Free Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson Page A

sure that nobody in
this
squadron has a chance to grow old.”
    â€œOf course they won’t.” Woolley spat into his dubbin. “They’ll all be dead in a year.”
    â€œThat’s an absurd way to think.”
    â€œThey’ll all be dead in six months, then.”
    â€œI don’t see how you can possibly lead the squadron if that’s what you really believe.”
    â€œI don’t. I personally believe there won’t be one of them left alive by the end of April.”
    Woodruffe got up to go. He was angrier than he could explain or understand. “One expects casualties …” he mumbled.
    â€œThe trouble with pilots is that they are civilized, rational human beings,” Woolley said. “They have been brought up, trained, educated, stuffed to bursting with
never going too far.
In a few weeks they’re going to get chucked into the most horrible fucking slaughterhouse this war has ever seen.”
    â€œYou can’t be sure of that.”
    â€œOh, shut up. And when this bloodbath starts, if we don’t fight like animals, we’ll lose. The difference between man andanimals is that animals never worry about going too far, they just kill.”
    â€œThese men can kill,” Woodruffe grunted.
    â€œWhen they try to kill
me,”
Woolley said, “I’ll believe you.”
    Next day it rained heavily. Richards sloshed over to the mess tent for breakfast, skirting the pools that would not drain into the hard ground. The sky was as gray as the Atlantic it came from.
    Rogers was pacing out distances inside the mess tent. “I thought we might play some indoor cricket,” he announced. “Get up two teams—the over-twenty-ones against the under-twenty-ones, or something. I have an old tennis-ball. Everybody bats, everybody bowls. It’s jolly good exercise. Sharpens the reflexes.”
    Lambert said: “I intend to spend today getting drunk.” He was eating fried bread and drinking gin.
    â€œWell, you can do that too. I mean, I think we should organize something. There’s not going to be any flying today.”
    â€œIt may be nothing more than a belt of rain,” Gabriel said. “It could have passed by noon.”
    They looked at him with dislike. Gabriel was the only pilot who didn’t drink in the morning. Apparently the engine fumes did not distress him. Dangerfield, who made frequent trips to the latrine, was impressed by Gabriel’s continence. “Gabriel keeps a very tight asshole,” he once said. “I admire that. It’s a sign of strong character. Those sort of people don’t give much away.”
    â€œBut who would want what Gabriel doesn’t give away?” Lambert had asked.
    Now, Gabriel’s remark met with such a silence that he felt obliged to support it. “This weather blew up without warning,” he said. “It could blow over just as quickly. Who knows?”
    â€œI’ll bet you there’s no flying today,” Dickinson said. He was a smooth, well-groomed young man with the anonymousface of an actor. Only when he was gambling did it light up; the rest of the time he wore the patient, professionally vacant look of a man eternally waiting to be auditioned. But he moved well, and flew elegantly. “I bet you a fiver there’s no flying today.”
    â€œNo, no. It’s too early for w-wagers,” Killion said, and got no further: his stammer jumped in. Nobody paid any attention.
    Finlayson limped in. “Somebody’s plane just got blown over,” he reported.
    â€œI’ll take that bet,” Church said carefully. Nobody paid any attention to him. He put his face in his hands.
    The tent began to leak. Richards put a bucket under the drips. “It’s definitely getting worse,” he said.
    â€œAll right then, I bet you there
is
flying today,” Dickinson said. He looked around, but nobody spoke. Church took a piece of