Damned Good Show

by Derek Robinson

  The silence was prolonged if the target was south of Munster and north of Cologne. This was the Rhineland, Germany’s industrial powerhouse. Twenty towns crowded so closely that, from the air, they formed a sprawling, smoking mass of production called, simply, the Ruhr. Bomber Command crews came to christen it “the Happy Valley.” After Berlin, the Ruhr was the most heavily defended place in Germany. The last time 409 raided it, one Wimpy was shot down and all the others struggled home, trailing tatters of fabric. “Roofed with flak,” was how a pilot described the Ruhr at night. Essen was in the middle of the Ruhr. Wellington C-Charlie was on the op.

  The Wingco waited until noon, just in case Command changed its mind, before he had the Tannoy request Mr. Blazer’s presence in his office. “I just want to confirm that your trip is on,” he said. “Flight Lieutenant Gilchrist’s C-Charlie will carry one bomb less to Essen, to compensate for the weight of you and the film equipment.”

  “Good show,” Rollo said. “What’s so special about Essen?”

  “Krupp’s steel works. Peach of a target. Gilchrist will tell you the drill for takeoff. Pay special attention to your parachute. It’s got three handles. Pick it up by the wrong handle and you’ll fill the kite with acres of silk. Well, good luck.”

  A VERY LARGE BLACK

  1

  Colonel Kemp had been impressed by 409. He admired the clipped and matter-of-fact speech of the officers at briefing, and the quiet confidence of the crews’ reports at interrogation. These were no war games. This was the real thing, and he felt privileged to meet men who risked everything to damage the enemy and made no fuss about it and might be dead tomorrow.

  He called Charlie Russell, who ran Press and PR at Air Ministry, and said he’d very much like to go back. Russell looked at the golden sunshine and gave himself a day off. He collected Kemp from the embassy and drove to Coney Garth. He made sure that Kemp was happy in the Mess, talking to the flight commanders, and he went to see Rafferty.

  “You’ve had this movie-maker chap from Crown Films for some time, haven’t you?” he said, “I get nothing out of Crown, and of course the Ministry of Information tells me sod all, it’s full of nancy-boys who sleep in a hairnet, so I thought I’d stooge over here and ask how the film’s coming along.”

  “You couldn’t have chosen a better day, Charlie. We’re on ops tonight and the cameraman’s in a Wimpy. It’s Essen. He’s pleased as punch.”

  “Essen.” The air commodore went for a slow walk around the room. “Essen means … Krupp’s? Thought so. Fancy that. Essen.”

  “He wants action shots. Flak and stuff.”

  “From what I hear of Essen, he’ll be able to get out and walk on it.”

  Rafferty detected a lack of enthusiasm. “All the more exciting, surely. He keeps saying he wants to show an op as it really is.”

  “A Wimpy going down in flames. Will he show that? No. Won’t show Essen either, unless by a miracle a gale springs up and blows away all their industrial fug. And if the Huns create their usual smokescreen, he won’t see many bomb strikes. Of course, it’s your decision, Tiny”

  “Not too late to change, Charlie.”

  “Entirely up to you. All I’m saying is Essen is a bloody dangerous target, and if this fellow gets killed trying to film a supposedly first-class squadron in action, then 409 will have put up a very large black.”

  “Point taken.”

  “And here are two other things that are none of my business. Colonel Kemp is here. There are Americans like him, air attachés so-called, hanging around Bomber Command bases everywhere.”

  “Jolly good type, I thought.”

  “Yes. They see, they hear, they report to Washington. The American people think highly of our precision bombing. Not like the Nazis, who bomb indiscriminately, and hit towns, civilians, schools, hospitals, women and children. No mercy at all. By contrast, the RAF only bombs military targets. We never bomb civilians. Now, Kemp is going to be present at today’s briefing.”

  “Ah. You’d like Bins to …”

  “The IO? Yes. Get him to stress how crucial it is to bomb Krupp’s and Krupp’s alone. No risk to innocent civilians, Tiny. Of course the last thing I want to do is interfere.”

  “Quite. And there was another matter you wished to discuss?”

