Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  “Tu m’apprends l’anglais,” Nicole murmured.

  “Rubbish.”

  “C’est vrai. Tu m’apprends I’argot anglais et … et des blagues.”

  “Blagues? I never taught you any blagues. What are blagues!”

  “Jokes.” She curled her legs around his.

  “Oh, well … I suppose so. It’s not much, compared to what you’ve taught me about the human body and so on. Like what happens when you blink, the way the fluid over your eye gets wiped off and runs down a little hole into your nose. I’d never have worked that out for myself. Not in a million years.”

  Nicole nodded without opening her eyes.

  “Clever little arrangement, that,” Flash said. “I suppose it’s the reason why your nose is underneath your eyes.” He squinted at his own nose, as if to test the theory. “Anyway, I haven’t told you anything half as useful as that.” He was feeling very grateful to her. He wanted her to know how deeply appreciative he was. “Have I?”

  “Alors …” She made her head more comfortable. “Tell me something, if you like. Some good English.”

  “I wish I could. I don’t know any … Hang on. There’s a bit of Shakespeare they made us learn at school.” Nicole smiled. Flash cleared his throat. “Now all the youth of England are on fire, and silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies: now thrive the armorers, and something something something in the breast of every man: they sell the pasture now to buy the horse; something the something of all something … Damn.” He shrugged. “I never could remember it all.”

  She linked her hands behind him. “It sounds nice,” she said. “What does it mean?”

  “It means the balloon’s gone up. Everyone’s off to war. It’s from Henry the Fifth, where he decides to go and wallop the frogs at Agincourt, and—”

  “That butcher!” Nicole thrust herself away from him and sat up. “Invader! Bloody killer!”

  “Look out, Nicole, you’re making a terrible draft.”

  “Your Henry was a brute, a cochon, un tyran, unbarbare!”

  “Who says?” Flash was enjoying the view of her splendid breasts. “I think you’re just a bad loser. After all we beat you fair and square. The fact is—”

  “The fact is you English invaded France. What right had Henry and his greedy army to walk all over France?”

  “Dunno.” Flash took his eyes off her breasts and was surprised by the anger on her face. “I expect we—”

  “You were as bad as the boche, you English. If I had lived then, I should have defended France contre la tyrannie de l’Angleterre. Moi, une femme!”

  “Just like Joan of Arc,” Flash said, and knew at once it was the wrong thing.

  “Oui! Comme Jeanne d’Arc! Who was born near here!” Nicole flung off the blanket and stood up. “Killed by you English, n’est-ce-pas? Killed by the fire! Une martyre pour la France!” She seized her clothes and strode out, leaving the door wide open. The hurricane lamp flickered. Flash shivered. Bloody women, he thought. Just when you’re ready for second helpings they go off the deep end. There was a box of apples nearby. He took one and munched it.

  At the other end of the village, Fitz had just stepped out of a hot bath and was drying himself. The hot bath was something of a gamble: he knew it had an effect on your performance because someone had told him so, but he couldn’t remember which way it was supposed to work. Surely the important thing was to feel completely relaxed. He stopped toweling and examined his state of being. Was he relaxed? It was hard to tell. He examined himself again, more rigorously, searching for causes of anxiety, signs of tension. There was nothing to worry about; nothing. So why where his toes curling?

  Some sorts of food were supposed to do the trick. Oysters, especially. Not easy to get oysters in Lorraine in November. On the other hand, other types of food were supposed to take the starch out of you. Cheese: which side was cheese on? He’d had rather a lot of cheese at lunch. What if cheese made you sluggish? Like thick engine-oil making it hard to start the Merlin in cold weather?

  Perhaps the weather made a difference.

  Or the moon.

  He wished there was a book that told you all about this. You’d think someone would write a book. If only there was something you could sort of rub on yourself, just to get the equipment warmed-up and generally pointed in the right direction … He opened Mary’s bathroom cabinet and sniffed the contents of various jars and bottles. One liquid had a pleasant scent of lemons. Hadn’t he read somewhere once that lemons put lead in your pencil?

