Piece of Cake (23 page)

“Well, I don't care. The frogs can do what they like. I don't want it to happen to me.”

“Of course not, but—”

“I mean, you couldn't ask for an easier name, could you? Cox, C-O-X, that's all I want. It's not much to ask.”

“True.” Kellaway exercised his right shoulder: the cold was seeping into it. “Funny word, smithereens. When I was small I used to think it was a place. I thought people got blown to smithereens the same way they got driven to market. I wonder what smithereens really are?”

Cox found a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I mean, it's like having dirty plugs,” he said.

Kellaway thought it over. “Don't quite follow, old boy,” he said.

“You know, adj: dirty plugs. Engine's not firing properly. It's
missing.”

“Oh.” Kellaway nodded. “Missing. Yes.”

“I honestly don't care where I end up,” Cox said, “as long as it's
definite.
I hate being kept in the dark.”

Kellaway tucked his chin onto his chest. Cox's statement suggested several remarks but the more he thought about them, the less helpful they seemed. He raised his eyes and saw Patterson, riding several lengths ahead of them. Patterson stood in his stirrups,
pointed his knees outward, and waggled his behind. Evidently his crotch was feeling squashed. “Good heavens!” Kellaway said. “Baggy Bletchley!”

Cox looked where Kellaway was staring and saw Patterson resettle himself. “Come again, adj?” he said.

“I've just remembered, after all these years. Baggy Bletchley. I
knew
there was something familiar … My stars, what a turn-up for the book. I must tell Rex …”

But as he checked his horse, Moggy Cattermole came cantering up, whooping and waving the fox's brush. “Stand by to be blooded!” he shouted. “Get your gore here, while it's fresh!”

“Keep that filthy thing away from me,” Cox said.

“Look out, Moggy, I want to see Rex,” Kellaway said.

“Got to join the club first, uncle.” Cattermole swung his horse around to block the trail. “Everyone gets blooded! Old English custom! Rules of the hunt!”

“Rubbish,” Cox said.

“And
it's a new squadron tradition.” Cattermole moved closer. “Lord Rex says so.”

Cox stared suspiciously. Cattermole flourished the brush, and smiled. “For God's sake keep that muck off my uniform, that's all,” Cox said.

Cattermole grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust the brush down his neck. Cox wrenched himself away. Cattermole gave Kellaway a dab on the nose, and charged off in pursuit of Patterson, hallooing loudly.

“Hulking great oaf,” Cox said crossly. He tried to look at his shirt collar but his chin got in the way.

Kellaway stopped and waited for Rex to arrive. He said: “I've just remembered something rather unusual about Air Commodore Bletchley. You might—”

“Who's that?” Rex pointed ahead. “Isn't it little Dicky? This should be worth watching.”

The trail climbed in a great left-handed curve, cutting across a slope that grew steadily steeper. Cattermole, having blooded Patterson and Miller, had ridden on and reached Starr.

“Piss off and play with your sadistic friends,” Starr said to him.

“Now, now. No excuses, young Richard. CO's orders, everyone gets blooded.”

“You sicken me, you lot.”

“For shame! It's a grand old English tradition, Dicky! Where's your patriotism? Besides, this stuff's good for the complexion.”

Cattermole hustled his horse alongside the other. The path wasn't wide enough for two and Starr's mount began slipping on the outer edge. Starr said: “I won't—”

“You will, you little runt.” Cattermole jabbed the brush at his face. Starr ducked under it and slammed his elbow into Cattermole's ribs. Cattermole gasped with pain, lost balance and almost fell backward. His left boot kicked up and smacked Starr's horse in the mouth.

Rex and Kellaway saw the horse rear and stagger. Its hind legs struggled to keep to the path, and failed. The animal stumbled, twisted in mid-air and plunged down the slope with a violence that hurled Starr onto its neck. It bolted for the bottom, missing trees by inches, kicking up a wake of dead leaves, and releasing a screaming whinny of fear and pain. Finally, unable to stop, it smashed into a patch of scrub and briar and was lost to sight.

“My God, that doesn't look too good,” said Kellaway.

“He should have fallen off immediately,” Rex said. “Pointless staying on a horse that's out of control.”

