Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  They met outside. “Hello, you,” he said.

  “Hello yourself.” She was wearing a hat with a half-veil, and seemed glad of its protection. “I’m surprised you even want to speak to me.”

  “Don’t talk such twaddle.” He tried to look cheerful but the grin came out thin and crooked.

  “You want to know what happened.”

  “Well …”

  “Of course you do, Fitz. It must have seemed very strange. Not even a letter.”

  “Yes. Strange.” They began walking slowly on the crisp gravel, going nowhere, not looking at each other.

  “I had to go away,” Mary said. “I can’t explain. It wasn’t anything … It wasn’t your fault. I mean it wasn’t because of anything you’d done. It was just …”

  Fitzgerald nodded. He understood. It was because of what he had failed to do. Mary had gone away to spare him any further shame, and to spare them both any more embarrassment. She had done what he should have done. “Quite right,” he said.

  “I didn’t go far. Neufchateau. Some friends run a business there. They were very kind.”

  “Good.”

  “No, it turned out to be not much good, in fact. All my fault, really. Nobody to blame but myself, and it gets very dreary, sitting around blaming yourself all day, so when I heard that Nicole was getting married I thought I ought to …” She ran out of words.

  “I’m glad. Look, Mary: we’re having a sort of a reception-thing for Flash and Nicole back at the mess. Why not come and join us?”

  She reached up and touched the line of his jaw. “Lovely,” she said.

  The reception-thing turned out to be a major celebration. There was a large contingent from a nearby Battle squadron and a party of vivacious nurses. A trio played cheerful jazz. Everywhere, champagne popped and foamed. This was champagne country. At eight bottles for a pound, why drink anything else?

  Mary seemed to enjoy the party. Fitz could see that she impressed his friends. Moggy Cattermole was especially charming to her. “You know, Fitz,” he said, as he stopped a waiter and handed around glasses of champagne, “this is what we’re all fighting for.” They laughed, as much at his style as at his words. As they drank, Fitz wondered briefly whether Cattermole had meant they were fighting for Mary or for champagne; but it didn’t matter, it was just Moggy playing the silly-ass. They moved on. Stickwell came over, wobbling slightly, a bottle in each hand, and topped up their glasses. “Mary, this is Sticky,” Fitz said.

  “I’ve been chopped. Still, it’s not the end of the world, is it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, young Fitz. It is the end of the world. I don’t care. It’s a rotten world, isn’t it?”

  “There are plenty of other squadrons, Sticky.”

  “I like good old Hornet. My advice,” he said to Mary, “never be an ace. Aces get chopped.” He wobbled away.

  “Concussion,” Fitz said. “He’s not well.”

  She gave him her glass, still full, and folded her arms, hugging herself. The party swirled and laughed and talked around them. Fitz felt that she had suddenly gone away from him. He was not surprised when she said: “This is silly, but I’ve had enough. I can’t stand all these people. God, that sounds conceited … Can we go, Fitz? Look, you needn’t leave. Just get someone to drive me home. It’s not your fault.”

  “I seem to have heard that before. You’ve really got to stop saying it, it’s quite unnecessary.” He finished his champagne and hers, and went to borrow a car.

  The cottage was as cold as a cave and just as dark. She opened the shutters while he lit a fire. The kindling was brittle: it blazed high and bright. They stood side by side and watched the flames. “Dust everywhere,” she said. “I daren’t think what that bed’s like. Damp and cold, obviously.”

  “Can’t have that,” he said. He fetched the mattress and the bedding and spread them in front of the fire. By now the logs were radiating heat, driving back the chill. She found an unlabelled bottle, half-full of some dark red liqueur. They sat on the mattress and sipped the stuff.

  “I don’t know why you put up with me, Fitz,” she said.

  “It must be because I love you, I suppose.” He had never said it before, and now he was slightly shocked at the ease with which the words came out.

