Piece of Cake

by Derek Robinson

  Cumulus was coming up everywhere now, boiling into the sky in swelling white mounds, heaped upon each other. It was like flying over the Alps.

  The R/T crackled and delivered a long message with a sound like someone crushing matchboxes.

  “God knows what that was all about,” Rex told them. “But it’s not happening up here so it must be down there.”

  He put them in sections astern. They slid swiftly but cautiously between the overblown white cliffs and came out near Joinville as it was being bombed. A dozen Heinkels were going in, unhurriedly, one after the other. They might have been on a training exercise. Miller, at Red Three, noticed one Heinkel edge right a bit, then left a touch, hold steady for a moment and then curve away. He began counting, and at ten he saw the stick of bombs begin racing across the little town. Gray molehills of destruction sprang up. By then the next Heinkel was finding its place.

  Rex put them in line astern and they fell on the bombers as if this too were all part of the training exercise. The Hurricanes’ speed was nearly double that of the Heinkels, and they used it to weave in and out of the circle, firing brief bursts, swerving away and cutting back for the next target. It was magnificently exhilarating stuff. Miller felt washed clean of fear. Each of the hulking, slab-winged bombers had five guns and although they blazed continuously he knew they couldn’t hit him, he was far too fast. But he could hit them! In fact he missed as many as he hit, but with six Hurricanes skating around the circle the Heinkels were bound to suffer and Flash Gordon at the tail found himself potting at planes that were trailing smoke or shedding bits or dragging themselves in peculiar attitudes, with half their undercarriage flopping about.

  The attack was over in forty seconds. By then, the bombers had huddled together and the fighters were out of ammunition. One Heinkel crashed into a street and blew up. Cox saw it happen. He saw the burning plane tumble like a falling leaf. He could just make out the moving speckles that were people running, scattering as if blown outward by an explosion that had not yet happened. Then came the crash and the flash, and he looked away.

  “Regroup,” Rex said. “Sections in vic.” They came together, each man looking for signs of damage to his plane. Most had the odd bullethole, and Flash Gordon’s windscreen was thoroughly starred, but that was all. “Sections close astern,” Rex said. “Close up.” Far to the east, a Heinkel was falling out of formation and shedding its crew. The parachutes appeared out of nothing like little conjuring tricks.

  Everyone felt very pleased on the way back to Mailly, but whenever Fitz looked across at Flash to exchange a grin of congratulation, Flash was twisting his head, squinting behind and above. No ammo, Fitz remembered. A bad time to get jumped. He too searched the sky. It became damn hard work, with Rex nagging them to keep closed-up, and the cumulus filling the sky with hiding places. Fitz developed a routine: check wingtips, look right, behind, above, below, check wingtips, look left, behind, above, below … His shirt collar chafed. His eyes were tired. Fourth patrol of the day, wasn’t it? Fourth or fifth? He started counting them and got confused with yesterday’s sorties. Check wingtips. Look right. “Break left!” Flash shouted, and Fitz stared at him stupidly for an instant until a furious hammering blasted sparks all over his engine cowling and the Hurricane lurched. The prop vanished, hurled into infinity, and the engine howled with a fury of excess energy. Boiling white glycol washed back over the canopy and filled the cockpit with its stench. Fitz broke left.

  A pair of 109’s hurled themselves at him. All he saw was their huge and horrifying silhouette, magnifying like a punch in the face. Then they went over him and vanished. Already his Hurricane was losing strength, feeling sluggish, dropping its nose. Flames poured from his exhaust stubs, raging alongside the fuel tank that lay beyond the instrument panel. “Get out of there, you stupid sod,” somebody shouted into his ears. Now, who was that? “Fitz, you fuckin’ idiot, get out!” Ah yes: Moran. Well, he should know. Fitz reached up and heaved open the canopy. Glycol sprayed his face. Bugger this for a lark. He took the pin from his straps, unclipped the oxygen tube, jerked the radio lead out. The engine was still screaming its head off so he stopped it. Now to depart. He stood up and the air pressure shoved him down. He got his head out and it pinned his shoulders to the back of the cockpit. Through the smoke and spray he saw the horizon and realized he was diving at some considerable speed. He tried to kick himself free and accidentally slammed a boot against the control column. The Hurricane performed a slow roll and he fell out. After that it was easy. Hanging from his parachute, he had the curious pleasure of watching his airplane blow itself up in mid-air.

