Goshawk Squadron

by Derek Robinson

  Finlayson came over and looked at the splintered stubs of Dickinson’s propeller.

  “It’s this bloody awful field,” he said. “You must have nicked it when you were taking off.”

  “Probably.”

  “The least he could do is have it rolled. He bloody well chewed it up, him and his childish kite-flying.”

  “No doubt about that.”

  Finlayson walked around and looked at the damage from the other side. “Aren’t you going to do anything about it?” he asked, waving at the lumpy grass.

  “I expect he knows.”

  Finlayson sniffed. “I’ll make bloody sure he bloody knows,” he said, and went away.

  Woolley listened to Finlayson in silence. “You don’t like the field,” he said.

  “I don’t see why it should be dangerously bad,” Finlayson said, “sir.”

  Woolley drained his Guinness. “Draw a dozen spades from Stores,” he said. “Take the pilots and flatten the field.”

  “But sir, it needs to be rolled.”

  “Hit the field,” Woolley said, “with the spade.”

  Finlayson looked at the bleak, vast meadow. “That’ll take hours,” he said.

  “Better hurry,” Woolley advised.

  Finlayson walked away without saluting. Woolley watched his resentful back. “Finlayson!” he called. Finlayson half-turned, ducked under the flying bottle, slipped on the wet grass, and fell. Woolley, arms folded, watched him get up and limp away, trembling with rage.

  It took the squadron all the remaining hours of daylight to clean up the airfield. They replaced hundreds of divots, flattened hundreds of bumps, filled in scores of ruts, and pounded the turf until their backs ached and their hands burned. From time to time light showers blew over, but the squadron plodded on with a mute, masochistic determination. The sound of their sodden thwacking punctuated the dusk.

  When it was too dark to see, they came in, grimly satisfied. “It’s done and I hope he likes it,” Finlayson told the adjutant. “I notice he never took his coat off and helped.”

  “That was hardly possible,” Woodruffe said. “He was called to Corps HQ for a conference two hours ago.”

  They received the news silently, unwilling to concede that Woolley had a good reason for doing anything. “When’s he coming back?” Lambert asked.

  The adjutant shrugged. “You know Corps. It’s supposed to be a very big conference.”

  “Woody,” Rogers said, “is it all right with you if we all go over to St. Denis and cause a certain amount of devastation?”

  “That depends,” the adjutant said. “Will it bring the fair name of the squadron into disrepute?”

  “Inevitably,” Rogers said. “Inevitably and repeatedly.”

  “In that case I’d better come with you,” Woodruffe said.

  Force 6: Strong Breeze

  Large branches in motion; telegraph wires “sing.” Umbrellas used with difficulty

  Six empty barrels stood on the main dining table of the best restaurant in St. Denis. They supported two large chairs, which supported one small chair. Lambert sat in this chair and emptied his wine over Finlayson, seated far below. “That was a Low Story,” he said. “The chair find bloody old Finlayson guilty of telling a Low Story, the bastard.”

  “All right,” Finlayson said easily, licking the drops off his upper lip. “Tell you another. Man walking down quiet street, gets taken short—”

  “Heard it!” The other pilots sprawled, bloated with food and tipsy with drink, around the table. Some of them started throwing bread at Finlayson.

  “Another story, then,” Finlayson said. “Man falls down at stag party and breaks his cock.”

  “Heard it!” The squadron booed him.

  “Christ, that’s old,” Kimberley said.

  “My problem,” said Finlayson, drinking, “is I don’t know any new dirty jokes.”

  “Your problem is you don’t know any old jokes,” Dangerfield boomed. “Your problem is you have absolutely no sense of humor.”

  “I deny that!” Finlayson cried. “I categorically repudiate that!”

  “There you are, that proves it,” Rogers declared. “Boring and pompous.”

  “Found guilty,” Lambert ruled from on high. “Mr. Woodruffe will pass sentence.”

  “Relax and enjoy your problem,” the adjutant decreed.

  Lambert emptied his glass over Finlayson again. “Perhaps you’ll know better next time,” he said. “Next problem.”

  “My problem is I can’t see straight,” Rogers said. “Seriously, chaps, you all look a bit drunk to me.”

