Piece of Cake (49 page)

CH3 caught it and dipped below its slipstream to miss the turbulence. Someone was manning the belly-gun again but the German pilot started dodging and swerving and the shots flew wide. CH3 fired a burst that missed but it scared the pilot into a panicky skid, and while the Dornier was off-balance he fed another blast of bullets into it and an engine caught fire. From then on the German pilot was a passenger, and soon he was a dead passenger. CH3 swung wide and curved back to spray bullets into the bulbous
cockpit. Shards of glass made a glinting trail that got swallowed in smoke. He climbed away and noticed flak all around. They were over the German lines. He dodged about to fool the gunners and watched the Dornier go sailing into a hillside like a drunk walking into a wall.

“I'm afraid the criteria are quite specific,” Skull said. “I can't credit you with a kill without corroboration. Sorry.”

“Someone must have seen it go down.”

“Perhaps. Give me a map reference and I'll ask around.”

“South of Strasbourg. I don't know precisely where.”

“That makes it rather difficult.”

“Tell you what, Skull. Let's forget about it.”

“No wreckage, no eyewitnesses … It's awfully difficult.”

“No, it's worse than that. It's embarrassing.”

“On the other hand if you're sure—”

“No, no. Far from it. It may have been a trick of the light. Or perhaps a large bird. An angry crow or the like.”

Skull fingered the combat report. “I ought to put down something,” he said.

“Write:
enemy aircraft driven off in easterly direction,”
CH3 told him. “They can't get you for that.”

At this stage of the war, most encounters ended with the enemy being driven off in an easterly direction. German aircraft came over singly, at great height, to probe the Allied defenses, and at the first sight of trouble they turned and raced home. Jacky Bellamy had to work hard to make a story out of that, but she was a hard worker and by adding some pen-portraits of the pilots she created a neat little two-part series. Part one told how the timid German pilots scuttled for safety rather than prove themselves in combat.
(British fighter pilots have christened the enemy “the bashful Boche.” Said one young RAF flight lieutenant: “All we ever see is their tail units. If that's the way the Germans want to fight, they ought to design a plane that flies backward.”)
Part two put forward a reason for the German failure of nerve: the clear superiority of the Hurricane squadrons. It was no secret that the Hurricane carried eight guns, and Jacky Bellamy made the most of this.
The ferocity of their fire-power has to be seen to be believed
… German bombers have been hacked in half by a storm of bullets before they even saw their attacker … a speedy retreat is the only hope … only fools and martyrs take on the Hurricane; the Nazis are not complete fools and they seem to have exhausted their stock of martyrs …

It was these reports that led to something of a showdown with CH3.

They met by chance in the village
estaminet
. She had stopped off for a glass of wine. He was playing backgammon with a Frenchman. She came over and watched.

“Been out collecting more junk?” he asked, not looking up.

“If I wanted to write junk I wouldn't drive all over eastern France. I'd stay home and make it up.”

“Same result.”

“Yes? Tell me one thing I've got wrong.”

“That stuff you wrote about the German Air Force. The feeble, timid
Luftwaffe
put to flight by the magnificent eight-gun Hurricane. That junk.” He threw a double-six and galloped his pieces around the board. His opponent sniffed ruefully.

“It's not junk. It's what's happening.”

“It's dangerous guff. So the Germans aren't attacking. That doesn't make them weak, or scared. So the Hurricane knocks down one or two. That doesn't make it a worldbeater. Those gallant aviators back there in the mess: they're beginning to believe your fairy-tales, you realize that?”

“Eight guns is twice as many as any German fighter carries. That's no fairy-tale.”

“Look: doubling the fire-power doesn't double the hits.” The game rattled on at a brisk pace as they talked. “All it means is the bad shots miss twice as much. Gunnery in Fighter Command is lousy. The harmonization—”

“We've been through all that, remember? I checked out your theories. I talked to Rex, I talked to Bletchley, I even talked to some experts from Air Ministry. I'm sorry, but your argument doesn't stand up. It really doesn't.”

He hunched his shoulders and concentrated on the game.