“Blind instinct, I suppose.”

“No wonder the beast panicked, the way he wrapped his arms around its neck. Thoroughly bad form.” Rex cupped his hands and shouted. “Moggy! Go and bring him back, quick as you can. Everyone else, wait here.”

They assembled and waited in silence. It was getting dark, they were tired, the wind was merciless.

“What were you saying about Air Commodore Bletchley?” Rex asked suddenly.

“Oh … Nothing important.” The adjutant tucked his hands into his armpits. “I just remembered him from the old RFC days, that's all. We used to call him Baggy Bletchley then. He was just a lieutenant, of course.”

They waited. “Why Baggy?” Miller asked.

“Well, you know … Everyone had a nickname.”

“Did he look baggy?”

“Oh no. He was quite smart, as I remember.”

Miller sniffed. “Too complicated for me.”

One of the horses stamped and snorted. They were getting cold, too. “If you want to know, it was because of his balls,” Kellaway said. That revived their interest. “Bletchley had very big balls. They hung unusually low. I suppose they had to, because of their size. Anyway, there was a story that he went to be measured for a new uniform, and the tailor took his inside-leg measurement, and then he asked him …” Kellaway cleared his throat. “He said to him: ‘And do you dress left or right, sir?' And Bletchley is supposed to have replied: ‘Just make the knees extra baggy.'”

Their laughter was cut short by the distant crack of a rifle. “So that's why he was called Baggy,” Kellaway said. “I wonder what that was?”

“Moggy's shot an elephant,” said Patterson.

“Or Dicky's shot Moggy,” said Barton.

“Maybe Moggy's shot himself,” said Cox.

“Maybe the elephant shot both of them,” Miller suggested. “In which case we can all go home.”

“Actually, elephants are supposed to be quite harmless,” Barton said. “Unless they get angry.”

“Knowing Moggy,” Cox said, “he probably shot the wrong elephant in the wrong place for the wrong reason, and now the beast's hopping mad.”

Soon Starr came trudging up the slope. Cattermole followed, leading his own horse.

“Dicky's nag broke a leg,” Cattermole said. He showed them a rip in his sleeve. “Brute tried to savage me when I went near it. No appreciation at all. I had to shoot it.”

“Damn!” Rex said. “That's most unfortunate. We shall have to pay for it now, I suppose.”

“How much is a horse these days?” Patterson asked.

“Twenty or thirty quid. Three or four thousand francs.”

“Less the meat value,” Cox pointed out. “Big horsemeat eaters, the frogs.”

“You all right, Dicky?” Kellaway asked. Starr nodded. Blood was congealing from a cut over his right eye. “Better jump up behind me.”

Starr said not a word on the way back, and the adjutant knew better than to try to get him to talk. They returned the horses to the stables and drove to the château.

After dinner, Fanny Barton found Rex in a corner of the anteroom, brushing mud and burrs out of Reilly's coat.

“In my opinion, sir, Cattermole's getting rather too big for his boots,” Barton said. “He's having a bad effect on the other boys. I really think he needs to be cut down to size.”

“I see.” Rex found some seeds stuck to a hind leg, and teased them out. He looked up, reacting to Barton's silence. “So cut him down to size, then,” he said briskly. “He's in your flight, isn't he?”

“I thought a few words from you might have more effect, sir.”

“Of course they'd have more effect. They'd reduce your authority. A flight commander's job is to command his flight, Fanny. I'm not going to do it for you. I've got enough work on my hands keeping this hound presentable. Ah, thank you.” A mess waiter brought a pint of beer. Rex put it on the floor and Reilly started drinking, his tail going like a pump-handle. “It puts gloss on his coat,” Rex said, “and lead in his pencil. By the way: if you want to see Cattermole, he's just come in.”

“I'll think it over,” Barton said.

“What a good boy.” Rex stroked Reilly, who had finished the beer and was looking around the room. “He's picking his target, bless him,” Rex said fondly.

Micky Marriott's drainage ditches began to work. The aerodrome improved from a swamp to a bog. The air was still bitterly cold, and snow fell in the Vosges, but at least there was some prospect of flying again. When the wind was in the right direction the front windows of the Château St. Pierre trembled gently to the heavy roar of Merlin engines being run-up and tuned. Two or three times a day condensation trails could be seen overhead, but they were thin and high and shortlived and nobody paid them much attention. To the east, the French and German artillery were silent.

