Damned Good Show

by Derek Robinson

  They clinked glasses and drank. Blazer drank deep; this was breakfast. Or lunch. “The real heroes are out there,” he said.

  “Let’s drink to London,” Gunnery said, and they did.

  “It’s literally unforgettable,” Rollo said, “because it’s all on film.”

  Frobisher gave him more champagne. “Not all,” he said. Rollo glanced up, but Frobisher was looking at Gunnery.

  “A year ago, during the Battle of Britain,” Gunnery said, “Churchill told us men would look back and say: ‘This was their finest hour.’ I wonder what men will say when they look back on the Blitz?”

  “Eight horrible months,” Frobisher said confidently.

  “Not quite a massacre,” Gunnery said. “The word carnage suggests itself. You’ve seen more of it than anyone, Blazer. Would you find carnage acceptable?”

  Rollo thought of some of the things he had seen. “It’s not too strong.” His glass was full again.

  “Some of the raids … ” Gunnery shook his head. “Unspeakable. Right? Nobody should be asked to stomach … I mean to say, in all decency, isn’t it beyond all …?” Rollo found himself nodding. “I’m so glad you agree,” Gunnery said. “There’s no middle way, is there?”

  “We can’t show your Blitz film,” Frobisher said.

  Rollo had sensed the coming punch, but he could find no words, only an angry noise. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said. It was not enough. “Hey”

  “Rollo, my friend,” Frobisher said. “You’ve shot forty-odd reels of brilliant horror movie. People won’t go to the cinema and pay to see that kind of horror. They can stay at home and see it for real. For free.”

  “Not everybody,” Rollo protested. “Millions don’t live in cities, they’ve never heard a bomb drop, they don’t know-”

  “And they would prefer not to know,” Gunnery said. “You are aware of Mass Observation? Their researchers go all over Britain with their clever questionnaires, and they get surprising answers. Yes, folk in the provinces are sorry for Londoners, but not all that sorry. There has always been a feeling that Londoners are a snotty lot who deserve to be cut down to size.”

  “I don’t believe nobody cares.”

  “And of course you are right,” Gunnery said. “People feel very badly about the Blitz, not just on London but on Liverpool, Coventry—well, you know the list. They feel very badly indeed.”

  “Mass Observation,” Harry Frobisher said. He had moved away and was looking out of a window.

  “Demoralization of the civilian populace is a major aim of the Blitz,” Gunnery said. “It has had a large degree of success. Now, I put it to you: should we reinforce Hitler’s success by publicizing it in the cinema?”

  “Not bloody likely,” Frobisher said.

  Gunnery emptied the bottle into Rollo’s glass but only an inch of fizz came out. “Somewhat symbolic of British morale.”

  “That’s exactly why we need a Blitz film,” Rollo insisted. “To show that Jerry did his worst and—”

  “And sometimes we panicked,” Frobisher said. “The Blitz wasn’t all guts and gallantry.”

  “Ninety-nine percent was.”

  “Let’s not quibble,” Gunnery said. “The government blundered badly at the start. Trying to stop people sheltering in the Underground stations made them very angry, especially in the East End. There was trouble.”

  “People marched from Stepney to the Savoy Hotel,” Frobisher said. “They didn’t see why the rich should be warm and safe in the cellars of the Savoy while the poor got blown to bits in street shelters. That was censored, of course.”

  Rollo said nothing. He had filmed street shelters. He knew how they stood up to bombing: not at all well.

  “Not that censorship helped,” Gunnery said. “You’re not supposed to know this, but during the Blitz the army lost a lot of men through desertion. Worried about their families. Newspapers told them nothing. Phones didn’t work.”

  “That was nobody’s fault,” Rollo muttered. “Bombs smash things.”

  “People are brave and they’ll take a lot,” Frobisher said. “But the fact is there was a danger of plague in London in some of those stinking tunnels used as unofficial shelters, and after Liverpool got bombed there were riots and looting, and when Churchill visited Bristol he got booed.”

  “He got cheered,” Rollo said: “I saw it on a newsreel.”

  “And booed. That bit got censored.”

  “The decision has been reached,” Gunnery said. “The best thing we can do about the Blitz is leave it quietly alone until the war is over.”

