“Compass trouble, like you. All that bloody electricity. Nav got lost, never found Hanover, went to Hamburg instead. Gunners swore it was Bremen, but I knew better. Come on. If we don’t get to the grub soon, some bastard will steal our eggs.”
They walked from the Ops Block. In the east the sky was a soft gray. Birds were waking up and being noisy about it.
“Why can’t they wait for daylight?” Silk said. “What’s so special about flying at night?”
“You didn’t have much to say in there,” Duff said.
“You want to know if our cookie hit the railway station, don’t you? Well, the answer is, God alone knows. God and the station-master. Make a bomb like a dustbin and it’s liable to land anywhere. Same with incendiaries. They fall like confetti.”
“I don’t care. Nobody cares any more. If we keep on bombing the city, then sooner or later we’re bound to hit something valuable.”
“I said that months ago, Pug. It’s nice to know you’ve been paying attention. Langham always reckoned you were my greatest fan.”
“Load of balls.”
“Smallest fan, then. That was his joke. I miss Langham. I don’t miss any other stupid bastard who got the chop. I probably wouldn’t miss you, if you bought it tomorrow. But Langham … what a waste.”
“You’re driveling,” Duff said. “Step it out. I’m hungry.”
A CERTAIN
HOOLIGAN THRILL
1
Professor Lindemann knew all about Long Delay Pistols and their fickle behavior. When he presented the Butt Report to the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet, he privately awarded the bombshell a Long Delay Pistol of twelve hours before it exploded at Bomber Command HQ.
In fact a full day passed. Even then, the bang was muted: more like the detonation of an underground mine than a bomb-burst on the surface. But the shock-waves traveled all the further. Within a week, most station and squadron commanders had heard of the Butt Report and decided that it was all tosh.
Pug Duff was determined to stamp on it before it leaked to the crews. He called a meeting of the flight commanders and Intelligence Officers, and invited Rafferty too. He asked the adjutant to take notes. Total security was paramount.
“We’ll start with the facts,” Duff said. “This so-called report seems to have been cobbled together by a junior civil servant who’s never flown over Chipping Sodbury in his life, let alone over Wilhelmshaven, and he did it with the doubtful help of a gaggle of Waafs who claim magical powers when shown target photographs. Have I forgotten anything?”
“No, sir,” Bins said. “One thing puzzles me. Nobody disputes the colossal amount of flak that the Hun keeps chucking at our chaps. Would he go to all that trouble and expense if they were nowhere near the target? As has been alleged?”
“He might,” Skull said. “We did, in the Blitz. There were ack-ack batteries all along the South Coast.”
“Stick to the point, man,” Duff said. “What our ack-ack did is neither here nor there.”
“Jerry flak is both here and there,” Hazard said. “My Flight’s got the scars to prove it. So we must be doing something right.”
“Looking at the big picture,” Rafferty said, “I see the Admiralty constantly turning to Bomber Command and asking us to knock out Hitler’s U-boat bases, and the docks at Bremen and so on where they build the U-boats, and the factories that make the diesels. Surely a vote of confidence.”
“Damn right, sir,” Pratten said. “‘B’ Flight has been to Bremen so often we can do the trip blindfold.”
“Given the lousy weather over Germany, that’s usually the best way,” Hazard said. He got a few sympathetic chuckles.
“The group captain mentioned the big picture,” Bins said. “That’s a very valid point. This chap Butt is only one vote. Other experts disagree, and they have hard evidence of damage to targets, reported by other Intelligence sources. Secret agents, neutral businessmen. Photographs never tell the whole story. When the dust has settled, I think we’ll find that Mr. Butt is out-voted.”
Everyone nodded agreement, except Skull.
“You look like a dog that’s about to throw up on the carpet,” Duff said. “Spit it out, for Christ’s sake.”
“I suspect my views are unacceptable, sir,” Skull said. “Rather like some of our target bombing photographs.”
“It’s a free country,” Duff said. “I’m free to ignore your claptrap. Get on.”
“I have three points, sir,” Skull said.
Duff groaned. “Another bloody lecture. Typical university don. Bite him in the ass and he always has three points.”
