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

corridors of the Operations Block there was the clatter of a relex machine as more orders arrived from Group. There was a pungent smell of floor polish and sweet tea and the clerks were hurrying with last-minute orders and modifications for the briefing officers. Standing in the corner of an empty office in the same block was Wing Commander John Munro, the commanding officer of the Squadron. While the Group Captain had control of the entire airfield from Dental Surgery to Smithy, John Munro commanded the bombers and their crews. Not that either of them would be likely to get into an argument about how things should be done. Air Ministry had carefully delineated their respective areas of responsibility.

      If there was one man who had stamped this Squadron with his personality it was John Munro. Its faults were his and its virtues were his and its skills were his too. Now Munro was tired. There was no need for him to fly on so many raids, but he felt that he must. He flew and he kept his desk-top clear and tidy. He was not among the most popular officers on the Station. He knew that but he was unconcerned. Airmen brought before him knew that they could expect just punishment but little sympathy. He knew that the men called him Himmler but he was perceptive enough to know that there was a paradoxical element of respect and affection in the nickname. Munro’s most celebrated virtue was that he spoke to the men coming before him for judgement with exactly the same tone of voice and listened to them with the same degree of attention that he gave the AOC. As one of his gunners had said after they had been badly shot up over Duisburg, ‘He’s not as cool as a cucumber, he’s as cold as a bloody iceberg.’ One night in the Mess Jammy Giles, full of thin beer and hoarse from singing, had pronounced loudly, ‘Munro is a gentleman and gentlemen are now obsolete. This is the age of the technician.’

      ‘The age of violence,’ PO Cornelius Fleming had argued.

      ‘Then we should be all right, old cock,’ said Jammy. ‘Seeing as we are the technicians of violence.’

      ‘But Munro’s a good type, isn’t he?’ asked Fleming.

      Jammy suddenly sobered up. ‘He’s all right, Fleming my boy. Men don’t come straighter than that tall, thin, humourless, toffee-nosed old sod.’

      Now Munro was in the vacated office leaning on his walking-stick and puffing at his pipe. Around him there were the Engineering Officer and three senior ground staff NCOs including Flight Sergeant Worthington.

      There was a problem. Carter’s aeroplane – Joe for King – which had dropped the bomb that afternoon had developed an electrical fault and would not be serviceable in time for the raid.

      ‘Our only reserve is the one that came in this afternoon,’ said Worthington.

      ‘Could do, Mr Sanderson?’ the CO asked the Engineer Officer, who in turn raised a quizzical eyebrow at the three NCOs.

      ‘She’ll have to go without an air test,’ said Worthington.

      ‘Get your best chaps on it and keep me in the picture, would you?’ Sandy nodded assent.

      ‘We’ll be putting the new flame traps on the exhausts. Permission to bomb her up in the hangar while we work?’

      Munro looked at his watch. ‘No choice, Mr Worthington. And rip as much of that armour plate out of her as you can manage.’

      ‘It’s a long job, sir,’ said Worthington.

      ‘Group’s boffins say we get an extra foot of altitude for every pound of weight we lose.’

      ‘We’ll leave the armour behind the pilot, sir?’

      ‘I don’t think any one of the crew will want you to take that out, Mr Worthington,’ said Munro with a smile.

      Worthington saluted and hurried away to round up his bods and break the bad news that they would be working frantically through their mealtime and on through the evening.

      ‘Carter to take the new kite, John?’

      Munro raked a match into his pipe and spoke with it still in his mouth. ‘Seven trips, or is it eight? Average pilot; what’s his flight engineer like, Sandy?’

      ‘Ten trips actually, sir. His engineer is Gallacher. Apprentice toolmaker, argumentative, thin on theory but practical enough. They’ll be all right.’

      ‘That’s settled, then.’

      ‘Shall I tell him?’

      ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Munro. ‘He’ll probably be a bit needled.’

      Munro’s own ground-crew chiefie was still standing nearby. ‘What is it, Chief?’

      The old NCO saluted gravely. ‘What time will you be doing your air test, sir?’

      Oh Lord, he had quite forgotten that he still had his own NFT to do. His poor crew, they had been hanging around all day, and now they would probably have to fly while the rest of the Squadron were enjoying the evening meal. ‘Immediately after briefing, say 18.15 hours.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’

      Munro reached into his pocket and looked at the list he had written on the envelope of the letter from his wife. He’d forgotten to put the NFT on it. If he’d seen another officer behaving as he had done over the past two months he would have grounded him without argument. But a commanding officer can’t ground himself, in spite of those little talks the quack had given him. There were the lads in the crew, of course, but then they might have been flying with some chap straight from an Operational Training Unit, which would have endangered them even more. It was a problem that would solve itself; tonight would be his last operation. Next week he was to hand over to a new CO.

      By the time Munro reached the Briefing Room everyone was there and the Groupie was hovering at the door waiting for the crews to come to attention. Munro walked to the platform and waited until the room was silent. ‘Gentlemen, Station commander,’ he called.

      The crews got to their feet as the Groupie’s footsteps clicked smartly down the centre aisle. He sprang agilely up on to the stage and tossed his gold-encrusted cap into a chair. He smiled, smoothed his white hair and looked at the great crowd of men as though wondering why they should be standing at attention.

      ‘OK, chaps,’ he called breezily. ‘Sit down and light up.’

      Near the front he saw Tommy Carter’s bomb aimer who had completed twenty-nine trips. Tonight would be his last, for if he returned safely he would be screened to some safe job for a few months. He was nineteen.

      ‘Collins, have one of mine,’ said the Groupie and flung him a packet of cigarettes.

      Collins caught the packet, took a cigarette and passed them along the line to Carter and the rest of the crew of Joe for King.

      ‘Thank you, sir. I’m passing them down the line.’

      ‘You saucy bastard,’ said the Groupie. ‘No wonder they call you Tapper.’ The Sergeant gave a shy smile.

      There was a roar of delight from the crews, for Collins had earned his nickname from his constant pleas to borrow a few shillings until payday. The Groupie smiled. Napoleon, he knew, had used the same simple device to endear himself to his soldiers. And this brilliant fellow in Africa gave away cigarettes by the cartload, so it was said. Not that the Group Captain was a cynical man. On the contrary, he was imbued with a simple desire to have his aircrews like and respect him with the same intense feeling that he had for them. He would have given almost anything to fly with them to bomb Germany. Twice he had flown unofficially as an extra crew member, but the AOC had heard of it and warned him against doing it again. The Groupie described himself as a Hun-killer. The crews mostly thought of him as a harmless eccentric. In fact he was a lonely man desperately trying to believe that the company of youth would offset the approach of old age. He swept the laughter away with a movement of his hand. The crews sat silent, waiting to hear the name of the target.

      In the few moments before the curtain rises at the opera there is a sound, a presence, an indefinable and unique mood. The audience are hushed and expectant, their throats are tight and even the nervous coughs are shrill