Piece of Cake (50 page)

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” He had never thought of moving. “That would be nice. Are you sure it's worth it, though?”

“Why not?”

“Well, with the war and everything. You know what the RAFs like. Always posting chaps.”

She was silent for a moment. “Flight Lieutenant Gordon,” she said.

“Not half. Flight Lieutenant Gordon, DFC and bar.”

Nicole pressed her face against his chest and made grumbling noises. Flash relaxed. He knew that sound. Everything was all right.

More of the new Hurricanes were delivered. Rex took one and gave others to the flight commanders and senior pilots. The weather improved. The snow gradually melted, until all that was left were diehard streaks of white, underscoring the contours of the countryside. At night black ice glazed the roads and fog lay in ambush. Military drivers—never the most patient of men—sent their vehicles waltzing and bouncing over hedges and ditches, or somersaulting down hillsides, or careering into buildings, or colliding head-on with other traffic to make a wreck that formed an extra hazard for the next military vehicle to come barreling cheerfully through the icy murk.

That was how Hornet squadron lost four vehicles in a week. Two men died, seven were injured. Rex discussed the problem with Skull and the adjutant. “Only one solution,” Kellaway said. “Put governors on all the gearboxes. Then they can't go fast.”

Rex said: “What about the fog, though?”

Kellaway found a dead matchstick and poked about in his pipe.
“Fog's fog, isn't it?” he said. “If the silly buggers insist on racing around with their eyes shut you can't stop 'em.”

“But it's playing hell with our operational efficiency, uncle. I don't mind losing the idiot drivers; we can always get more drivers. It's the chaps they take with them that bother me. Two perfectly good fitters and an armorer—
my
armorer, I might add—all in hospital. Not to mention an absolutely irreplaceable pastry-cook with a compound fracture of the right arm.”

“Yes. I shall miss that steak-and-kidney pie,” Kellaway murmured.

“Any ideas, Skull?” Rex asked.

“In my opinion the weather is a minor contributory factor,” Skull said. “I suspect that these men are bored. You promised them a war. After six months they have experienced no adventure, no excitement. So they go out and make their own.”

“That's absurd,” Rex said.

“So is war.”

“How d'you know?” Kellaway said sharply. “You've never seen one.”

“No, but I read the book,” Skull said, which made them stare.

Warm westerlies blew away the ice and fog and dried the airfield. Daffodils and narcissi bloomed in great yellow and white stands all over the grounds of the chateau, and flocks of birds came and went. At sunset, when they circled the tall trees, they were so closely packed that it was impossible to regard them as individual creatures: they moved as one, a community in flight. Mother Cox was showing Stickwell's replacement, a flying officer named Trevelyan, around the grounds, when he pointed to a mass of birds wheeling overhead. “Bloody clever animals,” he said. “One of them's obviously leading, but which one? How do they know?” As they watched, the birds swerved simultaneously and the texture of the flock was transformed. “How do they signal?” Cox asked. “How do they miss each other? It's a mystery.
Bloody
clever animals.”

“Rex is pretty hot on close-formation stuff, I hear,” Trevelyan said.

“Rather. He likes to be close enough to count people's teeth.”

“Does he really?” They strolled on. “Not, I trust, when they have become scattered across the landscape.”

“Oh, nobody's pranged yet. All you need to do is keep an eye on your leader. Easy.”

Trevelyan was an Old Etonian, which pleased Rex, but he was also very tall, which was a disadvantage. His head touched the cockpit canopy and the rudder bar could not be adjusted to fit his legs comfortably. As the latest arrival, he inherited the worst Hurricane: a much-patched veteran with an engine past middle age and a tendency to sidle that demanded a bootful of rudder. Trevelyan's formation-flying was not good. Rex put him in Green Section, back at the tail of the squadron where there was nobody behind him to back into.

CH3 remained the odd man out. He sat in silence at the squadron briefings. Apart from routine reports to Skull, he had nothing to say about his solitary patrols, and the others soon stopped asking him. Cox explained the situation to Trevelyan. “It's not exactly a feud,” he said. “The CO's done his best to bring him round, but the Yank won't budge. I mean he wants everything
his
way. So we've rather left him to his own devices. He hasn't been sent to Coventry or anything like that. It's just that he's quite convinced he could make a better job of CO than Rex, and as it happens we rather like having Rex as boss, so there's not a great deal left to talk about.”

“He sounds a bit of a bore,” Trevelyan said.