“Look, I don't say that because I enjoy hearing it,” she said. “Believe me, I'd sooner make friends than make war.”

He shook his head. “I'll tell you what you'd sooner. You'd
sooner I fitted your stereotype and acted like a Hollywood ace, swashbuckling about in the blue. Your readers would buy that.”

“They buy the truth.”

“No. They buy lies.” The game ended. CH3 handed over some coins. They shook hands and the Frenchman went away. “You'll never understand,” he told her. “All you can see is sexy airplanes and dashing pilots and you report it as if you're covering the Olympics. You'll never understand that there's no more glory in pumping tracer bullets into a rear-gunner's stomach or setting a Messerschmitt on fire and burning the pilot to death than there is in smashing an enemy soldier's face with a rifle butt or sticking a bayonet through his chest. But you can't afford to understand that, so you write junk and your newspaper prints lies. I don't care. It doesn't stop the truth happening, it just makes it dirtier and more painful.”

“For someone who doesn't care,” she said, “you get mighty agitated.”

CH3 stretched his legs and closed his eyes. After a moment Fitz Fitzgerald came into the bar, looking cold and dispirited. “Hello,” he said. “Guess what? My girl's just given me the push.”

“Mary?” Jacky Bellamy said. “Why? What on earth have you done?”

“Not enough,” Fitzgerald said flatly. “That's the whole damn trouble.”

She had looked tired when he arrived at the cottage. Her eyelids seemed heavy, and her hair had lost some of its gloss. “Hard day at school?” he asked. She nodded, with a sad little smile, and when he kissed her she turned her cheek to his lips and rested her head on his shoulder. “You ought to be in bed,” he said. As the words came out he realized what a very good idea that was; but she shook her head and said she'd be all right in a little while. Fitz opened the bottle he'd brought. They had a couple of drinks and she brightened up a bit. Night is young, Fitz told himself. Bags of time yet.

He was wrong.

They had something to eat: nothing special, just cold meat and pickles. They began talking about her pupils, which led to memories
of their own childhoods and the general awfulness of growing-up. “Crushes were the worst,” Mary said. “Do boys have crushes?”

“Well, I remember a certain amount of hero-worship.”

“No, no. Worse than that. I mean we had crushes on just about everything: older girls, younger girls, teachers. Even horses.”

“Good lord. Very busy.”

“It must have been a terrible bore for the grown-ups.”

“I don't regret having left all that behind, do you? I mean, childhood is supposed to be all sunny and innocent, but …”

“After the age of four, you do nothing but fret.”

“Right. And make horrible gaffes. Like …” Fitz twitched his nose. “On second thoughts I'd better not say.”

“Yours couldn't have been any worse than mine.”

“Want to bet? If you'd met me ten years ago—five years ago—you'd've paid me to go away.”

“I don't believe it.”

“True. I was vain, greedy and selfish, and the reason you can't believe that, Mary, is because you are fundamentally honest and decent and generous, which in my opinion is completely unfair but jolly nice for thugs like me.”

Her face gradually crumpled and she began to cry. Fitz was astonished. “My dear Mary!” he said, and put his arms around her. He was more astonished when she pushed him away.

“It's not your fault, Fitz,” she said. “I just can't go on.”

“Why not? What's wrong?” He had been brought down so abruptly that he felt helpless.

“We've got to stop. It's no good.” Her face was shining with tears. He pushed a handkerchief into her hand. “Not your fault,” she said. “I shouldn't … Please, please …” A jerky sobbing was fighting the words. “Let's … stop. We're no … good together …” A wave of sobs overwhelmed her voice. They broke with a violence that was painful.

“Oh Christ Almighty,” Fitz said. He sat on the arm of a chair and knotted his fingers. “Don't say things like that. I always knew I wasn't exactly a world champion, I just hoped … Hell's bells! I did my best, you know … Oh, what a bloody silly thing to say.
Bugger it!”
Mary's shoulders were still heaving. “To hell with sex!” he shouted. “To hell with everything! It's not bloody worth
the candle!” He grabbed his greatcoat and ran. He could still hear her as he went down the front path.

