Piece of Cake (68 page)

The weather in the south of England during the first half of the summer of 1940 was unusually bad.

In July the skies were overcast on two days out of three; often there was fog or thick haze as well as low cloud. On half the days of July, rain fell. Usually it was only scattered showers but sometimes it was a heavy and continuous downpour. There were violent thunderstorms on five or six occasions.

All this was not good for flying.

At least one Spitfire got struck by lightning and knocked out of the sky. Another Spitfire dived into cloud and hit the ground. Bad weather concealed a hill from a lowflying Hurricane: that pilot was killed too. And there were a dozen crashes in which mud or rain played a part. Meanwhile the air war went on, as and when conditions allowed. The bad weather was either a mixed blessing or a mixed curse. If it held off the
Luftwaffe
, it also slowed down the training of new fighter pilots. When raids came, the same poor visibility that made it hard for German bombers to find their targets also protected them from RAF patrols and from flak. Moreover, the German pilots could rest and recover between missions, but the front-line RAF pilots were under a constant strain. They had to be available from dawn to dusk. They might fly several times a day. During July, one fighter squadron flew 504 combat sorties in three weeks and spent more than eight hundred hours in the air. Not every scramble led to an interception, but each one demanded the same intense concentration. Before the end of July that squadron had destroyed six enemy aircraft but it had lost five men killed and three wounded. The survivors were near exhaustion. They, and others like them, had to be withdrawn from the battle zone. Brand new or rebuilt squadrons replaced them.

It was a pity that there had been so little time to bring these replacement pilots up to operational standard, what with the weather, and the lack of instructors who had combat experience, and the shortage of spares, the lack of skilled groundcrew, even the scarcity of ammunition. It was a great pity.

On a clear day you could see France from RAF Bodkin Hazel. On a very clear day from the control tower, with binoculars, you could even see German aircraft in their landing circuits over the
Luftwaffe
bases on the other side of the Straits of Dover. Or so it was said
by people who had never tried it. In any case there had been precious few clear days in July. August might turn out better, but it began gray and dank, which was why Flash Gordon wore his flying-boots and his Irvine jacket when he went out to shoot seagulls.

He took a deckchair, a Very pistol and a box of signal cartridges. Bodkin Hazel was a small grass aerodrome, formerly a private flying club. Flash set up his deckchair in the middle of the field and waited for a gull to wander in from the Channel.

An hour passed and nothing much happened.

Then a green sports car appeared. It drove across the grass and stopped about fifty yards away. A tall, thin young man climbed out and put on his cap and gloves. Everything about him was serious. His blue eyes rarely blinked, his mouth was firm and slightly depressed, and his long jaw was cleanshaven to the tops of his ears. Even his ears were neatly tucked away. He had the head of an intelligent monk above the uniform of a pilot officer.

He reached the deckchair and cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir,” he said. Gordon's Irvine jacket concealed his rank. “Pilot Officer Steele-Stebbing, sir.” He saluted.

“Never heard of him,” Gordon said curtly. “Nobody of that name here. Try lost property down the corridor. Still got your ticket? They won't give up anything without a ticket. I should know. That's how I lost my wife. No ticket. Looked everywhere. What name did you say?”

“Um … Steele-Stebbing …”

“Umsteelestebbing.” Gordon shook his head. “Sounds a bit Swedish.”

He scratched one of his teeth while he watched a gull skirt the airfield. “They know,” he said. “They're not completely stupid.”

“Where can I find the CO, sir?”

“I am the CO.” For the first time, Gordon looked him full in the face, and Steele-Stebbing was startled by the fierceness in his eyes. His lips were tight-pressed, his nose pinched, his brows forced together. “I'm in charge here,” Gordon said angrily. “There's nobody else.”

Steele-Stebbing glanced around at the dull, deserted field. “What's the form, sir?” he asked. But Gordon had seen another bird, and he raised the Very pistol. “I wouldn't worry too much,”
he muttered. “I expect it's all been changed by now.” He fired, and a green flare climbed into the sky. The seagull ignored it. “Bastard,” he said.

Steele-Stebbing went back to his car and drove away.

