Piece of Cake (76 page)

They didn't move. “I have two kills,” Zabarnowski said.

“I have three,” said Haducek.

“No, no.” Barton waved the paper. “It's quite specific. Five each, not five between you.”

“But how …” Haducek looked thoroughly miserable. “If I am grounded …”

“Haven't the faintest, old boy. That's for you to work out. I've done all I can, haven't I?”

“Please,” Zabarnowski said. “I fly Hurricane.”

“No, no, no. You don't like Hurricane. You like
Spitfire
. Look, I made a note of it. See?” Barton showed them his scribble on the paper. “You don't want to fly a Hurricane. You're getting confused now. It's the language. Don't worry, I know what you want.”

“No, no!” Haducek protested. “Hurricane is good, is—”

“Look, I'll get the adj to type it out for you, okay?” Barton said firmly. “Then you'll understand. The main thing is you're grounded.” He picked up the phone. “That's all,” he told them.

They saluted and went out. As he shut the door, Zabarnowski gave Barton a look of simple murder.

“Bloody good show,” Kellaway said. “It's about time someone sorted their hash.” He swiveled the piece of paper and read out:
“Athlete's Foot: Instructions for the Treatment of
. Most appropriate … Your replacement pilots should be here in the morning, if not tonight. Sergeant-pilots. Volunteer Reservists.”

“Good.” Barton replaced the phone. “The trouble with Zab and Haddy is they're so much older than the others. What's Zab? Twenty-five? He's ancient, he looks like Nim Renouf's uncle. CH3's just as old, I know, but he doesn't look it.”

“He's beginning to.”

“Is he? He was certainly behaving in a very elderly way this morning.”

“What was he doing?”

“Worrying. Now you come to mention it, he's lost a bit of weight, hasn't he?”

“A trifle gaunt, perhaps.”

“He's certainly not as much fun as he used to be. I used to beable
to relax with him and forget everything. Now he makes me feel … what's the word? Irresponsible.”

“Why? Because you're not worrying as much as he is?” Kellaway laughed.
“Not
worrying is half the battle, Fanny.”

“I know, but …” The phone rang and he answered it. “What a bind,” he said. “Yes. No. Thanks.” He hung up. “That was Flip,” he said. “Flash is on his way over. He's told everyone he's coming to kill me.”

“Well, just you watch out that he doesn't try. Last night he went around saying he was going to kill the Secretary of State for Air.”

“And did he?”

“Couldn't find him. Said the bugger kept dodging him, hiding in the lavatories. Flash got fed-up in the end, went off and played ping-pong.”

“Flash is amazingly keen on killing people nowadays … Anyway, the thing I was saying about Zab and Haddy.” Barton knuckled his eyes, and blinked to get rid of the fireworks. “All that bitching and binding about the kites was beginning to get through. Hanging about the satellite gives too much time to think. Someone says the kites are duff and you sit there looking at the bloody things, wondering if he's right.”

“Know what you mean,” the adjutant said. “I remember people went in fear and trembling of the Camel for a while. They said it would spin if you looked at it sideways. Definitely couldn't be aerobatted, that was certain death. So everyone flew it very straight and level, until one day some bright spark took off and stunted his Camel all over the sky with the greatest of ease.”

“End of rumor.”

“End of several Camel pilots first, I'm sorry to say.”

Flash Gordon came in without knocking. “I don't like this war,” he said. “It doesn't suit me. Have you got the same thing, only in pink?” He was trailing a cricket bat.

“Your fly's undone, Flash,” the adjutant said.

“Ah!” Flash said slyly. “Got my secret weapon in there. Show you later, if you're nice.”

Barton said: “D'you want something?”

Flash became very serious. “What would you do,” he asked, “if you shot down a Jerry and he baled out and landed in the middle of the aerodrome?”

“Take him to the mess and buy him a drink,” Kellaway said promptly. “That's what we always did.”

“Waste of beer.” Flash flourished the bat.

“Pinch his watch?” Barton suggested.

“What for? It's bust.”

“Flash,” Kellaway said, “is this a trick question?”

“Certainly not. No trick about it, just plain commonsense. How can you possibly buy the bastard a beer, or pinch his watch, when I've just smashed his body to a bloody pulp? I mean, be reasonable.” Flash uttered a soft, scornful laugh.