  She kissed him, and that was another surprise. They undressed, and pulled the sheets and blankets on top of themselves. She was shivering so much that he had to hold her tightly for several minutes. After a while he realized that her trembling had changed subtly: it was starting to bring pressure to bear, and this was increasingly enjoyable. In the end he discovered the simple truth, which was that all he had to do was follow his inclination. It was so easy, it was irresistible. For the second time that day he was slightly shocked to find how easy it was.

  “There you are,” she said. “Piece of cake, wasn’t it?”

  He laughed at her’slang. “Does that make me an ace?”

  “Aces get chopped. Remember?”

  “You know too much gen. You’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act.”

  Fitzgerald was pleased yet uneasy. It had been too damned quick: he suspected that he had taken more than he had given, but he was afraid to talk about it. Indeed, neither of them felt completely at ease.

  He left, saying that he had to return the car, and she lay in bed and watched the fire collapse as the day ended. It was a maudlin scene, and she knew it, but nevertheless she found herself in tears, and she cried herself to sleep.

  Stickwell said his goodbyes to Kellaway and Skull, and went to see his commanding officer for the last time.

  “Nothing personal about this, you understand,” Rex said. “It’s simply and purely a matter of discipline. You beetled off and had a crack at Jerry on his home turf, which you knew was totally against orders. If I let that sort of thing pass, everyone’s going to start popping over for a bit of sport to brighten up a dull afternoon, aren’t they? War isn’t all fun, you know. Well, best of luck.”

  There was a car to take him to the station for the long train-ride across France. “Don’t come out,” he said repeatedly, as he went around the mess shaking hands, “it’s horribly cold, you’ll freeze.” They were all very sympathetic; they promised to write, to keep in touch, to look him up whenever they … In the end he stopped listening and got his coat and cap and his gloves and just went. The driver was waiting. At the last minute, Cattermole came running out with a piece of paper.

  “Nearly forgot! Rex asked me to give you this, Sticky,” he said. “I think it’s just a few odds and ends he’d like sent out from England.”

  Stickwell glanced at the list. “Bloody hell, Moggy,” he said. “This is going to cost a packet.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Send me the bill, I’ll make him pay for everything. Rex is rich enough, after all. I say: aren’t you taking the Buick?”

  “Bloody doctors reckon I’m not fit to drive yet.”

  “Oh, that’s intolerable. Listen, I know a chap who’s going on leave next week. Would you like him to ferry it back for you?”

  “Marvelous. Can you really do that?”

  “Piece of cake. Don’t give it another thought.”

  The car sped away and Cattermole hurried inside.

  “What was all that about?” Miller asked.

  “Sticky gave me his Buick,” Cattermole said. “Sort of a going away present.”

  “Lucky devil,” Miller said.

  FEBRUARY–APRIL

  1940

  The heron stood motionless in the shallows beside the island, legs like stilts balanced on their own reflections, and waited for food to swim by. It was a big lake, a mile long and half a mile wide, with this conversation-piece of an island planted in the middle. There was no breeze to ruffle the surface. The hills were still white with snow, and that made the lake look blacker than ever. Far away, a dog barked twice: two scratches in the silence. Then the silence healed over and there was nothing
but the lake and the island and the heron, utterly motionless.

  The bird turned its head as it heard a sound: a faint, dull groaning. The groan grew to a growl and the heron took off. Its huge wide legs unfolded and one flap heaved it into the air. By now it could see the danger: an aircraft flying low, just crossing the lake-shore, aiming for the island. The heron cranked its wings, straining to make height so that it could find safety, but the plane was fast and within seconds its guns erupted. Eight streams of fire converged in a cone of destruction four hundred yards ahead. The heron climbed sturdily into this whirlwind of bullets and was battered sideways, ripped and slashed and broken, a feathery lump of blood and guts that splashed into the lake as the Hurricane zoomed overhead and climbed away.

  Eleven more Hurricanes followed, one after the other, each firing a prolonged blast. A plywood target stood on the edge of the island. Most pilots managed to clip it. One hit it in the middle.

  “Jolly good show,” said Air Commodore Bletchley.

  “Most impressive,” agreed a visiting air vice-marshal.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Rex.

