Damned Good Show

by Derek Robinson

Genres: World War II; Black Humor; War & Military

Synopsis

They joined an R.A.F. known as 'the best flying club in the world', but when war pitches the young pilots of 409 Squadron into battle over Germany, their training, tactics and equipment are soon found wanting, their twin-engined bombers obsolete from the off. Chances of completing a 30-operation tour? One in three. At best. Robinson's crooked salute to the dogged heroes of the R.A.F.'s early bombing campaign is a wickedly humourous portrait of men doing their duty in flying death traps, fully aware, in those dark days of war, there was nothing else to do but dig in and hang on.

Release date: October 1, 2011

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 321

Sample

Damned Good Show


Derek Robinson

First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Cassell

This edition first published in 2013 by

MacLehose Press An imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd 55 Baker Street 7th Floor, South Block London W1U 8EW

Copyright 1993 by Derek Robinson

The moral right of Derek Robinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 0 85738 559 8 Print ISBN 978 0 85705 118 9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at: www.quercusbooks.co.uk and www.maclehosepress.com

Novels by Derek Robinson

The R.F.C. trilogy* Goshawk Squadron Hornet's Sting War Story

The R.A.F Quartet* Piece of Cake A Good Clean Fight Damned Good Show (Hullo Russia, Goodbye England)

The Double Agent Quartet** The Eldorado Network Artillery of Lies Red Rag Blues Operation Bamboozle

Other Fiction Kentucky Blues Kramer's War Rotten with Honour

Non-Fiction Invasion 1940

* Available from MacLehose Press from 2012 * * Available in ebook from Quercus Editions Ltd

To Flight Lieutenant Frank Lowe, DFM, and to his comrades of RAF Bomber Command in the Second World War.

PART ONE High Alert


FINE FETTLE


1


The group captain aimed his pipe at the wireless set. A Mess waiter hurried to switch it off.

Never trust a man who carries an umbrella wherever he goes, Rafferty said. He thinks it will protect him. He deludes himself.

I know its a big job, being Prime Minister, Hunt said. I just wish he wouldnt sound like an undertaker whos lost the body.

They were in the Mess ante-room of RAF Kindrick, a bomber base in Lincolnshire. From here, 409 Squadron flew twin-engined Hampdens.

Only a handful of officers had joined them to hear the Prime Ministers broadcast. 409 Squadron had been on alert for a week, and all flying personnel were
in their crew rooms, listening to their own wireless sets. Rafferty was station commander: a big, broad, hook-nosed group captain with medal ribbons and
faded wings from the First World War. Wing Commander Hunt led the squadron. He was thirty and looked younger, except for his eyes. Peacetime flying in the
RAF had always been a risky business. Before they got Hampdens, 409 had flown canvas-skinned, fixed-wheel, open-cockpit biplanes that were not far removed
from the machines of the Royal Flying Corps. Hunt liked a degree of danger; he believed the RAF thrived on it, and ultra-cautious pilots annoyed him. But he
also resented pointless waste, including time wasted writing letters to next of kin. His feelings showed in his eyes. He had angry eyes.

Chamberlain backed the wrong nag, the Intelligence Officer said. Hes lost his shirt.

Got rotten odds, anyway, the adjutant remarked. I said so at the time.

We cant put all the blame on Chamberlain, the Medical Officer said. Lets face it: everyone cheered when he flew back from Munich. Peace in our time,
he told them, and thats exactly what they wanted to hear. Even the Daily Express

Gibberish! Rafferty said. Pure gibberish. He waved that bloody silly piece of paper as if Hitler had very kindly given him the last bit of bog-roll in
Europe.

In a sense, he had, the Intelligence Officer said.

That speech The adjutant pointed at the wireless. I wonder if he wrote it. Consequently this country is at war with Germany Not the most thrilling
call to arms Ive heard.

And all in aid of Poland, the Intelligence Officer said. Thats a clever trick, considering Polands beyond the range of any of our bombers.

Cheer up! Rafferty heaved himself out of his armchair, and everyone stood. The good news is were in business! The balloons gone up. The gloves are off,
the fats in the fire. Cry havoc and something something something.

Let slip the dogs of war, sir, the MO said.

Too damn true, Hunt said. He looked at his watch. Briefing in twenty minutes.