Flash Gordon and Fitz Fitzgerald had volunteered to stay on duty while the others went riding. Now they got permission to leave the camp. “Back to school again?” Rex said. “I never knew such a thirst for education.”

“It's very encouraging, sir,” Fitz said. “The kids can't get enough of us, it seems.”

Flash said: “We help them with their handwriting, sir.”

Rex rolled his eyes. “Be sure you don't dip your nib in the wrong ink-pot, that's all.”

It was a slow morning for the rest of the pilots. They wrote letters, played Ludo, tried to find some jazz on the radio, looked at old copies of the
Daily Mail
or
Daily Mirror.
At eleven-thirty a group captain arrived from Area HQ to give a lecture on the importance of not flying over neutral Luxembourg, Belgium or Holland. It was a mercifully short lecture: he had really come to sample Hornet squadron's famous food. By noon everyone was gathered at the bar.

“Any news from England, sir?” Rex asked the visitor.

“Nothing special. The war's hit the rugger clubs rather badly but racing's not affected, thank goodness. All enemy aliens have been arrested, of course, and shipped off to some remote corner of Cumberland, which seems a bit rough on Cumberland. Still, it means we're spared the endless letters those people used to write to
The Times
about the Jewish problem. I can't tell you how bored I got with the Jewish problem. They really are the most depressing people, can't seem to get along with anyone. All that fuss about foreskins and ham sandwiches; I mean why can't they unbend a bit and behave normally, like the rest of us? Not that—”

“It's a matter of religion, sir,” Cox said.

The group captain had not been expecting an answer. “A matter of religion,” he said. “Ah. You … You sound as if you might know something about it.”

“I'm half-Jewish. My mother.” The other pilots glanced at him curiously.
Old Mother Cox, half-Jewish; fancy that. Come to think of it he has got rather a long nose. Not that it makes any difference, of course …

The group captain switched his expression to one of interest. “Tell me,” he said. “What do you think of the overall so-to-speak situation, Mr. …”

“Cox,” said Rex.

“How appropriate,” the group captain murmured.

“Well, I'm not an expert, sir,” Cox said. “I mean, I don't want to live in Palestine; I'm not a Zionist, my parents don't keep a shop in the East End of London and they haven't been beaten up by Oswald Mosley's fascist thugs. But what I've often wondered is
how Hitler's Nazi party thinks that killing off some of the greatest brains in Europe is going to help them win the war.”

Skull asked: “What would you do, if you were Hitler?”

“I'd recruit every Jewish genius in sight,” Cox said promptly. “Even if I had to wear fourteen skullcaps and eat
gefilte
fish three times a day.”

The group captain chuckled and sipped his beer.

Behind his hand, Miller muttered: “What the hell's
gefilte
fish?” Starr shrugged: “Never heard of it.”

“I'm glad you think wars are won by brains,” the group captain said to Cox. “I'm sure our lords and masters would agree.”

Rex led the laughter.

“Mind you, sir,” Cox said, “the other thing I can't understand is why all those people who escaped from Germany to avoid getting put in Nazi concentration camps have now been arrested and put in British concentration camps instead.”

“Steady on, old chap,” Cattermole protested. “I mean, play the game.” He held his beer against his chest, fingers grasping the tankard, handle pointing outward: it was the squadron style. “British concentration camps? That's a bit steep, Mother.”

“You are rather off-course, old chap,” Rex said. “We simply don't go in for that sort of thing.”

“I rather suspect you'll find it's more a sort of protective custody,” the group captain said. “Not an actual concentration
camp as such.”

“Call it what you like,” Cox said, “it's still barbed wire, isn't it?”

“As a matter of fact,” Skull said, “the British invented the concentration camp. Against the Boers.”

“And the South Africans are now our allies and a splendid bunch of chaps they are,” Rex said rapidly, “so they obviously didn't hold it against us. As you can tell, sir, Hornet is rather a special squadron. We don't go in for stuffy conventional ideas here. We encourage originality and initiative and so on.”