Free Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson Page A

“Come on,” he said. “The Prime Minister’s going to say something on the wireless in ten minutes. By the way, Fanny: you’re senior man, so you’re in charge of the squadron for the time being.”
    They walked from the administrative block to the officers’ mess. It was a calm, quiet morning. Swallows and housemartins flashed and flickered between the buildings. The bells of Kingsmere church sounded clear but small. Their miniature clamor ended and a single bell began to toll.
    â€œPoor old Ram,” Barton said.
    â€œI canceled the rugger match, by the way.”
    â€œYes, of course … It’s so peculiar that he turned off and taxied into that trench. I wonder why?”
    The adjutant shrugged. “Peculiar things happen. I remember once a chap was sitting on his tractor mowing the aerodrome when a plane taxied past and the wingtip cut his head off. Sheared it off at the neck, clean as you like. Tractor went on, mowing away, and the pilot took off. Didn’t know what he’d done. Wouldn’t believe it when he landed, thought we were pulling his leg. We had to show him the head. Chap called Blackmore, Nigger Blackmore. He wasn’t a nigger, of course; that was just what we called him.” They walked in silence for a while. “No reason why a nigger couldn’t fly a plane, I suppose,” the adjutant remarked. “Stranger things have happened.”
    â€œI’ve just realized,” Barton said. “I shall have to appoint someone acting flight commander.”
    â€œYes. And you’ll have to write to the Ram’s next-of-kin, too.”
    Barton hadn’t thought of that, and he didn’t fancy the idea. “What on earth am I going to say?” he asked.
    â€œTell them he died while leading his squadron in circumstancesof unusual hazard,” Kellaway said. “Tell them he exhibited a complete disregard for his own personal safety.” They went up the steps of the mess.
    Nothing much happened at Kingsmere on the rest of the first day of the Second World War. The squadron—like every other unit of the Royal Air Force—was placed on alert. There were a couple of false alarms, but no attack came. The pilots hung about the mess and grew bored. There was a general feeling of relief that at last the decision to fight had been made, but there was no exultation. This was partly because the Ram’s death had left them in the lurch: just when they needed some leadership, their leader was no more. Yet nobody mourned him. Nobody really missed him. It was as if his shingles had recurred and he had gone back to hospital in Torquay, instead of into the station mortuary.
    Fanny Barton put Sticky Stickwell in command of “A” flight and made Pip Patterson Yellow Leader. It was the obvious thing to do: Stickwell had more flying time than the others. All the same, Barton worried about it. He worried about the lack of action, too. Every hour he telephoned Group operations room.
    â€œStill no plots on the table, old boy,” Group said.
    â€œNot much of a war, is it? My chaps are bored rigid.”
    â€œGive the Hun a chance. It’s a long way from Germany, you know. Anyone at your end doing the
Sunday Times
crossword, by any chance?”
    â€œThey’re all outside, playing cricket.”
    â€œPity. Three down’s got me really stumped.”
    Barton joined Flip Moran, who was leaning out of a window. “Bad news,” Barton told him. “Group ops are having trouble with the crossword.”
    Moran grunted. Together they watched as Fitz Fitzgerald, clumsy in flying-boots, ran up and lobbed a tennisball at Moke Miller, who flailed and missed.
    â€œI keep thinking I ought to be doing something,” Barton said.
    â€œYou are. You’re waiting.”
    â€œI mean, as squadron commander.”
    â€œYou’re in charge of the waiting.” Moran’s Ulster accent was rich and slow, and