Piece of Cake (72 page)

Daddy Dalgleish had boxed and played rugby for the Royal Air
Force. While he was stationed with the Northwest Frontier Force in India he had broken a sentry's jaw in three places with a single punch. The sentry had been a smelly tribesman, guarding Daddy after his airplane had forced-landed in the hills and he had been captured; he was eventually released following a lot of delicate diplomatic negotiations in which a couple of villages got bombed flat just to demonstrate the British government's good faith.

Now he was station commander at RAF Brambledown, responsible for three squadrons as well as all the ancillary paraphernalia in the way of cooks and clerks and medicos, which inevitably meant problems; and although Daddy Dalgleish's instinct was to treat problems as if they were smelly sentries, he was a group captain and he often had to butter people up.

When Fanny Barton and CH3 came into his office, he braced himself for a spell of buttering-up.

“I understand you're getting a bit browned-off with convoy patrols,” he said. “Always getting shelled by damnfool destroyers and so on.”

Barton nodded.

“I sympathize,” Dalgleish said. “Damn difficult job you've got. Calls for the greatest qualities. Dogged determination, steady nerve, staunch stamina. Nothing flashy. Just … backbone.”

Barton grunted.

“Must be a bit frustrating, too,” Dalgleish said, “not being able to make a big score. I know how you feel. Fighter pilot myself. The point is, it's the convoy that counts. That's the lifeline of the nation, isn't it? And you chaps are doing a vital, an absolutely essential job of keeping the Hun off our ships, and doing it brilliantly.”

“Are we, sir?” Barton asked.

“No doubt about it.”

“Then why are so many ships sunk?”

“Well, Jerry's bound to catch a few, isn't he? I mean he's got all the advantages. You've no need to feel bad about that. You've done your stuff.”

“Some of us have done more than that, sir. I personally know of five or six pilots who got shot down on convoy patrol. Bloody good pilots, too. Not new boys. Flight commanders and the like.”

“Yes, I realize that. We've witnessed some very gallant sacrifices in the last few weeks.”

“Bloody stupid sacrifices,” CH3 said, “sir.”

Dalgleish looked at him in surprise. “Are you … um … Canadian, Hart?”

“American. Convoy patrol is the stupidest waste of fighter pilots imaginable. They're tied to the convoy, they're forced to fly slowly, they're like staked goats waiting for the tiger. No wonder they get jumped.”

“In the worst possible place, too,” Barton said. “Very wet, the English Channel, sir.”

“Nobody underestimates the hazards, Barton,” Dalgleish said. “But I ask you, why are the Germans launching these desperate attacks? Because they know how crucial these convoys are.”

“No, sir,” Barton said. “Because they know it's a great opportunity to kill our fighter pilots. How many have we lost already? One hundred? Two hundred? It's idiotic.”

“Look,” Dalgleish said firmly. “All war comes down to a battle of wills. That's what this is, a test of determination, and we mustn't give in now. We mustn't allow our morale to break. That's why I wanted to talk to you both. It's like a team … As long as the team has faith in its skipper it can do anything. You're a New Zealander, aren't you, Barton? You must have experienced this on the rugger field.”

“No, sir.”

“No?”

“I never played rugby.”

“Really? Why not?”

“It struck me as a game for people who sit on their brains.”

“Oh.” Dalgleish was briefly silenced. “Well … The fact remains, doesn't it, these convoys are, as I said, the lifeline of the nation and—”

“No, they're not,” CH3 said, “sir.”

“That bunch we escorted this morning,” Barton said. “Most of them were coasters. Colliers, stuff like that. Half of them were in ballast. They're not even carrying cargo, for Christ's sake!”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“I got scrambled this afternoon,” CH3 said, “to protect one
small ship that was going to sink anyway. We got jumped, shot up, lost a plane, damn near lost a pilot.”

“But that's the task of Fighter Command,” Dalgleish protested. “We have a duty—”

“It's not worth it, sir,” Barton said.

“Send the stuff by rail,” CH3 said.

“I see,” said Dalgleish. “You would just hand over the Straits of Dover to the Germans, would you? Admit failure? Tell the world we can't even guard our own ships?”

“Ah, now I understand,” CH3 said. “We're flying these convoy patrols to avoid the embarrassment of losing face.”

