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

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?’

      ‘Flight Sergeant Lambert, sir. It might be just a touch of the jitters, mind you.’

      The Groupie’s face changed. ‘Lambert again, eh. Still, he’s got a good record, hasn’t he? And we’ve got to remember that Karl Marx is on our side now. Got to hand it to the Russkies, Sweet, they’ve put up a jolly good show lately. This Stalingrad business could be the turning-point of the war.’

      ‘I only thought, sir … knowing your views on killing 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 …’

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