They reached the truck and drove back to the airfield.
Boy Lloyd, on foot, arrived home shortly before the truck. They called to him but he refused to speak and went straight to his tent.
Flip Moran found himself standing next to CH3. Explosions rumbled in the distance.
“He’s got to go, Flip,” CH3 said. “If he doesn’t go, the rest of the squadron will. Bit by bit. You watch.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moran said. “But in any case he’s the only CO we’ve got, so we have to make the best of him. Do you fly with us tomorrow, or do you intend to get yourself shot for refusing to obey orders?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I was afraid you might,” Moran said. “You’re a terrible man for thinking.” He went to bed.
Everyone felt better next morning. They had been allowed to sleep until eight; there was hot water for shaving; the cooks made an excellent breakfast of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, kidneys and tomatoes, with French bread still warm from the oven; the sky was as bright as well-scrubbed pottery; and there was a stiff breeze from the west that blew the flies away. To cap it all, three replacement Hurricanes landed and one of the ferry pilots brought a bundle of mail. Even Lloyd smiled.
Rex let them read their letters, and then stood up. He looked good: refreshed and alert.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “at last we are going to take the fight to the enemy.”
Reilly, who had been lying at his feet, stood and licked his fingers.
“Baggy Bletchley was here last night,” Rex said. “The German offensive is beginning to take shape. Their army is making two thrusts—both of them well to the north of us. The secondary, or minor, thrust is just beyond Luxembourg, in the Ardennes. It is clearly a feint or diversion to distract us from the primary or major thrust through Holland and into Belgium. That, as it happens, is precisely where the Allied High Command expected Jerry to strike, so our forces are well placed to deliver the riposte suprême. French for a good kick up the ass.”
Quiet chuckles. The adjutant nodded approvingly.
“That’s where we come in. There is an enormous canal between Holland and Belgium, called the Albert Canal. Over it there are several important bridges, very useful to the German Army. But not for long. Our bombers are going to blast those bridges into very small bits, and Hornet squadron is going to make damn sure nobody stops them doing it. Any questions?”
For a moment there was total silence. Kellaway watched their faces, everyone thinking, nobody looking at anyone else, and saw the difference that two days of war can make.
“These bridges, sir,” Barton said. “Has Jerry captured them yet?”
“Some, not all. The situation’s rather fluid.” Rex saw Barton chew his lip, and added: “As you’d expect, with all those canals around.” Nobody laughed. “Rotten joke,” he said. Nobody smiled.
“So if Jerry’s got a bridge,” Moran said slowly, “he’ll have it well defended by now.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Final briefing at Amifontaine,” Rex said. “That’s the bomber drome in northern France. Skull’s there already. He went up by car with Baggy Bletchley.”
“Are we the only fighter cover, sir?” Cox asked.
“Good God, no. They’ve brought three or four Hurricane squadrons over from England, so some of them will be involved. But you’ll be pleased to know that we form the spearhead. Ours is the place of honor.”
“Talking of spearheads, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “what formation do we fly?”
“Oh, the usual.”
Patterson mumbled: “Usual bunch of bananas.” If Rex heard him he ignored it. “I take it everyone’s fully fit?” he said. The adjutant nodded cheerfully. He had not found a doctor to examine CH3; hadn’t even searched very hard. “All in the pink, sir,” he said.
“These new kites bring us almost up to strength,” Rex said. “I’ll lead Red Section with Mother and Moggy. Fanny has Yellow Section: that’s Pip and Flash. Blue Section is Flip, Moke and Fitz.”
“Bottom of the heap again,” Fitz muttered. “Down among the dead men.”
“However,” Rex went on, “Baggy Bletchley has asked me to experiment with two aircraft behind the formation. A sort of rearguard. Hart and Lloyd are spare, so they can do that. Takeoff in half an hour.”
He went away with the adjutant. The pilots milled about and discussed their task. The general mood was one of wait-and-see: if Baggy Bletchley had briefed Rex at midnight everything had probably changed by now. Flip Moran was unusually morose. “Fucking Dutch,” he grumbled. “Why can’t they blow up their own fucking bridges?”
