Piece of Cake (19 page)

Moran stood up and looked at Kellaway.

“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” Kellaway said.

“Blind O'Reilly … Not much of a bang, is it?” He gave the Frenchman a wave of thanks.
“Bonne chance.”
They strolled away. “He's going to need it,” Moran said.

“Yes? Why?”

Moran wrinkled his nose. “It's just a sort of naughty girl's Blenheim. No knickers, very vulnerable.”

Rex came hurrying over. “Flip, old chap … Pop upstairs and swan about a bit with one of their kites, would you? It's rigged up with cine-guns and they're mad keen to show how good their gunners are. Do a few mock-attacks, that sort of thing.”

Moran nodded. “Pretend to shoot it up.”

“That's right.”

“Should I also try to shoot it down?”

Rex took off his cap, ran his fingers through his hair, and replaced his cap. The angle was just short of jaunty.

“Better not,” he said. “They're giving us dinner later on.”

“Ah.” Moran's habitually somber expression brightened a fraction. “We mustn't spoil their appetites, then.” He went away.

“Congratulations on the Nancy show,” the adjutant said. “All the inmates were full of admiration.”

“So it seems. The mayor sent me a telegram.” Rex found the paper and unfolded it. “
Félicitations … beau spectacle … avions formidables … toute confiance … victoire
…” He tucked it away again. “The
commandant
gave it to me when we landed. Quick work, eh?”

Kellaway nodded, and thought:
Damn quick.
It was only ten minutes' flying time from Nancy to Montornet. “It got top priority, I suppose.”

“Better than that. The mayor sent it yesterday. Look at the date.”

“Yesterday? He hadn't seen the show yesterday. How could—”

“Oh, he knew what to expect. Besides, if he hadn't sent it yesterday we probably wouldn't have got it today, would we?”

“True, true.”

“Very logical, the French.”

“Yes.”

“Courteous, too. Pity their communications are so bloody awful.”

There was a reception at three, preceding dinner at four: an early meal so that the visitors could fly home before darkness. Flip Moran came in at three-thirty, the outline of his goggles still showing, and got himself a drink. Moggy Cattermole turned and saw him. “Ah, the flying film star! Come and meet my friend, Captain … uh … Michelin.”

“Lieutenant Martineau,” the Frenchman said. He was slim and pale and serious-looking.

“This chap here is Errol Flynn,” Cattermole told Martineau. “He's not much of a pilot but he's a lousy actor.”

“The name's Moran.” They shook hands. “That's a terrible thing, that Potez. You want to get rid of that fast.”

“I have just talked with the pilot,” said Martineau. “He says he has you destroyed five, six times.”

“I had him destroyed before he ever saw me.”

Martineau hunched his shoulders and pursed his lips. “The
ciné
will show,” he said. “You are dead by us.”

“No you're thinking of Rudolph Valentino,” Cattermole said. “He couldn't fly, either.”

“Moggy, piss off.”

“See? Very temperamental,” Cattermole said to Martineau. “Ask nicely and you'll get his autograph. Spencer Tracy, Cary
Grant, Maurice Chevalier.” Cattermole wandered away. “Greta Garbo,” he called. “Rin-Tin-Tin. Fu Manchu.”

“Forget the
cineé
,” Moran said. “You've got blind spots everywhere and damn-all armor.”

“We cover each other,” Martineau said. His English was neat and smooth. He held up both hands. “This machine covers that machine.
Oui?
When you attack, we shoot you in the … uh …
Qu'est-ce-que-c'est
…?” He knocked his hands together.

“Crossfire.”

“Oui
, crossfire.” Martineau smiled gratefully.

“But I'm not
in
the sodding crossfire,” Moran said.

“Yes, that is where we catch you.”

“I tell you I'm not bloody there.”

“We practice it often,” Martineau said.

Moran gave up. Cattermole came back and raised his glass. “Buster Keaton!” he said. “Groucho Marx!”

“Donald Duck!” said a one-armed Frenchman. He too raised his glass.

Cattermole joined that group. The one-armed man was a captain, elegantly uniformed, with a black eyepatch that made him even more dashing. He carried an ebony walking-stick hooked over his surviving arm. “You look like something out of
Treasure Island,”
Cattermole said. “Only smarter.”

