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

‘That’s right, sir.’

Usually the Group Captain listened to the BBC news broadcast at nine o’clock. That gave him something to talk about as he visited the planes.

‘I missed the news tonight,’ said the Groupie.

‘I heard it,’ said Lambert. ‘An American fortress raid on the Channel ports. And there’s a big new German attack upon Rokossovsky around Kursk from Orel and Byelgorod. In the first day’s fighting alone the Red Army destroyed five hundred German tanks and over two hundred aircraft.’

‘Splendid,’ said the Groupie and turned on his heel and hurried back to his car. He wound up the window against the cold night air.

‘Bloody Bolshie,’ said the Group Captain.

‘Pardon, sir,’ said the Admin Officer who hadn’t heard the conversation.

‘Lambert, a bloody Bolshie I say.’

‘Lambert, sir?’

‘Why else would he have “Stalin for King” written on his aeroplane?’

‘I don’t think it’s there now,’ said the Admin Officer tactfully. He knew it was Carter’s aeroplane to which the Groupie referred.

‘I know it isn’t there now,’ said the Groupie sarcastically. ‘He’s had a fresh aircraft given to him today.’

The Admin Officer was about to correct the Group Captain but it seemed such a small matter to argue about. He’d be with the Groupie for most of the night. Why put him in a bad mood.

‘I see, sir,’ he said. He watched the red sparks fly as the Group Captain lit his pipe and puffed at it angrily.

‘Just gave me a lecture about his glorious Red Army.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Well, of course I’m not going to put up with that sort of thing. Take me to see that young officer who’s on his first trip tonight.’

‘Pilot Officer Fleming, sir. Z for Zebra. Parked near the trees, driver.’

The car turned and crossed the peri track. The Groupie seemed not to have heard. ‘I’ll get rid of him, Griffith.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Young Sweet was on about him only today.’

‘Was he, sir?’

‘Hinted that he was a Red.’ The Groupie gave a short humourless laugh. ‘Only I was too damned stupid to see what young Sweet was driving at.’

‘He said that Lambert was a Red?’ asked Pilot Officer Griffith in amazement.

‘No, he didn’t. Too loyal to his flight, too damned fine a young officer to even suspect a senior NCO of such a thing. No, Sweet just reported a piece of Lambert’s bloody propagandizing Communist bilge in the Mess. As I say, young Sweet was so hesitant that it’s not until I had the full force of it myself that I’ve tumbled to what’s going on. What say you to that, Griffith?’

‘Remarkable, sir.’

‘Bloody remarkable, Griffith. If the AOC had got wind of it I’d have been remarkable on my bloody earhole, Griffith.’ No sooner had the Group Captain got his pipe alight than he rapped it against the metal ashtray to empty it.

‘Indeed you would, sir.’

‘Who did you say this next one was?’

‘Z for Zebra, sir. Three officers in the crew. The captain is Pilot Officer Fleming. His first operation.’ The car stopped and Griffith ticked his list of names.

‘Bloody cold, eh, Fleming?’ boomed the Groupie striding across the tarmac. The Admin Officer prodded the smouldering tobacco to be sure it was quite extinguished. With all this petrol about smoking was strictly forbidden.

Voices carry a long way on an airfield, especially at night. Battersby had heard the WAAF driver stop at S Sweet on the far pan.

‘All change,’ she called. There were laughs and shouts and then he heard her say, ‘Good luck, sir,’ and knew she was talking to Sweet. Battersby felt a stab of jealousy. After all, she had blown him a kiss. He walked around, checking the exterior of his aircraft. Officers always got the pretty ones.

A Corporal rigger poured hot sweet tea for all of them. The enamel cups were chipped and smelled faintly of oil but it was hot and welcome. Digby was still leaning against the wheel and dreaming when he heard the distant voices of Joe for King’s crew. They were standing around the door of their aeroplane arguing.

Their aeroplane smelled new and strange and the ladder still had protective grease on it.

‘Why can’t we have Joe?’ Ben Gallacher said.

‘Ask Himmler,’ said Carter. ‘You’ve asked me ten times. It’s not the fuses, they can’t trace the fault.’

‘What am I, then?’ said Gallacher. ‘Am I the bloody Flight Engineer or the tea-boy? Why aren’t I consulted?’

‘Can’t you get it into your thick head? The kite’s duff. For Christ’s sake stop binding, you’re making me jumpy.’

‘I want to fly in Joe for King,’ said Gallacher.

Collins, the bomb aimer on his last operation, reached into the inside pocket of his battledress blouse and found a piece of chalk. He climbed up two rungs of the ladder and, leaning to one side, he wrote ‘Joe for King’ across the squadron letter. Under that he scribbled just a huge curling moustache.

‘Now you are flying in Joe for King,’ said Tommy Carter, ‘get in and bloody well belt up.’ Gallacher swung round and aimed a punch at his captain. The punch sounded very loud and it was followed by a shocked silence. Tommy didn’t respond at all; he’d taken the blow on his thick harness and it hurt Gallacher’s hand more than Tommy’s chest.

Joe for King’s navigator was Roland Pembroke, a public-school-educated twenty-year-old from Edinburgh. Watching the two men growling at each other he was filled with a despairing horror. The engineer and pilot had never got on well together; Gallacher had failed the pilot’s course and was still jealous of the ones that hadn’t. Tommy, on the other hand, had that exasperating calm rectitude that only policemen display. Roland Pembroke had done everything he could think of to bring the two men closer. He turned to the Corporal rigger and asked in a whisper, ‘Did you get it?’

‘It will be waiting; that bird Cynthia in the Bell is saving me a bottle.’

‘And cups,’ said Roland Pembroke in his soft lowland accent.

‘Glasses,’ said the Corporal. ‘She’s promised to wangle me some glasses.’

‘Great,’ said Roland.

‘And I’ve got sausage rolls too.’

Roland pushed his navigational gear into the door of the plane and heaved a sigh of relief. Tomorrow was Sergeant Carter’s twenty-first birthday and the completion of ‘Tapper’ Collins’ final operation. Roland Pembroke had planned a surprise party right there on the pan so that the ground-staff boys and the crew could celebrate. It had started badly.

‘Ten trips done, twenty to go,’ said Pembroke as he disappeared into the aeroplane, crossing his fingers to stave off danger as he always did.