“Maybe they haven’t any bombers,” Fanny Barton said briskly.
“Have we?” Moran asked. Barton gave him a sharp look of disapproval. “Of course,” he said, and turned away.
“Well, well,” Lloyd said to CH3. “Ass-end Charlie after all, then. There’s still time to go sick, if you hurry.”
“Take my advice,” CH3 replied. “Don’t fly straight. Keep weaving.”
“You take my advice. Wear your rubber pants.”
“Really,” Cattermole said, “you chaps surprise me. Where’s your sense of occasion? Where’s your pride? ‘Ours is the place of honor.’ Here we have a chance to impress friend and foe alike with our superb close-formation flying, and all you can do is bicker.”
“Close-formation stinks,” Fitzgerald said.
“We all know it’s risky, Fitz,” Barton said, “but it works. It knocks down the bombers.”
Cox said: “So what? We’re not going for bombers today. It’ll be 109’s and 110’s. Zooming around like bluebottles.”
“Fitz is right,” Miller said. “We look like a bunch of bananas up there. No wonder we keep getting jumped.”
“Okay, enough!” Barton exclaimed. “Enough talk. Let’s get on with the job.” As they dispersed he touched Flip Moran on the shoulder. “Hang about a bit,” he said. When they were alone he said: “This isn’t getting any better, is it? D’you think we should have another word with Rex?”
“Why? He won’t change the formations. Anyway, why should you care, Fanny? You’re up the sharp end. You won’t get jumped.”
“That’s a damn silly thing to say.” Barton felt the blood pounding into his face. “Almost as stupid as what you said about those Dutch bridges.”
“Ah, but of course, I forgot, you’re the senior flight commander. You have enough leadership for the both of us. Go ahead and use it all. I mean, don’t mind me.”
Barton glared. “All right. If that’s the way you want it, maybe I will.” But Moran was already walking away.
Gordon and Fitzgerald shared a tent. “Any news of Nicole?” Fitz asked, stuffing a revolver down the side of his flying-boot.
“Not yet. What about Mary?”
Fitz shrugged. “On her way to England, I expect.”
Flash put Vaseline on his neck where the collar had rubbed.
“You can’t help worrying, can you?” he said.
“Jerry seems to be playing the game so far. He’s only raiding genuine military targets.” Fitz breathed on his goggles and polished them. He saw his face reflected in a lens and was startled: it looked tired and worried. “They’ll be all right, I’m sure,” he said.
Rex sat in the hut and signed pieces of paper for the adjutant Kellaway put the last one before him. “You might like to read that first, sir,” he said.
Rex read it.
“While with the squadron he did all that was asked of him without flinching … That’s true enough. His courage, determination and audacity were never in any doubt … Yes, I suppose so. Who is this, anyway? Trevelyan?”
“Nugent and McPhee as well. I’ve had two copies made.”
“Oh … Never in any doubt … Those two weren’t here long enough to demonstrate much of anything, were they?”
“Scarcely their fault, sir. They did their best.”
“Yes … Oh, well, b
enefit of the doubt … His death in combat was an example of gallant self-sacrifice in the face of heavy odds and extreme peril …” Rex sniffed. “I don’t remember that. The bloody fools got themselves killed, that’s all.”
“In combat, sir. You were on patrol, after all. Surely it was self-sacrifice and, as such, gallant.”
“Nugent and McPhee collided.”
“That’s extreme peril, by any standard.”
“And Trevelyan let a 109 sneak up on him. I don’t call that ‘heavy odds,’ adj.”
“It depends how you look at it, sir. We don’t say which side the odds favored, do we?”
Rex signed all three copies of the letter. “What are these sloppy civilian shirts they’ve suddenly taken to wearing? They think I don’t notice. I notice, all right. Are they ashamed of their uniform, or what? Uniform means uniform: all the same. Am I right, adj?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Kellaway knew that half the squadron had rear-armor in their cockpits and that several had re-harmonized their guns to one hundred yards, in imitation of CH3. But he saw no point in bothering Rex with that sort of detail now.
