Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

The Wingco waited until noon, just in case Command changed its mind, before he had the Tannoy request Mr. Blazer’s presence in his office. “I just want to confirm that your trip is on,” he said. “Flight Lieutenant Gilchrist’s C-Charlie will carry one bomb less to Essen, to compensate for the weight of you and the film equipment.”

“Good show,” Rollo said. “What’s so special about Essen?”

“Krupp’s steel works. Peach of a target. Gilchrist will tell you the drill for takeoff. Pay special attention to your parachute. It’s got three handles. Pick it up by the wrong handle and you’ll fill the kite with acres of silk. Well, good luck.”

Colonel Kemp had been impressed by 409. He admired the clipped and matter-of-fact speech of the officers at briefing, and the quiet confidence of the crews’ reports at interrogation. These were no war games. This was the real thing, and he felt privileged to meet men who risked everything to damage the enemy and made no fuss about it and might be dead tomorrow.

He called Charlie Russell, who ran Press and PR at Air Ministry, and said he’d very much like to go back. Russell looked at the golden sunshine and gave himself a day off. He collected Kemp from the embassy and drove to Coney Garth. He made sure that Kemp was happy in the Mess, talking to the flight commanders, and he went to see Rafferty.

“You’ve had this movie-maker chap from Crown Films for some time, haven’t you?” he said, “I get nothing out of Crown, and of course the Ministry of Information tells me sod all, it’s full of nancy-boys who sleep in a hairnet, so I thought I’d stooge over here and ask how the film’s coming along.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a better day, Charlie. We’re on ops tonight and the cameraman’s in a Wimpy. It’s Essen. He’s pleased as punch.”

“Essen.” The air commodore went for a slow walk around the room. “Essen means… Krupp’s? Thought so. Fancy that. Essen.”

“He wants action shots. Flak and stuff.”

“From what I hear of Essen, he’ll be able to get out and walk on it.”

Rafferty detected a lack of enthusiasm. “All the more exciting, surely. He keeps saying he wants to show an op as it really is.”

“A Wimpy going down in flames. Will he show that? No. Won’t show Essen either, unless by a miracle a gale springs up and blows away all their industrial fug. And if the Huns create their usual smokescreen, he won’t see many bomb strikes. Of course, it’s your decision, Tiny”

“Not too late to change, Charlie.”

“Entirely up to you. All I’m saying is Essen is a bloody dangerous target, and if this fellow gets killed trying to film a supposedly first-class squadron in action, then 409 will have put up a very large black.”

“Point taken.”

“And here are two other things that are none of my business. Colonel Kemp is here. There are Americans like him, air attachés so-called, hanging around Bomber Command bases everywhere.”

“Jolly good type, I thought.”

“Yes. They see, they hear, they report to Washington. The American people think highly of our precision bombing. Not like the Nazis, who bomb indiscriminately, and hit towns, civilians, schools, hospitals, women and children. No mercy at all. By contrast, the RAF only bombs military targets. We never bomb civilians. Now, Kemp is going to be present at today’s briefing.”

“Ah. You’d like Bins to…”

“The IO? Yes. Get him to stress how crucial it is to bomb Krupp’s and Krupp’s alone. No risk to innocent civilians, Tiny. Of course the last thing I want to do is interfere.”

“Quite. And there was another matter you wished to discuss?”

Russell wandered away and looked out of the window. “You’ve got another IO called Skull. I hear worrying things about Skull. He seems to enjoy picking holes in the crews’ reports after ops. That’s bad for morale. I’m an outsider, of course. You must do as you see fit. But please keep your Skull away from my Colonel Kemp.”

“Nothing easier, Charlie,” Rafferty said. “Consider it done.”

The group captain met the Wingco after lunch and they agreed on all points. What was gratifying was the way all three solutions interlocked.

They told Rollo Blazer he was not going to Essen. Inevitably, he asked why; the man was a civilian, after all. “Operational reasons,” Duff said. Rollo had no answer. His fate was postponed. He didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or not. He felt helpless, and went away.

They sent for Bins. He understood his orders at once. “While you’re here,” Rafferty said, “how is Skull fitting in? Any problems?”

“He knows his job. I wish he’d stick to it, sir. He can’t leave well alone. As you know, we still drop Nickels from time to time. I just found him with a handful of leaflets, translating the German and ridiculing the contents. That’s the sort of thing he does.”

“Send for him, would you, Bins?” Rafferty said. “And tell him to bring the leaflets.”

Skull arrived, and was surprised to be offered a seat. Rafferty was not normally so cordial to junior Intelligence Officers. The Wingco was already straddling a chair, nibbling at a thumbnail without much success. There was little to nibble. Bins retired to a corner and folded his arms.

“What d’you make of that bumf?” Rafferty asked.

“It’s simple-minded, sir. It’s a crude attempt to subvert German morale with threats of increased bombing. It assumes that German resistance is weaker than ours. Not very clever.” He stopped. Rafferty wasn’t listening.

“You have just quoted from a secret document, flight lieutenant. Have you got permission so to do?”

“You asked me what I made of it, sir.”

“I never told you to read it, let alone translate it and analyze it. Are you aware that Nickels are covered by the Official Secrets Act?”

“It can’t be secret if millions of Germans have read it, sir.”

“Who says?” Rafferty growled, and Skull was smart enough not to answer. “You are in breach of the Official Secrets Act. That is a very, very serious offense in wartime.”

Duff abandoned his thumb and put it away for another time.

“I can’t believe the charge would stand up in court, sir,” Skull said.

“Whether or not court-martial proceedings follow is for me to decide. I’m influenced by your general attitude to the war. Are you really putting your shoulder to the wheel, or are you just along for the ride? Let’s take ops. What do you know about ops? I mean, really know. Only what you’ve heard. Is it right for you to question crews about something you don’t understand?”

Duff said: “Bins has been on ops.”

“Gunner in a Hampden,” Bins said. “Kiel.”

“By chance, there’s room for a passenger in C-Charlie tonight,” Rafferty said. “Essen. Of course, you’d have to volunteer.”

Skull reviewed his options. It took him about three seconds. If he refused to volunteer, the news would be all over the station in an hour and the aircrew would treat him with amused contempt and life would be impossible. If he volunteered, death would be very possible. Also violent, terrifying and painful. “The Ruhr,” he said lightly. “It should be an illuminating experience.”

Skull was sick twice before C-Charlie crossed the English coast. It came as no surprise. The only time he had flown before this was to France in September 1939, in a lurching, bumping troop-carrier, and he had been sick then. This time he took several stout paper bags with him.

After throwing up, he had nothing to do.

In the hour before takeoff, the second pilot had explained everything that Skull needed to know: mainly concerning emergencies. He showed him how to clip on his parachute, how to operate it, and where the parachute exits were; also the crash exits. They seemed unnecessarily small and badly positioned for men in bulky flying kit. Skull tried not to think of that. He was shown where the two portable fire extinguishers were stowed. He was shown his crash position: behind the main spar. “Then there’s ditching,” the second pilot said. “I’ll explain that if it happens.”