  He twitched his nose and glanced down at the equipment. Jesus, it certainly looked as if it needed encouragement. It looked as if it was trying to hide behind itself. Lemons. Or was it melons?

  He put the bottle back in the cabinet. Relax completely: that was the main thing. Well, he was relaxed: totally, utterly, absolutely relaxed. He wiped the mist off the mirror, smiled confidently at himself, and went out, curling his toes against the carpet.

  Flash picked him up, as usual, a couple of hours later. “Have a good time?” he asked as they drove away.

  “Oh, the usual,” Fitz said. There was a long pause before he asked: “How about you? Learn anything new?”

  Flash laughed, but not much. “I learned you can’t win ’em all,” he said.

  Fitz grunted, and looked out of his side-window. “I could have told you that,” he said.

  Fanny Barton saw it first: a bird, wheeling between two clumps of trees about a mile away, to the west of the aerodrome. A big bird, a heron or perhaps a buzzard. The squadron had just landed after a final rehearsal for the Armistice Day display and the pilots were straggling across the field. It had been a good rehearsal; everyone was pleased; even Rex was laughing at something Sticky was saying. Fanny couldn’t make out the words. His ears were still buzzing. He looked at the clouds, trying to guess tomorrow’s weather. There seemed to be a bit of everything up there. He took a deep breath, and his ears popped. Noise came at him as if he had thrown open a window: shouts, the clump of boots, an engine’s growl. He looked for the bird. It was still there but bigger and thicker and flying more boldly than any bird. Fanny stopped. “Hey, look at that,” he said. Nobody heard him. The silhouette swelled, the growl deepened. “Hey!” he shouted. “Aircraft!” Everyone stopped. The machine seemed to get very much faster as it got nearer: within seconds it was streaking toward them, dipping to twenty feet, its propeller disc shimmering, the growl becoming a huge, hoarse shout: a Messerschmitt 109, pearl-gray underneath, green on top, and going a damn sight faster than any Hurricane could travel. Everyone ducked as the fighter seemed to vault over them, smashing them with a storm of noise. Then it was gone. By the time they had straightened up and turned, the German was halfway to the perimeter, climbing like a rocket.

  “Bloody cheek!” said Rex.

  Cattermole took out his revolver, aimed carefully, and fired. The Messerschmitt, once again no bigger than a bird, flew steadily eastward. “I think I winged him,” Cattermole said.

  “He dropped something,” Fitzgerald shouted.

  They gathered around the object. “Better not touch it,” Mother Cox advised.

  “Don’t be bloody silly,” Stickwell said. “It’s an old jerry, that’s all.” He turned it over with his foot. It was indeed an enamel chamber-pot, much dented and scarred. “Made in England,” he said.

  “Well I’m damned!” Flash Gordon’s voice had gone up several tones. “Why on earth did he do that?”

  “It’s an insult,” Patterson said. “This means war.”

  “It means they’re as bored as we are,” Rex said. “Personally, I think this is a very encouraging sign. Now they’re starting to come out to play. You watch: we’ll get some real sport soon.”

  They kicked the jerry across the field, playing football, and then hung it on the wall of the crewroom. Flip Moran and CH3 were the last to leave. “What do you make of it?” Flip asked him.

  “That 109 could have killed us all if he’d had a mind to,” CH3 said.<
br />
  Flip combed his hair. “I noticed you were the only one to hit the deck.” He put his cap on. “Very smartly,” he said.

  “I reckon it pays to make yourself small when someone points a gun.” They went out into the fading light of the afternoon. “Where were the lookouts?” CH3 asked. “Why wasn’t the alarm sounded? What happened to the airfield defenses?”

  “They’re all organized,” Flip said. “They’re just not manned every minute of the day. We’ve got …” He shrugged. “I was about to say we’ve got better things for the men to do, but that doesn’t sound very clever.”

  “The CO thinks Jerry’s coming out to play,” CH3 said.

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s the English, you see. A great sporting nation, the English.”

  “Sure. More sporting than the Germans?”

  “By far.”

  “God help us.”