  Russell wandered away and looked out of the window. “You’ve got another IO called Skull. I hear worrying things about Skull. He seems to enjoy picking holes in the crews’ reports after ops. That’s bad for morale. I’m an outsider, of course. You must do as you see fit. But please keep your Skull away from my Colonel Kemp.”

  “Nothing easier, Charlie,” Rafferty said. “Consider it done.”

  The group captain met the Wingco after lunch and they agreed on all points. What was gratifying was the way all three solutions interlocked.

  They told Rollo Blazer he was not going to Essen. Inevitably, he asked why; the man was a civilian, after all. “Operational reasons,” Duff said. Rollo had no answer. His fate was postponed. He didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or not. He felt helpless, and went away.

  They sent for Bins. He understood his orders at once. “While you’re here,” Rafferty said, “how is Skull fitting in? Any problems?”

  “He knows his job. I wish he’d stick to it, sir. He can’t leave well alone. As you know, we still drop Nickels from time to time. I just found him with a handful of leaflets, translating the German and ridiculing the contents. That’s the sort of thing he does.”

  “Send for him, would you, Bins?” Rafferty said. “And tell him to bring the leaflets.”

  Skull arrived, and was surprised to be offered a seat. Rafferty was not normally so cordial to junior Intelligence Officers. The Wingco was already straddling a chair, nibbling at a thumbnail without much success. There was little to nibble. Bins retired to a corner and folded his arms.

  “What d’you make of that bumf?” Rafferty asked.

  “It’s simple-minded, sir. It’s a crude attempt to subvert German morale with threats of increased bombing. It assumes that German resistance is weaker than ours. Not very clever.” He stopped. Rafferty wasn’t listening.

  “You have just quoted from a secret document, flight lieutenant. Have you got permission so to do?”

  “You asked me what I made of it, sir.”

  “I never told you to read it, let alone translate it and analyze it. Are you aware that Nickels are covered by the Official Secrets Act?”

  “It can’t be secret if millions of Germans have read it, sir.”

  “Who says?” Rafferty growled, and Skull was smart enough not to answer. “You are in breach of the Official Secrets Act. That is a very, very serious offense in wartime.”

  Duff abandoned his thumb and put it away for another time.

  “I can’t believe the charge would stand up in court, sir,” Skull said.

  “Whether or not court-martial proceedings follow is for me to decide. I’m influenced by your general attitude to the war. Are you really putting your shoulder to the wheel, or are you just along for the ride? Let’s take ops. What do you know about ops? I mean, really know. Only what you’ve heard. Is it right for you to question crews about something you don’t understand?”

  Duff said: “Bins has been on ops.”

  “Gunner in a Hampden,” Bins said. “Kiel.”

  “By chance, there’s room for a passenger in C-Charlie tonight,” Rafferty said. “Essen. Of course, you’d have to volunteer.”

  Skull reviewed his options. It took him about three seconds. If he refused to volunteer, the news would be all over the station in an hour and the aircrew would treat him with amused contempt and life would be impossible. If he volunteered, death would be very possible. Also violent, terrifying and painful. “The Ruhr,” he said lightly. “It should be an illuminating experience.”

  2

  Skull was sick twice before C-Charlie crossed the English coast. It came as no surprise. The only time he had flown before this was to F
rance in September 1939, in a lurching, bumping troop-carrier, and he had been sick then. This time he took several stout paper bags with him.

  After throwing up, he had nothing to do.

  In the hour before takeoff, the second pilot had explained everything that Skull needed to know: mainly concerning emergencies. He showed him how to clip on his parachute, how to operate it, and where the parachute exits were; also the crash exits. They seemed unnecessarily small and badly positioned for men in bulky flying kit. Skull tried not to think of that. He was shown where the two portable fire extinguishers were stowed. He was shown his crash position: behind the main spar. “Then there’s ditching,” the second pilot said. “I’ll explain that if it happens.”

  “Awfully kind. Have you any general advice? This is my first op.”

  “Don’t say anything unless you must. The skipper doesn’t like chat.”

  That was why Gilchrist’s nickname was Chatty. Even his intercom checks were terse: just a word or two from each position: front guns, second pilot, nav, WOP, rear guns. The passenger added: “Skull.” Then no comment, unless the nav gave a course change; and that was briefly said, briefly acknowledged. Skull lay on the crew bed, just a narrow bunk. The crew had no time to rest, so this must be for casualties, he decided. His brain was not accustomed to idleness. It calculated that he was lying directly above the bomb bay. An hour passed. The engine noise battered his ears like a continually breaking wave. He dozed.

