Len Deighton 3-Book War Collection Volume 1: Bomber, XPD, Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton
Huns.’
‘You did right, laddie. I’m a Hun-killer, as you well know, only way to get the war won. I’ll be looking into it. If he’s going to lose his nerve for killing Huns it will be better to put the chap on to something he can manage.’ The Mess waiter caught the Groupie’s eye. He nodded. ‘Cleaning our latrines, for instance.’
‘I thought you’d better know, sir.’
‘Quite right,’ said the Groupie. ‘But then you usually are, young Sweet, but don’t say I said so, what?’ They both smiled.
‘Oh, by the by, sir. Perhaps you’ve heard about this little experiment I’m doing on one of the rear turrets.’
‘I heard something about it. What are the details?’
‘Well, it came to me one morning when I opened the window in order to see more clearly …’
In the hall a corporal struck the gong; its soft sound echoed through the old house. ‘Come along, gentlemen, let the prisoners eat a hearty lunch.’ The Groupie always said that at lunchtime. In the evenings he said ‘hearty dinner’.
He turned back to Sweet. ‘I saw you talking to our new schoolmaster. Nice chap, isn’t he?’
‘Indeed he is, sir. A very good type indeed, sir.’
‘And gives the Mess a bit of style having a VC here, what?’
‘VC, sir?’
‘The schoolmaster my boy, Pilot Officer Pearson, VC. Don’t tell me you didn’t make a beeline for that purple ribbon. Everyone does. Nineteen-seventeen; killed twelve Huns with a sword and dozens more with hand grenades, held a section of Boche trench for two hours until reinforcements arrived. Fascinating, what? Seeing an officially accredited hero in the flesh.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sweet, trying to remember what he had said, ‘but let me tell you about this silly little idea I’ve had about the Perspex in rear turrets …’
The Lanc that Lambert had followed came in to land on Warley Fen’s main runway. There were no squadron letters or call signs, no bombs painted on its side, no pet names. There were no guns in the turrets nor gunners to man them. There was not even an engineer to help with the fuel changeovers or assist with the controls. It made a perfect landing and obeyed the tower’s instructions with a care that was unusual. A Hillman car sped out to the bomber and waited while the pilot checked through the procedures with the ground crew and the Engineer Leader. The engineer officer was Sandy Sanderson, a slim-hipped Lothario who had bet ten shillings that he’d have lunch with the ferry pilot. He lost. The pilot, a twenty-year-old brunette in the uniform of the Air Transport Auxiliary, declined with a knowing smile. Is it dangerous, her mother had once asked her? Only after you land, Mother. As well as flying the four-motor aircraft entirely alone she had eaten three cheese sandwiches while doing so. By missing lunch she would have time to get back to the storage unit and deliver another aircraft before finishing work for the day.
There were always new modifications on the planes coming from factories, and this group, like most of the others, had special requirements that had to be incorporated. Wing Commander Munro and Sandy didn’t finish their ground inspection until ten minutes to three.
It was a quarter past three when they hurried up the steps of the Mess. Munro had missed lunch and would make do with spam sandwiches and a glass of lemonade. Not that there was any harm in having a glass of beer at lunchtime even when they were on Battle Order but he felt that he should be marginally more abstemious than his men. Sandy drank lemonade too.
Munro was a wealthy, desiccated landowner with a fragile manner and little or no sense of humour. In 1941 he had been injured in the leg by flak. There were three or four splinters still hiding somewhere in his ankle. For a time he had needed a walking-stick and even though he had stopped limping ages ago he had never relinquished the walking-stick. He marched around the aerodrome brandishing it like a laird striding through the heather. He was a tall slender man with a lined face and a stubby moustache. His closely trimmed hair was grey at the temples and although most of the men flying that night would be wearing white roll-neck sweaters and stained battledress, Munro was never seen on duty in anything other than his well-tailored barathea with his hand-made shoes polished like patent leather. Like his civilian worsteds and tweeds, Munro’s uniforms had a patina that only years of valeting can bestow. The elbows and cuffs were reinforced with patches of soft brown leather and there was a special pocket where he kept a box of Swan Vesta matches. He reached into it and carefully lit his pipe, even though it seemed to be burning well. Often at meetings and briefings this gave him a moment’s pause in the conversation. It was, like many of his mannerisms, an old man’s habit. He was thirty-five years old and yet few people would have guessed him to be younger than forty-five. This would not have surprised Wing Commander Munro. He preferred to look forty-five. Munro had been an officer since 1932, although he had spent a year of peacetime as a civilian. His wife Sarah was running the whole estate now. It was a beastly war for her: extra acres under cultivation but many of the staff in the Army. She was looking so much older.
There was a letter waiting for him in the rack. It was written in bold good-humoured handwriting, on a sheet torn from an accounts book.
Darling,
How can I thank you for the magnificent handbag? It arrived on my birthday which represented a brilliant piece of Munro organization. I don’t think I’d like to see London at the present time. From your description it sounds like an international madhouse. I like the way you are always telling me to never trust strangers and yet you are really absurdly generous with those unregenerate ruffians from the old squadron whenever you meet them (which usually means whenever you enter a public-house). Perhaps you should grow a large moustache again at that!
The beans are going to be magnificent; aren’t you clever? You must be here to taste the first of them. Those dashed aphis are all over the roses as usual and they just drink up the spray, belch, and call for more. The strawberries are doing very well and tomorrow I’m jam-making with cook. I’ll send you a pot of it.
Now you mustn’t worry about us. We both know that it will take a few years for Peter to build his strength up to that of other children but he has fresh air and there is plenty of milk here still. If he went to Canada who would give him the love that we give him, and what is more important?
You remember how short of breath he was when you were on leave at Christmas? Now he is just as bad again. It’s pitiful to hear him at night and I want to breathe for him, the darling. He’s so good about it all and Dr Crawford says that it must be painful for him sometimes.
We miss you darling but you must worry only about bringing yourself home to us safe and well. Save your concerns for yourself and your men. Here all is well apart from Peter and for him it’s simply time and rest and fresh air. I would not have told you anything of this but you made me promise. I will see you some time soon. Take care my darling, do take care. From your untidy slut of a farmhouse wife and dung-spreader-in-chief at 2 AM and the accounts not complete.
Love,
SARAH
‘That girl and her cheese sandwiches,’ said Munro.
‘Yes, sir?’ said Sandy, looking up and suddenly alert.
‘Not a bad idea that.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Eating in the air.’
Munro carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He took a gold propelling pencil from his pocket and listed upon its back the things he must do before briefing time.
In the cryptic style of teleprinter Meldekopf 1 – I/Ln Funkhorch-Regiment West – the radio monitoring and interception department of 12th Fliegerkorps HQ received from Palais Luxembourg, Paris (HQ of the 3rd Air Fleet) the so-called WIM report.