  Rollo swallowed his dregs. “I’m obviously wasting my time here,” he said, “I might as well go off and join the Grenadier Guards.”

  “Certainly not. A man of your talents? Unthinkable. No, we have an urgent project that’s exactly right for you. I want you to go and make a film about RAF Bomber Command.”

  Rollo was astonished. “Me? Why me? I hate airplanes.”

  “But you love your country. And right now, Bomber Command is the only part of the Armed Services that is regularly dropping high explosive on the black heart of the enemy.”

  “People need to see that,” Frobisher said. “Seeing it will do them good. It’ll build up their morale.”

  “The squadron we’ve chosen is in Suffolk,” Gunnery said. “Keep the same soundman, if you like. Can you be there tomorrow?”

  Blazer thought of his ex-wife and of Desmond, her so-to-speak paying guest, spreading themselves in his flat. “I’ll go today,” he said.

  “Splendid. Now let me explain the story.”

  TRUTH ALWAYS HURTS

  1

  The Service Police took Rollo and Kate to RAF Coney Garth and put them in the guardroom. They were given mugs of tea while the Duty Officer was found. He was a sprog pilot officer, totally out of his depth when shown identity documents allegedly from the Crown Film Unit. “You should have been notified,” Rollo told him. “We expected to be expected.”

  “I have no orders concerning you.”

  He went away, consulted the adjutant, and spent an hour on the phone to London. He finally tracked down Blake Gunnery, who called Air Commodore Russell. “Another cock-up,” Russell said. After a decent interval, lengthy signals from Air Ministry clattered out of the teleprinter at RAF Coney Garth, and the civilians were released.

  “A word of advice,” the Duty Officer said. “Don’t make jokes to RAF policemen. Security is no laughing matter in Bomber Command.”

  “Can I have my car back?” Rollo asked. “All our film gear is in it.”

  “That’s up to the group captain.” The Duty Officer knew from the adjutant that Rafferty had returned in a thoroughly bad temper. “And he’s unavailable at present.”

  He drove them to the officers’ quarters. “Mr. Blazer’s room is here. Miss Kelly is staying at the Waafery.” This startled her. “All the Waafs live over there.” He pointed to a distant cluster of pine trees. “The policy is strict separation. Rather a long walk, I’m afraid. A bicycle is useful.”

  “Oh no. That’s impossible,” she said. “We work as a team, you see. We’ve never been separated since the day we married.” She ruffled Rollo’s hair. “Happiest day of his life,” she told the Duty Officer. “I have to keep reminding him.”

  “What lies you do tell,” Rollo said.

  The Duty Officer looked at his clipboard. “Mr. Blazer and Miss Kelly. That’s my information.”

  “I keep my maiden name for professional purposes. Haven’t you got married quarters? A place this size …” her left hand fluttered, the one with the wedding ring.

  Recently, Bomber Command had decided that aircrew wives should not live on the base; it divided their husbands’ attention: bad for morale. The Duty Officer took Rollo and Kate to married quarters and installed them in a house. Rollo looked out of an upper window. Nothing was happening; the aerodrome was a desert. “Is it always as quiet as this?” he asked.

  “Good God, no. Ops have been scrubbe
d. The chaps have gone to town. Newmarket, Bury St. Edmunds. I’ll get your suitcases sent over. You can have dinner in the Ladies’ Room adjoining the Mess. I’m afraid the Mess is strictly men-only.” He left.

  She was testing the springs of a creaky double bed. “You may kiss the bride,” she said.

  “A word of advice. Don’t say it unless you mean it.” They sat on opposite sides of the bed and looked at each other. He thought: Why risk it? She thought: Do I mean it? She said: “Nobody knows what they mean until they hear how it sounds.”

  He blinked three times. She knew what that meant: he didn’t understand and he was too tired and hungry to think more about it. “You were pretty slick with that wedding ring,” he said.

  “I carry it for protection. It scares away wolves.”

  His scalp itched a little, and he touched the scar, for luck. “You think you’re smart,” he said. “Well, I’ve got news for you. You are smart.” He stood up. That was enough for one evening.

  They had dinner in the Ladies’ Room, alone, and went to the camp cinema. Most seats were empty. They sat near the MO, who seemed half-asleep. While they waited for the lights to go down, Rollo introduced himself and Kate. “Pretty dull today, wasn’t it?” he said. “We’re in the film business. Came here looking for action.”

