Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

He told Silk about going to Harley Street. “The quack thinks that Zoë’s mum is the nigger in the woodpile,” he said. “The more she leans on me, the more I back off.” Silk nodded. “Interesting,” he said. That was all. What more was there?

When the Luftwaffe bombed the heart of Rotterdam for no good military reason and killed nine hundred Dutch civilians, then at last, finally, irrevocably, the Roosevelt Rules were scrapped and 409 flew to German cities and dropped, not leaflets, but bombs.

Actually some Hampdens carried bombs and leaflets. With Hitler conquering more of Europe than Napoleon or Charlemagne or Genghis Khan had managed, and far faster, this was an odd time to urge the German people to change their ways. Soon the Luftwaffe would be dropping leaflets on England, showing Churchill with a Tommy-gun and denouncing him as a gangster. Churchill was quite flattered, and the British liked the picture. Either way, bumf was bumf. It changed nothing.

But the air war, which had started so sluggishly, took off in a rush. Bombers of all types attacked railways, bridges and road junctions: vital links between Germany and the battlefront. By the time the bombers arrived, the battlefront had usually moved on. So the attack was switched to German industry. 409 Squadron learned new names in the Ruhr area: Gelsenkirchen, Dortmund, Castrop-Rauxel, Bochum, Mülheim, Krefeld, Wuppertal, many more. They were also sent to bomb Hamburg, Bremen and Cologne, familiar from Nickel trips. Bins briefed them on the oil installations to be hit, and Rafferty encouraged them to make every bomb count because the enemy must, by now, be running out of fuel. Bomber Command redoubled its attacks as the fighting threatened Dunkirk. The German army did not run out of fuel. Dunkirk fell. Maybe someone in the Ministry of Economic Warfare had got his sums wrong.

So ended May 1940, and June was just as hectic. Germany now had Holland, so the RAF no longer needed to make a great dog-leg to avoid neutral territory. That knocked a couple of hundred miles off a trip to the Ruhr and places like Cologne and Aachen, and it saved a further two hundred on the homeward journey. This was important in June and July. The nights were at their shortest. The northern sky was never completely dark. An incoming bomber was silhouetted for the benefit of German night fighters.

There was no such thing as safety in numbers. Each Hampden from 409 flew as an individual. Its crews decided when to take off, which route to follow, whether to bomb from high or low, sometimes what bombs to carry. Even when Group ordered 409 to send a whole Flight to hit a single target, the trip was a long and solitary experience for each crew. They might see another bomber caught by searchlights, or the flash and flicker of its bombs; but when they dumped their own load and made the long journey home, they rarely saw another machine until perhaps they had crossed the English coast and somebody else might be glimpsed in the moonlight, heading for the same base.

Ops were like that: long hauls when usually nothing went very wrong. Occasionally everything failed. It happened to Tubby Heckter and his crew, over Bremen. Flak smashed his compass and ruined his altimeter. Fog blanked the English coast. He was lost, and much lower than he thought, which was why he flew into the balloon barrage at Harwich. A cable sawed a wing off. The wreck burned so brightly that the fire brigade easily found it, even in the fog. And a week later, “B” Flight’s commander, Micky Byrd, failed to return. Just vanished. Next day, Pug Duff was an acting squadron leader, commanding the Flight. “Who better?” Hunt said; and Rafferty agreed.

“Tell your batman to press your best uniform,” the Wingco said. “You’re going to be presented with your own personal airplane.”

“Yes, sir,” Langham said. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Your rich mother-in-law has donated a Hampden to the nation. It’s to be called the Lady Shapland. The ceremony’s tomorrow, in front of the control tower. The bishop will bless the kite. The Press will take pictures. You will smile.”

“I like D-Dog, sir. I don’t want another kite.”

“What you want is totally irrelevant. Remember that journalists twist everything, so tell them that Lady Shapland is a wonderful woman. Otherwise keep your mouth shut.”

Langham found Silk having a shower after playing squash, and told him the news. Silk was impressed. “How much does a Hampden cost?”

“God knows. She probably sold Worcestershire to raise the cash. It’s easy for her.”

“Ah.” Silk watched as Langham thrashed the air with the racket. Air whistled past the strings. “Do I detect a note of bitterness?”

“Well, it’s pure bloody blackmail, Silko. She won’t let me rest until she’s a blasted grandmother, will she? First she bullied me, now she’s trying to bribe me. I didn’t get married, I got bought and sold in a cattlemarket. Why doesn’t the old bitch get into bed with us? Then she can kick me in the balls until I do the dirty deed.”

“Kicking you in the balls won’t help. Biology was never your top subject at Clifton, was it?”

They strolled back to their rooms.

“Funny thing,” Langham said sombrely. “Father used to worry that I might run amok and get some girl pregnant. Now I’ve got the opposite problem.”

“It makes no sense,” Silk said. “I’ve only seen Zoë fully dressed, and even so she makes my flybuttons pop. You get her in bed, stark naked, and nothing happens? You’ve got a knot in your dong.”

Suddenly Langham was angry. “You think you can do better?” he snapped. “Okay, go ahead, she’s yours.”

Silk gave a snort of amusement, but he saw it was no joke. “Thanks awfully. I’ve got my hands full with that new Waaf, Brenda.”

“Not a hope in hell. Come on, Zoë likes you, she’s said so. Five minutes is all it takes. Be a pal.”

Silk thought about it. Part of him was shocked and dismayed. A larger part wanted to jump at the chance. Unlike many pilots, Silk had lost his virginity, but it had been a rushed and disappointing business in a railway carriage between stops, and he wanted more. He wanted fireworks. Sex with Zoë would blow his socks off. “What does she say about it?” he asked cautiously.

“Nothing. I haven’t asked her.”

Now Silk was shocked and bewildered. “It’s all your idea?”

“Look, you know the score. I can’t give her what she wants. You can. Then I’ll be off the hook, don’t you see?”

“You make it sound so simple. Just one problem: you’re married and I’m not.”

“Who cares? Once the lights are out, Zoë won’t know the difference. All cats are black in the dark.”

“I can’t believe we’re discussing this. It’s absurd.”

“Don’t say no, Silko. Think it over. Sex with Zoë is fun,” Langham said miserably. “It really is the most tremendous fun.”

The ceremony of donating, naming and blessing the bomber was a great success. The sun shone. The entire squadron paraded. The band of the RAF played. Lady Shapland wore a dress of sky-blue silk topped off with a clever hat modeled on an RAF forage cap. Zoë wore a short coat and skirt of white linen with a scarlet headscarf and knocked her mother dead.

Various people made brief speeches: an air marshal, the Secretary of State for Air, Group Captain Rafferty. Lady Shapland named the Hampden after herself. The Bible is notoriously thin on aeronautical advice, so the bishop made the most of Isaiah, chapter forty, verse thirty-one: “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” He blessed the Hampden, and prayed that those who flew in it would smite the ungodly. The Wingco led three cheers and everyone except the air marshal flung his cap in the air, a pre-arranged spectacle for the benefit of Press photographers. Finally the officers and guests went to tea in the Mess.