The captain merely looked back.

“Jacques does not speak English,” another of the group explained.

“Just as well,” Cattermole said. “I got him mixed up with Lord Nelson. Not a popular hero in France, I believe. Better start again … Groucho Marx!” he said to the captain.

“Donald Duck.”

They clinked glasses and drank. “What happened to the rest of him?” Cattermole asked the others.

“A bridge,” one of them said. He had to stop and think of the words. “A bridge of a river. Jacques has had a problem. It is a little bridge, and he is in a big plane. You understand?”

“He flew under the bridge.”

“Pas complètement.
Not …” He snapped his fingers, hunting the word. “Not altogether. Yes?” He beamed happily.

“Definitely not altogether. Harpo Marx!”

“Popeye!” said the one-armed captain. They toasted each other.

“Where is this bridge?” Cattermole asked.

“Oh, it is on the Moselle,” said the other officer. “At Thionville. But since Jacques, nobody must do it.
Trop dangereux.”

“Toujours l'audace,”
Cattermole said.

That silenced them for a moment. He realized that he had said the wrong thing.

“Your spectacle at Nancy was very exciting, I believe,” the officer said. “People say you fly very close.”

Cattermole made a wry face.
“Au contraire,”
he said. “Very far apart. Very boring. I went to sleep several times.”

The officer translated. The others laughed, and made comments. “They do not believe it is so easy,” he said.

“Piece of cake, old boy,” Cattermole said.

“Morceau de gateau”
the officer told them, and they laughed again.

“Betty Grable!” Cattermole said. “Marlene Dietrich!” said the one-armed captain. They drank to each other. “Thionville,” said Cattermole. “That's the other side of Metz, isn't it?”

At dinner, Dicky Starr found himself sitting next to a tall, thin colonel who was slightly morose with drink. “Jolly good kite, that Potez,” Starr said brightly.
“Bon
… um …
avion
… um …
avec
… um …”

“Do not fatigue yourself,” the colonel said. “Yes, you are right, the Potez is an excellent machine, of course.”

“Fast.”

“Extremely rapid. Today that is more important than ever. It is why we have the Potez constructed very light. The more light, the more fast.”

“I bet the pilots like that.”

“Of course. They wish more armor and more guns but that makes heavy, so …”

“You can't have everything,” Starr said.

“However one hundred kilos of bomb is not much, I think,” the colonel said, examining his fingernails.

“It is if you drop it in the right place,” Starr assured him. “And I bet your chaps—”

“Do we need really three men?” The colonel turned down the
corners of his mouth. “Why not a crew of two? One must ask these questions.”

“Two would certainly be lighter.
And
faster.”

The colonel studied Starr's face. He nodded thoughtfully. “It is a question of getting the most out of the machine. Suppose now we remove one man …”

“Make faster,” Starr said. “Yes.”

“And we add one bomb.”

“Ah! Well, now …”

“Bigger hit,” the colonel pointed out. “More explosion.”

“True. But more heavy, more slow.” Starr was beginning to wave his arms about.

“Not
more slow.
Not
more heavy.” The colonel wagged his forefinger. “One man out, one bomb in.”

“I see what you mean,” Starr conceded. “Swings and roundabouts. Not make slower. I mean, make not slower. Make not faster either, come to that.” The words were beginning to sound jumbled. He took a swig of wine to clear his head. “It's as broad as it's long, isn't it?”

The colonel was silent for a while. “No,” he said. “It is two meters more broad.”

“Anyway, it's a jolly good plane,” Starr said, “and I bet you're glad you've got it.”

“Of course. The Potez is simply the best machine we have, an excellent machine, superb, incomparable. You have no machine like it, I believe.”

“Heavens, no!” Starr said.

The colonel nodded glumly. He picked up a spoon and looked at his upside-down reflection. “Anyway, it is not for long,” he said. “Soon we get the new Bloch 174 which is a greatly more excellent machine.”

“Really? Even better than the Potez?”

The colonel shook his head: a tiny, unambitious gesture. “Better in every conceivable way,” he said sadly.

