Piece of Cake (8 page)

With a jolt that made his teeth click, the Hurricane's wheels hit a slit-trench and the plane tripped itself up. The nose dug hard into the turf, its momentum hoisted the fuselage like a heavy flagpole, and the Ram found himself hanging in his straps, looking down the cowling at fragments of propeller sticking out of the grass.

He swore, savagely. He was not hurt, was not even stunned; but
he was acutely aware of how foolish he must look. The rest of the squadron was coming in to land. It was imperative that he get out of this humiliating position at once. The last thing he wanted was to be rescued, manhandled to safety by the men he commanded. He could hear people shouting. There was no time to lose.

He disconnected the radio and oxygen leads, released his safety-straps, and got his feet onto the instrument panel. After that it was a matter of swinging his legs over the side and dropping to the ground.

The radio lead was a damn nuisance. It kept knocking him in the face. He flung it away but it bounced back and hit him in the eye.

A patient man would have ignored it, or tied it to something. The Ram grabbed it and hung from it. He had maneuvered all of his body except an arm and a foot outside the cockpit, when the radio lead popped out of its socket. The Ram's free hand scrabbled uselessly at the Perspex canopy.

It was a drop of only ten feet; but the Ram was a heavy man in full flying-kit plus parachute, and he landed on the back of his head. The impact snapped the third and fourth cervical vertebrae.

Before he fell, groundcrew were running toward him with ladders. Hector Ramsay could never wait. It was the death of him.

The adjutant was on the telephone when Fanny Barton came into his office.

“Well, see if you can give me a couple of minutes with him, would you?” he said. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “Air Ministry. Frightfully busy. Flap on.” Fanny sat on the edge of the desk. He was still in flying overalls and boots.

“Ah, good morning, sir,” Kellaway said. “It's about the CO, Squadron Leader Ramsay … I'm afraid he's dead, sir. A flying accident. He fell out of his Hurricane …” Kellaway swung his feet onto the desk and listened to the voice from Air Ministry. “Oh no, nothing wrong with his parachute, sir. You needn't …” He listened some more, picking his teeth with a matchstick. “Well, to be strictly accurate, sir, he wasn't technically airborne at the time …” Kellaway listened, and rolled his eyes at Barton. “Put that way, sir,” he said, “you're right, it wasn't a flying accident at all … Mmm …” Kellaway heaved a sigh. “Damned if I know
what
I'd call it, sir. But call it what you will, it's still a broken neck, isn't it, and …”

Barton heard angry words being spoken. Eventually Kellaway replaced the telephone. “He wants to know where we think he's going to find another CO on a Sunday morning. Do we think Air Ministry is some kind of domestic employment agency? Would we like half-a-dozen housemaids and a couple of butlers? Don't we realize the balloon is about to go up?”

“Is it?” Barton asked.

Kellaway looked at his watch. “Come on,” he said. “The Prime Minister's going to say something on the wireless in ten minutes. By the way, Fanny: you're senior man, so you're in charge of the squadron for the time being.”

They walked from the administrative block to the officers' mess. It was a calm, quiet morning. Swallows and housemartins flashed and flickered between the buildings. The bells of Kingsmere church sounded clear but small. Their miniature clamor ended and a single bell began to toll.

“Poor old Ram,” Barton said.

“I canceled the rugger match, by the way.”

“Yes, of course … It's so peculiar that he turned off and taxied into that trench. I wonder why?”

The adjutant shrugged. “Peculiar things happen. I remember once a chap was sitting on his tractor mowing the aerodrome when a plane taxied past and the wingtip cut his head off. Sheared it off at the neck, clean as you like. Tractor went on, mowing away, and the pilot took off. Didn't know what he'd done. Wouldn't believe it when he landed, thought we were pulling his leg. We had to show him the head. Chap called Blackmore, Nigger Blackmore. He wasn't a nigger, of course; that was just what we called him.” They walked in silence for a while. “No reason why a nigger couldn't fly a plane, I suppose,” the adjutant remarked. “Stranger things have happened.”

“I've just realized,” Barton said. “I shall have to appoint someone acting flight commander.”

“Yes. And you'll have to write to the Ram's next-of-kin, too.”

Barton hadn't thought of that, and he didn't fancy the idea. “What on earth am I going to say?” he asked.

