Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  “True. I can feel him moving.”

  Fitz wiped away his tears and glanced at the door leading to the stairs. “Perhaps …” he began. From the street came the familiar sound of a car horn, jaunty and insistent. “Oh, bugger!” he said crossly.

  The two men were halfway home before either of them said anything.

  “Enjoy yourself tonight?” Flash asked routinely.

  “Not bad. You?”

  “No complaints.” Flash changed gear, unnecessarily. “Nicole showed me some more experiments.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Flash drove in the wrong gear for a time and then changed back to the right one. “She’s really hot on biology and anatomy and all that stuff,” he said.

  “I’m glad somebody understands it,” Fitz said.

  Flash chuckled as if Fitz had made a witty remark. “Amazing creatures, women,” he said. “Full of surprises.”

  There was no answer to that. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Rex had Hornet squadron airborne soon after breakfast next morning. There was a fine, clear sky and he wanted to practice something new for the Armistice Day display, even if the replacement pilot hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Nothing flashy about this maneuver,” he told the pilots gathered in the crewroom. “It’s to be part of a very solemn ceremony, so I want it done in perfect unison, like Trooping the Colour. You’ll each find a colored smoke canister fixed to your fuselage, with a switch in your cockpit. Right?” He looked at Micky Marriott, who nodded. “Good. Now, we’re going to paint the cross of St. George in the sky. ‘B’ flight crosses behind ‘A’ flight. Height one thousand. Speed one-fifty. Release smoke for six hundred yards. Must have perfect timing and absolute uniformity. Clean start, clean stop, straight lines, square angles. St. George for England all over the sky. Symbol of victory. Also loyalty. Remember who’s going to be down there watching.”

  “Who, sir?” Stickwell asked.

  “Any other questions?” Rex said.

  “A royal personage, you ignorant fart,” Cattermole told Stickwell. “If you ask him nicely he might cure your pox.”

  “It’s not mine,” Stickwell said. “I’m just looking after it for a friend.”

  “Let’s go,” Rex said.

  He took them up to eight thousand. For the first half-hour they practiced familiar routines: flights in line astern, changing to sections in close vic, then squadron in vic—his favorite ace-of-diamonds pattern—followed by the compact spearhead formation. Finally, on his word of command, the flights detached, peeled off to left and right, and fell steeply.

  He saw the horizon swing to the vertical, felt his straps hugging his ribs, glanced at his wingmen, plunging sideways, knifing the sky with their wingtips. The growing rush of air worked on the Hurricane’s shape and straightened it easily into a normal nosedive. The horizon wheeled level again. The fields and woods of France lay spread in a thousand dull shades of brown and gray and green. The land looked dead and empty, but as Rex eased back the stick, wintry sunlight flashed and flickered on a ragged network of streams and ditches. For a second the reflections ran like spilled mercury. Then the angle was lost. Rex flattened out and turned toward the airfield.

  Kellaway and Skull were standing on the balcony of the control tower—a two-story wooden hut—when Marriott joined them.

  “Perfect conditions, Micky,” the adjutant said. “No wind to speak of.”

  “That’s rather a shame,” Skull said. “A nice westerly breeze would have blown everything over the German lines. Just imagine—”

  “I hope the bloody things go off when they press the switch,” Marriott said. “I’ve never worked with smoke flares before. It’s not even RAF gear, Lord Rex scrounged it from some Army Cooperation unit, the stuff’s probably as duff as hell.”

  “Haven’t you tested any of them?” Kellaway asked.

  “Not at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, I haven’t.”

  “Here they come,” Skull said.

  “A” flight came out of the north, five Hurricanes immaculately in line abreast. As they crossed the airfield perimeter, plumes of smoke burst from them: snowy white from the flanking aircraft, crimson from the three inside. Immediately the bands of color spread to meet and make a wide, bold stripe. As “A” flight went past, “B” flight crossed behind it, completing the emblem.

  “Jolly clever,” Kellaway exclaimed. He wound his camera and aimed it. “Damned impressive, I say.”

  “Congratulations, Micky,” Skull said, and suddenly sneezed. “Sunshine,” he explained.

  “At least the stuff works,” Marriott said.