2


It was the wrong kind of day to go to war: mild, sunny, not much breeze. That sort of weather, in early September, was meant for watching a decisive match
in the county cricket championship, with a pint of beer and a popsy who couldnt tell a square cut from a ham sandwich, and didnt care either. Rafferty was
forty-three, a bit old for popsies. As he strolled with Hunt to the briefing room, he was thinking about that line, Let slip the dogs of war. Did it do
justice to the boys of 409 Squadron? Dogs of war? Decent, cheery, honourable chaps? Then he remembered some of the pilots hed known in the RFC. Not what
youd call nice men. Ruthless killers, more like. Fellows who didnt enjoy their breakfast unless theyd crept up behind some foolish Hun, put twenty rounds
in his petrol tank and made a flamer of him. Dogs of war, all right. About as chivalrous as jackals. Still, this war would be different. The bomber boys
werent looking for blood, their job was to knock out precise military targets, every bomb a coconut, until one day Der Fuehrer would discover that he had
no more toys to play with. With pluck and skill, 409 could become the crack squadron of Bomber Command. With a bit of luck, Rafferty could become an air
vice-marshal. Press forward hard enough, and you find yourself leading. Quite right, too.

Hunt wasnt thinking about promotion. He was wondering what it would be like to lead a squadron in action. He had a small face and a slim build. His
nickname was Pixie, not very flattering but he didnt mind because it meant that careless pilots who were called to his office got a shock from the blast he
delivered. Some came out looking whipped. In the Mess, Pixie Hunt was relaxed, sometimes funny, and he enjoyed argument. In the air, he demanded high
standards of flying and a fiercely competitive spirit. When one of his pilots began running around the airfield every day, in training for the marathon in
the next Olympic Games, Hunt got rid of him. He had nothing against the Olympics, but there was room for only one obsession in this squadron.

That was in peacetime. Hunt wasnt so blinkered as to think that 409 was trained to the peak of perfection. For a start, fuel and ammunition had been
rationed the Air Ministry was always on a tight budget so there was very little night-flying, and usually none at weekends. For the same reason, his
crews had no permanent air gunners or wireless operators. Those jobs were done by volunteers from the groundcrew, fitters or electricians or armament
mechanics, as and when they could be spared from their duties. An AC2 the lowest rank in the RAF got paid an extra sixpence a day for manning a gun in a
Hampden. An AC1 or LAC got a shilling for manning a gun and a radio. Brave men and keen, and Hunt knew theyd do their best against the enemy, but hed seen
their scores at the annual gunnery exercises: dismal.

At least the gun positions were enclosed, so gunners werent exposed to the freezing, battering gale as they had been in the bombers that the Hampden
replaced. Too bad it didnt have powered turrets. Swinging a machine gun was hard on the arms. It took a lot of practice for a gunner to track his target,
especially when it was a fighter that was diving and skidding and rolling at two or three hundred miles an hour and looking thinner than a pencil when it
was only two hundred yards away. Hunt knew that his part-time gunners never got enough practice.

Too late to worry about that now.

He followed Rafferty into the briefing room. All the aircrew officers were there. They stood. One direct hit from a Hun bomb and 409 would be finished, Hunt
thought; and was immediately ashamed of such alarm and despondency.

Rafferty told everyone to sit.

Theyve started it, he said. Again. Some people never learn. Now its up to us to finish it. Well, I know the Hun, and Ill tell you this: when you kill
him hes dead. We killed great quantities of Huns in the last show. We duffed up the Hun then, and well duff up the Hun again now. Wing commander?

Hunt stepped forward.

War is full of surprises, he announced. That got their full attention. Heres the first. The United States of America is involved. President Roosevelt
has asked all the nations at war not to bomb civilians. He let the words sink in. Mr Roosevelt doesnt want us to bomb undefended towns. Thats not a
problem, we werent intending to bomb them anyway. He also doesnt want us to attack any target if theres any risk of hitting civilians living nearby.
Britain has agreed. So has France. It comes to this, gentlemen: we must not bomb the German mainland.

A rumble of disbelief turned into loud laughter. This was anticlimax in spades. Bags me two weeks leave! someone called.

Thats not all, Hunt said, and they were silent again. Polands out of range, of course, but the enemy has a coastline. He has warships which threaten
our shipping. They might even bombard our towns.

Tried it last time, Rafferty said. Shelled Scarborough, Bridlington, Whitby Abbey. Sorry, wing commander.

We can bomb German warships at sea or at anchor without upsetting Mr Roosevelt, Hunt said, because a ship at anchor is not part of the mainland.

Bloody clever, someone muttered.

The Intelligence Officer will give you the details.

