Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  Five thousand feet below, he leveled out and made damn sure there was nobody within a mile of him.

  The fighters had disappeared. He’d never know who they were: Hurricanes from another squadron, perhaps, or French Moranes. Practical jokers, anyway. Full of high spirits. Skylarking. Happy to find a dreamer and scare the shits out of him. What fun.

  Patterson turned for home. He felt angry with himself, disgusted. He’d been made to look a fool. Well, he was a fool. He certainly wasn’t anything brilliant. Silly sod, he said to himself. Why don’t you get your finger out your ass for once? He looked down and saw the town of Metz a couple of miles to his right. Don’t just look at it, he told himself.

  Five minutes later he was circling Thionville.

  Patterson had never flown under a bridge. He drifted down in a wide spiral, looking at the river, at the bridge, at the bends and cliffs below the bridge. He’d flown under power cables once, but that was in a Tiger Moth and the cables had been strung high across a wide valley. Nothing to it.

  He gave himself plenty of height, about fifteen hundred feet, and flew a dummy run above the river. The bridge slid under his wings. He turned and flew back. It was a busy morning down there: lots of traffic, quite a few small boats. A mile above the town he turned again and made another run, this time at six or seven hundred feet. There was a lot of water coming down. In several places it had flooded over the banks and he could see a frill of ice around the pools. The concrete spans of the bridge were a flat, featureless white. Waterlogged branches were trapped against its supports, catching nests of rubbish. As he crossed over, dozens of faces looked up, all as blank as little saucers.

  Patterson turned again and went back to the start.

  From a hundred feet the river looked as smooth and black as tarmac. A hundred feet was too high, of course. At fifty feet, ripples showed in the tarmac. Trees flicked past, regularly, like markers ticking off the distance. Power cables came and went overhead. Fifty was still too high. He squeezed the controls, sank to twenty, came up to thirty, felt sweat on his palms, sensed the roar of the engine beating back from the surface. The gap under the bridge looked wide and flat, like a slice of watermelon. He touched the rudder to center the airplane. His thighs and calves ached with stiffness. The river seemed to shrink to nothing as the bridge rushed at him, big and hard, and suddenly the Hurricane felt huge, too huge, its wings stretching, and Patterson hauled back on the stick with all his strength. The plane bucked over the top as if kicked in its guts, missed a streetlamp by inches, and Patterson gave it all the throttle he dared while pressing the stick to his stomach. “No thank you,” he said aloud. “No thanks, no thanks.” The words came out flatly and harshly. “Thanks a lot, but no thanks. No thanks. No thanks.”

  Micky Marriott was waiting beside the groundcrew when Patterson landed. “Any problems, Pip?” he asked.

  “Rudder-pedals are a bit spongy. Otherwise she’s fine. No problems at all.”

  He trudged over to the locker room. He was wiping the inside of his leather helmet when Dicky Starr came in.

  “Have a good time?” Starr said.

  “Joy ride.”

  Starr watched him hang up the helmet and fold the towel.

  “What about the bridge?” he asked. “Did you get there?”

  Patterson nodded. He stretched, enormously.

  “Well?”

  Patterson gave him a tired but happy smile. “Piece of cake,” he said.

  Starr nodded, and went out. Patterson sat down and looked at his left hand. One of the fingernails was ragged. Must do something about that, he thought. The fingers trembled like a drunk’s.

  All morning Starr sat in a corner of the pilots’ hut, re-reading his notebooks. The rest of “A” flight dozed, played cards, argued, stared out of the window. One or two of them made remarks to him but he only grunted so they left him alone.

  At midday they were released. They walked the half-mile to the mess for lunch, Starr keeping himself apart from the others.

  The house was warm and full of noise. “B” flight was back too; the gramophone was going, Moke Miller was at the piano. Starr went upstairs to wash his hands and face. Soap got in his eyes and he couldn’t find a towel. “Fucking useless dump!” he cried, kicking a wastebasket.