  “You’re boozed, Rogers,” Lambert told him.

  “Who’s that?” Rogers closed one eye and peered up. “Is that God?” The bread-throwers turned their attention on Lambert. “I always knew God was on our side,” Rogers mumbled, “but I never knew He was so bloody ugly.”

  Lambert stood up. “Being God,” he said, “and seeing as this is Tuesday, I shall now make water.” He began unbuttoning.

  The owner of the restaurant came in. “Non, non, messieurs!” he pleaded. Lambert sat down. “Good news,” he said. “We’ve found someone who really has a problem.” They cheered, and threw bread at the haggard Frenchman. Lambert tried to douse him with wine. “In nomine Patris—” he began when the street door burst open, and Killion rushed in. “I found them!” he shouted.

  “You forgot to stutter,” Rogers said. “Go out and come in again.”

  Six sulky girls sidled through the door. “I f-f-f-found them,” Killion bragged, “in a b-b-b-brothel.”

  The restaurant owner had turned white. “Mon dieu!” he gasped. “Ah! Ça non! Quand même!” He rushed over to Killion and shook him, spitting demands.

  “I s-s-s-say,” Killion said as he rattled back and forth. “This is f-f-f-f-u-n.” The girls slouched moodily into the room and found places to sit. “We shall now sing one chorus of ‘Praise God, from Whom all Blessings Flow,’” Lambert announced. Woodruffe rose and led the singing. The girls found themselves glasses and bottles and began drinking. The Frenchman slapped Killion hard on both cheeks and ran out into the street. Dangerfield selected the thinnest girl and began dancing a waltz to the hymn-tune. Killion stood there hiccupping until Lambert threw wine over him; then he woke up and went to the doorway and started calling out.

  The singing ended. Killion came back in. “I found these ch-ch-chaps in the b-b-b-brothel, too,” he said. Three elderly French accordionists eased sideways through the door, smiled nervously, and played conflicting chords. “Music!” Dangerfield shouted happily, and kissed them. “Allez, allez!” The eldest one wheezed uncertainly into a waltz. The others listened hard, launched themselves, and put on speed until they caught up with him. Soon all the girls were dancing. Lambert conducted them on high with an open bottle, sprinkling the couples as they passed beneath. The owner came in with a gendarme.

  “Bonjour, gents,” Lambert called, “vous avez une réservation?”

  The gendarme came over to the table and began a long address to Lambert, who listened politely commenting “Peutêtre,” from time to time. The restaurant owner went around the room, trying to separate the dancers. He grabbed Killion and shouted at him, spitting heavily. Killion put down his glass and used the Frenchman’s necktie as a towel to mop his face.

  The man trembled with rage, leaning slightly forward because of the strain on his collar. Then he slapped Killion hard on the face and took a pace back and kicked him in the groin. Killion collapsed, screaming; the music faltered, stopped, and started up again in a noisy polka. Kimberley left his girl and knocked the Frenchman down. Lambert leaned over and sprinkled wine on both bodies. “Ashes to ashes,” he intoned. “A tooth for a tooth.”

  The gendarme hurried around the table, drawing his truncheon as he came. Dangerfield followed and, as the gendarme raised his truncheon, reached up and tugged it away from him. The gendarme whirled around and swung a punch. Dangerfield dodged; the Frenchman stumbled
over Killion and lurched into one of the girls. She kicked him on the leg and also knocked his hat off. He got away from her and looked for Dangerfield. The French girl came up behind him and kicked his backside. The gendarme saw Dangerfield and flung a chair at him.

  It went through a window.

  The band faltered, took a breath, and plunged into a two-step. The gendarme stood bewildered for a moment, and then ran into the street, where for some time he could be heard blowing his whistle. But he did not come back, and soon they were dancing again. Discarded clothing began to litter the floor. The band was fairly drunk, and the tunes tended to overlap now. A small crowd gathered in the street and was watching through the shattered window. Church came up from the cellar with his arms full of bottles, and handed them out to the spectators. “Plenty more downstairs,” he assured them. “They’ve been hiding it, you know. But I found it.” Killion got to his feet, kicked the groaning restaurant owner, and took a bottle from Church.