They flew to Amifontaine in close-formation, sections astern. Lloyd followed, fifty yards behind, somewhat to the right. He flew straight and level, unlike CH3 who kept up a constant snake-like weaving on the left. Plenty of strange aircraft were to be seen but none approached them.
The weather got steadily worse as they went north. Thick gray cloud rolled out of the west like a slow tidal wave. It crossed their path when they were still thirty miles from Amifontaine, bringing gusty winds and the odd rain-shower. By the time they landed, every scrap of blue sky had been obliterated.
Skull met them and took them straight to the mess. Baggy Bletchley briefed them while they ate sandwiches. The bombers were waiting; the raid would take place as soon as the Hurricanes were ready. There was a heavy air of urgency about the operation.
“Maastricht,” said Bletchley. “It’s on the Dutch border, here.” He uncovered a large map, decorated with stars and arrows. “About a hundred miles away. There are two bridges, just outside Maastricht. One on the road to Tongres, the other toward Hasselt. One concrete, one metal, and they’ve both got to go. That’s not your problem, of course. The Battles will hit the bridges. Your job is to sweep ahead of the Battles and clear any Jerry fighters out of the way.”
“Whereabouts is the Front, sir?” Rex asked.
“It hasn’t stabilized yet.”
“But roughly where?” asked Barton.
“Our information is currently being updated. We’re waiting for the latest reconnaissance pictures to be developed.”
“Where was the Front,” Cox asked, “before that? More or less, sir.”
Bletchley flashed a finger across the map. “Here, somewhere.”
“This side of the Albert Canal, then,” Moran said.
“In places, yes. It seems possible. Light penetration may have occurred in one or two areas.”
“So Jerry’s captured those bridges, sir,” Barton said. “Which means lots of flak.”
“This cloud will provide ample cover for the Battles, right up to the last moment,” Bletchley said. “It’s a perfect godsend.”
There were no more questions. They finished their sandwiches, collected maps, used the lavatory, and went out to meet the Battle crews. These turned out to be surprisingly cheerful. “Come on, buck up!” they called out. “What kept you? Can’t hang around all day waiting for you lot! Fingers out! Chop-chop!”
“Where are the rest?” Moran asked. Only five Battles were lined up.
“This is it,” said one of their pilots. “We’re all here. Are you all here? Because we want to go there, so that we can knock it into the middle of next week, which will be here any day now unless you get a move on.”
“We’re ready,” Rex said. “Is there anything more we ought to know? What height are you planning to bomb from?”
“Personally, I’m going in damn low,” one of them said. “It’s safer and surer.”
“Utter cock,” said another. “High dive: that’s the best way.”
They grinned, and thumbed their noses at each other: evidently this was an old argument. “We’d better give you five minutes’ start,” Rex said. “Good luck.”
The Battle was a sleek aircraft, long and slender, but it had no more power than a Hurricane. Its single engine had to lift a crew of three plus a bombload that weighed as much as a crew of four. The machines used up most of the airfield before they got airborne and groaned eastward.
“Now that they’ve gone,” Rex said, “I can tell you that each of those men volunteered for this operation. That shows you how keen they are. Let’s put on a good show and make it easy for them.”
The clouds were lower and blacker by the time they took off. They passed the formation of Battles somewhere near the Belgian border. There was no sign of any other escort.
Skull went back to the mess, found a comfortable armchair and tried to sleep. He had been up all night and his eyeballs ached. The mess was empty; but as he dozed off, someone started shouting and banging the furniture in a nearby room. At first he was too weary to care, but the noise grew worse. He went to see what was happening.
Four war correspondents and a squadron leader were shouting at each other. One of the correspondents was Jacky Bellamy. Skull had never known her to lose her temper, but now she was pale with anger.
The squadron leader began: “What you must realize—” but got no further. “Don’t give me that stuff about rumor and speculation,” a man boomed at him. “I was there! I saw it! I can report what I saw, can’t I?”
