Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

“If only we could have had a crack at the bombers too,” Patterson said. “We’d have polished off Moggy’s ‘probable.’”

  “He didn’t look terribly well after I’d peed all over him,” Cattermole said. “Lots of smoke coming out of the port engine, and so on. Then he vanished into this large black cloud. For all I know he’s still there. You could always go back and have a look, Pip.”

  “Don’t be daft, Moggy. How on earth can I find him if he’s inside a cloud?”

  “Yes, of course, I never thought of that. He’s probably got his eyes closed too. That makes them very hard to see, you know. Devilish cunning, these Huns.”

  “It’s all right for you jokers,” Dicky Starr said. “You got a bunch of 88’s handed to you on a plate, while us mugs in Yellow Section got jumped on. I had to scram so hard I nearly blew up the engine.”

  “That’s nothing,” Mother Cox said. “When those 109’s got behind me I turned so fast I bent my Hurricane’s wings.”

  “Really?” said Patterson. “Show me.”

  “You can’t see it now. I turned the other way even faster and bent them back again.”

  Loud derisive laughter. Skull, making notes, crossed out his last entry.

  Fanny Barton cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, the important thing is that you did shake off the 109’s, you did get into position to fire at them, and you did damage them.”

  The three members of Yellow Section nodded.

  “Okay. See you all in the mess.” As they went out he added: “Well done.”

  Skull sat at the trestle table, putting his combat reports in order. One was dog-eared, and he carefully smoothed the corner.

  “What’s the matter?” Barton asked. Skull looked up. “You’re not exactly sprinting to the phone, are you?” Barton said.

  “Ah.” Skull pursed his lips. He was pressing his knees together like a spinster in a short skirt. “I believe the German Messerschmitt 109 fighter has a range of slightly over four hundred miles, thus giving it an operational radius of some two hundred miles.” He tugged his glasses halfway down his nose. “I read it in a book,” he explained.

  “I believe you.”

  “And I understand that the nearest German airfield is at least four hundred miles away.”

  Barton walked over to a window and looked across the aerodrome. The grass was tinged silver by the wind and in the very far distance trees were slowly shaking their heads. “I suppose they must have carried extra long-range tanks, then,” he said. “You know: the disposable kind.”

  “Nobody reported seeing anything like that.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t, would they? The Jerry pilots dropped them before they attacked.”

  “Yes, of course.” Skull rolled up the combat reports and scratched his head with them. “It’s still a very long way back to Germany, into a strong headwind.”

  “Perhaps they came from Holland.”

  “Holland is neutral.”

  “Well, maybe they took off from an aircraft carrier, then.”

  “To the best of my knowledge the German Navy has no aircraft carriers.”

  “Oh.” Barton turned from the window. “In that case it looks as if some bright spark has invented a new long-range fighter, doesn’t it?”

  “Mmm.” Skull unrolled the reports and frowned at them. “Which means that you were not in fact attacked by Messerschmitt 109’s—”

  “Come with me, Skull,” Barton said. They went out and walked across the grass to Dicky Starr’s Hurricane. Barton ducked under the starboard wing and pointed to a slanting row of bulletholes. “That’s not dry rot,” he said.

  “Indisputable,” Skull said. “I’ll go and telephone Group.”

  Barton went into the anteroom of the mess with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a clear intention in his head. He was going to hammer “A” flight for their intolerable insolence and shoddy irresponsibility and generally insubordinate behavior in connection with the Anglo-Polish test. That sort of thing went beyond a joke. It was a challenge, a defiance of authority, an act of mutiny.

  Well, maybe not quite an act of mutiny, but definitely an instance of serious indiscipline, and a fighter squadron had to have discipline. Above all came discipline.

  But when he went through the door Barton was taken aback by the feeling of fierce exhilaration he met. The whole squadron was in fizzing high spirits. The talk everywhere buzzed with enthusiasm and sparkled with laughter. Moke Miller played the piano, badly but cheerfully. Pip Patterson’s hands swooped and curved as he recreated part of the air battle. Dicky Starr stood beside him and grinned and nodded vigorously.