  Patterson opened the tent-flap and looked in. “Uncle tells me you’ve gone stone-deaf,” he said.

  “Sort of,” CH3 said.

  He was stripped to his shorts and lying on a camp bed. Patterson came in, followed by Boy Lloyd. “What happened?” Patterson asked. “Come down too fast?”

  “Shut the door, Pip. Keep the flies out.”

  “He’s not deaf at all,” Lloyd said. “It’s a swindle.”

  “What’s the game?” Patterson asked.

  “Allergy.” CH3 yawned, and banged his feet together to frighten the flies exploring his toes. “I’m allergic to orders to fly, at the tail of a tight formation. Any time anyone orders me to do that, I go stone-deaf. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody weird.”

  “How d’you know what the order says,” Lloyd demanded, “if you go deaf as soon as you start to hear it?”

  “Can’t hear you,” CH3 said loudly. “You’ll have to speak up.”

  “Told you it was a swindle,” Lloyd said. “Christ, I could do with a beer.” He sat on the ground with his back against a pole. “I could do with a beer and a bath and a beautiful bed, with or without a popsy. I don’t mind …” His voice trailed away. His eyes closed.

  Patterson still stood, looking down at the American. “Look, a joke’s a joke,” he said, “but if you don’t fly tail-end Charlie then somebody else has to. Somebody else is doing your job up there.”

  “Worse than that. Somebody else is probably getting killed up there.”

  Lloyd opened his eyes.

  “Look how many tail-end Charlies have been jumped already,” CH3 said. “All because Rex makes everyone keep tight formation. I’m not going to get killed to satisfy the CO’s love of ceremonial drill.”

  “But that’s the proper formation,” Lloyd said. “It’s official.”

  “Can’t hear you,” CH3 said.

  “Everyone flies like that,” Patterson said. “Not just us.”

  “The Luftwaffe doesn’t.”

  “Balls,” Lloyd said. “You’re dodging the column. You’ve got twitch.” He sat up. “Things begin to get a bit hairy and you decide you don’t like it. Can you hear that?”

  There was an awkward silence. CH3 watched a fly crawl up his chest. He crept his hands together, clapped, killed it.

  Mother Cox opened the tent door. “They’re coming back,” he said.

  Everyone went out to watch. Cox had binoculars, and he studied the Hurricanes as they made their approach. “Who’s missing?” Patterson asked. Cox double-checked, to be absolutely sure. “Looks like Fitz,” he said at last. “What was Fitz? Blue Two, wasn’t he?”

  “Somewhere at the tail,” Patterson said. Their voices were carefully empty. They watched Rex’s machine touch down and judder over the lumpy field. Cox turned to CH3. “Tell me,” he said. “Where did you get the armor plating for the back of your cockpit?”

  The RAF chaplain buried Trevelyan, Nugent and McPhee in a small cemetery on the edge of Mailly-le-Camp at sunset.

  All the available officers attended, and there was an abbreviated firing-party: just two airmen with rifles.

  Nobody paid much attention to the chaplain’s handling of the funeral service. His professional mingling of regret and admiration seemed remote from the sweaty reality of that day. What’s more it was hard not to look at the sunset. The wester
n sky was alive with huge, sweeping arcs of color in a dozen shades of lemon and butter-yellow and pink. They throbbed with a greater purity and energy than any colors on earth. As the chaplain delivered his lines, Skull nudged CH3. “Decor by God,” he murmured. CH3 gave the sunset a long look. “Showing off again,” he said. Skull suppressed a snort of amusement. Rex glared.

  When they got back to the aerodrome, the adjutant was waiting with a bundle of messages. All the code words and radio frequencies had been changed. Fitz had turned up, undamaged. Three replacement Hurricanes were on their way. No new pilots were available. The Area HQ ops officer wanted Rex to call him, urgently. Baggy Bletchley was expected to arrive about midnight.

  “And where’s the ear-doctor?” Rex asked.

  “Damn. I forgot to tell you. He was here but he couldn’t wait. I told him you were—”

  “Get another.”

  “Tonight, sir?”

  “Now.”