This was a heavy-set flight lieutenant, very bald, with a moustache thick enough to hide his expression. Above the medal ribbons, his half-wing of an
observer had weathered to pearl grey. He was the only man in the squadron to wear spectacles. Everyone called him Bins, short for binoculars.

He unrolled a map of northern Europe. To refresh your memory: Germany has two stretches of coastline, he said. One on each side of Denmark. Obviously,
the more important, for us, is the North Sea coastline. Its nearer, and it has important naval bases at Wilhelmshaven and Emden, plus the inland ports of
Bremen and Hamburg. Beyond Denmark, on the Baltic, the German navy also uses Brunsbttel, here at the mouth of the Kiel Canal. All those warships are
available for attack under the Roosevelt Rules. Provided

He hooked another roll of paper over the map and let it fall open.

This is Wilhelmshaven. You see the town here, and the docks here. The area in blue is the bay. Now, if a German cruiser, for instance, is tied up to the
dockside, you must not bomb it. He surveyed them over his horn-rims. They looked unhappy. Good. That meant they were listening. Civilians live nearby.
Some may be dockers. Your bombs might harm them.

Hard cheese, someone growled.

Any German vessel, warship or otherwise, attached to the dockside is part of the mainland and therefore immune. But Bins indulged himself in a short
pause, if the ship is out here, offshore, maybe anchored, maybe not, its considered to be at sea. You can sink it with a clear conscience.

Are the Huns playing by the same rules? a pilot asked.

The German government has not yet responded.

Too busy bombing Poland.

Possibly. A few words about Denmark, Holland and Belgium. They are neutral and anxious to remain so. Fly over them and you may get shot at by their
anti-aircraft guns, perhaps even attacked by their fighters

Bins answered a few questions and removed his maps. Rafferty stepped forward. The briefing had disappointed him: too flat, not enough gusto. One last
thing, he said briskly. Dont believe anything an air marshal tells you. That made them stare. When hes called Hermann Goering. They laughed, which
was what he wanted. Half of its lies and the other halfs tosh. Thats not our style. The Royal Air Force might not get everything absolutely right but at
least we dont appoint an air marshal whos too fat to get in a cockpit. They laughed more freely. And remember this. Youre lucky, damned lucky. This war
isnt going to be all mud and blood, like last time. This will be the war of the knockout blow, and youre the boys with the big punch. Good luck!

Walking back to the Mess for lunch, Rafferty said: The chaps are in fine fettle, arent they? Itching for a scrap.

Its quite crazy, sir, Hunt said.

Of course it is, old boy. Totally lunatic.

Were not trained to bomb ships. Nobody in the Command is.

Of course not. You counted on mainland targets. We all did. Youre damn good at hitting them, given a spot of decent weather.

Warships dodge about so much.

Yes. They carry a lot of guns, too.

Thats another thing, sir. Whats the best way to hit a ship? Should we go in low?

If it was me, Id be up at eight or ten thousand feet, where the guns cant reach. Not the light guns, anyway.

From ten thousand, the targets as thin as a pin and the bombs drift with the wind.

Well, in that case the whole things absurd.

Crazy. Hunt kicked the head off a dandelion. But I suppose well go ahead and do it anyway.

Certainly. Lunatic orders are in the finest tradition of the Service. Dont think too much. Just do it.

3


At about that time, an RAF Blenheim took off and headed across the North Sea. The weather was calm. A couple of hours later, the pilot was pleased to
discover that he was bang on course, high above the approaches to Wilhelmshaven. That was good flying, plus a slice of luck.

Soon the crew looked down on a perfect view of fourteen German warships in formation: three battleships, four cruisers and seven destroyers. That was a
really thick slice of luck. Immediately the Blenheims wireless operator reported the sighting. His radio wasnt powerful enough to send a signal nearly
four hundred miles. Bomber Command HQ received tattered fragments of the message and made no sense of them. Nobodys luck lasts for ever.

The Blenheim turned for home and flew into a storm. For the rest of the afternoon the pilot struggled against a thumping headwind. He landed shortly before
five p.m. and made his report.

When the order to attack reached 409 Squadron, every crew wanted to go. All week they had been at various stages of alert; all day they had been on standby,
sitting in their crew rooms, playing cards, reading stale news in newspapers, dozing, waiting, thinking. The sudden promise of action blew away boredom, but
not for everyone. Five aircraft, Hunt announced. Thats all they want. Five. Im leading. He quickly picked four experienced crews. They took off at
six-fifteen.

