Piece of Cake (33 page)

“I reckon it pays to make yourself small when someone points a gun.” They went out into the fading light of the afternoon. “Where were the lookouts?” CH3 asked. “Why wasn't the alarm sounded? What happened to the airfield defenses?”

“They're all organized,” Flip said. “They're just not manned every minute of the day. We've got …” He shrugged. “I was about
to say we've got better things for the men to do, but that doesn't sound very clever.”

“The CO thinks Jerry's coming out to play,” CH3 said.

“Figure of speech.”

“Ah.”

“It's the English, you see. A great sporting nation, the English.”

“Sure. More sporting than the Germans?”

“By far.”

“God help us.”

“Well … God isn't much of a sport either. Mind you,” Flip added, “from what I hear, the devil's a very bad loser too. It gets so a fellah doesn't know which way to turn.”

Rex went straight to his office, whizzed through the paperwork on his desk, picked out the urgent stuff, dictated half-a-dozen letters or memos, and then grabbed the first pilot he saw—Fanny Barton—for some squash. They played flat-out, split a ball and smashed a racket, and came off in a lather of sweat. Rex took a shower, went by his office to sign the letters and memos, and whistled for Reilly. They took a walk in the grounds. He delivered the dog to the kitchens for its dinner, and went back through the grounds, relishing the sharp evening air, unhurriedly returning the crisp salutes of passing airmen, feeling marvelously fit and knowing that an excellent dinner would soon be served to him. His mouth watered at the thought. More airmen; more salutes. It was like owning a country estate: servants, sport, entertainment, all the rewards of a smooth-running and spacious establishment, provided by a grateful and generous government. He took the front steps two at a time. It was a good world, until he went inside.

Five or six pilots were bunched together at the bar, making more noise than usual. The adjutant stood amongst them, looking jovial. He saw Rex approaching and made room for him. “Sir: may I introduce you to Jake Bellamy,” he said. “Miss Bellamy, I'd like you to meet our commanding officer, Squadron Leader Rex.”

“Hello,” she said. They shook hands. Rex was startled but he behaved impeccably: smiled, made the beginnings of a bow, held her hand a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. “How do you do, Miss Bellamy,” he said.

She was small and slim, and she looked good in a war-correspond-ent's
uniform of khaki gabardine slacks and tunic. She wore a gray silk shirt with a knitted brown tie, and her hair was a glossy black, cut just short of her collar. Her face was not beautiful but it was interesting and pleasant to look at. The pilots were obviously fascinated by her. She accepted their attention easily. She seemed the calmest person in the room.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Rex said.

“I'm sorry about the confusion over the name,” she said. “There
was
a correspondent called Jake Bellamy and because people can't believe in a woman doing this job they think I must be him. Same initials, you see. I'm Jacky.”

“Jacky's going to write stories about us, sir,” Stickwell said. “She's going to tell everyone what terrific fighter pilots we are. Especially me.”

“Is that right?” Rex said, trying to look pleased.

“No,” she said. They all laughed, Rex last. “I just cover the war. Whatever happens, I report it. I guess I'm over here to help keep score.”

“And which newspaper do you work for?”

“A chain. My stuff gets syndicated.”

“You know, Jacky,” Fitzgerald said boldly, “you're not terribly American, are you? I mean …” But he ran out of confidence.

“Plenty of Americans are not terribly American,” she said. “Are you terribly English?”

“Yes, of course I am.”

“No, you're not,” Patterson said. “You wear suede shoes and you don't like kippers. You're a phony.”

“Pay no attention,” Fitzgerald told her. “Pip's Scotch, so he doesn't count.”

“May I get you a drink, Miss Bellamy?” Rex asked. She smiled, and pointed to the bar: she already had a glass of orange juice. Rex accepted a tankard of beer, and drank deeply. “I'm flattered by your presence, of course,” he said, “but is there really enough for you to write about here?”

“No. I aim to spend a lot of time out in the field, but if I can use this as a base I'd appreciate it.”

“Personally I think it's a brilliant idea,” Miller said. “Have you got any friends?”

“Colleagues? Sure. Dozens of them.”

“Not
men”
Miller said. “More like you, I meant.”