  The deep drone of aero-engines altered subtly. The flights had banked away from their smoke-laying runs. They would circle the airfield and make a low, slow pass down the middle in salute of the royal personage. “Sod it,” Marriott grunted. “Oh dear,” Skull said. Kellaway sighed. The smoke had not ceased when the flights turned. The streams of color angled through ninety degrees and continued to flare across the sky. Marriott said: “It’s easier to light those damn things than put them out.”

  “What a shame,” Skull said. Kellaway took another picture.

  Rex cut short the rehearsal and landed. “Not quite what I had in mind,” he said.

  “Very good up to a point, sir,” Kellaway observed.

  “And rubbish thereafter. Sloppy. Scruffy.”

  “It’s easier to light those damn things than put them out,” Marriott said.

  “Well, there’s got to be a solution. I want to see the cross of St. George up there, not an endless stream of bloody bandages trailing all over the sky.” They began discussing technicalities. Meanwhile, the rest of the squadron was landing and taxiing to the dispersal points. The pilots walked across the field with a slouch-shouldered, heavy-booted trudge that seemed to come instinctively to them, as if to express their contempt for any kind of movement except flying. Moke Miller found a football in the grass; a casual kick-about developed.

  “Trouble is, sir, they’re not made to go out,” Marriott said gloomily. “They’re made to burn to the end.”

  “I wish—” Rex began.

  “Sir!” The duty NCO leaned out of the control tower, holding a telephone. “Ops officer at Area HQ. One hostile aircraft over Plombières. Can we intercept?”

  “No. Tell him we’re refueling.” The NCO vanished. Rex looked at the adjutant and gave a snort of disgust. “Pointless sending anyone to Plombières with half a tank.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Just our luck. No trade for weeks, and when Jerry shows up we’re refueling.”

  “Luck of the draw.”

  “That’s curious,” Skull said. He had moved apart from the others and was staring at the sky. The smoke trails had drifted eastward, giving the pattern a new perspective. “It doesn’t look a bit like the cross of St. George now,” he said.

  They looked at it.

  “What it rather resembles,” Skull said, “is a well-known Nazi symbol.”

  Rex turned away. Skull was right. Only two arms of the cross were bent but that was enough. The sign in the sky looked like a huge, radiant, incomplete swastika.

  For a moment, dismay silenced him. A swastika. Even half a bloody swastika. Plastered all over the sky. By him. “What a mess,” he said weakly.

  “When I was a child,” Skull said, “if I made a mistake in a painting, nanny told me to turn it into a cloud.” Kellaway and Marriott looked at him, uncertainly. “Or perhaps a tree,” he told them.

  Rex looked at the sky. If only it would snow, or rain, or blow a gale.

  A distant telephone rang its toy bell. The duty NCO was at the window again. “Area HQ, sir,” he called. “It seems they’ve had reports—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Rex waved the man away. The action revived him. Already he was reconciled to the disaster; now it was time to fight back. “Get upstairs and talk to HQ, uncle,” he said. “Butter them up, baffle them with bullshit, you know how to
do it.” Kellaway hurried away. “Micky, I want new smoke fitted on a couple of planes. Make it three. Any color. Fast as you can.” Marriott turned and ran. “Takeoff in five minutes!” Rex shouted after him. A couple of pilots heard and paused on their way to the crewroom. “You two,” Rex shouted. “Go with Marriott. We haven’t finished yet.”

  “Goodness;” Skull said. “Nanny will be pleased.”

  “Give her a big kiss for me,” Rex said, pulling on his gloves. He felt better now that he was doing something.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw her mustache,” Skull said. “By the way: did you have an appointment with a priest? One seems to be heading this way.”

  It was indeed a Catholic priest, striding across the grass with a brisk heel-and-toe action, his cassock billowing, his iron-gray head erect. “Take care of him, Skull,” Rex said, and set off for his Hurricane; but the priest waved, called, and altered course to intercept him.

  “Monsieur le commandant? Bonjour. Père Alexandre, curè de Pont-St. Pierre” He was an inch taller than Rex. “Je dèsire une explication, m’sieur.” His manner was stiff, his voice harsh. “Votre pilote, le jeune homme Starr. Il n’est pas membre de l’église catholique”

  “How the hell did he get in here?” Rex asked Skull.

  “No idea, sir.”

