Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  “Correct. The important thing,” Rex told them, “is to remember to keep your head on one side, otherwise the custard goes down your neck.”

  “Hilarious funny story,” Stickwell declared, looking at Moran. “Pay attention, Flip. It’s all about a man who had a wooden leg, called Kelly. Now the question is, what was his other leg called?”

  “Bollocks,” Moran said.

  “Oh.” Stickwell looked hugely disappointed. “You’ve heard it before. What a swindle.”

  “Did you know there’s supposed to be a chap in the Luftwaffe with a wooden leg?” Mother Cox said. “Pilot, I mean.”

  “Dash it all, that’s not very sporting,” Cattermole complained. “Can’t shoot a chap with a wooden leg.”

  “Certainly not, it hasn’t got the range,” Rex said. When the laughter died down, he added: “But whether he’s got a wooden leg or two glass eyes or a pregnant grandmother with the DT’s, the first Jerry we come across gets a bellyful of our Brownings at the earliest possible opportunity.” There was a happy growl of “Hear! Hear!” all around the table. “More wine!” Rex called. “We’ll drink to that.” They drank to that.

  It had been a good day for Hornet squadron. They had crossed the Channel at a height that gave them an immense view: from the isles of Holland in the east to the Normandy peninsula in the west, while behind them the coast of England curved away, Sussex blending into Hampshire, until it became a blur that was South-ampton. The sea lay like costly blue-green wrapping-paper, caught by the sun in a glittering ribbon of light. It was a view that teased and tantalized: there was always more to be seen, always more than the eyes could take in. Pip Patterson, flying as Yellow Two, looked down and could not believe that a world as sunny and splendid as this was at war. He tried to imagine a German plane up here, invading this same piece of sky, coming in to the attack. He could picture it as clearly as a scene in the cinema, but it was no more menacing than that. The enemy guns fired but they could not harm him. They could not even make him blink.

  The squadron reached the French coast at Cap Gris Nez, turned south and crossed Boulogne. After a few minutes Le Touquet lay below. They went down in a slow, broad spiral that was calculated to advertise their presence to the inhabitants. At five hundred feet Rex led them over the sea, turned, and paraded unhurriedly past the town, the aircraft flying half-banked to let the watchers get a good look at them. At the edge of town they straightened up and climbed, swinging inland. “Squadron in vic, squadron in vic, go,” Rex said. The sections fanned out from their line-astern formation and moved up to create the familiar blunt arrowhead, with Green Section at the rear. “Jester squadron, listen to me,” Rex said. “We shall carry out a power dive to the harbor and come out in a Prince of Wales feathers by sections, except for Green Section which will carry out a separate Prince of Wales by aircraft. Is that clear?” The section leaders acknowledged. “Right. Keep it fast and tight.”

  The Hurricanes nosed down, and all over Le Touquet faces looked up. The mounting roar of the twelve Merlin engines ripped open the peace of the morning with a disciplined savagery. Now the watchers on the ground could see the upper surfaces of the aircraft and the glitter of their cockpits, almost in plan-view. Rex held the angle for a few seconds more, feeling the controls stiffen in the plunging rush, then hauled back on the stick and held it to his stomach. As the squadron reached the harbor it was going flat and flat-out; a second or two later it was flinging itself into the sky, with Red Section climbing straight up, Yellow Section soaring off to the right, Blue Section off to the left: an aerial picture of the plumes of the Prince of Wales’ feathers. Behind them, Green Section duplicated the maneuver in miniature.

  The squadron re-formed, did a few more tricks, and landed at Le Touquet civil airport, feeling cock-a-hoop. That afternoon the Bombays arrived with the ground crews and the admin section. Rex had a phone call from the Air Officer Commanding in the Pas-de-Calais. Evidently Hornet squadron’s arrival had impressed the French enormously; the AOC thought it might be a good idea to put on a similar show over Dieppe. Hornet squadron flew down to Dieppe, stopped all work in the place for fifteen minutes, and flew back. Rex announced that they were all bloody useless and that he’d arranged a celebratory dinner at the Hotel Lafayette, eight-thirty for nine. “I rather like this war,” Moke Miller said brightly. “Can we have another when it’s finished?”