“A word in your ear, uncle,” Rex said. He took the adjutant aside. “This must be a mistake,” he said. “She can't possibly be meant to stay here. The whole idea's totally unacceptable.”

The adjutant looked troubled. “The thing is,” he said, “we had a room reserved for her—for Bellamy, that is—and now she's moved into it. I don't see how we can …”

“But this is an operational unit, for God's sake. Not a damned charm school.”

“The room's no problem. We've got umpteen rooms to spare. And I honestly don't think she'll get in the way. She looks young but she's quite well clued-up, you know. Been a war-correspondent in China and in South America, Uruguay or Paraguay or …” A burst of laughter made them glance. “Besides, she gets on jolly well with the chaps, doesn't she?”

Rex sniffed. Kellaway knew at once he had said the wrong thing. “I don't want distraction,” Rex said. “I want concentration. This is
my
province. That woman must go.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Kellaway said. “She's reporting the Armistice Day display.”

“I don't care if she's reporting the Second Coming.” But Rex remembered Baggy Bletchley's remarks. This woman was here at the suggestion of the office of the C-in-C Fighter Command, Air Chief Marshal Sir Hugh Dowding, who had no jurisdiction in France but had a lot of influence. “Damn,” he said. “Damn.”

While they were talking, CH3 came in and was introduced to Jacky Bellamy. They shook hands and said hello, and she studied his face for a couple of seconds. “We've met before. You wouldn't remember. Colorado, 1936. The two-man bobsled event.” There was a suppressed eagerness in her voice. “You broke some kind of record, didn't you?”

“That was on the second run. Third run, I broke my leg.”

She clicked her fingers. “So you did.”

“Were you competing?”

“I was working. Newspapers.”

There was the briefest of pauses while he took in her uniform. “Ah,” he said, and with it the distance between them suddenly became enormous. “I see.”

“You've changed a lot in four years.” She had forgotten the
other men existed. “If I hadn't been told you were here I don't think I'd have recognized you.” His face was empty of expression. He simply nodded, and looked at the space beyond her shoulder. “That was the first time I ever got a byline,” she said. “I'll never forget it.”

“Excuse me. There's someone I have to talk to.” He walked away.

“What's a byline?” Miller asked. She didn't hear, and he had to repeat his question.

CH3 had a brief conversation with Rex. “Is she here because of me?” he asked. “Yes,” Rex said. “Look, sir, I know how newspapers work,” CH3 said. “They'll print a lot of trash, a lot of lies.”

For a moment, Rex almost liked him. “Too late now, old man,” he said. “I'm afraid we're stuck with the lady.” He went back to the bar.

On Armistice Day the cloudbase was above ten thousand feet, the air was bright and clear, the breeze was steady at ten miles an hour. On the airfield at Area HQ, Rheims, the flags of the color-parties flared beautifully.

Hornet squadron's display came after all the marching and playing and singing and praying and standing in silence; it was planned as the climax of the occasion.

Rex led his Hurricanes through a demonstration of close-formation flying that, for speed and precision, excelled anything the audience had ever seen. He saved the best for last. When his flights created the cross of St. George five hundred feet above the royal reviewing stand, the streams of color appeared suddenly and cleanly and vividly; a vast, bold banner discovered in the sky in a matter of seconds. The squadron re-formed; climbed until it was only a blur, a mutter; turned and dived at full throttle; leveled out over the stand with a blast of noise that seemed to flatten the grass; and soared superbly in Prince of Wales feathers, each section streaming smoke, bright red and blue plumes curling away from the central white: a great royal emblem, sketched with godlike speed and skill against the empty air.

The squadron landed in close formation—aircraft in vic, sections astern—and Rex was presented to the royal visitor. This was only an obscure duke, pressed into war-work; genial, chatty and clueless;
steered everywhere by staff officers; his brow constantly creasing under the unfamiliar weight of an Air Marshal's cap. But he asked Rex a lot of questions, and while they talked the flashbulbs flared like flattery on all sides. When at last Rex saluted and marched away, he saw Jacky Bellamy at the front of the crowd, taking notes.
All trash; all lies.
He was tempted to seek her out and suggest that he might check her story for accuracy. After all, Hornet was his squadron, not hers, but people would believe what she wrote: her story would become the reality.