“Is that what the bat's for?” Barton asked.

“Watch this.” Flash, looking serious, tapped the floor, and suddenly whirled the bat in a circle, just missing the light fixture and bashing the floor with such power that both his feet came off the ground.

Kellaway and Barton flinched at the blow.

“Shit!” Flash said. “Now look what you've made me go and do.” The handle of the bat was badly bent. “You ought to see about that floor, Fanny. It's damn dangerous.”

“So are you, chum. I got a message you were coming over to shoot me, or something. You've really got to stop talking like that, Flash, before you get into trouble.”

Flash said: “I wouldn't shoot you, Fanny.” Kellaway stared: he could swear there were tears in Gordon's eyes.
“But,”
Flash said, reaching inside his open fly, “I
can
blow you up, and believe me this is
dynamite.”
He pulled out a letter and tossed it onto the desk.

“Oh, Flash,” Kellaway groaned. “Grow up.”

“It's from Hermann Goering,” Flash protested. “Is it all right if the
Luftwaffe
comes over next week? RSVP.”

Barton was reading the letter. “It's from Sticky Stickwell,” he told the adjutant. “Something to do with bills and money. Bloody awful handwriting.” He stuffed the letter into the envelope and flipped it back. “Buzz off, you berk.”

“If you haven't got pink,” Flash said, “I might consider mauve.” He went out.

Barton and Kellaway got up and examined the dent in the floor. It was remarkably deep. “That's enough,” Barton said. “He's got to be looked at. Get a head-doctor organized, uncle.”

Someone tapped on the door. “Christ!” Barton said. “I'll never get a bath at this rate. Come in!”

It was Steele-Stebbing. He was carrying his flying-boots and his helmet, holding them very carefully. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

“Make it snappy. I'm starving.”

He shook the boots. The sound of muted slopping was heard. “I wanted you to see the evidence, sir, before I take action. When it was time to leave the satellite this afternoon I found that someone had half-filled my boots with cold tea. I also found that the inside of my helmet had been smeared with jam.”

Kellaway went over and looked into the helmet. “Raspberry,” he reported.

“All right, I've seen the evidence,” Barton said. “What's this about taking action? Are you planning to get an injunction, or something?”

“No sir. I'm planning to hit him.”

Barton tidied up his desk, squaring off the piles of paper and sweeping some odds and ends into a drawer. “I see,” he said. “What with?”

“Well, sir, that's the problem. I'm quite strong and I did box for my school, so I could simply punch him, very hard, for instance on the nose. That might be enough to discourage him.”

Kellaway sat with his feet up and his pipe going nicely. He was enjoying this curious discussion. Steele-Stebbing sounded as restrained and reasonable as ever, but there was a glint of resolution in his eyes that was new.

“What's all this got to do with me?” Barton asked.

“If I hit him hard enough, sir, I might break a finger.” Steele-Stebbing went to the window and emptied his boots. “I'd almost certainly break his nose. That would put two pilots temporarily out of action.”

“Ah. Very thoughtful of you.”

“Or I could hit him with something. Flash Gordon's cricket bat, for example. That would leave me fully operational.”

“No,” Barton said firmly. “Definitely not. Out of the question. You must not, repeat not, bash Flying Officer Cattermole with a cricket bat.”

“Or with anything else,” Kellaway added.

“I quite see that it would inconvenience you, sir,” Steele-Stebbing said, “but he is considerably inconveniencing me, and it's got to stop.”

“Then find another way. I won't allow Cattermole to be damaged.”

“Have you any suggestions, sir?”

Barton looked at the adjutant. “Treat it like a military exercise, old boy,” Kellaway advised. “Find his weak spot and exploit it.”

Steele-Stebbing nodded, and went out.

Kellaway said: “I never knew such a man for scruples. He's got scruples the way I've got piles.” Barton laughed. “You wait,” Kellaway said. “One day you won't find it so funny.”