Dalgleish sighed. “I'm not surprised you don't understand, Hart. It's a matter of duty and dedication. We may be a young Service but we do have our traditions, you know.”

“Drowning good pilots to get empty coal-boats past Dover,” Barton said. “Is that an RAF tradition, sir?”

“We don't measure honor by the ton,” Dalgleish said. That was, for him, a pretty weighty statement. On the strength of it he decided to bring the meeting to an end. “Believe me, I appreciate your concern for your men. But we all have to do things we don't particularly enjoy, and convoy patrols are just one of those things. That's war, I'm afraid.”

“It's horseshit,” CH3 said, “sir.”

“Much of war
is
horseshit,” Dalgleish said evenly. He showed them out.
Bloody colonials
, he thought.
Never know when to stop
.

Walking back to their quarters, CH3 said: “I wonder what Jacky Bellamy would have made of that lot. Tradition conquers all, and so on.”

“Dunno. She might even decide that Daddy's right despite all his guff. I mean, maybe the convoys really are essential.”

“God knows.” CH3 looked at the sky, wondering about tomorrow's weather.

“Talking of God … Macfarlane was lucky, wasn't he?”

“So were the others. They all got hit. Every time I see a 109, I wish I had a cannon. Hell of a weapon.”

“Not so loud,” Barton said, “they'll all want one.”

Fitz and Mary rented a cottage near Brambledown. Flash Gordon came to dinner. Mary had not met him since France, and Fitz had
warned her he was a bit wild, a bit moody; but he behaved perfectly all through the meal. She was eating a lot, and the men always had good appetites, so she had roasted a large leg of lamb. Flash had three helpings, with roast potatoes and peas and great spoonfuls of redcurrant jelly. She was pleased: anybody who ate like that must be in good health. Apple-and-raspberry pie came and went. He talked, too. The conversation flowed freely and easily. They took their coffee into the garden to enjoy the sunset. The rain had blown over but stormclouds still blockaded the light. The western sky was volcanic.

“It's going to be a boy,” Mary said. “I wasn't sure until I looked at that sunset but now I know. Definitely a boy.”

“That's not very scientific, love,” Fitz said. “I mean to say,
sunsets
, for heaven's sake. You might as well read your tea-leaves.”

“Ah, but he just kicked me,” Mary told him. “Right here.” She pressed her swollen stomach. “A good strong right-footed boot, it was. Obviously a footballer.”

“Nicole always wanted a boy,” Flash said. It was the first time any of them had mentioned her. “In fact she wanted several. I did my best, but. … Funny, isn't it? You'd think God would give extra marks for trying.”

Fitz said: “Yes.” There didn't seem to be anything useful he could add.

“If all it took was effort,” Flash said to Mary, “I reckon Nicole would have been ahead of you.”

“It's just as well she wasn't, isn't it?” Mary said, as gently as possible. If Flash wanted to remember Nicole, he had to remember everything.

“I dunno. I sometimes think … If Nicole had been pregnant like you, she wouldn't have gone rushing across France and …”

Mary shivered. Fitz took off his tunic and draped it across her shoulders. “How d'you feel about it all, Flash?” he asked. “Have you got over it yet? I mean, I know you'll never completely, but … Well, I only ask because you seem in pretty good shape. Physically.”

“Oh, I'm fine. You see,” Flash said, turning to them with a blithely confident smile, “I know who did it.”

“Oh, come on, Flash,” Fitz said.

“Yes, I do. I saw him. I was there, I was right behind him, I
know exactly who he is, and believe you me, when I see him again I'll recognize him in a flash.”

“That's … that's not possible,” Fitz said. He didn't want to look at Flash, who had the glitter of fraudulent triumph in his eye. It was like talking to a man who's won because he has five aces. “Let's go inside. Mary's getting cold.”

“I'll come across the bastard one of these days,” Flash said. “You don't forget people like that. Then you watch!”

They went inside.

Next morning, Hornet squadron flew down to Bodkin Hazel. The field had been made fully operational, with fire-trucks and bloodwagons, petrol bowsers and starter-trolleys, a cookhouse, tents and deckchairs for the pilots, portable workshops for the groundcrew.

