Piece of Cake (58 page)

“No good asking him,” Lloyd said. “He's deaf.”

“Not deaf, exactly,” CH3 said. “Allergic.”

“Bollocks,” Lloyd snapped. “The only thing you're allergic to is Jerry. That's what pisses me off. I never knew Fanny the way the rest of you did, but he was a good man, a bloody good man, and
I don't think it's funny when I hear this cowboy sit on his ass and talk about allergy.” Lloyd's face was red. His hand trembled as he reached for his drink.

“Speak up, then, CH3,” Moran said. “What are you allergic to?”

“Stupidity. Simple stupidity.”

Lloyd slammed his glass on the table. Wine jumped, and stained the cloth. “Who are you calling stupid?”

“Oh dear,” Cox said. “Now we're going to have a brawl.”

“Cowboy wouldn't fight me,” Lloyd said. He leaned across the table and waved a dirty finger in front of CH3's nose. “Cowboy won't fight anyone, will you?”

By now half the cafe was watching the confrontation. Lloyd's finger was vibrant with contempt and menace. CH3 studied it closely, leaning forward. Suddenly he raised his hands from his lap and hung his cap from Lloyd's finger. The crowd laughed, took breath, and laughed again.

For an instant Lloyd didn't know what to do. Then he flung the cap away and swung a punch at CH3, which missed. He overbalanced and fell heavily. One arm smashed a couple of glasses, the other landed in the butter. Moran seized him by the collar and yanked him backward. Lloyd's rump thudded against his chair and skidded off it. He vanished under the table, dragging the cloth with him. The French whistled and stamped.

“Close up, chaps,” Cattermole said. “Nice and tight.” They dragged their chairs together, blocking Lloyd's escape. “Down, Boy! Down!” Cattermole called, and kicked him. Lloyd swore. “Quiet, Boy! Lie still and you'll get a nice bone.” Lloyd struggled, but the pilots' boots thudded into him.

“Ah …
grub,”
Miller said with tremendous feeling. Plates of omelets and fried potatoes were being served; more wine was brought. At the same time, Fanny Barton walked into the cafe, looking scratched and stained. “My God, what a lot of scruffs,” he said.

They roared a welcome, their mouths full of food, and demanded to know what had happened. He tossed his helmet and gloves onto the table. “Well … first I fell out of the kite. Then I fell into a tree. Then I fell
out
of the tree. Then I fell in with some frog
soldiers. Then I fell
out
with some frog soldiers. They wanted to shoot me, thought I was a Hun … Who's that under the table?”

“Boy Lloyd,” said Cox.

“What's he doing?”

“I think he's lost his head,” Cattermole said. “You know how keen Boy is. We gave him his head, and now the silly chump's gone and lost it.”

“Well, he can't have mine, I need it to eat with … Whose dinner is that?”

“Yours.” Moran slid the plate across the table. As Barton pulled out a chair, Lloyd scrambled through the gap, raging and cursing: “You fart-assed sods! Look what you've done!” He was foul with dust and stamped with bootprints, and his nose was bleeding. Barton sat and began eating, using his fingers until CH3 passed him a fork. “Bloody good grub,” he murmured. “Christ All bloody Mighty,” Lloyd snarled.

“Shut up, Boy,” Moran said. “Get a chair and have a drink and we'll order another omelet.” But Lloyd was too furious to listen. He grabbed his hat and stormed out, barging Frenchmen out of his way and treading on a dog, which howled.

There was no sign of Lloyd when they left the cafe and took a stroll around the little town. Army convoys rumbled endlessly through the main street; refugees were camping out in squares and courtyards, sleeping on their little piles of possessions; the thud of distant bombing was like the random beating of a bass drum three streets away.

They came across a corner store, wide open and bright with lights. “Shocking blackout,” Mother Cox said. “No wonder—”

“Hey!” Fitz exclaimed. “They've got those shirts that CH3 wears!” He went in, and the others followed. The shirts were French workmen's wear: blue and simple. He bought one. “Soft collar. See? Doesn't cut your neck off when you look round.”

“They're not regulation,” Cox pointed out. “Rex will have a fit.”

“So what?” Miller said.

In the end everyone bought a shirt. “Now all we need is some nice bulletproof vests,” Fitz said as they walked back to the truck.

