Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  All told, six Hurricanes got airborne, but Macfarlane was first. Between the whistle and crump of bombs, his groundcrew raised their heads from the trenches and watched him close on the raid. They saw the sparkle of gunfire, heard its tiny rattle over the dull throb of engines, saw him swerve, bank, attack again. They saw a bomber lurch and slide out of formation. Two figures fell from it; only one parachute opened. The slide grew steeper. The bomber dived into a field like an express charging into a tunnel.

  Ten minutes later the raiders were out of sight and airmen were busy sticking warning flags next to bomb craters to help the fighters when they came in to land. Macfarlane was the first back. He dived from three thousand feet, crossed the perimeter below treetop height and streaked across the field, one gloved hand acknowledging his groundcrew’s waving arms. He climbed, turned, came back and performed a victory roll. The Hurricane rotated smoothly and cleanly, as if it were drilling its way through the air. The troops waved their steel helmets. Macfarlane rolled again but the Hurricane had a tantrum. It flung its tail from side to side, dropped, and slashed at the airfield with a wing. Instantly a handsome airplane became a tumbling wreck. It cartwheeled with an intense, ugly fury, as if it wanted to batter itself to bits as rapidly and painfully as possible. By the time it had exhausted itself it was broken into six large pieces: the two wings, the tail unit, the engine, the cockpit and the fuselage. Seven if you counted the pilot.

  When Barton landed, he waited for CH3 and they went over to look. Macfarlane was lying on the grass, exactly as he had been found. Everything about him was broken; everything was bent the wrong way. He didn’t look human. He looked like a bag of dirty laundry that someone had forgotten to take the feet and arms out of.

  Ten minutes later they were all ordered back to Brambledown: there were too many unexploded bombs at Bodkin Hazel. Barton, CH3, Cattermole, Steele-Stebbing, Judd and Fitzgerald took off. They found Quirk and Cox waiting for them in the mess. Both had baled out. No news of Zabarnowski or Gordon.

  Nobody else was in the mess. There was a raid on and the Spitfire squadrons were up. It had been a long day and a bad day. Nobody wanted to talk. Now that the mainspring of action had been released they were all profoundly tired, bone-weary, drained. Within fifteen minutes they were slumped in armchairs or stretched out on sofas, asleep.

  After a while the adjutant came in. He was holding a signal and looking pleased. “I heard you were back,” he said, “and I thought you’d like to know that the Prime Minister, Mr. Winston Churchill himself, has just made a speech about you.”

  Cattermole half-opened one eye. “Piss off, uncle,” he mumbled.

  “Listen, it’s jolly good stuff. He said …” Kellaway glanced around and decided to abbreviate the signal. “‘Undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger …’” Cox had begun to snore. Kellaway abbreviated some more. “Anyway, the best bit’s at the end,” he said. “Listen to this: ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.’ How about that?”

  Cattermole let his other eye drift half-open. He studied the adjutant. “Someone must have told him about our back-pay,” he said.

  Later that evening there was a press conference. Baggy Bletchley had arrived with a busload of foreign correspondents: Swedes, Spaniards, Swiss, Americans, Brazilians, a Russian, a Rhodesian, a Turk, several Canadians, even a Burmese. The three squadron commanders were hastily rounded up and taken to the lecture room to meet them. In the crowd, Barton saw Jacky Bellamy. “Hell of a bind for you, I realize that,” Bletchley whispered as the correspondents took their seats, “but overseas opinion is extremely important right now. This lot have been getting a bit shirty on a diet of Air Ministry releases, so we’re giving them a tour of fighter bases to keep them sweet.”

  “What d’you want us to say, sir?” one of the Spitfire commanders asked.

  “Tell ’em we’re winning, of course.”

  Bletchley spoke a few introductory words: Brambledown was one of the sharpest spearheads in the battle, couldn’t be a better place to take the pulse of the action, these three chaps had been in the thick of it since dawn, scored some notable victories, of course not everything could be revealed yet, Official Secrets Act and all that …

  The questions began, mostly about the Luftwaffe. Could it be beaten? Surely the RAF was hopelessly outnumbered? Why did so many raids get through? How many times had this particular airfield been bombed? How long could a fighter pilot remain efficient if he flew five or six sorties a day? How destructive was the cannon mounted on the Me-109 compared with the British machine-gun? What was the probability of invasion? The German press said that Fighter Command was on its last legs: any comment? Suppose Hitler invaded now, tonight: what could the RAF do to stop him?