  “I’m in the piles business.” The MO spoke blankly. “I don’t need to look. Aircrew come to me. All that sitting. Hours and hours.” His eyelids closed, and then flickered open. “Any time you want to film piles, I’ll show you the best in Bomber Command.”

  The film turned out to be a dull comedy. Rollo and Kate left halfway through. By ten they were in bed and asleep like any old married couple.

  2

  Next morning, Rafferty felt much better. After all, he’d torn a large strip off that carping old pongo, Barriton. The sun shone. He’d had a signal from Air Ministry that bucked him up, no end. He got Air Commodore Russell on the blower and confirmed it: 409 had been chosen to star in a film.

  He’d served with Charlie on the Northwest Frontier of India, dropping bombs on fanatical tribesmen to teach them not to get bolshy with the British Raj. “We had some bloody good fun in the Khyber Pass, didn’t we?” he said.

  “You and I put the wind up the Fakir of Ipi, all right. What a frightful blighter he was. Thought he was safe in his mountain stronghold.”

  “Nobody was safe when you were around, Charlie. Man, woman or mountain goat.” They laughed until it hurt.

  “This cinema-thing,” Russell said. “Get it right, Tiny. There could be bags of kudos in it.”

  “You know 409, Charles. Bull’s-eye every time.”

  Rafferty asked the Wingco to pop in, and gave him the good news. “Feather in the cap, eh? They could have picked any squadron in the Command, and they chose yours. Once in a blue moon, Air Ministry gets it right. Congratulations, Pug.”

  “Thank you, sir. A film, you say. For training purposes?”

  “No, no, no. A real film. It’ll be shown in the cinema, Pug! In every bally cinema in the land. In the world, probably.”

  “Except Germany, sir.”

  “Don’t bet on it, old boy. I’m sure the Luftwaffe will want to see it. I think it’s time we met these movie-makers, don’t you?”

  Rafferty asked his secretary to find them. She was Sergeant Felicity Parks, without doubt the prettiest Waaf on the base. Rank had its privileges.

  Rafferty was surprised to find that the Crown film crew consisted of two.

  “I’m cameraman, writer and director,” Rollo said. “She records sound and corrects my spelling and makes the sandwiches.”

  “Very economical,” Rafferty said.

  “You don’t need a mob to shoot a film. Hollywood thinks you do, but everyone in Hollywood wears jodhpurs and cravats.” Blazer was in a faded brown corduroy suit. Kate was in gray slacks and an old navy peajacket. “We’ll melt into the background, group captain. You won’t even know we’re here.”

  “I doubt that … Well, here’s the set-up. Strictly speaking, I look after two squadrons, but one operates from a satellite field down the road. They fly old Fairey Battles which tow target drogues for trainee gunners to shoot at, deadly dull. Don’t bother with them. Here we have 409 Squadron with Wellingtons, led by Wing Commander Duff. A crack outfit, if I say so.” He pointed to a large board on the wall behind his desk. It listed the names of German cities, beginning with Wilhelmshaven. A second board was already half-full. “409’s score-card. Tomorrow there should be another name. Bomber Command hasn’t rested since the day war was declared.”

  Rollo read, and was impressed. “Is there any town you haven’t hit? Stuttgart, Berlin, Magdeburg, Stettin, Hamm, Osnabruck … Berlin again. You really like Bremen and Hamburg, don’t you? Also Kiel and Cologne and Hanover and …” He gave up.

  “It’s fair to say that 409 has made its mark,” Pug Duff said. His modesty was enormous. “And not just in the Third Reich. We attack French targets too: Lorient, Boulogne, Brest. Some of the boys even popped over to Italy, once. Bombed Turin.” It sounded like a bank-holiday excursion. “Enough about us. Tell me your plans.”

  “We’re here to catch the action,” Rollo said. “Film the flying, capture the guts and the gallantry. The idea is to show people exactly what Bomber Command does. No actors. Real airmen. No glamour, no ballyhoo, no propaganda. Just the real thing. We want to film the truth as it happens. Couldn’t be simpler.”

  “Can I get something straight?” Kate asked. “A wing commander is a squadron commander?”

