Piece of Cake (28 page)

A buckled wingtip broke the surface. The crane driver stopped hauling for a moment so that the current could straighten the load. The wingtip swung through a quarter-circle and checked. The bridge was busy with pointing arms. The rudder appeared, streaming ribbons of fabric, and then the whole of the upper part of the Hurricane emerged in a rush of pouring water.

Five minutes later the plane lay on the embankment, shining,
crumpled, its ribs exposed, its propeller snapped. The crane driver climbed down and untied the ropes. An RAF ambulance started its engine. Fanny Barton walked forward. Skull took a pace after him but Kellaway held his arm.

Barton climbed onto the port wing and tried to slide back the hood. It was stuck, probably locked shut on the inside. The crane driver gave him a crowbar. He smashed the Perspex, released the lock, slid the hood.

Dicky Starr lolled in his straps like an exhausted child in its push-chair. His nose was split but the river had washed away all the blood. His flying-boots paddled in six inches of dirty water.

Barton took Starr's smooth, pointed chin in his hand and tipped his head up. The eyes were slightly open. They looked at him as if they were hiding some clever, subtle, private joke. “Idiot,” Barton said.

He got down and signaled the ambulance. Already the crowd on the bridge was thinning. The show was over.

The funeral went badly.

The adjutant had arranged for Starr to be buried in the churchyard at Pont-St. Pierre. Fanny Barton should have been in charge of the ceremony but he developed a persistent earache. Rex gave the job to Cattermole.

Green Section had to remain on duty at the airfield; the rest of the squadron (including the mascot, Reilly) drove to the village at midday. Rain had fallen for most of the night and half the morning; now everything dripped. The sky had a tired and grubby look. The trees behind the church were full of crows; every few minutes they took off and circled, silently, and when they landed on the branches again they were nearly invisible: black on black. The silence was oddly disturbing. It was as if the birds were too despondent to comment.

An RAF chaplain was there, talking to the bandmaster of a regimental band that Area HQ had borrowed from the Army. Cattermole went over to discuss the proceedings. In his service greatcoat, with a sword and scabbard, he looked enormously tall.

The coffin lay in an open lorry near the gates. On one side of the lorry the bandsmen were grouped in a circle, all facing inwards, discreetly passing cigarette-butts, professionally at ease. On the other side the pilots gathered. They tried not to look at the freshly dug grave halfway up the sloping churchyard.

Rex alone was willing and able to talk.

“That band will want feeding afterward, uncle,” he said. “Can our cooks cope?” The adjutant nodded. “It's good to see a few natives here,” Rex said. A dozen villagers stood watching; some wore black armbands. The adjutant smiled. “Jolly good. We're here to defend them, after all.” The adjutant smiled. “Jolly good show,” he murmured. Rex glanced sharply. “Buck up, uncle,” he said.

“Sorry.” The adjutant hid a yawn. “Don't know what's the matter with me. I keep thinking about lunch. It's kidneys today.”

“Yes? So what?”

“Nothing. I rather like kidneys, that's all.”

The intelligence officer joined them. “Had he been drinking?” he asked. “That would explain a lot.”

“Who?” said Rex.

“The deceased. I heard you mention kidneys. If the autopsy showed—”

“Not his kidneys,” Rex said. “Not Starr's kidneys, for God's sake.”

“Whose, then?”

“Forget it, Skull,” Kellaway said. “Not important.”

“Oh.” Skull was offended by the rebuff. “If you say so.”

“How much longer do we hang around here?” Rex grumbled. Reilly recognized the impatient tone and trotted over. Dog and master exchanged sympathetic looks.

“Kidneys unimportant,” Skull said. “Must remember that.”

“Jolly good show,” the adjutant said.

“It's not just your kidneys, you know, Skull,” Flash Gordon said, joining the conversation. “You don't need your gall bladder or your spleen. In fact you don't need half your stomach! Take the average chap's intestines—”

“Not now, old boy,” Kellaway said.

“Moggy!” Rex called. “Finger out, if you please!”

Cattermole stopped gesturing in the direction of the grave and said something to a sergeant, who nodded, saluted, and moved away.

“It's true, though,” Gordon said. “I read it in a book.”

