Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

Airmen were lighting a row of gooseneck flares, which dimly outlined the flare-path. “We’d better stooge over to the caravan,” Bellamy said. They walked to his car. “Have you a nickname?” he asked. “Intelligence Officers usually do.”

“I’m Skull, sir. Short for Skelton.”

“Drop the ‘sir,’ Skull. Save it for formal occasions.”

They set off. “Have you a nickname?” Skull asked.

“It used to be Butcha, because I looked so young. Butcha is Hindustani for boy.” Bellamy did not smile; he rarely smiled unless he thought smiling would improve morale. “Complete change of cast since then,” he said. “Nobody remembers that stuff.”

The caravan was really a four-wheeled trailer, painted a bold checker-board all over, parked near the takeoff end of the flare-path. A Perspex dome, big enough for a man’s head, was fitted to the top.

Around the perimeter, Wellingtons were starting up and pilots began testing their engines. Each roar grew and grew until it had the harshness of a challenge. As it fell away, another challenge took over.

Two airmen stood up when the officers climbed into the caravan. One man was in charge of an array of radio equipment; the other was wearing earphones. “Anything yet?” Bellamy asked him.

“R-Robert’s got trouble with the oxygen, sir,” the man said. “They’re changing some bottles.”

“Thank you.” Bellamy took the headset and stepped onto a wooden box. Now his head was in the dome. “Give Flight Lieutenant Skelton a set, please. I want him to hear this.”

At first Skull heard nothing but the slush of atmospherics. The radio operator gave him a chair and poured him some coffee. Then a voice said: “E-Easy to Sandstorm.”

“Sandstorm receiving you, E-Easy,” Bellamy said.

“E-Easy, request permission to taxi.”

“You may taxi, E-Easy.”

After that a steady stream of requests came from other captains: J-Jig, F-Fox, B-Baker, M-Mother, R-Robert. Then the first Wellington asked clearance for takeoff. “You are clear for takeoff, E-Easy,” Bellamy said. His head slowly swiveled as he followed the bomber. Skull freed one ear to listen to the charging bellow.

“E-Easy airborne at nineteen oh five,” Bellamy said. The airman wrote it down. There was a long pause while Bellamy watched the navigation lights get smaller and higher, before he gave the next Wellington clearance. Nobody seemed in a great hurry. It took twenty minutes to get the flight away. “Thank you,” Bellamy said as he returned the headset. “Jolly good coffee,” Skull told the radio operator.

They drove back to the operations block. “So what happens now?” Skull asked.

“Oh, the usual. Dinner in the Mess. I believe there’s a good film at the station cinema. Charles Laughton.”

“I meant the raid. I was surprised we didn’t wait to see them in formation.”

“Not a hope. The chaps tried night-flying in formation last year. Wellingtons collided with tedious regularity. Awfully dark up there.”

“So each bomber makes its own way to the target. And then bombs individually?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that multiply the risk of error?”

“Quite the reverse. It multiplies the chance of success. Fly as a group, and if your Master Navigator goes wrong, everyone goes wrong.” Bellamy spoke crisply. He did everything crisply; he believed it was crucial that everyone understood exactly what to do, or men died unnecessarily. “This isn’t like Fighter Command,” he said. “This isn’t smash-and-grab in the sky and then home to pick up your popsy. Bomber Command is in the long-distance business of delivering high explosive by the ton, to the door. We think about it very carefully.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you met the station commander? Group Captain Rafferty. Grand chap, fine leader. Come on.”

They went in. Rafferty was standing in the middle of the Ops Room, whirling a black telephone by its flex. Three Waafs, seated at desks, watched him. “Ask me what I’m doing,” he said to Bellamy.

“Yes, sir. What—”

“I’m trying to strangle this raving fool on the other end.” Rafferty caught the phone and shouted into it: “Listen! I don’t want your excuses and I don’t need your apologies! Simply tell the airman who endangered R-Robert that if he ever installs a faulty oxygen bottle again I shall personally…” He jammed his shoulder against the phone and put his hands over the ears of the nearest Waaf. “I shall personally seek him out and ram it up his ass.” He removed his hands and hung up the phone. “You didn’t hear that, did you?” he asked a different Waaf.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you didn’t understand it, did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Disgraceful. Who’s this?”

“Flight Lieutenant Skelton,” Bellamy said. “New Intelligence Officer.” Skull saluted.

“Ah-ha.” Rafferty perched his backside against a table-map that half-filled the room. “Oh-ho. Mr. Skelton.” He put his head back and stared down his nose. “Did D-Dog get away on time?”

“It did,” Bellamy said.

“I hear you escaped from Fighter Command, Mr. Skelton.”

“I was expelled, sir.”

“I thought as much. Air Ministry recommended you very strongly. Always a bad sign. What did you do?”

“I raped an air vice-marshal,” Skull said.

Bellamy’s teeth clenched but the Waafs didn’t even blink. Neither did Rafferty. “What with?” he asked.

“The truth, sir.”

“I bet that hurt. Well, this is a different world. Many years ago, people asked me to fly fighters, do all that tomfoolery at air shows—formation aerobatics, wingtips tied together with ribbon. Make the crowd go Ooh-ah. I chose bombers. Never regretted it. A chap can have a real career in Bomber Command. Bombing is what airplanes are for. The rest is frills.”

“I quite agree, sir,” Skull said. “The trouble with Fighter Command is it’s all smash-and-grab in the sky and then home to pick up your popsy.”

“Huh.” Rafferty stared at Skull, stared so hard that Bellamy chewed his lower lip and hurt himself. “Huh,” Rafferty said again. “Well, I’ll be in the Mess.” He went out.

“I’ll show you where we do the interrogations,” Bellamy said.

They went through a corridor to an adjacent hut. Long trestle tables, many wooden chairs, Air Ministry posters defaced by aircrew impatient to tell their story and go for their bacon and egg. Bellamy kicked a chair aside. “You just put up a black,” he said. “The groupie won’t forgive you in a hurry.”

“For what?”

“Smash-and-grab in the sky. Home to pick up your popsy. That’s his line. Bad enough that you stole it, but you threw it in his face! Poor show, old chap. Very big black.”

“If I stole it, you stole it first.” Skull couldn’t take this seriously.

“Not where he could hear me, for God’s sake.” Bellamy rapped his knuckles on the table.

“Well, he should be flattered.”

“Listen: these things matter. Rafferty doesn’t like Intelligence Officers. He thinks they get in the way. Frankly, I agree. A man who hasn’t flown has no right to question aircrew.”

“I’ve flown. Went to Le Touquet in September 1939, in a Bombay troop-carrier. I was sick.”

“Take my advice: don’t mention it here,” Bellamy said grimly. “It won’t improve your credit.”

“What will?”

Bellamy wanted his dinner. “Fly on ops and get shot down in flames,” he said. “The chaps will respect you for that.” He left. Skull hurried after him, and just got a lift to the Mess.

Despite changing some bottles, R-Robert still had oxygen trouble. Only the navigator was affected, but that was more than enough to worry the whole crew. If the navigator couldn’t think straight, they might end up anywhere. France. Poland. The Alps.