Cattermole landed with his head sticking out of the cockpit. He was looking at his propeller when Renouf walked over. The stench from bits of seagull roasted on the exhaust vents was still strong. “Did you get those Jerries in the dinghy?” Cattermole asked.
Renouf had forgotten about them. “Oh,” he said. “Those.”
“You pathetic fart,” Cattermole said.
Two more scrambles at Section strength, neither of them productive. Squadron released at 8 p.m. Back to Brambledown. Quick wash. Dinner in the mess.
Daddy Dalgleish pressed Barton’s shoulder as he was finishing his pudding. “Old friend to see you,” he said. Baggy Bletchley stood with a large smile on his face and a large brandy in his hand. “Good evening, squadron leader,” he said.
The pilots made room for them. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us on a very ordinary evening, sir,” Barton said. “It’s just tripe and onions with sago for afters, but I can promise you a rather peculiar cabbage wine, the chaplain’s wife made it with her own bare feet. Somewhat fruity but not lacking in humility, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” Bletchley said happily. “By the way: did you see that I got Rex a gong? The family were very pleased. I believe they’ve commissioned an enormous stained-glass window, with him in the middle looking like St. George.”
“What’s the gen, sir?” Moran asked. “What’s Jerry up to?”
“At the moment, you mean? Not much. We’re getting a few more of his fighters whizzing about the south of England, but they only do it to annoy because they know it teases. Longterm … Well, if he’s not planning to invade, then your guess is as good as mine.”
That made them stop and think. It wasn’t the first time invasion had been mentioned; people in pubs were always talking about it; but coming from Baggy Bletchley, an air commodore, a chap who was in and out of Air Ministry every day … Well, that somehow brought the future into focus with a jolt. Very soon there was going to be a colossal scrap, much bigger than France, far more serious than France, with nowhere to retreat if it all went wrong. Life, for a moment, looked a bit grim. Even the new boys caught a slight sense of dread.
“They’d better bloody well invade,” Flash Gordon said severely. “If they don’t come here, I’m not going all the way over there again. I mean to say, fair’s fair.”
“Good old Flash,” Cox said; but Gordon simply stared. “I mean it,” he told him. “It takes two to have a fight, you know.”
“Of course it does,” Bletchley said. “While I’m here, Fanny, I’d very much like to see your Hurricanes, if I may.”
Daddy Dalgleish came with him, so Barton took his flight commanders along in case there was a vote. When they reached the hangars, Bletchley walked around a couple of Hurricanes and turned away. “Splendid, splendid,” he said. “I hear you got one of their red-cross planes today.”
“Heinkel 59,” Barton said. “It was on the water, trying to pick up a crew. One of the new boys got it. Renouf.”
“Jolly good show.” They strolled out of the hangar and stood looking at the twilight. “I’d keep it under my hat, if I were you. Don’t go shouting about it. Least said, soonest mended, sort of thing.”
“Now I’m seriously confused, sir,” Moran said. “I thought we got an order about German red-cross planes, and I thought it said blow the buggers up.”
“Quite correct. They’re an absolute menace. They snoop on our convoys and monitor our radio transmissions and sneak in and snaffle their own pilots when they have to ditch. You’re entitled to hit them as hard as you like. Just don’t come back and tell everyone.”
“The public doesn’t understand,” Dalgleish said.
“We weren’t planning to shout about it anyway,” Barton said.
“Of course not,” Bletchley said. “The thing is, the country’s had a nasty knock. Dunkirk, and so on. Norway. We can’t afford to do anything that might upset public confidence. This is a time to stand together.”
“Close ranks, you mean,” CH3 said.
“That’s it,” Dalgleish said.
“We’ve got to believe in ourselves,” Bletchley said. “Face the common foe. No room for internal differences at a time like this.”
“You needn’t worry about my chaps,” Barton said.
“It’s not quite as simple as you may think,” Dalgleish said. “I’ve got two other squadrons to look after and it isn’t easy to keep everyone in line and behaving properly when, for instance, they see you chaps going around with the collars cut off your Irvine jackets. Whose bright idea was that?”