Half an hour later a taxi delivered another pilot officer. He had two suitcases. He put them inside the open-ended hangar, wandered around, tried the doors of the control tower. Locked. He tried the clubhouse. Locked. A white flare soared over the airfield, quickly followed by a green and a red. He stared, saw the deckchair, and hurried across the grass. Gordon was still re-loading. “I say!” he called. “Anything wrong? Need any help?”

Gordon swung around so sharply that he nearly fell out. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded furiously.

“Macfarlane.” He was redheaded and stocky, with wide-open eyes and a curl to his lips that suggested a cheerful willingness. “Just arrived.”

Gordon studied him, sniffed and turned away. “No, I don't think so,” he said. “I've been here all morning, I'd've seen him if … Keep still.” He raised the pistol and tracked an approaching gull. Macfarlane flinched at the bang, and watched a yellow flare loop over the bird. “Bastard,” Gordon said. “Come to think-of it, there was someone. Some Swedish bastard.”

“What: just arrived?” Macfarlane asked.

“No bloody fear. Just departed.” Gordon laughed, briefly and bitterly. “One of the dear departed.” He reloaded. “The dear, dear departed. Dear, dear, dear.”

Macfarlane gave up, and walked away.

He had reached the perimeter wire, and was whistling in competition with a skylark, when a motorcycle roared onto the airfield. The rider slowed down to look at the clubhouse, then went past the control tower, and finally saw the deckchair. He rode toward it at high speed, circled it, stopped, and got off. “Is dump, huh?” he said.

“Nobody of that name here,” Gordon said, not looking.

“Must be mistake. Is cock-up. Always cock-up.” He took off a leather flying helmet and revealed sleek dark hair combed straight back, no parting. He wore the uniform of a pilot officer but he looked older than the others: more meat on his shoulders, more flesh on his face. It was a handsome face if you liked thick eyebrows
and a powerful nose, with slightly swarthy skin. He put his gauntleted hands on his hips and examined Gordon. “You are who?” he said.

“That's still being sorted out. There may have to be an inquiry. Come back tomorrow. What name did you say?”

“Zabarnowski. Polish Air Force.”

“No, no, no. Nobody of that name here. My God, I should hope not. There are limits, even in wartime. If anyone asks tell them it's been lost in the post. Hello: who's this bugger?”

Macfarlane had come back. “Looking for Hornet squadron?” he asked Zabarnowski. The Pole nodded. “Waste of time talking to him,” Macfarlane said. “Let's go and find a pub.”

“Is dump,” Zabarnowski agreed.

“Piss off!” Gordon shouted. “And that's an order!” But Macfarlane was already settling himself astride the pillion, and Zabarnowski was kick-starting the bike. They roared off.

The sun broke through the haze. No birds came near, and Gordon dozed. He was awoken by the blare of a horn. Sticky's Buick had stopped beside him, and Cattermole, Cox and Fitzgerald were looking out of it. “What-ho, Flash,” Cattermole said. “Shocking hole, this. Where's the mess?”

“Well, well!” Gordon struggled out of the deckchair. “Fancy seeing you again!” He was quite delighted. He shook hands with each of them. “And Sticky's old wagon, too! How did—”

“Never mind that. Where's the mess?”

“Oh, there isn't one. Just the old clubhouse, and that's locked. I've got the key but there's no booze, so it's—”

“Shut up and get in.” Cattermole released the handbrake. Cox opened the rear door and Gordon scrambled in as the Buick swung away and headed for the gate.

“I can't tell you how nice it is to see you,” Gordon said.

“Then don't try,” Cox said. “I'm starving, and I can't stand guff on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, but I've been stuck out here for two weeks. You can't imagine—”

“Two weeks?” Fitzgerald swung around from the front seat. “You mean you've been alone in this hole for two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“But we all had two weeks' leave, Flash.”

“Me too. I spent it here.”

“You're crazy!” Cox said. “Why didn't you stay with your family? Or friends?”

Gordon looked out of the window. “Didn't want to,” he muttered.

Fitzgerald turned away. The narrow, dusty lane rushed past. Sometimes the edge of the windscreen was whipped by strands of bramble or the overgrown shoots of hawthorn. Cattermole drove hard, making the big car jump at every open stretch. “Seen Fanny?” he asked.

