Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“Very interesting,” she said. “I didn’t understand half of what Micky said, except for something about back-armor and self-sealing tanks and… uh… variable-pitch propellers. And metal wings.” She smiled amiably.

“All standard,” Bletchley said. “Quite routine.”

“Really? The strange thing is that six months ago in France they were impossible.”

“Not metal wings,” Bletchley said firmly. “We had those.”

“Not only impossible but unnecessary. Or so everybody said, except CH3. And now here they are.”

“You mustn’t write about any of that stuff,” CH3 said. “Jerry knows we have it, but he doesn’t know we know he knows, so it’s got to be top secret or you’ll spoil the game.”

“But don’t you think it’s strange?”

“War sets a hot pace,” Bletchley said, “and the devil takes the hindmost.”

“I’ll tell you what it reminds me of,” she said. “Squadron tactics. I never fully understood all the technicalities, of course, but I remember that tight-formation flying was absolutely essential. You couldn’t attack without it. Everyone said so, except CH3. And now I’m told that’s all been changed, and tight-formation tactics are completely wrong. Isn’t that strange?”

“Some squadrons still prefer tight formations,” Bletchley said. “It’s up to the individual CO. I don’t deny that we’ve learned from experience. Surely you don’t blame us for that?”

“No, no. Certainly not. In fact it’s exactly what I’m going to do myself. You see, so much of what I’ve been told—told repeatedly, and officially, and at a very high level—has turned out to be wrong that… well, I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe anybody any more. When I’m told the RAF has just shot down—what was it? fifty-nine German planes? I don’t believe it. And I can’t write what I don’t believe.”

“Then it looks as if your career has come to a sudden end,” CH3 said.

“Not necessarily. I can still check the facts. For instance, if you say you shot down fifty-nine German planes today there should be fifty-nine wrecks, right? Well, I’m going to drive around and count them.”

“Are you, by jove?” Bletchley murmured.

“What a startlingly original idea,” CH3 said. “Checking the facts against reality. This could spell the end of modern journalism as we know it.”

“I’ll give it a whirl, anyway. D’you like the idea?” she asked Bletchley.

“I’ll put it up to Air Ministry. They may not approve.”

“I think they will. They’ve nothing to hide, have they?”

CH3 escorted her through the blackout to her car. “You know,” she said, “you’d be a lot happier if I were some hardbitten ginswilling old bat you didn’t care about. As it is, I think you’re ever so slightly afraid of me.”

“Why should I be afraid?” He was holding her elbow, steering her around roped-off craters.

“Because I’ve got your number. I know you’re just like me. We’re both out to prove that money doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“I haven’t. I’m broke. Been broke all my life. You should try it sometime. It’s very stimulating.”

He opened the car door. “I’ll get the butler to try it,” he said. “Then he can tell me if it really works.”

Replacement Hurricanes had been flown in to Bodkin Hazel by breakfast-time the next morning. Flash Gordon turned up, a ragged line of surgical thread above one eyebrow. A sergeant-pilot called Todd was posted in to replace Zabarnowski in Blue Section. The squadron was almost back to strength.

The satellite field didn’t look so good. It had been bombed again during the night. A hangar and the clubhouse were flattened and the top of the control tower was missing. Telephone engineers were still mending the lines when the Defiants landed. Fanny Barton went over to greet their CO.

He left CH3 to lecture the Hornet pilots in the privacy of the crewroom. On the wall was a blown-up print of Macfarlane’s wreck.

“This sort of thing makes me bloody angry,” CH3 said. “It’s stupid and childish and selfish. He could’ve wiped out a dozen men on the ground with that pathetic display of showing-off. Doing complicated high-speed maneuvers at low level after combat is idiotic. It’s not clever. It’s not brave. It’s not dashing. It’s stupid. It’s about as stupid as little children playing Last Across the railroad track. This idiot…” He rapped his knuckles on the photograph so hard that he dented it. “How did he know his Hurricane wasn’t damaged? He’d just been in a scrap, anything could’ve happened. Maybe a Jerry bullet nicked a control cable. He didn’t know.” There was complete silence. CH3 was not intensifying his anger for effect; on the contrary he was struggling to contain it. His face was pale and his voice was harsh. “No more victory rolls,” he said. “There’s enough risks in this job without stunting shot-up kites at zero feet. It’s a waste of my half-crown for the wreath, it’s a waste of Fanny’s valuable time writing to the next-of-kin, and it’s a waste of a good Hurricane. That’s all.”

They got up and went out, glad to escape; all except Cox. He shut the door. CH3 was sitting on a table and gripping it as though he thought it might collapse.

“Well, you certainly told them,” Cox said. “Now forget it.”

“He was in my flight. Bloody idiot. Why do they have to be such bloody idiots?”

“I might ask the same of you.” That made CH3 look up. “I hear you had a date with Jacky last night.”

“A date? That wasn’t a date.”

“Whatever it was it hasn’t done you any good, has it? Now you’re going around looking for asses to kick. It’s not their fault if you’ve got popsy problems.”

“She’s not my popsy.”

“If you treat her the way you treat us, I’m not surprised. She’s not going to wait forever, you know.” Cox got a cloth and wiped the inside of his oxygen mask. CH3 gazed at the floor and let his right foot bang against the table-leg. “Still, that’s your funeral,” Cox said. “It’s Fanny I’m thinking of. Every time you turn grim, Fanny gets worried.” CH3’s leg stopped moving. For a moment the room was silent.

“I was looking at that new kid, Todd,” CH3 said. “He’s all keen and eager. And I thought: poor bastard, he doesn’t know what he’s getting into. He doesn’t know beans about what it’s going to be like, and chances are he’ll never live to find out.”

“But he thinks he’s good,” Cox said. “He thinks he’ll be an ace by this time next week. And that’s a terrific advantage! He’s got confidence in himself. If he’s nervous, if he’s scared, he’ll hang about and hesitate and some dirty little 109 will spit in his eye and that’ll be that, goodbye Todd. Come on, CH3, snap out of it. You can’t save his life by worrying. What you can do is make him feel good. Make him think we’re the hottest squadron that ever flew, and by God what a lucky man he is! Right?”

CH3 slid off the table. “Christ, I could sleep for a week,” he said.

“He’s probably going to buy it anyway,” Cox said. “He might as well get his money’s worth.”

CH3 opened the door. “Hey, Toddy!” he shouted. “Come here, I need your advice.”

Barton’s conversation with the CO of the Defiant squadron was brief. He was a tall, softspoken man with prematurely gray hair. His name was Grant.

Barton made sure there were no problems with fuel or ammunition, and then inquired how Grant wished to operate. Relative altitudes, for instance. Suppose the Hurricanes patrolled two thousand feet above the Defiants?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Grant said. “Have you had new orders to join us on patrol?”