Barton glimpsed planes going in all directions and decided the place to be was on top. A hard-turning climb brought him a fine view of the chaos. A yellow-nosed 109 showed its belly to him and he went after it but it rolled and saw him and slipped away. The R/T was staccato with warnings, curses, questions. A different 109 chased a Hurricane into his vision and he gave it a squirt that made it jump. Then he was through the scrap and out again and he heaved the fighter onto its side in an effort to drag it around and get his sights on an enemy.
The strain grayed-out his vision for a second or two and when the mist cleared there was tracer streaking at him from the beam. A 109 came blinding across his nose, so close that the wash rocked him, and then more tracer chased it and a Hurricane boomed over his head, still firing. Barton glimpsed Cattermole’s letter painted on the side. Cattermole seemed to be locked onto the German: each brief burst of fire knocked more bits off. The 109 hauled itself into a vertical climb. Cattermole angled up and blew it to pieces. Eight Browning machine-guns pounded the cockpit area for three seconds. The fighter came apart. It was like a plastic toy that had been badly assembled. The pieces scattered. No parachute.
Elsewhere, Macfarlane was racing around desperately looking for Cox, whose wingman he was supposed to be, while Cox raced around driving 109’s off Macfarlane’s tail. Steele-Stebbing had long since lost Barton and now was reconciled to death. He had put his long, thin body through such a whirling, bewildering string of violent maneuvers in order to dodge the apparently endless 109’s that his stomach had quit the fight. Vomit was bubbling over his lips, tears of pain were fogging his goggles. A Messerschmitt swam into view and he jabbed his thumb on the firing-button, pouring all his hate and pain and misery at this vile object, and he kept firing and firing until the breechblocks clanked and wheezed and he had no hate left. Miraculously he was still alive. The enemy had vanished.
The enemy had, in fact, been Haducek, and he had vanished not because Steele-Stebbing hit him—all the shots went very wide, and after the first second or so Haducek was hopelessly out of range anyway—but because Haducek’s Hurricane was in a howling dive, chasing an unhappy 109 down to ground level. The 109 was trailing smoke and streamers of fabric. Haducek chased it across the fields and villages of Kent, over the cliffs and beaches, and halfway to France before he gave up. He landed at Bodkin Hazel with little more than fumes in his tanks. There was a nasty mess lying in the middle of the grass which he carefully avoided. Bing Macfarlane had written off another Hurricane.
Hornet squadron got scrambled three more times that day. The first scramble, at Section strength, was recalled almost at once, and the second, also at Section strength, patrolled for an hour without finding anything. When “B” flight was sent up it was early evening and the sky was a beautiful soft blue, like the finest velvet. Flip Moran led a battle-climb to twenty-two thousand feet. The view was stupendous: they could see from the Thames estuary to the Isle of Wight to the Dutch islands and deep into France. They could see the curvature of the earth and a couple of early stars. They could also see a special Dornier 17, always tantalizingly above and ahead. It had to be a special version, probably with bigger engines and better superchargers, because when it grew tired of inspecting southern England and decided to go home, it left “B” flight gasping and straining.
The controller returned them direct to Brambledown. “A” flight was already there, stowing their gear in the lockers.
“Was lousy,” Zabarnowski told Skull.
“No, no,” Moran said. “That’s not the way it was at all. We made a perfect interception, if only the blessed bandit had had the manners to come within range.”
“Is a fat old cow,” Zabarnowski grumbled. “One Spit better than ten lousy cows.”
“On a point of fact,” Cox said stiffly, “I don’t think cows have lice. Not English cows, anyway. Maybe Polish cows are different.”
“Shut up, Jew-boy,” Zabarnowski said. “Stay out of my Poland.”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.”
“Chosen people,” Zabarnowski muttered. “Chosen to stink.”
“Hey!” Moran said. “That’s enough, Zab.”
“I’d sooner be a stinking English Jew than a perfumed Polish ponce,” Cox said.
“Okay, can it, Mother,” CH3 ordered.
“Lousy kike,” Zabarnowski muttered.
“What sort of pansy wears a hairnet in bed?” Cox demanded. “A Polish pansy!”
“Pack it in, the pair of you,” Barton said.