“Point one: accuracy. One reason the Admiralty makes repeated demands on Bomber Command is our failure to hit the target the first time, or the second, or the third. Point two: target photographs taken over German towns may be obscured by smoke, but when the photograph shows open countryside, we deceive ourselves if we reject such evidence. And thirdly, since you all feel so confident that Butt is utterly wrong, why not let the crews read his report? They know more than we do. Let them judge for themselves.”
“Not bloody likely,” Duff said. “Cross all that out, Uncle.”
“I didn’t record it, sir.”
“Good. For a man with a brain the size of a pumpkin, you don’t think much, do you, Skull? The RAF isn’t a democracy, for God’s sake. Frankly, I don’t give a toss what the crews think, as long as they cart the maximum load of high explosive into Germany.”
“For which, morale matters,” Bins said. Almost an aside.
“Of course! Morale on 409 is damn good! And I’m not about to let anyone bugger it about on the excuse of democracy. If you start talking to the crews about bloody Butt, Skull, I’ll have you in the guardroom lickety-split. Understand?”
For a moment there was no sound but Pug Duff’s breathing and the scratching of the adjutant’s pen.
“I have a question,” Rafferty said, and aimed his pipe at Skull. “If you really believe that our bombing campaign is as faulty as you seem to be suggesting, what is your proposal? How else can this country attack Nazi Germany?”
Skull was silent. Bins screwed the top on the ink bottle.
“Or perhaps we should all just give in,” Rafferty said.
The meeting was over. Everyone except Skull stood and began moving to the door, talking, putting on their caps. “I know one thing,” Skull said. “The truth does not cease to be the truth because men prefer to think otherwise.” If they heard him, they gave no indication of it.
2
Tim Delahaye was, after all, Minister of Information. He had no difficulty in concealing the truth without actually telling any lies. Rollo Blazer, cameraman, died in a tragic accident. He was killed when struck by an aircraft that was taxying at night. What with newsprint being rationed and Rollo not being a famous figure, most newspapers didn’t reckon the story was worth more than an inch at the bottom of page four. Some didn’t think he was worth any space at all. At Crown Films, Harry Frobisher knew the people Rollo had worked with, and he made half a dozen phone calls. “Here’s a man who went all through the Blitz,” he said, “came out of it without a scratch, and would you believe it, a freak accident does what Jerry couldn’t do. Sad loss, very sad. Pass the word, would you?”
The Minister’s limousine took Blake Gunnery, Harry Frobisher and Kate Kelly to the funeral. Delahaye himself sent a wreath, with his apologies: he was speaking in a debate in the Commons that afternoon. Bad timing. The limousine was more than a gesture: Rollo was to be buried in Suffolk, in the village churchyard at Coney Garth. It was Miriam’s idea. She was next of kin. Rollo had no close relatives, and since he was already in the station mortuary, it seemed pointless to bring him back to London.
Rafferty took no chances when he heard that Air Commodore Russell, the big white chief of Press and PR at Air Ministry, would be there. All off-duty aircrew were at the service, with the crew of D-Dog in the front pew. Any other officer who could be spared from his duties was there. Service pol
ice provided the pall-bearers. The Officers’ Mess paid the fees for the organist, the choir and the minister. Kate sat next to Rafferty and watched the unhurried, unsentimental ceremony and thought what a pity it was Rollo couldn’t be there to film it. He was a far greater center of attention dead than he had ever been alive.
Afterward, there were drinks in the Mess. Air Commodore Russell took Group Captain Rafferty aside. “Congratulations on your turn out, Tiny. This filming has put you to a lot of trouble, hasn’t it? Sometimes I wonder why we’re bombing Germany. Is it to make the civilians feel better?”
“Morale is a big part of the war effort, Charlie.”
“Yes. Blazer wasn’t the only casualty that night, though, was he? You lost a Wimpy over Hanover, didn’t you?”
“P-Peter. Sprog crew. Only their second op. It’s often that way.”
“Six dead. I bet they didn’t get half as good a funeral.”
It was a sunny afternoon. Silk and Kate took their drinks onto the lawn in front of the Mess. Servants brought deckchairs.
