Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

“Then find another way. I won’t allow Cattermole to be damaged.”

  “Have you any suggestions, sir?”

  Barton looked at the adjutant. “Treat it like a military exercise, old boy,” Kellaway advised. “Find his weak spot and exploit it.”

  Steele-Stebbing nodded, and went out.

  Kellaway said: “I never knew such a man for scruples. He’s got scruples the way I’ve got piles.” Barton laughed. “You wait,” Kellaway said. “One day you won’t find it so funny.”

  Next day the squadron flew down to Bodkin Hazel at first light. The sky was a stony gray and there was fog about, but the forecast was for clear weather moving in from the west. The dew was so heavy that the pilots’ boots glistened. They carried their parachutes into the crewroom: if silk got damp it stuck to itself. They sprawled in armchairs, yawned, waited for the cooks to bring tea and coffee. It was the emptiest hour, gutless, neither black night nor full day, and most of them had been on a pub-crawl the previous evening. Conversation was thin. Even Flash Gordon was silent.

  Fanny Barton put away the typewritten notes the Ops Officer had given him and looked at his pilots. Not a very dashing lot. Mother Cox was dozing, with his mouth open; Flash was picking at a boil on the back of his neck; Pip was chewing on his nails while he looked at a stain on the wall. Cattermole was gingerly prodding himself in the stomach and trying to belch. Flip Moran was watching Cattermole. The new boys looked as if they’d just finished a hard day’s work. Only Fitz was actually doing anything. He was reading a boy’s comic, the Hotspur. By the strain in his eyes it was hard work.

  “Two things,” Barton announced. “Ops tell me there’s a lot of radio traffic going on across the Channel, far more than usual. So we might get some trade at any moment. The other point is Ju-88’s. Jerry’s started sending more and more of them over and we’ve got to be very careful because they look just like Blenheims. What’s the difference?” he asked Renouf; but Renouf, still dozy, could only blink. “Iron Filings?” Barton said.

  Steele-Stebbing had the answer: “Junkers 88 has a big, bumpy glass-house, sir. Blenheim’s nose is more streamlined. Also the Blenheim’s got a dorsal gun-turret.”

  “Right. And for Christ’s sake make sure any 109 you fire at really is a 109 and not a Hurricane. About a week ago some frightfully keen type in a Spitfire shot down a poor bloody Hurricane from 56 squadron. If any one of you ever does anything like that, he needn’t come back here again.”

  “The big difficulty is a tail-chase,” Moran said. “From dead astern the 109 looks very much like a Hurricane so it’s essential to be sure of the differences, which Mr. Macfarlane knows backward, I expect.”

  “It’s got those tail-struts, hasn’t it?” Macfarlane said. “The 109 has, I mean.”

  “And what if Messerschmitts decide to modify it and remove the tail-struts?” Barton said. “Does that make it a Hurricane?”

  “You can always see the radiator scoop under a Hurricane, sir,” Steele-Stebbing said, “whereas the 109 has a relatively smooth belly.”

  Hot drinks arrived. “Tomorrow I want this stuff ready when we land,” Barton told the cook, “not fifteen minutes later.” He nodded to CH3. “Over to you,” he said. “Don’t waste your time trying to sell them life insurance, they all look as if they died in the night.”

  “Okay. This is a trick question,” CH3 announced. “What is the most dangerous moment in any patrol? Think about it.”

  Nobody was in a hurry to answer. Eventually Cox said: “It must be when you run out of ammo.”

  “I said any patrol. Including one where you don’t fire your guns.”

  “Strikes me the most dangerous time has to be the interception,” Fitzgerald said. “I mean, that’s obvious. Nothing trick about that.”

  “Any other offers?”

  “It sometimes gets a bit lively in the locker room afterward,” Cattermole said, rubbing his knuckles.

  Laughter, jeers, raspberries. The tea and coffee were starting to work.

  “Any more?” CH3 said. “Okay. The answer is that any time during a patrol is the most dangerous time. From takeoff to landing you’re liable to get bounced at any moment. Start looking for Jerry as soon as you’re airborne, and don’t stop looking until you’re down again.”

  Barton said: “Jerry’s only twenty-thirty miles away. He can pop up anywhere, any time.”

