Damned Good Show (5 page)

LAC Barber was posted to an RAF weather station in Orkney.

For the next few weeks, Bomber Command attempted no raids on German warships. 409 Squadron could relax a little. “We're obviously keeping our powder dry,” Rafferty said. “Keeping Hitler guessing.” But on September 29, two other squadrons sent eleven Hampdens to search the Heligoland area, about fifty miles north of Wilhelmshaven. The bombers were in two formations. One group of six Hampdens found a couple of destroyers, bombed them, missed them, went home. The other group of five Hampdens was swamped by enemy fighters, probably Messerschmitt 109s. That's what German radio said in its English-language broadcast, and the crews at Kindrick (who were regular listeners) thought it was probably true, because there was no denying the fact that all five Hampdens had been shot down.

Silk, Langham and Duff visited the Intelligence Officer. “Five out of eleven, Bins,” Silk said. “Not a funny joke, is it?”

“Rotten luck.”

“Luck? You reckon it's just luck?”

“In the absence of hard fact, Command isn't about to leap to any conclusion. It could have been a freak loss. Maybe some of the guns jammed. Perhaps a collision. Or a Hampden lost an engine and fell out of formation.” Bins shrugged.

“Or they all got struck by lightning,” Langham said. “All five.”

“Stranger things have happened.” Bins sharpened a pencil; he found the chore soothing. “This episode has jogged my memory. Something I haven't thought of in an age. France, 1917, my squadron got given half a dozen brand new Bristol Fighters. Splendid bus, two-seater. The gunner had a tremendous field of fire. We were ordered to fly these machines in tight formation and use our crossfire to hack down any Hun who came near.”

“Sounds familiar,” Duff said.

“And we lost five Bristol Fighters out of six on the first patrol.”

“Sounds very familiar,” Duff said.

“Still, we won in the end, didn't we? Despite everything.”

“Hoo bloody ray,” Silk said. They went out and left him still sharpening.

Adolf Hitler was not the only enemy. German measles struck RAF Kindrick.

Not surprisingly, the disease spread rapidly in the ground staff who serviced the bombers: men who worked closely together, messed together, shared the same billets. It spread so fast that the MO stopped sending its victims to the sick bay and instead isolated entire barrack blocks. By then nearly half the ground crew had a fever, swollen lymph glands and a rash that itched like nettle-sting.

Group Captain Rafferty took a dim view of such failings until he began sweating and scratching. He telephoned the Wingco. “I've got the fascist pox, don't come near me, you're in command,” he said. “Keep the flying personnel healthy, that's crucial. Use your initiative, I'll back your decisions, it's bed for me.”

Hunt telephoned Group HQ and got approval for his plan. He gave “A” Flight three days' leave. With luck they would escape infection; then “B” Flight—if they were healthy—could disappear for three days. Having only half the squadron available was better than losing everyone to German measles; and in six days the worst might be over.

“London,” Tony Langham said to Silk.

“Can't. Broke.”

“Use your overdraft.”

“Spent it. Lost it. Blew it on a pair of kings.” When Langham rolled his eyes, Silk said, “I was bluffing. I nearly won the pot, it was a hell of a good bluff, everyone said so. They gave me a standing ovation. What have you got?”

“Couple of quid. Not enough for return tickets to London.”

“Train's too slow, anyway. Why don't we drive? Borrow Black Mac's Bentley, scrounge some petrol, hit the road.”

Black Mac was Flight Lieutenant McHarg, the Armaments Officer, a big man with a dark complexion who had boxed for the RAF at heavyweight. He rarely smiled. “Mac's a miserable sod. He'll never lend us his car,” Langham said. “It's always locked up.”

“I know where he hides his spare key. He's not going anywhere, he's got the measles. He resembles a large helping of spotted dick.”

“What about petrol? That Bentley must drink the stuff.”

“I have friends in the MT Section. Sergeant Trimbull will fill her up if I promise him a flip in a Hampden.”

“That's scandalous,” Langham said. “Has the man no morals?”

