Free Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson

that straight away. Where was the old adj?
    The Ram let the Hurricane run off most of its speed, and then used the brakes to swing the nose from side to side until he found him. Kellaway was still standing on his own, near the perimeter fence. The Ram turned toward him and gave the engine a hint of throttle. As long as the massive, uprearing nose of the Hurricane blotted out the adjutant’s figure, he knew that he was heading the right way. The Ram taxied briskly across the grass, rehearsing in his mind the orders that would send the adjutant hurrying to the telephone:
Listen, I’ve decided to chop three of these useless buggers and I want you to—
    With a jolt that made his teeth click, the Hurricane’s wheels hit a slit-trench and the plane tripped itself up. The nose dug hard into the turf, its momentum hoisted the fuselage like a heavy flagpole, and the Ram found himself hanging in his straps, looking down the cowling at fragments of propeller sticking out of the grass.
    He swore, savagely. He was not hurt, was not even stunned; buthe was acutely aware of how foolish he must look. The rest of the squadron was coming in to land. It was imperative that he get out of this humiliating position at once. The last thing he wanted was to be rescued, manhandled to safety by the men he commanded. He could hear people shouting. There was no time to lose.
    He disconnected the radio and oxygen leads, released his safety-straps, and got his feet onto the instrument panel. After that it was a matter of swinging his legs over the side and dropping to the ground.
    The radio lead was a damn nuisance. It kept knocking him in the face. He flung it away but it bounced back and hit him in the eye.
    A patient man would have ignored it, or tied it to something. The Ram grabbed it and hung from it. He had maneuvered all of his body except an arm and a foot outside the cockpit, when the radio lead popped out of its socket. The Ram’s free hand scrabbled uselessly at the Perspex canopy.
    It was a drop of only ten feet; but the Ram was a heavy man in full flying-kit plus parachute, and he landed on the back of his head. The impact snapped the third and fourth cervical vertebrae.
    Before he fell, groundcrew were running toward him with ladders. Hector Ramsay could never wait. It was the death of him.
    The adjutant was on the telephone when Fanny Barton came into his office.
    â€œWell, see if you can give me a couple of minutes with him, would you?” he said. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “Air Ministry. Frightfully busy. Flap on.” Fanny sat on the edge of the desk. He was still in flying overalls and boots.
    â€œAh, good morning, sir,” Kellaway said. “It’s about the CO, Squadron Leader Ramsay … I’m afraid he’s dead, sir. A flying accident. He fell out of his Hurricane …” Kellaway swung his feet onto the desk and listened to the voice from Air Ministry. “Oh no, nothing wrong with his parachute, sir. You needn’t …” He listened some more, picking his teeth with a matchstick. “Well, to be strictly accurate, sir, he wasn’t technically airborne at the time …” Kellaway listened, and rolled his eyes at Barton. “Put that way, sir,” he said, “you’re right, it wasn’t a flying accident at all … Mmm …” Kellaway heaved a sigh. “Damned if I know
what
I’d call it, sir. But call it what you will, it’s still a broken neck, isn’t it, and …”
    Barton heard angry words being spoken. Eventually Kellaway replaced the telephone. “He wants to know where we think he’s going to find another CO on a Sunday morning. Do we think Air Ministry is some kind of domestic employment agency? Would we like half-a-dozen housemaids and a couple of butlers? Don’t we realize the balloon is about to go up?”
    â€œIs it?” Barton asked.
    Kellaway looked at his watch.