“He was, for a while. But then we shut him up, and now he just sort of hangs about. Even Jacky Bellamy's given up on him … Have you met Jacky? She's a great girl. We've got all her newspaper stories in an album in the mess. Buy her a drink and she'll make you a hero. Not really. But she's a terrific writer, all the same.”

The Hurricanes, scattered about the edge of the aerodrome, were already bellowing like a cattlemarket when the pilots left their hut. It was a breezy morning after a showery night and the sky held more cloud than clear air: mainly big fat stuff, wallowing from west to east at about three thousand feet; but through gaps could be seen a much higher layer, while down at five or six hundred feet, thin streamers were blowing like smoke. It was the sort of
day when a pilot would be able to see five miles one moment and five yards the next.

Rex had briefed them for a routine patrol west of the Maginot Line. CH3 was planning to go further north, to the Luxembourg border. He was halfway to his Hurricane when he heard someone shouting his name. It was Rex. He was in his flying kit, parachute slung over one shoulder, and he was playing with Reilly, dangling the leash so that the dog kept jumping and snapping. He waved. CH3 tramped back.

“You're not very happy about my close-formation flying,” Rex said.

“That's right.”

“You consider you have a better alternative.”

“Yes.”

“Well, now's your chance to prove it.” Rex rolled the leash into a ball and hurled it. Reilly bounded away. “I get the squadron together at a couple of thousand feet and then you take my place. I clear off and watch. Fair enough?”

“I don't know.” CH3 was taken aback. “Where are we going? I need to tell them how it works and …” Reilly came frolicking back, offering him a mouthful of soggy leash. “I mean, what's the plan?”

“You were at the briefing. Nothing's changed.”

“Yes, but—”

“Look: you can explain everything when you take over. It's not frightfully complicated, I hope?”

“No, but—”

“Fine. See you upstairs, then.”

The squadron took off by sections. CH3 sat in his cockpit, engine ticking over, and watched them go. Each section of three Hurricanes waddled into line, paused, and pitched forward, exhaust stubs gushing black fumes that faded when the tails rose, as if the rush of air had blown the engines clean. He could identify the pilots by the way they left the ground. Fanny Barton eased up gradually, building speed before he climbed. Moran came unstuck and made a quick thirty feet: if he wasn't on the ground he wanted to be right off it. Cattermole retracted his undercarriage as soon as he was airborne: wheels spoiled the look of the thing. Cox left his wheels down for several seconds, just in case. Fitzgerald wobbled
a bit: his feet twitched on takeoff. Patterson was always higher than the rest of his section. Gordon always waved to his groundcrew. Lloyd was a bit slow. Trevelyan was even slower.

At the end of a wide circuit the squadron had formed up, sections astern, twelve machines snugly interlocked. CH3 was airborne, trailing them by half a mile. They climbed another thousand feet, passing through the heavy shadows of billowing clouds, and leveled out. Headphones crackled, and Rex said: “Jester Leader to Jester aircraft. Change, change. Pilot Officer Hart takes command, Hart is now Jester Leader, out.” Rex opened his throttle and pulled away, climbing hard.

“Okay, Jester aircraft, now get this.” CH3 had closed the gap; he was fifty feet behind and above them, and he saw the flicker of faces as they glanced around. “Squadron will re-form into three, repeat three, sections of four aircraft. Green Section ceases to exist. Green Leader joins Blue Section as Blue Four. Green Two becomes Red Four. Green Three becomes Yellow Four.” He repeated the orders and got confirmation from each member of Green Section. “Okay, when I say go, Green Section splits up and all sections echelon port. Is that clear?” Nobody spoke. “Okay. Sections echelon port, go.”

This was old familiar stuff. Red Section—still lacking a leader—flew on; Yellow and Blue Sections slid to the left.

“Ease out,” CH3 ordered. “Make room for your number fours.” He watched while this happened, and then surged forward and settled into his place as Red Leader.

Rex was high above, watching.

“Right, this is the deal,” CH3 announced. “We're going to spread right out. I want Blue Section half a mile to my left. I want Yellow Section a quarter-mile to my left. Understood? Okay. Blue Section, go.” He watched the four Hurricanes bank and turn, shrinking rapidly. “Yellow Section, go.”

He gave them half a minute to get settled, and said: “Good. Now, Jester aircraft: I want each section to re-form in line abreast and spread out. One hundred yards between aircraft. Got that?” Again, silence. “Let's do it, then. Jester aircraft, go.”

