Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  “Let’s go,” Barton said.

  “Seventeen and a half,” Cox said as they walked toward the Hurricanes. “Is that good?”

  “Good? It’s phenomenal,” CH3 said. “I usually charge my friends ten or eleven.”

  “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “No, I swear it. If they’re very rich, maybe even nine.”

  “You’re all heart, CH3. We really don’t deserve you.”

  “For anyone who’s filthy rich and has a nymphomaniac sister, I may go as far as eight and a half. Do you have a sister, by the way?”

  “We’ve done our best, sir,” a flight sergeant said to Cox. He was blinking with fatigue. “Just don’t chuck her about more than you absolutely have to.” Cox nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

  CH3 began counting the patches on Cox’s Hurricane, and gave up. “My final offer,” he said. “Twenty-seven percent. I can’t honestly charge you any more than that, Mother. I mean, you may be a lousy risk, but you’re not a certain failure.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cox said. “It’s jolly tempting. I really do need toothpaste.” He clambered onto the wing-root. “Have you got any toothpaste?”

  “Yes, thanks,” CH3 called as he walked on. “Awfully decent of you to ask, though.”

  It was pleasant, cruising at ten thousand feet: sunny but cool. They kept a gap of seventy or eighty yards between aircraft, with Cox and CH3 always a couple of lengths behind Barton and Cattermole. The blind spot on a Hurricane lay underneath the tail, and this loose formation let each man check the sky directly behind his neighbor.

  Before they reached the patrol line, Cattermole called up: “Bandits at one o’clock, slightly high.”

  It took Barton five seconds’ hard searching before he saw the prickling of dots. He had discussed this sort of situation with CH3, after breakfast. He knew just what to do. They were northeast of him, almost certainly heading west. He led the Hurricanes in a steep climbing turn to the southeast. Within three minutes they had lost sight of the enemy but gained three thousand feet. He turned northeast, still climbing, and had an advantage of at least four thousand feet when he was able to make out the enemy again, the dots fractionally heavier now that they were coming at an angle instead of head-on.

  It was midday. The sun was overhead. Barton kept it between him and the enemy. If he could only just make out a clump of bombers, there was a good chance the bombers would fail to see four small fighters hidden in that great dazzling glare.

  He was in no hurry. He concentrated on getting his interception right. The others would search the sky and guard his tail.

  Once, the bombers altered course, and he had to re-jig his calculations. But after fifteen minutes he could see them below him as clearly as a pattern on a plate: twelve Dornier 17’s, in three ranks of four, proceeding stolidly from right to left.

  Barton waggled his wings, and fell. Cox fell with him. Cattermole and CH3 waited a couple of seconds, and then dropped after them.

  Barton actually saw his own shadow cross the wings of a Dornier as he picked out his target: front row, left. Surprise could never be total, not with three or four pairs of eyes in each bomber, but he was bracing himself and easing the Hurricane out of its dive before the first wild flickers of fire came seeking him, and by then he didn’t care. The Dornier swelled and filled his reflector sight to overflowing, looking big and black and as hard as a battleship until his guns ripped across its port wing from engine to body and carved it off. Barton just had time to see the wing crack and start to fold back. Then he dragged the stick into his stomach and bounced back up into the sky. Screwing his head around, he saw streams of tracer hunting him, and through these fireworks he watched CH3 line up a Dornier from the beam, pour a full-deflection shot into it, and vault the formation before the bomber began streaming fire and smoke.

  They regrouped at a safe height. Two bombers were missing, two were falling behind the pack.

  “Any damage?” Barton asked.

  “Something snapped with a loud crack when I came out of that dive,” Cox reported. “She’s shaking like a leaf.”

  “No hydraulics,” Cattermole said. “Nasty smell of plumbing in the office.”

  “Okay, that’s enough for today,” Barton decided. “Back to base.”

  They turned and flew to Berry-au-Bac, slowly, so as to spare Cox’s fractured airframe. They were over the airfield when he discovered that, like Cattermole, his hydraulic system was useless. No undercarriage. Even hand-cranking failed to move it.

  “Scrap the kite, Mother,” Barton said. “Bale out. She’s not worth keeping.”

