Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“But that wasn’t flak,” Kate said. “They desynchronized the engines and the Wimpy got the shakes.” Gunnery made a face. “Well, it’s true,” she said. “Rollo got the pilot to explain, but the vibration shook his voice and he sounded scared, so we cut it.”

“Nobody has the shakes,” Gunnery said. “Under no circumstances is our pilot scared.”

“I liked what the navigator said,” Frobisher remarked. “When he spoke to the pilot about flying a zigzag. Nice detail.”

“He can recite Eskimo Nell , for all I care,” Gunnery said. “If I can’t see his face, the shot’s useless.”

“Everyone goes on oxygen at eight thousand,” Kate said. “The intercom mike is inside the mask. Rollo was simply showing ops the way they are.”

“Tough men doing a tough job,” Frobisher added.

“That’s exactly what the film doesn’t show,” Gunnery said. “Our audience wants faces, not masks. Emotions, reactions, expressions.” He got off the desk and prowled around the room. “Which reminds me. In that scene where they all get briefed for the raid—stupefyingly rigid performances, by the way—somebody tells the crews to attack at low level.”

“Rollo put that in the script, so that we could get a good shot of the target,” Kate explained. “Actually, crews hate low-level raids.”

“Well, it won’t wash. You can’t have a low-level raid and show the crew on oxygen. Can you?” Nobody argued.

Coffee was brought in. Gunnery took a phone call, signed some letters, looked at his watch. “Right!” he said. “Let’s put this unhappy baby to bed, once and for all. It has three incurable faults: sound, light and people. Take sound. All those creaky voices on the intercom. No good.”

“It’s the only way they can talk,” Kate protested.

“Too thin. Too weak. Next, the light. That bomber was as dark as the tomb.”

“Lights are dangerous. Night fighters are on the look-out.”

“No doubt, but we hardly ever see the crew, do we? The best piece of human interest is that close-up of a pair of female hands, very bloody, strapping up a horrible gash in somebody’s buttock.”

“Kate,” Frobisher said. “Deserves a gong.”

“Agreed, but she’s not getting one. 409 Squadron never knew she was on the plane and they don’t want to know about it now. Crown Films can’t show a woman on an op, and of all the brave wounds suffered in action, the last thing our audience needs to look at is a bloody bottom.”

“Rollo couldn’t film what he couldn’t see,” Kate said.

“Forget it,” Gunnery told her. “You both did your best.”

“Nobody can do more,” Frobisher said.

“Well…” She made a gesture of despair. “It was such a good idea. Rollo would have hated to see it scrapped.”

Gunnery sipped his coffee. “The idea’s not scrapped. Good heavens, no. It didn’t work with 409 Squadron, but valuable lessons have been learned. We move forward. Northeast, to be precise. To RAF Mildenhall, also in Suffolk, and to 149 Squadron, also flying Wellingtons. We try again. We’re going to film the actual crew of F-Freddie, on a typical raid.”

“I don’t see how,” Kate said.

“The idea’s right. We just have to make it work.”

He thanked her, and she left.

“I never had any faith in pure documentary, from the word go,” Gunnery said. “Shoot and hope: that never works. But Tim Delahaye insisted that we try something different.”

“War and documentary don’t mix,” Frobisher agreed. “Too many cock-ups.”

“Mmm.” Gunnery stood in the middle of the room, his arms folded, his head bent. He was looking at the wandering pattern in the carpet but he was remembering some of the film that Rollo Blazer had shot over Germany. Brilliant, terrifying images, far too real to be shown in a cinema. “The audience wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

Asprog pilot officer arrived to replace Skull. He was fat, balding, nervous. “Don’t worry if you put up a few blacks,” Skull told him. “Nobody pays any attention to what Intelligence says. What did you do before the RAF?”

“Lecturer. Camborne School of Mines, Cornwall.”

“What a shame. Well, you forget I asked, and I’ll forget you told me.”

Skull didn’t feel charitable to anyone. Now that Bins didn’t need him, the adjutant took the opportunity to make Skull the Duty Officer as often as possible. The worst part of this was having to walk through the Airmen’s Mess with the Duty NCO and call out, “Any complaints?” A complaint might oblige him to taste the meal. One day he took a spoonful of soup and said he felt it would benefit from a hint of Worcester sauce. The Duty NCO rolled his eyes. After that, so many airmen complained about the lack of Worcester sauce in the food that Skull bought a bottle and gave it to the cooks. Now the same airmen complained of too much Worcester sauce. Sometimes they were right.

The adjutant heard about it. “You do everything the hard way, don’t you, Skull?” he said. “If you continue like this, you’re going to have a thoroughly unhappy war.”

“I didn’t realize war was supposed to be happy, Uncle.”

They were standing by the flare-path caravan, waiting in the dusk to wave off the Wellingtons. Gardening at Boulogne. Easy op for sprog crews.

“I’ll tell you this for nothing.” The adjutant took him by the arm and led him away from the crowd. “There’s no profit in looking for trouble. Your problem is you’re personally offended when you discover a cock-up. Believe me, there’s always a cock-up. It’s in the nature of war. Whoever said truth is the first casualty arrived late on the scene. The first casualty of war is the plan, Skull. The first plan always fails. Usually the second plan does, often the third, too. Then, with a bit of luck, the next plan works, and we win. That’s my experience.”

“Not a thrilling prospect, is it, Uncle?”

“All the more reason to cheer up. Look optimistic, even if you’re not. It’s the least you can do for the chaps. Most of these boys are going to get the chop, aren’t they? Two out of three, probably. They deserve to believe it’s all worthwhile. That’s the least we can do for them.”

They strolled back and joined the others. Fifteen minutes later, when the last Wimpy was climbing away, Skull felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Bellamy. “A word in your ear,” he said.

“Oh dear. More good advice.”

They sat in Bellamy’s car, in total darkness. “I’ll get straight to the point,” he said. “Someone has gone over my head and complained to Group HQ about the procedure of air-testing radios before ops.”

“Not I. I never complain. Nobody listens.”

“Well, somebody’s rocked the boat, and I clearly remember you chuntering on to me about the enemy intercepting my radio instructions at takeoff. Utter bilge, and I told you so. These VHF transmissions have a very short range. Twenty-five miles at most.”

“Then we’re safe. Huzzah.”

“No, we’re not bloody safe. I mean, we shall be, but…” Bellamy depressed the clutch and worked the gear stick up through its changes and back down again. “Forget the VHF. The wireless op’s main transmitter-receiver has a range of hundreds of miles. Up until now, every wireless op has air-tested this set, well before takeoff.”

“Ah-ha,” Skull said.

“It is thought the Germans have been listening to our air tests.” Bellamy sounded as if he had been cheated at cards. “Estimating the size of the raid. Even the timing.”

“Of course they’ve been listening. They’re not stupid. We listen to them, don’t we?”