  They were standing beside their car at the head of the lake, watching the display through binoculars.

  “Did you see that bloody bird?” the air vice-marshal asked. “Total write-off! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I have, sir,” Rex said mildly. “I saw a Dornier just like it.”

  “And so did I,” Bletchley said. “That was a real eye-opener, that was. Fantastic firepower in these Hurricanes. One good long burst on target and it’s goodbye target.”

  “Here they come,” Rex said.

  The squadron had re-formed in tight formation. It swooped in a gentle curve over the lake and flew past the watchers. The pattern was as precise as if it had been stenciled on the sky. “I say!” the air vice-marshal murmured. The wingtip navigation lights winked on and off in a simultaneous salute, and the air vice-marshal touched his gloved hand to his cap. “Very fine,” he said.

  “Come on, Reilly!” Rex said. They got into the car, the dog beside the driver. “I hope you like venison, sir,” Rex said.

  “A thought occurs,” said the air vice-marshal. “Aren’t you taking something of a risk, leaving your aerodrome without any cover?”

  “I’ve got a chap up on patrol, sir,” Rex said. “He’ll take care of any stray Jerry … Home, driver.”

  CH3 was five miles high and freezing. An enemy aircraft was cruising over eastern France, with no apparent purpose. It was only just in sight. He had been following it for an hour, ever since it crossed the frontier just south of Strasbourg, and so far he had never got close enough to identify the type. It was just a dot that kept moving away. It knew he was there. If he opened the throttle to close the gap, it simply climbed some more. The higher they went, the more the Hurricane wallowed. And the intense cold was like a sickness that struck continuously.

  So CH3 seemed to be losing, but he persisted because he knew that the German was not winning, either. Swanning around the top of the sky accomplished nothing. The airplane was either on a hit-and-run bombing raid or on a photo-reconnaissance mission. Far below, at twelve thousand feet, there was a screen of cloud that stretched to the horizon. It looked like the desert floor, it was so far down. To find his target, the German would have to go beneath it.

  On the other hand he probably had more fuel, so he could wait. He also had a navigator, so he knew where he was.

  CH3 decided to take a chance. He made a conspicuous exit, dropping a wingtip and falling vertically so that his star-shape caught the weak sunlight. It was a long way down, and the controls were growing stiff by the time the Hurricane slashed through the cloud and he saw France again. Within thirty seconds he had found a landmark. In three minutes he was back where he started, near Strasbourg.

  He was gambling that the German had originally planned to fly the shortest course to his target. If he visited that target now, the direct route home would follow the same course in reverse.

  The cloudbase was ragged and CH3 wandered through the tatters, skulking like a poacher, searching endlessly. The ground was snowcovered; anything flying across it ought to show up. The Merlin coughed and he switched fuel tanks without having to look.

  Seven minutes passed. Nothing changed: the same scruffy cloud up here, the same frozen terrain down there, and in between an ocean of emptiness. His neck ached. His eyes were tired. The German had outguessed him and gone home another way. The cold and the endless searching were hurting his eyes: they began watering, creating little specks and blurs. He blinked. The specks vanished, all but one, far away to his left. It grew to a tiny brown blot, as if someone had poked a rusty nib at the sky.

  French flak.

  CH3 banked hard and straightened out in time to see a line of brown blots appear, reaching westward. He extended the line and found a plane a thousand feet below it, a Dornier-17, leaving a twin trail of thin black smoke in its hurry to get home.

  Geometry was against it. As soon as the German pilot saw the Hurricane he knew that they were flying an interception course, and he swung violently away and began climbing for cloud. CH3 watched the Dornier sacrifice speed for height and reckoned that it would fail by about a hundred feet. In the event his Hurricane performed better than he expected. The Dornier was at least two hundred feet from sanctuary when CH3 eased up behind it, saw its wingspan grow to fill his reflector sight, and pressed the gun-button while he counted one, two, three. Converging streams of fire raged into the bomber. Its rear-gunners had been taking hopeful squirts at him even before he came within range; now they stopped. The Hurricane fell back a little, jolted by the recoil. The Dornier swerved sideways and fell from view. When he found it again it was diving like a gannet.

