Piece of Cake (35 page)

“What have you got to say for yourself, Yellow Three?” Rex asked.

“Yellow Three to Leader. Aircraft now gone into cloud, heading east.”

“Fancy that.” Rex paused for a long moment. “Yes, fancy that.” Another pause. “Let's go home.”

Skull unscrewed the cap from his fountain-pen. “What fortune?” he asked.

Rex tossed his helmet into his locker and elbowed the door shut. “Found three, lost three. Two Heinkels and a Dornier. Area: Faulquemont-Morhange-Dieuze.”

“Area what?”

“Make it ‘Metz,'” Rex said.

“Shocking weather up there,” Stickwell said. “Like swimming in vegetable soup.”

“Looked like mulligatawny to me,” Cattermole said.

“Skull can't spell mulligatawny,” Stickwell said.

“Anything else happen?” Skull asked.

Several pilots looked at CH3. He was wiping the inside of his flying-helmet and oxygen mask.

Skull screwed the cap back on his fountain-pen. “The third aircraft,” CH3 said, “was a Hampden.”

Skull unscrewed the cap again. In the silence it made a curiously scratchy sound.

“I saw a Dornier 17,” Rex said. “The range was too great for markings but the silhouette was unmistakeable.”

“Did anybody else get a good look at it?” Skull asked. Nobody had. “I suppose the two types are not dissimilar,” he said. “It wouldn't be the first time—”

“It looked like a Dornier and it acted like a Dornier,” Rex said. “It buzzed off the moment it saw us.”

“You seemed very positive,” Skull said to CH3.

“The crew-section on the Hampden is twice as deep as on the Dornier,” CH3 said. “It stretches as far as the trailing edge. The Dornier's got a short, stumpy crew-section which stops level with the engines. This was a Hampden.”

“Rubbish,” Rex said. He put his cap on.

“Anyway, you couldn't make out that sort of detail,” Cox said to CH3. “The thing was miles away. Just a blur.”

“Not to me. I saw a Hampden. And,” CH3 said to Skull, “four fighters in orbit above us.”

“Identifiable?”

“No. They were in the sun. Probably Messerschmitts.”

“The funny thing was,” Rex said, “when we went to look for them they'd gone away. So had the Dornier, of course.”

“Did I tell you, Skull?” Cattermole said. “I personally saw a dozen Italian seaplanes, three striped Zeppelins and a large golden eagle, all flying in ever-diminishing circles.”

“Lunch,” Rex said, and led the way.

Lunch was a slightly spiky affair.

Jacky Bellamy had come back from a tour of the Maginot Line. “Half the French Army don't shave,” she said. “Discipline's poor.”

“No self-respect, you see,” Kellaway said. “Same last time.”

“And their flak batteries seem to fire at anything with wings. I saw—”

“No shop in the mess, please,” said Rex.

“Oh.” She looked at the others, but they were all busy with their soup. “Sorry. I didn't know.” She felt herself go slightly red in the face. With those few words, Rex had cut her down to size.

For a long moment nobody spoke.

“Flip,” Rex said, “you have a discriminating palate. Baby lamb chops. We have available a sound if undistinguished St. Emilion, or would you live dangerously and open some new
rosé
from Provence, breeding unknown?”

Moran finished crunching a
croûton.
“ For myself, sir,” he declared stolidly, “being a buccaneering sort of a rake, the last of the Ulster playboys, 'twould be the
rosé
and devil take the hindmost.”

“The
rosé
it is, then,” Rex said.

“But with the fate of my comrades entrusted to me,” Moran went on, his voice sinking to a rasping gloom, “all thought of self departs. Their stomachs are in my hands, d'ye see.”

“Gruesome thought,” Moke Miller said.

“Better than the other way around,” Fitzgerald said.

“Fetch the St. Emilion,” Rex told a waiter.

Kellaway had been thinking. “You know, if I couldn't shave every morning,” he said, “I think I'd die.”

“At least you'd get a decent funeral, uncle,” Fanny Barton said. “You should have seen the job we did on the crew of that Dornier. Very smart, very classy. Just like the Brigade of Guards, we were.”

“Good God, don't say that,” Patterson exclaimed. “I've got a cousin in the Coldstream. They're all screaming pansies.”

