Piece of Cake (14 page)

The diners stopped talking and turned to look. Several applauded. When a girl wearing a creamy rose in her black hair threw a kiss, Moggy Cattermole caught it like a cricketer, one arm flung high, and she laughed. By now some of the diners were standing to applaud. Rex made a little detour to shake hands with one of them, and the applause redoubled. The head waiter came forward. Rex shook hands with him too, and they chatted while the pilots took their seats at a large oval table. “Fighting fit,
merci bien, Georges,”
Rex said. “Et
vous?
Still
fort et brillant,
like good champagne? I always tell my friends,
plus ça change, plus c'est le même Georges …”

Dinner began. The Lafayette was one of the three best hotels in Le Touquet and in 1939 its food was the best of all. After the first two courses had been served and eaten and his glass refilled, Moke Miller turned to Flip Moran and said: “Before I enjoy myself too much, Flip, tell me whether or not I can afford all this.”

Moran gave him a grim smile. “What if I said you can't?”

“Just have to get plastered and forget it, I suppose.”

“Put your mind at rest, then.”

“Really? Marvelous! I'll get plastered on that.”

“Your new boss arranged this shindig,” Moran said. “Therefore it shouldn't appear on anybody's mess bill. It bloody well better not appear on mine, that I can tell you.”

“Got a hilariously funny story to tell you, Flip,” Sticky Stickwell announced over the talk. “This'll test your sense of humor, which some of us think you haven't got much of, not that it's really your
fault because after all you can't help being a thick Irish bog-trotter, can you?”

“Stickwell's pissed already,” Moran said. “You can tell by the way he keeps poking the celery into his ear.”

“Manners, Sticky!” Patterson said sharply. “Remember where you are, for God's sake. The correct form with celery is to stuff it up your nose. Isn't that right, sir?”

“Quite right,” Rex said. “And for an encore you stuff it up your neighbor's nose.”

“Ah, but,” Stickwell said. “I have these very small, aristocratic nostrils. See? So that lets me out.”

“What's this funny joke, then?” Miller asked.

“In any case, radishes are what you stick in your ear, not celery,” Patterson said. “And sometimes rhubarb for afters.”

“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?”