  Woodruffe found Rogers, and shook his hand. “Dudders, old boy,” he said. “Don’t you think we ought to be toddling off? Otherwise the chaps might start getting into mischief.”

  “Can’t go yet,” Rogers objected. “These girls still have to be stuffed. Besides, we’re not all here. Dickinson and Gabriel haven’t come back.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Don’t know. Went off on their own.”

  “Damn nuisance.”

  “Never mind, Woody. Relax and enjoy your problem.”

  “I hope you’re sober enough to drive us all home, that’s all.”

  Rogers studied him curiously, “Funny thing, Woody,” he said. “I can see your lips moving, but I can’t hear what you say.”

  “That’s because you’re absolutely stinko, Dudley.”

  “I won’t deny it, I am a bit drunk.”

  Dangerfield danced past and called out: “That nasty frog is beginning to come round. He just tried to bite my ankle.”

  “We ought to do something about our genial host,” the adjutant said.

  “Look here, I’m coming down,” bawled Lambert. “I’ve been making several very funny speeches and no bugger has laughed, so I’m coming down.”

  “We could put him up there,” Rogers suggested.

  “What, the high seat? Not very safe, is it?”

  “Best place for him. Better tie his hands, or he might do himself an injury.”

  They bound the restaurant owner, who moaned feebly and threshed about a bit; then with Lambert’s aid they hoisted him to the high seat. They got down and looked at him. He swore so violently that he nearly fell off; then he froze. Then he was sick all down his front. “Definitely the best place,” Rogers said.

  Twenty minutes later the band had been augmented by violins and drums, and several new girls had joined the party. Church was making regular trips to the cellar. The girls from the brothel had taken over a small back room. Rogers found Killion and congratulated him on his work. “Don’t get left out, old chap,” he urged. He tried to slap Killion on the shoulder and missed, and ended up on the floor. “Make sure you get your share,” he advised.

  “Don’t worry, D-Dudley,” Killion said. “I h-h-h-had mine at the b-b-b-brothel. All s-s-s-six of them.”

  Rogers rolled his eyes. He found himself looking up the skirts of a girl dancing by, and he rolled across the floor in an attempt to keep up with her. The dancers kicked him and trod on him until he got to his knees and crawled away.

  A few minutes later the lights went out. “Boche bombers,” said Woodruffe complacently. “Hit the electricity works again. Now we can all go home.” He trod carefully, searching for pilots in the occasional glow of cigarettes. “Is that you, Kimberley? The lights have all gone out. Don’t you think we might get started?” Kimberley grunted as he took off his pants. “I am,” he said.

  Woodruffe found a bottle and sat down. A couple of minutes later a soft glow appeared in the cellar doorway. Church tip-toed into the room, carrying a biscuit-tin full of candles. He tittered nervously as he tried to see through the glare of the flames. His sweaty, unshaven face gleamed like wet chalk.

  “Christ, Church, you look like the Spirit of Syphilis Yet to Come,” Lambert said. Church shook with silent mirth and dropped the tin. All the candles went out. “Bloody good job,” someone said. “I don’t need any bloody beacons to guide my way.” Eventually a few candles were lit, the band started playing, the couples uncoupled and went off to the back room, and the party went on.

  Woodruffe slouched around, looking for Rogers. He noticed that the floor was running with wine. Over in one corner Church was systematically emptying bottles. The dancers sent up a spray of froth and droplets. Woodruffe turned his head sideways and dimly saw Rogers sitting under the table, cross-legged, smoking.

  “Come in out of the rain,” Rogers said. “Bags of room in here.” Woodruffe crawled in.

  “Far be it from me to play the killjoy, Dudders,” he said. “Is that a bottle you have there? Thanks.”

  “Good party, eh?”

  Woodruffe drank thoughtfully. “Church is behind all this,” he said, pointing at the floor. “Church is raining booze.”

  “Trouble with this lot,” Rogers said, “don’t know when to stop.”

  “I always said, right from the start—and you’ll bear me out, Dudley—I always said it would end in tears.”

  “Right.”

  At that moment the police smashed down the door.