They scattered. Now all twelve Hurricanes were strung out in a line nearly a mile long.

Trevelyan, flying as Blue Four, was on the extreme left. He felt
strangely isolated. Blue Three, a hundred yards to his right, was unidentifiable, too far away even for hand signals. Trevelyan searched down the line and eventually found the furthest plane, Red Two, looking as big as a broken matchstick. This strung-out, thinned-out formation made Trevelyan uneasy. There was too much sky, too little company. He found himself drifting inwards, toward Blue Three. He drifted out again.

“Everybody makes a continual search,” CH3 announced. “Twelve pairs of eyes looking for the enemy. We see him before he sees us.”

The squadron droned eastward. There was nothing to see but the awkward-looking hills of cloud a thousand feet above, leaning and toppling as the wind drove them. The line of aircraft stretched and concertinaed: it was difficult not to wander when you were turning and twisting to squint into every corner of the sky.

After five minutes, necks were starting to ache.

“Hard work, right?” CH3 said. “So make it easier. Share the search with your wingman. He covers you and you cover him.”

“Don't understand,” someone said curtly.

“Okay, I'll explain. My wingman is Red Two. I watch his tail, he watches my tail. Understand?”

“Shit, that's flak!” someone shouted. A patch of shaggy blobs sprouted directly ahead of Yellow Section. Almost immediately they were flying through the smoke and bouncing on the turbulence.

“Climbing, climbing, go!” CH3 ordered. The squadron angled upward and passed over a second cluster of bursts.

“Fucking frogs! Can't they see?” a voice complained.

“Let's go down and strafe the bastards,” another said. Several voices agreed and gave encouragement.

“Shut it up!” CH3 shouted. “Stay off the air!” But then a different, deeper voice cut in. “Jester Leader, this is Blackjack, state your position, over.”

Blackjack was the operational controller. CH3 did four seconds' hard work on the map strapped to his knee. “Jester Leader to Blackjack. My position five miles east of Rambervillers, over.”

“Jester Leader, this is Blackjack …” Long pause. The cloudbase was getting close. He could hear the controller's breathing. It was impossible to transmit while Blackjack was on the channel. He leveled out just below the cloud and hoped everyone else would
do the same. “I have a bogey for you,” Blackjack said, sounding calm and stately. “Steer zero-six-zero, over.”

“Zero-six-zero, okay.”

“Jester Leader this is Blackjack, what is your present height?”

“Blackjack, this is Jester, my height three thousand.” CH3 hunted desperately to left and right. He could see only five Hurricanes, very widely scattered. Where the hell were the rest? Blackjack cleared his throat and said: “Jester Leader, this is Blackjack, do you mean feet or meters?”

“Jester to Blackjack, feet, feet, over.”

“Blackjack to Jester, your bogey is at eight thousand feet, over.”

“Eight thou, got it. Jester aircraft, steer zero-six-zero. Jester Blue Leader and Yellow Leader, acknowledge that, over.”

But Blackjack had more to say. “Jester Leader, this is Blackjack. Bogey flying southwest to northeast. You have a stern chase, Jester, over.”

“I know. Come in, Yellow Leader, Blue Leader.”

“Blue Leader to Jester Leader, where are you? Over.”

“Speed of bogey,” declared Blackjack, “estimated two-fifty.”

“Jester Leader to Blackjack, for Christ's sake
shut
up!”

“Yellow Leader to Jester Leader, I'm in orbit above cloud with Yellow Two, over.”

“Jester Leader to Blue Leader, find Yellow Leader in orbit above cloud and regroup. All Jester aircraft who can see me, waggle your wings.”

CH3 was checking the response when Blackjack returned, sounding puzzled. “Your last transmission somewhat garbled, Jester Leader. Please repeat, over.”

“Okay, Jester aircraft, I see you too,” CH3 said. “Power climb to eight thousand, go.” But as he advanced the throttle, something flickered in the corner of his eye and made him check. He turned his head and saw, tumbling behind him, a broken Hurricane. Instinctively he brought his plane round in a tight, skidding turn, all the time watching this broken Hurricane flopping and fluttering like an injured moth. Then, as if it were a piece of trick photography, the cloudbase released a fully-opened parachute, and he watched that instead, a curiously perfect, flower-like creation, round and white, drifting serenely. Then another Hurricane appeared. It came sliding out of the cloud, curling away from the parachutist and
putting its nose down as if it had an urgent appointment. The urgency was deceptive: the Hurricane had no propeller.