Damned Good Show (10 page)

“Aye. Clever wee soldiers,” Langham said.

“Only trying to help,” McHarg said.

The lane went on, and on, and then Silk saw a farmhouse. “Your turn,” he said.

A dog howled and lunged on its chain as they went up the path to the front door. “I feel an unpleasant sense of
déjà vu,”
Langham murmured. He used the door-knocker. They waited. Apart from the bloody dog, now trying to choke itself, the place was dead. He knocked again. Light flared at an upstairs window. It opened with a
crash and a woman with a double-barreled shotgun looked out. “Stop your noise!” she shouted. “Get away from here!”

“Oh, Christ,” Silk muttered.

“Madam, we are RAF officers,” Langham called out. “Pilots. We need help. Our airplane has crashed.”

“Serve you bloody right. Bloody RAF, bloody planes over my henhouses so low I could touch the buggers, no wonder my hens don't bloody lay, now sod off fast.”

“There's a war on, madam. I'm sure a patriot like you—”

“You got a funny way of speakin'. You're one of they Sixth Columnists, aren't you?”

“You're thinking of
Fifth
Columnists. I assure you—”

She fired the shotgun at the sky. “And I assure
you
the second barrel won't be wasted.” She swung the gun toward them.

They ran back to the lane. “You're in breach of the blackout regulations, you miserable old hag!” Langham shouted; but by now the window was shut.

“No luck?” McHarg said. He was eating chocolate.

“I've been thinking,” Silk said. “How did those explosives get into that barn?”

“Booby-trapped,” McHarg said.

“How did anyone know we'd use the barn?” Langham asked.

“Scots soldiers are clever wee bastards.”

They walked on, more slowly now because all their clothing was sodden and their wet socks were causing blisters. After half a mile they reached a railway bridge over the road, and sheltered under it. “If a car comes we ambush it,” Silk said. No car came. The tunnel trapped a cold wind.

“How is your morale?” McHarg asked. No answer. Eventually Langham sneezed, twice. “I'll take a wee stroll,” McHarg said.

Time passed. Five minutes, ten, twenty: nobody was counting. The same appalling
crack-bang!
deafened and dazzled them, worse this time because the explosion was in the tunnel. The noise sent them sprawling. “Oh, sod it,” Silk said wretchedly. His brain seemed to ricochet around his skull. A second blinding blast struck them. They got up and staggered out and ran. Their lungs had been down this road before and they had no enthusiasm for it. Silk saw a gap in the hedge and he grabbed Langham's arm. The field was black and filthy and stretched for miles, like all bloody fields. They hid behind the hedge.

McHarg slow-marched up the lane, crooning “The Skye Boat Song” in his high-pitched, childlike singing voice. Headlights appeared; a Bren-gun carrier bustled toward him and stopped. A sergeant jumped out and saluted. “Saw lights, sir. Looked like thunderflashes.”

“You mean like this?” McHarg tossed a couple of thunderflashes over the hedge. Briefly they demolished the night. “Nobody here, is there? Ah, gunpowder has a braw peppery smell … Look under the railway bridge, sergeant. That's where they're hiding.”

“No we're not,” Silk said. “And we surrender.” They came out through the hole in the hedge and climbed into the Bren-gun carrier, “Hello, Tubby. Fancy meeting you here.”

“I shall never bale out,” Tubby Heckter said. “It's exhausting.”

Everyone got back to base, one way or another, by dawn. Eight members of “B” Flight arrived first. They had seized the driver of their truck and his map-reading assistant, and spent the evening playing darts in a pub called the Goat and Compasses.

“We owe the landlord a fiver,” said the “B” Flight commander, a squadron leader called Micky Byrd. “His wife's nephew is a cook on a Wimpy squadron, so he trusted us. Who's winning, sir?”

Rafferty and Hunt were still playing bridge with Bins and the MO.

“Not exactly in the spirit of the exercise, was it?” Rafferty said.

“It was a democratic decision, sir. We all voted. And the two erks weren't hurt. In fact they each ended up as pissed as a fiddler's bitch, and I had to drive.”

“This situation was a simulated bale-out,” Hunt said. “You escaped
before
you were dropped. It's not possible. It's nonsensical.”

“Nobody said anything about that at the briefing.”

“If you come down in Germany,” Bins said, “do you think the enemy will let you capture his truck?”

“Well, at least we know how to set about it,” Byrd said defiantly.

