Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

by Derek Robinson

  “Afraid not, sir.” Beyond the station commander, Silk saw airmen preparing a cricket pitch.

  “I’d keep wicket myself, but the knees, you know, the knees...” Pulvertaft saw the eyepatch, and took a pace back. “Now that’s a bloody good idea. Why didn’t I think of it? Harry...” He turned to 409’s adjutant. “Why don’t we put all our Vulcan aircrew in eyepatches, right now, make ’em distinctive, d’you see? Let our American allies see the stars in the show!” His enthusiasm grew. “And it sends a message – Kremlin or bust! Bit of a gimmick, I agree, but...” He clicked his fingers.

  “Hell of a good gimmick, sir.” The adjutant hurried off.

  They stood and watched a small steamroller trundle back and forth, flattening the bumps between the stumps. “That reminds me,” Pulvertaft said. “How is Mrs Silk, MP?”

  “Um... fighting fit, sir. We had a chat. Laid down our cards. She understands the situation we’re in. Nobody wants a scandal.” Silk frowned, pursed his lips, nodded.

  “Good, good.” They strolled towards the steamroller. Smoke from the funnel, caught by the breeze, had a brisk tang of sulphur. “It lays low the mountains but it can’t fill in the valleys, can it? The ball’s going to fizz like a firecracker. Still, the Yanks know nothing about cricket, so they’ll think it’s quite normal. See if you can find a wicket-keeper, Silk. Someone fit and fearless.”

  Silk saluted and left, looking purposeful. In fact he headed for the Vulcans, a good place to avoid senior officers. The bombers were all immaculately lined up, their anti-flash white undersides gleaming, and looking so big and so sleek that he felt a small, unexpected kick of pride. Then a flicker of colour caught his eye. On the parade ground, alongside the RAF ensign, flew the Stars and Stripes. People had been talking about an exchange visit from the nearby American air base. This must be it.

  At Silk’s Vulcan, the ground crew were in spotless white overalls. The crew chief was watching one man hose down the wheels. Others polished the fuselage, got rid of oil streaks, picked off bits of birdshit. “Looks good, chiefy,” Silk said.

  “Bags of swank, Mr Silk. If it’s wet it’s clean, isn’t that right? Etcetera.”

  2

  Silk delayed his lunch until he knew the Mess would be half-empty. Even so, Quinlan and Tucker saw him and came over to his table. “The CO’s called off the eyepatch stunt,” Quinlan said. “Too many accidents. One chap tripped and fell into a flowerbed. Prize petunias. Serious damage.”

  “You started it all, didn’t you?” Tucker said. He had taken off his eyepatch and was wearing it like a knuckleduster.

  “Not me,” Silk said. “Blame Pulvertaft. It was his idea of a squadron badge. He’s lost his marbles.”

  “On the contrary,” Quinlan said. “The eyepatch represents this squadron at its gung-ho finest. Suppose your anti-flash blinds fail. You’re looking at something so bright it makes the sun seem like a fifteen-watt bulb. What’s the result?”

  “I’m blind,” Silk said. “We’re all blind.”

  “No, we’re half-blind. The eyepatch saves one eye. The op goes on. We hit the target.”

  “Crikey.” Moments of amazement sent Silk back to the language of boyhood. “So we all attack Russia...”

  “Wearing eyepatches. Unjammable. Kruschev can’t touch us.”

  “Touch us? He can’t even see us. Unless he’s got an eyepatch - ”

  “It’s no joking matter, Silk.”

  “Of course not. Does the army know about this? The Irish Guards could take Moscow looking like the Pirates of Penzance.”

  Tucker had listened with growing irritation. His shoulders were hunched, his knuckles flexed. “That’s not a Service Issue eyepatch you’re wearing,” he said. “That’s some naff poncey girly piece of stuff.” He hooked a finger into the elastic and stretched it. Silk expected pain and he flinched and half-turned and lost his eyepatch.

  “Hullo,” Tucker said. “That’s not mascara.”

  Quinlan leaned forward and looked. “It’s not Service Issue, either.”

  “My wife punched me,” Silk said.

  “No jokes,” Tucker said. “What really happened?”

  “It’s true. She’s tough. She used to box for Cheltenham Ladies’ College. It was a sucker punch. You wait. I’ll kill her next time.”