“And silk stockings,” Cox added rebelliously.
Skull closed his notebook. “No actual combat, then,” he said to Moran, when Zabarnowski punched Cox in the head. At once Cattermole hit Zabarnowski a solid thump to the ribs and Haducek attacked Cattermole with a flurry of blows. Cox kicked Haducek in the groin and Barton sprayed the lot of them with a fire extinguisher, working the jet back and forth and up and down while elbows jabbed and fists slammed and the room echoed with rage and profanity in three languages until the whole fight was drenched and the floor was awash. Haducek kept swinging, so Moran kicked his legs from under him. Zabarnowski wiped his hair from his eyes and spat at Cox. Patterson, Fitzgerald and Gordon grabbed the Pole and threw him out of the hut.
“You open your mouth and you’re chopped,” Barton told Cox. He was standing with a foot planted on Haducek’s chest. “Get some towels, Moggy,” he ordered. Renouf reached into his locker and offered a towel. “Is your name Moggy?” Barton roared. Renouf gaped. Cattermole shouldered him aside. The door crashed open and Zabarnowski stormed in.
“I am good Polish Catholic!” he bawled. “Lousy English Jew insult me, insult Catholic Church!”
CH3 had found another extinguisher. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” he said, and the jet hit Zabarnowski high in the chest. The Pole opened his mouth and CH3 filled it. Zabarnowski staggered and fell on his backside. CH3 washed him down as he crawled out of the door. End of fight.
Half an hour later they were all on the carpet in Fanny’s office, having large strips torn off them.
Brawling and insulting behavior were bad enough, he told them. If they had been airmen they would have been put on charges and given two weeks’ jankers, scrubbing out the latrines and shoveling coke for the boilers and doubling off to the guardroom for extra parades in full kit every hour on the hour from 6 a.m. to midnight and God help them if a button was dirty.
What made it worse, intolerably worse, was that they were commissioned officers. Supposed to set an example to the men. Who all knew by now that there had been a squalid and stupid punch-up in the locker room. What, Fanny wanted to know, was each of them going to say if an airman was brought before them on a charge of brawling or insulting behavior? What?
But above all (and here Fanny took out his copy of King’s Regulations and banged it on the desk) they were on active service. And they had disobeyed his orders while on active service.
He expanded on that theme at some length and with considerable feeling. Kellaway, listening, noticed that he had become quite fluent since taking over the squadron.
“You may consider yourselves lucky to escape with severe reprimands,” Fanny said. “You two …” He aimed a finger at Cox and Cattermole. “Go and mop up that shambles. I don’t see why the troops should do your dirty work. You two,” he told the others, “stay here.”
“Lunatic,” Cattermole said as they went down the corridor.
“Maniac,” Cox said and kicked him on the leg. Cattermole kicked him back, so Cox knocked his cap off. Cattermole shoulder-charged him into the wall. Cox trod on his cap. A Waaf clerk came out of an office to see what all the noise was about. Cattermole advanced on her, grinning fiercely and gnashing his teeth. “All the better to eat you with, my dear!” he roared. She fled.
“I wish to apologize,” Fanny Barton said. Haducek looked pleased, Zabarnowski was suspicious. “You shouldn’t be flying Hurricanes. It was stupid of me not to realize that lo
ng ago. Quite obviously the Hurricane is altogether unsuitable for you. Too big, too heavy, not fast enough. The obvious thing to do is to switch you to Spitfires. Mmm?” He gave them a fast, formal smile.
They were listening intently. So was Kellaway.
“Well, the good news is you’re grounded. No more Hurricanes.” He widened his smile, made it almost congratulatory. “I knew you’d be pleased …” They weren’t looking pleased. “Now it’s just a matter of going through the formalities.” He fished a sheet of paper from his in-tray. “You’re not the only ones, of course. Dozens of chaps are itching to fly Spits. Itching. Personally, I think it’s a bloody awful kite, always going wrong, doesn’t turn anywhere near as tightly as a Hurri, very shaky gun-platform, and it’s got that knock-kneed undercart, all you have to do is run over a small turd and the whole shootingmatch capsizes. Plus, of course, the Spit’s got no stomach for Jerry bullets, stop a couple and you’ve bought it, whereas the Hurricane gobbles ’em up and comes back for more … Anyway … Where was I?”
