Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  The Ram dialed the number and got a group captain called Blakey. “Ramsey, where the hell have you been?” he asked. “You’ve missed two crucial meetings already. See me before you go. I’ll try and brief you. Oh for Christ’s sake shut up” he said as another telephone shrilled.

  Inevitably, Blakey was no longer in his office when the Ram got there. The day continued like that. By six o’clock, when he was almost too tired to be angry, he came across Group Captain Matthews again. “You can forget about that Anglo-Polish glossary,” Matthews said wearily. “It’s all been changed. I don’t know what the new plan is yet. If I were you I’d get myself a room in a hotel.”

  “I must find Group Captain Blakey first, sir. He said—”

  “Blakey? Blakey’s gone to France.”

  Matthews hurried off. The Ram leaned against a wall and watched the endless tide of Air Ministry staff and RAF personnel flow past. Quite soon, Flight Lieutenant Kellaway flowed with it, chatting to a young WAAF. “Ah, there you are, sir!” he said. “I’ve been looking all over … These are for you.” He held out a bundle of dun-colored files, tied with green ribbon.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wasn’t told. The usual bumf, I expect.”

  “I’ve seen enough bumf today. Come on, adj, I’m starving. We’re going to find a hotel.”

  They found a hotel and had dinner. During coffee a message came from Air Ministry ordering the Ram to report at 11 p.m. to receive a telephone call from Group Captain Blakey. At 11:15 he was sitting in Blakey’s office when the call came through. Blakey was in Paris and the line was bad. The Ram strained to make sense of the cracklings and distortions. The only words he could be sure of came at the very end. “Got all that?” Blakey demanded. “No!” the Ram shouted. Blakey hung up.

  The Ram went back to his hotel, went to bed, and awoke at 3 a.m., his brain urgent with anxiety. He considered telephoning Air Ministry for orders. No, no, no: waste of time. He thought of telephoning Kingsmere. But what could they tell him? Or he, them? No, no, no. He walked around the room and saw the bundle of files on the dressing-table. He undid the green ribbon. Reports and records of the squadron’s performance at various summer training camps and exercises: air-to-air gunnery, cross-country navigation, tactics of air fighting, formation flying …

  Ten minutes later he went next door and roused the adjutant. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going back to Kingsmere.”

  He was waiting behind the wheel when Kellaway hurried out of the hotel, unshaven and sticky-eyed. The Ram had the car moving before the door was shut, and he had it up to sixty before they reached the first corner. Kellaway blinked as the intersection hurtled toward them, and he fumbled for the leather grab-strap as the tires hammered over some tramlines. “Is there a flap on?” he asked, his voice shaking.

  “Not yet,” the Ram said. “But there soon will be.”

  He heaved the bundle of files up from between his feet and dumped it in Kellaway’s lap. “My squadron has degenerated into shit condition, adj,” he said, and clenched his teeth as the car bucked over a stretch of lumpy road repairs. “The Luftwaffe is fighting fit while my lot are fit to drop. They’re all cretins.”

  “Surely not all, sir.” Kellaway was struggling to untie the green ribbon.

  “No, not all. Some of them are imbeciles, and one or two are mental junkyards. Pilot Officer Cox, for instance. Just look at Cox’s score on that elementary navigation test. Just look at it.”

  “Shocking weather that day,” Kellaway said, still picking at a knot. “Wind and rain and—”

  “Ah! Goering’s promised not to attack unless it’s nice upstairs, has he?” The Ram bullied the gearbox into submission as he took a sharp bend. “That’s good news for Pilot Officer Cattermole then, because it seems he’s utterly incapable of maintaining formation in anything stronger than a mild breeze.”

  “I seem to remember young Cattermole wasn’t terribly well that day, sir,” Kellaway said. “Nasty head-cold.”

  “Yes? And what was Flying Officer Stickwell suffering from when he missed the towed target three days in a row? Scarlet fever? Beri-beri? St. Vitus’ Dance? Not that Pilot Officer Miller did any better with the fixed target, did he? Somewhere in that bumf you’ll find a fascinating account of how Miller and his Hurricane slaughtered several innocent sandbanks but mercifully spared the target. What’s Miller’s problem, adj? Can’t he fly and shoot at the same time? Or was his mother frightened by a bunker?”