  “You’re married to that MP, aren’t you,” Quinlan said. “Lady Shapland. One of the ban-the-bomb crowd. They’re all maniacs. Can’t you keep her under control?”

  “She’s not Lady Shapland. And neither am I.” That made no sense, but Silk didn’t care.

  “Nobody mucks about with anyone in this crew,” Tucker said. “Next time she belts you I’ll break her arms.” He strode away.

  “The only thing he cares about is putting the bomb on the Aiming Point,” Quinlan said. “He’s very dedicated.” He looked at his watch. “Bugger. I’ve got to go and keep wicket against the Yanks. Will your eye be okay tomorrow?”

  “That depends,” Silk said. “If I get burned to a crisp during the night by the Soviet nuclear juggernaut, then I’m afraid I can’t make any promises.” But Quinlan had gone.

  * * *

  The teams gathered on the airfield.

  Pulvertaft wore a white coat: he had appointed himself umpire for the cricket match. He was chatting with Quinlan. “Hope you’re wearing a box, old boy,” he said.

  “Certainly, sir.” Quinlan flexed his knees and felt his crotch. “The crown jewels are safe.”

  “I’ve selected that tall red-headed armourer to open the bowling. He had a trial for Middlesex, once. I’m told his quick ’un reaches ninety miles an hour.”

  “Golly.” Quinlan whacked his wicket-keeping gloves together. Thunderbolts, eh?”

  Pulvertaft took the match ball from his coat pocket and tossed it from hand to hand. “I’ve told him to give the Yank openers a few rib-ticklers. Make ’em hop! They don’t know the difference between cricket and croquet.” He chuckled. “We’ll educate them.”

  “Here comes their chief, sir.”

  Brigadier Leppard was strolling towards them, hands behind his back. “You guys ready to play ball?” he called. “We’re willing to consider surrender terms instead.”

  “Awfully decent of you. Consider this instead.” Pulvertaft threw the cricket ball at him, quite hard. Leppard swayed sideways and casually caught it in a glove the size of a saucepan. “What have you got there?” Pulvertaft said. “Heavens above. It’s one of those baseball things, isn’t it?”

  “Correct.” Leppard gave him the ball. “Baseball mitt. Essential equipment.”

  “Extraordinary. I hope you’re not proposing to wear it in the match. Gloves are against the rules of cricket.”

  Leppard looked at Quinlan. “He’s got two mitts.”

  “He’s keeping wicket. That’s an exception.”

  Leppard smiled. He had a good smile: modest, friendly, energy-efficient. “I’m all for exceptions. I’ll buy your exception if you buy mine. My guys wear mitts and play with baseball bats. But you can use your ball.”

  “Awfully kind. You won’t object if we keep the score?”

  “Well, now.” Leppard walked away, five paces, halted, stared at the sky, came back. “My guys aren’t going to like that.”

  “Cricket is a complex game,” Pulvertaft said. “Your guys won’t know a square cut from a ham sandwich.”

  “A square cut is two pairs, jacks and queens,” Leppard said. “At least, that’s what it is in Detroit. Ever played poker in Detroit?” he asked Quinlan.

  “A pleasure yet to come, sir.”

  “Okay. We keep the mitts, you keep the score.” Leppard shook hands and went away.

  “Baseball mitt,” Pulvertaft said. “Looks more like a birth defect.”

  Quinlan laughed, briefly. He was thinking of the red-headed fast bowler. Ninety miles an hour. The slip fielders might feel glad of a catcher’s mitt if one of those thunderbolts came their way.

  * * *

  The baseball teams h
ad little to discuss before their game. The American captain, Major Jed Jakowski, met the British captain, Wing Commander Joe Renouf, to toss a coin. Renouf won and decided to bat first.

  “Anything you need to know about baseball?” Jakowski asked. “Rules and stuff?”

  “Nothing,” Renouf said. He disliked sport. He hadn’t wanted to play this stupid game, but Pulvertaft had made him captain without discussion.

  “You sure? Cricket it’s not.”

  “This country invented baseball centuries ago,” Renouf told him. “Its true name is rounders, and it is played by small children at girls’ schools all over England.”

  Jakowski looked for the joke but all he saw were Renouf’s clenched jaws and bleak stare. “We take baseball a touch more seriously,” he said. Leppard was approaching. “Okay, let’s get the show on the road.”

  “Everyone happy?” Leppard asked.