No. To do that would be to play the game her way. Which meant conceding that the game mattered. He put her out of his mind, found his men, led them off to lunch.

She turned up there, too, but she sat among the junior pilots. Rex heard little of their conversation, except for one exchange. “How about the German fliers?” she said. “D'you really want to kill them?”

“Got to,” Moggy Cattermole said. “They don't make good pets.”

She looked for other answers.

“It depends,” Fitz Fitzgerald said. “If we meet Jerry upstairs, he's fair game. Meet him down here, on the ground—different story.”

“Suppose he bailed out, for instance,” Flash Gordon said. “Well, the scrap's over, isn't it? No hard feelings. Buy him a drink, probably.”

Moke Miller said: “It's just his bad luck he's on the wrong side. No point in getting all bloodthirsty about it. Leave that to the pongoes.” She raised an eyebrow. “Brown jobs,” he explained, “Army.” Rex stopped listening: they were giving her all the right answers.

Air Commodore Bletchley had sent a Percival Gull down to Chateau St. Pierre to bring Jacky Bellamy to Rheims. It was a nice afternoon, and the Gull was a sporty little plane; he decided to pilot her back himself. If anything, the cloud was now even higher and thinner: it looked as pure as porcelain.

They were halfway home when Hornet squadron passed them, a thousand feet higher and impeccably assembled by flights, echeloned to port. Bletchley climbed to give her a better view of the formation. As he did so, it suddenly changed direction until it was heading south. Bletchley pointed, and after some blinking and
squinting she saw another aircraft, high, just beneath the cloudbase. It was flying eastward. “Looks like a French bomber,” Bletchley said. “Rex may do a practice interception.”

“Isn't that sort of risky?”

“Why should it be?”

“The bomber might shoot back.”

Bletchley smiled. She felt foolish, and concentrated on making notes. The squadron was climbing hard. It changed formation, changed direction, changed formation again. Rex was working his way up to and behind the bomber, which was still crawling across the white cloudbase like a fly on a ceiling. Another change of course, and the squadron neatly divided itself into two flights.

Bletchley nudged her. “Some dozy frog pilot is about to get a nasty shock,” he said happily.

The first flight was moving ahead of the second, gaining on the target as if the bomber were winching it in. The aircraft were in line astern, and now they stretched their line, easing apart. The leading Hurricane suddenly grew antennae of fire, long red-and-yellow whiskers that tickled the bomber's tail-unit. “Christ!” Bletchley said. The Hurricane swerved away and the second fighter flung its brilliantly speckled lines at the bomber. This time Jacky Bellamy could see the colored fire sparking and bouncing as it hit the fuselage and wings. The third fighter carried on the attack. A thin black scarf of smoke trailed from the bomber's port engine, and as the fourth Hurricane opened fire the bomber slipped sideways, gently and slowly, like a tired bird dropping to earth after a long flight. “It's a bloody silly Dornier!” said Bletchley.

The rest of “A” flight sprayed the bomber, and then “B” flight strolled up to it and took turns at gunnery practice. Both engines were pouring smoke and hits were falling off the wings and body, yet the aircraft refused to burn or explode. It fell more steeply, and as it fell it slowly turned until it had reversed its course. It was actually diving toward the Gull. “If that blighter blows up,” Bletchley said, “I don't want to be in the neighborhood.” The Dornier was curling to its left: he took the Gull the other way. Jacky Bellamy pressed her face against the side-window. The bomber went past in a rush, making smoke like a locomotive. She saw hundreds of glittering bullet-streaks, deep rips in the wings, a radio aerial
lashing itself to death, half the undercarriage dangling, the Perspex canopy and nose-dome shattered.

Bletchley flew steeply banked circles so that they could watch it go in. It gained speed all the way down. It must have been doing five hundred miles an hour when it hit a small brown field. The impact had a predictable ferocity that made her wince, but still there was no fire, no explosion. “Probably out of fuel,” Bletchley said. “Silly man! Well done, Rex. Big party tonight, I expect.”