  The struggle was messy. A dozen policemen rushed into the room and tried to herd everyone into the corners. One of them slipped on the sopping floor, cannoned into the table, and brought down the pyramid of barrels and chairs which still supported the restaurant owner. He fell badly, unable to use his arms to protect himself. In the excitement Church hit a policeman with a bottle. Abruptly the atmosphere changed, and the police began knocking people about.

  The pilots were drunk and half-naked; they got no help from the French girls, who simply screamed and tried to get out of the window. The band, too drunk to understand, began to play the Marseillaise. More pilots ran out of the back room, aroused by the uproar, and joined in the fistfight.

  Only Woodruffe kept his head.

  “Candles, Dudley,” he shouted in his ear. “Put out the candles.”

  They crawled from under the table and knocked over every candle they could see. Soon the room was no longer dim but gloomy. The fighting became wilder and more confused. One policeman accidentally hit another, who fell to his knees, cursing. He was evidently their leader, for most of them stopped. Woodruffe scrambled toward the splintered door and croaked: “Everybody get out!” Nobody heard him. Rogers bellowed: “Get out, get out, get out!”

  This started a scrambling rush to the door. Woodruffe was vaguely puzzled by the passivity of the police. One or two lashed out, but most did nothing. He held the broken door and shoved people into the street. Still nobody tried to stop them, or come after them. It was too good to be true. Perhaps the leader was too badly hurt to give orders …

  He joined the tail-end of the rush and slammed the door behind him. The night was ten times blacker than he expected. He heard a confusion of puzzled shouts ahead and stumbled over something. His wet feet slithered on a wooden ramp which sounded hollowly underneath. Woodruffe paused, suspicious, yet too muzzy to decide.

  “Get on!” rasped someone. He scrambled up the ramp and fell over a body. Behind him the tailgate went up with a bang, and through his face he felt the vibrations of an engine. Then the truck accelerated over the cobbles into a violent right-hand turn, and the squadron found itself thrown hard against the side of the police patrol-wagon.

  The truck raced along bad roads for about five miles, crashing over potholes and making heavy weather of the gear changes. The pilots sorted themselves out, and tried to find something to hang on to. The inside was black, dirty and deafening. Woodruffe shouted a question which even he could not hear. After that he concentrated on saving his battered skin.

/>   The truck finally swerved off the road and jounced across pine roots before it stalled with a jerk in the middle of a little grove. The pilots cautiously relaxed their grip and let their muscles slacken. Nobody spoke. Chains rattled and pins grated. The tailgate fell with a bang. A dark figure took off a police helmet and wiped his brow. “I think we’ve shaken them off,” he said. It was Dickinson.

  “Can we get out, Dicky?” Woodruffe asked.

  “By all means. Stretch your legs, have a smoke. I’m out of cigarettes myself. Got some snuff, though.”

  Groaning and wincing, Goshawk Squadron fell clumsily on to the springy turf.

  “I’ll take a pinch, if I may,” Dangerfield said. “Head seems a spot thick.”

  Dickinson offered his snuff. “You didn’t get beaten up by those savage cops, I hope,” he said.

  “To tell the truth, I’m not one hundred percent sure whether I did or not,” Dangerfield said. “I wasn’t paying much attention.” He sniffed vigorously.

  “Look here, Dicky,” Rogers said, “what on earth are you doing wearing that ridiculous hat? And driving this filthy truck? I take it you were driving.”

  “None other. I got her up to seventy-five, too. Not bad, considering I had the handbrake on all the way.”

  “So that’s what that funny smell is,” Lambert said. “I thought it was Church.”

  “I keep seeing great big purple Catherine Wheels,” Dangerfield said. “Purple with orange spots.” He sneezed hard. “Ah, that’s better,” he said damply.

  “I thought we were done for,” Kimberley said. “I thought we were all going to end up in some manky frog clink.”

  “Dicky rescued us from the jaws of the Bastille,” Richards said. “How did you do it? Damned lucky you came along when you did.”

  “Actually, I’d been hanging around the street for quite some time. Those coppers had been assembling, you see, so I lurked in the shadows and watched, and when the Top Cop turned up he told them all to get in the Black Maria, then they backed it up to the front door and they all charged inside.”