B for Buster Read Online Free PDF Page B

sir?”
    â€œNo,” I snapped.
    I could see I’d hurt Bert’s feelings. I suddenly felt sorry for him as he stooped down to his trolley to fiddle with something that didn’t need fiddling with. I knew how he felt to be dismissed like that. I said, “You see
B
for Buster
over there? That’s my kite.”
    â€œThat so, sir?” he said a bit coldly.
    â€œHave you seen anyone near it?” I asked. “I thought there was a guy inside.”
    â€œLike a ghost, you mean?” said Bert.
    It shocked me that he came so close to the truth so quickly. I stared at him, but he didn’t look up.
    â€œYou must see a lot of them, sir,” he said, still down by his trolley. “There, but not really there. Faces that you knew.” The pigeon fluttered across his bent back, from his left shoulder to his right. “You see them at breakfast, don’t you, sir? And at night? In the corners of your eyes. And when you look, they’re not there?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I don’t.”
    â€œâ€™Ow many ops ’ave you flown, sir?”
    â€œNone,” I told him. “Not yet.”
    â€œOh, I see.” He stood up, his legs straightening like the struts on a landing gear. If Lofty stood on a step he wouldn’t have been as tall as the pigeoneer. “Well, sir. Not to worry, sir, I’m sure.”
    â€œI wasn’t really
worried,
” I said.
    â€œIt’s the night, sir,” said Bert. “And this place, sir, with its ’ills and its ruins and such. You’ll get used to it, sir.”
    I felt angry at him then. He was talking as though I knew nothing, as though I was the greenest of sprogs. Then I realized that he was mostly right, but I wouldn’t admit it to him. “I’ve flown lots,” I said. “Hundreds of hours. I fly bombers, not
pigeons.
I know what I’m talking about.”
    â€œYes, sir,” he said. “You’re quite right, sir.”
    It angered me more that he would agree with me so easily, just because he had to. I wished he would move along, but I saw that he could never leave his precious trolley. So I stood there beside him so that he wouldn’t think he’d driven me off. Then the bird made an odd little sound, and stiffened on his shoulder, and Bert said, “’Ere comes another one, sir.”
    â€œAnother what?” I asked.
    â€œAn officer, sir.”
    Out of the darkness came Simon, the Australian, his shoes tapping as he stepped from the grass to the tarmac. “G’day!” he shouted. Everything he said was a shout. “What are you doing out here in the never-never, and all by your lonesome, too?”
    It was as though Dirty Bert wasn’t even there, and again I felt sorry for the miserable pigeoneer.
    â€œFetch the others,” said Simon. “Tell them the boys are coming back.”
    He went off again, and old Bert just stood there with the pigeon on his shoulder. I said, “I’d better go.”
    â€œRight you are, sir,” said Bert. “Good luck to you, sir.”
    I didn’t know why he wished me luck, but I didn’t think about it then. I ran to the mess to get Ratty and Buzz, and Pop was there again. He looked at me with such a friendly smile that I was sure he hadn’t tried to frighten me in
Buster.
“Where were you?” I asked.
    â€œWriting letters,” he said with a shrug. “Why?”
    â€œThey’re coming back.”
    Ratty and Buzz leapt up from their chairs. Pop grinned and slapped my shoulder. Then we all ran out to watch Lofty coming home.
    The airfield was suddenly alive. Trucks and tractors bustled through the darkness. Erks headed off to their dispersals, the Chair Force to the tower again. The flares were lit along the runway.
    We gathered below the tower, a crew without a pilot. We listened to a distant drone that grew steadily louder and closer. Then the first Halifax