Piece of Cake (37 page)

Rex allowed the formation to loosen when they met turbulence but as soon as they entered smooth air he called them together again. Only one aircraft gave him trouble. Yellow Three was frequently out of position, sometimes by as much as a length. Each time he looked around, it seemed, the American's Hurricane was drifting away like a feckless child. There were no enemy aircraft about, indeed no aircraft of any kind to be seen except for one very highflying machine that Rex spotted when it was too far inside Germany to be pursued; but there was always the possibility of flak, and there was navigation to be done, there were landmarks
to be looked for, weather to be watched. “Close up, Yellow Three,” he said yet again.

“Closing up, Leader.”

They hit the fringe of a heavy shower. Rain-drops smeared the cockpit canopy, coated it, got blasted away by the rush of dry air. Rex glanced to left and right. “For God's sake close up,” he said.

Pause. “Closing up, Leader.”

“Look: what's the matter with you?”

No answer.

“Jester Leader to Yellow Three, is your aircraft faulty?”

“Not faulty, Leader.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Not unwell, Leader.”

“Then for God's sake hold formation. I've got better things to do than watch you all the time.”

Long pause. Then: “Yes.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” Rex looked across at CH3. The man wasn't even paying attention: he was gazing up at the clouds.

“Message understood, Leader.” Already, Yellow Three was ten feet out of position. Far away on the other side of the squadron, a burst of French flak soiled the sky. Rex ignored it. “Hopeless,” he muttered.

When the squadron landed, Rex strode across the turf toward Fanny Barton. Barton saw him coming and raised a hand to forestall him. “I know,” he said.

“You're his flight commander, Fanny. Sort him out. Right?”

“Right, sir.”

“Good.” Rex turned away. “Now, where's the only intelligent member of this squadron?”

Rex's rigger slipped the leash, and Reilly came bounding across the airfield. Rex ran lumberingly toward him, arms spread in greeting.

Fanny followed CH3 into the flight commander's office and kicked a chair as an invitation to sit. “I'm supposed to give you a bollocking,” Fanny said. “Frankly, I think it's too damn childish for that. You do realize you're behaving very childishly? You can formate as well as any of us, when you want to. Last night the CO put you in your place, quite rightly in my opinion, and today you
do all you can to ruin the formation. I call that childish.” Fanny stopped speaking. He realized that the other man wasn't listening. CH3 had put his feet on the table. His head was tipped back and he was blowing steadily at the ceiling, where a balsa-wood model of an Me-109 hung from a thread. His breath made the fighter sway.

“Lovely little plane,” he said, almost to himself. “You know, Fanny, this is my third war. I should have learned how to lose gracefully by now, shouldn't I? I can't seem to get the knack.”

Fanny thought about that for a moment. The most he had accomplished so far was the confirmed destruction of one Blenheim. He abandoned the idea of a bollocking, and sat down.
“Three
wars?” he said.

“Yes. When we didn't win in Spain I went to China and you know what? We didn't win there, either. So I came back and joined the RAF. Nobody seemed to mind my depressing record.”

“You know what the British are like. They admire a good loser.”

“Mmm. Trouble is, I'm a
bad
loser. I remember we had one outstandingly good loser in Spain. We called him Harry because he was a Pole and his real name sounded like broken bottles. Harry was a great believer in showing the enemy who was boss. No dodging about: that was sissy. Fly straight and low and treat them with the contempt they deserve. I'll say this for Harry: he knew which side the angels were on.”

Fanny waited. “What happened to him?”

“Oh …” CH3 stretched, and laughed at the memory. “Well, one day Harry told three of us we were going to demoralize the daylights out of some enemy unit or other. So off we went. In Polikarpovs. Ever seen one? Tubby little Russian biplane, not bad for combat, no good if you plan to fly through a hail of death. Not that I'd ever actually been through a hail of death, but when we reached the target we discovered it had a great number of German flak batteries around it. Let me tell you, Fanny: German flak is very good. Harry didn't give a damn. Harry led us in at two hundred feet, straight and level, spreading a thick layer of contempt as we went. Not me. I took one look at that flak and I turned and I beat it. Harry and the others lasted four, maybe five seconds. Then the flak blew them away. Simply blew all three of them away:
poof-poof-poof,
just like that. It was really very funny, the
way it happened. Like a Disney cartoon. I know I laughed all the way home.”