The Bentley was open-top, so they wore their fleece-lined flying jackets. McHarg kept his car in excellent condition. The engine had a deep and throaty roar, the gear changes were slick and sure, the big, wide wheels had a love affair with the road. They raced across the flatlands of Lincoln, picked up the Great North Road, stormed down through the shires of Huntingdon and Bedford and Hertford, and were in London too soon. “Damn. The pubs aren't open,” Silk said.

Langham was driving. He crossed Marble Arch, cruised down Park Lane, turned into Piccadilly. “I'm hungry,” he said. “You're navigating, Silko. Where can we get food and drink at half-past three?”

“Well, there's the Ritz hotel on the starboard beam.”

It was a joke. Langham's couple of quid wouldn't buy tea and crumpets at the Ritz. He made a U-turn and stopped outside its entrance. A doorman in top hat and tails stepped forward.

“Unbelievably silly mistake,” Langham said to him. “I was sure my friend here had the invitations, and he thought I had. My cousin's wedding reception.” He gestured helplessly with his wallet, the one without the invitations. “Have you got a large wedding reception in progress? We're frightfully late, but…”

“Would it be on the occasion of the Honorable Richard and Patricia Byng-Shadwell's marriage, sir?”

Langham slapped the steering wheel. “Told you it was the Ritz,” he said to Silk. They got out and he gave the doorman the Bentley's keys and a pound note. “Put her somewhere safe, would you? Thanks awfully. Chocks away, Silko! Cousin Richard awaits.”

They went inside. “You gave him a whole quid,” Silk said.

“He seemed to like it. Now then: half the guests at a wedding reception don't know the other half. Fact.”

“Besides, we're war heroes,” Silk said. “They wouldn't dare throw us out.”

“Damn right.”

They strolled into the reception, smiling modestly and discussing the weather. Nobody paid them any attention. The happy couple had ceased receiving guests; now everyone was drinking and talking. The average age looked to be over forty. “This is more like a wake than a wedding,” Langham said. But there were waiters with champagne. They each drank three glasses while they wandered through the crowd. “Bloody good fizz,” Silk said. “I can hear music.”

A small band was in the next room, playing a foxtrot. “Ah! Popsies,” Langham said. “Bags me the long-legged blond.” But the girl he was soon dancing with was a trim brunette with a fragile face that would bust a bishop's gaiters.

“I don't remember seeing you at the church,” she said.

“I was thinking the same about you. How could I have possibly overlooked this stunning creature, I thought.”

“Not very easily. After all, I was a bridesmaid.”

“Of course you were. And I was at thirty thousand feet, so I missed the whole show. My loss.”

“You mean you were flying?” Her look of admiration made his journey worthwhile. “What do you fly?”

“Spitfire. Nice little bus. Climbs like a lift.”

“Ah.” For an instant she was breathless. In 1939 a Spitfire pilot was the most exciting and romantic partner a girl could want. Here was a man in charge of the deadliest yet the most beautiful fighter in the world. Every day he soared into the blue at speeds beyond imagination, and did it in defense of his country. She had danced with film stars, Olympic athletes, the sons of dukes. None was touched with the glory of a Spitfire pilot. What's more, this man was good-looking. And modest. And funny.

“How fast can you fly?” she said.

“Can't tell you that, I'm afraid. Official secret.”

“Oh.”

“Fast enough to catch any Hun who's foolish enough to show his ugly face.”

The music stopped and they did not release each other. “I won't let
go till it thunders,” she said, which made him laugh. The band began again. “I know this one,” he said. “It's called ‘Embraceable You.'” He hummed a few bars. They were dancing more closely now, so closely that she could gaze at the wings on his tunic without betraying her fascination. “You have a wonderfully masculine fragrance,” she said. “Is that from your Spitfire?”

“It's more likely to be from my Bentley.” He felt good about owning a Bentley. “With perhaps just a hint of spaniel.” What was a Spitfire pilot without a spaniel at his heels?

The dance ended. “I hear thunder,” she said, and let go of his hand. “Look … I've seen too much of these people and not nearly enough of you. That's a shocking thing to say, and it isn't at all the way I was brought up to behave, but I don't care. So will you walk me home? I simply must get out of this dress. Damn. That's not what I meant.”

“My arm is yours.”