  The tone was not hostile; they simply wanted to know the answers. Barton gradually realized that these people had already come to the conclusion that Britain would not win, that they were reporting a plucky last stand, a brave but futile gesture against an irresistible enemy. The Canadian correspondents smiled once or twice, and sometimes nodded as they heard the optimistic replies; but he noticed that they took very few notes.

  Bletchley chaired the meeting well. He courteously deflected questions that touched on secret information, he distributed the rest in rotation among the three squadron leaders, he chipped in if someone looked like drying up, and generally he kept things jogging along nicely. After half an hour he got to his feet and said: “I think we’ve covered most points, so it only remains for me to remind you that these very experienced young men really do know what they’re talking about. Day in day out they’ve been mixing it with Jerry up there in the wide blue yonder and giving him a very bloody nose. The RAF has its own peculiar phrase for the truth: we call it ‘pukka gen.’ This evening they have given you the pukka gen about this battle. Before I came in here this evening I heard today’s score on the BBC. RAF losses, twenty-one. German losses, fifty-nine. I need say no more.”

  Jacky Bellamy stood up. “One last question?” she said.

  “With pleasure.”

  “Since America is neutral, my agency has a bureau in Berlin, and according to my colleagues over there, the RAF’s claims are inaccurate and unreliable.”

  “Sounds rather like Herr Goebbels’ Ministry of Propaganda,” Bletchley said. “They’re experts in unreliable information, I believe.”

  That got a laugh.

  “More to the point,” she went on, “many air attaches at embassies and consulates in London are not convinced by your figures, and one reason for their skepticism is the growing weight of German raids.”

  Nobody laughed at that.

  “In fact,” she added, since Bletchley had no immediate answer, “the longer this battle goes on, the more it seems that the claims of the RAF are not compatible with the performance of the Luftwaffe.”

  “These are strong words,” Bletchley said. “I don’t think this is the ideal time or place to enter into a detailed statistical analysis of the matter, especially as there is, I am happy to say, a certain amount of food and drink waiting for us all … But I would just like to say this. One of the things we’re fighting for is freedom. Unlike Hitler’s Germany, we welcome free speech. If anyone can prove us wrong … well, they have the freedom to do so. I myself am completely confident that we are right, and that right will ultimately triumph.”

  During the coffee and sandwiches, Fanny Barton eased Jacky away from one of the Spitfire CO’s, and said: “You’re as bad as Skull, you are. We work our fingers to the bone, shooting down Jerries, and neither of you believes us.”

  “I just asked a question, that’s all. And now that I come to think of it, I didn’t get much of an answer, did I?”

  “Never mind, I forgive you. Especially as you’re looking more delightful than ever.”

  “My. You’ve become terribly sophisticated since you got promoted, Fanny.”

  “Yes, it’s the effect of power. Makes men
irresistible.”

  “Good luck. I notice that you haven’t tried to answer my question either.”

  “Oh, I never answer questions,” he said grandly. “I leave all that to my staff. Have another sandwich. Go on. Have two.”

  She took two. “I hear that Sticky Stickwell’s been posted here,” she said. “Did you know?”

  “Sticky? But he’s in a Defiant squadron.”

  “Yes, that’s right. They arrived this evening.”

  “Defiants,” he said. “That’s the last thing I expected.”

  The first person Cattermole saw when he pushed open the doors of the Spreadeagle was Sticky Stickwell. He was sitting between two big blond girls who might have been sisters. They were all laughing, and each girl had an arm around him. It made a fond and heartwarming scene.

  Cattermole eased through the crowd and bought himself a drink. When one of the girls took her handbag and got up, he intercepted her halfway to the ladies’ lavatory. “Excuse me,” he said. “I think you should know that that officer has a wife and seven children in Stoke-on-Trent.”