Fanny did not smile. “No joke for Harry and his wingmen, though.”

“Harry was a joke to start with.”

“A very expensive joke.” Fanny stood up; he did not approve of making fun of war. “Now then: what's to be done?”

“Nothing.” CH3 swung his feet to the floor. “I'm not going to keep tight formation when we're on patrol. It's stupid. Eleven men watching each others' wingtips and tails, while the leader looks at the sky? No thanks. I'll make myself some space so I can stop worrying about a collision and use my eyes to see Jerry before Jerry sees me.”

“If we all behaved like that,” Fanny said stiffly, “the entire squadron would be scattered all over the sky.”

“Sure. That's how Jerry learned to fly in Spain. They call it the finger-four.” CH3 spread his fingers like a fan. “Two pairs, wide apart. No sweat, and very useful.”

“But no damn good for Fighting Area Attacks. They
depend
on tight formation flying.”

“Yes. Another reason to scrap them.”

Fanny stared. He felt both angry and baffled. “You're bloody determined to go your own sweet way, aren't you? Squadron discipline and loyalty and … and …” He couldn't think of another word. “They mean nothing to you?”

“Not a damn thing. I told you: I'm a bad loser: There's only one thing I care about, and that's not getting jumped by a Messerschmitt.” CH3 was relaxed and smiling; the fingers of his left hand beat out a happy little rhythm on the edge of the desk. “There were Messerschmitts around this morning, I'm sure of it. All that sun and cloud? Right up their alley. I could smell 'em!”

“Pity you couldn't see them.”

CH3 looked at his watch. “How about some lunch?”

Fanny did not move. He made his voice as flat and empty as he could. “You'll get kicked out if you go on like this.”

“So what? I didn't ask to be posted here. I was very happy flying Spits at Hornchurch, you know.”

“You might get sacked from that, too.”

“Come on, Fanny. I'm hungry.”

“You won't cooperate?”

CH3 walked to the door. “I don't mind dying for freedom or democracy or King George the Sixth or whatever the hell it is we're fighting for,” he said, “but I'm damned if I'll die to satisfy Rex's neat and tidy mind.”

They went to lunch.

As Rex came bustling downstairs with Reilly, heading for a teatime walk, he heard someone hammering in the anteroom.

It turned out to be Moggy Cattermole. He was standing on a chair by the wall opposite the bar. “Hello, hello,” Rex said. “What's all this?”

“Squadron trophies, sir.” Moggy climbed down to give him a clear view of three wooden plaques, which he had hung on the wall. Mounted on the left-hand plaque was a fox's brush. “You remember what a battle we had with that brute, up in the mountains? Worth recording, I thought.”

Rex pointed to the middle plaque, on which was mounted a much longer tail. “Where the devil did that come from?”

“Blunt end of a horse, sir. The one I shot after it went mad and tried to eat me. Very savage beast.”

“Oh.” Rex flicked the tail with his gldves. “Horse, eh?”

“Well, we had to pay for it, so I thought—”

“And what's this?” Rex craned his neck. “Looks like a boot.”

“It is a boot, sir. The remains of one, anyway.” The sole had sprung loose, the uppers were scarred and stained, and the top had been very roughly chopped off above the ankle. “It came out of the Dornier. This was about the only thing we could find that was big enough to have mounted.”

Rex sniffed. “Is it … um … empty?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Cattermole spun the hammer in the air and snatched at it. “I gave it a jolly good shake,” he said as he stooped for the hammer.

“And you've got one more, I see.”

“Yes, sir.” He picked up the fourth plaque. It carried the broken spade-grip from the top of a control column. “Memento of the squadron's first kill. Slightly before your time, of course.”

“You don't mean the Battle of Southend Sands?”

“Yes, I couldn't get a bit of the actual Blenheim Fanny potted, but one joystick looks much like another, and—”

“Definitely not, Moggy.”