  Skull, Kellaway and Marriott were not invited to the dinner. They ate more modestly in a small restaurant and then strolled about the town. Out of curiosity, they went into the Lafayette. Robust singing could be heard coming from the dining room. “Isn’t that a hymn?” Skull asked. They paused and listened. “It’s The Church’s One Foundation,” he said. “What a dreadful dirge.”

  “That’s a slightly different version,” Marriott told him. “That’s one of the squadron songs.”

  “Really? How does it go?”

  “‘Our name is Hornet squadron,’” Kellaway recited flatly, “‘no good are we. We cannot shoot, we cannot fight, nor march like infantry. Yet when it comes to pay parade, we shout with all our might, Per Ardua Ad Astra: Fuck You, Jack, I’m All Right.’”

  “I see,” Skull said. “Not the most fervent of sentiments.”

  “What d’you expect?” Marriott asked. “Land of Hope and Glory?”

  “At least it has the merit of optimism, whereas—”

  “No, no, no,” Kellaway interrupted. “They don’t go in for that sort of patriotic tosh. You mustn’t expect them to wave the flag, Skull. It’s not their style.”

  “Evidently.” Skull was not feeling tolerant; the flight across had been very bumpy and he had twice been sick. He indulged himself in mild sarcasm. “I must remember to avoid using subversive terms like valor and courage and self-sacrifice,” he said. “One doesn’t want to upset the chaps, does one?”

  “That’s the ticket,” Kellaway said, pleased at this easy understanding. “No politics.”

  They went upstairs to the bar and met an American, who bought them drinks. “I saw your fancy flying this morning,” he said. “That’s a sharp little airplane you got there.”

  “Finest fighter in the world,” Marriott said.

  “Well, I’m glad to see it.” He was a Republican state senator from Minneapolis, on holiday in Europe. His grandparents, he said, had emigrated from Poland. “It’s about time somebody stood up to those Nazi bastards.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Kellaway said.

  “I always had a lot of respect for your Royal Air Force. You know why? Discipline. Not like the French. They think all it takes to win is a lot of dash and daring. That’s bunk.”

  “Everything’s very scientific nowadays,” Marriott said.

  “Sure. You got to have a better machine,” the American said. “I looked at your outfit this morning, everyone disciplined, all flying as one, and I said to myself, now that’s a real war-machine. It’s tough, it’s hard, it’s ruthless, it’s—” He stopped. The sound of singing was advancing up the stairs and everyone in the bar had turned to look.

  The song was the Dwarfs’ March from the film Snow White, but it was oddly jerky. When Rex came in view he was walking on his knees, with his arms folded across his chest. The rest of the squadron followed in line, all on their knees, arms folded, shoulders swaying. “Hi-ho! Hi-ho!” they sang. “It’s off to work we go!” The line shuffled hard, in and out of the drinkers. “We work all day and get no pay hi-ho! Hi-ho hi-ho hi-ho! Hi-ho! It’s off to work we go!” They lapped the room and Rex led them out, still on their knees, still chanting.

  “Mad buggers,” Marriott said.

  “Is that how your fighter pilots normally behave?” the senator asked.

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “It’s pretty sophomoric.”

  Marriott looked at Skull. “Callow,” Skull said. “Immature.”

  “Some of them are a bit young, of course,” Marriott said.

  “I can’t see Hitler’s Luftwaffe pilots romping
around on their knees,” the American said. “They take their work too damn seriously for that, unfortunately.”

  “Must relax occasionally,” the adjutant said. “Anyway, I thought our chaps looked jolly good. At least they were all in step.”

  “Except Moggy,” Marriott said.

  “Well, Moggy’s left-handed, you’ve got to make allowances for—”

  “And Miller and Cox,” said Skull.

  “They were probably following Moggy. Anyway, drill isn’t so terribly important for pilots.”

  “You people still have a pretty good Navy, don’t you?” the American asked.

  There was a tumbling crash in the stairwell and the march of the dwarfs came to a sudden stop.

  “I thought that might happen,” Kellaway said. “It’s not so easy to go downstairs as it is to come up: Your feet get in the way,” he explained. The American looked at him, unblinking. “Actually, it’s a very good exercise for toughening people up,” Kellaway went on. “Sharpens their reflexes. Excellent training for … well, all sorts of things.”