  “That’s not fairytales, either,” Flip Moran said. “I was in hospital with a fellah who was about ten seconds from touching down at Manston when he got bounced. He ended up making a three-point landing, only each point was about fifty yards apart.”

  “You said it was a catch question,” Macfarlane told CH3. “Where’s the catch?”

  “There isn’t one. That’s the catch. The catch is there’s no catch. No rules, no referee. Whatever happens, you get what you deserve. Up there the world is divided into bastards and suckers. Make your choice.”

  Macfarlane stared. The telephone shrilled. As Barton reached for it, the scramble klaxon on the control tower began its mechanical bray. “‘A’ flight!” Barton called. CH3 paused at the door. “Patrol Dymchurch, angels ten,” Barton shouted. CH3 waved, and ran.

  Macfarlane was twisting his neck to look behind him the instant his wheels were up. CH3 had startled him, frightened him, made him realize that almost everything he had put his trust in was false. Macfarlane had joined the RAF confident that British was best and life in a fighter squadron would be merry and bright, rather like being in the school rugby team the year they won every match, only a damn sight more exciting, of course, with plenty of bloody good scraps and a sporting chance of going out in a burst of glory, which didn’t worry him too much because who wanted to live forever anyway? What bothered him now, as CH3 led the flight eastward, climbing hard, was this horrible fear of being jumped and killed, bang, dead, all over before he knew it. Everyone expected to be attacked, that was reasonable, but somehow Macfarlane had imagined he’d always get a chance: someone would shout a warning on the R/T, or … Or something. But it wasn’t like that at all. The sky was huge and full of risk. A speck of dirt on your windscreen could turn into an enemy fighter in the time it took to look round and back again. A little smear on your goggles might hide the plane that was coming in to kill you.

  Macfarlane searched. He quartered the sky and examined it section by section, stretching his neck to look from extreme left rear to extreme right rear, with no reward at the end except to start again. What made it wearying was the utter absence of anything to look at. His eyes were laboring to focus on an object that wasn’t there, and they tired of this thankless drudgery, until Macfarlane caught himself slacking and sudden fright drove him back to hunt the enemy who, given just such a moment of slackness, could kill him dead.

  The patrol lasted an hour and a half. The raid they were scrambled to intercept turned back; they were then vectored up and down Kent in search of another raid that also disappeared; finally, as they were running short of fuel, they saw a couple of high flying Dorniers and watched them go. The flight landed without having fired a shot. Macfarlane was so tired that he just sat in his cockpit and let everything relax: body, mind, emotions.

  The pedals twitched under his boots and he jerked awake. It was CH3, shaking the rudder. “Bloody dull, wasn’t it?” CH3 said. “Sorry about that. Never mind, it’s only seven o’clock. Plenty of time for business to pick up.” Macfarlane felt slightly sick.

  The two sergeant-pilots flew in while the squadron was having breakfast. Their names were Verrier and Brook. Barton allocated one to each flight. As reservists they had accumulated a lot of flying time but this was their first operational posting. Barton told them to stick to their section leader like glue, keep their eyes open, learn fast and do nothing stupid. “I don’t care if you don’t fire your guns for a week,” he said. “Just survive.” They nodded, but he had a feeling they didn’t fully understand.

  The sun was up and the sky had cleared. Skylarks sang high above the fields a
round the aerodrome, and swifts and swallows rocketed over the grass, showing off their split-ass turns. When the pilots came out there was a butterfly resting on the brightly striped canvas of a deckchair. “Get off,” Cattermole ordered. It raised and lowered its brilliant wings, drying them in the sun. “You are trespassing on Air Ministry property,” Cattermole said. “I can have you shot for that.” The butterfly waved its antennae, fine as gold thread. “Please yourself,” Cattermole said, and sat on it. When Cox protested, he said: “It was a German butterfly. I expect it landed by U-boat during the night. You should be grateful. Given half a chance, it would have ripped your throat out. They starve them for days on end, you know. I remember—”

  “Okay, settle down,” Barton said.

  “Rip your throat out and kick your teeth in,” Cattermole whispered to Cox.

  “R/T procedure,” Barton announced.

  “Ever counted their feet?” Cattermole hissed.

  “Moggy, shut up,” Barton said. “I want to make sure everyone understands and follows the same R/T procedure, otherwise we’ll end up in the clag.”