“Oh. Really, sir?”

“It's simply not on, old boy.”

Cattermole sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

“A question of form, you see.”

“Oh well. Bang goes fifty francs.”

“It wouldn't be the proper form. I mean, just suppose it got into the papers. To tell the truth, I'm not altogether happy about that boot … Still, leave it up for the present. We've got to be so damned careful nowadays …” Rex summoned Reilly and went out.

Cattermole watched him go. He smoothed the horse's tail, straightened the plaque with the boot on, and looked at the broken spade-grip. “They don't make them like they used to,” he said.

He went upstairs and knocked on CH3's door. The American was lying on his bed, reading a letter.

“Got a minute?” said Cattermole.

“Depends what you want to do with it.”

“I want to roll it up, set fire to it, and stuff it up your backside,” Cattermole said amiably.

“See my agent.” CH3 turned a page. “He takes care of that sort of thing.”

“I don't expect you to understand this, because you're an American, but the fact is you're not playing the game, Hart.”

CH3 put down his letter.

“I mean to say: all that piffle you were talking with the Bellamy woman last night. And your boorish behavior this morning.” Cattermole wandered over to the dressing-table and began using the hairbrush. “It's not fair on the CO, that's all. I mean, you don't take advantage of a fellow when he's just won the DFC. It's simply not on.”

“I haven't been taking advantage of him. I just don't agree with him.”

“Fine. Splendid. Excellent.” Cattermole put down the hairbrush and inspected the shadows under his eyes. “All we ask is that you shut up and do as you're told.”

“If you're looking for the mascara, it's under my handkerchiefs.”

Cattermole turned away from the mirror. “He works damned
hard, you know. It's no joke leading a fighter squadron, and you're making his job considerably harder.”

“Don't worry about it, Moggy. You know what? You're looking a little peaky yourself.”

“I said you wouldn't understand. It's a question of knowing the proper form, I suppose. Well …” Cattermole shrugged his shoulders. “If you won't play the game for the CO's sake, you might spare a thought for the other chaps.
They
know when they're well-off, even if you don't. I don't suppose you've noticed it, but …” He stroked his nose. “We're a very lucky squadron.”

CH3 got off the bed. “I don't suppose you notice it, Moggy,” he said, “but whenever you go all sincere, you have a heavy fall of dandruff.” He brushed Cattermole's shoulders with his hands.

“Listen, Hart: who d'you think pays our mess bills? How do we manage to afford all this terrific grub? And wine? And English beer? And stuff like new squash rackets and gramophone records and the latest magazines all the time? Eh? Ever thought about that?”

“You're snowing again, Moggy.”

“I'll tell you who pays: Squadron Leader Rex. Of course we each give our little check to the adj, but that doesn't cover half the cost. Hornet squadron is the luckiest squadron in Fighter Command, and it's all thanks to Rex, who happens to be the best CO any of us has ever known.”

“So you say.”

“And it's about time you realized it.”

“You mean if I don't start behaving nicely, Rex will cancel the
Tatler
and we'll all live on cheese sandwiches?”

“I mean there is such a thing as self-control and consideration for others. What we call ‘good manners.'”

“Oh, oh.” CH3 put on his shoes. “Any time the British mention manners, watch out for a kick in the gut.”

Cattermole twitched his nostrils. “Very glib, very transatlantic. It's what I should have expected. After all, with your money, you can afford to be selfish.”

CH3 doubled up, clutching his stomach and moaning.

Cattermole watched with distaste. “Look here, Hart,” he said. For the first time there was real anger in his voice. “If you can't
develop some real squadron spirit, why don't you just buzz off?” He strode out, leaving the door wide open.

When CH3 went downstairs he met the adjutant. “A word in your ear, old chap,” Kellaway said. They went into the library. “Far be it from me to curb a chap's style,” he said.

“That's good,” CH3 said, “because everyone else keeps trying to.”

“Do they? Can't say I'm surprised. You do sometimes rock the boat a bit, you know, and that makes things uncomfortable for everyone.”

“For instance.”