“Three spades,” Rafferty said.

Apart from Micky Byrd's group, nobody escaped capture. Lincolnshire—flat, wet, and thoroughly blacked out—was too much for them. Most officers were caught, usually when walking in the wrong direction. Some surrendered. Pug Duff overpowered the soldier guarding him, escaped on a horse, but was finally surrounded. A wireless op fell off a farm gate and broke an arm. At breakfast next day, Wingco Hunt said, “Well, that's given them a taste of the real thing, Uncle.”

“Oh,” the adjutant said. “Do you really think so?”

A Mess waiter interrupted them. Hunt was wanted on the telephone. Urgently. He hurried off.

Bins said, “It's not like you to sound skeptical.”

The adjutant chopped the head off his boiled egg. “I think I'm the only man on this squadron who's actually baled out of an airplane. Flying display at Hendon, 1922. Fell into a tree. Cut my head. Couldn't see for blood.”

“Bad luck.”

“Yes. Fell out of the tree, broke an ankle.”

“Oh dear.”

“Chap gave me a swig of brandy and I was sick all over his shoes. Never give brandy to a man who's had a bash on the head, Bins. They do it all the time in films, don't they? Not a good idea. The turn doesn't like it. Up comes dinner. Now
that's
a taste of the real thing. Frightful taste, too. So you see, last night wasn't realistic. If those chaps had actually baled out, half of them would have ended up in trees, half in bogs, and half in hospital. Like me.”

“You can't have three halves, old chap.”

“Yes you can. Jump out of an airplane and anything's possible.”

Hunt returned. Big flap on. Group wanted three Hampdens airborne now or sooner. German convoy reported off Friesian Islands. Breakfast ended instantly.

Hunt decided to lead the patrol. A Wingco's ops were strictly rationed by Group, so he liked to pick the tough jobs. It helped to remind the boys that he could be airborne as well as chairborne. He picked two crews from “B” Flight, one captained by a Canadian, Stubby Gurnee, the other by a gloomy Welshman, Happy Hall. The Wingco knew them to be solid, competent pilots who listened to orders and worked hard at the job. This was no day for cowboys.

He briefed them in the crew room as they got dressed. “Enemy convoy off the north German coast. Could be heading anywhere: Emden, Wilhelmshaven, Bremerhaven, up the Elbe to Hamburg, nobody knows. Certain to have an escort, destroyers probably. If so, we bomb the escort; if not, we bomb the convoy. We'll each carry four five-hundred-pounders. What are the winds?”

The Met man said, “I'll spare you the technical analysis. It boils down to this: we expect strong easterly winds to cross the North Sea this morning. You might reach your search area before the gale gets there. Here are the predictions.” He handed out sheets of paper.

“So it'll blow us home,” Hunt said. “Cloud? Rain? Fog?”

“Five-tenths cloud at first, thickening steadily. Intermittent rain, perhaps snow. Depends on your height.”

“We'll be low. Look at this.” The pilots and observers gathered round the map. Hunt's finger traced a broken necklace of oddly shaped islands off the shores of Holland and Germany. “Remember, the German islands look like cocktail sausages, each smaller than the
last. Our route leads to the last island, Wangeroog. If we overshoot it, we'll soon see the coastline where it turns north. We'll make a pinpoint and start the search. Bins?”

“Intelligence on the convoy is thin. It's either genuine or a decoy to test our response. We know that anti-aircraft defenses on the Friesians are being strengthened.” Bins saw that Hunt was impatient. “Avoid Holland and Denmark, which also have guns.”

They lumbered out, layered with flying kit, carrying parachutes, helmets, thermos flasks, sandwiches, chocolate, and piled into a truck. The Hampdens smelt cold and damp. A seagull had shit on Happy Hall's canopy and the groundcrew were cleaning it off and polishing the perspex. The engines were warm. The three bombers taxied out and formed a line abreast. The Wingco glanced left and right, and released his brakes. Even carrying nearly three tons of fuel and bombs, the Hampdens needed only half the runway. As they went over the perimeter, they panicked a flock of gulls on the ground. The gulls knew this was no day to go to sea.

“Darling!” Zoë Herrick said. “Hello,” Langham said. Then her arms were around his neck and she was kissing him, on the mouth, very warmly. He saw her reflection in a tall mirror. Right foot on the carpet, left leg bent, foot raised high behind her. Pure Hollywood. Damn nice legs. “Come and meet Mummy,” she said. “Delighted,” he said. Dissipated would have been more accurate, but he knew she wasn't interested in the night before.