“Well, he’s definitely dead now,” she said. “I don’t think I believed it until the vicar said so. A bit like getting married, isn’t it? Only in reverse.”
“Don’t know, I’m afraid,” Silk said. “Never been married. And the chop doesn’t get discussed much on the squadron.”
“Death is all part of life. You can’t have one without the other.”
“I suppose not.” Silk look a long swig of gin and tonic. He wasn’t on the ops board; he was free to get blotto if he wanted. “I must say, you’re taking it awfully well.”
“We weren’t married, Silko. That was just a fiddle to keep us together. I was threatened with staying at the Waafery.”
“Oh.” He took in more gin and tonic to help digest this news. “In that case … Can I ask you what possessed old Rollo to go wandering off down the fuselage? I know he was a bit eccentric, but…” Silk took a quick glance at her. Not married, eh? Rollo must have been a bloody hard man to please. Which brought a mental echo: You’re a hard man to please. Zoë had been ready and willing. You cocked it up.
“I don’t know what he was doing,” Kate said. “We have a word for it in the film business. It’s called a BFI. A director or a cameraman suddenly stops and says, ‘Wait a minute. I’ve got a better fucking idea.’ Maybe Rollo had a BFI.”
Frobisher made sure he had collected every last can of film. They were all clearly labeled: Groundcrew servicing Wimpys; Flare-path officer at takeoff; Aircrew briefing; Armorers bombing up; D-Dog over North Sea; D-Dog over target. And more. Two days later he sat in Crown Films’ viewing theater and watched the lot. Kate sat next to him. “It wasn’t as easy as we thought it would be,” she said.
3
Twin three-oh-three machine guns made the most gratifying racket. Skull sat on a seat rather like a bicycle saddle and merely touched the triggers, and felt all his senses jump as two streams of bullets streaked from the muzzles and lashed a corner of the canvas target fifty yards away. He stopped firing, squinted through the smoke, nudged the guns a trifle to the right, squeezed again and blasted the target to tatters. “Goodness gracious,” he said.
“Not bad for a beginner,” Silk said.
“It makes one feel like Al Capone.”
That made the armaments sergeant laugh. “I’d like to see him take on these Brownings, sir. He’d be corned-beef hash in ten seconds.” Silk had landed after an NFT and noticed a pair of knees poking up in the long grass near the perimeter fence, where the gang-mower never cut. Even from that distance he could see that the legs wore officers’ barathea and not airmen’s serge.
It was Skull, hatless, tunic unbuttoned, tie loosened. “Sorry,” Silk said. “I was hoping you were Sergeant Felicity Parks.”
“Many people hope that. It distresses them when I deny any similarity, which is odd, because Coney Garth is very keen on denial. Have you noticed? There must be something in the water supply. This station runs on denial.”
Silk squatted on his haunches. “Explain.”
“Well, for a start, the Wingco stoutly denies that 409 ever bombs anything except specific military targets. If that friendly Yank were to ask, the group captain would confidently deny that 409 bombs residential areas. Bins always denies that the bombing photographs contradict the crew reports, and the crews usually deny that they got lost and ended up bombing that long-suffering German target, Randomburg. Mention any of this to Uncle and he denies that any denial has taken place. And of course there was poor Rollo Blazer, sincerely denying that his film about 409 was bogus and contrived, after all those noises he made, denying it would be anything but the plain, unvarnished truth.”
“How about me?” Silk said. “Didn’t I deny anything?”
“Your denials were true.”
“You’re pathetic” Silk’s knees were starting to ache, so he straightened up. “You don’t know the first thing about war. Come with me.” He helped Skull to his feet. “I’ll teach you lesson one.”
They went to the station firing range. A sergeant armorer gave Skull ear-plugs and explained how twin Brownings worked. When Skull had destroyed the target he didn’t get up from the seat. “May I have another go?” he asked. The sergeant telephoned the men working the butts. “You’ll see the outline of an aircraft for three seconds,” he told Skull. “Fire short bursts.”
Five minutes later, Silk took him away. “What did I score?” Skull asked.
“You missed two Junkers 88s and an Me 110, but you shot down three Spitfires. Exciting, isn’t it?”
“I can’t deny a certain hooligan thrill. It’s a very primitive pleasure.”
