Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“You know 409, Charles. Bull’s-eye every time.”

Rafferty asked the Wingco to pop in, and gave him the good news. “Feather in the cap, eh? They could have picked any squadron in the Command, and they chose yours. Once in a blue moon, Air Ministry gets it right. Congratulations, Pug.”

“Thank you, sir. A film, you say. For training purposes?”

“No, no, no. A real film. It’ll be shown in the cinema, Pug! In every bally cinema in the land. In the world, probably.”

“Except Germany, sir.”

“Don’t bet on it, old boy. I’m sure the Luftwaffe will want to see it. I think it’s time we met these movie-makers, don’t you?”

Rafferty asked his secretary to find them. She was Sergeant Felicity Parks, without doubt the prettiest Waaf on the base. Rank had its privileges.

Rafferty was surprised to find that the Crown film crew consisted of two.

“I’m cameraman, writer and director,” Rollo said. “She records sound and corrects my spelling and makes the sandwiches.”

“Very economical,” Rafferty said.

“You don’t need a mob to shoot a film. Hollywood thinks you do, but everyone in Hollywood wears jodhpurs and cravats.” Blazer was in a faded brown corduroy suit. Kate was in gray slacks and an old navy peajacket. “We’ll melt into the background, group captain. You won’t even know we’re here.”

“I doubt that… Well, here’s the set-up. Strictly speaking, I look after two squadrons, but one operates from a satellite field down the road. They fly old Fairey Battles which tow target drogues for trainee gunners to shoot at, deadly dull. Don’t bother with them. Here we have 409 Squadron with Wellingtons, led by Wing Commander Duff. A crack outfit, if I say so.” He pointed to a large board on the wall behind his desk. It listed the names of German cities, beginning with Wilhelmshaven. A second board was already half-full. “409’s score-card. Tomorrow there should be another name. Bomber Command hasn’t rested since the day war was declared.”

Rollo read, and was impressed. “Is there any town you haven’t hit? Stuttgart, Berlin, Magdeburg, Stettin, Hamm, Osnabruck… Berlin again. You really like Bremen and Hamburg, don’t you? Also Kiel and Cologne and Hanover and…” He gave up.

“It’s fair to say that 409 has made its mark,” Pug Duff said. His modesty was enormous. “And not just in the Third Reich. We attack French targets too: Lorient, Boulogne, Brest. Some of the boys even popped over to Italy, once. Bombed Turin.” It sounded like a bank-holiday excursion. “Enough about us. Tell me your plans.”

“We’re here to catch the action,” Rollo said. “Film the flying, capture the guts and the gallantry. The idea is to show people exactly what Bomber Command does. No actors. Real airmen. No glamour, no ballyhoo, no propaganda. Just the real thing. We want to film the truth as it happens. Couldn’t be simpler.”

“Can I get something straight?” Kate asked. “A wing commander is a squadron commander?”

“Correct,” Duff said.

“So what does a squadron leader do?”

“A squadron leader is a flight commander.”

“Satisfied now?” Rollo said to her.

“It’s how Bomber Command operates,” Rafferty said. “We’re big business. RAF Coney Garth is more than a mile square. Airfield, a thousand yards long. Personnel total twelve hundred.”

“It’s going to be tough to squeeze all that into the frame,” Rollo said. “Perhaps we could start by taking a look around the station. Get an overall impression.”

Rafferty agreed. “Jolly good idea. We’ll lay on a guide.”

“Unfortunately I have business to attend to,” Duff said. “Let me see…I think Flying Officer Lomas is free this morning.”

Handshakes all round. The visitors went away with Sergeant Felicity Banks to find Lomas.

Rafferty was in good spirits. “They seem to know their business, don’t they? And they don’t want to interfere with your duties, which is nice. I can’t see any problems, can you?”

“Piece of cake, sir.”

Flying Officer Lomas was a lanky, bony six-footer, aged twenty-two. He was nicknamed Polly, because he had a nose like a parrot. His right arm was in a sling.

“Enemy action?” Rollo asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Playing rugger in the Mess, with a cushion for a ball Got trodden on by Beef Benton, stupid elot. Cracked a wrist.”

He showed them around the station; a great number of brick buildings linked by asphalt paths.

“Tell me something,” Kate said. “What’s the worst part about bombing Germany? The absolute worst?”

“Weather. Winds, cold, fog.”

Rollo glanced at Kate. “That’s going to look damn dull on the screen,” he said.

“Most bomber ops are dull,” Lomas said. “Fly there, bomb the target, fly home. Six hours in the air and you end up with a numb bum. Would you like to see the airfield?”

RAF Coney Garth was restlessly busy. There was always a Wellington warming up or taking off, or cruising around the circuit, or landing. Groundcrew came and went, on bikes, in vans or trucks. The Tannoy never ran out of information. “Ops tonight, am I right?” Rollo said. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Lomas laughed, and looked away. “All terribly hush-hush, I’m afraid. Do you know Ginger Rogers? Working in films must be jolly interesting.”

On their way back he met a young pilot officer, as ruddy as a plowboy. “This is Harry Chester,” Lomas said. “Not a bad golfer. Completely hopeless in a Wimpy.” They chatted. Chester glanced at Kate as often as he dared.

“You look like the dangerous sort,” she said. “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve come across in 409?”

Chester grinned. “Oh, riding the Grand National, without a doubt. It’s a game we play in the Mess on Guest Nights and suchlike. You put a sofa on its back and ride into it on a bicycle, flat out, so you go flying over the top. Whoever flies furthest wins. Damned hairy! Good fun, though.”

They thanked Lomas and Chester, and said goodbye.

“They won’t talk,” Rollo said. “Why won’t they talk? We’re not the enemy.”

“And we’re not members of their club,” Kate said. “We don’t belong here. That’s why.”

“Well, it’s not bloody good enough.”

The business that Pug Duff had to attend to involved a fight.

Every aircrew officer had a number of airmen whose conduct and welfare were his concern. In Flight Lieutenant Silk’s case the men were in the Motor Transport Section. One of them, LAC Piggott, had allegedly caused an affray in the guardroom while signing out of camp. Now Piggott and Silk were in front of Wing Commander Duff, who was trying to decide whether or not this was a court-martial offense. He was reading Piggott’s statement. “You say you entered the guardroom and the SP on duty, Corporal Black, declared,

‘Hello, Manky Piggott, you Welsh bastard. How much petrol you stole today?’ Is that correct?”

“Sir.”

“So you hit him.”

“He poked me with his pencil, sir.”

“So you hit him.”

“I hit him back , sir. He poked me first. Self-defense, sir.”

“He’s got a fractured jaw.”

“Slipped an” fell, sir. Bashed “is face on the floor.”

Duff clenched his teeth. He looked at Silk. “Extreme provocation and defamation, sir,” Silk said. “Piggott isn’t Welsh, he’s Scottish. And the term ‘manky’: highly offensive, sir.”

“It means scruffy, dirty, squalid. That’s what Piggott is. You’re known as Manky Piggott from end to end of this camp, aren’t you?” Piggott couldn’t find a helpful answer, so he stayed silent. Duff massaged his brow. Airmen must not hit policemen. Corporal Black was all mouth and no brain. Piggott was a good mechanic, and Coney Garth was short of mechanics. Policemen were two a penny. What mattered most? Operational efficiency. He looked up.