Damned Good Show (9 page)

He'd been counting dead bugs on the headlights while this proof was shouting for attention. He thrust the notebook into the glove compartment and his fingers touched soft leather. He pulled out a pair of ladies' gloves. Very light. Very expensive. Very wrong.

Well, it had to be an officer. No NCO would dare. It had to be someone who'd gone on leave. That meant “A” Flight. He rapidly considered them all but he knew it was Silk because Silk had been so shifty, so twitchy, when he'd questioned him about the negligent discharge. And if it was Silk, it had to be Langham too. After eighteen years in the RAF, McHarg could smell conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline several miles away.

Silk and Langham. Went together like blood and thunder.

The war was becoming a bore.

Group HQ now required 409 to have six Hampdens on standby at all times: fueled, armed, bombed up, the crews kitted out and bored to tears by the sight of the inside of the crew room from dawn to dusk. “Shipping strikes,” Bins told them when they asked what the flap was about. But Group found no targets for them to strike. The war seemed a long way from Lincolnshire.

The Royal Navy got a bloody nose when a U-boat sneaked into Scapa Flow and sank a battleship. Nothing 409 could do about that. Too far north. Anyway, the navy had their own airplanes. President Roosevelt officially denied rumors that Americans would fight in Europe, so there must be some truth in them. Did America have any bombers? Nobody knew. All of a sudden Russia wanted a chunk of Finland, in order to protect Leningrad. Protect it from what? Was Finland about to invade Russia? Nobody knew. Nothing 409 could do about it anyway. Too far east. The only war that mattered was to the south, and nothing was happening there. The Frogs had their Maginot Line. Jerry had his Siegfried Line. One Line couldn't attack another, so it was stalemate. Nothing 409 could do about that. The gramophone played “We're Gonna Hang Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line.” Bloody silly song. Who was going to drive out the Hun? Not 409. With luck their two-hundred-and-fifty-pound General Purpose bombs might chip the concrete. Assuming they exploded. Someone dropped the gramophone record, smashed it, total obliteration, loud cheers. 409 had scored at last.

With half the squadron on standby, the other half did training exercises. They flew around England to improve their navigation. They flew to bombing ranges and aimed practice bombs at targets. They flew to gunnery ranges and fired at canvas drogues towed by obsolete aircraft. This was good for the crews but bad for the airplanes. After forty hours in the air, a Hampden needed a major service.

It worried the Wingco. The crews weren't sharp enough, some of them treated the war almost as a joke, they needed to be pushed harder, given a good stiff jolt. But the war might take fire at any moment. Suppose—when it did—the hangars were full of Hampdens with Pegasus engines getting overhauls? 409 would be caught with its pants down.

Wingco Hunt rationed the flying training. That, of course, meant less work for everyone. Yet Bomber Command was still on full alert, and no aircrew were allowed off camp until sundown, by which time it was too late to go further than the village pub. A great deal of hanging around the Officers' Mess took place. Nobody hung around more than Flight Lieutenant McHarg.

Maiming Silk and Langham had been his first impulse. For a day or two he lived in a hot reverie of revenge: he dreamed of beating
them bloody with a coal-shovel; or smashing kitchen chairs over their heads, dozens of chairs, pounding the pair to their knees in a sea of splinters; or kicking them across the aerodrome until they rolled like logs and one final almighty boot sent them flying into a stinking ditch. Other fantasies involved whips. As a boy, in Glasgow, McHarg had often been whipped. His father whipped him, using the buckle end of his belt. Schoolteachers whipped him, using the tawse, which was the official instrument of punishment, forked like a snake's tongue to enhance suffering. He knew a lot about how and where to whip people. What infuriated him was the sheer patronizing arrogance of these two. They had behaved as if they had a right to take anything they wanted. They had assumed he wouldn't notice. If he did notice, they didn't care. He was just the Armaments Officer. No better than the ghillie who carried the guns for the gentlemen stalking the deer.

With time, his rabid fantasies lost their grip. Grudgingly he thought of lesser forms of revenge. Report the pair to the Station Commander? Rafferty wouldn't welcome petty complaints about pilots, not when there was a war on. See the Wingco? Or the Flight Commander? They'd tell him to put a stronger padlock on his garage. Soon everyone would know, and it would be a sodding great joke against him. Serve him right for being so tight-assed about his bloody Bentley: that's what they'd all think. Well, let ‘em. It was his Bentley. He'd find a better way to make those bastards pay. And almost by accident, he found it. He befriended them. That frightened the daylights out of them.