  Flash Gordon raised his hand. Barton nodded. “I’ve been thinking,” Flash said seriously. “The average human adult contains eleven pints of blood. I mean, I know that for a fact. Eleven pints.”

  “Seems reasonable. Now the jargon—”

  “Yes, but the thing is, Fanny, if you clobber an Me-110 it’s got a crew of two, so that’s twenty-two pints of blood, isn’t it? Double.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  Flash’s eyes were bright, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Twenty-two pints,” he said, “is over two-and-a-half gallons. That’s a lot of blood, Fanny.”

  “It certainly is.”

  Flash sat back, looking satisfied. “I thought it was worth mentioning, that’s all. I mean, some of the other chaps might not have realized …” He smiled at Verrier. “Would you have guessed two-and-a-half gallons?” Verrier shook his head.

  “Save it, Flash,” Flip Moran said.

  “And it’s hot, too,” Flash told him. “It steams when it comes out. I’ve seen it steam. You get a lot of steam off two-and-a-half gallons.”

  “Jargon,” Barton said loudly. “Make sure you know it. Speed jargon: liner, buster, gate. Liner means cruising speed, save your fuel. Buster means maximum normal speed. Gate means you pull the tit and put the throttle through the emergency gate. Liner, buster, gate. Don’t forget. Next—”

  The scramble klaxon began its bray.

  It was “B” flight’s turn. They were up for an hour. Nothing.

  Snowball found three raids for them, one off Beachy Head and two between Tonbridge and Maidstone, but the plots all faded and were lost. The sun was climbing, and by the time the flight returned to base Flip Moran’s eyes felt bruised and sticky. “Jesus,” he said to Barton, “I wish Ops wouldn’t do that. Either Jerry was there and we didn’t see him, or he wasn’t and we did all that for nothing.”

  “How was …” Barton had to search for the name. “Villiers.”

  “Verrier. He was okay. Bit clumsy with his throttle, kept jumping backward and forward. Flash acted peculiar.”

  “Yes? how?”

  “He began flying inverted. Fitz asked him what he was up to. He said he was having a bit of a rest. He said Jerry couldn’t see him, not with his blue side up, he was invisible.”

  “Flash is getting worse. I’m having a trick-cyclist look at him.”

  Moran’s heavy face, with its black bar of a mustache, stiffened. “And what good d’you think that will do?” he asked. The question answered itself by its own suppressed anger.

  Oh Christ, Barton thought, here we go again. “It’ll give us a specialist medical opinion,” he said, and although he meant to speak calmly the words came out too fast, a parry to Moran’s thrust.

  “You can be a damned idiot sometimes, Fanny.” Moran waited while a Hurricane taxied past, bouncing jauntily on its widespread undercarriage. “What is this fellah going to say? Flash is sane? Where does that take you? Or Flash is mad? We know that already. D’you think you can make him sane by chopping him? Or what?”

  “How the blazes do I know what he’s going to say?” Barton looked away, trying to force his irritation to subside. “Anyway, I don’t see why you have to be so bloody awkward about it.”

  “Flash is in my flight. I’m his flight commander.”

  “And I’m in charge of the squadron.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Have you? Good. Because it’s more than a report, it’s a fact. If you can’t live with it—”

  “Me? I can live with anything. I lived with the Ram, I lived with Rex, I’ve got the scars to prove it. I got the scars, you got the stripes.”

  “You want a squadron, is that it?” Barton had to shout because another Hurricane was taxiing by, but he wanted to shout anyway. “Then why don’t you bloody well say so?”

  “What? And deprive you of the pleasure of giving me orders? Don’t be so stupid.”

  Barton stopped and watched Moran walk on. Part of him was furious but another part felt deeply sorry for the man. They both knew that Moran would make a lousy squadron commander. His self-pity was a new and unattractive measure of this. And by showing self-pity he had isolated himself even more. Barton had an impulse to go after him and say something to make good, rebuild Moran’s confidence, assure him that he was an excellent flight commander (which he was), that this bickering was stupid. He called: “Hey, Flip!” Maybe the roar of the Hurricane was still too loud. Maybe not. Moran didn’t respond, and Barton wasn’t prepared to ask twice. Instead, he sought out CH3.

  “If you were me,” Barton said, “what would you do?”