“Mine, sir,” CH3 said.
“For heaven’s sake …”
“I agree with him,” Barton said. “They get in the way.”
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble with them in France, Fanny,” Bletchley said.
“We didn’t wear Mae Wests in France, sir.”
CH3 said: “If you put on a parachute and a Mae West you’ve got to put up the collar of the jacket. Then you can’t get it down again. The damn thing sticks up higher than your ears, so when you try to look round you can’t see anything. That’s why we cut them off.”
“My dear chap,” Dalgleish said, “nobody ordered you to wear your Irvine jacket. If you don’t like it, don’t hack it about. Just leave it behind.”
“And freeze to death,” Moran said. “Sometimes it gets a bit cool at twenty thousand feet, you know.”
“Oh, I know. Don’t worry about that. We flew a damn sight higher than that in India. And with open cockpits. But we didn’t find it necessary to deface RAF property, as far as I recall.”
“Perhaps that was because you didn’t have to look behind you,” CH3 said.
“There’s a serious point at issue here, you realize,” Bletchley said. “If we’re going to fight effectively, everyone’s got to do as he’s told. I’ve just seen what you’ve done to your wings, Fanny. Painted the under-surface duck-egg blue. You know you’ve got no authorization for that. Half-black, half-white: that’s the color-scheme.”
“Black and white stinks, sir. We learned that in France. It makes the kites stand out like chess sets.”
“That’s the whole idea!” Dalgleish cried. “How the devil can our ground observers spot you if they can’t see you?”
“We don’t want to be seen, not by anyone,” Moran said, “and especially not by Jerry.”
“But the controllers need the observers,” Bletchley said. “You must accept that.”
“Far be it from me to lay down the law,” Dalgleish said, “but I’ve got a station to run, and it gets very difficult if each squadron decides to go its own sweet way.”
“Why not?” CH3 asked. “As long as it works.”
“We learned a lot in France, sir,” Barton said.
“France was France,” Bletchley declared. “That’s all finished. This is England.”
“Hey!” CH3 said. “I just realized. France wasn’t a real war at all! Just a scruffy little sideshow.”
“I simply cannot overlook the defacing of an entire set of Irvine jackets,” Dalgleish said. “You’ll have to pay for them.”
“That reminds me, sir,” Barton said. “Our back-pay is still heavily in arrears. Is there any chance—”
“Air Ministry’s doing its best,” Bletchley said.
“I had a funny thought a moment ago,” Moran said. “I thought, isn’t it funny that the Luftwaffe has seaplanes that can pick its pilots out of the Channel, and we don’t? That’s a very funny thing, isn’t it?”
“Fighter Command can’t be expected to think of everything,” Bletchley said.
“No?” Moran said. “Jerry did.”
Mary didn’t get up from her chair when Fitz came in. She smiled, or at least she tried to smile. In any case it was so gloomy in the cottage that it didn’t much matter. He kissed her on the cheek and noticed that sour smell again. “How d’you feel?” he asked.
“I was sick.”
“That’s no good.�
�� He moved away. “Or is it? Is this normal?”
“I don’t know, dear. I feel very strange, but then having a baby is a strange experience for me.”
Fitz sat on a couch. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked.
“The bulb’s gone … I couldn’t reach up to change it.”
“Damn. What a bind.” He got up and went to the window. If he changed the bulb he would have to put up the blackout blinds first. Hard enough to do that when there was still some daylight; now it would be murder. “What about food? Had something to eat?”
“Not much. Bit of bread. I didn’t get out to the shops today. Didn’t feel up to it.”
“That’s no good.” Fitz was hungry, starving. He could have eaten in the mess if he’d known she wasn’t going to have a meal ready. “I’d better whip something up, I suppose. What d’you feel like?”
“Lobster. Just lobster and strawberries.”
“Don’t be daft, dear. It’s been a hell of a long day and I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“I’m sorry. That was the baby speaking. It seems to have an obsession for lobster and strawberries. Can’t think of anything else.”