  He left its contents scattered over the floor and walked back to the staircase. A small crowd had gathered in the hall at the bottom: Rex, Kellaway, Skull, some pilots, all greeting Air Commodore Bletchley and a pair of army officers, who were getting out of their coats. As he watched, Moggy Cattermole and one of the officers left the group and started to come upstairs. Cattermole was talking, describing the château. He kept one hand in his pocket and gestured elegantly with the other.

  It was a double staircase, and the other side was empty. Starr moved toward it. Cattermole saw him. “There goes our resident deaf-mute mentally retarded dwarf,” he said in a high, clear voice. “Ignore the uniform. Starr is actually a non-combatant. His testicles have not yet descended, I’m afraid. We take it in turns to give him a good shake every morning, but so far no good.”

  Starr turned. His anger had been simmering for two days; now it boiled over. There was a sudden thumping of blood in his temples and he felt a prickling at the back of his neck. His hands wanted to throw something. There was nothing in reach except a massive circular brass tray on which letters were left for posting. Starr seized it, spilling envelopes, knew at once he couldn’t throw it far enough to hit Cattermole, and in despair and disgust flung it down. It bounced once, clanging grimly, and landed at the top of the stairs. A brilliant idea grabbed him. He ran, he jumped, and his backside hit the tray with a crash that thrust it over the edge and sent it tobogganing down the stairs.

  “Tally-ho!” he bawled. His feet were tucked under him, his arms outstretched, his fists clenched. The staircase curved and the tray whacked into the side, scarred the paintwork, bounced out. Part of Starr’s mind tried to tell him he was doing something appallingly stupid. Another part said he was about to break his neck.

  The tray racketed on. Everything was a vibrant blur: the stair-posts flickering, his head bouncing. He glimpsed the army officer vaulting over the banisters but Cattermole seemed trapped, paralyzed. “Hornetl” Starr howled at him for no reason, and ducked.

  At the last instant Cattermole tried to jump. One foot was off the ground when Starr’s shoulders smashed against his knees. Cattermole cartwheeled like a circus act, his legs high, his small change showering from his pockets. Starr careered onward with his eyes tightly shut. “Hornet!” he shouted again. Then the tray hit the bottom and he was hurled head-first onto a large white rug. He skidded across the floor, his mouth full of wool. When he opened his eyes, blood was soaking into the white rug and he could see a lot of blue and khaki trouser-legs around him. “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “We used to do that on mess nights,” Bletchley said. “Jolly good fun.”

  “You can work up quite a turn of speed, can’t you?” said an artillery major. “I wonder how fast he was traveling?” “Would you like to have a go?” Rex offered courteously. “Not before lunch, thanks.”

  The adjutant said: “Don’t bleed all over that rug, Dicky, there’s a good fellow.”

  Starr got to his feet. “What rug d’you want me to bleed over, for Christ’s sake?” he asked angrily. To his astonishment they all laughed. Miller slapped him on the back. Mother Cox gave him a clean handkerchief. “Bloody good prang, that,” Flash Gordon told him.

  The other officer, an infantry captain, came over. “Awfully sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I landed on one of your servants and I’ve rather broken him.”

  “Put it on Mr. Cattermole’s mess bill, adjutant,” Rex said.

  “Hey!” Cattermole shouted. He was sitting on the stairs, fingering his teeth. “That’s not fair, sir.”

  “Nonsense. You should know better than to take our guests upstairs when Starr is coming down.” Rex picked up the tray. “Get some more of these,
uncle, would you? We’ll need them when that frog bomber squadron comes to visit.” He struck the tray with his fist and made it boom. “Races!”

  Starr took the handkerchief from his nose. “Cresta Run,” he said. Everyone laughed again. It was remarkable. He began feeling much better.

  They went off and had drinks and then lunch, and soon he felt even better. A sense of daring still gripped him; he could be outrageous and get away with it. “Why don’t you chaps attack?” he asked the army officers.

