Damned Good Show (28 page)

“Correct,” Duff said.

“So what does a squadron leader do?”

“A squadron leader is a flight commander.”

“Satisfied now?” Rollo said to her.

“It's how Bomber Command operates,” Rafferty said. “We're big business. RAF Coney Garth is more than a mile square. Airfield, a thousand yards long. Personnel total twelve hundred.”

“It's going to be tough to squeeze all that into the frame,” Rollo said. “Perhaps we could start by taking a look around the station. Get an overall impression.”

Rafferty agreed. “Jolly good idea. We'll lay on a guide.”

“Unfortunately I have business to attend to,” Duff said. “Let me see …I think Flying Officer Lomas is free this morning.”

Handshakes all round. The visitors went away with Sergeant Felicity Banks to find Lomas.

Rafferty was in good spirits. “They seem to know their business, don't they? And they don't want to interfere with your duties, which is nice. I can't see any problems, can you?”

“Piece of cake, sir.”

Flying Officer Lomas was a lanky, bony six-footer, aged twenty-two. He was nicknamed Polly, because he had a nose like a parrot. His right arm was in a sling.

“Enemy action?” Rollo asked.

“In a manner of speaking. Playing rugger in the Mess, with a cushion for a ball Got trodden on by Beef Benton, stupid elot. Cracked a wrist.”

He showed them around the station; a great number of brick buildings linked by asphalt paths.

“Tell me something,” Kate said. “What's the worst part about bombing Germany? The absolute worst?”

“Weather. Winds, cold, fog.”

Rollo glanced at Kate. “That's going to look damn dull on the screen,” he said.

“Most bomber ops
are
dull,” Lomas said. “Fly there, bomb the target, fly home. Six hours in the air and you end up with a numb bum. Would you like to see the airfield?”

RAF Coney Garth was restlessly busy. There was always a Wellington warming up or taking off, or cruising around the circuit, or landing. Groundcrew came and went, on bikes, in vans or trucks. The Tannoy never ran out of information. “Ops tonight, am I right?” Rollo said. “Tell me what's happening.”

Lomas laughed, and looked away. “All terribly hush-hush, I'm afraid. Do you know Ginger Rogers? Working in films must be jolly interesting.”

On their way back he met a young pilot officer, as ruddy as a plowboy. “This is Harry Chester,” Lomas said. “Not a bad golfer. Completely hopeless in a Wimpy.” They chatted. Chester glanced at Kate as often as he dared.

“You look like the dangerous sort,” she said. “What's the most dangerous thing you've come across in 409?”

Chester grinned. “Oh, riding the Grand National, without a doubt. It's a game we play in the Mess on Guest Nights and suchlike. You put a sofa on its back and ride into it on a bicycle, flat out, so you go flying over the top. Whoever flies furthest wins. Damned hairy! Good fun, though.”

They thanked Lomas and Chester, and said goodbye.

“They won't talk,” Rollo said. “Why won't they talk? We're not the enemy.”

“And we're not members of their club,” Kate said. “We don't belong here. That's why.”

“Well, it's not bloody good enough.”

The business that Pug Duff had to attend to involved a fight.

Every aircrew officer had a number of airmen whose conduct and welfare were his concern. In Flight Lieutenant Silk's case the men were in the Motor Transport Section. One of them, LAC Piggott, had allegedly caused an affray in the guardroom while signing out of camp. Now Piggott and Silk were in front of Wing Commander Duff, who was trying to decide whether or not this was a court-martial offense. He was reading Piggott's statement. “You say you entered the guardroom and the SP on duty, Corporal Black, declared,

‘Hello, Manky Piggott, you Welsh bastard. How much petrol you stole today?' Is that correct?”

“Sir.”

“So you hit him.”

“He poked me with his pencil, sir.”

“So you hit him.”

“I hit him
back
, sir. He poked me first. Self-defense, sir.”

“He's got a fractured jaw.”

“Slipped an” fell, sir. Bashed “is face on the floor.”

Duff clenched his teeth. He looked at Silk. “Extreme provocation and defamation, sir,” Silk said. “Piggott isn't Welsh, he's Scottish. And the term ‘manky': highly offensive, sir.”