  Barton paused. He coughed. Nobody paid any attention. He whacked the sheaf of papers against his palm, and called: “‘A’ flight!”

  It took them several seconds to stop talking. In the silence Moke Miller hit a splayed chord. Several pilots laughed. Barton, looking grimly dutiful, had a moment of fright: he didn’t know what to say next. He raised the test papers. The gesture felt theatrical, wrong. “You all know what these are,” he said. That didn’t sound right either.

  “Citations, sir?” Moggy Cattermole suggested brightly. “We’ve all won medals, and quite right too! After all we did shoot down a vast number of very nasty Huns. I myself got three—”

  Cheers and happy insults drowned his voice.

  “I got five,” said Stickwell.

  “I got seven,” Mother Cox said, “but I gave a couple to young Dicky because I felt sorry for him.”

  “Bilge!” Dicky Starr cried. “Who d’you think lined up three Messerschmitts and put one burst through them all?”

  “Me,” Pip said. “I’m so glad someone was watching.”

  Starr attacked him with a cushion. Barton stuffed the papers into his pocket: how could anyone criticize them, let alone lambast them, in their moment of victory? As he turned away he thought he saw Stickwell give him a glance of amused contempt, but when he looked again Stickwell’s back was turned. A hectic free-for-all was going on, with chairs overturned, cushions flying, and mess servants nimbly removing cups and saucers and glasses.

  Barton walked away and sat in a corner. He felt slightly sick; everything was happening too fast; he wasn’t sure whether he was leading the squadron or following it. The adjutant dropped into the next chair and put his feet up. “Congratulations, sir,” he said. “Damn fine show.”

  “Thank you, uncle.”

  “First scrap, no losses, and two Huns. I should think you’re very pleased.”

  “Of course.”

  The adjutant examined the shine on his shoes. “If I might make a suggestion, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let the chaps see how pleased you are. Slap them on the back, ask them what they thought about the scrap, make a bit of a fuss of them.” Kellaway gave a wry smile, which took the edge off his suggestion. “Funny thing about war,” he said, “it’s all done by kindness.”

  “Why should they need a slap on the back?” Barton asked. “They seem pretty pleased with themselves as it is. Anyway they only did what they’re paid to do. I see no reason to make a fuss about it.”

  “As you like, old boy. You know best.”

  “It’ll be soon enough to celebrate when the day’s over. Group thinks Jerry might come again. We’re all back on fifteen-minute readiness, you know.”

  “So I hear.”

  Barton saw Flip Moran. He beckoned him over. “I’m surprised ‘B’ flight didn’t get scrambled,” he said.

  Moran simply stood, looked and waited.

  “I suppose Ops decided we were closer,” Barton said.

  Moran found a bit of dead skin on the end of his little finger and chewed it off.

  “Has ‘B’ flight done its Polish test?” Barton asked.

  Moran, still chewing, nodded.

  “How did they get on?”

  “They passed.”

  “I’d like to see the papers.”

  “I thought you might. They’re in your office.” Moran str
olled away.

  “Something wrong?” Kellaway said.

  “Nothing that a good boot up the ass won’t cure.” Barton stood up. “Funny thing about war,” he said, “it’s not all done by kindness.”

  As he walked to his office he met Skull, who was making for the mess. “Group are not at all happy about those long-range German fighters,” he said. “They’ve asked for a thoroughly detailed description. It seems that our side suffered some losses in the engagement too.”

  “How many?”

  “Well, one pilot got shot down and killed and several others—”

  “Only one killed?” Barton scoffed. “That’s nothing to get upset about, is it? What does Group expect, against a great mob of Jerry bombers?” He looked up as a section of Battles passed overhead, engines laboring to gain height, wings rocked by the wind. “How much damage did they do?”

  Skull squinted at the vanishing Battles. “Damage? I’ve no idea. Aren’t those ours? Have they been somewhere?”

  Barton gave him a disgusted look. “Use your brains, Skull, for Christ’s sake,” he said.

  “My dear fellow,” Skull said stiffly, “I made it quite clear when I was allocated to Intelligence that I hold no pretensions to intellectual potency.”