“Oh, jolly good show,” Skull said bleakly.

“Spot of hush, please,” Kellaway said. “The big picture's starting.”

Four airmen lifted the coffin from the lorry and placed it on their shoulders. It was draped with the Union Jack. The flag was new; its colors looked too bright for the drab surroundings. “Poor old Dicky,” Stickwell murmured. “He's been gift-wrapped.” Patterson suddenly turned away and stood with his shoulders hunched, his chin pressed down, his jaws locked tight. “You all right, Pip?” Stickwell asked. Patterson nodded. His legs kept wanting to fold the wrong way and there was something foul lurking at the bottom of his throat. He was horribly hung-over, but it wasn't just that. His fingers clutched his thumbs, squeezed them against his palms, and he concentrated on not falling down. “You look bloody awful,” Stickwell said. “You look like a used French letter. Have a swig.” He offered his flask, but Patterson
shook his head. “I'll have a drop, Sticky,” Miller said. The flask circulated.

Meanwhile the band had begun to play
Abide with Me.
Catter-mole marched after the pallbearers; there was a space; and the rest of the squadron followed. Patterson came last, constantly afraid that his legs would fail him.

A firing squad of airmen had already taken up position on one side of the grave. The coffin was placed on wooden slats that spanned the hole. Cattermole stood opposite the firing squad. The pilots shuffled into a loose half-circle and everyone waited while the band blew the last, sad notes. For a second the churchyard was utterly silent, and Fitz Fitzgerald suddenly realized what they were about to do. They were all there to put Dicky Starr in that deep black hole and bury him forever and ever. No more ping-pong, no more towel-fights, no more sliding downstairs on a brass tray. Dicky was dead. Drowned. Dead and gone and never more to be one of the boys. For a long moment Fitzgerald felt numbed, helpless, defeated.

Then the chaplain began to speak, and almost at once Fitzgerald's mind wandered from the words of the burial service. He found himself reading the brass plate on the coffin.
Richard Finlay Starr. Royal Air Force.
Finlay. It made Dicky sound old and mature. And what a huge grave they'd dug for him! Far too big. He'd be lost in a hole that size. Wonder where Moggy got his sword? Damn silly, pilots wearing swords. They used to wear spurs, according to old uncle …

A sergeant barked orders. The firing squad aimed at the sky and a broken volley banged like a string of firecrackers. The pallbearers came forward and took the weight of the coffin on canvas slings. The wooden slats were removed. Cattermole drew his sword and saluted. They lowered the coffin into the grave until little of the slings was left to pay out. The coffin, however, was still hanging a couple of feet from the bottom. The pallbearers glanced at the sergeant. He signaled to keep lowering. They stooped and leaned forward but the earth at the edge was wet. One of them slipped and let go his end of the sling. The head of the coffin fell with a muddy thud; the other end slid free and crashed to earth. The pallbearers stumbled; one nearly lost his balance altogether. “Sweet Mother of God,” said Flip Moran quietly.

The pallbearers scrambled back, sweating and ashamed. Cattermole sheathed his sword. He picked up a handful of earth and threw it into the grave. The sergeant barked an order and an airman stepped forward with a bugle. He was halfway through the Last Post and making a good job of it when Reilly trotted toward him. Fitzgerald saw, and refused to believe. Surely someone would call the dog back? But Rex was staring at the sky, Kellaway was inspecting the grave, Skull was polishing his glasses, Flip's eyes were shut. Reilly took a sniff and quickly pissed on the bugler's leg. The Last Post wavered, cracked, blared and fell apart. Everyone looked, but by then Reilly had moved away.

Twenty minutes later the pilots were gathered beside their transport, ready to leave as soon as Rex had finished telling Cattermole, Kellaway and the sergeant what an appalling shambles they'd made of everything.

“Can't understand it, sir,” the sergeant said. “I checked them coffin-slings myself. Standard size.”

“Act of God,” suggested Kellaway.

“Anyway, my bit went all right, sir,” Cattermole said.

“In all my years—” Rex began again, when Skull arrived with an angry Frenchman wearing muddy overalls and carrying a shovel.