“It means scruffy, dirty, squalid. That's what Piggott is. You're known as Manky Piggott from end to end of this camp, aren't you?” Piggott couldn't find a helpful answer, so he stayed silent. Duff massaged his brow. Airmen must not hit policemen. Corporal Black was all mouth and no brain. Piggott was a good mechanic, and Coney Garth was short of mechanics. Policemen were two a penny. What mattered most? Operational efficiency. He looked up.

“Many things have gone wrong this morning, Piggott. Things your manky brain never even considers. For instance, I've got three Wimpys unserviceable. Last night, they could fly. Today: no damn good. I've just heard that Group wants volunteers for some new cloak-and-dagger squadron. Bang goes my best crew, I expect. All our bombsights have got to be re-calibrated, yet again. There's food poisoning in the Sergeants' Mess, for God's sake. Those bloody silly moles are back, digging holes in the flare-path. There's a funeral for Pilot Officer Diamond and the rest of S-Sugar to be arranged. And you're in trouble once more. Not a happy list, is it?”

“No, sir.” Piggott sounded genuinely worried.

“Then consider yourself extremely fortunate. Loss of pay and confined to camp for twenty-eight days. Next time: the glasshouse.”

Piggott saluted and marched out, well satisfied.

“Bloody idiots.” Duff threw the papers into his out-tray. “That includes you, Silko. You're still running your petrol swindle, aren't you?”

“Not a swindle, Pug. Bloody good value.”

“Bloody quick cremation. One day some sprog PO will fill his Austin Seven with hundred-octane juice and go out in a blaze of glory.”

“I had the Frazer-Nash converted. She loves aviation gas.”

“I don't care. Look: do me a favor and remember that the Waafs' letters are censored. All women lie, I know, but… What do they see in you? You're bloody
scruffy
, Silko.”

“Scruffy, but not manky.”

“Can't you leave the poor girls alone?”

“That's rich, coming from you. Don't forget I knew you in Elementary Flying Training. You humped anything that would lie still for five minutes.”

“Ancient history. Beat it, I've got work to do.”

“Three minutes, sometimes. Is it true you've got the lead in this MGM epic?”

“What epic? It hasn't been officially announced yet.” Duff couldn't disguise the satisfaction in his voice.

“Everyone knows,” Silk said. “Security here is a disgrace.”

In the afternoon, Rollo and Kate separated. Rollo tried to talk to the mechanics, with no success. If he looked in a hangar, a flight sergeant with a spanner ordered him away. He wasn't allowed anywhere near a bomber on the perimeter. “There's a flap on,” a fitter told him. “Don't hang about. A prop might chop your head off.”

Kate went elsewhere and sought out unemployed aircrew who might like to go for a walk and discuss ops. After a couple of hours she returned to married quarters. Rollo was in an armchair, rubbing his scar with the eraser end of a pencil, and scowling at a foolscap pad. “Any luck?” he said.

“Yes and no. I met three lonely lads. One poor boy just lost his mum. Died of injuries she got in the Blitz. I held his hand. The other two said flying is boring and did I feel like a quick roll in the hay? Not in so many words, of course.”

“Bastards. I hope you told them you're happily married.”

“My poor feet.” She sat on the floor and rested against his legs. “You're so innocent, Rollo. They want their mothers. Haven't you ever read Freud?”

He waved Freud away. “I don't want to know about it. Go and see the MO, he'll give you some special double-strength vulcanized condoms made out of Russian tractor tires. I've got a script.”

She took the pad and read. “Bombs,” she said. “More bombs.”
She turned a page. “Oh, look: another bomb.”

“Use your imagination, Kate. 409 is all about bombing, okay, so we tell the story
from the bomb's point of view.
It arrives at the base, overhears scraps of conversation, all about the next op. The big day comes, it's towed out to a Wimpy, someone chalks a message on it, ‘To Hitler from 409' or something, and we take off. Finally: climax! Picture this: a black screen slowly opening, dividing in half. We're in the bomb bay. Looking past our bomb, at Germany, miles below. It falls.” He whistled down the scale. “Bombs gone! We watch, and watch, until bang! Target erupts. Doors close. End of film.”

“End of career, more likely.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“It stinks. Nobody loves a bomb, Rollo. Nothing interesting happens in a bomb dump. This tells me zero about 409. Where are the people? Twelve hundred people here, and you show me a bomb.”

