Derek Robinson - Piece of Cake

“I fail to see the connection,” Kellaway said loftily. “Two separate battles.”

“It’s one war.”

“What happens,” CH3 asked, “if you add our bomber losses to our fighter losses and compare them with the German losses?”

“By my count, the Luftwaffe comes out on top.”

“Jerry’s on his last legs,” Barton said. “Must be.” He slumped in an armchair and yawned.

As if to take his place, the adjutant got up and stalked around the room. “What’s the point of all this snooping?” he demanded peevishly. “Traipsing about the country on joyrides, getting in everyone’s way when you can see we’ve all got our backs to the wall… What good does it do anyone?”

“Come to that,” Skull replied, “what good does it do to rely on thoroughly inaccurate data?”

“Jerry’s finished,” Barton mumbled.

“Tell me,” CH3 said, “what are you going to do with all this amazing information?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “A month ago it might have made a big story, but now… I have a feeling the score doesn’t matter any more. Maybe I’ll just file it and forget it.”

“I know nothing of the newspaper business,” Skull said, “but a statistical analysis of air losses does seem a trifle… thin.”

“There’s more to the story than that. If I’m right, the implications are pretty staggering. Because if the RAF isn’t winning this battle, then obviously the Luftwaffe isn’t losing it, and that’s what matters.”

“Wrong,” Kellaway said, booming the word. “Only one thing matters now, and that’s invasion.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” she said. “And if it comes to that, anyone with eyes in his head can see that as far as control of the air is concerned, Hitler could invade tomorrow. So maybe I should write it up big.”

“I never heard anything quite so contemptible,” Kellaway said. “The very idea is tantamount to an act of treachery.”

“Stop being such a blimp, uncle,” CH3 said. “If she’s right, don’t you think the Luftwaffe knows it? They can count, they don’t need to listen to the BBC. And if she’s wrong, what does it matter?”

“Blimp,” the adjutant said, wide-eyed.

“There’s still such a thing as censorship, you know,” Skull told her.

“Hear that, Fanny? I’m a blimp.” The adjutant sat down.

“I can always get a story out, if it’s big enough,” she said. “Through the neutrals, through the embassy. There are ways.”

“And then you’ll be expelled.”

“I’ve been expelled before. It goes with the job. Talking of which…” She glanced at her watch. “I have work to do. See you all at breakfast, I hope.”

“Not me,” CH3 said. “We leave with the dawn.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The door closed behind her. Kellaway got up and peered at Barton. “Bloody women Yank gutterpress scribblers,” he muttered. “What do they know? Our chaps are hitting Jerry for six, aren’t they?”

“Not while I’ve been around,” CH3 said.

Kellaway turned and stared, thought about starting an argument, changed his mind, sniffed and said: “Well, we’re certainly holding our own.”

“Not even that, I’m afraid,” Skull said. “Right now the situation can only be described as desperate, and I’m not talking about men and machines, although God knows we’re scraping the barrel for pilots. What’s really crippling us is the appalling damage to communications. All the sector stations have taken a terrible pounding. If you think Brambledown’s in a mess you should see Biggin Hill. And North Weald. They’re in ruins. And once the ops rooms get knocked out the whole ground control system fails and we’re paralyzed.”

“It hasn’t happened yet,” CH3 said.

“I tell you the system’s on its last legs. While you were up this afternoon, three raids came and went without interception. Three raids! And it’s bound to get worse. If the Luftwaffe keeps up these attacks, the entire air-defense system of southeast England will cease to exist in less than a week.”

“We’ll muddle through somehow,” Kellaway said.

“You don’t seem to realize what’s happening,” Skull told him. “Already the Luftwaffe can do very nearly what it pleases over the invasion area. We don’t command our own air space any more.”

“No, no. That can’t be true.”

“Can’t it? Go and look at the advanced fighter fields. They’ve been knocked silly. Manston’s not working, Hawkinge is a shambles, and with effect from midnight Bodkin Hazel is abandoned. It’s too dangerous. We can’t defend it.”

That gave them something to think about. In the gloom beyond the brightly lit table, Barton twitched and mumbled in his sleep.

“So that’s what she meant,” CH3 said. “She knew we were pulling back.”

“Retreating?” Kellaway said. “We can’t bloody retreat. This is England, for God’s sake.”

“Come on,” CH3 said. “Let’s get Fanny to bed.” The sirens began to wail.

Next morning there was a lieutenant of the Royal Engineers at the bottom of a crater beside the officers’ mess. He was trying to defuse a 250-kilo bomb. Breakfast was therefore served at trestle tables set up in the open several hundred yards away.

It was a splendid morning. Even by seven o’clock the air was warm enough for the pilots to sit in their shirt sleeves. All three squadrons had been released to thirty-minute availability. The table in the ops room was strangely free of plots.

Fanny Barton saw CH3 coming. “I’d better go and sign some letters,” he said, took his mug of coffee and left.

CH3 sat with Skull and Quirk. “Doesn’t it ever rain in this country?” he said. “I mean, whose side is God on, for Pete’s sake?”

“I can’t answer that,” Skull said. “The latest Air Ministry intelligence report on God was eaten by a plague of locusts.”

“That’s a sign,” Quirk said. “The old bugger doesn’t like us.” He rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

“You ought to be wearing your revolver,” Skull told CH3.

“At breakfast?”

“Everywhere and always. Haven’t you heard? Air Ministry’s issued Invasion Alert Number One. Attack imminent.”

“Jerry can’t invade today,” Quirk muttered. “I haven’t finished my library book.”

“It makes sense,” CH3 said. “If he attacks like he did yesterday we won’t have any spare fighters to go after his invasion fleet.”

“Alternatively,” Skull said, “if you take on the invasion fleet then the bombers will have a completely free hand to destroy the sector stations and so on.”

“Jerry’s finished,” Quirk said into his arm. “Fanny said so.”

“Excuse me.” CH3 took his plate to another table, where Jacky. Bellamy was reading her notes. “I have a question,” he said.

“See my agent. I don’t give interviews, remember? Except for money. Do you have money? Lots of money?”

“Let’s not horse around.” He propped his head on his hand and studied her face. “You’re incredible. How can you look so…” But his mind stopped. He couldn’t think of the word.

“It’s easy for me. I don’t have to climb the Alps several times a day and fight to the death while I’m up there.”

“Chipper.” He had remembered the word.

“How can you do it, day after day?”

“Dunno. My question is…” But now he had forgotten his question. “Not chipper,” he said. “I remembered chipper… Christ, I’m tired.”

“Eat your breakfast. Where’s your revolver? You ought to have a revolver.”

“I can’t eat breakfast with a revolver, for Pete’s sake.” Sideways into his brain slipped the forgotten question. He chewed bacon and let the words assemble themselves, and when they were complete he said: “About the invasion. You told me Hitler won’t invade. In the pub, remember? Then last night you said he can invade whenever he likes. Something wrong there.”