“Not at all,” Rex said. “Only too glad to help.”

“Thanks. It's kind of a technical question. I guess I'm just gathering background material.”

“Go ahead.”

“Battle tactics. As I understand it, the recommended technique in Fighter Command is to open fire from long range and keep firing a long burst as you close in.”

“Actually, you're not supposed to know that, but … Yes, in general that's correct.”

“Suppose I play devil's advocate. Suppose I say it's better to close to
short
range and fire
short
bursts, because after all even if you miss you haven't wasted much, and you can always go round and try again.”

“Counsel of despair, Miss Bellamy. We don't encourage pilots to think in terms of failure. The short-range-short-burst school of thought is superficially attractive, but on closer scrutiny it turns out to be a hangover from the last war.”

“When they didn't fly so fast.”

“That's certainly one factor. Another was the general unreliability of guns in those days. You couldn't be sure of getting in a long burst even if you wanted to.”

“I hadn't thought of that.” She made a quick note. “And I suppose those machines were a sight more fragile, too. A quick burst in the right place was probably enough to knock a plane to bits.”

Rex nodded. “Your modern bomber is a very different story. It has to be struck firmly and repeatedly for there to be any hope of a successful interception. I can assure you that these battle tactics are resolved at the very highest level of Fighter Command. I happen to know that Air Chief Marshal Dowding himself put his finger on the crucial element in favor of the long-burst-long-range approach.” Rex took a model of a Hurricane from his desk. “Each time you open fire, the recoil depresses the nose of the airplane.” The model twitched. “Just a fraction, but enough to take your sight off the target. Fire short bursts, and you repeatedly lose your target. Fire a long continuous burst and you get a chance to correct,
to adjust, to destroy.” He put the model away, and smiled. “Simple as that.”

“Seems pretty conclusive.” She put the cap on her pen. “I keep hearing about Spain,” she added. “What d'you make of Spain?”

“It was a crude and rustic war,” Rex said, “and the hobbledehoys lost. I don't think there's anything to be learned from it. I really don't.”

Cattermole bumped the door open with his shoulder and came into the mess sideways.

“Birthday?” Boy Lloyd inquired.

“Moggy wasn't born,” Moran said from behind a week-old
Daily Mirror.
“He couldn't get his big feet through the hole.”

“How did he get here, then?” Cox asked.

“I was carried shoulder-high in triumph,” Cattermole said, “with cringing wogs and frogs scattering garlands in my path. Move your legs.” He sidled past Lloyd and dumped two parcels on a table.

“Lillywhites,” Lloyd read from the label. “Isn't that the posh sports shop? My god, it is.” Cattermole had snipped the string, ripped the cardboard, and was taking out squash rackets.

“D'you always buy them by the dozen?” Lloyd asked.

“Certainly not. I never deal with tradesmen. These are the gift of an admirer. Have one. You've already pawed it with your greasy Celtic fingers so you might as well keep it.” Cattermole opened the second package. It contained a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes, a Hardy's trout-reel, and some silk pajamas.

“What d'you want those for?” Cox asked.

“My skin is very sensitive.”

“Gifts from another admirer?” Moran asked. Cattermole ignored him. He found the invoices, threw them on the fire, and settled down to play with his new trout-reel.

Rex had given Flash Gordon permission to live out, on the understanding that he would have to move back in a hurry if the war flared up. Nicole had found a neighbor to look after her mother, and the couple settled down in the cottage. She was determined to have a baby. Flash did his duty nobly and frequently to that end. It was, for him, a complete and happy life. After Nicole there was
flying; after flying there was Nicole. He always had something to look forward to.

For her it was different. They were in bed one evening, and he was telling her the latest squadron gossip, when she said:

“How long do you remain pilot officer, Flash?”

“God knows. Why?”

She tucked her head against his shoulder and was silent for a while. Her hair tickled his nose. He snorted softly, blowing it away. “Because when you are promoted,” she said, “we can find somewhere better than this to live.”