“Not necessarily. Military considerations—”
“But it’s already in the German papers!” another man shouted. “What are you trying to do—rewrite history?”
“The fact remains—” the squadron leader declared.
“Exactly!” Jacky Bellamy said, and shook her notebook in his face. “The fact remains! It always will remain, but we want to report it, now, while it still matters!” He smiled bitterly and shook his head, so she kicked his desk and turned away. “Hello, Skull,” she said. “Can I tell you a secret? Everyone else knows it, so why not you?”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Maastricht.” They went to a quiet corner of the mess. Skull ordered coffee. “Can I have a Scotch instead?” she asked. Skull ordered two whiskies. “You never used to like that stuff,” he said.
“I still don’t like it very much, but since the rest of the world is going to pot I feel I want to join them.” She was curled up on a sofa, and she looked very tired. “All this is pure coincidence,” she said. “I didn’t come here to meet the squadron, I came here to chase the war, and now it seems the squadron’s arrived to do the same. You’re covering another raid on Maastricht.”
“Are we?” Skull took his glasses off to make himself invisible.
“Yes. Don’t worry, that’s not the secret.”
“Well … Maastricht is a busy road system, so it would make a natural target.” When he put his glasses back on, the whiskies had arrived and she was sipping hers.
“It’s more than busy. Half the German army is trundling through Maastricht, heading for Brussels and all points west.”
“In that case it certainly should be raided, shouldn’t it?”
“I guess so. I’m not sure it’s such a hot idea to send any more of those Battle bombers, though.” She opened her notebook. “I’ve been up and down France all winter, Skull, and I’ve made a lot of contacts in that time. People like yourself. Here’s what they’ve been telling me. On the first day of this German attack, a total of thirty-eight Battles were sent to bomb the enemy. Thirteen got shot down and all the rest were damaged. The RAF also sent six Blenheims to hit a German airfield in Holland and only one came back. That takes care of day one. Next day—yesterday—eight Blenheims went to Maastricht, three got shot down, two were damaged. Same in the Ardennes, only worse: eight Bat
tles took off, one came back.” She turned a page. “Early today nine Blenheims attacked Maastricht, seven were destroyed, two made it home. That comes to … let’s see—thirty-five shot down and … uh … thirty-odd damaged. Say about seventy planes put out of action in three days.”
“It sounds a lot, I agree. But in heavy fighting one must expect heavy losses.”
She sighed, and massaged her neck. “Maastricht is different, Skull. Maastricht is in a class of its own. If I weren’t afraid of sounding like a journalist I’d say Maastricht is a deathtrap.”
“And what makes you think that?”
“Look at what’s happened there. Jerry captured the bridges over the Albert Canal before the Belgians could blow them. The Belgians sent in infantry to get them back, and failed. The Belgians tried shelling them, and failed. The Belgians tried bombing them. Same result. So the Belgians said the hell with it and the French took a turn. But the French didn’t do any good either, so they passed the job over to your Royal Air Force. One thing about you British: you have a certain chivalrous style. Two RAF raids on Maastricht have been pretty well annihilated, so now the man in command of your bombers has called for volunteers to try again, and of course he got them because that’s the kind of story this is.”
“Do you happen to know,” Skull asked, “exactly when the Germans captured the bridges at Maastricht?”
“Three days back,” she said. “Here’s what a Blenheim pilot said to me this morning: he said they’ve got more flak batteries on those damn things than a bitch has fleas.”
“Things change,” Skull said. “It could be completely different by now.”
“Jesus, I hope so,” she said. Skull blinked. It was the first time he had heard her swear.
Halfway across Belgium, Hornet squadron met the waiting Messer-schmitts. They were 109’s, high in the sky, so high that the formation was just a speckle of dots.
As soon as he had passed the Battles Rex had reduced speed to stay just a few miles ahead of them. Now he was flying at eight thousand feet where the cloud was thin and he could see above him. The squadron was tucked-up nicely and performing well. That exhibitionist Yank kept zig zagging about at the rear, which meant he would probably run out of fuel on the way home, but otherwise things were going well.
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