Each flight was scrambled once that day. Controllers steered them all over southeastern England but the sky was full of cloud and the ground was misty and they saw nothing except barrage balloons, floating on the mist like hippos. In the evening they flew back to Brambledown, had a quick wash and found a pub. Next day was much the same: dull weather, a convoy patrol, no action, home to the pub. That became the pattern of life for the first week or ten days in August: few convoys, sporadic rain, poor visibility, not much sign of the
Luftwaffe
. Fanny Barton was relieved. It gave him time to pull the squadron together.

Between patrols and practice flights there was a lot of hanging-about on the ground. Hours and hours of it. Cattermole soon got bored. Everyone suffered from his boredom but the man who suffered most was Steele-Stebbing. He was a painstaking and conscientious young man with no ambition except to be a good fighter pilot. He knew that many people found his seriousness faintly ridiculous and so he tried to adopt an amiability that would be more acceptable. He wasn't much good at it. Often he looked more diffident than amiable. Cattermole sensed this uncertainty, and probed it.

“Steele-Stebbing,” Cattermole said thoughtfully. They had been sitting below the control tower for over an hour. The overcast flattened the day and pressed the life out of it. Most of the pilots were dozing. The portable gramophone had run down and nobody
felt energetic enough to rewind it. “I knew a Steele-Stebbing at school. Nice lad.”

Steele-Stebbing put down his book. “Oh, yes,” he said brightly.

“He wanted to join the Church, but … Oh, well. Awfully sad.”

Cox half-opened his eyes. “What?” he mumbled.

“Expelled, poor chap. Caught the pox, you see. Got it from matron, actually.”

“That doesn't sound very likely,” Steele-Stebbing said.

“No? Well, you know the chap best. Who did he catch it from?” Cattermole stared until Steele-Stebbing, unable to think of an answer, looked down. “Come to think of it,” Cattermole went on, “I knew another Steele-Stebbing at Oxford. Used to wear ladies' clothes.”

This time Steele-Stebbing thought of an answer. “Perhaps that was my cousin. Amanda Steele-Stebbing.”

“Amanda? Funny name for a boxing Blue. He certainly didn't have the figure for summer frocks. But then, neither do you, do you?”

Steele-Stebbing knew that any answer would be dangerous, so he merely shrugged.

“Really?” Cattermole went over and examined him. “Yes, perhaps you're right. You do have the figure for it.”

“Shut up, Moggy,” Fitzgerald said.

“No, no. Iron Filings is right.” Cattermole began poking and feeling him. “He's a bit flat-chested but he has the most exciting hips.”

“Excuse me.” Steele-Stebbing got up.

“And rather a nice bottom, too,” Cattermole said, as Steele-Stebbing walked away. “See how it goes up and down?”

“Leave the blighter alone,” Patterson said.

“Ah. The tea-boy speaks. What is it, tea-boy?”

“Next time I'll make it battery acid,” Patterson muttered.

“Promises, promises! A word of warning to all you young lads. When Pip says he loves you … pay no attention. Pip toys with our affections. He—”

“Shut your dirty, filthy, stinking trap,” Patterson said harshly.

“You see?” Cattermole said. “So fickle. Only yesterday, poor Pip was pleading with me to rub tomato ketchup in his hair, he
finds that very exciting, almost as thrilling as Steele-Stebbing's bottom—”

“Pack it in, Moggy,” Moran ordered.

“Hey!” Flash Gordon seemed to come awake, although he had been staring at the clouds for a long time. “How would you …” He swiveled in his chair, searching faces, and ended on Renouf. “How would you destroy an Me-110?”

Renouf was startled by Gordon's glittering stare. “Well … uh … I suppose the … the thing to do is to try to take it by surprise and … uh … I mean if—”

Gordon was shaking his head. “Get up close,” he said. “Stick your guns right up the animal's ass. Blow the bugger to bits.”

“I see,” Renouf said. When Gordon continued to stare, he added, “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Thank Hitler. Without Hitler there wouldn't
be
any 110's to blow to bits. Would there?”

“No, I suppose not.” Renouf was getting used to this.

“Well, then.” Unexpectedly, Gordon put on a friendly smile. “Remember one thing, MacArthy. Bullets don't kill the enemy. Fancy flying doesn't kill the enemy. Only one thing kills the enemy, and that's
clear, logical thinking
.”