  “Same reason Jerry won’t attack us: too much rain,” said the captain. “Half his forward positions were flooded out. The Moselle’s very high, you know. Beyond Luxembourg all the German trenches on the right bank are awash and—”

  “All right,” Starr said. “Attack somebody else, then.”

  “Such as?”

  “Italy. Mussolini’s very pally with Hitler, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Is it raining in Italy?”

  “Actually, most of the Italian forces are in North Africa,” the major remarked.

  “Even better. Less chance of rain.”

  “Small technical problem,” the captain said. “Italy’s neutral.”

  “That wouldn’t last long once you attacked them, though, would it?” Starr argued. “Get your guns out, loose off a few shells, and Bob’s your uncle. No more bloody silly neutrality.”

  “You make it sound so easy, Dicky,” said Cox.

  “Well, it is easy. Nothing difficult about going to war. Just pot a few wops and you’re in business. Isn’t that right, Skull?”

  “It’s always worked in the past,” Skull said.

  “Ah, but this war is different,” Bletchley told them. “Look at Poland.”

  “Air power,” Rex said, nodding. “Crucial.”

  “All right,” Starr said, “if you don’t fancy attacking Italy, let’s invade Russia.”

  “Why?” asked the major.

  “Teach them a lesson. I mean to say, Hitler wouldn’t have been so bolshy without Stalin’s help.”

  “I see,” the major said. “And after Russia, what then?”

  “Home for Christmas.”

  “Nothing to it,” Miller said.

  “Easy as falling downstairs,” Starr said. That made them laugh. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

  Bletchley gave him a fond, paternal smile. “You’re the expert, Starr. If you fall upon the Hun the way you fell upon Cattermole, I shall have no complaints.”

  Patterson had been very quiet during lunch. He was aware that Cattermole kept glancing in his direction but they were at opposite ends of the table and he pretended to be interested in the conversation around him.

  It wasn’t until they were back at the airfield that Cattermole found him on his own. “Squadron practice tomorrow,” Cattermole said. “Close-formation stuff, all day.”

  “Who says?”

  “Lord Rex. I heard him talking to Baggy Bletchley. There’s going to be a socking great display somewhere on Armistice Day and we’re down to do our flying ballet.”

  Patterson shrugged. “So what?”

  “You owe me eight hundred and seventy-five francs, my son. Lord Rex is going to be drilling us from sparrow-fart to sunset, isn’t he? You’ve missed your trick.” Cattermole snapped his fingers in front of Patterson’s face; with his other hand he poked at Patterson’s tunic pockets, searching for money.

  Patterson said nothing.

  “Come on, pay up. I need the cash.”

  Still Patterson was silent. He re-buttoned his tunic pockets, glanced quickly at Cattermole, and looked away. There was a very slight twist to his lips.

  Cattermole let his hands drop. He rocked back on his heels and studied Patterson’s face. “Do you mean to tell me,” he began, and waited for an answer.

  “Piece of cake, Moggy.”

  “You actually flew under that bridge?”

  “Well, that’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

  Cattermole kept staring at him. Patterson watched a groundcrew start a Hurricane. Oily smoke laced with orange flame jetted from the exhausts. The engine crackled like a bushfire and slowly settled down to a dull roar.

  “What was the river like?” Cattermole asked.

  Patterson cocked his head to watch a rigger test the Hurricane’s rudder. “Pretty wet,” he said.

  “Hmm.” Cattermole walked away, stopped, looked back. “There’s been a hell of a lot of rain since I did it,” he said.

  There was a pause while he watched Patterson and Patterson watched the throbbing airplane.

  “I thought it might have made a difference,” Cattermole said.

  Fanny Barton came out of the pilots’ room with Dicky Starr. They were wearing flying kit and carrying parachutes. “Sure you’re all right, Dicky?” Barton said. “Nose okay? You don’t want a nosebleed while you’re on oxygen and—”

  “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

  They tramped across the grass, slightly bow-legged in their flying-boots.

  “You’ve seemed a bit off-color lately, that’s all. I thought—”

  “Nothing serious, Fanny. Touch of indijaggers. I took a dose of salts this morning. Right as rain now.”

