Piece of Cake (59 page)

“It depends how you look at it, sir. We don't say which side the odds favored, do we?”

Rex signed all three copies of the letter. “What are these sloppy civilian shirts they've suddenly taken to wearing? They think I don't notice. I notice, all right. Are they ashamed of their uniform, or what? Uniform means uniform: all the same. Am I right, adj?”

“Absolutely, sir.” Kellaway knew that half the squadron had rear-armor in their cockpits and that several had re-harmonized their guns to one hundred yards, in imitation of CH3. But he saw no point in bothering Rex with that sort of detail now.

They flew to Amifontaine in close-formation, sections astern. Lloyd followed, fifty yards behind, somewhat to the right. He flew straight and level, unlike CH3 who kept up a constant snake-like weaving on the left. Plenty of strange aircraft were to be seen but none approached them.

The weather got steadily worse as they went north. Thick gray cloud rolled out of the west like a slow tidal wave. It crossed their path when they were still thirty miles from Amifontaine, bringing gusty winds and the odd rain-shower. By the time they landed, every scrap of blue sky had been obliterated.

Skull met them and took them straight to the mess. Baggy Bletchley briefed them while they ate sandwiches. The bombers were waiting; the raid would take place as soon as the Hurricanes were ready. There was a heavy air of urgency about the operation.

“Maastricht,” said Bletchley. “It's on the Dutch border, here.” He uncovered a large map, decorated with stars and arrows. “About a hundred miles away. There are two bridges, just outside Maastricht. One on the road to Tongres, the other toward Hasselt. One concrete, one metal, and they've both got to go. That's not your problem, of course. The Battles will hit the bridges. Your job is to sweep ahead of the Battles and clear any Jerry fighters out of the way.”

“Whereabouts is the Front, sir?” Rex asked.

“It hasn't stabilized yet.”

“But roughly where?” asked Barton.

“Our information is currently being updated. We're waiting for the latest reconnaissance pictures to be developed.”

“Where was the Front,” Cox asked, “before that? More or less, sir.”

Bletchley flashed a finger across the map. “Here, somewhere.”

“This side of the Albert Canal, then,” Moran said.

“In places, yes. It seems possible. Light penetration may have occurred in one or two areas.”

“So Jerry's captured those bridges, sir,” Barton said. “Which means lots of flak.”

“This cloud will provide ample cover for the Battles, right up to the last moment,” Bletchley said. “It's a perfect godsend.”

There were no more questions. They finished their sandwiches, collected maps, used the lavatory, and went out to meet the Battle crews. These turned out to be surprisingly cheerful. “Come on, buck up!” they called out. “What kept you? Can't hang around all day waiting for you lot! Fingers out! Chop-chop!”

“Where are the rest?” Moran asked. Only five Battles were lined up.

“This is it,” said one of their pilots. “We're all here. Are you all here? Because
we
want to go
there
, so that we can knock it into the middle of next week, which will be here any day now unless you get a move on.”

“We're ready,” Rex said. “Is there anything more we ought to know? What height are you planning to bomb from?”

“Personally, I'm going in damn low,” one of them said. “It's safer and surer.”

“Utter cock,” said another. “High dive: that's the best way.”

They grinned, and thumbed their noses at each other: evidently this was an old argument. “We'd better give you five minutes' start,” Rex said. “Good luck.”

The Battle was a sleek aircraft, long and slender, but it had no more power than a Hurricane. Its single engine had to lift a crew of three plus a bombload that weighed as much as a crew of four. The machines used up most of the airfield before they got airborne and groaned eastward.

“Now that they've gone,” Rex said, “I can tell you that each of those men volunteered for this operation. That shows you how keen they are. Let's put on a good show and make it easy for them.”

The clouds were lower and blacker by the time they took off. They passed the formation of Battles somewhere near the Belgian border. There was no sign of any other escort.

Skull went back to the mess, found a comfortable armchair and tried to sleep. He had been up all night and his eyeballs ached. The mess was empty; but as he dozed off, someone started shouting and banging the furniture in a nearby room. At first he was too weary to care, but the noise grew worse. He went to see what was happening.