The Scottish soldiers had been very hospitable. Silk and Langham had been taken to their Officers' Mess and revived with whisky. More captured escapees arrived; more whisky appeared. The soldiers were frankly disappointed that the exercise had ended so quickly. Some drunken fool of a pilot challenged them to Highland dancing. Then everything was a giddy whirl, powered by whisky. Langham couldn't remember going to bed. His batman woke him at eleven: a
Rolls-Royce was waiting. Lunch at Bardney Castle House. “I can't,” he croaked. “I'm on standby.”

“You can, sir. Your fiancée sent the car, and Mr. Rafferty's released you.”

Langham scratched his head and found clots of mud. His mouth was so dry that it hurt. He summoned up a little saliva. It was worse. Tasted like a night in a glue factory. “What happened?” he asked.

“Too much grog, sir, same as usual. I ran a bath.”

Bardney Castle House was five miles outside Lincoln. There hadn't been a castle for three hundred years; a Queen Anne mansion occupied the keep. It had enough fluted chimneys to keep a small colliery in business. Peacocks strutted in the park. When Langham got out of the Rolls he had a sinking sensation in his wallet. It quickly passed. Someone else was paying for this feed.

Zoë led him into a room lightly scattered with large pieces of furniture. “Mummy, I'd like you to meet Tony,” she said. “Tony, this is my mother, Lady Shapland.”

“How do you do.” As he came forward, Langham tried to hide the fact that he was both limping and hobbling. They shook hands. “Call me Philly. Short for philistine or philanderer or some damn thing,” she said. “I can never remember.” She was a deep redhead, exactly as tall as her daughter, and she was as American as Rita Hayworth. “Not to be confused with the female pony of the same name. Which reminds me. I had a horse like you, but I shot him.”

“I say!” Langham's brain was still sluggish. “Rather extreme, wasn't it?”

“Well, he couldn't run, so he wasn't worth a damn. What's wrong with your feet?”

“Ah. Yes. Training exercise last night. Got slightly wounded.” He smiled. “Fortunes of war.”

“Take your shoes off. Let me see.” He began to protest but she said, “Just do it. I own racehorses, I know about feet.”

“Mummy's horse won the big race at Newmarket last Saturday,” Zoë said.

“If you insist.” Taking off his shoes meant bending his legs. His right knee suddenly hurt and he grabbed it. “Just a twinge.”

“Take your pants off too.”

“Oh, look here. Is this absolutely essential?”

“Nobody marries my daughter who's deformed, decrepit or defunct.”

He lay on a sofa. She pierced and drained his blisters, and coated them with a dark green cream. “Snake oil,” she said. “Comanche chief sold it me on his deathbed.” She manipulated his knee. “Ice-cold compress tonight. Don't do the Charleston for a week.” She looked at the scratches and bruises on his legs. “You got this way flying a Spitfire? Ever tried flying it
above
ground?”

Zoë had given him a big Scotch and soda. He felt strong enough to shrug.

“I'll take the rest of your equipment on trust,” Philly said. She handed him his trousers. “This family needs a male heir. Husbands keep dying on me, and Zoë can't tell a dime from a dollar. I had an idea. You like this place?”

“Bardney Castle? I've only just seen it.”

“Take it. Wedding present. For you and her.”

“Frightfully decent of you.”

“Dump the staff. Or keep ‘em, whichever you like. This is handy for your Spitfires, right? Your field's just up the road. Okay, let's have lunch.”

They went into another room. “I was born in a shack in Kentucky you could fit in here and still have room to pitch horseshoes,” she said. “This is the Bishop of Lincoln. Charlie, meet Tony. Mind you, the fried chicken was better in Kentucky.”

The bishop said grace. He was slim and brisk, with a full head of thick, silvery hair. Smoked salmon and wafer-thin brown bread were served, with a crisp white Bordeaux. “You play the banjo, I'm told,” the bishop said, amiably.

“Do I?” Langham said. “I don't think so.”

“That was the last chap,” Zoë told the bishop.

“Really?” He shot his cuffs, and read the penciled notes on the left-hand cuff. “Nobody told
me.
I'm only her godfather,” he said to Langham. “Only the guardian of her morals.
Which
last chap?” he asked her.