Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson

he could be airborne as well as chairborne. He picked two crews from “B” Flight, one captained by a Canadian, Stubby Gurnee, the other by a gloomy Welshman, Happy Hall. The Wingco knew them to be solid, competent pilots who listened to orders and worked hard at the job. This was no day for cowboys.
    He briefed them in the crew room as they got dressed. “Enemy convoy off the north German coast. Could be heading anywhere: Emden, Wilhelmshaven, Bremerhaven, up the Elbe to Hamburg, nobody knows. Certain to have an escort, destroyers probably. If so, we bomb the escort; if not, we bomb the convoy. We’ll each carry four five-hundred-pounders. What are the winds?”
    The Met man said, “I’ll spare you the technical analysis. It boils down to this: we expect strong easterly winds to cross the North Sea this morning. You might reach your search area before the gale gets there. Here are the predictions.” He handed out sheets of paper.
    â€œSo it’ll blow us home,” Hunt said. “Cloud? Rain? Fog?”
    â€œFive-tenths cloud at first, thickening steadily. Intermittent rain, perhaps snow. Depends on your height.”
    â€œWe’ll be low. Look at this.” The pilots and observers gathered round the map. Hunt’s finger traced a broken necklace of oddly shaped islands off the shores of Holland and Germany. “Remember, the German islands look like cocktail sausages, each smaller than thelast. Our route leads to the last island, Wangeroog. If we overshoot it, we’ll soon see the coastline where it turns north. We’ll make a pinpoint and start the search. Bins?”
    â€œIntelligence on the convoy is thin. It’s either genuine or a decoy to test our response. We know that anti-aircraft defenses on the Friesians are being strengthened.” Bins saw that Hunt was impatient. “Avoid Holland and Denmark, which also have guns.”
    They lumbered out, layered with flying kit, carrying parachutes, helmets, thermos flasks, sandwiches, chocolate, and piled into a truck. The Hampdens smelt cold and damp. A seagull had shit on Happy Hall’s canopy and the groundcrew were cleaning it off and polishing the perspex. The engines were warm. The three bombers taxied out and formed a line abreast. The Wingco glanced left and right, and released his brakes. Even carrying nearly three tons of fuel and bombs, the Hampdens needed only half the runway. As they went over the perimeter, they panicked a flock of gulls on the ground. The gulls knew this was no day to go to sea.
2
    â€œDarling!” Zoë Herrick said. “Hello,” Langham said. Then her arms were around his neck and she was kissing him, on the mouth, very warmly. He saw her reflection in a tall mirror. Right foot on the carpet, left leg bent, foot raised high behind her. Pure Hollywood. Damn nice legs. “Come and meet Mummy,” she said. “Delighted,” he said. Dissipated would have been more accurate, but he knew she wasn’t interested in the night before.
    The Scottish soldiers had been very hospitable. Silk and Langham had been taken to their Officers’ Mess and revived with whisky. More captured escapees arrived; more whisky appeared. The soldiers were frankly disappointed that the exercise had ended so quickly. Some drunken fool of a pilot challenged them to Highland dancing. Then everything was a giddy whirl, powered by whisky. Langham couldn’t remember going to bed. His batman woke him at eleven: aRolls-Royce was waiting. Lunch at Bardney Castle House. “I can’t,” he croaked. “I’m on standby.”
    â€œYou can, sir. Your fiancée sent the car, and Mr. Rafferty’s released you.”
    Langham scratched his head and found clots of mud. His mouth was so dry that it hurt. He summoned up a little saliva. It was worse. Tasted like a night in a glue factory. “What happened?” he asked.
    â€œToo much grog, sir, same as usual. I