  The wireless op shook his shoulder and told him to turn on his oxygen. He clipped his mask shut and inhaled. His heart was thudding and his mouth was dry. The oxygen tasted of rubber and his nasal passages complained but after a while his heartbeat slowed and all his senses brightened. The engines seemed to be throbbing with a strange urgency. Perhaps that was in his head. He sat on the bed and, for no reason, sang a song: “You’d be so nice to come home to…” Why not? With his intercom mike switched off, nobody could hear him. He could scarcely hear himself.

  A voice said, “Enemy coast coming up.” That must be the front gunner. Skull took his oxygen bottle, went forward, re-plugged his intercom and stood behind the pilots. The instrument panel made a faint green glow. He discovered the air speed: one hundred and fifty-five miles an hour. Altimeter said fourteen thousand three hundred. Half as high as Everest. My goodness. The rest of the panel was a sprawl of gauges and switches and levers which he would never understand. He looked up and saw a band of searchlights, from far left to far right. Each moved slowly. They reminded him of reeds growing in a stream, pulled this way and that by the wandering current. It was all very soothing. Lots of colored lights began to decorate the sky, climbing slowly, then suddenly fast, then falling away. Skull gripped the seat-back: C-Charlie was in a gentle dive. The searchlights were more intense, busier. Now they reminded Skull of Hollywood: of film premières, glamour, ballyhoo. Innocent fun. Lights sparkled on the ground. It was all very pretty. Soon Gilchrist had raced through the defended belt and blackness returned. C-Charlie climbed again.

  Skull had a spell in the bomb-aimer’s position, looking down. Nothing memorable happened. Once, he saw another airplane but it turned out to be the Wellington’s moon-shadow on cloud. There was more and more cloud. He went back to the bed. The wireless op came and looked at him, so he gave a thumbs-up. The gesture felt theatrical and fraudulent, and he was glad the oxygen mask hid his face.

  Another hour passed. Tedium, cold, the foul taste of oxygen, a hungry stomach but no appetite for food. And he’d have to endure all this again on the way back. Then, a sudden shout on the intercom and C-Charlie banked so steeply that he fell on the floor.

  Now there was a lot of chat. From it, Skull guessed that another Wellington had loomed out of the night and Gilchrist had avoided it. Bins had said, at briefing, that sixty bombers would be over the Ruhr. When C-Charlie was level, Skull went forward.

  Wherever he looked, he saw searchlights hunting in teams, and a continuous sparkle of flak. Some of the flak rippled in a straight line and vanished. Some climbed like a chain of rockets and fell away. Skull was amazed by the extravagance. All it takes is one shell, he thought. Gilchrist ignored the flak. He was talking to his navigator, discussing the absence of landmarks. The problem was industrial haze, made worse by cloud. The nav claimed that dead reckoning put them over Gelsenkirchen, which meant Essen was to the southwest. The front gunner was pretty sure he’d seen Mulheim, so Essen must be east. Gilchrist asked the rear gunner what he could see. “Fuck all, skip,” he said. “Some bastard’s dropped a flare and the haze is worse than ever.” Gilchrist decided to fly on.

  When Skull smelled the harsh tang of cordite for the first time, he wanted to turn and run. Cordite meant the shell had exploded bang in front, on the same level, not long ago. Men down there were trying to kill him, and getting close to succeeding. He felt weak, and sat on the main spar. All the time, Gilchrist was holding his fatuous conversation with the crew about the layout of the Ruhr. They went on and on and bloody on. Wasn’t that Duisburg? More like Oberhausen. Well, this is Mulheim, then. Could be Bochum, skip. So we passed Gelsenkirchen? Sod this haze …

  Skull stood up and was horrified to see how much worse the flak was. Nothing could fly through that, it was madness. And still the discussion went on. He had a parachute, he knew the exits, he could leave, now. The Wimpy rocked like a boat in a swell. “Turbulence,” Gilchrist said. “There’s a kite ahead. We’ll follow him.” Skull had to sit down again. After a minute, Gilchrist said: “Ah … poor devil. You should see this, Skull.” He got up, weak at the knees. Far below, searchlights coned a Wellington. Flak chased it, tickled it. Flame streaked from a wing and the aircraft exploded. “Log that, would you, nav?” Gilchrist said.

