Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

With time, his rabid fantasies lost their grip. Grudgingly he thought of lesser forms of revenge. Report the pair to the Station Commander? Rafferty wouldn’t welcome petty complaints about pilots, not when there was a war on. See the Wingco? Or the Flight Commander? They’d tell him to put a stronger padlock on his garage. Soon everyone would know, and it would be a sodding great joke against him. Serve him right for being so tight-assed about his bloody Bentley: that’s what they’d all think. Well, let ‘em. It was his Bentley. He’d find a better way to make those bastards pay. And almost by accident, he found it. He befriended them. That frightened the daylights out of them.

The idea came to him in the Mess.

Where they went, he went. If Silk was reading a newspaper, McHarg pulled up a chair and read the back page until Silk became so nervous that he gave him the whole paper and moved away. If Langham was talking with some pilots, McHarg stood next to him, nodded when he spoke, brayed with laughter at his jokes, until Langham couldn’t stand it and got out. If Silk and Langham played chess, he came over and watched. Sometimes he shook his head at a move. Sometimes he sucked air through his teeth. Sometimes he braced himself and made a soft, gentle fart. The game usually ended quickly. He always asked who won. He always seemed pleased. At meals he sat opposite them, and busied himself making sure they had enough toast, butter, salt, marmalade, sugar, potatoes, mustard, custard. Conversation was impossible. As soon as they began talking, he offered them the salt. The rest of the squadron watched and did not interfere. McHarg’s crooked, kindly smile was enough to keep anyone at bay. Only Tubby Heckter asked Langham what the hell was going on. “Brain damage,” Langham said, and walked away.

Later that day, McHarg met Silk and Langham as they were coming back from a routine inspection of the Hampdens. “You’ll not believe this,” he said. The grit of Glasgow had got back into his speech. “Some streak o’ piss of a pilot asked me could he borrow my Bentley! Would you credit it?” He was tittering as he strode away. The childish noise was grotesquely at odds with his heavyweight build.

“He knows,” Silk said. “I told you so.”

“He wants us to know he knows,” Langham said. “He’s playing games. Why is he playing games?”

“He’s pissed off because he can’t fly. We have all the fun, he’s just a bloody Armaments Officer. Counts his boxes of bullets all day. Dusts his silly bombs. Boring.”

They followed McHarg at a distance. His heels had left dents in the grass.

“He killed a wog in Egypt,” Langham said. “The Adj told me. This Arab broke into some RAF stores. Black Mac clipped his ear, broke his neck.”

“Gin,” Silk said. “I need a big gin.”

Rafferty was irritated by the sight of so many young men sprawling about the Mess, drinking, dozing, yawning. He called a meeting of the senior officers. “I bet the Luftwaffe isn’t permanently on its backside,” he said. “I bet Goering’s got them galloping around the airfields in gym kits, carrying large telephone poles.”

“We had bayonet-fencing in the last war,” the adjutant said. They waited for him to explain. “Lousy weather. No flying. So everyone in the hangars. Rifles with fixed bayonets. One chap against another.” He demonstrated an imaginary thrust and parry.

“Sounds dangerous,” the MO said.

“It was rather bloody. But it made the chaps jump. Good exercise.”

“No, no. Far too risky,” Pixie Hunt said.

“Put ‘em in overalls,” the Engineer Officer suggested. “Make ‘em help service the kites.”

“God, no,” Hunt said. “They’ll break everything they touch.”

Other ideas failed, until Bins suddenly said: “Escape exercise.” Rafferty grunted encouragement. “If they come down in enemy territory,” Bins said, “their duty is to escape. Why don’t we drop them miles from here and—”

“You mean parachute them?” Rafferty asked. “These chaps have never jumped in their lives.”

“Lincolnshire is just flat farmland, sir. Easy landing.”

“Half a dozen compound fractures,” the MO said confidently. “Bet you.”

“Anyway, we’re on full alert,” Hunt said. “Dawn to dusk.”

“Do it at night, sir,” Bins said. “Forget parachutes. Put the boys in sealed trucks. Empty their pockets. No equipment, no food, no money. Then dump them in twos and threes all over the county, just as if they’d baled out. Tell them to make their way here.”

“Without getting caught!” Rafferty cried. “The army can play the enemy. They love maneuvers.”

It was a splendid idea, made more splendid by the fact that others would do all the work. For the first and only time, Flight Lieutenant McHarg spoke. “I know the land very well, sir,” he said. “I’ll guarantee to take the boys to places that will test their fighting spirit.” He got the job.

News of the exercise surprised the pilots and observers. Rafferty was pleased. “Nobody knows when he may have to bale out,” he told them. The trucks were waiting. “Your duty is to evade capture, and return to base,” he said. “Enemy troops, in the uniform of the Black Watch, are out to hunt you down.” The night was heavily overcast. As they climbed into the trucks, rain began to fall. “Your luck’s in,” Rafferty said. “This will lend you valuable cover.” Nobody spoke. “Cheerie-bye,” he said. The canvas flaps were lashed shut. The trucks moved off, their hooded headlights intercepting streaks of rain. “They seemed to get the hang of it,” he said. “Now, who’s for bridge?”

Silk, Langham and eight other officers were in one truck. No seats. No light. They sat on the floor, absorbing the merciless jolts of fast driving on bad roads. After an hour the truck stopped, the driver opened the back, and two men went into the night. This happened every ten minutes. Silk and Langham were the last pair. When the truck stopped, the man who opened the canvas flaps was not the driver but McHarg. “Mind the puddle,” he said, but it was too deep and wide. They jumped, and water filled their shoes. “Deary me,” he said. The truck drove away. The rain was a heavy drizzle. “The farmers will be glad of this,” he said. There was just enough light to show that he was wearing an oilskin cape and gumboots.

“Don’t tell me you’re taking part in this farce,” Langham said.

“Och, no. I’m just out for a wee stroll.”

“A wee stroll?” Silk’s voice cracked. “Where are we? How far’s the base?”

“Dear, dear. What a question. I’m not allowed to say.”

“Well, we intend to go the wrong way,” Langham said. “So feel free to stroll in the opposite direction. Come on, Silko.”

McHarg followed them along the lane. It was not possible to see the liquid mud, the rain-filled potholes, the pools of cowshit. They slipped and stumbled. Muck splattered them to the knees. They walked a long way to reach a crossroads. It was no help: too dark, and in any case signposts everywhere had been removed in order to baffle German invaders. Silk chose the biggest road. They trudged along, feet squelching, icy hands in armpits, rain soaking steadily through to their underwear. McHarg trailed them. Sometimes he hummed a tune known only to him.

“Look,” Silk said. It was a shape in a field, a blur darker than the night. “Wait,” he said. He climbed a gate and was gone. Langham thought the rain felt wetter when he was standing than when he was walking, but he said nothing. Silk appeared at the gate. “Barn,” he said. “Bloody big barn. Come on.”

It was dry inside, and even blacker than the night outside. “Lots of hay over here,” Silk said. “Stinks a bit.” Langham followed his voice. The hay was like a feather bed. Langham groaned as he sank into it and felt all his muscles relax. “Genius,” he said.