  Cox climbed to eight thousand feet, aimed the Hurricane toward Germany, and dived over the side. He had a moment of panic when he couldn’t shake his gauntlet off, but eventually he got his fingers on the ring of the rip-cord and tugged hard. The silk blossomed with a smart crack. He hung and watched his Hurricane drone away. Rather a shame. He had liked that kite.

  Cattermole opted for a belly-landing, and walked away from it with a bloody nose. The Hurricane was a write-off.

  Barton and CH3 landed intact. They gathered to watch Cox drift down, and they were all waiting for him when he landed.

  “That was highly successful,” Barton said. “We should do that again, don’t you think?”

  “Lunch, first,” Cattermole said, nasally. “This is Norman blood, you know,” he told CH3, showing his handkerchief.

  “Heavens to Betsy!” CH3 said. “And is that Norman snot mixed up with it?”

  A truck came across the field to take them to the mess. But before they could get into it, they had to get under it. Half-a-dozen Junkers 88’s blasted over Berry-au-Bac at fifty feet, strafing and bombing. The two surviving Hurricanes collapsed, their legs smashed sideways, and caught fire. There was enough fuel in the tanks to blow up with a series of crumps that the pilots, crouched on the turf, felt in their palms.

  That was the end of Hornet squadron in France. The depots were empty of replacement aircraft. Kellaway, Skull, Gordon, Patterson, and Fitzgerald reached Berry by road that evening. Soon afterward, Baggy Bletchley arrived. “No hard feelings,” he said, “but you are now what is technically classified as ‘useless mouths,’ so we’re sending you home.”

  They went to England the slow and easy way, by boat train. Barton stood on deck with CH3 and watched Dover approach.

  “Looking back on it all,” he said, “it didn’t exactly work out the way we expected, did it?”

  “No.”

  “Bloody shambles, really.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  Barton grunted. His jaw-muscles kept twitching and he was glaring at Dover as if daring it to start a fight. He couldn’t wait to get back in the air and blow something to bits.

  AUGUST

  1940

  The weather in the south of England during the first half of the summer of 1940 was unusually bad.

  In July the skies were overcast on two days out of three; often there was fog or thick haze as well as low cloud. On half the days of July, rain fell. Usually it was only scattered showers but sometimes it was a heavy and continuous downpour. There were violent thunderstorms on five or six occasions.

  All this was not good for flying.

  At least one Spitfire got struck by lightning and knocked out of the sky. Another Spitfire dived into cloud and hit the ground. Bad weather concealed a hill from a lowflying Hurricane: that pilot was killed too. And there were a dozen crashes in which mud or rain played a part. Meanwhile the air war went on, as and when conditions allowed. The bad weather was either a mixed blessing or a mixed curse. If it held off the Luftwaffe, it also slowed down the training of new fighter pilots. When raids came, the same poor visibility that made it hard for German bombers to find their targets also protected them from RAF patrols and from flak. Moreover, the German pilots could rest and recover between missions, but the front-line RAF pilots were under a constant strain. They had to be a
vailable from dawn to dusk. They might fly several times a day. During July, one fighter squadron flew 504 combat sorties in three weeks and spent more than eight hundred hours in the air. Not every scramble led to an interception, but each one demanded the same intense concentration. Before the end of July that squadron had destroyed six enemy aircraft but it had lost five men killed and three wounded. The survivors were near exhaustion. They, and others like them, had to be withdrawn from the battle zone. Brand new or rebuilt squadrons replaced them.

  It was a pity that there had been so little time to bring these replacement pilots up to operational standard, what with the weather, and the lack of instructors who had combat experience, and the shortage of spares, the lack of skilled groundcrew, even the scarcity of ammunition. It was a great pity.

  On a clear day you could see France from RAF Bodkin Hazel. On a very clear day from the control tower, with binoculars, you could even see German aircraft in their landing circuits over the Luftwaffe bases on the other side of the Straits of Dover. Or so it was saidby people who had never tried it. In any case there had been precious few clear days in July. August might turn out better, but it began gray and dank, which was why Flash Gordon wore his flying-boots and his Irvine jacket when he went out to shoot seagulls.

