Piece of Cake (17 page)

“Very sexy,” Patterson said, and squinted under the cup. “They've started breeding,” he announced. “Prolific little buggers, the royals …” He threw the dice.

“I suppose this means you'll take over ‘A' flight again,” Stickwell said. Barton nodded. “Oh, well,” Stickwell said.

Barton waited. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Would you believe it?” Patterson said. “What astonishing good luck.”

Stickwell yawned, and Barton felt his temper begin to slip. “Listen,” he said, “don't jump to the conclusion that it was my Blenheim that got shot down. It could easily have been yours.”

“Full house, kings on queens,” Patterson said to Cox.

“Not a hope,” Stickwell said to Barton. The steward gave them
four beers. “Kings on queens?” said Cox, not touching the cup. “I don't know about that.”

“Sticky couldn't hit a Blenheim,” Patterson said. “He's a rotten shot. Can't get his key in the door, sometimes.”

“Not a hope,” Stickwell said.

“I don't know about kings on queens,” Cox said slowly. He peeked under the cup and winced.

Barton said: “For all you know, maybe you missed your Blenheim and hit mine by mistake.”

“Not a hope.”

“I'll roll two,” Cox decided. “No, make it three … Oh, damn it all, roll four.”

“Well, you certainly sounded confident enough when we landed,” Barton said. “You were a crack shot that day.”

“Not a hope.”

“At last!” Cox said. “I knew my luck would change. I give you aces on queens, Sticky.”

“Not a hope, old boy. Put this round on Mr. Cox's account,” Stickwell told the steward. “Cheers, everyone.”

They drank. “I'm going to take up bloody knitting,” Cox muttered. He uncovered the dice: a pair of tens; the rest was junk.

“Hey,” Barton said. “This is good beer. Is it French?”

“It's Whitbread's,” Patterson told him. “Lord Rex has a barrel flown in from London twice a week.”

“My God.”

“Best CO we ever had,” Patterson said.

“I like it here,” Stickwell said. “Or, if you prefer,
Jag tycker om det.”

“No, I don't prefer,” Barton said. “But I'll buy another round, if you like.”

“Fanny is not as stupid as he appears,” Stickwell said to the others; and by that use of his nickname, Barton knew that he was accepted again. Not exactly welcomed, but accepted.

That evening after dinner, Rex called a meeting of the pilots in the library. He stood by the crackling fire, with a huge oil painting of a dying stag behind him and the dog Reilly sprawled at his feet.

“Right, settle down everybody,” he said. There was a pewter tankard in his left hand, and the firelight flickered on his jaw. “I
want to talk about the war, such as it is.” He scanned the faces of the squadron, testing their attention.

Moggy Cattermole softly broke wind. “Sorry,” he said at once. “Not a comment. Too much cheese.”

“If only we could connect your tubes to the Merlin, Moggy,” Rex said, “the Hurri would do another ten knots.”

“But the Huns wouldn't come anywhere near us,” Fitzgerald said.

“And there,” Rex said, “you have put your finger on it.”

“That's a trick worth seeing,” Flip Moran said, and there was laughter. Fanny Barton watched, and was impressed. This was a very different Hornet squadron: much more relaxed, more together. “If anyone can think of a way to bring the Hun to battle,” Rex said, smiling, “I'll stand him a night at the Folies Bergère.” He took a sip of his beer, to cover their silence. “It's a problem, isn't it? The men in gray won't come out and play. Obviously the weather's not going to get any better from now on. If you want my candid opinion, we shan't get any sport, any
real
sport, until next spring.”

Billy Starr said: “You mean … Hitler's just going to sort of hibernate?”

Rex shrugged. “It makes sense. France isn't Poland, is it? The French army is the biggest in Europe. They've got their Maginot Line, and they've had a month to mobilize.”

Miller raised his hand. “Please sir, can I go on leave, sir?” he said. More laughter.

“Actually, leave is a very definite possibility,” Rex said, which pleased them, “but before that, there's work to be done in the air. We've had a lot of fun putting on shows for the French. Very impressive performance. That's to say, it impressed the French. It won't impress the Germans.”