  “Bloody good place to leave them,” she said. Cattermole felt disappointed. When she came back he said: “Actually he’s not an officer at all. The police are after him. He procures white women for Arab sheikhs.”

  She smiled, and gently squeezed his elbow. “That’s right, dear. Why don’t you have a nice lie-down? It’s the heat, I expect.” She moved on. Cattermole turned away. A thin, bony girl with gaps in her teeth was looking at him. “I’d love to meet a nice Arab sheikh,” she said. “Will you introduce me?” She was fairly drunk.

  “Certainly,” Cattermole said. “Be in the Savoy Hotel tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock and, above all, bring your cello.”

  “Moggy!” Stickwell shouted. “Bloody old Moggy!” He thrust through the drinkers and seized Cattermole’s hand. “I knew it was you! Stoke-on-Trent … Well I’m damned.” His face was radiant. “Fancy meeting you here … How are you? What a surprise, eh?”

  “The children ask me to give you their love, Sticky,” Cattermole said gravely. “And Gwendolen says she forgives you.”

  “Oh … Go to blazes, Moggy. I mean, damn it all, Stoke-on-Trent. I deserve somewhere better than that, don’t I?”

  “Hey!” The thin girl pushed between them. “What’s all this about a cello? I ain’t got no bleedin’ cello.”

  “Then you’d better get one, and quick about it,” Cattermole snapped. “There’s a war on, you know.” He led Stickwell to a relatively quiet corner. “Didn’t you get your gong?” he asked. There were no ribbons on Stickwell’s chest. “I kept nagging Rex to recommend you.”

  “Really? That was jolly nice of you, Mog. Actually I don’t care much about gongs any more. Flying Defiants, you’ve got your work cut out just getting the crate off the ground … Anyway, I never was a hot-shot pilot, was I? The thing is, I’ve decided I want to do something really worthwhile.” He took a long gulp of beer and wiped his mouth. “You know, something useful. I’m going to be a surgeon.”

  “A surgeon.” Cattermole was taken aback.

  “Flying’s all very well but … Saving people’s lives, I think I’d enjoy doing that.”

  “Hard work, Sticky.”

  “Oh, I know, I know. Terrific amount of study. All those veins and bones and things. I’ve started already. Absolutely fascinating.” He took a creased and dog-eared paperback from his hip pocket. It was called So You Want to Be a Surgeon.

  “How far have you got?”

  “I only bought it this afternoon. Threepence, secondhand. Not bad, eh? I’d like to specialize in legs, I think. I’ve always liked legs … Anyway, that’s enough about me. How’s everybody? I heard Rex bought it. How’s Flip and Moke and Fitz and Flash and Pip and …” He ran out of breath.

  “Fitz and Pip are fine,” Cattermole said. “Fine.”

  “Good show,” Stickwell said. “Good old Fitz. I always liked Fitz. Damn good sport.”

  “Lots of changes. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, of course. People come and go.” Stickwell looked around at the noisy, smiling, gesturing mob, and he kept the happy look on his face. He was thinking: That’s not true, people don’t come and go, they just go. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you said. “Funny, the way things work out, isn’t it?” he said. “By the way, congratulations on your gong.”

  “Oh, well,” Cattermole said. “They send them round with the Naafi van these days.”

  When Fanny Barton came away from the press conference, CH3 was waiting for him.

  “Flash has turned up,” he said. “He’s in the hospital at Dover. Stitches in his head, nothing serious. Should be back soon.”

  “That’s good. What about Zab?”

  “Not so good. Zab’s dead. He was chasing a 109 at very low level and according to some witnesses he hit it and it blew up and he flew slap into the explosion.”

  “I see.” Barton looked up at the first stars of the evening. “Nothing much anyone can do about that, then. Let’s get down to the pub.”

  CH3 drove. “I’ve just been talking to your old sparring partner, Jacky Bellamy,” Barton said. “Baggy brought her here with a great mob of journalists. She says Sticky’s arrived.”

  “Yes, I saw them fly in.”

  “Defiants.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wasn’t it a Defiant squadron that took a bit of a pasting about a month ago? Presumably not Sticky’s mob, though.”