The idea came to him in the Mess.

Where they went, he went. If Silk was reading a newspaper, McHarg pulled up a chair and read the back page until Silk became so nervous that he gave him the whole paper and moved away. If Langham was talking with some pilots, McHarg stood next to him, nodded when he spoke, brayed with laughter at his jokes, until Langham couldn't stand it and got out. If Silk and Langham played chess, he came over and watched. Sometimes he shook his head at a move. Sometimes he sucked air through his teeth. Sometimes he braced himself and made a soft, gentle fart. The game usually ended quickly. He always asked who won. He always seemed pleased. At meals he sat opposite them, and busied himself making sure they had enough toast, butter, salt, marmalade, sugar, potatoes, mustard,
custard. Conversation was impossible. As soon as they began talking, he offered them the salt. The rest of the squadron watched and did not interfere. McHarg's crooked, kindly smile was enough to keep anyone at bay. Only Tubby Heckter asked Langham what the hell was going on. “Brain damage,” Langham said, and walked away.

Later that day, McHarg met Silk and Langham as they were coming back from a routine inspection of the Hampdens. “You'll not believe this,” he said. The grit of Glasgow had got back into his speech. “Some streak o' piss of a pilot asked me could he borrow my Bentley! Would you credit it?” He was tittering as he strode away. The childish noise was grotesquely at odds with his heavyweight build.

“He knows,” Silk said. “I told you so.”

“He wants us to know he knows,” Langham said. “He's playing games. Why is he playing games?”

“He's pissed off because he can't fly. We have all the fun, he's just a bloody Armaments Officer. Counts his boxes of bullets all day. Dusts his silly bombs. Boring.”

They followed McHarg at a distance. His heels had left dents in the grass.

“He killed a wog in Egypt,” Langham said. “The Adj told me. This Arab broke into some RAF stores. Black Mac clipped his ear, broke his neck.”

“Gin,” Silk said. “I need a big gin.”

Rafferty was irritated by the sight of so many young men sprawling about the Mess, drinking, dozing, yawning. He called a meeting of the senior officers. “I bet the Luftwaffe isn't permanently on its backside,” he said. “I bet Goering's got them galloping around the airfields in gym kits, carrying large telephone poles.”

“We had bayonet-fencing in the last war,” the adjutant said. They waited for him to explain. “Lousy weather. No flying. So everyone in the hangars. Rifles with fixed bayonets. One chap against another.”
He demonstrated an imaginary thrust and parry.

“Sounds dangerous,” the MO said.

“It was rather bloody. But it made the chaps jump. Good exercise.”

“No, no. Far too risky,” Pixie Hunt said.

“Put ‘em in overalls,” the Engineer Officer suggested. “Make ‘em help service the kites.”

“God, no,” Hunt said. “They'll break everything they touch.”

Other ideas failed, until Bins suddenly said: “Escape exercise.” Rafferty grunted encouragement. “If they come down in enemy territory,” Bins said, “their duty is to escape. Why don't we drop them miles from here and—”

“You mean
parachute
them?” Rafferty asked. “These chaps have never jumped in their lives.”

“Lincolnshire is just flat farmland, sir. Easy landing.”

“Half a dozen compound fractures,” the MO said confidently. “Bet you.”

“Anyway, we're on full alert,” Hunt said. “Dawn to dusk.”

“Do it at night, sir,” Bins said. “Forget parachutes. Put the boys in sealed trucks. Empty their pockets. No equipment, no food, no money. Then dump them in twos and threes all over the county, just as if they'd baled out. Tell them to make their way here.”

“Without getting caught!” Rafferty cried. “The army can play the enemy. They love maneuvers.”

It was a splendid idea, made more splendid by the fact that others would do all the work. For the first and only time, Flight Lieutenant McHarg spoke. “I know the land very well, sir,” he said. “I'll guarantee to take the boys to places that will test their fighting spirit.” He got the job.