  Kellaway tried to think of an excuse for Miller and couldn’t. “The chaps did do rather well in the aircraft-recognition competition,” he said.

  “Yes, they did, didn’t they? Amazingly well. Came fifth out of nine. By their standards that’s bloody brilliant. I expect they all thought they deserved DSO’s for that. They only failed to recognize four aircraft in ten. Quite a triumph. Makes you proud to be British.”

  Kellaway gave up: the knot was unpickable. “It’s been rather a difficult summer,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, adj, I’ve got some solutions lined up. All those jokers will get the boot. You watch me shake the tree, adj. See the rotten apples fall.”

  Even with the Ram’s heavy foot on the accelerator it took them an hour to get clear of London. They made good time up the old Roman road to Colchester and then got stuck behind a succession of milk-trucks and, after them, an army convoy, trundling fieldguns at a sedate thirty miles an hour. The sun was high enough to be dazzling when they turned east at Chelmsford. Now the roads were narrower, with fewer passing-places, and the Ram’s foot jumped repeatedly from accelerator to brake. Kellaway’s arm ached from gripping the grab-strap. His stomach groused loudly about hunger made worse by continuous nervous tension. At last Kingsmere aerodrome came in sight. The RAF policeman saluted and raised the barrier, and the Ram sprayed gravel as he parked outside the officers’ mess. It was just six o’clock.

  Kellaway got out, and massaged his numbed backside. The sunshine was pleasantly warm and blessedly silent. “Breakfast,” he said. It sounded like a one-word history of Western civilization.

  “Bugger breakfast,” the Ram said. “You take ‘A’ flight, I’ll take ‘B.’ I want them on parade in ten minutes, maximum.” He strode off.

  Kellaway had the easier task: only two members of “A” flight were in their rooms, Fanny Barton and Dicky Starr. As the pilots assembled, yawning and doing up tunic buttons, he said: “I’m afraid there’s no sign of Stickwell, Cattermole, Patterson or Cox, sir.”

  The Ram stared. His eyes had widened slightly, his nostrils were tight, his whole face seemed stretched. He turned away. “I don’t care a damn if you all get killed tomorrow,” he said.

  That woke them up.

  “I do care if this squadron fails to play its full part in the air defense of Great Britain,” he said. “I care if these scarce and valuable Hurricane fighters get shot down. I care very much if the German bomber fleets not only destroy these Hurricanes but also proceed to destroy their targets, killing God-knows-how-many civilians who at this very moment are gullible enough to put their pathetic faith in your supposed skill and determination when, if they knew what I know, they’d realize you probably couldn’t hit a Zeppelin even if you could see one, which is unlikely, because according to these reports, nine out of ten of you can’t piss against a wall without filling your left boots to overflowing!”

  He paused for breath. The pilots frowned, or gazed at the ground. The adjutant sucked his teeth and thought about bacon.

  “This squadron is incompetent,” the Ram said. “It cannot fly straight, it cannot navigate efficiently, it does not know its battle tactics, and its aerial gunnery is a waste of good bullets. You are not fighter pilots. You are a cheap, dishonest imitation of fighter pilots. This state of affairs will change, with effect from now. You will do one of two things extremely rapidly: you will get better, or you will get out. That is not a threat …”

  The adjutant cocked his head. He thought he had heard the sound
of horses’ hooves.

  “… nor is it a warning. That is a statement of fact. I estimate that within seven days half of you will have been chopped. Always assuming the Luftwaffe does not get here first and perform the eliminating for me …”

  The adjutant strolled to one side and listened. Yes, definitely horses’ hooves. Odd.

  “… which I can tell you seems more and more likely with every passing hour. You can also take it from me—”

  Two large and shaggy farm-horses cantered around the corner, their broad hooves kicking up pebbles. Cattermole and Stickwell rode one, Patterson and Cox the other. The horses wore rope bridles, with the pilots’ neckties fastened to them as reins. Cattermole whooped, huskily: he had been whooping a lot; it kept the horse going. Patterson saw the pilots and waved. “You’re saved!” he shouted. “The cavalry’s here!” Then he saw the Ram. “Oh my Christ,” he muttered.