  “You certainly came down those stairs like a dose of salts.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Starr allowed himself a quick grin. “That’s the fastest bloody old Moggy ever got airborne, I bet.”

  They parted, each heading for his plane.

  “Still, if you didn’t have any trouble,” Cattermole said.

  “Piece of cake,” Patterson said. They watched Starr’s Hurricane taxi away and turn into the wind.

  “Tell me, sir: are all fighter squadrons like this?” the infantry captain asked.

  “I suppose Hornet’s rather special,” Bletchley said. “Chartreuse, if you’ve got it,” he told the waiter.

  “Bring the air commodore a framboise,” Rex ordered. “A rare liqueur of Alsace, sir. Very subtle, very discreet. I know you appreciate an understated flavor.”

  “See what I mean?” Bletchley said to the others. He raised his arms in a gesture of pampered surrender.

  “Tradition has a lot to do with it,” Kellaway said. He blew a cloud of pipe-smoke and squinted at the changing, dissolving shapes. “Pride. Gallantry. Pluck.” He was not drunk but he was not completely sober, either. “It all adds up.”

  “I mean no criticism, you understand,” the artillery major said, “but in my regiment a subaltern would never have dared to speak in the mess in the way your young pilot spoke. It’s just not done.”

  “Fighter pilots are rare birds,” Rex said. “You can’t keep them on a tight rein or they go off the boil. They’re rather like … how shall I put it … cavalry of the sky.”

  “Knights of the air,” Kellaway murmured.

  “You encourage your chaps to be outspoken, then,” the infantry captain said.

  “Enterprise and initiative matter as much to me as discipline and dedication,” Rex said. He cocked his head as Bletchley tasted his framboise. “You see what I mean about the understatement, sir?”

  “My goodness, yes.” Bletchley sucked his lips. “It hits you in the eyes straight away, doesn’t it?”

  Dicky Starr stood the Hurricane on its tail and let it carry him vertically through a thin skein of cloud.

  It was like coming up from a deep dive in a swimming pool, seeing the surface approach, bursting through. The big difference was that he kept going, kept climbing high above the cloud, until the fighter had spent its momentum. For an instant it hung, slowly turning like the sails of a windmill. Then gravity won, and the plane fell sideways. As it regained speed it naturally and willingly straightened out, and Starr got ready for another fullblooded powerdive. A pleasant tremble built up in the controls, a sense of colossal energy harnessed to his feet and hands. Just for the fun of it he performed a slow roll. Three miles beneath him, the blurred landscape rotated.

  He came out of the dive at ten thousand
feet, held the stick back and soared into a huge and happy loop.

  He was simply air-testing the Hurricane but for the first time in his life he was really chucking it about the sky, stamping on the pedals, hauling on the stick, flying the damn thing to its limits, and discovering that the Hurricane’s limits went a bloody sight further than most people reckoned. It was vastly encouraging, wonderfully exhilarating; he felt as if he were a jockey on the finest, fastest thoroughbred in the world. He inhaled gratefully, enjoying the Hurricane’s special atmosphere: a blend of oil and dope, leather and webbing, dust thrown up by aerobatics, and the pure, metallic taste of oxygen. It was the smell of the office. That was what fighter pilots called the cockpit, the place where they did their job, where they were boss.

  Dicky Starr looked out at his wings. Forty feet from tip to tip. He looked forward at the powerful curve of his engine cowling, tipped with its shimmering disc, flanked by its red-hot exhausts. So what if he was only five foot six? This was his Hurricane, his; and nothing was impossible.

  He dipped a wing, searched around, and saw Metz. He flew north, found Thionville, and went down like a plunging hawk.

  “B” flight was in the pilots’ hut, playing brag. Pip Patterson kept winning.

  “This is a pathetic game,” Miller said. “Childish. Why can’t we play real poker?”

  “Because the queen of hearts and the jack of clubs are missing,” Fitzgerald said. “Also the ace of spades. Shut up and deal.”