“Long waiting list for Spits,” Kellaway said.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, adj. So the powers-that-be have made a rule. If you want to transfer to a Spitfire squadron …” Barton consulted the paper. “… you have to score five confirmed kills in a Hurricane first. Yes. Well, I think that’s everything. Once again I’d like to apologize. That’s all.”
They didn’t move. “I have two kills,” Zabarnowski said.
“I have three,” said Haducek.
“No, no.” Barton waved the paper. “It’s quite specific. Five each, not five between you.”
“But how …” Haducek looked thoroughly miserable. “If I am grounded …”
“Haven’t the faintest, old boy. That’s for you to work out. I’ve done all I can, haven’t I?”
“Please,” Zabarnowski said. “I fly Hurricane.”
“No, no, no. You don’t like Hurricane. You like Spitfire. Look, I made a note of it. See?” Barton showed them his scribble on the paper. “You don’t want to fly a Hurricane. You’re getting confused now. It’s the language. Don’t worry, I know what you want.”
“No, no!” Haducek protested. “Hurricane is good, is—”
“Look, I’ll get the adj to type it out for you, okay?” Barton said firmly. “Then you’ll understand. The main thing is you’re grounded.” He picked up the phone. “That’s all,” he told them.
They saluted and went out. As he shut the door, Zabarnowski gave Barton a look of simple murder.
“Bloody good show,” Kellaway said. “It’s about time someone sorted their hash.” He swiveled the piece of paper and read out: “Athlete’s Foot: Instructions for the Treatment of. Most appropriate … Your replacement pilots should be here in the morning, if not tonight. Sergeant-pilots. Volunteer Reservists.”
“Good.” Barton replaced the phone. “The trouble with Zab and Haddy is they’re so much older than the others. What’s Zab? Twenty-five? He’s ancient, he looks like Nim Renouf’s uncle. CH3’s just as old, I know, but he doesn’t look it.”
“He’s beginning to.”
“Is he? He was certainly behaving in a very elderly way this morning.”
“What was he doing?”
“Worrying. Now you come to mention it, he’s lost a bit of weight, hasn’t he?”
“A trifle gaunt, perhaps.”
“He’s certainly not as much fun as he used to be. I used to beable to relax with him and forget everything. Now he makes me feel … what’s the word? Irresponsible.”
“Why? Because you’re not worrying as much as he is?” Kellaway laughed. “Not worrying is half the battle, Fanny.”
“I know, but …” The phone rang and he answered it. “What a bind,” he said. “Yes. No. Thanks.” He hung up. “That was Flip,” he said. “Flash is on his way over. He’s told everyone he’s coming to kill me.”
“Well, just you watch out that he doesn’t try. Last night he went around saying he was going to kill the Secretary of State for Air.”
“And did he?”
“Couldn’t find him. Said the bugger kept dodging him, hiding in the lavatories. Flash got fed-up in the end, went off and played ping-pong.”
“Flash is amazingly keen on killing people nowadays … Anyway, the thing I was saying about Zab and Haddy.” Barton knuckled his eyes, and blinked to get rid of the fireworks. “All that bitching and binding about the kites was beginning to get through. Hanging about the satellite gives too much time to think. Someone says the kites are duff and you sit there looking at the bloody things, wondering if he’s right.”
“Know what you mean,” the adjutant said. “I remember people went in fear and trembling of the Camel for a while. They said it would spin if you looked at it sideways. Definitely couldn’t be aerobatted, that was certain death. So everyone flew it very straight and level, until one day some bright spark took off and stunted his Camel all over the sky with the greatest of ease.”
“End of rumor.”
“End of several Camel pilots first, I’m sorry to say.”
Flash Gordon came in without knocking. “I don’t like this war,” he said. “It doesn’t suit me. Have you got the same thing, only in pink?” He was trailing a cricket bat.
“Your fly’s undone, Flash,” the adjutant said.
“Ah!” Flash said slyly. “Got my secret weapon in there. Show you later, if you’re nice.”
Barton said: “D’you want something?”