  “Parachute-jumping,” Marriott suggested.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “I see.” The American finished his drink. “You boys plan to do a lot of that, do you?”

  “Oh, no, no, certainly not. But—”

  “May I get you another?” Skull asked. “I’d be most interested to hear about political conditions in Minnesota. I myself have an aunt in Wisconsin and two cousins in Oklahoma. I understand the winters are quite severe.”

  “Scotch,” said the American.

  For two days, Hornet squadron did nothing but put on flying shows. They gave demonstrations above Rouen, Le Havre, Beauvais, Amiens, Arras, Calais and Boulogne. Whatever effect this had on French morale, it did the squadron a power of good. They were entertained to lunch at French Air Force bases and to dinner by Le Touquet Chamber of Commerce. They were fed, flattered, and pointed out in the streets. The flying was enormous fun. Then the rains came.

  It rained for most of a week, a driving downpour that fell out of a cloudbase that seemed to hang as low as a basement ceiling. Rex gave everyone local leave but it was too wet to go anywhere. The airport restaurant had been requisitioned for the officers’ mess; they hung about, sprawling on its leather banquettes, writing letters at its round marble-topped tables, complaining about the peculiar drinks available from its neon-lit bar, and making loud yearnings for decent pints of beer, real pork sausage, and the latest Daily Mirror. France, they agreed, was the dullest place they had ever seen. Not to fly was always boring, but not to fly in France was worse, far worse. There was nothing to do. You could go to the pictures, but who wanted to sit in the dark, watching a lot of frogs jabbering at each other? Might as well stand on any street-corner. And get soaked through by this filthy frog weather. If this was the best the French could do they ought to be bloody well ashamed of themselves. Kingsmere used to get a bit foggy but at least you didn’t need thigh-waders to cross the road. What a rotten aerodrome. What a rotten country. What a rotten war. It wasn’t a war at all: nothing was happening.

  Something happened. Late one morning, Air Commodore Bletchley turned up.

  “I’m not going to make a long speech,” he told the assembled pilots. “I just want to keep you fully briefed about the war situation. We at Air Ministry take the view that it’s not fair to expect a chap to put his heart and soul into something unless he knows what good it’s going to do. So you ask: what’s this war all about? And why have you been sent to this lovely sunny country?”

  Polite chuckles. Rex’s dog, Reilly, yawned.

  “There’s a saying, ‘An Englishman’s word is his bond,’” Bletchley went on. “Well, we gave our word to Poland. So did France. And when Hitler launched his treacherous attack on the gallant Polish nation—a nation that rose from the ashes of the last war, remember—how could we stand idly by and watch those brave and freedom-loving allies of ours trampled beneath the Nazi jackboot? Of course we couldn’t. The time had come for all right-thinking men to stand up and be counted. When Poland, reeling under the blow of a wicked and cowardly invasion, appealed to us for help, her call did not fall on deaf ears. That is why we have entered the battle on the side of this brilliant and patriotic country which has made such an outstanding contribution to twentieth-century civilization. By siding with Poland against the Hun, we are standing up for freedom. We are standing up for democracy. We are standing up for the right to live in peace and justice. We are taking the path of honor, and with such as you to guard it, I am sure that it will also be the path of glory and eventual triumph.”

  Bletchley stepped back. The squadron coughed and shuffled its feet, uncertain whether or not to applaud.

  “Air Commodore Bletchley has kindly said that he will answer any questions,” Rex announced.

  Nobody spoke. They had been taken aback by the nobility of their mission. Reilly yawned again.

  “With your usual admirable skill you seem to have covered everything, sir,” Rex said.

  “Who’s going to win the Grand National, sir?” Moke Miller asked.

  “Not Hitler,” Bletchley said.

  That was a good ending; they all enjoyed that; and they trooped in to lunch in a high good humor. Rex placed Skull on one side of their guest and Kellaway on the other, while he sat opposite. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us ill-prepared, sir,” he said. “Just soupe à l’ oignon followed by sole meunière. There’s a very reasonable white Bordeaux, though, and the Camembert’s not bad.”

  “Good heavens. When I think of the stuff we used to eat in France. Stew three times a day.”