  He found Essen because, he said, he recognized the smell. A peculiar chemical stink, he said, that only Essen produced. The nav crawled down to his bomb-aiming position. Gilchrist lost height, circling widely, until Skull could see light flak bursting all around. Quickly, quickly, drop the bombs, he thought. The nav said he was sure he recognized the steel works, but too late, C-Charlie had overshot. Someone said it looked more like Gelsenkirchen. “We’ll go round again,” Gilchrist said. Skull unplugged his intercom. “I’ll kill you, you incompetent idiot!” he screamed. Nobody heard.

  Second time round, they dropped the bombs and held steady for the flash and the camera. Skull was shaking with cold. He tripped and fell on his way to the bed, bloodied his nose. A piece of shell had nicked the fabric beside the bed, ripping it away. He lay down and let freezing air crash against him. When C-Charlie landed at Coney Garth, Skull couldn’t walk, couldn’t speak. The blood wagon took him to the MO, who gave him a big sedative and a nice warm cot.

  3

  Zoë was bored with being cooped up in the Blazers’ house, and she wanted to go for a walk. Silk brought her a pair of Waaf overalls and a bucket. “Nobody ever stops a Waaf if she’s carrying a bucket,” he said. “Everyone assumes she’s doing a job. Carry it in your right hand and you won’t even have to salute.”

  She tried on the overalls. “Primitive,” she said. “Barbaric. Quite odious. No thank you.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re an obscene joke. They make me look shabby.”

  “That’s the whole bloody point, you stupid woman.”

  She gave them back. “I can remember when you had a sense of style, Silko. Look at you now.” They were in the kitchen, and Kate was making toast for breakfast. “He keeps proposing to me,” Zoë said. “Look at that grubby uniform. Would you marry him?”

  “Like a flash.”

  “I look much sexier without the uniform,” Silk said. “Isn’t that right, Zoë?”

  “Rather a coarse remark.” She nibbled some toast.

  “Zoë can be pretty coarse herself,” he said. He was irritated: getting those overalls had not been easy. “The rich are like that.”

  “I’m not rich. I’m not on the run. And I want to see my friends from the old da
ys. Jonty Brown and Tom Stuart and Tubby Heckter. Pixie Hunt, too.”

  “Not at home to callers, sweetie. Got the chop, all of them,” Silk said. “Finish your toast, we’re off. I smuggled you in, now I’ve got to smuggle you out. Then I can bring you back in, legally. Why? Because you haven’t been signed in at the Main Gate, so legally you can’t be signed out.”

  “That’s utterly asinine.”

  “You’re the expert in that field.” He hustled her out, just as Rollo came downstairs. “What was all that about?” Rollo asked. “They’re not in love,” Kate said.

  “Neither are we. That makes two happy couples. She’s stunning, isn’t she?”

  “Forget it, Rollo. She’s mad and you’re nuts. Think of the children.”

  4

  As soon as they were out of sight of the aerodrome, Silk pulled off the road and stopped. Zoë kicked aside the sacking and got into the front seat. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Where can we get a good black market breakfast?”

  Sunlight streamed through ancient oaks and dappled the Frazer-Nash. A pair of hefty cart-horses wandered up to a fence and blinked at the visitors. In the distance, a thrush tried out variations on an original theme. It was a scene made for lovers. Rollo Blazer would have shot it at once, before he lost the light.

  “What a ghastly woman you are,” Silk said.

  “Abuse like that is slightly premature, darling. Save it until we’re in bed.”

  “You’re worse than your bloody mother. At least she was honest about her greed. You can’t be honest about anything, can you?”

  “If we don’t have breakfast, then we can’t have sex. That’s not blackmail, it’s pure biology. And I was honest about those Socialist overalls. Too honest for you, Silko. Start the car, before I eat one of those charmingly rustic horses.”

  Silk got out, and took the keys with him. It was easier to deal with Zoë from a distance. “You lie about everything. I can’t take that. Everyone cheats a bit, but you … You never had a baby, did you?”