“Oh … Jesus.” Fitz sat on the windowledge and looked at the heavy black shapes of shrubs in the dusk. The cottage was damp, he could smell it. Not the right place for Mary, not in her condition, but he couldn’t afford anywhere else. He felt angry at himself for getting her into all this, and angry at her for just sitting there when he needed someone to be bright and lively and encouraging. “Look, this is no damn good,” he said. “I mean, God in heaven, we can’t go on living like this.”
Mary said, “It’s been such an awfully long day. So lonely. And now you’re back and I can’t even see you.” He didn’t move, didn’t speak. “Please mend the light, Fitz,” she said. “I want to see you. Please.”
He stood, and stretched. He had an enormous desire to smash something, anything. For a long time he stood in the darkening room and listened to his breathing. Each breath was another second of his life gone, used-up, wasted. It all seemed so stupid, so pointless. Everything was difficult, everything was pointless. That’s what made him angry.
Bodkin Hazel was getting civilized. Now it had a chemical toilet in a little wooden hut on wheels, so the pilots on standby didn’t have to go to the old clubhouse. It also had a larger hut that they used as a crewroom. Barton was in there with CH3 and the new pilots.
“If you fly straight and I get on your tail you’re dead,” CH3 said. “Chances are you won’t even hear my guns.”
“What about back-armor?” Renouf asked.
“Good question. What about cannon? Both the 109 and the 110 carry twin cannon, twenty-millimeter stuff, very nasty. Don’t bet on keeping out the draft with back-armor.”
“If you can hear gunfire,” Barton said, “it’s a hundred to one those guns are being fired at you.”
“That means you’re lucky still to be alive,” CH3 said. “If you can hear him he’s bloody close.”
“Don’t wait,” Barton said. “Don’t look for him. Don’t call for help. Escape.”
“That means break” CH3 said. “Stuff everything in a corner as hard and as fast as you can, and break like hell.”
“Look at this.” Barton tapped a photograph pinned to the wall. It showed two wrecked Hurricanes in a field. “This pair got jumped by 109’s when the squadron was in tight formation. Ass-end Charlies. Nobody else saw anything, nobody else heard anything. Think of that. The kite two lengths behind you gets shot down and you don’t notice a damn thing.”
“If you hear him fire, he must be bloody close,” CH3 said.
“There’s always the mirror, though, isn’t there?” Macfarlane asked.
CH3 said: “If you look in your mirror and see anything interesting like a 109, it’s probably the last thing you’ll ever see.”
“Most of the chaps who get shot down and live to tell the tale say they never even saw the Jerry who did it,” Barton said. “Keep looking behind you. That’s where Jerry likes to be.”
“And it only takes him a couple of seconds to nip behind you,” CH3 said, “so never stop looking for him.”
“Sir,” Steele-Stebbing said to Barton, “isn’t it the task of the wingman to protect one’s tail?”
“Yes, in theory. Maybe he got jumped first. Maybe his radio packed up. Maybe his engine went duff and he’s ten miles back.”
“The point is,” CH3 said, “you can’t assume he’s always going to cover you. When combat starts anything can happen.”
“If you lose him, find somebody else,” Barton said. “Don’t just ponce around the sky on your own.”
“Jerry loves singletons,” CH3 said. “Easy meat.”
“In any case, if you’re in a scrap, never fly straight and level for more than fifteen seconds,” Barton said. “Keep on twisting and turning and dodging, whether you know Jerry’s after you or not.”
“And look behind you,” CH3 said. “You can’t kill him if you can’t see him.”
“Now this young gentleman …” Barton pointed to a photograph of a blazing, falling Spitfire about to hit a wood. “He climbed with the sun behind him, silly boy.”
“It wasn’t the only thing behind him,” CH3 said, “but of course he wasn’t to know that, was he?”
“When you climb, climb toward the sun,” Barton said.
“What if the controller sends you the other way?” Macfarlane asked.
“Sorry, controller, your transmission garbled.”
“All right, suppose the raid is in sight and it’s down-sun. If you climb up-sun that takes you away—”
“Sure,” CH3 told him. “First you get your angels, then you do some damage.”