Already the light was poor. To the east it was worse: black with thunderstorms. They crossed the coast at Lowestoft. It was their last sight of land for
almost six hours. Before long the wind was gusting so badly that Hunt opened out the formation, to avoid collision. They flew with their navigation lights
on. Hunt knew that his five were only part of a large force of bombers eighteen Hampdens and nine Wellingtons all aiming for the same spot on the map.
The longer they flew, the greater the risk that two machines might try to occupy exactly the same spot at the same time. Each with a full load of bombs. He
put it out of his mind.

Once, in the fading light, he thought he saw aircraft far to the north. Then cloud blotted out the dots.

The rest of the trip was a matter of increasing misery and fatigue. The Hampdens bucketed through a succession of storms. The rain made a racing skin on the
windscreens and the pilots flew by instrument. Always the wind was violent, and without doubt it was changing direction. The observers were navigating by
dead reckoning: we are flying on this compass bearing at that speed so, allowing for such and such a wind, we must be here. The storms made fools of the
compass and blew the predicted winds to buggery. The Hampdens slogged on. With luck they ought to strike Germany somewhere in the hundred-mile gap between
Denmark and Holland.

Perhaps they did. The light was so poor and the weather was so thick that none of the bombers made a landfall. Nobody found Germany, let alone
Wilhelmshaven, let alone a pin-thin, blacked-out warship.

Hunt gave up the search after three hours. His arms and legs ached from the endless struggle to keep the Hampden on track. He had long since lost contact
with the others. He got a course for home from his observer and steeled himself for another three hours of this wretched, bruising flight.

The last of his Hampdens touched down at ten minutes to midnight. Some of the gunners were so stiff with cold that they had to be lifted out of the
aircraft.

The crews went to interrogation, then to supper, then to bed. Rafferty and Bins strolled to the Mess for a nightcap.

At least we didnt lose anyone, Rafferty said.

Hell of a long way to go for nothing, sir. Suppose that German fleet was making twenty knots when it was spotted. Could be two hundred miles from
Wilhelmshaven by now.

You wont mention that to the chaps.

Of course not. The brighter ones know it anyway. They had plenty of time to work it out for themselves, didnt they?

4


After a late breakfast, Hunt called a meeting of the crews who had taken part in the operation. He wanted to pool their information. It made a small pool.

Nobody had seen anything. Even if theyd seen a ship, in that lousy weather nobody could have told the difference between a German cruiser and a Swedish
freighter. The Bristol Pegasus engines had performed well, thank God. But on such a long flight, navigation had been a mix of faith, hope and guesswork. And
the Hampden was an icebox, especially for the gunners. Two hours made them stiff as wood, three hours turned them numb, after four they were in pain, after
five They couldnt remember how they felt after five frozen hours. They couldnt remember much of anything.

None of the other squadrons made contact, Hunt said. Not a wasted evening, however. Valuable training, jolly valuable. He saw that they were not
convinced of this. We got thrown in at the deep end. A night op in stinking weather with orders to hammer the Hun in his backyard, and the war not a day
old! You chaps came through with flying colours. All right, thats all. Carry on, except Pilot Officers Silk and Langham.

The others left. Hunt picked up two buff files and flicked through their contents. Luck, he said. Do you have any views on luck? You should. Its lucky
for you two this war came along when it did, isnt it?

Sir? Langham said.

Youre what, twenty-two? Not many jobs out there for a pair of sacked bomber pilots with no ability except farting about.

Silk blinked, twice. Otherwise he showed no emotion. He was taller than average and strong in the shoulders, as a good bomber pilot should be. He had dark
hair and a clean-cut, open face, the kind that old ladies looked for when they wanted to be helped across a road. Hunt had seen many fools or liars or both
with clean-cut, open faces; he disliked Silk and distrusted him. Silk was too well-tailored, his collars were a little too crisp, the thrust of his tie a
fraction too dashing. His hair was wavy, which was no crime, but it had a rich, burnished glow that made Hunt suspect excessive brushing. Long ago he had
written in Silks file: Is this man a bloody fop? Wheres his handbag?

If you get kicked out, youll vanish, Hunt said. Into the army, probably. Lose your commissions, of course. Infantrymen. Brown jobs, thats what youll
be. Because why? Because we dont need clowns in the Royal Air Force.

Certainly not, sir.

Shut up, Silk. Last June, on a navigation exercise, you flew a Hampden under the Tamar railway bridge in Plymouth.

Chaps in Fighter Command do it all the time, sir.

