Free A Splendid Little War by Derek Robinson Page A

for lunch, by the way, with fluffy pancakes.”
    Hackett and Wragge came in. “Order up some grub, Lacey,” Hackett said. Chef appeared with two plates of bacon and eggs. “Don’t bother, you’re too slow,” Hackett said. He took his place.
    â€œWhat was all that, with the C.O.?” Jessop asked.
    â€œHe shot my hat,” Wragge said. “Shot it dead.” He poked a finger through the hole and waggled it. “See?”
    â€œYou must have done something.”
    â€œWe biffed the Bolos,” Hackett said. “Sent ’em packing. But that’s not good enough for him.” He was stirring an egg yolk with a piece of toast. “We looked happy. We smiled.” He gave a twisted parody of a smile. “And that spoiled everything.” He ate the toast.
    Bellamy stopped sipping milk. “I didn’t smile at anyone,” he said.
    â€œYou didn’t do any Bolo-biffing,” Wragge said. “So you don’t count.”
    Lacey took Wragge’s cap and looked inside it. “Seven and one-eighth … I can replace it, if you don’t mind a hat last worn by a captain in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. A trifle gaudy, but … You’ve no objection?”
    â€œWon’t he need it?” Wragge asked, and at once was sorry he’d spoken.
    â€œTyphoid fever, Novorossisk. We keep a stock of replacement items of uniform. Thoroughly disinfected, of course.”
    â€œI’ve always fancied myself in a kilt,” Jessop said. He poured coffee. “Bit draughty in the cockpit, maybe.”
    â€œNobody else would fancy you,” Bellamy said. “I’ve seen your legs. Very shabby.”
    â€œWhat a bunch of queens,” Hackett said. He aimed his fork. “
He
wants to wear a skirt, and
he
goes around looking at fellows’ legs.” He spoke just as Griffin came in.
    â€œNot serious,” Wragge told him. “Just playing charades.”
    â€œYes,” Griffin said. “That sums up the lot of you.”
2
    Bellamy was sweating as he walked to his Camel for the second strafe of the day. His body felt cold but his face was hot. He mopped it with his handkerchief and told himself the air would be cool when he took off.
    â€œWe found the leak, sir,” his fitter said. “Not in the fuel tank, strictly speaking. In a joint, where the pipe joins … Well, you don’t want to know all that, do you?” He thought Bellamy looked a bit under theweather. A bit tenpence in the shilling. “Anyway, it’s repaired. Had to drain the tank first. Can’t mess about with hot metalwork next to petrol. All it takes is a spark … Anyway, your tank’s full again and we swabbed out your cockpit, got rid of the stink.”
    Bellamy nodded. That milk hadn’t been a good idea.
    â€œWe turned her over, sir, and she fired, first time of asking.” The fitter wiped a streak of oil from the fuselage, giving Bellamy time to say Well done or Thank you or any bloody thing. But the pilot just cleared his throat and spat, messily, and wiped his chin.
    â€œStrictly speaking,” the fitter said, “we should give her a test run, full revs, be sure that joint can take the strain, otherwise …” He screwed up his face. Didn’t exactly shake his head, but he almost shrugged his shoulders.
    Bellamy knew what was happening. They thought he didn’t want to fly. Giving him a chance to back out and blame the mechanics. He was furious, and the fury brought some colour to his cheeks. “Guns armed?” he snapped. “Bombs on board? Right. Start her up. Sod the joint.”
    But his guts rumbled. They sounded to him like someone moving heavy furniture. Felt like it, too. There was unfinished business down there and he wanted to lie down and let the two sides fight it out.
    He climbed into the cockpit and was glad of the support the seat gave him. If he went sick now …