  Kellaway took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Very good, sif. Would you like a bite to eat? There’s some rather nice stew.” Rex nodded, but Kellaway could tell that he was thinking of something else. “You won’t forget about writing to the next-of-kin, will you, sir? Tomorrow might be rather busy.”

  “That doctor. Why didn’t he stay?”

  “Oh … you know how it is. Lots of other patients.”

  “Bloody quacks. Never around when you want one.”

  Kellaway looked at him, carefully. “Something quite short will do,” he said. “Just a note, really.”

  “Did you say stew? I’m not giving Bletchley stew …” Reilly came bounding over, wild with pleasure at finding his master again, but Rex ignored the dog. Kellaway had never seen that happen before. “Tell you what, adj. You draft something, I’ll sign it.”

  They walked to the wooden hut. The flies had vanished with the sun; the grass was wet with dew. Reilly plodded alongside, aware of the seriousness of the occasion.

  “You know, uncle: a team can have only one skipper. Some of them don’t seem to realize that.”

  All around the airfield, lamps flickered where groundcrews were servicing the Hurricanes. Kellaway said: “It’s been a long hard day, sir, and you’ve done damn well.”

  “It’s not for my benefit. It’s for the good of the squadron. One team, one skipper. That’s the way it has to be.”

  “Nobody questions that for a minute” Kellaway said. “Not for a single minute.”

  They went into the hut.

  Nobody wanted stew. Everyone wanted booze.

  They got back into the truck that had done the funeral-run and went into Mailly-le-Camp. A cafe on the square was crowded but as soon as they saw the uniforms, the customers made room at a table.

  “Vin rouge” Flash Gordon said to the owner. “Omelets. Pommes de terre frites. Pain.” The man counted the party: eight. He went away, calling out orders.

  “Well done, Flash,” Moran said. “Now get the kinks out of my neck and I’ll make you an air vice-marshal.”

  “I can’t afford to have kinks, not on eleven shillings a day,” Miller said. “But I got some cheap cuts of meat from this bleeding awful RAF-issue collar.”

  “Me too,” said Patterson, and there was a general grumble of agreement. “Rubbed bloody raw,” Lloyd said. Cox yawned and massaged his neck. “It’s all this twisting and turning,” he said, “and no proper lubrication … Where’s the booze, Flash?”

  “Patience.” Cattermole raised a restraining hand. “This is a five-star establishment. All drink is freshly made for each customer. I just saw the proprietor take his socks off.”

  “In a proper five-star boozer,” Moran complained, “the man would keep his socks on.” But at that point bottles and glasses arrived. The pilots came alive, drank deeply, and slumped again. Fitzgerald smacked his lips. “Fruity,” he murmured. “A good athlete’s foot, but not a great athlete’s foot.”

  “Talking of athletes,” Moran said, “what exactly happened to Fanny?”

  “Christ knows,” Miller said, “but his kite got blown to bits. Silly bugger hopped into the middle of that gaggle of Dorniers and of course they clobbered him with their crossfire.”

  “I saw a parachute,” Fitzgerald said, “but it might have been a Jerry.”

  A little girl brought two platters of bread and a slab of butter. They were reaching for the food before it touched the table.

  “After today, I must say I’m not frightfully keen on Dorniers,” Cox said. “Not in large quantities. How did you cope in Spain, CH3?”

  “No good asking him,” Lloyd said. “He’s deaf.”

  “Not deaf, exactly,” CH3 said. “Allergic.”

  “Bollocks,” Lloyd snapped. “The only thing you’re allergic to is Jerry. That’s what pisses me off. I never knew Fanny the way the rest of you did, but he was a good man, a bloody good man, and I don’t think it’s funny when I hear this cowboy sit on his ass and talk about allergy.” Lloyd’s face was red. His hand trembled as he reached for his drink.

  “Speak up, then, CH3,” Moran said. “What are you allergic to?”

  “Stupidity. Simple stupidity.”

  Lloyd slammed his glass on the table. Wine jumped, and stained the cloth. “Who are you calling stupid?”

  “Oh dear,” Cox said. “Now we’re going to have a brawl.”

  “Cowboy wouldn’t fight me,” Lloyd said. He leaned across the table and waved a dirty finger in front of CH3’s nose. “Cowboy won’t fight anyone, will you?”

