Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“That was fast, then,” the brother’s wife said. Kellaway cocked an eyebrow. “Well, he only got sent here yesterday,” she said. “Didn’t he?”

“Arthur wasn’t a hero,” the brother said. “According to what he told me, he didn’t know a lot about being a fighter pilot either. He just did his best. I don’t suppose it made much difference one way or the other, did it?”

“Probably not,” Kellaway said.

The brother’s wife took a piece of paper from her handbag. “There’ll be a headstone, won’t there? We’d like this inscription, if it’s allowed.”

Kellaway took the paper. “As for our God, He is in heaven” he read out. “He hath done whatsoever pleased Him . Psalm 115, verse three.”

“We’re not bloody hypocrites,” the brother said. “We’ll not praise God for what’s happened to Arthur. If there’s any sense to it, we can’t see it.”

They finished their drinks. Kellaway drove them to the station. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Believe me, Sergeant Todd gave his life in a good cause.”

“Aye,” the brother grunted. “So you said.” He didn’t offer to shake hands, and Kellaway didn’t risk a refusal.

The rest of August went by in a sort of frantic blur. Those who survived kept a memory of constant fatigue. That was the overriding impression: not fear, although almost every fighter pilot felt a lurch of terror when he saw a big raid approach; not excitement, although there was plenty of that as the bands of Hurricanes and Spitfires took on odds of five to one, even ten to one; but endless, nervesapping weariness. They got up tired. Often they fell asleep as soon as they landed after the second or third sortie, and they woke up to fly two or three more sorties, so tired that when dusk came they couldn’t remember anything definite about the day’s fighting, not even the kills they had made.

Every night there was a cheer in the mess when the BBC announced the latest score. With survival came a miraculous recovery: everyone dashed off to the pub. Tomorrow was another day: another day of increasing fatigue and increasing tension; another day nearer invasion.

Sunlight leaked through the cracks between the blankets that had been hastily tacked over the windows of the crewroom. The air smelled of stale food and dried sweat. There was a brisk buzz of conversation. The squadron had recently landed after a highly successful interception. CH3 had got a Junkers 88 in flames and Haducek had blown up a 109 at close range. One of the new boys, an Australian called Phillips, had made a wheels-up landing and walked away from it. All very satisfactory. They cheered when a square of white shone on the wall. “I hope there’s a Tom and Jerry,” Cox said. Hands made jokey silhouettes. The countdown numbers flashed and they chanted them. Flash Gordon was one number behind the rest and finished alone. “I won,” he claimed. Grainy black-and-white film showed a formation of Heinkels. They swung from one diagonal to another as the camera angle changed. Guns blazed silently and the image flickered with the recoil. The Heinkels fell out of frame and the sky swirled. The film ended. They cheered again.

Skull turned on the lights. The airman at the projector re-wound the film. “I’m not going to identify each pilot,” Skull said. “No doubt you will recognize your own combat report. That particular pilot reported that he closed to a range of two hundred yards and fired a two-second burst which hit a Heinkel in the starboard wing, setting an engine on fire. Bear that in mind as you see it again.”

This time the film was run in slow motion. “He opens fire… now” Skull said, and the airman froze the film. “Knowing the Heinkel’s wingspan we can calculate the exact range,” Skull said. “The exact range was four hundred and eighty yards.”

The room was quiet now. No jokes, no cheers; only an occasional cough or the creak of a chair.

The film ran on. The bombers blurred as they came nearer. “He stops firing… now” Skull said, and the frame froze. “That was a four-second burst. The final range was just over two hundred yards. None of the shots hit the bomber.”

“But it’s on fire,” Mother Cox objected. “Look at that engine. You can see the smoke.”

“All the shots fired by this Hurricane fell below the target. Blowups of the film establish that beyond doubt. The damage you see was caused by another Hurricane that made a simultaneous attack from the port beam. That aircraft is just visible.” The film moved briefly and stopped. “There, at the edge.” A wingtip showed itself.

“The next film was taken by that second Hurricane,” Skull said. “The pilot’s combat report reads: ‘ My second attack was from high on the port beam. I put in a two-second burst at about 150 yards and saw smoke pour out of the starboard engine. ’ Run it, please.”

They watched intently. There was a grunt of satisfaction as the smoke streamed out.

“The report was correct,” Skull said. “The next film shows a rather confused piece of action that took place in the middle of a large dogfight. The pilot reported that he fired at three Me-109’s in quick succession, missed the first two and destroyed the third.”

The film rolled. “Oh, shit,” someone muttered in the middle of it. There was silence while it was re-wound, and then shown again in slow motion. “Stop,” Skull said. “Here you see the first alleged 109, in fact a Hurricane. No hits are made.” The film lurched on and stopped. “The second alleged 109 is also a Hurricane. Hits are made on the tail-unit.” Again the dogfight jerked across the sky. “The third target is in fact a 109,” Skull said. “Hits are made but no vital damage is done. The next pilot’s report claimed…”

There were in all five minutes of film, assembled from several interceptions. At the end the pilots went out, looking thoughtful. Barton, the flight commanders and Skull stayed behind. Nobody spoke until the airman had taken down the blankets and packed up his projector and left.

“What it comes down to,” Barton said, “is we’ve got a couple of good pilots, two or three not bad, and the rest couldn’t guarantee to hit the floor when they fell out of bed.”

“Slightly worse,” CH3 said. “Zab was the best shot in the squadron. The film confirms it. That leaves Haddy in a class on his own.”

“You mean you recognized which bits of film were theirs?” Skull asked.

“Nobody else gets that close to Jerry,” CH3 said.

“Except Flash, sometimes,” Cox muttered.

“And Flash can’t shoot straight,” CH3 said.

“Bloody hell.” Barton stood with his shoulders slumped, as if he hadn’t the strength to straighten up. His eyelids were heavy, his mouth was slack. “So I’m the proud owner of a bunch of blokes who can’t judge distance, who shoot too soon, who shoot too much, who miss by a mile and then claim a kill. Is that right?”

“If it’s any consolation,” Skull said, “my colleagues in other squadrons report very similar findings.”

Barton looked at him for such a long time that Skull grew uncomfortable and turned away.

“What the hell!” CH3 said jovially. “This doesn’t change anything, Fanny. Nobody expects them to be crack shots. Let’s face it, gunnery’s always been a joke in Fighter Command.”

“It’s beyond a joke,” Barton said. “You know that lad Phillips? Came straight here from his operational conversion course? Some course. He’s never fired a Hurricane’s guns. Not one little squirt.”

He went out. CH3 looked at Cox and shrugged.

“Cine-guns,” Cox said heavily. “Bright bloody idea that turned out to be.”

“Oh sure,” CH3 said, “go ahead, blame it all on me. What’s the good of kidding ourselves? We’re never going to get anywhere by dodging the truth.”