  “Well … God isn’t much of a sport either. Mind you,” Flip added, “from what I hear, the devil’s a very bad loser too. It gets so a fellah doesn’t know which way to turn.”

  Rex went straight to his office, whizzed through the paperwork on his desk, picked out the urgent stuff, dictated half-a-dozen letters or memos, and then grabbed the first pilot he saw—Fanny Barton—for some squash. They played flat-out, split a ball and smashed a racket, and came off in a lather of sweat. Rex took a shower, went by his office to sign the letters and memos, and whistled for Reilly. They took a walk in the grounds. He delivered the dog to the kitchens for its dinner, and went back through the grounds, relishing the sharp evening air, unhurriedly returning the crisp salutes of passing airmen, feeling marvelously fit and knowing that an excellent dinner would soon be served to him. His mouth watered at the thought. More airmen; more salutes. It was like owning a country estate: servants, sport, entertainment, all the rewards of a smooth-running and spacious establishment, provided by a grateful and generous government. He took the front steps two at a time. It was a good world, until he went inside.

  Five or six pilots were bunched together at the bar, making more noise than usual. The adjutant stood amongst them, looking jovial. He saw Rex approaching and made room for him. “Sir: may I introduce you to Jake Bellamy,” he said. “Miss Bellamy, I’d like you to meet our commanding officer, Squadron Leader Rex.”

  “Hello,” she said. They shook hands. Rex was startled but he behaved impeccably: smiled, made the beginnings of a bow, held her hand a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. “How do you do, Miss Bellamy,” he said.

  She was small and slim, and she looked good in a war-correspond-ent’s uniform of khaki gabardine slacks and tunic. She wore a gray silk shirt with a knitted brown tie, and her hair was a glossy black, cut just short of her collar. Her face was not beautiful but it was interesting and pleasant to look at. The pilots were obviously fascinated by her. She accepted their attention easily. She seemed the calmest person in the room.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Rex said.

  “I’m sorry about the confusion over the name,” she said. “There was a correspondent called Jake Bellamy and because people can’t believe in a woman doing this job they think I must be him. Same initials, you see. I’m Jacky.”

  “Jacky’s going to write stories about us, sir,” Stickwell said. “She’s going to tell everyone what terrific fighter pilots we are. Especially me.”

  “Is that right?” Rex said, trying to look pleased.

  “No,” she said. They all laughed, Rex last. “I just cover the war. Whatever happens, I report it. I guess I’m over here to help keep score.”

  “And which newspaper do you work for?”

  “A chain. My stuff gets syndicated.”

  “You know, Jacky,” Fitzgerald said boldly, “you’re not terribly American, are you? I mean …” But he ran out of confidence.

  “Plenty of Americans are not terribly American,” she said. “Are you terribly English?”

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “No, you’re not,” Patterson said. “You wear suede shoes and you don’t like kippers. You’re a phony.”

  “Pay no attention,” Fitzgerald told her. “Pip’s Scotch, so he doesn’t count.”

  “May I get you a drink, Miss Bellamy?” Rex asked. She smiled, and pointed to the bar: she already had a glass of orange juice. Rex accepted a tankard of beer, and drank deeply. “I’m flattered by your presence, of course,” he said, “but is there really enough for you to write about here?”

  “No. I aim to spend a lot of time out in the field, but if I can use this as a base I’d appreciate it.”

  “Personally I think it’s a brilliant idea,” Miller said. “Have you got any friends?”

  “Colleagues? Sure. Dozens of them.”

  “Not men” Miller said. “More like you, I meant.”

  “A word in your ear, uncle,” Rex said. He took the adjutant aside. “This must be a mistake,” he said. “She can’t possibly be meant to stay here. The whole idea’s totally unacceptable.”

  The adjutant looked troubled. “The thing is,” he said, “we had a room reserved for her—for Bellamy, that is—and now she’s moved into it. I don’t see how we can …”

  “But this is an operational unit, for God’s sake. Not a damned charm school.”