“Tell them he died while leading his squadron in circumstances
of unusual hazard,” Kellaway said. “Tell them he exhibited a complete disregard for his own personal safety.” They went up the steps of the mess.

Nothing much happened at Kingsmere on the rest of the first day of the Second World War. The squadron—like every other unit of the Royal Air Force—was placed on alert. There were a couple of false alarms, but no attack came. The pilots hung about the mess and grew bored. There was a general feeling of relief that at last the decision to fight had been made, but there was no exultation. This was partly because the Ram's death had left them in the lurch: just when they needed some leadership, their leader was no more. Yet nobody mourned him. Nobody really missed him. It was as if his shingles had recurred and he had gone back to hospital in Torquay, instead of into the station mortuary.

Fanny Barton put Sticky Stickwell in command of “A” flight and made Pip Patterson Yellow Leader. It was the obvious thing to do: Stickwell had more flying time than the others. All the same, Barton worried about it. He worried about the lack of action, too. Every hour he telephoned Group operations room.

“Still no plots on the table, old boy,” Group said.

“Not much of a war, is it? My chaps are bored rigid.”

“Give the Hun a chance. It's a long way from Germany, you know. Anyone at your end doing the
Sunday Times
crossword, by any chance?”

“They're all outside, playing cricket.”

“Pity. Three down's got me really stumped.”

Barton joined Flip Moran, who was leaning out of a window. “Bad news,” Barton told him. “Group ops are having trouble with the crossword.”

Moran grunted. Together they watched as Fitz Fitzgerald, clumsy in flying-boots, ran up and lobbed a tennisball at Moke Miller, who flailed and missed.

“I keep thinking I ought to be doing something,” Barton said.

“You are. You're waiting.”

“I mean, as squadron commander.”

“You're in charge of the waiting.” Moran's Ulster accent was rich and slow, and touched with mockery. “That's a heavy responsibility, Fanny. It's not everyone could make a success of it.”

Fitz bowled again. This time Moke slashed at the ball and sliced it straight at Pip Patterson, who was standing drowsing in the warmth. He dropped the catch.

“I wonder what sort of a show we'll put up,” Fanny said. “I mean, we're not exactly crack flyers, are we?”

“If you want my opinion,” Moran said, “I expect the entire squadron to be shot down and killed within thirty seconds of encountering the enemy. Death will be instantaneous, so there will be no unnecessary suffering. Does that reassure you?”

“Not really.” Barton scratched his head on the windowframe. “If we're all killed, who'll write up the squadron log?”

“You're right. I'd better stay behind.”

“You wouldn't mind, Flip?”

“Not at all. How d'you spell ‘massacre,' by the way?”

“Two q's and a small f.”

“Ah. And there was me thinking it had a p in it. What a comfort it is to have an educated commanding officer.”

Toward the end of the afternoon an elderly, jovial wing commander arrived. He was making a tour of all Fighter Command bases, lecturing on the German bomber threat. Hitler, he told the pilots, was expected to launch an aerial knock-out blow against England. This meant against London, since the nearest German airfields were three or four hundred miles away and therefore out of range of the rest of England, but in any case London was so exposed and vulnerable that it was the obvious target. The Air Staff reckoned that Germany had at least sixteen hundred long-range bombers available and that this force (if they all got through) could drop about seven hundred tons of bombs on the capital every day for a fortnight. Now that was an awful lot of bombs, the wing commander pointed out, and just to give some idea of what it would mean in human terms, calculations had shown that in the first six months, this scale of bomber attack would kill six hundred thousand people and injure twice that number, not to mention the damage to buildings and things, which would be colossal, of course. “So you see why we're all depending on you chaps,” he said, smiling warmly.

Afterward, he asked if there were any questions.

Moggy Cattermole raised his hand. “Have you any advice, sir,” he said, “on the best way to tackle the Hun?” He spoke in a mock-
heroic tone of voice, and Fanny Barton flashed him a warning look, but the wing commander was only too willing to answer.