  An RAF police corporal came after them on a bicycle, pedaling hard. The horses circled the group of pilots, gradually losing speed. The corporal halted, dismounted, saluted. “Very sorry, sir,” he said, breathing fast. “Couldn’t stop them, sir. Jumped the barrier, sir. Broke the pole, sir.”

  The Ram nodded.

  “Stop, blast you, stop,” Cox said bitterly to his horse. The animals were down to a trot. “Let me off, damn it.”

  “Cowboys,” the Ram said bleakly.

  Stickwell slid backward over his horse’s rump and fell to the ground. It was a long way to fall and he was slow to get up. “God, I’m thirsty,” he moaned, and realized that it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Cowboys,” the Ram repeated. “Heading for the last round-up, no doubt.”

  The horses finally stopped. Patterson and Cox got off. As Cattermole tried to dismount, his horse shook itself and Cattermole went sprawling on his hands and knees. All four men looked bleary, hung-over and stained.

  “You seem to have had a busy night,” the Ram said. “You seem a trifle fatigued. We can’t have that. I know just the thing to buck you up. Squadron battle climb. Take off in twenty minutes.” He grinned, briefly, stretching his mouth like someone testing a rubber band, and walked away. Kellaway went with him. “B” flight waited a moment to let them get ahead and then followed.

  Fanny Barton went over to Cattermole, still on his hands and knees, and kicked him. “Get bloody up,” he said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Fanny,” Mother Cox told him. “I’ve been trying to get them home for hours. Honestly.”

  “Crawler,” Patterson said.

  Cattermole heaved himself up. “What’s going on, Fanny?” he asked. “Has Hitler declared war?”

  “No. But the Ram has, and he’s looking for pilots to chop, so you four must be top of his list, wouldn’t you say? What the blue blazes have you been up to?”

  Stickwell scratched his head, and discovered some straw. “Car broke down,” he said.

  “Want to buy a nice horse?” Cattermole inquired.

  Barton kicked him again, but Cattermole was already so bruised by events that he merely blinked. “Corporal, put those horses somewhere safe,” Barton ordered. He gave Cattermole an angry push. “Go and soak your heads, all of you,” he said.

  “I can’t possibly fly,” Stickwell announced, “not in my condition.”

  “Then get up there and crash,” Barton told him. “And make a bloody good job of it.” He shoved Stickwell, who collided with Patterson. “Run!” he shouted. They began a shambling trot, which got faster as Barton threw stones at them.

  For fifty yards behind the Hurricanes the grass was flattened by the wash from their propellers.

  Hornet squadron, twelve-strong, was drawn up in the arrowhead formation that the Ram favored for battle climb. Each section of three aircraft formed a V. The Ram, being squadron leader, was at the point of the leading section. Two of the other sections positioned themselves to right and left so as to form a larger V, while the fourth section was tucked in behind. Kingsmere had no runways. Once the squadron was formed-up and heading into the wind it was ready for takeoff.

  The Ram glanced left and right to make sure everyone was watching him. The control tower had given them clearance. No Battles were wandering in or out of the aerodrome. He checked his watch: nineteen minutes since he gave the order. Not bad. The ground crews had been on duty already, so warming-up the planes had been quite straightforward; nevertheless the pilots must have got themselves kitted out and plugged-in and taxied-out and formed-up in double-quick time. Showed what they could do when they took their fingers out. He released his brakes and eased the throttle open.

  Standing on the edge of the field, Kellaway and Dicky Starr watched the squadron start to roll. Dicky was reserve pilot that day; and when the trembling thunder of engines suddenly magnified to an aggressive, ear-battering bellow, he couldn’t keep still. He walked and skipped a few paces, his fists clenched in encouragement. The Hurricanes bounced and rocked as they gained speed; stray leaves and bits of paper and old grass cuttings got hurled into the air. When the Hurricanes’ tails came up, smoothly and quickly, it was as if large weights had slipped off them. Simultaneously the engine-notes altered, booming bigger and harder now that the wings were cutting the air more cleanly. Dicky Starr watched, and flew with them in his imagination: left hand on the throttle (keep her speed up), right hand on the control column (keep her nose up), feet hooked into the rudder-pedal stirrups (hold her straight), eyes, ears and backside acutely aware of the shape of the formation all around, of the health of the engine in front, of the racing judder of the wheels beneath.