“Tell me, Yellow Three,” Rex said, “do you have screaming pansies in America?”

“No, sir,” CH3 said. “The climate doesn't suit them.”

“That's odd,” Rex said. “I could have sworn I'd been screamed at by an American pansy.”

CH3 put down his spoon. Skull said quickly: “A friend of mine used to grow very loud begonias. Quite deafening, they were.”

Jacky Bellamy almost said something, then looked at Rex and kept quiet. CH3 picked up his spoon.

“A buttercup once belched at me,” Stickwell said, “but that was in Wales, so it probably doesn't count.”

Mother Cox had not been listening to this chatter. He was still worrying about the funeral. “Without going into the gory details, Fanny,” he said. “I'm surprised you found anything to bury. I mean, they went in awfully fast.”

“Yes. I think there were a few hands and things. Not a lot.”

“Amazing things, hands,” Flash Gordon said. “I bet you don't know how many bones there are in the human hand.”

“I do, but I'm not telling,” Miller said.

Rex leaned back as the baby lamb chops arrived. “Tell me, Yellow Three,” he said, “how do you cope with all the corpses in your country?”

“Sandbags in the coffin,” Kellaway told Barton. “That's what we did in my day.”

“I don't understand your question, sir,” CH3 said.

“It's more than you think,” Gordon told them all.

Rex smiled upon the
mange-tout
peas being heaped on his plate, and then smiled at CH3. “You know: corpses. All those people shot by gangsters.”

“They miss more than they hit,” Jacky Bellamy said. “Everyone knows, but the papers are too scared to speak out. It's a national scandal.”

“We don't have gangsters where I come from,” CH3 said.

“You don't?” Rex tasted the wine, and smiled again. “How curious. So all Americans don't go around looking nervously over their shoulder for fear a machinegun might open up on them?”

Skull began to speak, but Rex raised a hand and stopped him.

There was no sound apart from the irregular clatter of serving-spoons and forks. Jacky Bellamy, seated midway between Rex and CH3, took a professional interest in their appearances. Rex had thrust his head forward, slightly turned as if to favor a good ear. CH3 was sitting back, fingers resting on the edge of the table like a concert pianist waiting for his entry. His face was expressionless but his eyes had an interesting glitter.

“You want me to answer that question, sir?” he said. “Very
well. The answer is, Yes, I saw fighters above us in the sun, and Yes, I'm afraid of being shot up with machineguns.”

“Thank you, Yellow Three,” Rex murmured. He turned to Jacky Bellamy. “I take it you know why he's called Yellow Three.”

“Why?”

“Because there isn't a Yellow Four.”

It was a CO's joke, so they all laughed. Even CH3 smiled. Watching him, Jacky Bellamy noticed how rarely he blinked. His face was always alert yet always completely under control. She had to force herself to look away.

Kellaway signed the dispatch-rider's receipt book and took the envelope into the CO's office. “Addressed to you personally,” he said. “From Air Ministry via Rheims.”

Rex slit the envelope and shook the contents onto his blotter. Kellaway strolled over to the window and glanced at the sun: a soft yellow disc, soft as butter behind the drifting clouds. He knew he'd never fly a fighter again, yet he couldn't lose this automatic habit of checking the sun. And whenever there was no glare, no dazzle, like today, he always felt better. Safer. More alive. “You know, it's funny,” he began.

“This is good,” Rex said.

Kellaway turned. Rex was reading a page of a newspaper.

“This is very good,” he said. “I tell you, uncle, this isn't bad at all.” Gently and carefully he flattened a crease, and read some more.
“Aerial chess, played for the highest stakes
… I rather like that …” He was quite overtaken by delight; Kellaway had never seen him so pleased. “Listen to this:
They stalked, they pounced, they struck as one man.
My goodness, this is priceless. Excellent.”

Kellaway came and looked over his shoulder. It was a photocopy of a page from a New York newspaper. The headline ran:
RAF Fighters Sweep Skies Over France: German Bomber Knocked Down “With A Flick Of The Wrist”: Eyewitness Report.

“She's no fool, that woman,” Rex said.

“They don't identify the squadron,” Kellaway said. “They couldn't, of course.”

“Who cares?” Rex said. “Everyone knows it's us.”

Rain began pattering on the skylights of the squash court as LAC Todd arrived.