  “The RAF want to use their cricket bats.” Jakowski shrugged. “Suits me.”

  “Absolutely,” Leppard said. “A bit of give-and-take is good for the soul. Sport unites nations, yes? I’ll be watching from the balcony.”

  * * *

  Quinlan won the toss and put the USAF in to bat.

  The redheaded bowler was a wiry six foot two. He used a long run-up and his final arm action was like a runaway cartwheel. His first delivery was pitched a little short and the ball fizzed past the batsman’s startled head. Quinlan misjudged the catch and the ball sped to the boundary. “Four byes,” Pulvertaft announced. “That’s four runs to you,” he explained to the non-striking batsman.

  The man was impressed. “Keep swingin’, pal!” he shouted to his team-mate. “We got four runs already. This game is in the bag!”

  “Four runs is scarcely a winning score, old chap,” Pulvertaft said mildly. “You should aim for a hundred, at least.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The American glanced sideways at the umpire. He’d heard about the famous British sense of humour. Also their famous love of understatement. How could a hundred runs be understatement? Babe Ruth never scored a hundred runs in a whole season. He gave up.

  At the other end, the batsman assumed the classic baseball stance: knees well bent, bat held shoulder-high. He swung and missed. The ball thudded into his exposed ribcage and he collapsed onto his stumps. “Out, I’m afraid,” Pulvertaft said. “Awfully bad luck.” To the bowler he murmured: “You can take it easy now, I think.” The man nodded. But a shark does not relax when it scents blood in the water.

  The new batsman hit his first ball for six. The next ball ricocheted off a bump in the pitch and struck his left kneecap with a sound like a mallet hitting a tentpeg. A jeep was sent to collect him.

  “They really shouldn’t drive across the playing surface,” Pulvertaft said. “It’s very bad form.”

  The third American batsman had learned from his team-mates’ experience. He stood well away from the stumps, too far away to hit or be hit. His first ball knocked all three stumps into a cocked hat. “No ball,” Pulvertaft said.

  “What was wrong with it, sir?” the bowler asked.

  “The batsman wasn’t ready. I’m sure there’s a rule about that.”

  The bowler added a yard to his run-up, and again the stumps went flying. “No ball,” Pulvertaft said.

  The bowler didn’t bother to ask why. He spent a little time polishing the ball. “Is everyone ready?” he asked. This time he bowled underarm and hit the stumps.

  “Oh dear,” Pulvertaft said. “I had the sun in my eyes.” But the batsman was already walking away.

  After three overs, the Americans had scored seventeen runs and lost nine wickets, five of them Retired Hurt. “We’ll take tea soon, I expect,” Pulvertaft said.

  * * *

  Word of the carnage in the cricket match reached the baseball game just as the home team was due to bat. Jakowski called his men together. “Change of plan,” he said.

  The RAF players knew something of baseball. They had seen it played in movies. They had watched their opponents warming up and had noticed how the pitcher, especially, made the ball fly as straight as a bullet. So the first man at bat was surprised to receive slow and harmless lobs. He even managed to mis-hit the third offering. “Run, you feckless idiot!” Renouf shouted.

  He ran, stumbling over his bat until he remembered to drop it. By then a fielder had scooped up the ball. His bullet-straight throw smacked into the runner’s legs, and he fell. “Don’t bloody stop!” Renouf bawled. The man got up, lurched forward, and another fielder hit him again, this time on the ass. But he stumbled into first base. Jakowski was fielding there. “Fearfully sorry about that,” he said. “The ball must have slipped, or something.”

  After that the Americans allowed every batter to run, while the ball raced between fielders like tracer, bouncing off the runners, who fell, and rose, only to fall again. Nobody was tagged out. Eventually the bases were loaded. All the runners were bruised and limping. One man, who had been trapped by lethal switch-hitting between second base and third, was bleeding from the head.

  Renouf had seen enough. “Match abandoned,” he told Jakowski. “I don’t know what your damned game is, but it’s over.”

  “According to you, it was rounders,” Jakowski said. “Or was that all balls?”

  3

  There was no flying, so the control tower was empty apart from the duty officer. Skull took Karl Leppard and a bottle of dry white wine onto the roof. They settled into canvas chairs. The sounds of sport down below were faint.

  “I took part in a fairly highpowered seminar on our fragile world, recently,” Skull said. “Without mentioning your name, I suggested the hot spots most likely to ignite: the Congo, Persia, and Cuba. Nobody agreed.”