  “Correct,” Duff said.

  “So what does a squadron leader do?”

  “A squadron leader is a flight commander.”

  “Satisfied now?” Rollo said to her.

  “It’s how Bomber Command operates,” Rafferty said. “We’re big business. RAF Coney Garth is more than a mile square. Airfield, a thousand yards long. Personnel total twelve hundred.”

  “It’s going to be tough to squeeze all that into the frame,” Rollo said. “Perhaps we could start by taking a look around the station. Get an overall impression.”

  Rafferty agreed. “Jolly good idea. We’ll lay on a guide.”

  “Unfortunately I have business to attend to,” Duff said. “Let me see …I think Flying Officer Lomas is free this morning.”

  Handshakes all round. The visitors went away with Sergeant Felicity Banks to find Lomas.

  Rafferty was in good spirits. “They seem to know their business, don’t they? And they don’t want to interfere with your duties, which is nice. I can’t see any problems, can you?”

  “Piece of cake, sir.”

  3

  Flying Officer Lomas was a lanky, bony six-footer, aged twenty-two. He was nicknamed Polly, because he had a nose like a parrot. His right arm was in a sling.

  “Enemy action?” Rollo asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. Playing rugger in the Mess, with a cushion for a ball Got trodden on by Beef Benton, stupid elot. Cracked a wrist.”

  He showed them around the station; a great number of brick buildings linked by asphalt paths.

  “Tell me something,” Kate said. “What’s the worst part about bombing Germany? The absolute worst?”

  “Weather. Winds, cold, fog.”

  Rollo glanced at Kate. “That’s going to look damn dull on the screen,” he said.

  “Most bomber ops are dull,” Lomas said. “Fly there, bomb the target, fly home. Six hours in the air and you end up with a numb bum. Would you like to see the airfield?”

  RAF Coney Garth was restlessly busy. There was always a Wellington warming up or taking off, or cruising around the circuit, or landing. Groundcrew came and went, on bikes, in vans or trucks. The Tannoy never ran out of information. “Ops tonight, am I right?” Rollo said. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  Lomas laughed, and looked away. “All terribly hush-hush, I’m afraid. Do you know Ginger Rogers? Working in films must be jolly interesting.”

  On their way ba
ck he met a young pilot officer, as ruddy as a plowboy. “This is Harry Chester,” Lomas said. “Not a bad golfer. Completely hopeless in a Wimpy.” They chatted. Chester glanced at Kate as often as he dared.

  “You look like the dangerous sort,” she said. “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve come across in 409?”

  Chester grinned. “Oh, riding the Grand National, without a doubt. It’s a game we play in the Mess on Guest Nights and suchlike. You put a sofa on its back and ride into it on a bicycle, flat out, so you go flying over the top. Whoever flies furthest wins. Damned hairy! Good fun, though.”

  They thanked Lomas and Chester, and said goodbye.

  “They won’t talk,” Rollo said. “Why won’t they talk? We’re not the enemy.”

  “And we’re not members of their club,” Kate said. “We don’t belong here. That’s why.”

  “Well, it’s not bloody good enough.”

  The business that Pug Duff had to attend to involved a fight.

  Every aircrew officer had a number of airmen whose conduct and welfare were his concern. In Flight Lieutenant Silk’s case the men were in the Motor Transport Section. One of them, LAC Piggott, had allegedly caused an affray in the guardroom while signing out of camp. Now Piggott and Silk were in front of Wing Commander Duff, who was trying to decide whether or not this was a court-martial offense. He was reading Piggott’s statement. “You say you entered the guardroom and the SP on duty, Corporal Black, declared,

  ‘Hello, Manky Piggott, you Welsh bastard. How much petrol you stole today?’ Is that correct?”

  “Sir.”

  “So you hit him.”

  “He poked me with his pencil, sir.”

  “So you hit him.”

  “I hit him back, sir. He poked me first. Self-defense, sir.”

  “He’s got a fractured jaw.”

  “Slipped an” fell, sir. Bashed “is face on the floor.”

  Duff clenched his teeth. He looked at Silk. “Extreme provocation and defamation, sir,” Silk said. “Piggott isn’t Welsh, he’s Scottish. And the term ‘manky’: highly offensive, sir.”