Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“That’s exactly why we need a Blitz film,” Rollo insisted. “To show that Jerry did his worst and—”

“And sometimes we panicked,” Frobisher said. “The Blitz wasn’t all guts and gallantry.”

“Ninety-nine percent was.”

“Let’s not quibble,” Gunnery said. “The government blundered badly at the start. Trying to stop people sheltering in the Underground stations made them very angry, especially in the East End. There was trouble.”

“People marched from Stepney to the Savoy Hotel,” Frobisher said. “They didn’t see why the rich should be warm and safe in the cellars of the Savoy while the poor got blown to bits in street shelters. That was censored, of course.”

Rollo said nothing. He had filmed street shelters. He knew how they stood up to bombing: not at all well.

“Not that censorship helped,” Gunnery said. “You’re not supposed to know this, but during the Blitz the army lost a lot of men through desertion. Worried about their families. Newspapers told them nothing. Phones didn’t work.”

“That was nobody’s fault,” Rollo muttered. “Bombs smash things.”

“People are brave and they’ll take a lot,” Frobisher said. “But the fact is there was a danger of plague in London in some of those stinking tunnels used as unofficial shelters, and after Liverpool got bombed there were riots and looting, and when Churchill visited Bristol he got booed.”

“He got cheered,” Rollo said: “I saw it on a newsreel.”

“And booed. That bit got censored.”

“The decision has been reached,” Gunnery said. “The best thing we can do about the Blitz is leave it quietly alone until the war is over.”

Rollo swallowed his dregs. “I’m obviously wasting my time here,” he said, “I might as well go off and join the Grenadier Guards.”

“Certainly not. A man of your talents? Unthinkable. No, we have an urgent project that’s exactly right for you. I want you to go and make a film about RAF Bomber Command.”

Rollo was astonished. “Me? Why me? I hate airplanes.”

“But you love your country. And right now, Bomber Command is the only part of the Armed Services that is regularly dropping high explosive on the black heart of the enemy.”

“People need to see that,” Frobisher said. “Seeing it will do them good. It’ll build up their morale.”

“The squadron we’ve chosen is in Suffolk,” Gunnery said. “Keep the same soundman, if you like. Can you be there tomorrow?”

Blazer thought of his ex-wife and of Desmond, her so-to-speak paying guest, spreading themselves in his flat. “I’ll go today,” he said.

“Splendid. Now let me explain the story.”

The Service Police took Rollo and Kate to RAF Coney Garth and put them in the guardroom. They were given mugs of tea while the Duty Officer was found. He was a sprog pilot officer, totally out of his depth when shown identity documents allegedly from the Crown Film Unit. “You should have been notified,” Rollo told him. “We expected to be expected.”

“I have no orders concerning you.”

He went away, consulted the adjutant, and spent an hour on the phone to London. He finally tracked down Blake Gunnery, who called Air Commodore Russell. “Another cock-up,” Russell said. After a decent interval, lengthy signals from Air Ministry clattered out of the teleprinter at RAF Coney Garth, and the civilians were released.

“A word of advice,” the Duty Officer said. “Don’t make jokes to RAF policemen. Security is no laughing matter in Bomber Command.”

“Can I have my car back?” Rollo asked. “All our film gear is in it.”

“That’s up to the group captain.” The Duty Officer knew from the adjutant that Rafferty had returned in a thoroughly bad temper. “And he’s unavailable at present.”

He drove them to the officers’ quarters. “Mr. Blazer’s room is here. Miss Kelly is staying at the Waafery.” This startled her. “All the Waafs live over there.” He pointed to a distant cluster of pine trees. “The policy is strict separation. Rather a long walk, I’m afraid. A bicycle is useful.”

“Oh no. That’s impossible,” she said. “We work as a team, you see. We’ve never been separated since the day we married.” She ruffled Rollo’s hair. “Happiest day of his life,” she told the Duty Officer. “I have to keep reminding him.”

“What lies you do tell,” Rollo said.

The Duty Officer looked at his clipboard. “Mr. Blazer and Miss Kelly. That’s my information.”

“I keep my maiden name for professional purposes. Haven’t you got married quarters? A place this size…” her left hand fluttered, the one with the wedding ring.

Recently, Bomber Command had decided that aircrew wives should not live on the base; it divided their husbands’ attention: bad for morale. The Duty Officer took Rollo and Kate to married quarters and installed them in a house. Rollo looked out of an upper window. Nothing was happening; the aerodrome was a desert. “Is it always as quiet as this?” he asked.

“Good God, no. Ops have been scrubbed. The chaps have gone to town. Newmarket, Bury St. Edmunds. I’ll get your suitcases sent over. You can have dinner in the Ladies’ Room adjoining the Mess. I’m afraid the Mess is strictly men-only.” He left.

She was testing the springs of a creaky double bed. “You may kiss the bride,” she said.

“A word of advice. Don’t say it unless you mean it.” They sat on opposite sides of the bed and looked at each other. He thought: Why risk it? She thought: Do I mean it? She said: “Nobody knows what they mean until they hear how it sounds.”

He blinked three times. She knew what that meant: he didn’t understand and he was too tired and hungry to think more about it. “You were pretty slick with that wedding ring,” he said.

“I carry it for protection. It scares away wolves.”

His scalp itched a little, and he touched the scar, for luck. “You think you’re smart,” he said. “Well, I’ve got news for you. You are smart.” He stood up. That was enough for one evening.

They had dinner in the Ladies’ Room, alone, and went to the camp cinema. Most seats were empty. They sat near the MO, who seemed half-asleep. While they waited for the lights to go down, Rollo introduced himself and Kate. “Pretty dull today, wasn’t it?” he said. “We’re in the film business. Came here looking for action.”

“I’m in the piles business.” The MO spoke blankly. “I don’t need to look. Aircrew come to me. All that sitting. Hours and hours.” His eyelids closed, and then flickered open. “Any time you want to film piles, I’ll show you the best in Bomber Command.”

The film turned out to be a dull comedy. Rollo and Kate left halfway through. By ten they were in bed and asleep like any old married couple.

Next morning, Rafferty felt much better. After all, he’d torn a large strip off that carping old pongo, Barriton. The sun shone. He’d had a signal from Air Ministry that bucked him up, no end. He got Air Commodore Russell on the blower and confirmed it: 409 had been chosen to star in a film.

He’d served with Charlie on the Northwest Frontier of India, dropping bombs on fanatical tribesmen to teach them not to get bolshy with the British Raj. “We had some bloody good fun in the Khyber Pass, didn’t we?” he said.

“You and I put the wind up the Fakir of Ipi, all right. What a frightful blighter he was. Thought he was safe in his mountain stronghold.”

“Nobody was safe when you were around, Charlie. Man, woman or mountain goat.” They laughed until it hurt.

“This cinema-thing,” Russell said. “Get it right, Tiny. There could be bags of kudos in it.”