  CH3 caught it and dipped below its slipstream to miss the turbulence. Someone was manning the belly-gun again but the German pilot started dodging and swerving and the shots flew wide. CH3 fired a burst that missed but it scared the pilot into a panicky skid, and while the Dornier was off-balance he fed another blast of bullets into it and an engine caught fire. From then on the German pilot was a passenger, and soon he was a dead passenger. CH3 swung wide and curved back to spray bullets into the bulbous cockpit. Shards of glass made a glinting trail that got swallowed in smoke. He climbed away and noticed flak all around. They were over the German lines. He dodged about to fool the gunners and watched the Dornier go sailing into a hillside like a drunk walking into a wall.

  “I’m afraid the criteria are quite specific,” Skull said. “I can’t credit you with a kill without corroboration. Sorry.”

  “Someone must have seen it go down.”

  “Perhaps. Give me a map reference and I’ll ask around.”

  “South of Strasbourg. I don’t know precisely where.”

  “That makes it rather difficult.”

  “Tell you what, Skull. Let’s forget about it.”

  “No wreckage, no eyewitnesses … It’s awfully difficult.”

  “No, it’s worse than that. It’s embarrassing.”

  “On the other hand if you’re sure—”

  “No, no. Far from it. It may have been a trick of the light. Or perhaps a large bird. An angry crow or the like.”

  Skull fingered the combat report. “I ought to put down something,” he said.

  “Write: enemy aircraft driven off in easterly direction,” CH3 told him. “They can’t get you for that.”

  At this stage of the war, most encounters ended with the enemy being driven off in an easterly direction. German aircraft came over singly, at great height, to probe the Allied defenses, and at the first sight of trouble they turned and raced home. Jacky Bellamy had to work hard to make a story out of that, but she was a hard worker and by adding some pen-portraits of the pilots she created a neat little two-part series. Part one told how the timid German pilots scuttled for safety rather than prove themselves in combat. (British fighter pilots have christened the enemy “the bashful Boche.”
Said one young RAF flight lieutenant: “All we ever see is their tail units. If that’s the way the Germans want to fight, they ought to design a plane that flies backward.”) Part two put forward a reason for the German failure of nerve: the clear superiority of the Hurricane squadrons. It was no secret that the Hurricane carried eight guns, and Jacky Bellamy made the most of this. The ferocity of their fire-power has to be seen to be believed … German bombers have been hacked in half by a storm of bullets before they even saw their attacker … a speedy retreat is the only hope … only fools and martyrs take on the Hurricane; the Nazis are not complete fools and they seem to have exhausted their stock of martyrs …

  It was these reports that led to something of a showdown with CH3.

  They met by chance in the village estaminet. She had stopped off for a glass of wine. He was playing backgammon with a Frenchman. She came over and watched.

  “Been out collecting more junk?” he asked, not looking up.

  “If I wanted to write junk I wouldn’t drive all over eastern France. I’d stay home and make it up.”

  “Same result.”

  “Yes? Tell me one thing I’ve got wrong.”

  “That stuff you wrote about the German Air Force. The feeble, timid Luftwaffe put to flight by the magnificent eight-gun Hurricane. That junk.” He threw a double-six and galloped his pieces around the board. His opponent sniffed ruefully.

  “It’s not junk. It’s what’s happening.”

  “It’s dangerous guff. So the Germans aren’t attacking. That doesn’t make them weak, or scared. So the Hurricane knocks down one or two. That doesn’t make it a worldbeater. Those gallant aviators back there in the mess: they’re beginning to believe your fairy-tales, you realize that?”

  “Eight guns is twice as many as any German fighter carries. That’s no fairy-tale.”

  “Look: doubling the fire-power doesn’t double the hits.” The game rattled on at a brisk pace as they talked. “All it means is the bad shots miss twice as much. Gunnery in Fighter Command is lousy. The harmonization—”