Len Deighton - Goodbye Mickey Mouse

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In Goodbye Mickey Mouse Len Deighton has written his best novel yet: a brilliant, multi-dimensional picture of what it is to be at war… and what it was to be in love in the England of 1944.Goodbye Mickey Mouse is Deighton’s fourteenth novel and a vivid evocation of wartime England, the story of a group of American fighter pilots flying escort missions over Germany in the winter of 1943-4.At the centre of the novel are two young men: the deeply reserved Captain Jamie Farebrother, estranged son of a deskbound colonel, and the cocky Lieutenant Mickey Morse, well on his way to becoming America’s Number One Flying Ace. Alike only in their courage, they forge a bond of friendship in battle with far-reaching consequences for themselves, and for the future of those they love.

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‘We found the rearmost task force miles behind their briefed timings,’ MM said, and stopped. He’d never told the others about that midair collision, not even Rube, his closest buddy. So why tell this guy? Maybe because it was easier to tell a stranger. ‘Thank God we weren’t escorting those B-24s. They call them banana boats; they say they were flying boats that leaked so bad they put wheels on them and christened them bombers.’

Farebrother smiled, but he’d heard the joke before. He could tell that MM was stalling.

‘Those ships need a lot of babying. By the time they were above the cloud cover they were skidding all over the sky. The pilots couldn’t hold formation.’

‘It’s that Davis wing,’ said Farebrother. ‘It wasn’t designed for high loading at that altitude.’

‘Sure, something like that,’ said MM. ‘It was a bad start, flying past those banana boats, and they’ve taken so many casualties over the weeks that by now the pilots are mostly replacements who’ve never flown a tough one before.’ He flicked ash into the lid that was still resting on his chest. ‘You say Bremen’s easy because it’s on the coast, what you don’t know is that the Kraut radar chain goes right along that coast. Anything coming in over the sea comes up clear on their screens. So the fighters were waiting—hundreds of them. Did we have the shit beat out of us!’ MM found that his hands were sweating and he knew his face was flushed. ‘I drank too much last night,’ he explained.

‘You engaged the enemy fighters?’

‘Hey, Jamie! Where’d you pick up that kind of talk? You training to be a general or a reporter or something? Sure, we engaged the enemy—we engaged him good and proper. Another engagement like that and our parents are going to insist we get married.’ He puffed his cigarette vigorously in silence for a moment. ‘Colonel Dan is leading Red—Red is always nominated as the troubleshooters, so Colonel Dan likes to take Red—and I’m leading the second element. We’ve passed the B-24s and found our Forts and we’re keeping real close to them just like it says in the book. But while we’re watching that we don’t get so close the trigger-happy gunners shoot us down, the Messerschmitt 110s come up on the horizon and suddenly they’re loosing off rockets.’

‘No one goes after them?’

‘By the time anyone guessed they were going to fire long-range rockets it was too late, the Krauts were away and heading for their beer ration. Then the Messerschmitt 109s come roaring through the formation—and all this time we’re still over the sea, we’re nowhere near the target—they dive down through the bombers and lift their noses for a second go at their undersides. Colonel Dan goes for them and a few of us get some shots in before they’re diving away. It’s while we’re wrestling with these babies that the withdrawal support group arrives. They’re the Thunderbolts, and those guys think anything with square wings is a Messerschmitt. So who should be surprised when the T-bolts come out of the sun and clobber two of our boys in the first pass? We lost two good pilots that day and we didn’t get one confirmed kill. Then just as we’re getting ready to form up and go home I see some lunatic Kraut come sneaking back toward the bombers. I did a wing-over and chased him, but he was going fast, really fast. I got a couple of squirts at him, but he just flies straight on, no evasive action. For a minute I think maybe the pilot is dead or out of action, then I realize what this crazy bastard is going to do. He’s picked himself one of the Forts in the low box and he just drives straight into its side.’

Farebrother said nothing.

MM dashed his hands together and held them locked. ‘I was right behind him. I saw everything. He ripped the whole side out of that bomber. I could see the guys flying her. I could see the seats and the equipment, the wiring and the bright aluminium interior. I was so close that I could have touched those guys. I saw their faces as the whole thing broke up. Shit! It wasn’t a million laughs.’ MM stubbed his cigarette hard into the tin lid and forced a smile. ‘Pour yourself a drink if you want one. Loosen up.’

‘I’m loose enough already,’ said Farebrother. The chair creaked as he shifted uncomfortably. ‘Do you know what the flying schedule is likely to be over Christmas?’

‘Hell, Jamie, you ain’t been here five minutes. Are you looking for a pass already?’

‘I have a close friend stationed near Norwich. We said we’d try to get together over Christmas.’

‘You’re not thinking of visiting a Bomb Group, are you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, sure. You’ll have a good time. The bomber guys love us, Little Friends they call us on the radio, right? They’ll buy you beers and sing songs around the piano. And headquarters encourages all that bullshit.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Sure, it’s swell. Me and Rube and Earl used to go across to Narrowbridge. B-17s, easy to recognize them, red diamond on the tail plane, white letter A inside it. I met this guy who knew my brother. His family had a restaurant near Phoenix, and I’m from Arizona myself. It was great talking to him about places and people we knew. He’s got his navigator there and we’re talking about home and showing each other photos of girls and mothers and kids, all that family shit, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Farebrother. He could see the rest of it in MM’s eyes. ‘And he was in the ship…’

‘I could see him. The side of that ship opened like a sardine can. He was sitting at the controls, but there was only half of him left, Farebrother.’ MM was flicking at his stubbed-out cigarette just to keep from discovering if his hands were trembling ‘Slow dissolve. No partying at Narrowbridge, right?’

‘It would upset anyone, MM.’

‘Sure it would, I don’t need you to tell me that. Screw the bomber Joes. I didn’t tell them to join the lousy Air Force. It’s not my fault that Colonel Dan wants us to keep tight cover. I can’t help it if Göring tells his fighter jocks to go after the heavies and avoid us…’

‘Is that the time?’ said Farebrother. ‘I’d better get out of here and let you get some sleep.’ He got to his feet and the wicker armchair creaked. Winston looked out from under the bed.

‘You go to hell, Captain goddamn Farebrother! You don’t have to look down your thin white nose at me. You’re heading there, too, Captain, and that eastern schooling won’t mean a thing when the Krauts are putting lead into your ass.’

Farebrother nodded politely and went out, closing the door quietly. Farebrother knew how to be rude in a really high-class way.

‘And keep your lily-white hands off my goddamned ship!’ MM yelled at the closed door.

5 Captain Charles B. Stigg

Officers’ Club

280th Bombardment Sq. (H)

Cowdrey Green

Norfolk, England

Dear Jamie,

You get your five bucks! I’ve never been happier in my life. These guys are friendly and the Group Commander (‘Call me Porky the way the rest of them do’) plays the trumpet in the dance band. He also slams his B-24 down onto the runway with the kind of bang that reminds me of Cadet Jenkins, but it’s just his style, I guess.

This Group has taken a beating, and there are plenty of hair-raising stories told when the beer flows. But they’re good boys—I feel so old! We’ve got kids here who only shave once a week, but good guys. No backbiting and none of that gossip that the staff of you-know-where enjoyed so much. And I got a great crew—instead of duds from the replacement pool I took over a ready-crewed ship when they lost their pilot. He got VD (in Norwich, the Flight Surgeon says, and we got a tub-thumping lecture complete with colour slides that made two or three of the guys go outside for air!).

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