“No,” Gordon said.

“Adj? Skull?”

“Nobody. There hasn't been a sodding soul in sight until you arrived. Nothing to do all day except shoot seagulls.”

“Hit many?” Cox asked.

“Four thousand exactly.”

“Nice round figure.”

“Like Mae West,” Fitzgerald said, and they grunted with amusement; but Gordon glanced anxiously. “What's that?” he said. “Mae West hasn't been shot, has she?”

“You need a large drink,” Cattermole said. “If you're nice to us, Flash, we'll let you buy a round.”

They stopped at a pub,
The Fleece
, and Cattermole ordered four pints. Macfarlane, Zabarnowski and Steele-Stebbing were playing darts at the other end of the bar. Both groups ignored each other. The landlord pulled four pints and looked at Cattermole. Cattermole nudged Gordon. “Cough up, Flash,” he said. Gordon searched his pockets and found sevenpence.

“That's a start, anyway,” the landlord said.

“Just remembered,” Gordon said. “I'm broke.”

“So are we,” Cox said. “Filling up the Buick in London cleaned us out. None of us has got a bean.”

“Will you take a check?” Cattermole asked.

“If I have to,” the landlord said.

“Give the gentleman a check, Flash, for goodness sake,” Cattermole urged.

“No checkbook, Moggy. Lost it in France.”

“Sorry about this,” Fitzgerald said. “The thing is, our pay hasn't caught up with us yet. Everything went down the pan in France and ever since then—”

“I know.” The landlord tossed a cardboard beermat in front of him. “Go on, write a check on that.”

“Damn decent of you,” Fitzgerald said.

“Well, you're not the first, you know.”

“In that case,” Cattermole said, “I'll have another pint and a plate of ham sandwiches, if it's all right by you.”

“Don't forget the twopenny stamp,” the landlord warned. “Check's not legal without a twopenny stamp.”

“Oh dear,” Fitzgerald said. “I haven't got one.”

“I have. Add twopence to the amount.”

Many RAF pilots had money troubles when they returned from France; Hornet squadron was simply unluckier than most. Problems began when all their records got lost.

The order to abandon the airfield at Mailly-le-Camp came during something of a flap. The place had been bombed, twice, a German reconnaissance plane had circled it, and a Messerschmitt 109 had created ten seconds of terror with a raging low-level attack that killed a cook and blew the foot off a sergeant armorer before he even had time to drop his mug of tea. After that, everyone wanted to get out in a rush. The last remaining Hurricanes had long since left for Berry-au-Bac. The essentials—food, medical supplies, weapons—were slung into the backs of trucks. Flash Gordon's P-36 was burned. Fitzgerald's crippled Hurricane was burned. The fuel dump in the woods was most spectacularly burned. And in the haste and confusion, half the orderly office's records were burned too.

The other half had already been loaded into a truck. Between Rheims and Amiens it got separated from the convoy. Some said it broke down; some said it was commandeered at gunpoint by French military police. The truth was the driver lagged behind, took a wrong turning and became thoroughly lost. In the end he attached himself to a British infantry unit, who were glad of the help. He carried their mortars; they gave him food and protection. Together they retreated, slowly and painfully, up through northern France. The truck was abandoned on the dockside in Dunkirk. Next day a bomb blew it into the water.

By then, of course, the Hornet pilots were home and dry. None had money (apart from a few tattered francs) and only Mother
Cox had a checkbook. The others had lost their personal belongings during the continuous scrambling from Château St. Pierre to Mailly to Amifontaine back to Mailly to Berry to a whole string of depots and transit camps. Mother Cox always kept a spare,
second
checkbook for emergencies, but even that wasn't much use to him in England because his bank account was empty. Like the rest of them, his pay was hugely in arrears.

The situation was explained to him by a wing commander in charge of accounts at Tangmere, a very large and efficient flying station near Chichester. After a couple of weeks' leave, Cox had been posted there on temporary attachment to a fighter squadron.

“Look, I can give you a bit,” the wing commander said. “I can pay you for now. But France …” He sucked in his breath. “Different story. No authorization, you see.”