He ran his foot along Reilly's back. The dog rolled over and displayed its stomach.

“What everyone's got to understand,” Rex said, “is that this war isn't going to be like the last show. Not a bit like it. Everything's changed. Last time, your typical fighter pilot was a solo act. Now he's part of a team, and that's how he's got to think and fly and fight: as one of a team. Right, uncle?”

“No question, sir,” the adjutant said, taking his pipe from his
mouth. “Teamwork pays. ‘Squadron spirit,' we used to call it. All for one, one for all.”

Rex nodded, a little impatiently. “That was on the ground, of course, but when you took off, you were on your own, weren't you? No radio, for instance. It was a matter of picking out your Jerry and having a crack at him and hoping you were better than he was.”

Kellaway blew down his pipe-stem.

“Which you were,” Rex said generously. “A damned sight better.”

The adjutant scratched his ear, and gave a wry smile. “I don't know about that,” he said. “A lot of luck came into it. You were as good as your plane, and so was he.”

“That hasn't changed,” Moran said.

“Well, we know our machines are superior,” Rex began, but the adjutant hadn't finished.

“You say it was a matter of picking out your Jerry and having a crack at him,” Kellaway said. “What most of us tried to do was sneak up on the Hun while he wasn't looking, shoot him in the back fast, and bugger off home before his pals turned up.”

There was a gust of laughter.

“Well, it worked,” Kellaway said.

“Times have changed,” Rex said. “When the enemy comes at us he's going to come in quantity. You won't be attacking individuals, you'll be attacking formations. There's only one way to hit a formation, and that's with another formation.”

Kellaway nodded. “We found that,” he murmured.

“So Hollywood's idea of the ace fighter pilot is out of the window,” Rex went on. “The brilliant individual who dogfights like a demon is a thing of the past. With closing speeds of over six hundred miles an hour there simply isn't time for that sort of fun and games. The effective fighting unit nowadays is all of you. It's the squadron … Skull,” he said, apparently suddenly unsure of himself, “what are eight twelves?”

“Eight twelves are eighty-six,” Skull said without hesitation.

“Nonsense,” Cox said. Skull widened his eyes. “Ninety-four,” he said. Cox groaned. “Well, it's somewhere in that region,” Skull retorted. “Ninety-six,” Cox declared. “Possibly, possibly,” Skull murmured.

“Ninety-six machine-guns,” Rex said. “That means this squadron can deliver twice as much fire-power as an infantry battalion—provided we're in the right place at the right time, in the right numbers. And
that
means maneuvering the squadron around the sky with parade-ground efficiency, all twelve machines moving as one, so that when we strike, we strike as a team! Frankly, chaps, I'd like to see the German bomber formation that can stand being blasted by ninety-six Brownings. What?”

They chuckled at the prospect. Reilly got up and wandered away.

Cox said: “What about their fighters, sir?”

“Our first and foremost priority is the bombers,” Rex said firmly. “We knock them out first. That's paramount. The fighters will have to take their turn afterward.”

Kellaway took his pipe from his mouth as if to speak, then changed his mind and put it back, slowly.

“It seems to me, sir,” Barton said, “that what you've been saying adds up to using the Fighting Area Attacks. Well, we've been practicing those for years.”

“Of course you have.” Rex took a little book from his pocket and flourished it. “All the answers are here, in the Manual of Air Tactics. You know, they're not complete fools on the Air Staff. They worked out a long time ago what's the best way to tackle the German Air Force. Each one of the six Fighting Area Attacks is tailormade for a different bomber formation. And the key to success with these attacks is
tight, close, precise, formation flying.”
Rex whacked the manual against his open palm to emphasize each word. “That's why formation flying is the mainstay of Fighter Command training. You take your squadron …” He held up his free hand, fingers widely splayed. “… and combine it …” The fingers clenched. “… and bring all its guns to bear …” He crashed his fist against the manual. “… and you've got a knock-out punch that'll deck your enemy good and proper.”

“Serve him right, too,” Fitzgerald said.

“When do we start?” Dicky Starr asked.

