Goodbye Mickey Mouse. Len Deighton

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       6 Captain James A. Farebrother

      Jamie Farebrother read Charlie’s letter for the fifth time. Then he folded it, together with the five-dollar bill that was inside the envelope, and placed it in his billfold like an amulet that would protect him, not from evil, but from misery.

      What could he write in reply? How could he describe this tent city in the monsoon season, and the red-nosed, rheumy-eyed bums clad in ragged oddments of GI uniforms? What was there to say about the overworked comedian who was in command, or the unfriendly Exec, or MM, the Flight Commander, who seemed to be twitching himself into a nervous breakdown? Perhaps it would all come right when the sun came out, and these mud-spattered planes began operations, but it wasn’t easy to visualize.

      Flying the well-worn Mustang Kibitzer provided Jamie’s only happy moments and there weren’t many of them. The weather did not improve. The big black hangar doors were shut and clanking mournfully in the wind. Flyers sat for hours in the Club, and got in each other’s hair, bickering like children kept in after school. There were only a few brief breaks in the monotonous grey days. Apart from some local flights MM had arranged to make sure that his new flyer was able to take off in pairs, keep formation, and get down in one piece, there had been only one scheduled flight in seven days. The group went in formation across country to Yorkshire but encountered unpredicted thunderstorms that couldn’t be penetrated. The Mustangs came back to the base from all points of the compass. There were no casualties, but two pilots landed at other airfields.

      Kibitzer had engine trouble on the return. Farebrother nursed her home carefully, and MM, Rube and Earl stayed with him, but when Tex Gill ran her up that night she purred sweetly for him.

      ‘She’s a whore!’ Tex said of Kibitzer. ‘A heart of gold, but you can’t depend on the old bitch.’

      Colonel Dan was not pleased with the group’s crosscountry flight. He assembled the pilots in the briefing room that afternoon and chewed them out for nearly an hour. The Exec sat on the rostrum with his arms folded and head up, his eyes focused on some far corner of the ceiling. It was a pose meant to be both heroic and contemplative.

      Colonel Dan was never still; he went striding up and down, hugging himself and flailing his arms, shouting, whispering, threatening and promising, and stabbing his finger angrily at his resentful audience.

      MM sat behind Farebrother at the back of the room, with Rube and Earl on either side of him. ‘More training,’ said MM in disgust. ‘I can smell it coming.’

      ‘That’s only Yorkshire,’ said Rube. ‘With long-range tanks we’ll be trying to find our way back from Austria. Imagine the chaos!’

      ‘We’ve got to get Farebrother a new ship,’ said MM. He put a flying boot against the back of Jamie’s seat and nudged it hard to make sure he was listening. ‘One jalopy like that in the flight could get us all written out of the script.’

      There was a Betty Grable movie being shown on the base that evening and the house was packed. There wasn’t much drinking at the Officers’ Club bar. Highly coloured accounts of the chewing out Colonel Dan had given his pilots soon reached the senior NCOs, and in the Rocker Club the sergeants argued bitterly about the merits of their charges. There was a fistfight outside the Aero Club and a jeep was stolen. The Exec sighed; these were all signs of lowering morale. Colonel Dan agreed.

      ‘I came over here to fight a war,’ sang a pilot named ‘Boogie’ Bozzelli, playing the piano at the club that evening. He improvised a tune to carry his words. ‘All I’ve done since getting here is duck the weather. Can I have a rain check, Colonel, and come back next summer?’ Colonel Dan was not amused. He picked up his drink and moved away from the piano.

      The feelings of frustration were not relieved when, in the small hours of the next morning, the sound of aircraft engines—synchronized Merlins—circled the base ceaselessly until the Duty Officer switched on the runway lights. The noise woke everyone up. Farebrother opened the blackout shutters of his bedroom and saw Rube and MM fully dressed outside. The eastern sky was streaked with the pink light of dawn. The night air blew in like a gale. Farebrother closed the window and went back to sleep.

      Next morning there was an RAF Lancaster parked on the apron. It was a big matt-black four-engine bomber. A noisy crowd of GIs were gawking at it and taking photos. Its crew—seven sergeants—were treated like visitors from Mars. Thaxted’s only aircrew mess being in the Officers’ Club, the RAF men were eating breakfast there when Farebrother arrived. MM waved to him and he took a seat at MM’s table, chosen to provide a close look at the British flyers.

      Perhaps the sergeants were uncomfortable at being cast adrift on an ocean of officers, for they were shy and uncommunicative. They’d been to Berlin that night and lost a section of tail plane СКАЧАТЬ