  He took a deckchair, a Very pistol and a box of signal cartridges. Bodkin Hazel was a small grass aerodrome, formerly a private flying club. Flash set up his deckchair in the middle of the field and waited for a gull to wander in from the Channel.

  An hour passed and nothing much happened.

  Then a green sports car appeared. It drove across the grass and stopped about fifty yards away. A tall, thin young man climbed out and put on his cap and gloves. Everything about him was serious. His blue eyes rarely blinked, his mouth was firm and slightly depressed, and his long jaw was cleanshaven to the tops of his ears. Even his ears were neatly tucked away. He had the head of an intelligent monk above the uniform of a pilot officer.

  He reached the deckchair and cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir,” he said. Gordon’s Irvine jacket concealed his rank. “Pilot Officer Steele-Stebbing, sir.” He saluted.

  “Never heard of him,” Gordon said curtly. “Nobody of that name here. Try lost property down the corridor. Still got your ticket? They won’t give up anything without a ticket. I should know. That’s how I lost my wife. No ticket. Looked everywhere. What name did you say?”

  “Um … Steele-Stebbing …”

  “Umsteelestebbing.” Gordon shook his head. “Sounds a bit Swedish.”

  He scratched one of his teeth while he watched a gull skirt the airfield. “They know,” he said. “They’re not completely stupid.”

  “Where can I find the CO, sir?”

  “I am the CO.” For the first time, Gordon looked him full in the face, and Steele-Stebbing was startled by the fierceness in his eyes. His lips were tight-pressed, his nose pinched, his brows forced together. “I’m in charge here,” Gordon said angrily. “There’s nobody else.”

  Steele-Stebbing glanced around at the dull, deserted field. “What’s the form, sir?” he asked. But Gordon had seen another bird, and he raised the Very pistol. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he muttered. “I expect it’s all been changed by now.” He fired, and a green flare climbed into the sky. The seagull ignored it. “Bastard,” he said.

  Steele-Stebbing went back to his car and drove away.

  Half an hour later a taxi delivered another pilot officer. He had two suitcases. He put them inside the open-ended hangar, wandered around, tried the doors of the control tower. Locked. He tried the clubhouse. Locked. A white flare soared over the airfield, quickly followed by a green and a red. He stared, saw the deckchair, and hurried across the grass. Gordon was still re-loading. “I say!” he called. “Anything wrong? Need any help?”

  Gordon swung around so sharply that he nearly fell out. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded furiously.

  “Macfarlane.” He was redheaded and stocky, with wide-open eyes and a curl to his lips that suggested a cheerful willingness. “Just arrived.”

  Gordon studied him, sniffed and turned away. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve been here all morning, I’d’ve seen him if … Keep still.” He raised the pistol and tracked an approaching gull. Macfarlane flinched at the bang, and watched a yellow flare loop over the bird. “Bastard,” Gordon said. “Come to think-of it, there was someone. Some Swedish bastard.”

  “What: just arrived?” Macfarlane asked.

  “No bloody fear. Just departed.” Gordon laughed, briefly and bitterly. “One of the dear departed.” He reloaded. “The dear, dear departed. Dear, dear, dear.”

  Macfarlane gave up, and walked away.

  He had reached the perimeter wire, and was whistling in competition with a skylark, when a motorcycle roared onto the airfield. The rider slowed down to look at the clubhouse, then went past the control tower, and finally saw the deckchair. He rode toward it at high speed, circled it, stopped, and got off. “Is dump, huh?” he said.

  “Nobody of that name here,” Gordon said, not looking.

  “Must be mistake. Is cock-up. Always cock-up.” He took off a leather flying helmet and revealed sleek dark hair combed straight back, no parting. He wore the uniform of a pilot officer but he looked older than the others: more meat on his shoulders, more flesh on his face. It was a handsome face if you liked thick eyebrows and a powerful nose, with slightly swarthy skin. He put his gauntleted hands on his hips and examined Gordon. “You are who?” he said.

  “That’s still being sorted out. There may have to be an inquiry. Come back tomorrow. What name did you say?”

  “Zabarnowski. Polish Air Force.”