  By now half the cafe was watching the confrontation. Lloyd’s finger was vibrant with contempt and menace. CH3 studied it closely, leaning forward. Suddenly he raised his hands from his lap and hung his cap from Lloyd’s finger. The crowd laughed, took breath, and laughed again.

  For an instant Lloyd didn’t know what to do. Then he flung the cap away and swung a punch at CH3, which missed. He overbalanced and fell heavily. One arm smashed a couple of glasses, the other landed in the butter. Moran seized him by the collar and yanked him backward. Lloyd’s rump thudded against his chair and skidded off it. He vanished under the table, dragging the cloth with him. The French whistled and stamped.

  “Close up, chaps,” Cattermole said. “Nice and tight.” They dragged their chairs together, blocking Lloyd’s escape. “Down, Boy! Down!” Cattermole called, and kicked him. Lloyd swore. “Quiet, Boy! Lie still and you’ll get a nice bone.” Lloyd struggled, but the pilots’ boots thudded into him.

  “Ah … grub,” Miller said with tremendous feeling. Plates of omelets and fried potatoes were being served; more wine was brought. At the same time, Fanny Barton walked into the cafe, looking scratched and stained. “My God, what a lot of scruffs,” he said.

  They roared a welcome, their mouths full of food, and demanded to know what had happened. He tossed his helmet and gloves onto the table. “Well … first I fell out of the kite. Then I fell into a tree. Then I fell out of the tree. Then I fell in with some frog soldiers. Then I fell out with some frog soldiers. They wanted to shoot me, thought I was a Hun … Who’s that under the table?”

  “Boy Lloyd,” said Cox.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “I think he’s lost his head,” Cattermole said. “You know how keen Boy is. We gave him his head, and now the silly chump’s gone and lost it.”

  “Well, he can’t have mine, I need it to eat with … Whose dinner is that?”

  “Yours.” Moran slid the plate across the table. As Barton pulled out a chair, Lloyd scrambled through the gap, raging and cursing: “You fart-assed sods! Look what you’ve done!” He was foul with dust and stamped with bootprints, and his nose was bleeding. Barton sat and began eating, using his fingers until CH3 passed him a fork. “Bloody good grub,” he murmured. “Christ All bloody Mighty,” Lloyd snarled.

  “Shut up, Boy,” Moran said. “Get a chair and have a drink and we’ll order another omelet.” But Lloyd was too furious to listen. He grabbed his hat and stormed out, barging Frenchmen out of his
way and treading on a dog, which howled.

  There was no sign of Lloyd when they left the cafe and took a stroll around the little town. Army convoys rumbled endlessly through the main street; refugees were camping out in squares and courtyards, sleeping on their little piles of possessions; the thud of distant bombing was like the random beating of a bass drum three streets away.

  They came across a corner store, wide open and bright with lights. “Shocking blackout,” Mother Cox said. “No wonder—”

  “Hey!” Fitz exclaimed. “They’ve got those shirts that CH3 wears!” He went in, and the others followed. The shirts were French workmen’s wear: blue and simple. He bought one. “Soft collar. See? Doesn’t cut your neck off when you look round.”

  “They’re not regulation,” Cox pointed out. “Rex will have a fit.”

  “So what?” Miller said.

  In the end everyone bought a shirt. “Now all we need is some nice bulletproof vests,” Fitz said as they walked back to the truck.

  “Get some armor plating behind your cockpit,” Cox advised him. “That’s what I’ve done. Micky scrounged it off a crashed bomber.”

  Cattermole sucked in his breath. “All that weight in the wrong place. Ruins the balance.”

  “CH3’s kite flies okay,” Patterson said.

  “Not in close-formation.”

  “If you’re so keen on doing things properly, Moggy,” Fitz said, and there was an abrasive edge to his voice, “you fly ass-end Charlie for a change and I’ll fly Red Two.”

  “That’s for Rex to decide.”

  “Really? Tell that to Trevelyan. And Nugent. And McPhee.”

  “Cut it out, Fitz,” Barton ordered.

  “Really, all this whining and moaning is in very poor taste,” Cattermole said. “Now, more than ever, we must all get behind the CO.”

  “That’s exactly where we all are,” Miller said. “That’s the whole bloody trouble.”