Flash became very serious. “What would you do,” he asked, “if you shot down a Jerry and he baled out and landed in the middle of the aerodrome?”
“Take him to the mess and buy him a drink,” Kellaway said promptly. “That’s what we always did.”
“Waste of beer.” Flash flourished the bat.
“Pinch his watch?” Barton suggested.
“What for? It’s bust.”
“Flash,” Kellaway said, “is this a trick question?”
“Certainly not. No trick about it, just plain commonsense. How can you possibly buy the bastard a beer, or pinch his watch, when I’ve just smashed his body to a bloody pulp? I mean, be reasonable.” Flash uttered a soft, scornful laugh.
“Is that what the bat’s for?” Barton asked.
“Watch this.” Flash, looking serious, tapped the floor, and suddenly whirled the bat in a circle, just missing the light fixture and bashing the floor with such power that both his feet came off the ground.
Kellaway and Barton flinched at the blow.
“Shit!” Flash said. “Now look what you’ve made me go and do.” The handle of the bat was badly bent. “You ought to see about that floor, Fanny. It’s damn dangerous.”
“So are you, chum. I got a message you were coming over to shoot me, or something. You’ve really got to stop talking like that, Flash, before you get into trouble.”
Flash said: “I wouldn’t shoot you, Fanny.” Kellaway stared: he could swear there were tears in Gordon’s eyes. “But,” Flash said, reaching inside his open fly, “I can blow you up, and believe me this is dynamite.” He pulled out a letter and tossed it onto the desk.
“Oh, Flash,” Kellaway groaned. “Grow up.”
“It’s from Hermann Goering,” Flash protested. “Is it all right if the Luftwaffe comes over next week? RSVP.”
Barton was reading the letter. “It’s from Sticky Stickwell,” he told the adjutant. “Something to do with bills and money. Bloody awful handwriting.” He stuffed the letter into the envelope and flipped it back. “Buzz off, you berk.”
“If you haven’t got pink,” Flash said, “I might consider mauve.” He went out.
Barton and Kellaway got up and examined the dent in the floor. It was remarkably deep. “That’s enough,” Barton said. “He’s got to be looked at. Get a head-doctor organized, uncle.”
Someone tapped on the door. “Christ!” Barton said. “I’ll never get a bath at this rate. Come in!”
It was Steele-Stebbing. He was carrying his flying-boo
ts and his helmet, holding them very carefully. “May I have a word with you, sir?”
“Make it snappy. I’m starving.”
He shook the boots. The sound of muted slopping was heard. “I wanted you to see the evidence, sir, before I take action. When it was time to leave the satellite this afternoon I found that someone had half-filled my boots with cold tea. I also found that the inside of my helmet had been smeared with jam.”
Kellaway went over and looked into the helmet. “Raspberry,” he reported.
“All right, I’ve seen the evidence,” Barton said. “What’s this about taking action? Are you planning to get an injunction, or something?”
“No sir. I’m planning to hit him.”
Barton tidied up his desk, squaring off the piles of paper and sweeping some odds and ends into a drawer. “I see,” he said. “What with?”
“Well, sir, that’s the problem. I’m quite strong and I did box for my school, so I could simply punch him, very hard, for instance on the nose. That might be enough to discourage him.”
Kellaway sat with his feet up and his pipe going nicely. He was enjoying this curious discussion. Steele-Stebbing sounded as restrained and reasonable as ever, but there was a glint of resolution in his eyes that was new.
“What’s all this got to do with me?” Barton asked.
“If I hit him hard enough, sir, I might break a finger.” Steele-Stebbing went to the window and emptied his boots. “I’d almost certainly break his nose. That would put two pilots temporarily out of action.”
“Ah. Very thoughtful of you.”
“Or I could hit him with something. Flash Gordon’s cricket bat, for example. That would leave me fully operational.”
“No,” Barton said firmly. “Definitely not. Out of the question. You must not, repeat not, bash Flying Officer Cattermole with a cricket bat.”
“Or with anything else,” Kellaway added.
“I quite see that it would inconvenience you, sir,” Steele-Stebbing said, “but he is considerably inconveniencing me, and it’s got to stop.”
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