“You start tomorrow,” Rex said, “learning how to fly in formation. At the moment you're fart-assing all over the sky like a lot of pregnant ducks. Thank God Hitler's taking a rest. It gives us a
chance to get this squadron on top-line before the balloon goes up. Right now you don't know what close-formation flying means.”

There was a startled silence.

“What does it mean, exactly?” Cattermole asked.

“It means being able to scratch the next plane in the armpit with your wingtip,” Rex said.

Flash Gordon stumbled sideways and knocked over a small table. Everyone turned to look. “For Pete's sake!” he said heavily. He sighed and moved away. “It's Reilly,” he said. “He's gone and done a … you know. Done his business. On the carpet.”

There were groans and cheers, but Rex cut them short. “That's your fault,” he snapped. “Someone's been giving him snacks. Reilly gets fed once a day, nothing more. Start messing his system about and this is what happens. I won't tolerate it.”

Eventually a mess servant came and cleaned up the carpet, but the atmosphere was not the same. Rex took Reilly for a walk. The pilots drifted off to the bar.

“So if you want to make a good impression tomorrow,” Stickwell suggested, “remember to shave your armpits.”

“Slimy ponce,” Cattermole said.

Under the Ram, close-formation meant wingtips five feet apart. Rex had different standards.

The squadron still flew in the traditional vics of three but day by day these arrowheads became tighter. The five-foot gaps shrank until one wingtip was directly behind another. After a week, the wingmen had acquired the skill and confidence to tuck themselves into the airspace between their leader's wing and tailplane. Seen from above, the squadron appeared to be interlocked like a jigsaw puzzle.

It was from above that Rex liked to inspect them. After forty minutes' drill he would order Fanny Barton or Flip Moran to take over his position at the point, while he climbed five or six hundred feet. As he viewed the whole tightly-knit arrangement he transmitted corrections by radio, telling Blue Two to ease back a fraction or Yellow Three to come up a shade. When the pattern was precise he would order a change of course or formation. His favorite formation was sections-close-astern. With the wingmen snugly tucked in, and the sections neatly slotted behind each other,
the squadron had the thrustful look of a giant spearhead. It created an impression of perfect discipline, absolute unanimity. Sometimes Rex watched them fly like that for a minute or more, just for the pleasure of it.

Nobody else took much pleasure in the training. It was grindingly hard, and tough on the nerves. There were several little knocks and scrapes, mere touches that had a terrifyingly violent effect. One moment the squadron was cruising along, the aircraft occasionally easing up and down like boats in a soft swell, and then for no particular reason Pip Patterson and Dicky Starr brushed wingtips, no more than a tickle but
Christ
! the tickle was a sting. The two planes jerked apart, wings flickering like windmills, and the spasm panicked the entire formation. Outside planes dived for empty air; the men in the middle tried to look six ways at once; the squadron scattered. Only Rex flew straight on. When, eventually, they reassembled, their hearts were thudding and their skin was sweating, and a few hands and feet had a constant tremble, which did not make close-formation flying any easier or safer. Rex was uncompromising. “Close up, Jester aircraft,” he ordered. “Now you know what happens when you daydream at 250 mph. Get organized, get together.” The training went on.

By the time they landed and gathered to look at the buckled wingtips it was all a great joke. “Pretty shoddy stuff, this,” Fitzgerald said, ripping bits of fabric off Patterson's wingtip. “We've got better canvas on our deckchairs at home.”

“Good gracious,” Patterson said. “Somebody's made a nasty hole in my airplane.”

“Dicky had something to tell you,” Flash Gordon said. “He came over and gave you a little nudge.”

Starr said: “No, no, far from it.
You
were trying to tell
me
something, Pip.”

“Hello, hello.” Marriott, the engineer officer, strolled up. “Been attacked by golden eagles, have you?”

“It's your rotten canvas,” Fitzgerald said. “It falls to bits as soon as someone looks at it.”

Cox joined them, and poked his finger into the damage. “You ought to get that mended,” he said.

“It was all right until you touched it,” Patterson said accusingly.

“Don't muck about with other people's airplanes, Mother,” Starr said.

“Personally,” Cox said, “I think they ought to make special cast-iron kites for chaps like you.”