Four war correspondents and a squadron leader were shouting at each other. One of the correspondents was Jacky Bellamy. Skull had never known her to lose her temper, but now she was pale with anger.

The squadron leader began: “What you must realize—” but got no further. “Don't give me that stuff about rumor and speculation,” a man boomed at him. “I was there! I saw it! I can report what I saw, can't I?”

“Not necessarily. Military considerations—”

“But it's already in the German papers!” another man shouted. “What are you trying to do—rewrite history?”

“The fact remains—” the squadron leader declared.

“Exactly!” Jacky Bellamy said, and shook her notebook in his face. “The fact remains! It always will remain, but we want to report it,
now
, while it still matters!” He smiled bitterly and shook his head, so she kicked his desk and turned away. “Hello, Skull,” she said. “Can I tell you a secret? Everyone else knows it, so why not you?”

“What is it?”

“It's about Maastricht.” They went to a quiet corner of the mess. Skull ordered coffee. “Can I have a Scotch instead?” she asked. Skull ordered two whiskies. “You never used to like that stuff,” he said.

“I still don't like it very much, but since the rest of the world is going to pot I feel I want to join them.” She was curled up on a sofa, and she looked very tired. “All this is pure coincidence,” she said. “I didn't come here to meet the squadron, I came here to chase the war, and now it seems the squadron's arrived to do the same. You're covering another raid on Maastricht.”

“Are we?” Skull took his glasses off to make himself invisible.

“Yes. Don't worry, that's not the secret.”

“Well … Maastricht is a busy road system, so it would make a natural target.” When he put his glasses back on, the whiskies had arrived and she was sipping hers.

“It's more than busy. Half the German army is trundling through Maastricht, heading for Brussels and all points west.”

“In that case it certainly should be raided, shouldn't it?”

“I guess so. I'm not sure it's such a hot idea to send any more of those Battle bombers, though.” She opened her notebook. “I've been up and down France all winter, Skull, and I've made a lot of contacts in that time. People like yourself. Here's what they've been telling me. On the first day of this German attack, a total of thirty-eight Battles were sent to bomb the enemy. Thirteen got shot down and all the rest were damaged. The RAF also sent six Blenheims to hit a German airfield in Holland and only one came back. That takes care of day one. Next day—yesterday—eight Blenheims went to Maastricht, three got shot down, two were damaged. Same in the Ardennes, only worse: eight Battles took off, one came back.” She turned a page. “Early today nine Blenheims attacked Maastricht, seven were destroyed, two made it home. That comes to … let's see—thirty-five shot down and … uh … thirty-odd damaged. Say about seventy planes put out of action in three days.”

“It sounds a lot, I agree. But in heavy fighting one must expect heavy losses.”

She sighed, and massaged her neck. “Maastricht is different,
Skull. Maastricht is in a class of its own. If I weren't afraid of sounding like a journalist I'd say Maastricht is a deathtrap.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Look at what's happened there. Jerry captured the bridges over the Albert Canal before the Belgians could blow them. The Belgians sent in infantry to get them back, and failed. The Belgians tried shelling them, and failed. The Belgians tried bombing them. Same result. So the Belgians said the hell with it and the French took a turn. But the French didn't do any good either, so they passed the job over to your Royal Air Force. One thing about you British: you have a certain chivalrous style. Two RAF raids on Maastricht have been pretty well annihilated, so now the man in command of your bombers has called for volunteers to try again, and of course he got them because that's the kind of story this is.”

“Do you happen to know,” Skull asked, “exactly when the Germans captured the bridges at Maastricht?”

“Three days back,” she said. “Here's what a Blenheim pilot said to me this morning: he said they've got more flak batteries on those damn things than a bitch has fleas.”

“Things change,” Skull said. “It could be completely different by now.”

“Jesus, I hope so,” she said. Skull blinked. It was the first time he had heard her swear.

Halfway across Belgium, Hornet squadron met the waiting Messer-schmitts. They were 109's, high in the sky, so high that the formation was just a speckle of dots.