  CH3 sat on his heels and worried about it. “Flip doesn’t really give a damn about Flash seeing this doctor,” he said. “He’s just using it to needle you.”

  “But why? What did I ever do to Flip?”

  “Dunno. You want me to ask him?”

  The honest answer was yes. “No, I can handle it,” Barton said, and walked away. Discussing one flight commander with another made him feel uncomfortable. He couldn’t afford to create even the impression of favoritism. So now Moran’s sourness had made him keep his distance from CH3. Barton felt victimized.

  The day became hot, with a breeze so slight that it scarcely moved the windsock. Before noon all the deckchairs had been shifted into the shade of some apple-trees beside the crewroom. There was a faint but constant clatter of reapers and binders in the nearby fields, and horsedrawn wagons rumbled along a lane beyond the perimeter wire. Grasshoppers chirped. The sky was a clear, cornflower-blue overhead, shading to a dusty white at the shimmering horizon. It looked like the start of a long, settled spell.

  Half the pilots were playing cricket, using Flash Gordon’s wonky bat and a split tennis ball. The others were dozing in armchairs.

  Cox adjusted a cushion.

  “By the way, Pip,” he said, “I’m moving in with you tonight, so wash your feet, will you?”

  “What’s happening to Haddy?”

  “He’s sharing with Zab. The adj has arranged it all, thank God. Very boring, living with a bloke who keeps on saying ‘Is cock-up.’”

  “Does Zab really wear silk stockings?” Macfarlane asked. “And a hairnet?”

  Cox nodded. “According to Skull it’s not uncommon in Poland. He said some men even use scent and lipstick.”

  Groans of disgust and revulsion. “What a lot of fairies!” Macfarlane said. “We don’t want them on our side, do we?”

  “Steady on, young Bing,” Cattermole said gently. His eyes were closed and his arms dangled to the grass. “I happen to know that Steele-Stebbing wears camiknickers and plucks his eyebrows.”

  “Balls!” Macfarlane said.

  Steele-Stebbing was reading the Daily Telegraph. He raised it another inch or so.

  “Perhaps,” Cattermole said. “One must give Steele-Stebbing the benefit of the doubt in that area. What
is quite certain is that he applies just the merest touch of rouge to his nipples.”

  The Daily Telegraph rustled as Steele-Stebbing tightened his grip.

  Patterson said: “What a wonderful father you’ll make, Moggy. Cold and hard outside, but underneath it all a heart of pure lead.”

  “Father?” Cox said. “Have you ruined some popsy, Mog?”

  “Legions,” Cattermole told him, and stretched. “Myriads. Armies of the dear things. I impregnated half the womanhood of France, and I try to bring a little bliss to the local ladies as often as my professional commitments allow. Speaking of regularity …” He levered himself up. “If anyone wants me, I shall be in the library.” He strolled past Steele-Stebbing, snatched his newspaper and set off for the portable lavatory, reading the headlines aloud. Steele-Stebbing leaned back and shut his eyes, but his hands were fists.

  It was twenty minutes before Cattermole came out. By then, Steele-Stebbing had gone for a walk. Patterson watched Cattermole drop into a deckchair and sigh with satisfaction. “You really are a shit, aren’t you?” Patterson said.

  “I don’t know what makes you say that, Pip. You and I are old pals. We flew under the same bridge, remember?”

  “I never flew under the sodding thing,” Patterson muttered. “That’s on your conscience; not mine.”

  “What bridge?” Cox asked sharply. “Are you talking about old … What the hell was his name?”

  “Dicky Starr,” Patterson mumbled. “Poor bastard.”

  “Why, what happened?” Macfarlane asked. But none of them answered, and when he looked at Cattermole, Cattermole stared back.

  Lunch came: sausage and mash, with rice pudding. Sector Ops. called up in the middle of lunch and White Section—Cox and Macfarlane—got sent off, only to be recalled before they were out of sight. They landed and sat down again, but Macfarlane could not eat. His ears were straining to hear the faint preliminary click of the Tannoy, or the first ting of the telephone. If someone tapped a plate with a knife, he jumped.

  Fanny Barton got a fresh mug of tea and took Flip Moran aside. “I don’t know why I’m drinking this,” he said. “I’ll be bursting in half an hour if we have to go up.”