Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

He looked at the flight, spread out like a search-party, and realized he didn’t know the names of half of them. He looked to the north and the east for signs of help. Nothing.

When the first rank of bombers was about two miles away, Flash took his flight out of orbit and led it into a head-on attack. This was always the worst time. He was trembling so violently that he braced his head against the back-armor.

Their closing speed ate up the gap in about fifteen seconds. “When I say ‘Bingo,’” Flash called, “everyone bloody-well fire!” He was in the middle, leading Red Section, with Yellow right and White left. “Bingo!” he cried. The Hurricanes raced into the raid like a suicide pact. Flash ignored the heavy black blurs and aimed at the holes between them. He was working the machine as furiously as a skier dodging rocks on an icy track. A pair of Heinkels wallowed together and he narrowed his shoulders as he skated between them. The last rank rushed at him. He made his exit with a flashy victory roll just to show them what he thought of them. He hadn’t fired a shot.

His wingman, Nim Renouf, was gone, vanished. Flash climbed steeply, searched the sky and saw part of the German escort tip into a dive. He rolled out of a loop and checked the raid. It had split into three ragged streams. Below these, two bombers spiraled down, locked together like mating insects. Far below them, an instant avenue of bomb-bursts appeared: someone had jettisoned. At that moment, the controller called.

“Popcorn Red Leader, this is Teacake, do you read me?”

“Piss off, Teacake,” Flash Gordon said. A broken Dornier sideslipped out of his gunsight and he had to peel off before he overshot it. “Bugger!” he said. The sky was full of trouble: planes firing, swerving, falling. He noticed another Hurricane up-sun, also on its own, and he maneuvered alongside.

“Popcorn Red Leader, this is Teacake, what is your position?”

Flash squinted at the silhouetted Hurricane. It was a 109 and he wet himself. He broke fractionally faster than the German and fled into an obliging cloud.

“Popcorn Red Leader, this is Teacake, what is your position?”

“Sodding uncomfortable,” he said. His leg was drenched. “Now piss off, you berk.” He came out of cloud and nearly hit a crippled Heinkel being chased by a Hurricane: the bomber jumped at him like a bogey-man, wings spread to grab, the fighter jumped after it, and their shadows flicked his face. They were so close that it took his breath away and he felt faint.

“Popcorn Red Leader, this is Teacake, vector zero-four-zero.”

He sucked down a good lungful of oxygen, and the colors slowly brightened. “Listen, Teacake,” he said. “You can stuff your vectors up your ass.”

Pause. He weaved, and checked behind him.

“Say again, Popcorn Red Leader.”

“Stuff ’em up your ass!” he roared. “Ram ’em up your rectum!” The bomber stream seemed to have regrouped. Either that or he had found a second raid. Anything was possible. He was going too fast so he executed a very pretty barrel roll in order to shed speed and came up on the right rear of the stream. The turbulence was terrible. He kept bucking and pitching and losing the target. He closed up even more, fired, and shot himself. That was impossible but everything else had gone wrong and now, as soon as he pressed the button, something smashed into his left arm. It also knocked the stick out of his hand and sent the plane spinning out of control.

It fell for the best part of two miles, mainly because he was too dizzy and stunned to do anything but flop about in his harness. All the way down, Teacake kept calling, making demands, giving orders. When Flash managed to grip the stick again it was twisted arthritically, but it worked.

Things could have been worse. He felt battered and feeble but he could still use his left hand on the throttle. Better yet, when he killed off the spin and leveled out he knew where he was. He recognized the A20. That led to Ashford. Turn left at Ashford and you couldn’t miss Brambledown. He decided to share the good news. “Teacake, this is Popcorn Red Leader,” he called. “Returning to base, not feeling very well.”

“Popcorn Red Leader, this is Teacake. Do not return to base. You must pancake elsewhere.”

“Oh, balls to that, Teacake.” Flash was feeling relaxed. The cockpit was flooded with gauzy sunlight and the Hurricane was flying itself home quite competently.

“Repeat, pancake elsewhere, Popcorn Red. You must divert.”

“Don’t talk turds,” Flash said. “I’ve had enough for one day.” He had a bright idea. The best way to stop Teacake bitching and binding was to keep transmitting. “Put the kettle on, Teacake,” he said. Familiar landmarks came and went. “You’re a stupid pratt, Teacake,” he said. “You’re nothing but a piss-artist.” Brambledown came in sight. Much of it seemed to be on fire. Spitfires were landing and taking off, flying through the smoke. “Here I come, Teacake,” he called, “ready or not.”

The Hurricane behaved itself beautifully. There were craters all over the place but it taxied between them and delivered him to his usual parking-spot. It was difficult to get out of the cockpit one-handed but he managed it. He was standing on the wingroot, waiting for some giddiness to pass, when a car roared up and a wing commander leaped out. “What the bloody hell d’you think you’ve been playing at?” he shouted as he strode to the plane.

Flash recognized the voice. “You’re Teacake,” he said.

“And you , you little bastard, have given me nothing but shit . What in God’s name’s the matter with you?”

Flash thought for a moment. Cautiously he tugged the gauntlet from his left hand. It was full of blood. He poured the blood over the wing commander. After that he had to sit down, and by the time the ambulance reached him he was unconscious.

When the day’s fighting was over and the squadron was released, only five Hurricanes flew back to Brambledown.

Barton had survived intact; so had Quirk and two of the replacements, Jolliff and Fraser. Renouf was in hospital, badly burned: his hands were blackened claws, his legs were charred from the knee down, his face looked as if it had melted into a lump with a few holes in it. Donahue’s parachute had failed to open completely and he had broken his back. Steele-Stebbing and Patterson had made belly-landings. Steele-Stebbing had concussion and double vision. Patterson had a couple of teeth knocked out.

Nobody said much when they dumped their gear in the crewroom. The air-raid warning sounded as they walked to their quarters, but that wasn’t worth a comment. Nor was the sunset: pure gold, fading upward to a silvery blue. Another blitzy day tomorrow.

Barton meant to take the new boys to the pub but he lay down on his bed for a moment. It was pitch dark when he was awakened from a sweaty nightmare by the dreary wail of the All Clear. The rags of the dream clung to him like filthy cobwebs—he was landing a plane, twice as fast as a Hurricane, and all the controls were floppy and flabby, like wet cardboard—while the siren played out its bleak and colorless note. He reached above him and found the brass bed-rail and gripped it hard, summoning up reality. It was an old, familiar horror, this nightmare, and he knew how to send it away.

Too late for the pub. In any case, he wasn’t sure he was fit to drive in the dark. A hot shower did some good. He still needed propping up, so he went in search of Kellaway and found him in his office. “How’s Flash?” he asked.

“Oh, holding his own, so they say. He’s asleep now. They pumped him full of dope.”

“That’s good. Fancy a game of snooker?”

The adjutant was no damn good at snooker and he had a ton of work to clear up. Barton’s voice was flat and his eyes scarcely moved. “What a marvelous idea,” Kellaway said. “That’s just what I need.” He kept up a flow of chatter all the way to the mess. Barton did his best, but after a few words he always dried up and Kellaway had to fill the silence.