As soon as he had passed the Battles Rex had reduced speed to stay just a few miles ahead of them. Now he was flying at eight thousand feet where the cloud was thin and he could see above him. The squadron was tucked-up nicely and performing well. That exhibitionist Yank kept zig zagging about at the rear, which meant he would probably run out of fuel on the way home, but otherwise things were going well.

The speckle of dots split in two, and one part fell away. “Hilltop aircraft,” Rex called, “bandits at one o'clock, up we go.” They climbed toward the enemy. The dots took shape as tiny crosses, the crosses grew tails; light gleamed on cockpits and prop-discs. “Pick your targets,” Rex said calmly.
How the hell can I?
Fanny
Barton thought.
You're slap in front of me, you great turd.
All the same he chose a 109 at the left rear and hoped it was being flown by a panicky cretin who would stall and pick his nose and get himself shot down before he could …

The 109's almost vanished. One moment they were diving, the next they were head-on, knife-edge wings nearly invisible. And then they were sheering off, climbing away. “No stomach,” Rex grunted. Barton watched the enemy make height, and let his muscles unclench. He felt weak, and he took a deep breath of oxygen.
Now why did they do that?
he asked himself, and the answer came back:
Because they know where we're going and what we're doing and they want the Battles.

Three more times they met bands of German fighters. They were at various heights, in various strengths: a dozen 110's, a handful of 109's, a mixed bunch of both, maybe twenty-strong. Each time the enemy wandered over, had a look, and lost interest. “Don't worry, we'll catch them on the way back,” Rex said. Cox, at Red Three, glanced unhappily at his leader.

They droned on. There was nothing but a sea of dirty cloud beneath them. Occasionally it split open and revealed an underwater glimpse of a lot of even dirtier cloud. At the tail of the formation, Fitz Fitzgerald realized that he had stopped feeling afraid. Ever since they took off he had been frightened, and whenever the enemy came near he had begun trembling so much that he had to force himself to breathe; but now, suddenly, he seemed to have run out of fear. It didn't make him any happier. Anyone who'd been shot down and wasn't afraid it might happen again must be very stupid.

“Right, Hilltop aircraft, we're there,” Rex announced.

Beautiful
, Moran thought.
Now turn around and go straight home and don't talk to any strangers.

They flew a wide circle. “We'll just pop down and have a look,” Rex said. Moran glanced sideways at Fitzgerald and threw up a hand in disgust. “The Battle boys might need some help,” Rex added. Somebody pressed his transmission switch and blew a raspberry.

The descent through cloud seemed endless. The lower they went the thicker it got; and then abruptly it rose like a theater curtain and they were in clear air. Eight hundred feet below, a broad band
of water cut across the landscape. “Albert Canal!” Rex said triumphantly. “Right: fingers out.”

They followed the canal, throttles wide open, exhausts trailing smoke, and saw flak bursting a few miles ahead. The nearer they got to it the more there was, each burst spawning two more, doubling and redoubling until the sky was blotched with blackness, flecked with small white puffs, streaked with red and green and orange. “Holy shit,” someone said quietly. “Shut up!” Rex barked. “Radio discipline!”

Baggy Bletchley had been right about one thing. The cloud was a godsend to the Battles. It had hidden them from the enemy fighters. It had also forced them desperately low on their bombing runs. The Hornet pilots could see three Battles at about five hundred feet: slim monoplanes flying straight and level through the barrage like blind men walking down the middle of a busy road.

One exploded. A thick line of flak appeared as if someone had shaken a loaded pen at the sky and the Battle just touched a blot and blew up: a flicker of incandescence that pulverized three men in the time it took to draw breath. Almost at once another plane was hit, and it angled steeply downward as if seeking out the source of the hurt. The third bomber was on fire. It dropped its bombs and tried to climb away, but though the nose went up the plane did not. Flak raged around it, obsessed with annihilation. Still the Battle slogged on. The Hornet pilots saw its bombs burst in a long row, nowhere near the bridge, and then the plane sank and hit the ground, and the flames claimed it with a rush.