“I may be wrong,” Skull said, “but I think this gentleman has a valid complaint. According to him, Starr is in the wrong grave. That particular hole was especially prepared to receive an unusually large farmer, with space reserved for his wife to follow in the fullness of time. Our grave is elsewhere. It's smaller and not so deep.”

“You buffoon,” Rex said to Cattermole.

“Sir, be fair. How was I to know? I simply went where the firing squad was.”

“Ah, but that's where you sent us, sir,” the sergeant said. “Remember? I said to you—”

“Get him shifted,” Rex ordered grimly. “Get him out of the wrong damned hole and into the right damned hole. Do it now. Where was this peasant when we needed him?” he asked Skull.

“At home, eating his lunch,” Skull said. “He takes rather a dim view of people being buried at lunchtime. Bad form, apparently.”

“Doubledecker, see,” the sergeant said. “Extra deep. Nothing wrong with the slings.”

“I don't want to know,” Rex said. “I don't want to hear any more. All of you stay here and get it sorted out.” He strode away, calling for his driver.

They trailed over to the open grave and looked down.

“Dicky Starr flies again,” the adjutant said.

Immediately after lunch the squadron assembled in the library, where Rex had a few hard, cold words to say.

First, about Starr's death.

There was absolutely no room in Hornet squadron for tearaways, daredevils or stuntmen. Anyone who was desperate to fly beneath bridges or through tunnels or down coalmines should leave his name at the adjutant's office, and steps would be taken to find war—work more suited to his talents, such as testing minefields by walking through them with his fingers in his ears.

Investigations had revealed that other aircraft besides the one flown by Starr had recently been showing an unhealthy interest in the bridge at Thionville.

If this was prompted by idle curiosity into the underwater performance of the Mk I Hurricane, it was to be hoped that no further experiments would be attempted.

Apart from the extravagance and waste inflicted upon the British Exchequer, there was the reaction of the French authorities to be considered.

In future, any airplane approaching Thionville would be shot down by French anti-aircraft guns.

The frogs were being very snotty, and there was nothing worse than a snotty frog.

Second, about the Armistice Day Fly-Past.

The loss of Starr had disrupted training. A replacement pilot was on his way. He would have less than a week in which to learn the drill, slot into the formations, become one of the team. This squadron had a reputation to keep. It was the finest tight-formation outfit in Fighter Command. Bar none.

What's more, they would be performing in the presence of a Very Special Personage at the Armistice Day ceremony.

If anyone made a cock-up he'd find himself towing targets over the North of Scotland for the rest of the war.

Third, about the funeral.

It had been an absolute shambles, an insult to the dead, a disgrace to the Service, and a very large black in the annals of the squadron.

It wouldn't happen again. Each officer to practice funeral drill with a burial party, including firing squad, bugler and NCO. A dummy coffin would be interred in a simulated grave, repeatedly, until the ceremony was performed perfectly. Skull would coach officers in this duty.

That was all.

The pilots scrambled to their feet as Rex and Kellaway walked out. The door shut.

“All right, who pinched Lord Rex's teddybear?” Stickwell asked.

“What d'you mean?” said Cox.

“Well, he's got the guts-ache about something, hasn't he? It's not just poor old Dicky. I mean, that sort of prang happens. Why blame us?”

“Maybe someone tore a strip off him,” Gordon suggested. “Maybe he got a bollocking from Baggy Bletchley or someone.”

“Or maybe you simply got what was coming to you,” Barton said. “The CO's only doing his job.”

Moran nodded soberly; too soberly. “I go along with Fanny,” he said. “After all, he was like that once.”

Barton fiddled with the cotton wool plugs in his ears, and winced.

“If you ask me, I think he's got his little chopper out,” Miller said. “He's looking for somebody to chop.”

“I don't see why,” Cox said.

“He's fed up because we haven't got a score,” Cattermole said. “Every other squadron in France has bagged a Jerry, but not us. He wants blood. Personally I don't blame him. It's no fun being CO unless you can wallow in gore occasionally, is it? If we don't get a Jerry soon, I bet you a fiver that Lord Rex chops somebody.” He closed his eyes and smiled.

“But that's not fair,” Fitzgerald said.

“The question is: who?” Cattermole said.

“Whom,” Cox muttered.

“I think,” Cattermole said, his eyes still closed, “it'll be Pip.”