Any Instructions? (4/5) By Denis Price

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5).

It seemed the Sergeant's worry was his wife. He was being posted to a base near Bedford in England and being German she was afraid of the move. Secretly he thought of his own feelings on being in enemy territory and some relief that the angst was shared. He reassured him that she wouldn't have a problem; the war had been over a long time. His instructions were clear; the watch commander had over-emphasized them to impress their visitors. They were standard operating procedures anyway, to listen, log and record, typical service bullshit, the job has to be seen to be done.

When the awaited American voice eventually came through the ether it was a novel situation for him as a listener. He usually covered Russian frequencies; this should be a piece of cake.

In English and with reception better than he'd hoped there'd be no straining to pick out anything pertinent. The laconic American pilot was speaking to his ground controller based somewhere in West Germany, informing him that he was being tracked. This could be bad news. Hurriedly raising his arm, the listener waved frantically at the Watch Commander who switched the frequency onto loudspeaker. What the hell is going on, he thought as the others gathered round his position, being tracked meant that the American's own radar was registering Soviet radar emissions possibly from another aircraft.

The laconic voice monotonously continued, providing height, speed and fuel state, receiving terse acknowledgement from his controller. The faces of those gathered around his position were tense; the black officer lit yet another cigarette.

There was no doubt about it; this aircraft had gone in deep, a real chancer, no cross border brinkmanship this time. This was Medal of Honour stuff, rather you than me mate! The minutes passed, the room was quiet, even the all-pervading hum of the power source appeared to sense the tension in the air and seemed muted. Sat at his position he glanced sideways at the two Americans, both nervous and impotent as their compatriot guided his lumbering aircraft through the dark unfriendly sky. By this time the number around his position had been swollen by the arrival of the Unit Commander and his adjutant.

The import of this wasn't lost on him, it had to be something big to disturb these two nine-to-fivers. Not for them the rigours of the night shift with its accompanying sweat and stubble. Their world was the well ordered one of barathea, biscuits and mid- morning coffee. He wondered, were these thoughts more than tinged with envy and conceded they probably were. The well-liked Unit Commander was a grounded navigator, this guaranteed him some respect among the listeners but his Adjutant, a smooth, ambitious ground officer lacked any saving grace. Even the normally circumspect watch commander had once said with a wolfish leer, 'There goes a child molester if ever I saw one!' This remark made them all laugh at the time as in the officer-other ranks war no prisoners were taken.

The speaker crackled into life, shattering his musing. 'Bandit closing fast'. Came from the American aircraft. The pilot's ground controller acknowledged the message making no other comment. The officers in the listening group moved away to begin a huddled conversation. Looking over at them he wondered what the hell they had to talk about. The situation couldn't be clearer, starker even. There's a poor sod on one engine stuck deep in enemy airspace and he's busting a gut to get home, he needs all the support he can get.

The officers broke from their huddle telling spare listeners to tune in and cover all Soviet Fighter frequencies in an attempt to locate the American's pursuer. This is what it's all about he said to himself, given half a chance I'd find the bastard, pity I'm on the Yank's frequency.

Continued...Next Page

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