“Get some armor plating behind your cockpit,” Cox advised him. “That's what I've done. Micky scrounged it off a crashed bomber.”

Cattermole sucked in his breath. “All that weight in the wrong place. Ruins the balance.”

“CH3's kite flies okay,” Patterson said.

“Not in close-formation.”

“If you're so keen on doing things properly, Moggy,” Fitz said, and there was an abrasive edge to his voice, “you fly ass-end Charlie for a change and I'll fly Red Two.”

“That's for Rex to decide.”

“Really? Tell that to Trevelyan. And Nugent. And McPhee.”

“Cut it out, Fitz,” Barton ordered.

“Really, all this whining and moaning is in very poor taste,” Cattermole said. “Now, more than ever, we must all get behind the CO.”

“That's exactly where we all are,” Miller said. “That's the whole bloody trouble.”

They reached the truck and drove back to the airfield.

Boy Lloyd, on foot, arrived home shortly before the truck. They called to him but he refused to speak and went straight to his tent.

Flip Moran found himself standing next to CH3. Explosions rumbled in the distance.

“He's got to go, Flip,” CH3 said. “If he doesn't go, the rest of the squadron will. Bit by bit. You watch.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Moran said. “But in any case he's the only CO we've got, so we have to make the best of him. Do you fly with us tomorrow, or do you intend to get yourself shot for refusing to obey orders?”

“I'll think about it.”

“I was afraid you might,” Moran said. “You're a terrible man for thinking.” He went to bed.

Everyone felt better next morning. They had been allowed to sleep until eight; there was hot water for shaving; the cooks made an excellent breakfast of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, kidneys and tomatoes, with French bread still warm from the oven; the sky was as bright as well-scrubbed pottery; and there was a stiff breeze from the west that blew the flies away. To cap it all, three replacement Hurricanes landed and one of the ferry pilots brought a bundle of mail. Even Lloyd smiled.

Rex let them read their letters, and then stood up. He looked good: refreshed and alert.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “at last we are going to take the fight to the enemy.”

Reilly, who had been lying at his feet, stood and licked his fingers.

“Baggy Bletchley was here last night,” Rex said. “The German offensive is beginning to take shape. Their army is making two thrusts—both of them well to the north of us. The secondary, or minor, thrust is just beyond Luxembourg, in the Ardennes. It is clearly a feint or diversion to distract us from the primary or major thrust through Holland and into Belgium. That, as it happens, is precisely where the Allied High Command expected Jerry to strike, so our forces are well placed to deliver the
riposte suprême.
French for a good kick up the ass.”

Quiet chuckles. The adjutant nodded approvingly.

“That's where we come in. There is an enormous canal between Holland and Belgium, called the Albert Canal. Over it there are several important bridges, very useful to the German Army. But not for long. Our bombers are going to blast those bridges into very small bits, and Hornet squadron is going to make damn sure nobody stops them doing it. Any questions?”

For a moment there was total silence. Kellaway watched their faces, everyone thinking, nobody looking at anyone else, and saw the difference that two days of war can make.

“These bridges, sir,” Barton said. “Has Jerry captured them yet?”

“Some, not all. The situation's rather fluid.” Rex saw Barton chew his lip, and added: “As you'd expect, with all those canals around.” Nobody laughed. “Rotten joke,” he said. Nobody smiled.

“So if Jerry's got a bridge,” Moran said slowly, “he'll have it well defended by now.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Final briefing at Amifontaine,” Rex said. “That's the bomber drome in northern France. Skull's there already. He went up by car with Baggy Bletchley.”

“Are we the only fighter cover, sir?” Cox asked.

“Good God, no. They've brought three or four Hurricane squadrons over from England, so some of them will be involved. But
you'll be pleased to know that we form the spearhead. Ours is the place of honor.”

“Talking of spearheads, sir,” Fitzgerald said, “what formation do we fly?”

“Oh, the usual.”

Patterson mumbled: “Usual bunch of bananas.” If Rex heard him he ignored it. “I take it everyone's fully fit?” he said. The adjutant nodded cheerfully. He had not found a doctor to examine CH3; hadn't even searched very hard. “All in the pink, sir,” he said.