He walked her to the top of Piccadilly. She had an airy apartment in Albany, furnished in rich, soft, countryside colors. Her name was Zoë Herrick. “A cross between a haddock and a herring,” she said. “James the First is said to have invented it for one of his favorites because the boy was neither one thing nor the other, so the king said. Later on the lad got a knighthood, so he can't have been a complete failure. Actually I'm Zoë Herrick Herrick. No hyphen. Sounds like a hiccup. There's some absurd family reason behind it.”

“I knew a boy at Clifton whose uncle is General Gore Gore Gore Plantaganet Finbar-Gore,” Langham said.

“Poor chap.”

“Known as Gore-Blimey, for short.”

“Make yourself a drink, while I get changed.”

“What I really need is a ham sandwich. I missed lunch.” Langham sucked in his cheeks and crossed his eyes.

“Don't
do that.
Please.”
She was upset; he stopped at once. “I can't stand it when …” She never completed the sentence; instead she embraced him and kissed him on the lips several times.

“Perhaps the ham sandwich is unimportant,” he said; but his gastric juices spoke softly and contradicted him.

“No, no, obviously you must have food, you poor thing, we'll go to the Savoy, they always have everything …”

“I'm sure they do, my sweet embraceable you,” he said gently.
“Unfortunately I don't. Especially money. The banks were closed by the time we—”

“Oh …
cobblers,”
she said. “Whatever that means.” She went to a desk and came back with a bundle of notes. “Here.”

“Fifty quid.” Two month's pay. “You scarcely know me.”

“Well,
you
scarcely know
me.”
She stood, hands on hips, bright-eyed, more delicious than a plate of ham sandwiches. “So now we're quits.”

That night they went to several parties. Compared with RAF Kindrick, this was Shangri-la with knobs on. Zoë seemed to be plugged into an endless network of pleasure; they began in a penthouse in Soho, moved to a Chelsea studio, to a townhouse in Belgravia, to a huge cellar in Notting Hill where a roulette wheel was doing big business. After that he stopped asking where they were going. Who cared? As long as Zoë knew, and the taxi-drivers knew, and the drinks were big, and she was welcomed everywhere (which made him instantly popular too) and the young and beautiful of London were having a bloody good time, many of them in uniform, damn good types, damn good music, damn fine party, then who gave a damn? He liked music. Never realized how much. They were in the cellar, dancing, when he told her: “I would say you're like thistledown, but I can't pronounce thistledown.” The music stopped. He went over to the band and asked them to play ‘Embraceable You,' and turned and saw Silko with his arms around two redheads.

“These are my twins,” Silk said, speaking carefully. “I'm in love with one. She's the one who hasn't got a mole on her bottom, but she won't show me, so I don't know where I stand.”

“You can't stand,” one redhead said. “If we let go,” she told Langham, “he falls down.”

“Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?” Langham asked him.

“Can't tell you, because … I don't know where I stand.” Suddenly he cackled with laughter. His knees folded.

“We'll look after him,” the other redhead said.

“I'll meet you at the Ritz,” Langham said. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Bloody good joke, that,” Silk said.

Then the band was playing, and Langham was dancing again. “Apologies,” he said. “Should have introduced. That was Silko.”

“Silko was blotto,” Zoë said. Not criticizing. Just observing.

“Bravo Silko!” he said, and she smiled; so he said, “Bravo Silko
blotto pronto Groucho Harpo Brasso Blanco!” and she laughed, so he quit while he was ahead.

Next morning he woke up in her apartment. He was on the couch. Luckily it was a big couch. The royal aroma of freshly brewed coffee promised to wash all his sins away. He sat up, the blanket fell off, he was in his underwear. He never slept in his underwear. NCOs and Other Ranks slept in their underwear. Also convicts in American films. He saw his legs. Covered in ugly black hair. Except the feet. Why no hair on the feet? Nasty-looking things, feet. And kneecaps. Both bald as an egg. Not things of beauty. So God created trousers.

Zoë came in with coffee on a tray. “I couldn't get you into bed,” she said. “Too heavy. But at least I got your uniform off.”

“Trousers come in pairs,” he said. “Nobody has ever seen one trouser all on its own. Odd, isn't it?”

“I've sent everything to be cleaned. It smelled dreadfully of rum. You can wear this.” A tweed suit hung over a chair. Also a shirt and tie.