Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“No. I just thought… I mean I assumed you were here so that we could give you an escort.”

“Frightfully kind of you,” Grant said, examining the horizon. “We don’t actually need an escort. I do command a fighter squadron, you know.”

“Yes, but…” Barton had blundered in; now he had to blunder out. “It’s none of my business, of course, and I know it wasn’t your squadron, but they were Defiants, and they did get pretty badly hammered by 109’s, didn’t they?”

“Only because they were bounced. We don’t intend to get bounced.”

“No, of course. On the other hand if they come at you head-on, how can—”

“Please don’t concern yourself. We know what to do.”

Barton nodded and walked away. After a few paces he stopped and turned. Grant was pulling on a pair of fine leather gloves, although the day was already hot. Barton went back. “This is crazy,” he said. “You chaps shouldn’t be here, right in the front line. You should be up in Scotland or somewhere, in reserve.”

For the first and last time, Grant looked him straight in the eye. “We have been given the place of honor,” he said, “and we must take it.”

The morning was quiet, although Skull kept bringing news of raids elsewhere. An additional ack-ack battery arrived to guard the aerodrome. The adjutant drove in and announced that their backpay had at last been sorted out. Sticky Stickwell came over to visit. They gave him a deckchair and a cup of tea. “I hear you’re saving up to be a lumberjack, Sticky,” the adjutant said. “Jolly healthy life.”

“No,” Stickwell said. “Who told you that?”

“Well, I’ve seen pictures of them in National Geographic.”

“No, no. Who said I want to be a lumberjack?”

“Moggy did.”

“Well, he’s got it all wrong. I’m training to be a surgeon.”

“No, I don’t think so, Sticky,” Flash Gordon said. “Moggy told me, too. He was very definite about it.”

“They all laughed,” Cattermole said, “but I reckon you’d be very good, Sticky. All that hacking and chopping with dirty great axes, it’s right up your street.”

“Awful,” Stickwell said. “For a start, you’ve got to live in Canada.” He shuddered.

“Well,” the adjutant said, “it’s not too late to change your mind. I’d think it over very carefully if I were you.”

“I’m going to be a surgeon.”

“Much of a muchness, really,” Barton said. “Hacking and chopping, chopping and hacking.”

“What are you going to be, when you grow up, Moggy?” CH3 asked.

“Obscene and disgusting, I hope.”

“What about you, Haddy?” Barton said. “Got any secret ambitions?” But Haducek just looked blankly at him. Since Zabarnowski’s death, Haducek had said very little.

“I’m going to be world champion,” Gordon said confidently.

“What at?” Cox asked.

“That hasn’t been settled yet. I leave all these details to my agent.”

“Nothing much changes, does it, Fanny?” Stickwell said. “They still talk a lot of cock.”

“Nonsense,” Barton said. “We have very serious discussions nowadays. Skull, say something serious for Sticky.”

“Um… let me see. Well, the Soviet Union has just annexed Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. That’s quite serious.”

“Shocking lot, the Bolsheviks,” Kellaway said. “I was there in 1919. The RAF was helping the White Russians. Trying to, anyway.”

“It was probably all agreed last year,” Skull said. “Russo-German pact. That’s when Hitler and Stalin carved up eastern Europe between them.”

“We flew Camels,” Kellaway said. “Did a lot of low-level strafing. Bolshevik cavalry, mainly.”

“I thought the Nazis were against the Communists,” Fitz said.

“They were,” Skull said, “but they kissed and made up.”

“Never itched so much in my life,” Kellaway mumbled.

“Well, what d’you expect?” Cattermole stretched and yawned. “They’re all as squalid as each other, aren’t they? Communism’s every bit as bad as Nazism, as far as I—” He crashed sideways out of his deckchair. Haducek had him by the throat and was banging his head on the ground and screaming abuse. It took half the squadron to drag him off. “I am a good Communist!” he shouted. “I fight and I die for my country and for Communism! You say Communists are same as Nazis I kill you!”

“Take a walk, Moggy,” Barton said.

“I’ll come with you,” Stickwell said.

They went and sat on the ruins of the clubhouse. It still stank of high explosive. “Bloody foreigners,” Cattermole wheezed. “They ought to be put down at birth.”

“Listen, Moggy,” Stickwell said. “I didn’t want to mention this before, but… See, I keep getting letters from the bank… That stuff I sent you, I mean, it added up and… Well, I just wondered what…”

“I gave Rex all the bills,” Cattermole said hoarsely. “Anyway, Rex went for a burton.” He coughed, painfully.

Stickwell nodded several times. “I was afraid that was it,” he said. “Oh, well. I’ll manage somehow, I suppose.” He stood up and walked back to his squadron. As he passed the deckchairs, Fitz called out: “When you’re a lumberjack, save us a tree.” Stickwell waved.

In the crewroom, Barton was tearing a strip off Haducek, who simply sat and shook his head. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Barton demanded. “You must be crazy.” Haducek nodded. Normally, Stickwell piloted a Defiant but today he was an air-gunner. His squadron had more pilots than gunners at the moment. Grant had put him down as a reserve pilot, which was very boring. Then one of the regular gunners developed appendicitis and Stickwell grabbed his place.

They were scrambled just before noon.

He enjoyed being in the turret. Facing the tail, he got a completely fresh view of the sky and the squadron. And swinging the guns was great fun, too: the electrically operated turret went around like a fairground ride, while the guns angled up or down very slickly.

They climbed steadily, heading south. He got a bit restless, unable to see what was ahead. Then he heard the tally-ho, and the plane tipped sideways, and there were Dorniers everywhere.

All things considered, the squadron acquitted itself well. It broke up the raid before the Dorniers reached the coast. There was then a collection of dogfights in which each Defiant pilot strained to hold a position that allowed his gunner to keep a bomber in his field of fire. The Dorniers dodged and jinked and used their crossfire to hit the Defiants from both sides. The Dorniers could fire forward and backward and sideways but each gunner had only one gun, whereas the Defiant had four. Stickwell was vaguely aware that his plane was being hit, he heard occasional plunks and saw holes sprout in the tailplane, but the thrill of letting fly with four shuddering, battering Brownings entranced him. He raced the turret from left to right, squirted quadruple death and destruction, and whooped when a Dornier sheered away. He searched from right to left. The turret stopped halfway. The tail went up and he was aiming at the sun.

Stickwell shouted on the intercom. No answer. He twisted his neck. The prop was windmilling. The pilot’s head was a red smear, pressed into a corner of the windscreen. Stickwell began kicking the turret controls, punching the Perspex, whacking the sides with his elbows. Nothing moved.

In the end the Defiant changed its mind and eased out of its dive so that it made a neat belly-landing on the water. It sank at once. Bright spray charged past the turret and turned to a swirl of light gray-green that became steadily darker. Stickwell began undoing his straps and then stopped. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. The water charged up to his knees and climbed more slowly to his waist. He looked up and saw, far away, the shiny-metal surface of the sea. Everything outside was turning black. He had no idea the sea was so dark. He was still gripping the gun-handles. He squeezed but nothing fired. You couldn’t kill the sea. The water reached his chest, and he gasped at the cold grip. “I didn’t really want to be a sodding surgeon anyway,” he said aloud. His voice sounded old and cracked, but that was because his ears were full of buzzing and whining. A Perspex panel caved in and the sea smashed him in the face.