Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“Really? That was jolly nice of you, Mog. Actually I don’t care much about gongs any more. Flying Defiants, you’ve got your work cut out just getting the crate off the ground… Anyway, I never was a hot-shot pilot, was I? The thing is, I’ve decided I want to do something really worthwhile.” He took a long gulp of beer and wiped his mouth. “You know, something useful. I’m going to be a surgeon.”

“A surgeon.” Cattermole was taken aback.

“Flying’s all very well but… Saving people’s lives, I think I’d enjoy doing that.”

“Hard work, Sticky.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Terrific amount of study. All those veins and bones and things. I’ve started already. Absolutely fascinating.” He took a creased and dog-eared paperback from his hip pocket. It was called So You Want to Be a Surgeon .

“How far have you got?”

“I only bought it this afternoon. Threepence, secondhand. Not bad, eh? I’d like to specialize in legs, I think. I’ve always liked legs… Anyway, that’s enough about me. How’s everybody? I heard Rex bought it. How’s Flip and Moke and Fitz and Flash and Pip and…” He ran out of breath.

“Fitz and Pip are fine,” Cattermole said. “Fine.”

“Good show,” Stickwell said. “Good old Fitz. I always liked Fitz. Damn good sport.”

“Lots of changes. You know how it is.”

“Yes, of course. People come and go.” Stickwell looked around at the noisy, smiling, gesturing mob, and he kept the happy look on his face. He was thinking: That’s not true, people don’t come and go, they just go . But it wasn’t the sort of thing you said. “Funny, the way things work out, isn’t it?” he said. “By the way, congratulations on your gong.”

“Oh, well,” Cattermole said. “They send them round with the Naafi van these days.”

When Fanny Barton came away from the press conference, CH3 was waiting for him.

“Flash has turned up,” he said. “He’s in the hospital at Dover. Stitches in his head, nothing serious. Should be back soon.”

“That’s good. What about Zab?”

“Not so good. Zab’s dead. He was chasing a 109 at very low level and according to some witnesses he hit it and it blew up and he flew slap into the explosion.”

“I see.” Barton looked up at the first stars of the evening. “Nothing much anyone can do about that, then. Let’s get down to the pub.”

CH3 drove. “I’ve just been talking to your old sparring partner, Jacky Bellamy,” Barton said. “Baggy brought her here with a great mob of journalists. She says Sticky’s arrived.”

“Yes, I saw them fly in.”

“Defiants.”

“That’s right.”

“Wasn’t it a Defiant squadron that took a bit of a pasting about a month ago? Presumably not Sticky’s mob, though.”

“The lot you’re thinking about were based at Hawkinge. I ferried a kite in there a couple of days afterward. Everyone was still in a state of shock.”

“They got badly mauled, then.”

“No, they got slaughtered. Nine took off, and seven were either shot down or crashed on landing. The whole disaster took less than ten minutes. Ever seen a Defiant?”

“Not up close. Best 1918 fighter in the world, so they say.”

“It’s worse than that. A Defiant’s got four Brownings in a turret, which is fine as long as the enemy agrees to fly alongside for a few minutes. It’s got nothing firing forward. The turret weighs an extra half a ton, not counting the gunner inside, and there’s no more power up front than in a Hurricane, so it flies like a brick. They call it a Defiant because it defies comprehension.”

“What did all the damage? 109’s?”

“Yes. Ten 109’s from astern and below. Then another ten head-on.”

“Jesus. No wonder they scored seven out of nine.”

“The theory at Hawkinge,” said CH3, “was that Jerry was pissing himself with laughter so much that he missed the last two.”

The landlord had run out of soot. Cattermole persuaded the two blond girls to give him their powder compacts and he mixed the contents with a bottle of red ink on a tin tray. Stickwell was the first man up the pyramid of tables. Most of Hornet squadron had arrived, and they had agreed to make Sticky an honorary member. The pub was jam-packed, and there was prolonged cheering when he made two red footprints on the ceiling. He remained inverted while he sang a song: If You Were the Only Girl in the World . Everyone joined in. It was a pity to waste the pyramid and the red mixture. Fanny arrived. They made the CO of the Defiant squadron an honorary member. He sang Tipperary . There was still plenty of mixture left. The Defiant flight commanders were pushed up the tables. Red footprints marched haphazardly about the ceiling, the singing was full-throated, the drink flowed as freely as the spirit of fellowship. It took the landlord half an hour to clear the bar. Stickwell could scarcely stand: Cattermole held him up and steered him out. “Good old Moggy,” Stickwell said. He was crying with gratitude. “Hey… Just remembered. Something I want to talk about. Money. All that money I spent. Tons of money. What about that money?”

“Don’t worry about it, Sticky,” Cattermole said. “It’s not urgent. You can pay me tomorrow.”

“Good old Moggy.” He fell asleep almost as soon as he was put into the Buick. His cheeks were shining with tears. Cattermole found that oddly disturbing. He took the leather he used for wiping the windscreen and he mopped Stickwell’s face with it. Stickwell grunted in his sleep and smiled like a child.

It was almost midnight but the hangar was full of noise: hammers tapped, hacksaws rasped, drills whined and snarled. Jacky Bellamy, flanked by Bletchley and CH3, strolled between the rows of Hurricanes.

“Hello, Micky,” she called. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I did once,” Marriott said, “but that was before the war.”

“I invited Miss Bellamy to take a look at our aircraft,” Bletchley said. “I have a feeling she doesn’t fully appreciate the quality of these new machines.”

“This isn’t the Hurricane we had in France, you know,” Marriott told her. “This is twice the kite. Come and see.” He led her away.

“I don’t know what’s got into her,” Bletchley said softly. “In France she was always perfectly reasonable, wrote some cracking good stuff in fact, but recently she’s gone all… skeptical . Won’t believe a word she’s told. Still quite charming, of course, but no faith. Damn nuisance sometimes, I don’t mind telling you.”

“You’ve got to remember, sir, that this is an election year back home,” CH3 said. “If Britain’s getting beaten out of sight, that’s a good excuse for not interfering. She writes what people want to read.”

“Hmm.” Bletchley pondered that for a moment. “Even so,” he said, “we’ve got to go on doing our bit to prove that she’s wrong. The Yanks are an appalling lot—sorry, old boy, no offense meant—but everyone in Whitehall keeps bleating about how we can’t do without them. Mind you, they said that about the French, and thank God we’re shot of them . Thoroughly shabby crew. Never could fight. I mean, look at Agincourt.”

“Sure. Mind you, sir, I sometimes wonder what an English army was doing at Agincourt in the first place.”

“We had good reason. I forget what it was exactly, something to do with tennis balls, wasn’t it? I used to know… Anyway, we had a perfect right to be there. Besides, we won, didn’t we?”

“Hitler might say the same, sir.”

“I wonder if we can get a cup of tea?”

The other two came back.

“Impressed?” Bletchley asked. “Jerry’s got nothing like that.”