Free Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson

cocky.
    â€œGood,” Hunt said. “I’m laying on some cross-country flights and bombing practice for ‘A’ Flight. This Gilchrist can navigate for Flying Officer Duff. That should keep him quiet.”
    When he was listed as Duff’s observer, Gilchrist went to see his flight commander, an Australian squadron leader called Tom Stuart. In his youth Stuart had fallen off several horses, which was why his nose was bent. His hair was silver-gray because everyone in his family had silver-gray hair. He was twenty-six. Gilchrist thought he was forty.
    â€œSir, I think you should know,” Gilchrist said. “I’m not too hot at navigating.”
    â€œIt’s bloody difficult. Last week my observer got lost in Lincoln. Said he’d meet me in the saloon bar of the Turk’s Head. Never turnedup. Doesn’t know left from right. Raise your right arm.” Gilchrist did. “You’re halfway home already,” Stuart said. “I’m very impressed.”
    â€œThis may be a silly question, sir, but… am I here as a pilot?”
    â€œMaybe. You’re certainly not going to be allowed to drive a Hampden, not yet. It’s too valuable, you might scratch the paint.”
    Gilchrist tracked down Duff and warned him that he wasn’t a very good navigator. “You can’t be any worse than me,” Duff said. He was playing chess with Langham. “I can never remember how to plot a course. To calculate distance, d’you divide time by speed? Or do you multiply?” He moved his bishop straight up the board. Langham put it back. “Bishop moves
diagonally,”
he said. Duff made a face. “See what I mean?” he said to Gilchrist. “Nothing’s easy.”
    The cross-country exercise was a triangular flight: base to Carlisle, to the bombing range near Porthcawl in south Wales, back to base. Gilchrist worked out the routes with some help from a friendly observer called King.
    â€œAvoid flying over towns,” King said. “Leeds, York, Sheffield, Liverpool, they’re liable to have a balloon barrage up.” Gilchrist made a note. “Don’t trust your compass,” King said. “One degree out, and you’re fifty miles off track. Get pinpoints if you can.” Gilchrist wrote that down, and asked: “What are the best pinpoints to look for? Rivers? Bridges? Crossroads?” King shrugged. “All rivers look alike to me,” he said. “Towns are the best landmarks. You know where you are with a whacking great cathedral.” Gilchrist scratched his head with the blunt end of his pencil. “Big enough for a cathedral,” he said, “won’t it be big enough for a balloon barrage?”
    King nodded. “It’s a bastard, isn’t it?”
    At least the weather was good: bright and dry, with high white cloud. Gilchrist was not fooled. He had flown clapped-out Hampdens at his OTU, he knew how cold a leaky cockpit could be, he was well wrapped up beneath his Sidcot suit and fleece-lined boots, and already he was sweating as he followed Duff. They went up the narrow ladder that was hooked to the walkway on the port wing. The walkway led to the cockpit canopy, and the sliding hood on the canopy roof would be open, waiting. Duff turned and flapped his gloves, waving Gilchrist away. “This entry is for the gentry,” he said. “Tradesmen use the back door.”
    â€œSorry.” Gilchrist had to turn and shuffle back down. The ground crew and a corporal wireless operator watched, boot-faced.
Sprog
pilot puts up a black.
That’s what they’d be thinking.
Can’t find his way to the nav position. Jesus wept.
The walkway was narrow. Suppose he slipped now and trod on the port flap. It was only canvas-covered, he’d put a boot through it, the kite would be unserviceable. What a colossal black … He reached the end and the ladder was waiting. They’d known he’d