“You're a cruel, cruel woman.” He tore up the script. “AH right. You want people, I'll give you people. That sergeant Waaf, Felicity Somebody, she's got to be in this film. I see her in the Operations Room, sitting by the phone, waiting for the last Wellington to return. Courage personified.”

“She's not Ops. She's Admin,” Kate said.

“She's stunning. And nobody will know the difference.”

Rollo met the Wingco in his office. “Problem,” he said. “This film isn't about
things
or
places
, it's about
people.
But every time we try to talk to your people, they clam up.”

“Oh dear.”

“Frankly, I could get more information out of a bomb.”

“Well, that won't do.”

“We need them to tell us what it's like to do their job. I mean,
really
like. All the details, good and bad. So we'll have something to build a framework with.”

“Aircrew are a modest lot, Mr. Blazer. It's not done to brag in the
RAF. Makes chaps uncomfortable. Still, leave it to me. I'll sort something out.”

Duff sent for his two flight commanders and explained the need for complete cooperation with the film crew. “This movie is to be absolutely honest,” he said. “Nothing phony. They want to know exactly what it's like to be on a bomber squadron. As it's a film, I suppose they want action. A few gory details wouldn't do any harm.”

“They'll wet their knickers if they hear the truth,” said Squadron Leader Pratten. He was Australian: chunky, balding, with a deeply corrugated forehead.

Duff said, “Well, I wet my knickers often enough when we were bombing those invasion barges last summer.”

The other squadron leader was a tall Cornishman called Hazard, a permanently serious man who only removed his pipe in order to eat or sleep. “It's not easy to get the boys to talk,” he said. “You know how they feel about shooting a line.”

“Nobody else will be present. All I want is the truth, and bags of it.”

“Even if it hurts?” Pratten said.

“The truth always hurts.”

Next morning, the Wingco told Rollo that a few aircrew had agreed to discuss some of their memorable experiences. Rollo was delighted. “AH in total confidence,” Duff said. Rollo put his hand on his heart.

They used a quiet office, empty except for a few chairs. “Coffee and biscuits have been organized,” Duff said; and left.

The first man was a flight-lieutenant pilot, nothing special to look at, medium build, forgettable face. He said, “I'm told you're interested in the sort of stuff one never hears on the BBC or reads in the papers. Well, I saw this happen. Over Munster. Heavy flak, very concentrated, you could smell it. The searchlights found a Wimpy, not from 409, and they coned it.” His hands made a cone shape, fingertips touching. “So all the flak batteries plastered it and soon it was on fire.” The more he spoke, the softer his voice. “I was counting the parachutes. Bins always wants to know. Somebody came out of the top, probably the nav, maybe the wireless op. Anyway, he smashed straight into the tail. The Wimpy has a very high tail-fin, you've seen it, I expect. Tall and sharp. Then the pilot got out. Exit in the cockpit roof. Not easy, with all that clobber we wear, but he got out. Now he's in the slipstream, a hundred and fifty miles an hour and it blows
him against the radio mast. The poor bastard is hooked around the mast. And the speed's going up because his Wimpy's going down. If he gets off the mast, the tail's waiting.” The flight lieutenant stood up. “And all as bright as day” He nodded goodbye and went.

“He didn't finish,” Rollo said.

“He told us all he knew,” Kate said.

Next was a wireless op, not yet nineteen, with two scraps of toilet paper on his chin where he'd cut himself shaving, not having practiced much. He had a lopsided grin to match his bent teeth.

“Over the target, see,” he said. “Can't remember where, they all look the bloody same to me. Doesn't matter, anyway. Nobody can see the ground, too much haze. Must have been the Ruhr. Skipper says, drop a flare, so I plopped one down the flare-chute and the bloody thing gets stuck! And ignites! That's half a million candle-power! I'm blinded, I'm choking on smoke, Jerry can't believe his luck, he's chucking flak at us with both hands, and the crew's screaming at me to do something.” He found the memory very funny.

“You're here, so you must have done something,” Rollo said.

“Yeah. I put my leg in the chute and stamped down hard. That shifted the bugger. Nearly chopped off the family jewels, too. Long chute, short legs, goodbye goolies!”