surfaces, or to the hydraulics and fuel lines. All seemed well but it was impossible to be certain. I adjusted the mixture and the engine resumed its rea.s.suring droning noise. The plane was still flying and it responded to my movements of the stick and rudder pedals. From the altimeter I discovered that we had ascended nearly five thousand feet while we were inside the storm cell. I let the plane descend to the former alt.i.tude. I checked my bearing, adjusted the direction, flew as calmly as I could, although I was feeling badly shaken up by the experience. From that point on I kept a wary eye open for any more storm clouds of that sort.

The long day continued. I was flying blind, depending entirely on my compa.s.s. I had no idea where I was. The land below me was unbroken countryside, impossible from this height to pick out any features. As far as I could see in any direction there were no distinguishing marks, no mountains, urban conglomerations, coastlines, not even a river whose shape or position might tell me something. All I could cling to was the 260 degrees bearing, my only route, my only way to the place I thought of as home.

Something glinted in the sky to starboard. It happened so quickly that it vanished by the time I turned towards it for a better look. I flew on. Then it happened again and this time I saw that it was a single-engined aircraft, dark against the bright sky, but the sun was glinting from its wings as it kept swinging from side to side that was how fighter pilots kept a watch below them. Fear gripped me again. A second fighter plane had now joined the first, zooming up from below. Were the fighters friend or foe? They were too far away for me to identify them definitely, but I knew almost beyond doubt that they must be German. I was in the most distinctive British warplane of all but it was unarmed in any event I had no idea how one went into combat while flying, so a fight was never an option. They were backing off, taking up a position somewhere behind me, presumably gaining height so they could launch an attack on me.

Moments later a fiery trail of bullets pa.s.sed above my canopy, disappearing somewhere ahead of me. Something impacted on the Spitfire, behind the c.o.c.kpit. The plane lurched, but although it had been wounded and it felt less responsive to the elevators, it continued to fly. Then one of the attacking planes zoomed past me and for a couple of seconds it was clearly in sight. I recognized it at once I had been trained to spot every aircraft known to be flying, allied or enemy. This was a Focke-Wulf 190, the only German fighter that could match the high performance of a Spitfire. I glimpsed the spotted dark green camouflage on the upper surfaces, the black Luftwaffe cross clearly visible, the swastika sinisterly painted on the fin. The Focke-Wulf roared low above my plane, and I swung the stick to one side to avoid it. The German plane then banked away from me. The second Luftwaffe plane followed it, without seeming to have fired at me.

Unable to fight I could only try to evade. The one advantage I had was the advanced flying performance of this Spitfire XI, increased even more by the fact I was now light on fuel, and of course it lacked the deadweight of heavy machine guns buried in the wings. I threw the nose down, flung open the throttle and dived towards the ground. I turned, levelled out, dived again. My indicated airspeed was greater than 400 knots.

I lost sight of the German planes but I knew they must be somewhere around. I kept scanning the sky, but the sun was lowering in the west and the sky was too dazzling for me to see with any certainty. I saw two more aircraft it might have been the original two, but it made no difference. They were flying at me from dead ahead and slightly to the side. I briefly saw the flickering flash of the guns embedded in their wings, but our combined speeds meant that these planes were only in sight for a couple of seconds. They swooped up and past me, one of them flying so close to my Spitfire I was certain of a head-on collision. It went just above me, though, kicking the Spitfire with the violence of its wake.

I flew on without sustaining any more damage.

The ground came closer, so I levelled the aircraft while trying to maintain the fabulous speed. Never before had I flown such a fast plane. The sheer thrill of that outweighed even my fear of being shot at by more German aircraft. High speed made me safe, made me feel safe. I went on and on, now so tired after hours at the controls that I was flying almost by instinct alone. I loved this aircraft more than I could express, even to myself. It seemed to antic.i.p.ate my moves before I made them, sometimes even before I thought of making them, a sort of instinctive extension of me, a part of my consciousness that had been equipped with wings. I was still on the same bearing, somewhere over Europe, probably over the German homeland or perhaps a part of the occupied territories.

I was alone in a hostile sky, the sun sinking towards the horizon ahead of me. I wanted to be home, away from this, away from the past. I had a life ahead of me. The sh.o.r.e appeared suddenly and I flashed across the breaking waves. I was now flying low, at about two thousand feet. Anti-aircraft guns mounted on a ship moored offsh.o.r.e opened up on me as I streamed past. I saw the tracer bullets bright in the evening sky, curling up, nowhere close to me. Within seconds I was out of their range. It was getting dark I guessed that in this summer evening there would be about an hour of subdued daylight left that would be good enough to let me fly safely. All I would need was the sight of a runway, straight and level. I took the plane down even lower, until I was only about two hundred feet above the surface of the sea. I could not maintain this height by instruments so I watched the sea ahead as it seemed to dash towards me, hypnotic in its steadiness and sense of unstoppable rush. I was yawning. My mouth was dry, my muscles were exhausted, my eyes were sore from constant straining through the brightness of the sky. I flew on, with no idea where I was, where I was going. If I was over the wrong sea, or had drifted away from my course, I might fly forever above these waves until the last drop of fuel had been used. But then, ahead, low on the horizon, a sight of land. I took the plane up to about a thousand feet, stared ahead, saw the flat coast hurtling towards me, dark, unlit, almost unprotected. It looked so harmless, the edge of a small island at war, vulnerable in the declining twilight. I closed the throttle a little, and the Spitfire slowed. I was almost at the coast, saw the white of the waves fringing the beach, the quiet sh.o.r.e of Great Britain. This was the place I thought of as home, the island that had taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, the island country I had grown to love and wanted to defend. I crossed the English tideline, saw below me an area of dunes, a small town nearby, beyond there were silent fields, mature trees. I slowed my beautiful, wounded aircraft even more and flew carefully across the crepuscular countryside, looking for an airfield where I might safely land.

PART 8.

The Airfield

1.