CH3 was all in white. Todd wore black RAF-issue gym-shoes, black socks, blue football shorts and a proper squash shirt that CH3 had lent him. The gym-shoes were old and squeaky; the shorts were baggy. Todd was much thinner than he looked in his rigger's overalls: his knees and elbows were bony, and his neck still had the sharpness of adolescence. He grinned too much, kept his shoulders hunched, hid his arms behind his back. CH3 knew that the best solution to all this selfconsciousness was a brisk and enjoyable game. He gave Todd a racket and they began whacking the ball about.

For a raw beginner, Todd wasn't bad. He'd obviously played a bit of tennis: he had ball-sense, he judged the bounce well, he enjoyed hammering a volley. CH3 explained the rules and they played a game, with CH3 feeding him shots to give him confidence. Todd was desperately keen to learn, to justify the invitation. He copied everything he saw, and he was touchingly grateful for tips. “Thank you, sir,” he said each time, until the American said, “Listen, on court just forget the sir, will you? It makes me feel old and feeble.” Todd was startled but pleased. “Your first name's David, isn't it?” CH3 asked. Todd nodded.

The second game was better. Todd was more relaxed, his shots had a more confident flourish. CH3 stopped feeding him and began testing him. The rallies grew longer and harder. Both men were enjoying themselves, but Todd was having the time of his life.

“Look, David,” CH3 said between points. “You can save yourself a lot of energy if you …” For the first time, Todd was not listening. He was glancing nervously at the gallery overlooking the court. Cattermole, Stickwell and Patterson were looking down on them.

“Hello, David,” said Cattermole in a sing-song voice. He sounded like an elderly vicar greeting a favorite choirboy. “Say hello to David, you chaps.” Stickwell and Patterson said hello. Stickwell waved his handkerchief.

“Okay, your service,” CH3 said, but Todd had come to attention in the presence of these officers.

“Who's your thin friend, Yellow Three?” Stickwell called out.

“I do like those shorts,” Patterson said. “Smashing color. Green, isn't it?”

“I wonder if he'll grow into them?” Cattermole said. “I'll ask him, shall I? David: do you intend to grow into those shorts?”

“Or are you going to share them with a friend?” Stickwell inquired.

“This is LAC Todd,” CH3 said. “He's my rigger. If you want to watch, shut up. If you don't want to watch, buzz off.”

“Carry on, Yellow Three,” Cattermole said with a baronial gesture. “See what you've done?” he told the others, “you've gone and upset him, him and David both, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Now behave nicely and watch the clever men hit the silly ball.”

Todd served, stiff with tension, and sent the ball flying into the gallery. “Bugger!” he said miserably.

The three officers applauded. “Damn good shot!” Patterson cried. “Hole in one!” Stickwell said. “Game, set and match, isn't it?”

“The ball, please,” CH3 called.

“Did the boy David say he'd scored a bugger?” Cattermole asked him. “What is that exactly? Is it like a birdie?”

“It's more like a hole-in-one,” Stickwell said.

“Oh,
very
good, Sticky!” Cattermole said. “Did you hear that, Pip? I asked …” He began repeating it all.

“I think p'raps I'd better be getting back, sir,” Todd muttered. His face was a dull red; his shoulders were hunched again.

“Garbage!” CH3 said. “We haven't finished the game. You might win.”

There was more commotion up in the gallery. Miller and Fitzgerald had arrived, both wearing squash kit. “‘B' flight's stood down,” Miller said. “Christ, I'm cold!” He leaned over the railing. “Get on with it, you two!” he shouted.

“Stay there. I'll get another ball,” CH3 said.

“Honestly, sir, I'd rather not,” Todd pleaded.

“Who's that?” Fitzgerald asked Patterson.

“Some rigger, apparently.”

“Rigger?” Miller lowered his voice, but not much. “I thought this court was for officers.”

“Why aren't they playing?” Fitzgerald asked.

“They haven't got a ball,” Stickwell said. “It's all very sad.”

CH3 stood staring up at the gallery, spinning the racket in his left hand. The five officers gazed down at him. Abruptly, he turned and put his hand out. “Thanks very much,” he said; but Todd was
so rattled that he misinterpreted the action and gave back the borrowed racket. CH3 took it and held out his hand again. Todd didn't see it. He was halfway to the door.