CHAPTER 12
Of course, Aircraftman Second Class Henry “Soames” Forsyth didn’t really believe in ghosts. There was a time though, when his disbelief was badly strained, and that time was was horrifyingly, nerve shatteringly now.
’Why me?’ he complained bitterly to himself. ’What did I do to deserve this? I never asked to come here. I didn’t even want to join the Royal Air Force in the first place.’
Well might Soames ask such questions. After all the excitement of being posted overseas had subsided to a more normal level, he found that the military mind had been subject to a severe aberration when choosing the place where he now served, somewhere in the back of beyond, if not a good deal further. There was a theory amongst airmen of the rank of corporal or below that officialdom searched the world until places were found where no-one could possibly live, and built airfields there. This was obviously one such spot. Soames scarcely knew just where it was, except that it was one of the desert areas of the world, hot, sticky and grossly uncomfortable. It was a two year tour of duty, long enough to get to know it quite well, rather better than he had any wish to do so, although as a National Serviceman his tour would be a little shorter. It was a place with problems of its own, not the least being the fact that the local inhabitants didn’t really want a British military presence there, and were not slow to let their attitude be known. In fact, only a few weeks previously, the bullets had been flying in all directions, and while things were relatively peaceful at the moment, there was always a feeling of severe tension.
During his normal working time Soames was an Air Force trained motor mechanic, mainly stripping down fire engines to the basic framework, then waiting months for spare parts, but that was not all that he did. Every two or three weeks he was given a rifle and fifty rounds of ammunition, or as common parlance had it, a pea shooter and fifty peas, and sent to the airfield to stand guard over the aircraft all night. Guard duties were gratifyingly boring for most of the time, especially when there was a man short and he was on his own, as tonight. It wasn’t so bad when there was company, even though he normally preferred to be on his own. Depending on who he was with, it was often possible to curl up in the wheel bay of some large aircraft and snatch an hour or two of sleep. Some types were keen though, and wouldn’t allow it. Of course, it meant a severe roasting if the guard was caught unawares by the sergeant but with a bit of care, that almost never happened.
Quite why one of the guards had failed to turn up that night was unknown, but it was easy to guess why no replacement had been found. The police coming round to find a spare guard was knowledge that spread rapidly. No doubt everyone had climbed up to the top of the flat roofs of the three storey buildings which were home to the airmen and were hiding there, first having taken the precaution of pulling up the home made ladders that allowed access. The police were certainly aware of the situation, but doubtless felt that chasing after reluctant airmen high up on a flat roof with no guard rails was no part of their duty, and doubtless preferred that the enemy wore some sort of identifying uniform, other than the standard Royal Air Force one issued to all.
Soames fell to musing about his experiences with the military during the year since he had become a loyal member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Although the stars were shining brightly overhead, like sparkling jewels on black velvet, he had never been one for any great communion with that sort of nature, and the sight of the heavenly orb left him cold, despite the heat of the night. He preferred to think of something rather more down to earth.
It was strange that in this particular branch of the armed services, he had hardly seen an aircraft until he came here. In fact, the only one he had ever seen close up was the one parked outside the guardroom of the Royal Air Force station where he had completed his basic training. It may, he thought, being reminded by a sharp sting on the back of his neck, have been a Mosquito. Or possibly a Spitfire. Or even a Lancaster bomber. All he could really be certain of was that it had wings and was clearly a flying machine of some sort. Being not only an Aircraftman Second Class, but a recruit as well, and hence the lowest of all possibly life forms, he was never permitted to stop and admire it, and in any case, as anyone who has served with the armed forces will testify, it is never too wise to linger outside the guardroom. Military Police have an uncanny sense which seems to tell them when a haircut is millimetrically too long, or when boots have not been polished to eye dazzling brilliance. Nobody of his acquaintance seemed to want to know what the little plaque at the front of the aircraft said. At least not so badly that they were willing to risk being found extra work to do, especially in a recruit training camp where the motto seems to be ¨A static man is an idle man.¨
Strange, he thought again, that that was the only sight of an aircraft he got for many months. It may be reasonable to assume that the Air Force is littered with aircraft, and so it may be, but at that time at least, they did not seem to be evenly spread. It is a matter of fact that when Soames was posted overseas, the mode of transport used was actually a troopship, and that was run, not by the Navy as might have been thought reasonable, but by the Army. The voyage took fifteen days, during which he saw plenty of mosquitoes of the bloodsucking kind, but never a one with an engine.
The night was pitch black and moonless, the only illumination coming from the working lights of the far off hangers where mechanics toiled throughout the night to repair and maintain the station’s aircraft. Although these lights were dim and distant, they were strong enough to destroy the little night sight Soames had, making it impossible to see anything clearly more than a couple of paces away.
Amid the faint machine noises in the background, his reflections on the meaning of life were disturbed by a very different sort of sound, one that didn’t belong to the mechanical world, and which had no right to be there in the middle of the airfield. Though faint, it jarred, causing Soames to cease his musings and lift his head. He listened intently as the sound became gradually louder. It sounded exactly like someone walking through the sand wearing loose sandals, sandals of the type favoured by the civilian population and off duty airmen. Suddenly alert, and realising that airmen in that area would be firmly on duty, Soames called out, giving the time honoured challenge. It had always sounded a little silly before, but now the words were exactly what he wanted. No answer. He called again, and again there was no answer. Only the sound of footsteps coming closer and closer. Jumbled thoughts ran through his mind. Was it a thief? That wouldn’t be unknown. Someone taking a short cut home? But the nearest inhabited building lay the other way. In this direction there was nothing except empty desert for several hundred miles. Someone with a knife or a gun perhaps?
World War Three’s going to break out, Soames thought bitterly, and the only defence for freedom and democracy is me and fifty bullets. Charming. Why did it have to happen right now? Why not in an hour’s time when my shift is over?
The footsteps came ever closer, but look as he might, he could see nothing. The shuffling footsteps were near enough to be able to touch whoever was making them, but still he could see nothing. They passed between him and the hangar lights, but nothing was silhouetted, and nothing could be seen, even though he lay flat on the ground and looked all around. Then, incredibly, the footsteps began to die away and still he had seen nothing. He jabbed with his rifle, even swung it round him in a complete circle. His wild efforts met with no resistance at all. The sweat that poured off his face and neck and ran in rivulets down his body had little to do with the temperature, hot though it was. His stomach churned and the world seemed to blur with an odd, shimmering motion. The whole situation was impossible. If he hadn’t seen, or rather not seen with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. How could there be a sound without something to produce it? How could footsteps have a disembodied life of their own?
By now badly frightened and trembling in every limb, but determined to discover the truth of the matter if only for the sake of his own sanity, Soames followed the sound of the slowly receding footsteps, and there, in a tiny pool of light reflected from the hangar lamps, he saw what it was that had terrified him so much. No bigger than a human hand, a little desert rat was hopping along as though he had all the time in the world, oblivious to the presence of the man, oblivious to the fact that it had come within a whisker of having fifty rounds of ammunition pumped into its tiny body.
’If this gun works,’ muttered Soames. ’Which I doubt.’
Just the same, even in the dim light, it seemed to him for a moment that the desert rat was wearing a little grin on his face. But only for the briefest space of time, for the rat disappeared on his unknown errand into the desert.
Reaction set in and as Aircraftman Second Class Soames Forsyth slowly slumped to the ground in a dead faint, his last thought was ¨Sleeping on Duty¨. I’ll be caught for sure. They’ll never believe this in the guardroom.