Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

LAC Barber sat down to thunderous applause.

Someone tugged at Silk’s arm. It was the Wingco. “Come with me,” Hunt said. They went outside. “Is this your idea of entertainment?” It wasn’t a question; it was a charge.

“They seemed to be enjoying it, sir.”

“That display is probably treasonable. It’s certainly contrary to good order and discipline. You’re not an Entertainment Officer, Silk, you’re a disaster. You’re sacked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where the hell have you been all day?”

“Yorkshire, sir. We had a flat tire.” There was a pause. In the darkness, Silk realized the Wingco suspected he was being facetious. “Honestly, sir. You see—”

“I don’t care. There was a time, Silk, when I thought you were a prat. I see now that I flattered you.” The Wingco strode away.

Silk had a quick bath and got dressed and went to the Mess. Tony Langham was drinking with a bunch of pilots and observers. “The motion was carried,” he told Silk, “by a hundred and seventeen votes to three.”

“Good God. Well, Pixie’s taken the job away from me. Was all that stuff true? What LAC Barber said?”

“Every word. Where’ve you been all day?”

“Oh, bollocks,” Silk said.

Langham shrugged. “You always were a bad loser, Silko. Remember the maiden flight of the SE5a? You behaved very badly then, I thought.”

The Wingco appointed another Entertainments Officer. The government grudgingly allowed cinemas, theaters and dance halls to reopen. Bomber Command discovered the reasons for its heavy losses in ops on the second day of the war. The pilots were at fault. Their attacks had been too low and too near the flak batteries on the docks at Wilhelmshaven and Brunsbüttel. Therefore crews should fly higher and concentrate their attacks on ships at sea. It was noticeable that no aircraft had been lost to German fighters. If all crews kept a close formation so as to coordinate their gunnery, British bombers would be more than a match for any fighters.

LAC Barber was posted to an RAF weather station in Orkney.

For the next few weeks, Bomber Command attempted no raids on German warships. 409 Squadron could relax a little. “We’re obviously keeping our powder dry,” Rafferty said. “Keeping Hitler guessing.” But on September 29, two other squadrons sent eleven Hampdens to search the Heligoland area, about fifty miles north of Wilhelmshaven. The bombers were in two formations. One group of six Hampdens found a couple of destroyers, bombed them, missed them, went home. The other group of five Hampdens was swamped by enemy fighters, probably Messerschmitt 109s. That’s what German radio said in its English-language broadcast, and the crews at Kindrick (who were regular listeners) thought it was probably true, because there was no denying the fact that all five Hampdens had been shot down.

Silk, Langham and Duff visited the Intelligence Officer. “Five out of eleven, Bins,” Silk said. “Not a funny joke, is it?”

“Rotten luck.”

“Luck? You reckon it’s just luck?”

“In the absence of hard fact, Command isn’t about to leap to any conclusion. It could have been a freak loss. Maybe some of the guns jammed. Perhaps a collision. Or a Hampden lost an engine and fell out of formation.” Bins shrugged.

“Or they all got struck by lightning,” Langham said. “All five.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Bins sharpened a pencil; he found the chore soothing. “This episode has jogged my memory. Something I haven’t thought of in an age. France, 1917, my squadron got given half a dozen brand new Bristol Fighters. Splendid bus, two-seater. The gunner had a tremendous field of fire. We were ordered to fly these machines in tight formation and use our crossfire to hack down any Hun who came near.”

“Sounds familiar,” Duff said.

“And we lost five Bristol Fighters out of six on the first patrol.”

“Sounds very familiar,” Duff said.

“Still, we won in the end, didn’t we? Despite everything.”

“Hoo bloody ray,” Silk said. They went out and left him still sharpening.

Adolf Hitler was not the only enemy. German measles struck RAF Kindrick.

Not surprisingly, the disease spread rapidly in the ground staff who serviced the bombers: men who worked closely together, messed together, shared the same billets. It spread so fast that the MO stopped sending its victims to the sick bay and instead isolated entire barrack blocks. By then nearly half the ground crew had a fever, swollen lymph glands and a rash that itched like nettle-sting.

Group Captain Rafferty took a dim view of such failings until he began sweating and scratching. He telephoned the Wingco. “I’ve got the fascist pox, don’t come near me, you’re in command,” he said. “Keep the flying personnel healthy, that’s crucial. Use your initiative, I’ll back your decisions, it’s bed for me.”

Hunt telephoned Group HQ and got approval for his plan. He gave “A” Flight three days’ leave. With luck they would escape infection; then “B” Flight—if they were healthy—could disappear for three days. Having only half the squadron available was better than losing everyone to German measles; and in six days the worst might be over.

“London,” Tony Langham said to Silk.

“Can’t. Broke.”

“Use your overdraft.”

“Spent it. Lost it. Blew it on a pair of kings.” When Langham rolled his eyes, Silk said, “I was bluffing. I nearly won the pot, it was a hell of a good bluff, everyone said so. They gave me a standing ovation. What have you got?”

“Couple of quid. Not enough for return tickets to London.”

“Train’s too slow, anyway. Why don’t we drive? Borrow Black Mac’s Bentley, scrounge some petrol, hit the road.”

Black Mac was Flight Lieutenant McHarg, the Armaments Officer, a big man with a dark complexion who had boxed for the RAF at heavyweight. He rarely smiled. “Mac’s a miserable sod. He’ll never lend us his car,” Langham said. “It’s always locked up.”

“I know where he hides his spare key. He’s not going anywhere, he’s got the measles. He resembles a large helping of spotted dick.”

“What about petrol? That Bentley must drink the stuff.”

“I have friends in the MT Section. Sergeant Trimbull will fill her up if I promise him a flip in a Hampden.”

“That’s scandalous,” Langham said. “Has the man no morals?”

The Bentley was open-top, so they wore their fleece-lined flying jackets. McHarg kept his car in excellent condition. The engine had a deep and throaty roar, the gear changes were slick and sure, the big, wide wheels had a love affair with the road. They raced across the flatlands of Lincoln, picked up the Great North Road, stormed down through the shires of Huntingdon and Bedford and Hertford, and were in London too soon. “Damn. The pubs aren’t open,” Silk said.

Langham was driving. He crossed Marble Arch, cruised down Park Lane, turned into Piccadilly. “I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re navigating, Silko. Where can we get food and drink at half-past three?”

“Well, there’s the Ritz hotel on the starboard beam.”

It was a joke. Langham’s couple of quid wouldn’t buy tea and crumpets at the Ritz. He made a U-turn and stopped outside its entrance. A doorman in top hat and tails stepped forward.

“Unbelievably silly mistake,” Langham said to him. “I was sure my friend here had the invitations, and he thought I had. My cousin’s wedding reception.” He gestured helplessly with his wallet, the one without the invitations. “Have you got a large wedding reception in progress? We’re frightfully late, but…”