  “No, no, no. Nobody of that name here. My God, I should hope not. There are limits, even in wartime. If anyone asks tell them it’s been lost in the post. Hello: who’s this bugger?”

  Macfarlane had come back. “Looking for Hornet squadron?” he asked Zabarnowski. The Pole nodded. “Waste of time talking to him,” Macfarlane said. “Let’s go and find a pub.”

  “Is dump,” Zabarnowski agreed.

  “Piss off!” Gordon shouted. “And that’s an order!” But Macfarlane was already settling himself astride the pillion, and Zabarnowski was kick-starting the bike. They roared off.

  The sun broke through the haze. No birds came near, and Gordon dozed. He was awoken by the blare of a horn. Sticky’s Buick had stopped beside him, and Cattermole, Cox and Fitzgerald were looking out of it. “What-ho, Flash,” Cattermole said. “Shocking hole, this. Where’s the mess?”

  “Well, well!” Gordon struggled out of the deckchair. “Fancy seeing you again!” He was quite delighted. He shook hands with each of them. “And Sticky’s old wagon, too! How did—”

  “Never mind that. Where’s the mess?”

  “Oh, there isn’t one. Just the old clubhouse, and that’s locked. I’ve got the key but there’s no booze, so it’s—”

  “Shut up and get in.” Cattermole released the handbrake. Cox opened the rear door and Gordon scrambled in as the Buick swung away and headed for the gate.

  “I can’t tell you how nice it is to see you,” Gordon said.

  “Then don’t try,” Cox said. “I’m starving, and I can’t stand guff on an empty stomach.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been stuck out here for two weeks. You can’t imagine—”

  “Two weeks?” Fitzgerald swung around from the front seat. “You mean you’ve been alone in this hole for two weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we all had two weeks’ leave, Flash.”

  “Me too. I spent it here.”

  “You’re crazy!” Cox said. “Why didn’t you stay with your family? Or friends?”

  Gordon looked out of the window. “Didn’t want to,” he muttered.

  Fitzgerald turned away. The narrow, dusty lane rushed past. Sometimes the edge of the windscreen was whipped by strands of bramble or the overgrown shoots of hawthorn. Cattermole dr
ove hard, making the big car jump at every open stretch. “Seen Fanny?” he asked.

  “No,” Gordon said.

  “Adj? Skull?”

  “Nobody. There hasn’t been a sodding soul in sight until you arrived. Nothing to do all day except shoot seagulls.”

  “Hit many?” Cox asked.

  “Four thousand exactly.”

  “Nice round figure.”

  “Like Mae West,” Fitzgerald said, and they grunted with amusement; but Gordon glanced anxiously. “What’s that?” he said. “Mae West hasn’t been shot, has she?”

  “You need a large drink,” Cattermole said. “If you’re nice to us, Flash, we’ll let you buy a round.”

  They stopped at a pub, The Fleece, and Cattermole ordered four pints. Macfarlane, Zabarnowski and Steele-Stebbing were playing darts at the other end of the bar. Both groups ignored each other. The landlord pulled four pints and looked at Cattermole. Cattermole nudged Gordon. “Cough up, Flash,” he said. Gordon searched his pockets and found sevenpence.

  “That’s a start, anyway,” the landlord said.

  “Just remembered,” Gordon said. “I’m broke.”

  “So are we,” Cox said. “Filling up the Buick in London cleaned us out. None of us has got a bean.”

  “Will you take a check?” Cattermole asked.

  “If I have to,” the landlord said.

  “Give the gentleman a check, Flash, for goodness sake,” Cattermole urged.

  “No checkbook, Moggy. Lost it in France.”

  “Sorry about this,” Fitzgerald said. “The thing is, our pay hasn’t caught up with us yet. Everything went down the pan in France and ever since then—”

  “I know.” The landlord tossed a cardboard beermat in front of him. “Go on, write a check on that.”

  “Damn decent of you,” Fitzgerald said.

  “Well, you’re not the first, you know.”

  “In that case,” Cattermole said, “I’ll have another pint and a plate of ham sandwiches, if it’s all right by you.”

  “Don’t forget the twopenny stamp,” the landlord warned. “Check’s not legal without a twopenny stamp.”