  “I’m surprised. Persia. Full of gung-ho Arabs? Sitting on a sea of oil? Russia next door?”

  “The Shah is a staunch ally of the West.”

  “Sure,” Leppard said. “And a bloody tyrant in his spare time. He won’t last. Oil means trouble. Russia likes trouble.”

  “Perhaps. But the Congo is different. Black Africans don’t want blue-eyed white men from Omsk telling them how to live. As for Cuba...it’s a backwater.”

  “Castro pissed off the Kennedys.”

  “You mean the Bay of Pigs?” Skull topped up their glasses. “More of a brawl than an invasion. A monumental cock-up by a mob of over-excited Cuban exiles. Why should Kennedy care? He wasn’t involved.”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “Well, that’s what your man at the UN said. I saw him on television. Nothing to do with the US, he said.”

  “He lied. Kennedy inherited the plan from the Eisenhower administration. Could of killed it, didn’t. Cheap way to lose Castro, Kennedy thought. Bay of Pigs was pure CIA. Money, arms, training, ships – all CIA. Exiles supplied blood. Blood and bullshit. Castro knew they were coming. So now the Kennedys hate him.”

  “Dear me.” A pigeon landed on the parapet. Skull threw the wine cork at it and missed. The bird was unmoved. “Why Cuba?” he asked. “It’s nothing. Drop it in the middle of Texas and nobody would even notice.”

  “It’s Communist.”

  “The Cubans like it that way. What happened to freedom?”

  Leppard was amused. “Old man Kennedy didn’t spend fifty million dollars buying the Presidency for Jack so that Castro could spoil the view.”

  “Well, he can’t buy Cuba. And surely Jack’s not going to send in the Marines. They’d end up sitting in foxholes for ever, while the natives sold them exploding cigars. The Kremlin would love that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Skull got up and strolled to the parapet. The pigeon shuffled away from him but did not fly. It knew its rights. Sunlight warmed the baseball game and the cricket match, but it was against a backdrop of dark cloud. Skull raised his head and sniffed, and smelt rain on the way. “Drink up,” he said. “We’re about to get drenched. Cricket has that effect on weather.”

  4

  Silk ambled along the t
axiway, walking not quite straight because he was one-eyed. Didn’t matter. Plenty of room. The track was wide enough for a Vulcan. It led him away from everyone. Good, he thought, let the rest of the squadron be nice to the Americans, not me, I’m fresh out of niceness... Sod it, now I’m even thinking like a Yank...

  “Women.” He was surprised by the sound of his voice, but why the hell not? Hearing the word helped him focus on his problem. “Devious,” he said. “Greedy.” Was that going too far? “Look,” he said, “she knows I got this Vulcan job so as to be near her, to give the marriage a second chance. I get the damn job, stroke of luck, and she can’t wait to bugger it up with her rant-and-rave politics! Then I drive all the way to bloody Bristol, just to make sure she knows the score, and bang, she clobbers me. If that’s love, you can...”

  He stopped talking. A vehicle was coming up behind him. He didn’t look back, kept walking. “Pacifism strikes again,” he said. “Thank you very much, madam.”

  It was a jeep, open-top, and it stopped beside him. The driver wore pilot’s wings. He was too young to drive, let alone fly. He had the reddest hair that Silk had seen since Ginger Rogers, and a smile so wide and generous that Silk found it disturbing. Nobody on 409 smiled like that. It was a large candle in a dirty world. “Goin’ somewhere?” the driver asked. Midwest, probably.

  “Nowhere special,” Silk said.

  “Me too. Coincidence.” They took a long look at each other. “I’m lost. You want to show me the best road to nowhere, I’d be happy to take you along.”

  Silk got in, said he was Silko, they shook hands. The other man was a captain called, inevitably, Red. Full name, Red Black. “I wasn’t born, they won me at roulette,” he said. Silk chuckled. Just one chuckle. That’s all it was worth.

  They drove past the Vulcans, lined up immaculately as a guard of honour but with nobody to admire them except a tattered crowd of crows that couldn’t keep formation if they were tied together with black silk ribbon. Silk took the salutes of Service policemen with Alsatian dogs. “Keep going,” he said. They drove on, to the most remote corner of the airfield. “This is it,” he said. “Best mushrooms in Lincolnshire.”