Dont bring my squadron down to the level of those playboys, Silk.

No, sir.

In May, a Hampden beat up a point-to-point in Northamptonshire. Some clown flew around the course and jumped half the jumps. That was you, Langham.

Sir, I explained

You invented a bunch of lies. One reason the RAF has always been short of funds for fuel and armaments is clowns like you make idiots of themselves in
front of MPs at point-to-points.

Yes, sir.

And theres more. Look here: tedious complaints of aircraft playing silly buggers. No proof, but I know its you two. And horseplay on the ground, too. God
knows that Guest Nights can get a bit wild, but you, Silk, had to pick a fight with an air commodore.

He challenged me, sir.

He was drunk, Silk. Pie-eyed. Why didnt you run away?

Matter of honour, sir.

Matter of a broken arm. Hunts left foot kept kicking his desk. That man couldnt play bridge for six weeks. Six weeks. Didnt stop him signing snotty
reports on this squadron. And as for your record of alcoholic excess, Langham Hunt glanced at him. Peculiar pair. Silk looked too young, Langham too old.
He reminded Hunt of the jack of spades. Black hair, dark eyes, an obvious shadow where hed shaved. Pity he didnt act his age. I havent forgotten your
obscene behaviour with the barmaid and the snake.

Allegedly obscene, sir. Case never came to court.

Only because Group Captain Rafferty plays golf with the Chief Constable.

She was an exotic dancer with a python, sir. They got into difficulties and I tried

Bunkum. Now listen. If this squadron hadnt had such bad luck with accidents, Id have kicked you out months ago. And Id dump you now if it wasnt for
Adolf bloody Hitler. What gripes me is youve both got ability. Silk, you should have made flying officer long ago.

Im satisfied with my rank, sir.

Im not. War is good for promotion. Pull your fingers out. You could be flight lieutenants in a year. But for Christs sake keep your snotty little noses
clean. Now buzz off.

Another pilot who had taken part in the operation, Tubby Heckter, was hanging about outside the building, playing with the adjutants dog. Cosy chat? he
said.

Pixie offered me fifty quid to marry his ugly sister, Langham said.

He tore you both off a strip. Thought so. They headed for the Mess, booting an old tennis ball for the dog to chase.

The Wingcos trouble is he doesnt understand us, Langham said.

What a shame, Heckter said. What doesnt he understand?

Oh, our modesty. Our humility.

Not his fault, Silk said. Hes thicker than us, thats all.

He cant be, Heckter said Youre one of the thickest blokes on the squadron.

Im not thick. I may be dense, but Im not thick.

Yes, you are, Silko. Youre as thick as fog. Pug Duff said so.

Pug Duff? Dear little Pug, who trained with us? If I hadnt let him sit on my lap hed never have got his wings. Pug is my biggest fan.

You pinched his girl, Langham said. He tried to kill you with a hockey stick.

Well, my smallest fan, then.

You can tell him how much he loves you, Heckter said. Hes been posted here. Hes in the Mess now.

Pug was a nickname. He got it when he was five, on his first day at school, in the playground. He started a fight with a larger boy. Briefly he had the
better of it, using fists, knees and feet with a rare ferocity, but he soon exhausted himself. His lip was split and his nose was streaming when a master
arrived, grabbed each boy by the ear and dragged them apart. Enough! he roared. Duff kicked him on the shins. The master released the bigger boy, who was
in tears, and cuffed Duff so hard that his nose sent a splatter of red across the asphalt. Duff tried to punch him in the stomach but his reach was a good
twelve inches short. What a pugnacious child, the master said. After that, Duff was called Pug.

He was always short for his age, and always getting into fights; perhaps he tried to compensate for size by anger. Usually this kind of behaviour gets worn
smooth by the friction of the family. Pug Duff had no immediate family. His father had died ingloriously one night in 1917, sitting in a cinema in Amiens
when it got hit by a bomb from a German aeroplane whose pilot was lost, and tired, and decided to jettison his bomb and go home. Captain Duff was in the
cavalry, so his death made no difference to the war. It made a huge difference to his widow. She lost her will to live, and the influenza epidemic did the
rest. By 1919, young Duff was an orphan at the age of five.

Aunts, older cousins, grandparents all took their turns at raising him, shunting him around England like a small, scruffy, wrongly addressed parcel with too
much unpaid postage. He was a foul-tempered little brat. Why not? Wherever he went, nobody wanted him and nobody loved him.

But there was enough money in his mothers will to send him to boarding school, and that was a great relief to everyone.

