Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“Symptoms. His temperature’s high, he’s got abdominal pain, there are shivering fits and some other signs that might indicate food poisoning. But…”

“Toast and coffee. That’s all he had for breakfast.”

“Yes. I checked with the Mess. And nobody else has gone down with food poisoning. There’s another possibility. I can’t prove it, but I suspect the dental extraction is behind all this.”

“That damn tooth,” Kate said.

“Not the tooth itself. However, there might have been an abscess in the tissues near the tooth. Maybe the extraction exposed the abscess. If it burst, and some of the pus escaped into the stomach…” The MO shrugged.

“It would be like food poisoning?”

“Rather worse, I imagine.”

“Can you do anything for him?”

“The best solution is for his digestive system to pass this revolting matter in the normal fashion, as soon as possible. So we’ll purge his bowels. By this time tomorrow his innards should be empty and the patient well on the way to recovery.”

“What if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ve just had an idea. Why don’t you pop down the corridor and have a chat with Skull? He’s getting bored. I think he’ll be fit for duty soon.”

Kate went off to see Skull. The MO telephoned Group Captain Rafferty. “Mr. Blazer is in a stable condition, sir,” he reported.

“Good. When I heard about him, my first thought was he’d got a bad case of twitch. He was due to go on ops tonight, with Q-Queenie. Wouldn’t be the first chap to develop galloping cold feet, would he?”

“True, sir. But Mr. Blazer is genuinely sick.”

“I see. Well, keep me informed.”

In the evening, Skull was wandering about Sick Quarters in search of company and conversation, when he stopped at an open door. Rollo Blazer was in bed. “Hello,” he said. “What happened to you?”

Rollo whispered: “Wrath of God.”

Skull went closer and saw that Rollo’s face was as white as paper. “I say… Did you go on ops?”

“Did I?” Only Rollo’s lips moved. “No. Not me.”

Skull took the temperature chart from the bed-rail and examined it. “You’ve been up and down like a kangaroo.” He replaced the chart. “Not that I have any experience of kangaroos.”

He had nothing more to say, but it seemed discourteous to leave. He sat on the only chair. Rollo lay as still as a stone. Once, his eyes flickered toward Skull, but the effort was too much and they stopped trying. “You went on ops,” he whispered.

“Yes, that’s true. I did.” Skull realized that he was speaking strongly, as if it made up for Rollo’s feeble voice. “We went to Essen. Not a nice place. Other than that, I can’t seem to remember anything of interest. Dreadfully cold, Germany, I do remember that. People said it would be hot, but my recollection is of extreme cold.” By now, Rollo’s eyelids were almost closed. “Well, I mustn’t trespass on your hospitality any further,” Skull said. He left, treading softly.

By 1941 all Wellingtons had self-sealing fuel tanks. If a bullet holed a tank, escaping petrol reacted with an inner layer of rubber compound that lined the tank, the compound rapidly expanded, the hole was plugged. But nothing could seal a hole the size of a pumpkin.

Over Bremen, Q-Queenie got bracketed by heavy flak that tossed her about like a boy in a blanket. All the wing tanks were ripped open and the undercarriage came down. Soon the engines were coughing, and with the added drag of the wheels, Polly Lomas had to descend. He caught sight of moonlight glistening on concrete and was sure it was a stretch of autobahn. He made an excellent landing on what turned out to be a runway in a Luftwaffe airfield. The crew set Queenie on fire, as orders required, and the blaze brought German guards at high speed. Within minutes, Lomas and his men were in the bag.

At Coney Garth, D-Dog was the last Wimpy to return. Bins asked the usual questions and was relieved when Silk seemed to agree that they had bombed Bremen. “Did you definitely hit the target?” he asked. Silk said: “We did better than that. We hit two breweries and the naval officers’ brothel.” Everyone laughed. Even Bins smiled as he wrote: Target definitely hit. “Damned good show,” Rafferty said.

He waited up until it was impossible for Q-Queenie to be in the air. No distress signal. No reports from other airfields. Nothing from the Observer Corps. “Let’s turn in.” he said to Bellamy.

“Yes, sir. Just as well Mr. Blazer didn’t go with Lomas, isn’t it? The chaps are becoming a bit leery of this film business. They think Blazer’s turning into a Jonah.”

“Superstition,” Rafferty said. “It’s as bad as fact.” He went to bed.

Kate slept poorly, worried about Rollo. She wasted her anxiety. Late in the morning she got a message: Rollo was awake and insisting on seeing her. She found him sitting up in bed, eating scrambled white of egg and drinking sweet tea from a pint mug. “What have I missed?” he asked.

“My God, you look awful. You look as if you’ve risen from the grave on a wet Wednesday in Stepney”

“Do I? Well, I’ve risen, that’s the main thing.” There was nothing in his voice but faint impatience. “Come on, what have I missed?”

“Not a damn thing. The squadron got the day off today, so the crews are out playing cricket, and I’ve washed my hair.” She said nothing about the Bremen raid. No point in upsetting him.

“Q-Queenie,” he said. “Got the chop, didn’t she?” His flat voice made it sound even worse.

“For God’s sake.” Kate was angry, and she walked away from him. “You knew what you missed, so why ask?”

“Skull told me.”

“Of course he did. Intelligence knows everything.”

“The MO told Skull.”

“All in a day’s work,” she said. “Just another crew gone west. I’m beginning to hate this job.”

Rollo was eating steadily, and watching her. “Can’t quit now,” he said. “Think of the première.”

“Yeah. Rollo’s not dead, so it’s all very funny” She went out.

“Be ready tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll be in action.”

He was wrong. He recovered his strength remarkably quickly, but the MO made him stay in Sick Quarters for another day. Even so, he didn’t miss anything. In the morning, 409 was on standby for Gardening at Rotterdam; then the target was changed to Brest; and at four p.m. the whole operation was scrubbed. Much waiting; no trade. There were many days like that.

Silk went to his room and wrote a note to Zoë which turned into a very long letter. He re-read the pages and despaired. What a lot of cock. The jokes were obvious, the emotions were cheap, and self-pity leaked between the lines. It was lust disguised as sentimentality. He tore the letter into small pieces, threw them into a waste basket, distrusted his batman and flushed the bits down the toilet.

He slept for an hour and took a shower. The evening looked beautiful. He saw vast, unlimited quantities of clean air and a honey-colored sky getting ready to perform its grand finale, the stunning sunset. He skipped dinner and went for a walk with his golf club around the perimeter track. He reached the dispersal bays and he was halfway through his usual game, which involved chipping the ball over each Wimpy in turn, when Pug Duff drove by and stopped. “Get in!” he shouted.

Silk played his shot and walked over to the car. “British Museum, cabby,” he said, “and drive like the wind.” He got in.

They went to the furthest corner of the field. “Finest mushrooms in Suffolk,” Duff said. The grass was thickly dotted with them, as white as plates. “You’re lucky I got enough bacon for two.”