  “The room’s no problem. We’ve got umpteen rooms to spare. And I honestly don’t think she’ll get in the way. She looks young but she’s quite well clued-up, you know. Been a war-correspondent in China and in South America, Uruguay or Paraguay or …” A burst of laughter made them glance. “Besides, she gets on jolly well with the chaps, doesn’t she?”

  Rex sniffed. Kellaway knew at once he had said the wrong thing. “I don’t want distraction,” Rex said. “I want concentration. This is my province. That woman must go.”

  “I forgot to tell you,” Kellaway said. “She’s reporting the Armistice Day display.”

  “I don’t care if she’s reporting the Second Coming.” But Rex remembered Baggy Bletchley’s remarks. This woman was here at the suggestion of the office of the C-in-C Fighter Command, Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, who had no jurisdiction in France but had a lot of influence. “Damn,” he said. “Damn.”

  While they were talking, CH3 came in and was introduced to Jacky Bellamy. They shook hands and said hello, and she studied his face for a couple of seconds. “We’ve met before. You wouldn’t remember. Colorado, 1936. The two-man bobsled event.” There was a suppressed eagerness in her voice. “You broke some kind of record, didn’t you?”

  “That was on the second run. Third run, I broke my leg.”

  She clicked her fingers. “So you did.”

  “Were you competing?”

  “I was working. Newspapers.”

  There was the briefest of pauses while he took in her uniform. “Ah,” he said, and with it the distance between them suddenly became enormous. “I see.”

  “You’ve changed a lot in four years.” She had forgotten the other men existed. “If I hadn’t been told you were here I don’t think I’d have recognized you.” His face was empty of expression. He simply nodded, and looked at the space beyond her shoulder. “That was the first time I ever got a byline,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Excuse me. There’s someone I have to talk to.” He walked away.

  “What’s a byline?” Miller asked. She didn’t hear, and he had to repeat his question.

  CH3 had a brief conversation with Rex. “Is she here because of me?” he asked. “Yes,” Rex said. “Look, sir, I know how newspapers work,” CH3 said. “They’ll print a lot of trash, a lot of lies.”

  For a moment, Rex almost liked him. “Too late now, old man,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re stuck with the lady.” He went back to the bar.

  On Armistice Day the cloudbase was above ten thousand feet, the air was bright and clear, the breeze was steady at ten miles an hour. On the airfield at Area HQ, Rheims, the flags of the color-part
ies flared beautifully.

  Hornet squadron’s display came after all the marching and playing and singing and praying and standing in silence; it was planned as the climax of the occasion.

  Rex led his Hurricanes through a demonstration of close-formation flying that, for speed and precision, excelled anything the audience had ever seen. He saved the best for last. When his flights created the cross of St. George five hundred feet above the royal reviewing stand, the streams of color appeared suddenly and cleanly and vividly; a vast, bold banner discovered in the sky in a matter of seconds. The squadron re-formed; climbed until it was only a blur, a mutter; turned and dived at full throttle; leveled out over the stand with a blast of noise that seemed to flatten the grass; and soared superbly in Prince of Wales feathers, each section streaming smoke, bright red and blue plumes curling away from the central white: a great royal emblem, sketched with godlike speed and skill against the empty air.

  The squadron landed in close formation—aircraft in vic, sections astern—and Rex was presented to the royal visitor. This was only an obscure duke, pressed into war-work; genial, chatty and clueless; steered everywhere by staff officers; his brow constantly creasing under the unfamiliar weight of an Air Marshal’s cap. But he asked Rex a lot of questions, and while they talked the flashbulbs flared like flattery on all sides. When at last Rex saluted and marched away, he saw Jacky Bellamy at the front of the crowd, taking notes. All trash; all lies. He was tempted to seek her out and suggest that he might check her story for accuracy. After all, Hornet was his squadron, not hers, but people would believe what she wrote: her story would become the reality.

  No. To do that would be to play the game her way. Which meant conceding that the game mattered. He put her out of his mind, found his men, led them off to lunch.

  She turned up there, too, but she sat among the junior pilots. Rex heard little of their conversation, except for one exchange. “How about the German fliers?” she said. “D’you really want to kill them?”

  “Got to,” Moggy Cattermole said. “They don’t make good pets.”