  Barton walked away. “Keep me informed,” he said over his shoulder.

  “B” flight’s Polish test papers were in his in-tray. Moran had set them only ten questions, all of which they had answered correctly. Nobody scored less than full marks.

  Barton covered his face with his hands and let his whole body go limp. He felt physically tired and mentally weary. That patrol had taken a lot out of him. His body wanted a hot bath but part of his mind refused to relax. How could everyone in “B” flight have got a perfect score? It wasn’t possible, it wasn’t credible, it was all a cheat and a swindle. Flip Moran had made a travesty of the test, and he had made that obvious. Another challenge. That meant another showdown. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  The telephone rang. It was Skull. “Group Intelligence need more information about the bomber formation you encountered. In particular they have asked for details of any distinguishing features.”

  Barton found himself clenching his jaws until they hurt. “What the hell’s the matter with them?” he demanded. “Can’t they look it up in their files? The planes were Junkers 88’s. Hell’s bells, Group should know more about that type than we do.”

  “Quite. But as they pointed out, you led the attack and therefore you were in the best position to notice anything unusual.”

  “Such as what?”

  “For instance, did you observe any return fire from the German gunners?”

  “No.”

  “But you made your attack from below?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “Can you remember if the aircraft had visible tail-wheels?”

  Barton searched his memory. “No. I mean, I don’t know. They were silhouetted, you couldn’t possibly make out that sort of detail.”

  “I see.” Skull’s pen scratched, and stopped. “Thank you.” He hung up.

  Barton sat at his desk for a few minutes, growing more and more annoyed with Skull, with Group, with Moran, with everyone, until he couldn’t sit still any longer. He gathered up all the test papers and all the Air Ministry secret glossaries and went off to find the adjutant.

  Kellaway’s door was shut. His clerk looked nervous, and there were angry voices inside. Barton went straight in and banged the door hard against an elbow. It belonged to a middle-aged man with a face like a ripe apple. The man swore, but another man, younger and taller, dressed in whipcord breeches and a windcheater, ignored him.

  He was too busy shaking a long and calloused finger in the adjutant’s face. “Bloody larceny, that’s what it is!” he shouted. “Bloody housebreaking! Bloody highway robbery! Bugger me, we don’t need no little old ’itler comin’ ’ere to rob us blind when we got the bloody Raff doin’ it already! If you don’t—”

  Barton slammed the door as loudly as possible. A china ornament fell off a shelf and shattered. “Who are these people?” he said.

  “You in charge here?” the younger man demanded.

  “Shut up,” Barton said.

  “By Christ, you talk to me like that, after what’s been done, I’ll shut you up, matey, see if I don’t.” The whites of his eyes showed big and clear, and there was spittle at the corners of his mouth. Kellaway came forward quickly and got between them. He said: “This is Mr. Parker—”

  “Barker.”

  “Sorry, sorry. This is Mr. Barker, and that gentleman is Mr. Hawthorn. He’s from High Dunning,” Kellaway added pointedly.

  “Stupid young bastard,” Hawthorn growled. “Nearly broke me arm.”

  “These gentlemen are local farmers,” Kellaway said, “and it seems they feel they have cause for complaint because—”

  “You the commandin’ officer?” Barker interrupted.

  “No,” Barton said.

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Flying. He won’t be back for hours.”

  Barker took a folded document from his hip pocket and glanced at it. “Where’s Flying Officer Stickwell, then?”

  “He’s flying too. There’s a war on, remember?”

  “Just as well, p’raps. If I met ’im I’d just as likely break ’is bloody neck for ’im, seein’ the condition ’im an’ ’is pals left my ’orses in. You give ’im this.” He thrust the paper at Barton. “That’s a summons to answer criminal charges, that is.”

  “And I want damages, too,” Hawthorn said. “Eight pound fifteen and six that trailer cost to put right, not to mention the petrol.”

  It took twenty minutes to get rid of them. When they went, Barton was left holding thick letters of complaint from each man, a letter from the chairman of the Essex branch of the National Farmers Union, and a carbon copy of their joint letter to the Secretary of State for Air, which had also been copied to the local MP; all of which Barton had promised to hand over to the CO for his urgent attention as soon as he landed.