  “This is supposed to be a fighter drome. Some frog dogcollar just wanders in and—”

  “C’est une affaire très sérieuse, m’sieur!” He shook a warning finger at Rex. “Je vous le dis, il faut faire quelquechose! Tout de suite!”

  Rex sighed. “What’s he ranting about?” he asked.

  “Something to do with poor Starr,” Skull said. “It seems he wasn’t a member of something.”

  “Christ Almighty,” Rex muttered. The priest glared. Rex turned and saw Marriott leaving his Hurricane. Marriott gave a thumbs-up. Rex cupped his hands and shouted to his fitter: “Start up!” The man was on a wing-root, peering into the engine. He waved acknowledgment. “Take care of this loony,” Rex told Skull. “I’m off.” But when he moved, the Frenchman seized his arm. “C’est presq’un crime!” he rasped. “C’est une désécration!”

  Rex wrenched himself free and took a couple of steps back, but the priest followed. “Look, you silly sod,” Rex said. “I don’t talk your wog bloody lingo, so just keep your sticky hands off me. Compree?”

  “En anglais?” the priest said challengingly. “You want we speak English? Good! M’sieur Starr—not Catholic. Yes?” Rex’s Hurricane burst into life, and the priest had to shout. “My church—Catholic. People—Catholic. Ground—Catholic. Starr—out! Compree?”

  Rex pointed to his plane, which was blasting black smoke from its exhausts. Then he pointed to the sky, and tapped himself on the chest. “C’est la guerre” he bawled. The priest frowned suspiciously, but made no move to stop Rex when he walked away.

  His fitter climbed out of the cockpit. The engine cowling was still unbuttoned, and he crouched on the wing, adjusting something. His cap got swept off by the prop-wash. Abruptly the roar mounted in pitch and strength. The Hurricane shuddered. Its left wheel climbed over the wooden chock. The plane lurched and slewed, the other chock lost its grip, and before Rex could start running, his aircraft was careering away from him, out of control. It hit a bump and rocked wildly. The fitter fell off the wing, rolling fast to dodge the tail-wheel.

  Rex stood and watched it go. He felt the same sick helplessness he experienced in a bad dream: this could not be real, awful things like this didn’t happen to him, huge failures, public humiliations, runaway disasters. The Hurricane was picking up speed all the time but it was not running straight, it was always curving to the right. Groundcrew and pilots scrambled clear. Somebody fired off a red Very light: the flare soared beautifully and uselessly. A fire tender appeared, bell clanging, and raced across the grass as if to sideswipe the plane; but at the last moment it swerved away. “Gutless runt!” Rex shouted. The Hurricane was doing a steady thirty miles an hour and veering more and more to the right. There was still hope: if it kept tightening its turn it might go round in a circle and then keep on circling until it ran out of fuel or someone got into the cockpit. There was still hope; but not for long. With the fire tender hard behind it, Rex’s plane came roaring back, right wheelstrut telescoped by the strain, right wingtip brushing the grass, and it rammed a parked Hurricane fair and square, hitting it with a wallop that bowled it over and left it totally bent. The runaway fighter sprawled over it in a collapsed and crumpled mess. The impact had stopped the engine dead. Various colored fluids sprayed or squirted or drained from the wreck. Something inside it exploded like a popped balloon.

  Rex released his breath. He turned his back on the scene and tramped wearily to the control tower. He clambered up the steps. Kellaway met him. “I don’t believe it, adj,” Rex said. “It’s a conspiracy. I mean, what happens next? Bubonic plague?”

  “Not our lucky day so far, sir. There’s a cup of tea going, if you’d like one.”

  Marriott appeared. “I’ve called the Amiens depot, sir. Replacement aircraft on the way.”

  The adjutant said: “Ah, that reminds me—”

  “What about HQ?” Rex asked.

  “Yes. Well, they heard about this peculiar sign in the sky. Gendarmerie, French Army, God knows who all. Big flap—fifth columnists signaling to the enemy. You know how the frogs panic.” Kellaway began scraping out his pipe. “I played the innocent. Suggested harmless explanations. Freak cloud formations, old contrails, migrating birds. Smoky bonfires.”

  “What?” Rex said.

  “Well, not bonfires. I just made that up.”

  Rex grunted. “D’you think they believed you?”

  “No.” Kellaway blew sadly through his pipe-stem. “No, I suspect they didn’t.”