  The Ram’s Hurricane detached itself from the ground first. As it skimmed the grass the others lifted themselves. Within seconds their wheels were folding inwards and the squadron was climbing hard. The thunder faded to a soft roar, the roar to a growl. The planes diminished to a bundle of dots, which merged into one large speck and was lost to sight.

  “Dicky, d’you know anything about rugger?” Kellaway asked.

  “Not much.” Starr was cautious. “Damn-all, really. They have scrums and things, don’t they? And the ball always bounces the wrong way. Why?”

  “The Ram’s told me to fix up a game against the Battle boys later on this morning. I’m just wondering—”

  “Rugger? Us? Against them?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well …” For a moment Starr didn’t know where to start. “It’s Sunday,” he said. “Nobody plays rugger on Sunday.”

  “Evidently the Ram does. He’s already had a word with their CO. His chaps are quite enthusiastic.”

  “I bet they are. Have you seen them? They’re gorillas. They’ll murder us, adj.”

  “Nonsense. They’re a jolly decent bunch. Anyway, the Ram reckons you all need a bit of toughening-up. He thinks you’ve been having it too easy.”

  “They’ll kill us,” Starr said gloomily. “They’re maniacs. Anyone who flies a Battle must be loopy. That’s how they get picked. If you can think, and feel pain, they won’t have you.” He brightened up. “Anyway, we’re bound to get put on readiness again, so rugger’s out of the question, isn’t it?”

  “Wrong, old boy. The controller says we’re released to forty-minute availability until twelve-noon. And there’s something else, too. The Ram wants slit-trenches dug. Somewhere near dispersal, he says, so you can all dive into them if Jerry suddenly pays a visit. Right here would do, I suppose.”

  Starr whacked his heel against the turf and failed to make a dent. “Pure concrete,” he said. “We’ll break our necks.”

  “I’d better get the digging started.” Kellaway went in search of the NCO’s.

  The purpose of a battle climb was to lift the squadron to combat height in the minimum time. It was hard work for men and machines, the engines slogging away to win a couple of thousand feet every minute, the pilots having to hold tight formation through cloud and air pockets and a change of atmosphere equivalent to climbing the Alps in a quarter of an hour.
There was no chance to relax: everything and everyone toiled flat-out. It was the Ram’s favorite maneuver.

  “Jester Leader to Red Three: close up, damn you,” he ordered for the third time.

  Stickwell was Red Three. His wingtip was ten feet from the Ram’s wingtip. He cut the gap to five feet and concentrated grimly on holding position. His stomach kept jumping as if someone were poking it with a pencil, and his mouth tasted stiff and sour; also his skull seemed to be pressing down on his eyeballs. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was sick.

  At last the Ram looked away from him. Just you wait, Flying Officer Stickwell, the Ram said to himself. I’ll teach you to get blotto. I’ll spread your guts all over this sky before I’m through. He opened his transmission switch. “Jester Leader to Red Two: where the hell d’you think you’re going?” he said.

  Cattermole was Red Two. He had already been sick: the effect of too much pure oxygen on a system thoroughly abused by alcohol and horse-riding. Oxygen was a well-known hangover cure for fighter pilots but on this occasion, although it had cleared his head, it had also emptied his stomach. He didn’t mind being sick but the vomit had splashed onto his gloves and made them slippery. Whenever he tried to wipe them clean, he wandered out of formation. “Sorry, Leader,” he said, and drifted back.

  You’ll be sorry when we get back, all right, the Ram thought. You won’t even stay for lunch, my lad. He checked on Blue Section. “Tighten up, Blue Leader,” he said. “Stop dawdling.” Flip Moran brought his section forward by half a length, and the Ram put a mental question mark beside Blue Two. Miller. Moke Miller. Always larking about. Not a bad pilot but harebrained, no strength of character. It took more than flying ability to be a fighter pilot. In this squadron, anyway …

  At seventeen thousand feet they leveled out and gained speed until they were cruising at about two hundred miles an hour. The last layer of cloud was a mile below them. They seemed to be hanging in a vast blue dome.