  “Moggy Cattermole told me they put everything back where they found it,” he said to Kellaway. “He said it was raining buckets and nobody saw them. What makes these yokels so damn sure of themselves?”

  “Sticky’s Buick. He left it outside Hawthorn’s farm.”

  “I think I’ll kill him,” Barton said. “I think I’ll ram this bumf down his stupid throat and kill him dead. I think I’ll do it now.”

  As he turned to the door the telephone rang. Kellaway answered it. “I see,” he said. “Dear me, that is a problem. He’s here now. Why don’t you come over straight away?” He hung up. “Engineering officer,” he explained. “Some sort of trouble over spares, he needs your help.”

  Barton dumped his load of paper on the adjutant’s desk and sat down. “I can’t believe the Ram had to put up with all this,” he said.

  “Ah, that reminds me: the inquiry. They decided to reconvene in a week’s time so that we can furnish them with a bit more evidence.” Kellaway gave him a piece of paper. “Rather a lot more evidence, actually.”

  Barton propped his elbows on his knees and scanned the sheet without enthusiasm. “‘Describe airfield security arrangements,’” he said. “‘Report any and all recent instances of sabotage or fifth-column activity …’ Sabotage?” he said. “What on earth has sabotage got to do with it?” The paper buckled in his fingers.

  “They’re a bit twitchy at Air Ministry now,” Kellaway said.

  The engineer officer arrived. He was a thirty-year-old flying officer called Marriott, with sandy hair, chewed fingernails, and defeated eyes. “It’s really quite simple, in a complicated sort of way,” he said. “But the upshot is you’ve only got nine operational Hurricanes.”

  “What about the reserve aircraft?” Barton asked.

  “Either in use or waiting for spares. There was Cox’s wheels-up landing, and the Ram’s accident, and after today’s action four of ‘A’ flight’s planes
need repairing but we haven’t got the parts and we can’t get them because we haven’t got the proper forms which we must have in order to indent for parts. D’you want to know where the proper forms are?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re lost. I’m pretty sure they got sent by mistake to RAF Kingsmead, which is up in Lancashire. They’re always getting stuff that’s meant for RAF Kingsmere.”

  “Well then, get some more forms, for God’s sake.”

  “We can’t,” Marriott said. “The form that has to be used to apply for more forms is also in the parcel that went to RAF Kingsmead. We haven’t got any more of those forms here.”

  “You need a form to get a form,” explained the adjutant.

  “But that’s bloody silly,” Barton said. The others nodded. “Have you explained all this to the people at the spares depot? What do they say?”

  “No form, no spare,” Marriott said. He handed him a long typewritten list. “They won’t budge.”

  While Barton was reading the list, Skull came in. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know,” Barton muttered.

  “That, I’m afraid, is all too likely,” said Skull. There was a gravity in his voice that made them all look. “I shall tell you what Group Intelligence has told me. No bombs have been dropped on London, or indeed anywhere. No German aircraft has been seen to fall in the area of the Thames Estuary, although a very careful watch is kept. The watchers—members of the Observer Corps—did however see a Bristol Blenheim crash in flames. And a squadron stationed in Kent, equipped with Blenheims, has reported that one of its patrols was attacked and an aircraft is missing.”

  For a moment the room was touched with horror. Barton looked from Skull to the adjutant, but Kellaway had turned away and was staring out of the window. “That was nothing to do with us,” Barton said, and his voice had a rising inflection. “We didn’t see any Blenheims. We saw Ju-88’s, the controller steered us right onto them, I mean he gave us the height and position and everything, spot-on. It was a damn good interception. It really was.”

  Nobody wanted to follow that. Barton folded Marriott’s list in half and then in half again, and rubbed the creases. “It wasn’t anything to do with us, that’s all,” he said. “I’m positive of that. Absolutely positive.” He unfolded the list, flattened the paper, and placed it on top of his little stack. “Damn it all, I should know, I was there.”