  “Next time you come, sir, we’ll give you a decent lunch. I’ve got my spies out looking for some top-class cooks. Really top-class.”

  “Well, good luck,” Bletchley said.

  The soup was served.

  “You were over here for the last show, sir?” the adjutant asked.

  “Yes. Flanders, mainly. We were flying Sopwith Pups, lovely little bus. Great for potting Huns. Unfortunately I had to retire hurt before I could win the war single-handed.”

  They chuckled sympathetically.

  “Fascinating country, Poland,” Skull said.

  Bletchley took a moment to change direction. “Oh, very,” he said. “Quite unique, really.”

  “Tell me …” Skull polished his spectacles with his napkin. “When Germany is defeated, is it the Allies’ intention to restore Poland?”

  “I should damn well hope so.”

  “And all the Polish boundaries? Will they be restored too?”

  Kellaway chuckled. “It wouldn’t be much of a country without boundaries, would it?”

  “Did your boy get into Oxford all right, sir?” Rex asked.

  “I merely wondered,” Skull said, replacing his spectacles, “because it was only a year ago that Polish troops occupied the Teschen area of Czechoslovakia. Will they be allowed to keep that?”

  “Oh, Czechoslovakia! Don’t talk to me about Czechoslovakia.” Bletchley dismembered a bread roll. “Not really a nation at all, was it? Just a mixed salad. Frankly, I blame the politicians for trying to cobble it together. I mean, who in his right mind would have given Czechoslovakia three and a half million Germans? I ask you.”

  “So Hitler was right to march in.”

  “It was inevitable. I mean, I don’t like the little blighter, and given half a chance I’d blow his ugly head off, but I can’t honestly blame him for what he did in Czechoslovakia. Basically he took back what belonged to him.”

  “If only he’d stopped there,” the adjutant said, “things might have been all right.”

  Rex signaled for the wine. “Wonderful musicians, the Poles,” he said. “I could listen to Chopin all night.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Skull said. “You don’t mind my asking you to clarify these political matters?”

  “Not at all,” Bletchley said.

  “I’m supposed to be intelligence officer here, you see.�
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  “Absolutely.”

  “Ivor Novello for me,” Kellaway said. “I say: hasn’t he got a new show in London? Or am I thinking of the other bloke?”

  “Of course, there are also several million Germans living in Poland,” said Skull. The sole and the wine arrived together.

  “I rather think you’ll like this, sir,” Rex said confidently.

  “I’m sure I shall. What d’you mean?”

  Skull said: “The Peace Settlement gave Poland all of West Prussia and a good deal besides. In fact twenty years ago rather a lot of Germany ended up inside Poland.”

  “Your very good health, sir,” Rex said. They drank. “It’s got authority, if you know what I mean,” he said, “and yet it’s piquant.”

  “Very true.” Bletchley worked his lips. “Yes. A good piquant wine, that. Damned piquant.”

  “Noël Coward,” Kellaway said happily. They looked at him. “Just remembered,” he explained. “The other bloke.”

  “Look, I don’t know about all these peculiar Prussians who’re supposed to have been shanghaied to Poland in 1919,” Bletchley said. “Statistics prove nothing, anyway. What I do know is an awful lot of Jerry stormtroopers are chucking their weight about in Poland right now, and it’s got to stop.”

  “D’you know what I dislike most about the fascists, sir?” Rex asked. “It’s their awfully poor taste. I mean, one look at their uniforms tells you they’re not gentlemen.”

  “And it’s not true that they make the trains run on time, either,” Kellaway said. “I met a chap in a pub who told me he was always missing his connection in Rome. Propaganda, that’s all it is.”

  “Anyway, I hope I’ve put your mind at rest,” Bletchley said.

  Skull gave a twisted smile. “A consummation devoutly not to be wished,” he said.

  “You mustn’t mind old Skull, sir,” Kellaway said. “We got him from a university. They were having a sale.”

  “The Poles also invaded Soviet Russia in 1920,” Skull said, “as a result of which their eastern border was extended to take in twenty-seven million people who are certainly not Polish and who have not the slightest wish to become Polish. The same applies to a quantity of Lithuanians. My restless mind wonders whether or not we are fighting for their independence, too.”