Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“That’s utterly asinine.”

“You’re the expert in that field.” He hustled her out, just as Rollo came downstairs. “What was all that about?” Rollo asked. “They’re not in love,” Kate said.

“Neither are we. That makes two happy couples. She’s stunning, isn’t she?”

“Forget it, Rollo. She’s mad and you’re nuts. Think of the children.”

As soon as they were out of sight of the aerodrome, Silk pulled off the road and stopped. Zoë kicked aside the sacking and got into the front seat. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Where can we get a good black market breakfast?”

Sunlight streamed through ancient oaks and dappled the Frazer-Nash. A pair of hefty cart-horses wandered up to a fence and blinked at the visitors. In the distance, a thrush tried out variations on an original theme. It was a scene made for lovers. Rollo Blazer would have shot it at once, before he lost the light.

“What a ghastly woman you are,” Silk said.

“Abuse like that is slightly premature, darling. Save it until we’re in bed.”

“You’re worse than your bloody mother. At least she was honest about her greed. You can’t be honest about anything, can you?”

“If we don’t have breakfast, then we can’t have sex. That’s not blackmail, it’s pure biology. And I was honest about those Socialist overalls. Too honest for you, Silko. Start the car, before I eat one of those charmingly rustic horses.”

Silk got out, and took the keys with him. It was easier to deal with Zoë from a distance. “You lie about everything. I can’t take that. Everyone cheats a bit, but you… You never had a baby, did you?”

She was too hungry to argue, so she did the next best thing and gave a smile of childish innocence. “How did you know?”

“Absence of stretch marks.”

“Clever Silko. Not so slow, after all.”

“And I doubt if your mother’s in Dublin.”

“No. In Kentucky. For the racing.”

“And all that junk about charity funds and the special constable and being a jinx popsy was all junk.”

“No. I had a fling with a couple of pilots, both killed in action. Anyway, nothing really mattered after I lost Tony. Mummy did a bunk to America to escape the Blitz. Maybe I should have gone too. Everyone else was being frightfully patriotic and I honestly didn’t give a damn. There you are, Silko: a bit of your foul honesty at last.” She got out of the car and stood with her face turned away from him. “Why don’t you ask me what I’m really doing here? I came looking for Tony, and don’t tell me it was very foolish. I told myself that a hundred times. I honestly didn’t expect to find you. You were a big surprise.”

“So you adopted me as a sort of substitute Tony. Is that the truth?”

No answer.

“I still don’t see why you had to lie so much. You’re such a fraud, Zoë.”

“And you’re such a prig, Silko.”

That hurt. That drew blood. “I don’t mind being fucked about,” he said, “but I can’t stand being buggered about.” He checked his watch. “Look: I’m on duty soon.”

He drove her to Bury St. Edmunds railway station. Neither of them spoke until it was time to say goodbye. “Has the squadron still got that lovely boxer dog?” she asked. “Handyman? I gave him to 409 as a mascot.”

“Got knocked down in the road,” Silk said. “Dead.”

Zoë looked him in the eyes. “You couldn’t even lie about that, could you?” she said sadly. “You’re hopeless, Silko.” She kissed him on the lips and walked away, leaving him feeling that he had found the truth and it wasn’t worth the price he had paid, so he should have stuck with the lies.

Too late now. He got back to Coney Garth just in time to hear that he was on ops. Bloody Bremen again. Good. When all else failed, there was always bombing.

Rafferty always found time to visit wounded aircrew, but Skull wasn’t aircrew and he had no serious injuries, so Rafferty asked the Ops Officer, Bellamy, to pop in and see the chap.

Skull was in bed, eating porridge. He was unshaven and the spoon seemed heavy. There was a small cut on his nose. Bellamy asked how he was feeling.

“Somewhat sluggish. The brain feels like…” He gazed at the porridge, and finally shook his head.

“You’re probably still a bit doped.”

“Sometimes I can smell flak. It smells strange. Pungent.” Speaking was like laying bricks: every word had to be found and placed. “Flak is close when…” He aimed his spoon at nothing. “When you can smell it.”

“Still, you got back, didn’t you? Takes a lot to stop a Wimpy.”

Skull licked the spoon and thought. “Cold treacle,” he said carefully. “Brain feels like…” He yawned hugely. “Feels like… Damn. Forgotten again.”

“Treacle. Doesn’t matter.” Bellamy took the porridge bowl from Skull’s hand before he spilled it. “You should get some sleep.”

“Flak. Horrible. We were lost, Bellamy. Stooged about, looking for… um… Essen. Half an hour, in the flak, over the Ruhr. Big mistake.” Skull clutched Bellamy’s sleeve. “I know a better way.”

“I see. Well, I suppose you’d better tell me, so I can tell the Wingco.”

“Forget the damn target. Forget bloody Krupp’s. Bomb Essen. Then—go.”

“Bomb the city? I honestly don’t think that’s on the cards, old boy”

“The kites have to fly round and round. In all that flak.”

Bellamy took Skull’s hand from his sleeve. “Right, I’ve got the message. You get some rest.”

“A Wimpy blew up.” To Bellamy’s horror there were tears on Skull’s face. “And we never even bombed Essen. We never even found Essen.”

Bellamy reported to Rafferty that Skull was exhausted and not making much sense. The sight of flak seemed to have unbalanced him. “Kept babbling about making the city the target, the whole city. At least I think that’s what he meant.”

“That’s what happens when you put a Cambridge don in uniform,” Rafferty said. “I don’t want our tame Yank going anywhere near him. See to it, would you?”

Colonel Kemp was found in a hangar, watching a Wellington get an engine change. He knew of Skull’s Essen op, and was impressed by it. He hoped the wound wasn’t serious.

“Concussion,” Bellamy said. “They’re taking X-rays. Meanwhile, absolute quiet. No visitors, I’m afraid. Poor chap’s incoherent at times.”

“Good Lord. What hit him? A shell splinter?”

“Nothing hit him. He tripped over the main spar and landed on his head. We warned him beforehand, but you know what these academic types are like. They live in a world of their own.”

Colonel Kemp nodded, and made a mental note: beware the main spar. He was determined to go on an op, and soon.

At Coney Garth, the group captain was king. Just the sight of four rings on a sleeve was enough to make a corporal square his shoulders and look alert. It was enough to make an AC2 scuttle out of sight. But at High Wycombe, in Buckinghamshire, group captains were small change.

High Wycombe was the headquarters of Bomber Command. Its C-in-C, Air Marshal Sir Richard Peirse, had flown with the Royal Naval Air Service in World War One and gone on to build a solid career in the RAF. He knew very well that, having been given Bomber Command, he had to defend it. Whispers had reached him that the Prime Minister might be having second thoughts about strategic bombing, whatever that meant. Downing Street had asked for certain files and photographs to be sent to a civil servant, name of Butt, and that was bad enough, but this Butt was an economist by training, a youngster of twenty-seven, not long down from Cambridge. It was known that Butt had visited the PRU at Danesfield, several times, and not to ogle the delightful Constance Babington Smith, either. What the devil was going on? The chief of Bomber Command—an air marshal and a knight of the realm—couldn’t very well ask young Butt what he was up to. However, there was no reason why Champion, not much older than Butt and also a Cambridge man, shouldn’t continue the friendship begun at King’s and invite Butt to lunch at his club.