He went to Wellington. It was a muscular school where they prepared boys for the Army, and Pug found plenty of fights without looking for them. Being small,
he usually lost. After a year or so he calmed down. Sheer physical strength, he realised, proved nothing. The way to dominate was through success. He worked
hard and put his rivals in their stupid place. He didnt have a great brain but he got the most out of it. His short body expanded through ruthless
exercise; when he was fifteen his chest was so wide that his shirt-sleeves reached his knuckles. Then, abruptly, the money came to an end and with it,
school.

He was standing on a railway platform, waiting for a slow train to a dull job with a reluctant uncle, when he saw a poster advertising the RAF School of
Apprentices at Halton.

Duff found a home in the Royal Air Force. For the first time he knew the solid reassurance of total security. He stopped worrying about his career, clothes,
food, health, pay, religion, sport. Halton organized all that. In return it demanded that Duff learn what made aeroplanes fly.

Forget your air commodores, a sergeant instructor said to Duffs class of apprentices. Forget your group captains, your wing commanders, your squadron
leaders. No light shone in their eyes. They had been in uniform only a few weeks, and anyone with rings around his sleeves was god. Forget your drill
corporals, he said. That was different. Drill bloody corporals had been marching them up and down and across and around the parade bloody ground, cursing
them, hating them, drilling all the individuality out of them. Forget drill corporals? The apprentices cheered up. And for why? the instructor said.
Because none of them can do what this little beauty can do. He was standing beside an aero engine, a Rolls-Royce Kestrel, cut away to expose its workings.
Nobody, from drill corporal to air marshal, can get an aeroplane off the ground. Only an engine can make it fly. He turned the propeller and they watched
the slow march of the pistons. Suck-squash-bang-shove. Make that happen a thousand times a minute, and your aeroplane will climb to ten thousand feet while
the drill corporals still polishing his buttons. What is the purpose of the Royal Air Force? he shouted. Why does it exist?

To fly aeroplanes, they chanted.

Never forget it! If youre not helping get an aeroplane off the ground, youre not earning your pay. The Royal Air Force exists to fly. No other reason.

Pug Duff did well at Halton. Later, he applied for pilot training and did well at that, too. Eventually he got his commission. The public-school background
helped: the RAF liked a chap who knew how to speak and which knife and fork to use. He had strong arms and legs. The RAF made him a bomber pilot. By the
time he reached 409 at RAF Kindrick he was already a flying officer: one rank ahead of Silk and Langham.

They found Pug Duff eating peanuts in the Mess ante-room.

There must be some mistake. You cant have been posted here, Pug, Silk said. 409 is a top squadron.

Clerical error, I expect, Langham said.

Silko owes me ten bob from two years ago, Duff said, and I got tired of waiting. Also, Air Ministry wants to improve the standard of flying on this
squadron.

Oh dear. Langham signalled for drinks. Poor Pug has lost his mind. How sad.

Look under the bed, Silk suggested. Offer a reward.

Talking of losing things, Duff said. I hear you two were out for hours and hours last night but you still couldnt find Germany. Or was it Europe?

No, it was Germany we couldnt find, Langham said. We probably shant find Norway tonight, and tomorrow night were not going to find Luxembourg. Or is
it Spain?

I think its Ireland, Silk said. But it doesnt matter.

Good God, Duff said. Youre a pretty useless lot, arent you?

We share the work. Im pretty, and Tonys useless.

That ended the usual courtesies. They moved on to the eternal topics of pilots: the peculiarities of aircraft and aerodromes, the styles of leadership of
COs and station commanders, the ups and downs of men they had trained with. Eventually Duff went away to freshen up before lunch.

Pug looks awfully keen, doesnt he? Langham said.

To tell the truth, I could scarcely see him, Silk said. I think he must have shrunk in the wash.

5


This was the second day of the war. The storms had cleared the North Sea and moved on to soak Scandinavia. The same Blenheim crew that had spotted a
battlefleet near Wilhelmshaven was sent on another reconnaissance and, amazingly, found yet more German warships, this time at anchor in Wilhelmshaven
harbour. Once again, Bomber Command went into action. 409 Squadron was not required to take part.

The attack was made in daylight. It was briefly reported by the BBC.

A couple of days later, Pixie Hunt heard all about it from a visiting wing commander called Faraday, an old pal, now on the staff at Group HQ.

Command sent fourteen Wellingtons and fifteen Blenheims, Faraday said. Quite a strong force.

Twenty-