News of the exercise surprised the pilots and observers. Rafferty was pleased. “Nobody knows when he may have to bale out,” he told them. The trucks were waiting. “Your duty is to evade capture, and return to base,” he said. “Enemy troops, in the uniform of the Black Watch, are out to hunt you down.” The night was heavily overcast. As they climbed into the trucks, rain began to fall. “Your luck's in,” Rafferty said. “This will lend you valuable cover.” Nobody spoke. “Cheerie-bye,” he said. The canvas flaps were lashed shut. The trucks moved off, their hooded headlights intercepting streaks of rain. “They seemed to get the hang of it,” he said. “Now, who's for bridge?”

* * *

Silk, Langham and eight other officers were in one truck. No seats. No light. They sat on the floor, absorbing the merciless jolts of fast driving on bad roads. After an hour the truck stopped, the driver opened the back, and two men went into the night. This happened every ten minutes. Silk and Langham were the last pair. When the truck stopped, the man who opened the canvas flaps was not the driver but McHarg. “Mind the puddle,” he said, but it was too deep and wide. They jumped, and water filled their shoes. “Deary me,” he said. The truck drove away. The rain was a heavy drizzle. “The farmers will be glad of this,” he said. There was just enough light to show that he was wearing an oilskin cape and gumboots.

“Don't tell me you're taking part in this farce,” Langham said.

“Och, no. I'm just out for a wee stroll.”

“A wee
stroll?”
Silk's voice cracked. “Where are we? How far's the base?”

“Dear, dear. What a question. I'm not allowed to say.”

“Well, we intend to go the wrong way,” Langham said. “So feel free to stroll in the opposite direction. Come on, Silko.”

McHarg followed them along the lane. It was not possible to see the liquid mud, the rain-filled potholes, the pools of cowshit. They slipped and stumbled. Muck splattered them to the knees. They walked a long way to reach a crossroads. It was no help: too dark, and in any case signposts everywhere had been removed in order to baffle German invaders. Silk chose the biggest road. They trudged along, feet squelching, icy hands in armpits, rain soaking steadily through to their underwear. McHarg trailed them. Sometimes he hummed a tune known only to him.

“Look,” Silk said. It was a shape in a field, a blur darker than the night. “Wait,” he said. He climbed a gate and was gone. Langham thought the rain felt wetter when he was standing than when he was walking, but he said nothing. Silk appeared at the gate. “Barn,” he said. “Bloody big barn. Come on.”

It was dry inside, and even blacker than the night outside. “Lots of hay over here,” Silk said. “Stinks a bit.” Langham followed his voice. The hay was like a feather bed. Langham groaned as he sank into it and felt all his muscles relax. “Genius,” he said.

McHarg had come into the barn. After a while he said: “Your orders are to return to base as soon as possible.”

“Stuff the orders,” Silk mumbled.

“Someone should stand guard. Watch out for enemy troops.”

“You're up,” Langham said. “You do it.”

“I'm not the one who's trying to escape. I'm just out for a wee stroll.”

“So stroll. Scarper. Go forth and multiply. Leave us in peace.”

Silk was actually asleep, and Langham was drifting out of consciousness, when a bang like a mid-air collision jerked them awake. Before their eyes could open, a brilliant blaze reached their eyeballs. They were half-dazzled as they struggled to their feet. McHarg roared, “Escape!” Silk tripped over his own feet and went sprawling. “Escape what?” Langham asked. The air stank of chemicals. “Run, you fool!” McHarg shouted. “Before you're surrounded!” A second bang seemed to rock the barn; its stab of light showed McHarg at the door, pointing. Silk and Langham ran into the night.

McHarg caught up with them a mile away, as they lay under a tree, resting their ruined lungs.

“You're all right now,” he said softly. “I told them you went the other way.”

“Who?” Silk asked. “And how the hell did they knew we were there?”

“Gordon Highlanders. Very clever wee soldiers.”

“Bastards.”

“Aye, probably. But cunning bastards.”

The rain was worse, and the tree gave little protection. Silk and Langham pressed on. Clay stuck to their shoes until they felt like oversized clogs. They found a lane and sat and peeled off the clay. “Which way now?” McHarg asked. For answer, Langham hurled a ball of clay, and pointed. “Wrong way,” McHarg said.

“We could kill him, Tony,” Silk said. “Beat his head in with a rock. Blame it on the brown jobs.”