“These new kites bring us almost up to strength,” Rex said. “I'll lead Red Section with Mother and Moggy. Fanny has Yellow Section: that's Pip and Flash. Blue Section is Flip, Moke and Fitz.”

“Bottom of the heap again,” Fitz muttered. “Down among the dead men.”

“However,” Rex went on, “Baggy Bletchley has asked me to experiment with two aircraft behind the formation. A sort of rearguard. Hart and Lloyd are spare, so they can do that. Takeoff in half an hour.”

He went away with the adjutant. The pilots milled about and discussed their task. The general mood was one of wait-and-see: if Baggy Bletchley had briefed Rex at midnight everything had probably changed by now. Flip Moran was unusually morose. “Fucking Dutch,” he grumbled. “Why can't they blow up their own fucking bridges?”

“Maybe they haven't any bombers,” Fanny Barton said briskly.

“Have we?” Moran asked. Barton gave him a sharp look of disapproval. “Of course,” he said, and turned away.

“Well, well,” Lloyd said to CH3. “Ass-end Charlie after all, then. There's still time to go sick, if you hurry.”

“Take my advice,” CH3 replied. “Don't fly straight. Keep weaving.”

“You
take
my
advice. Wear your rubber pants.”

“Really,” Cattermole said, “you chaps surprise me. Where's your sense of occasion? Where's your pride? ‘Ours is the place of honor.' Here we have a chance to impress friend and foe alike with our superb close-formation flying, and all you can do is bicker.”

“Close-formation stinks,” Fitzgerald said.

“We all know it's risky, Fitz,” Barton said, “but it works. It knocks down the bombers.”

Cox said: “So what? We're not going for bombers today. It'll be 109's and 110's. Zooming around like bluebottles.”

“Fitz is right,” Miller said. “We look like a bunch of bananas up there. No wonder we keep getting jumped.”

“Okay, enough!” Barton exclaimed. “Enough talk. Let's get on with the job.” As they dispersed he touched Flip Moran on the shoulder. “Hang about a bit,” he said. When they were alone he said: “This isn't getting any better, is it? D'you think we should have another word with Rex?”

“Why? He won't change the formations. Anyway, why should you care, Fanny? You're up the sharp end. You won't get jumped.”

“That's a damn silly thing to say.” Barton felt the blood pounding into his face. “Almost as stupid as what you said about those Dutch bridges.”

“Ah, but of course, I forgot, you're the senior flight commander. You have enough leadership for the both of us. Go ahead and use it all. I mean, don't mind me.”

Barton glared. “All right. If that's the way you want it, maybe I will.” But Moran was already walking away.

Gordon and Fitzgerald shared a tent. “Any news of Nicole?” Fitz asked, stuffing a revolver down the side of his flying-boot.

“Not yet. What about Mary?”

Fitz shrugged. “On her way to England, I expect.”

Flash put Vaseline on his neck where the collar had rubbed.

“You can't help worrying, can you?” he said.

“Jerry seems to be playing the game so far. He's only raiding genuine military targets.” Fitz breathed on his goggles and polished them. He saw his face reflected in a lens and was startled: it looked tired and worried. “They'll be all right, I'm sure,” he said.

Rex sat in the hut and signed pieces of paper for the adjutant Kellaway put the last one before him. “You might like to read that first, sir,” he said.

Rex read it.

“While with the squadron he did all that was asked of him without flinching
… That's true enough.
His courage, determination and audacity were never in any doubt
… Yes, I suppose so. Who is this, anyway? Trevelyan?”

“Nugent and McPhee as well. I've had two copies made.”

“Oh …
Never in any doubt
… Those two weren't here long enough to demonstrate much of anything, were they?”

“Scarcely their fault, sir. They did their best.”

“Yes … Oh, well, benefit of the doubt …
His death in combat was an example of gallant self-sacrifice in the face of heavy odds and extreme peril
…” Rex sniffed. “I don't remember that. The bloody fools got themselves killed, that's all.”

“In combat, sir. You were on patrol, after all. Surely it was self-sacrifice and, as such, gallant.”

“Nugent and McPhee collided.”

“That's extreme peril, by any standard.”

“And Trevelyan let a 109 sneak up on him. I don't call that ‘heavy odds,' adj.”