“A leopard doesn't change his spots,” he said. “Your typical German was a bully and a brute in the Great War, and he's a bully and a brute now. Like all bullies, he's a coward at heart.” Flip Moran shut his eyes. “So take the fight to him,” the wing commander urged. “Go in with all guns blazing, that's what we used to do. You'll find the average Hun hasn't much taste for hot lead.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Moggy. “Hot lead,” he whispered loudly, “that's the stuff to give 'em.”

The adjutant led their visitor away for a drink, but there was to be no alcohol for the squadron as long as daylight lasted. The Group controller kept them at readiness until dusk, and then released them with a warning to be available again at dawn. It had been a long day. For Cattermole, Stickwell, Patterson and Cox it had been two long days and a long night. “Feel like a beer at the Squirt?” Stickwell asked, yawning. The Squirt was their local pub, The Fountain. Cox shook his head. Patterson thought about it. Cattermole said: “Not if it means walking there and back. D'you know, I think I might get an early night for once.”

Nobody else wanted to go to the Squirt; for one thing, it had just started to rain. Cattermole went off to bed. The other three hung about for a while, too tired to make up their minds, and then wandered off to bed as well.

An hour later an airman banged on their doors and announced that the CO wanted them in his office immediately. They were still groggy with sleep when they got there. Barton was sitting at his desk. The adjutant stood behind him. “For God's sake, Fanny,” Stickwell grumbled, slumping into a chair. “Can't a chap ever get a decent night's rest?”

“Stand up,” Barton ordered sharply.

“Oh, don't be so bloody officious,” Stickwell muttered, and did not move.

“Flying Officer Stickwell,” Barton said, “I have given you an order.”

At once Pip Patterson took his hands out of his pockets. The atmosphere, he noticed, was cold and hard. The adjutant was watching very carefully, and Fanny Barton had a look on his face
that said
You tread on my toe and I'll break both your legs.
“Sticky, you idiot, get up,” Pip whispered.

“Bollocks,” Stickwell said, with all the force and intelligence of a three-year-old child. He was still stupid with sleep.

“Come on, Sticky,” Mother Cox said irritably. “Do as he says.”

“Why should I? I can hear just as well sitting down, in fact I can hear a damn sight better—Hey!” Stickwell shouted as Cattermole grabbed him and yanked him upright. The chair fell over.

“Two reasons,” Moggy said. “One: he's the CO. Two: you're on active service.”

“All right! let go my hair.”

“And three,” Pip said righteously, “if we stand, you stand.”

“Okay, for Christ's sake!” Stickwell glared at Fanny Barton. “I'm up. We're all up. What d'you want?”

Barton half-closed one eye and looked at him.

Stickwell straightened his rumpled tunic, rubbed his left elbow, and smoothed back his hair. Nobody spoke. He eased his collar and did up a stray button. At last he met Barton's gaze. “What d'you want, sir?” he asked.

Barton opened the half-closed eye. “I want you to take those horses back where you found them,” he said. “And I want you to do it now.”

Rain pattered against the window.

“We'll never find that field again, sir,” Cox said gloomily. “Not in the middle of the night.”

“Oh yes you will. You are commissioned officers in a squadron of Fighter Command in the Royal Air Force. You are not a bunch of hooligans living off the land and stealing whatever you fancy. You'll find the horses loaded on a lorry at the main gate. That's all.”

When they had left, the adjutant said: “Well done, old chap. Jolly well done.”

Fanny Barton was still staring at the door. “Somewhat heavy-handed,” he said.

“Not a bit.”

“It felt sort of … What did Sticky say? Officious.”

“Utter rubbish. You had no choice.”

Barton sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a snort
of dissatisfaction. “Why do they have to behave like such bloody lunatics, uncle?”

“Oh well … They're all a bit mad, you know. They wouldn't do it unless there was a damn good chance of getting killed, would they? So they can't be completely normal. They're not what you'd call model citizens, any of them. More like vandals, I suppose. They're just itching to be turned loose with an eight-gun Hurricane on some lumbering great bomber. I mean, that's your average fighter pilot's attitude, isn't it? Show him something, anything really, and deep down inside, his first reaction is: What sort of a mess could I make of that with a couple of three-second bursts? Herd of cows, doubledecker bus, garden party—makes no difference what it is, that's the thought in the back of his mind. Not surprising, really. I've often thought it's a damn good job they're in the RAF, otherwise they'd all be out there blowing up banks.”