Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse

Had he been asked what his talents were, Flight Lieutenant Sweet would not have put flying a bomber anywhere near the top of his list. Nor, which would have surprised his fellow airmen even more, would he have claimed to be a popular leader of men. Sweet felt himself particularly well fitted to be a planner of air strategy. Some of his boyhood ambitions had come to nought, for instance his desire to be six foot tall and his ambition to be head boy. In addition, there was his dream of winning the hundred yards’ sprint and being Captain of the Southern Counties Public School Cricket Eleven, but these were lesser hopes.

His desire to be a strategist had not diminished with time as had the desire to be a professional cricketer, nor had it become unreal like his hopes of being six foot tall. The war would continue for at least ten more years, Sweet had decided. There was time enough for this ambition. When we had conquered the Germans the Japs would be next on the list, and look how long the Chinks had spent trying to hold them off: since 1931. After that we’d probably have to put the Russians in their place. It was going to be a long war and Sweet had decided to spend the greater part of it on the staff side: making decisions, formulating plans, forging strategy. These were the things of which wars were made. Naturally a young ambitious staff officer would have had a dangerous war behind him and a couple of gongs. These would be his credentials, his way of making the old-timers listen to reason. Two tours of bombers, DFC and bar and a job at High Wycombe: this was Sweet’s ambition.

He could handle a bit of schoolboy German and French. Next he’d learn some Russkie or Jap, or perhaps even Mandarin. He bought two whiskies and walked across to the solemn-faced Education Officer, an elderly schoolteacher who had joined the station only that week. Education officers were often called ‘schoolmasters’, and never more aptly, for this bespectacled pilot officer had, until ten weeks before, been teaching History and Languages at a secondary school in Harwich.

‘How are you finding things, sir?’ said Sweet deferentially.

‘Splendid,’ said the Education Officer, wondering why he should have been sought out by this gay young hero.

‘Wizard,’ nodded Sweet. ‘That’s wizard. My name’s Sweet, Flight commander B Flight. Look, sir, I would appreciate your advice. Considering the way the world is going – the war and everything, you know – I’d like to hear a broader view than we’ – quick look round – ‘get in the Mess.’

The Education Officer looked at Sweet with interest. It was quite amazing that these boys – in spite of their rank badges and medals – were only a year or two older than his sixth form back in Harwich. Younger in a way, for the war had prevented their minds expanding in the normal manner. They thought of nothing but the technical skills of their job. Most of them failed to realize how narrow and uncommercial those skills were. After the war the poor devils would suffer when they started looking for a job, just as he had, as a young infantry officer, after the previous war. A brilliant first year at Oxford with its crowning achievement a commission in a yeomanry regiment. My God, what a fool!

It goes without saying we are all proud of the sacrifices you have made, Captain, and the decoration you won, but when there are so many men after so few jobs, it would be irresponsible and unfair to our shareholders to take anyone without experience or even a degree.

He had gone out and joined the Peace Pledge Union. ‘I remember war, and I will never support or sanction another.’ And yet here he was supporting another, with these curious young men. How different they were from the chaps he soldiered with in 1914. Half these kids hadn’t even got their matriculation exam. He was amazed at the superficial nature of their conversation: flying, booze-ups and bints. Even their cynicism was ingenuous. He said, ‘I’d be glad to help if I can.’

‘It’s not really for me,’ said Sweet. ‘It’s for my cousin. He’s a pretty clever chap. No degree, but he could get one at any time, just like that.’ Sweet clicked his fingers. ‘He was asking me a few questions the other day. He thinks my advice is worth taking. Can’t think why.’ Sweet laughed. ‘He’s in the Army, he stands a good chance of a job on staff. They are putting together the real brains now to start planning the invasion.’

‘Really,’ said the Education Officer.

‘Yes. This chap will be a brigadier in no time at all. Anyway this fellow …’

‘Your cousin.’

‘What?’ said Sweet. ‘Oh yes, my cousin. He’s got German and French pretty well buttoned up and he’s thinking of having a crack at the old Russian or the old Jap. What do you think would be best? Perhaps Mandarin? I mean, you can’t tell the way it might go. What would you have advised the chap to study?’

‘He’d do best to concentrate still on his French and German. Conversational practice. Vocabulary building, perhaps working solely with military books.’ Sweet was looking rather blank. The EO felt that he was expected to continue. ‘He should try translating some of the Manuscrit de mil huit cent treize by Baron Fain, who was Secretary of Napoleon’s Cabinet. Or there’s Danilewski’s Denkwürdigkeiten aus dem Kriege 1813; I translated a piece of that once to pass the time away in France. Then for the Battle of Waterloo there’s the famous Documents inedits by the Duc d’Elchingen …’

‘If I want to read about our victory at the Battle of Waterloo,’ said Sweet, ‘I don’t need any French blighter to tell me about it.’ He laughed ironically.

‘But for your cousin …’

‘Oh, my cousin doesn’t need that sort of thing,’ said Sweet. ‘He thinks internationally: Russkie or Jap. Perhaps you don’t think internationally.’

‘I’m afraid I never do,’ said the Education Officer.