  “Damnation,” Rex said. “That means an inquiry.”

  Kellaway nodded. “Two inquiries.” He pointed at the wrecked Hurricanes.

  Rex turned on Marriott. “How the blazes did that happen?”

  “She jumped the chocks, sir. Simple as that.”

  “No, it’s not. What was the fitter doing, revving the engine so hard? No wonder—”

  “It wasn’t the fitter’s fault, sir. He had to get out of the cockpit, and he—”

  “Whose fault was it, then? The stupid chocks, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.” Marriott was stiff-faced but sure of himself. “The chocks were at fault. They’re too small for the Hurricane’s wheels. Always have been.”

  “That’s marvelous. Two machines written off, so we blame the chocks. The board of inquiry’s going to love that.”

  “Maybe they’ll recommend bigger chocks, sir,” said Marriott. “I hope so. Those things were designed for biplanes, half the size of a Hurricane. I’ve made that clear in more than one memo to the area equipment officer.” Marriott paused, and added: “With copies to you, sir.”

  Rex threw his gloves, one after the other, into a chair. He threw his flying-helmet after them. “To hell with memos,” he said. “You make your own chocks. That’s an order.”

  Marriott scratched the back of his head, tilting his cap over his eyes. “It might be better if you put that in writing, sir,” he said. “If I start using non-standard equipment and anything goes wrong—”

  “Do it!” Rex snapped. There was an uncomfortable silence. He flicked a finger at the adjutant. “And get something typed up for me to sign.” Kellaway nodded.

  Skull came in. “Well, young Starr’s got to be moved again,” he said.

  “What?” Kellaway was startled. “But we’ve paid for that grave.”

  “You arranged it with the sexton, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not with the priest.”

  “No. He was away at some religious bunfight.”

  “Well, he’s back, and he wants the body shifted now, today, before it contaminates someone.” Skull grinned maliciously, and accepted a mug of tea from the duty NCO. “He doesn�
�t want any vile, decaying Methodists mixed up with his good, putrefying Catholics. Here’s to sanctity.”

  The adjutant screwed his face up into an expression of puzzled concern. “How on earth did the fellow find out that Dicky Starr was a Methodist?” he asked.

  “He didn’t say, but my theory is—”

  “I don’t care,” Rex said harshly. “I don’t want to know. I just want that bloody body permanently disposed of, understand? I want it put away for good. Get me? Laid to rest. And that means rest. Not bloody well hopping up and down like some damned dervish. I mean, what the bloody hell’s going on, for Christ’s sake?”

  They were briefly silenced by his anger, tinged with desperation. Then Skull said: “Do dervishes really hop? I know they whirl, but … One is so ignorant of Arabic religious ritual. It’s quite appalling.”

  “I’ll have Starr shifted, sir,” Kellaway said gruffly.

  “Today,” Rex told him. “Let’s get some thing right on this station.”

  The adjutant gave a grunt of pleasure and waved his pipe to attract their attention. “I knew I had a bit of good news, sir. We’ve got a replacement pilot.” He fished a sheet of paper from his pocket and smoothed it. “Pilot Officer Christopher Hart Ill. He’s—”

  “What? What was that? His name is Ill?”

  “So it seems, sir.”

  Rex sat on his gloves and helmet. He passed a hand over his face as if wiping something away. “His name is Ill,” he repeated. “Pilot Officer Ill.”

  Kellaway shook the paper, and half-laughed. “Sorry! Of course it’s not. You clod, Kellaway! He’s not Ill, he’s three. Roman numeral for three. The chap’s American, it says so further down, US citizen, he obviously calls himself Christopher Hart the Third and—”

  “They’ve what?” Rex came out of his chair as if stung. The chair toppled and crashed before the duty NCO could reach it. “They’ve sent me an American?” His voice was faint with fury.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A bloody Yank? They expect me to enroll a foreigner into my squadron? We’ve run out of Englishmen, is that it?”

  “Well, I don’t—”

  “We obviously have, haven’t we? And why not? We can’t do anything right, so who cares? When we fly, we fuck everything up! When we’re on the ground we smash the sodding kites together! Jesus Christ, we can’t even bury our dead without at least two shots at the wrong bloody hole! No wonder they send us the odds and sods, they probably think he’ll fit right in, another clown for the circus!”