The dinner was long and lavish. As it approached the dessert stage, the adjutant leaned across to Rex and murmured: “One of them is bound to make a speech, you know.” Rex nodded. “The trouble is,” Kellaway said, “half their lot don't speak English, and
hardly any of our lot speak French.” Rex nodded. “Oh well,” Kellaway said.

In the event the hosts made three speeches. The first, by an old general, all in French, all very stirring, was incomprehensible to Hornet squadron. Then the
commandant
made a safe, orthodox speech in French. Then he made it all over again in English. He sat down to polite applause.

Everyone looked at Rex. Some of the looks were rather weary. Four speeches on a full stomach was asking a lot.

Rex stood. He held a bundle of notes.
“Mon president, messieurs”
he began confidently.
“Mes amis, les enfants du paradis, mademoiselle d'Armentières, Athos, Porthos et d'Armagnac.”

A ripple of laughter. He glanced at his notes, thumbed through them, tore them in half and tossed the bits over his shoulder. “My
français
is pretty bloody
terrible”
he said, “and some of your
anglais
is a
crime passionnel.
Nevertheless,
grâce à Dieu
, I'm sure that
entre nous
we have enough
savoir faire
to make our
bonhomie
and
camaraderie
continue long
après
this
tête-à-tête.”

General appaluse.

“What, you may ask, is the
raison d'être de
Hornet squadron? Well,
nous sommes ici
to help you
donner le coup de grâce
to that
sale boche
Adolf Hitler.”

Rumble of approval.

“Pour nous
, this is both an
affaire d'honneur
and an
affaire d'amour,”
Rex said. That went down well.
“Ensemble
we shall give Hermann Goering and his
Luftwaffe
a very
mauvais quart d'heure!
It will be a
tour de force
that will leave him
hors de combat!
France and Britain will turn the
boche
into
pomme de terre purée!”
Hearty cheering. “They talk about
donner
and
blitzen!”
Rex cried. “We say to them:
rien ne va plusl”
Tumult.

When the noise died down, he said:
“Tout le monde
in England is
au fait
with the glorious French
Armee de l'Air.
The
crème de la crème.
You are
chevaliers
of the sky,
sans peur et sans reproche.”
The Hornet pilots thumped the table; the Frenchmen smiled modestly. “We say to you,
merci bien
for this …” Rex gestured widely. “… this
pièce de résistance.”
More table-thumping. Rex fingered an empty wine-bottle. “Enough.
Après moi,”
he said, glancing in the direction of the lavatories,
“le déluge.”
That was
hilarious; they literally fell about laughing.
“Enfin
I say to you,” he declared,
“Bonne chance, au revoir
and …
vive la France!”

The applause was intense; Rex had to stand again and acknowledge it. Then the French sang their squadron songs, and in reply Hornet squadron performed their Seven Dwarfs Special. Fifteen minutes later, knees aching, they took off and flew home.

Kellaway and Skull discussed Rex's speech as they drove back to Château St. Pierre.

“It was all balls, of course,” Kellaway said, “but it certainly rang the bell, didn't it?”

“He has the right touch. It's something nobody can learn: either you have it or you don't.”

“He knows he's good, you see,” Kellaway said, “and that gives him confidence. He's a bit arrogant, in fact. The chaps like that. They trust him, they respect him.”

“And sometimes he frightens them.”

“Does he?” The adjutant thought it over. “Maybe he does. But then, they like being scared, don't they? Otherwise they wouldn't be where they are.”

The bomber slid out of a bank of cloud like a heavy trout leaving a stretch of weed.

“Got him,” said Rex. “Three o'clock low.” His voice was lightened by altitude and radio-transmission. “Right, let's make a clean kill,” he said.

Hornet squadron was heading north; the bomber was a thousand feet below, flying eastward. The morning was fine and clear. There were occasional patches of dazzling white cloud; between these patçhes, the hills of the Vosges could be seen a long way below, dark green with pinewoods, light green with pastureland: all as casual and comfortable as a rumpled bedspread. The rivers were ribbons, the roads were threads; the castles on the peaks were tassels. Nothing moved down there. It was a picture, not a country.