Barton sniffed. “Yes and no,” he said. “Yes, we go flat-out to make the interception. No, we try not to get killed in the process.”
Macfarlane still wasn’t satisfied. “But that doesn’t mean we actually fly away from the bandits, does it? We might never find them again.”
“Bandits are like buses,” CH3 muttered. “Plenty more along soon.”
“Now hang on there,” Barton declared. “Let’s get this clear. When we get vectored onto a raid, that’s our raid and we make every effort to hit it.”
“Every intelligent effort,” CH3 said.
“Well, for God’s sake, let’s not split hairs,” Barton said to him. “If any of us had any brains we wouldn’t be here now, would we? On the other hand, if you’re going to wait until everything up there is perfect you might as well …” He checked himself before he said something tactless. He could feel his temper slipping. CH3’s insistence on intelligent behavior irritated him. He forced a grin and said to the pilots: “When in doubt, kill a kraut. Simple as that.”
They brightened up, until CH3 added: “But remember: that’s exactly the sort of thing that some bright Geschwader commander is telling his men too, probably right now, and they’ve usually got the advantage of height.”
“Christ, CH3, you’re in a cheerful mood today,” Barton said.
“I just don’t want these guys kidding themselves that what the sector controller tells them is necessarily true,” CH3 said stubbornly. His hands were thrust into his pockets and his shoulders were hunched. “All the controller knows is what he sees on that table in the ops room at Brambledown. Half the time his angels are out by a couple of thousand feet. That’s marvelous, when you—”
“Okay, we all know the system’s not perfect!” Barton picked up his cap and beat some non-existent dust out of it. “It’s still a bloody sight better than anything Jerry’s got.”
“Yes, but the point is …” CH3 began, when the phone rang. Barton took the call. “‘A’ flight’s scrambled,” he announced. “I’m leading,” he told CH3. “You sit this one out.” The door banged as Macfarlane headed the charge. Already, the Merlins were starting to popple and belch. The first engine fired, with a bang like a smash-and-grab, and began roaring.
CH3 lea
ned against the doorframe and watched the hasty ritual. Mae West on. Parachute on. Groundcrew kneeling to bring the straps together. A lumbering run to the plane, parachute slung under the backside like a cushion. Heave up onto the wing, big swing of the legs to get into the cockpit, settle the parachute in the bucket seat. Groundcrew helping with the safety harness. Helmet on, check oxygen and radio leads, gloves on, quick squint at the instrument panel. All ready to go.
And a touch of panic squeezing the guts, probably. This was always the worst moment. Sitting in the cockpit, waiting and wondering. Remembering. Hoping. Fearing.
It was much better when the leader gave the signal to move, and there were things to do. CH3 saw Barton’s plane taxi out, an airman clinging to one of the wingtips to help it turn. Automatically he glanced at the sky. A fine clear day.
Renouf and Zabarnowski were standing nearby. As the flight got airborne, Zabarnowski said, “All this talk … Waste of time. Flying fighters is very simple. You want to know the secret of success?”
“What?” Renouf asked.
Zabarnowski put his mouth to Renouf’s ear. “Get this close,” he whispered, “and kill the bastard first time.” Renouf recoiled and wiped his ear.
“Your English seems to be improving fast,” CH3 said.
The Pole looked away. “Is dump,” he said.
Fanny Barton kept a vivid memory of this scrap. Some fights printed themselves onto his brain permanently; others erased themselves by their own manic, whirling pointlessness, leaving only a taste of terror, an echo of triumph. Perhaps because the calm weather made everything look so neat at first, perhaps because both sides came at each other in the same way, flying the same formation, Fanny remembered this one clearly.
Everyone saw the 109’s from a distance. There were eight: four pairs in a long, saw-toothed line. When Fanny banked his own saw-toothed line of Hurricanes to complete the interception, the enemy leader matched the move precisely and the two formations curled steeply toward each other. For an instant everyone had a target and everyone was a target. Fourteen sets of guns fired, just a flicker of flame before the two formations met and broke up like sheets of glass smashing each other.
Piece of Cake Page 57