Next day the squadron flew down to Bodkin Hazel at first light. The sky was a stony gray and there was fog about, but the forecast was for clear weather moving in from the west. The dew was so heavy that the pilots' boots glistened. They carried their parachutes into the crewroom: if silk got damp it stuck to itself. They sprawled in armchairs, yawned, waited for the cooks to bring tea and coffee. It was the emptiest hour, gutless, neither black night nor full day, and most of them had been on a pub-crawl the previous evening. Conversation was thin. Even Flash Gordon was silent.

Fanny Barton put away the typewritten notes the Ops Officer had given him and looked at his pilots. Not a very dashing lot. Mother Cox was dozing, with his mouth open; Flash was picking at a boil on the back of his neck; Pip was chewing on his nails while he looked at a stain on the wall. Cattermole was gingerly prodding himself in the stomach and trying to belch. Flip Moran was watching Cattermole. The new boys looked as if they'd just finished a hard day's work. Only Fitz was actually doing anything. He was reading a boy's comic, the
Hotspur
. By the strain in his eyes it was hard work.

“Two things,” Barton announced. “Ops tell me there's a lot of radio traffic going on across the Channel, far more than usual. So we might get some trade at any moment. The other point is Ju-88's. Jerry's started sending more and more of them over and we've got to be very careful because they look just like Blenheims. What's the difference?” he asked Renouf; but Renouf, still dozy, could only blink. “Iron Filings?” Barton said.

Steele-Stebbing had the answer: “Junkers 88 has a big, bumpy glass-house, sir. Blenheim's nose is more streamlined. Also the Blenheim's got a dorsal gun-turret.”

“Right. And for Christ's sake make sure any 109 you fire at really is a 109 and not a Hurricane. About a week ago some frightfully keen type in a Spitfire shot down a poor bloody Hurricane from 56 squadron. If any one of you ever does anything like that, he needn't come back here again.”

“The big difficulty is a tail-chase,” Moran said. “From dead astern the 109 looks very much like a Hurricane so it's essential to be sure of the differences, which Mr. Macfarlane knows backward, I expect.”

“It's got those tail-struts, hasn't it?” Macfarlane said. “The 109 has, I mean.”

“And what if Messerschmitts decide to modify it and remove the tail-struts?” Barton said. “Does that make it a Hurricane?”

“You can always see the radiator scoop under a Hurricane, sir,” Steele-Stebbing said, “whereas the 109 has a relatively smooth belly.”

Hot drinks arrived. “Tomorrow I want this stuff ready when we land,” Barton told the cook, “not fifteen minutes later.” He nodded to CH3. “Over to you,” he said. “Don't waste your time trying to sell them life insurance, they all look as if they died in the night.”

“Okay. This is a trick question,” CH3 announced. “What is the most dangerous moment in any patrol? Think about it.”

Nobody was in a hurry to answer. Eventually Cox said: “It must be when you run out of ammo.”

“I said
any
patrol. Including one where you don't fire your guns.”

“Strikes me the most dangerous time has to be the interception,” Fitzgerald said. “I mean, that's obvious. Nothing trick about that.”

“Any other offers?”

“It sometimes gets a bit lively in the locker room afterward,” Cattermole said, rubbing his knuckles.

Laughter, jeers, raspberries. The tea and coffee were starting to work.

“Any more?” CH3 said. “Okay. The answer is that
any
time during a patrol is the most dangerous time. From takeoff to landing you're liable to get bounced at any moment. Start looking
for Jerry as soon as you're airborne, and don't stop looking until you're down again.”

Barton said: “Jerry's only twenty-thirty miles away. He can pop up anywhere, any time.”

“That's not fairytales, either,” Flip Moran said. “I was in hospital with a fellah who was about ten seconds from touching down at Manston when he got bounced. He ended up making a three-point landing, only each point was about fifty yards apart.”

“You said it was a catch question,” Macfarlane told CH3. “Where's the catch?”

“There isn't one. That's the catch. The catch is there's no catch. No rules, no referee. Whatever happens, you get what you deserve. Up there the world is divided into bastards and suckers. Make your choice.”

Macfarlane stared. The telephone shrilled. As Barton reached for it, the scramble klaxon on the control tower began its mechanical bray. “‘A' flight!” Barton called. CH3 paused at the door. “Patrol Dymchurch, angels ten,” Barton shouted. CH3 waved, and ran.