‘My cousin always does,’ said Sweet. ‘So do I. Look here, sir, I know that in the first war the trenches in France were full of poets and all that, but because chaps beat the Mess up once a week, de-bag some poor blighter and have a little horse-play you mustn’t think that they are a lot of shallow-minded musclemen. I mean, these chaps do their bit; some win a gong or two by luck or judgement.’ Sweet smiled. ‘But that doesn’t mean that when the shouting’s over they can’t enjoy some good poetry and music and sit down and try and think what the world really means to the common man.’

‘I don’t jump to conclusions,’ said the Education Officer. ‘As it is I’m rather proud to be sharing a Mess with so many interesting young men.’

‘Nice of you to say so, sir.’

The Station commander was standing alone near the cupboardful of Squadron silver. Sweet thought he was counting it. The Mess Sergeant thought he was trying to see if the rearmost cups were polished. Actually he was trying to decide if the Command swimming trophy was solid silver or only plated. Sweet turned back to the Education Officer. ‘There’s an operational matter I must speak about with the Stationmaster.’

The Education Officer followed Sweet’s gaze. ‘Oh certainly,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me hold up the war.’ He sniffed burned fat and watery cabbage and decided that he wasn’t hungry. He missed his wife’s home cooking more than he’d thought he would. What good was he doing here?

‘And thanks awfully,’ said Sweet as he moved among the earnest young drinkers around the bar. The light through the glass doors gave them haloes of sunshine. Sweet addressed the Groupie directly. ‘All alone, sir? Have I pestered you about my collection for the village children’s party?’

‘Hello, young Sweet, yes, you had a quid from me last week.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Your team going to knock spots off those Besteridge chaps on Saturday?’

‘I think so, sir. Mind you, Flight Sergeant Lambert is going up to London on a pass. I was rather counting on his slow bowling. Two of their team played for their county before the war to say nothing of this professional they’ve got. But Lambert’s set on taking his wife up to London. He says he doesn’t like playing for the Air Force.’

‘Bad show that, but I’m sure you’ll win, Sweet. I’m going to stonewall for you. Anyway, I’ve got ten bob on us.’ They both laughed and the Groupie bought Sweet a small beer.

Sweet said, ‘There’s a story, sir, that you scored a century for 3 Group before the war.’

‘That’s true enough. I also played for Fighter Command one year. Before I got this touch of arthritis, or whatever the quack says it is, I was quite a sought-after bat.’

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘Oh come along, Sweet, I’m sure I’ve bored you with the story of my batting at Sandhurst … when the umpire tried to catch the ball …’ and the Groupie was launched into his reminiscences.

Several officers moved aside, for the Group Captain’s stories about his cricket prowess were familiar to most of the Mess. His narrative was laced with monosyllabic four-letter Anglo-Saxon words which helped the Group Captain to establish a democratic camaraderie with his virile young officers. This, at any rate, was his theory. For this reason the Mess still had male waiters and barmen when most others had airwomen doing these jobs. The Groupie finished his anecdote flushed and happy. He said, ‘If your team win on Saturday the chances are the AOC will invite you for dinner.’

‘Yes, I’d heard he does that.’

‘Give you a chance to tell him your theories about staff planning and strategy,’ the Groupie said chuckling.

Sweet bowed his head modestly. Groupie said, ‘But you’re a Flight commander now, Sweet. You’re finding out a thing or two about running a unit, eh?’

‘In a small way of business,’ admitted Sweet modestly. ‘But I must say I had no idea of the amount of paperwork necessary just to get an aeroplane into the air.’

The Groupie gave a short ironic laugh. ‘Now you are finding out where the real war is being fought, laddie. Saturation bombing of airfields with Air Ministry bumf, memos, requests and bloody nonsense, each prepared in triplicate and filed under waste paper, what?’

Sweet smiled at the Group Captain to indicate how much he shared his contempt for chairborne warriors. ‘Especially when all a chap wants to do is get to grips with the damned Huns, sir.’

‘That’s it,’ exclaimed the Groupie enthusiastically. ‘I’m employed to kill Huns, and by God, my squadron will kill more Huns of all shapes, colours, sizes and sexes than any other in this man’s air force or I’ll know the reason why.’ The Groupie smiled and self-deprecatingly added, ‘At least, that’s what I’ve told Air Ministry a few times, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sweet. ‘In fact, on this matter of killing Huns there’s something you could help with … I say, I’m sorry to talk shop and all that …’

‘Now then,’ said the Groupie. ‘You know my views about those bloody squadrons where they taboo shoptalk in the Mess.’

‘Well, on this business of killing Huns, sir. There’s a pilot – a damn good chap, experienced, decorated and all that, a good NCO – but he told me that he thinks our bombing attacks are “just old-fashioned murder of working-class families”.’

‘Confounded fifth columnist!’

‘Yes, sir, I knew you’d be annoyed, but that’s not all. This war, he says, is just the continuation of capitalism by other means.’

‘That’s Karl Marx he’s quoting.’

‘Yes. It’s a misquote of Clausewitz actually, sir.’

‘It’s a bloody disgrace. A chap on my station you say?’