“Well, we’re a primitive lot. Last week we were swinging from the trees in the jungle. This week we were dropping cookies on Hanover. Same difference. If you can’t understand that, you don’t deserve to be in Intelligence.”
That night’s op required five Wimpys to bomb Gelsenkirchen. Briefing was at four p.m. It followed its familiar pattern, until Bins finished his piece and nodded to Skull to continue. “I expect you want to know about enemy defenses,” Skull said. “Well, the truth is, light flak will be bloody abominable and heavy flak will be fucking ferocious. And I challenge Scotland Yard to deny this.”
“That’ll do, Skull,” the Wingco said, bleakly. “Wait outside.”
“I’ve got the chop, haven’t I?” Skull said.
Some of the crews glanced at him as he walked out, but most didn’t even look. Nobody smiled. They weren’t interested in a middle-aged IO who went off the rails and took the piss out of them. He might think Gelsenkirchen was something to joke about, but he wasn’t going on the op, was he? Put him in a Wimpy over the Ruhr and he wouldn’t find it so fucking funny.
4
Harry Frobisher had a rough cut made of the best bits from the many cans of Rollo’s film. He invited Blake Gunnery to see it. Kate Kelly came along, in case anything needed explaining. The film lasted twenty-eight minutes.
“Scrap it,” Gunnery said.
“You don’t mean all of it, sir,” Frobisher said. He was more concerned for Kate’s feelings than his own.
“Yes, I do. Scrap the lot. It’s unusable.”
“There are some good shots in there, sir,” Kate said. “The flak over Hanover, for instance. Isn’t that worth saving?”
“Okay, save it, keep it in the library. Archive footage.”
“You’re worried about the sound,” Frobisher said.
“No, I’m not worried about anything. Let’s get out of here. I need some coffee.” They walked along the corridor. “I’d be worried if you had half a film and we were looking for the other half.” He asked his secretary to organize coffee, and they went into his office. He waved toward armchairs, and he perched on his desk. “You haven’t even got half a film. If it makes you feel better, tell me why the flak was silent.”
“Well, flak is silent when you’re in the bomber,” she said. “When it’s really close the noise is like someone kn
ocking on a door. If it’s louder than that, you’re probably dead.”
“The engines drown the flak,” Frobisher said.
“It’s a wall of noise,” Kate said. “Nothing gets through.”
“The audience won’t buy silent flak,” Gunnery ruled. “We must have crumps and bangs and wallops.”
“I thought the shaky shots were effective,” Frobisher said. “Looked as if the plane was getting knocked about.”
“But that wasn’t flak,” Kate said. “They desynchronized the engines and the Wimpy got the shakes.” Gunnery made a face. “Well, it’s true,” she said. “Rollo got the pilot to explain, but the vibration shook his voice and he sounded scared, so we cut it.”
“Nobody has the shakes,” Gunnery said. “Under no circumstances is our pilot scared.”
“I liked what the navigator said,” Frobisher remarked. “When he spoke to the pilot about flying a zigzag. Nice detail.”
“He can recite Eskimo Nell, for all I care,” Gunnery said. “If I can’t see his face, the shot’s useless.”
“Everyone goes on oxygen at eight thousand,” Kate said. “The intercom mike is inside the mask. Rollo was simply showing ops the way they are.”
“Tough men doing a tough job,” Frobisher added.
“That’s exactly what the film doesn’t show,” Gunnery said. “Our audience wants faces, not masks. Emotions, reactions, expressions.” He got off the desk and prowled around the room. “Which reminds me. In that scene where they all get briefed for the raid—stupefyingly rigid performances, by the way—somebody tells the crews to attack at low level.”
“Rollo put that in the script, so that we could get a good shot of the target,” Kate explained. “Actually, crews hate low-level raids.”
“Well, it won’t wash. You can’t have a low-level raid and show the crew on oxygen. Can you?” Nobody argued.
Coffee was brought in. Gunnery took a phone call, signed some letters, looked at his watch. “Right!” he said. “Let’s put this unhappy baby to bed, once and for all. It has three incurable faults: sound, light and people. Take sound. All those creaky voices on the intercom. No good.”
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