  “The lot you’re thinking about were based at Hawkinge. I ferried a kite in there a couple of days afterward. Everyone was still in a state of shock.”

  “They got badly mauled, then.”

  “No, they got slaughtered. Nine took off, and seven were either shot down or crashed on landing. The whole disaster took less than ten minutes. Ever seen a Defiant?”

  “Not up close. Best 1918 fighter in the world, so they say.”

  “It’s worse than that. A Defiant’s got four Brownings in a turret, which is fine as long as the enemy agrees to fly alongside for a few minutes. It’s got nothing firing forward. The turret weighs an extra half a ton, not counting the gunner inside, and there’s no more power up front than in a Hurricane, so it flies like a brick. They call it a Defiant because it defies comprehension.”

  “What did all the damage? 109’s?”

  “Yes. Ten 109’s from astern and below. Then another ten head-on.”

  “Jesus. No wonder they scored seven out of nine.”

  “The theory at Hawkinge,” said CH3, “was that Jerry was pissing himself with laughter so much that he missed the last two.”

  The landlord had run out of soot. Cattermole persuaded the two blond girls to give him their powder compacts and he mixed the contents with a bottle of red ink on a tin tray. Stickwell was the first man up the pyramid of tables. Most of Hornet squadron had arrived, and they had agreed to make Sticky an honorary member. The pub was jam-packed, and there was prolonged cheering when he made two red footprints on the ceiling. He remained inverted while he sang a song: If You Were the Only Girl in the World. Everyone joined in. It was a pity to waste the pyramid and the red mixture. Fanny arrived. They made the CO of the Defiant squadron an honorary member. He sang Tipperary. There was still plenty of mixture left. The Defiant flight commanders were pushed up the tables. Red footprints marched haphazardly about the ceiling, the singing was full-throated, the drink flowed as freely as the spirit of fellowship. It took the landlord half an hour to clear the bar. Stickwell could scarcely stand: Cattermole held him up and steered him out. “Good old Moggy,” Stickwell said. He was crying with gratitude. “Hey … Just remembered. Something I want to talk about. Money. All that money I spent. Tons of money. What about that money?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sticky,” Cattermole said. “It’s not urgent. You can pay me tomorrow.”

  “Good old Moggy.” He fell asleep almost as soon as he was put into the Buick. His cheeks were shining with tears. Cattermole
found that oddly disturbing. He took the leather he used for wiping the windscreen and he mopped Stickwell’s face with it. Stickwell grunted in his sleep and smiled like a child.

  It was almost midnight but the hangar was full of noise: hammers tapped, hacksaws rasped, drills whined and snarled. Jacky Bellamy, flanked by Bletchley and CH3, strolled between the rows of Hurricanes.

  “Hello, Micky,” she called. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I did once,” Marriott said, “but that was before the war.”

  “I invited Miss Bellamy to take a look at our aircraft,” Bletchley said. “I have a feeling she doesn’t fully appreciate the quality of these new machines.”

  “This isn’t the Hurricane we had in France, you know,” Marriott told her. “This is twice the kite. Come and see.” He led her away.

  “I don’t know what’s got into her,” Bletchley said softly. “In France she was always perfectly reasonable, wrote some cracking good stuff in fact, but recently she’s gone all … skeptical. Won’t believe a word she’s told. Still quite charming, of course, but no faith. Damn nuisance sometimes, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “You’ve got to remember, sir, that this is an election year back home,” CH3 said. “If Britain’s getting beaten out of sight, that’s a good excuse for not interfering. She writes what people want to read.”

  “Hmm.” Bletchley pondered that for a moment. “Even so,” he said, “we’ve got to go on doing our bit to prove that she’s wrong. The Yanks are an appalling lot—sorry, old boy, no offense meant—but everyone in Whitehall keeps bleating about how we can’t do without them. Mind you, they said that about the French, and thank God we’re shot of them. Thoroughly shabby crew. Never could fight. I mean, look at Agincourt.”

  “Sure. Mind you, sir, I sometimes wonder what an English army was doing at Agincourt in the first place.”