They were the last aircraft to land at Kindrick.
Every Intelligence Officer had a nickname. At 409 he was called Skull because his head looked a bit like one and it was full of brains. After he had asked his usual questions, he said: “Anything unusual happen?”
“Silko corkscrewed us halfway across Germany,” Freddy said. “Is that a new world record?”
“It was only over Stuttgart,” Silk said. “Routine evasion. Shook off the Jerry.”
“Nearly shook off the tail unit,” Freddy said. “I only mention it because the operating manual forbids aerobatics. Should we tell the manufacturers?”
The I.O. screwed the cap on his fountain pen. “Let’s not,” he said. “It’ll be our little secret.”
As they went out, Group Captain Rafferty, the station commander, said, “Damned good show.” Every night of ops, Rafferty stayed up until the last crew had landed at Kindrick or until there was no point in waiting; and he always said the same thing. He was right. Just to bomb the target and fly home again was a damned good show.
The aircrew meal was always bacon and egg. Freddy slid his egg onto Silk’s plate. “That’s for getting us home,” he said.
Silk was too tired to argue.
“I nearly shot down the night fighter,” the rear gunner told Cooper. “Give me your egg.”
“Tell you what: I’ll eat it for you first,” Cooper said. “Then you can have it tomorrow.”
“That’s in very poor taste,” the rear gunner said.
“Not if you put lots of Worcester Sauce on it,” Cooper said. “Brings out the flavour a real treat.”
“Rotten shots,” Silk said. They looked at him. “Stuttgart,” he said. “Just us, and all their flak and fighters. Pitiful. If that’s the best they can do, they don’t deserve to win the damn war.”
Nobody argued.
The flight engineer and the rear gunner didn’t finish their tours. On a day when Silk’s crew were off duty, not required, the engineer in another Lanc walked into a glass door, split his scalp and got double vision. Cooper volunteered to take his place and the bomber went down over Kassel. And of course the tail was always the most dangerous position in the aeroplane. Silk was bringing them back from a raid on Bremen when his rear gunner caught a glimpse of a Messerschmitt-110 a fraction of a second too late and a burst from the night fighter killed him. Silk saw tracers going past and he corkscrewed. Already both rudders were a mess, but the corkscrew was so violent that the fighter overshot the Lanc and, in the ocean of night, never found it again.
So, against all the odds and against his expectations, Silk completed his second tour.
He was the first pilot on 409 Squadron to accomplish this. There had to be a party.
The Group Commander came, made a speech, congratulated Silk on his second DFC. Nobody was surprised, everyone cheered.
Rafferty made a speech. He denied the foul slander that the only reason Silk had achieved his double tour was because the Huns knew he would make a bigger bloody nuisance of himself back here than over there. Laughter and prolonged applause.
By now, the beer was at work. Wisely, the Squadron Commander said only a few words. “Sixty ops is a lot,” he began. “Silko did it in units of ten. This was because he can’t add up to more than ten without being arrested for indecent exposure.” A wave of laughter, then a second wave from those who had been slow to get the joke. “But he deserves all our admiration. And we deserve to know the secret of his success, so we can bottle it for the Mess!”
Warm applause. Silk stood on a chair. “I remember the first time I met Bomber Harris,” he said. That silenced them. Most had never seen the head of Bomber Command, a burly, unsmiling air chief marshal whose goal was to win the war by flattening every German town and city. This would make invasion unnecessary. His determination was respected. His power was feared. Presumably his wife loved him. Nobody else did, which suited him fine. He didn’t want love, he wanted the steady tramp of high explosives down every German street, followed by the patter of a million incendiaries.
Silk continued: “I said to him, ‘Who are you?’, and he said, ‘AC2 Harris,’ and I said, ‘That’s amazing. Why are you only an AC2?’ and he said, ‘Because there’s no such rank as AC3.’ Very witty, Bert was…”
More laughter, cut short. Nobody wanted to miss a word.
“Bert Harris and I were friends from the start,” Silk said. “He was sweeping the hangar floor, using the intelligence officer’s silk knickers for the purpose, nothing’s too good for Bomber Command, and I knew at once this man was going places. In fact I said, ‘You’ve got the stuff of greatness in you, Bert’, and he said, ‘What a relief, I thought I was six months pregnant.’”
That went down well. Even a visiting air vice-marshal smiled.
“I wasn’t flying that day. I was dressed as usual, just a tweed skirt, tight sweater, rather daring, I suppose, and a gypsy headscarf. So I asked Bert, ‘D’you know who I am?’ and quick as a flash he said, ‘Juicy Lucy from Lincoln, and have you got change for a shilling?’”
That went down very well, except with the air vice-marshal.
“None of that’s true, I made it all up,” Silk said. Groans of disapproval. “Even the silk knickers. Intelligence is tight, you know that, they never give anything away. Actually, I borrowed them from a chap in the Provost-Marshall’s office. Awfully sweet fellow.”
A storm of derision. The Provost-Marshal’s office investigated crime, such as using aviation fuel in a private car. By now, the air vice-marshal had stopped smiling. He was talking to Rafferty.
“Where was I?” Silk said. “Oh, yes. You all know Bert Harris, full of merry quips and banter. So I said to him, ‘Come on, Bert, tell me a witty joke, something I can use to make my crew laugh on a really filthy night over Bremen when the flak’s as thick as pigshit. Bomber Harris turned to me, and quick as a flash – and witty with it – he said, ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’” The roar of laughter made the air vice-marshal flinch. “Bloody good advice,” Silk said. “And that’s exactly what I’ve been
doing for two tours: fucking off as fast as I could.” The CO was tugging his tunic. “For my next trick…” Silk began. The CO tugged harder and Silk fell off the chair. Everyone cheered.
The CO helped him up. “Christ, Silko, I shall be bloody glad to see the back of you.” Elsewhere, For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow was being sung lustily. “Now get yourself good and plastered and stay as far away from that air vice-marshal as possible.” He gave Silk a beer and moved off.
Rafferty came over with a bundle of congratulatory telegrams. “Very amusing speech, flight lieutenant,” he said. “It rather explains why you never made squadron leader. And never will.”
“Thank you, sir. I never trusted squadron leaders. Ambitious buggers.” Rafferty grunted. “Of course, group captains like yourself are scholars and gentlemen and a boon to the Service.”
They were silent for a moment, looking at the crowd.
“That bloody fool of an AVM wanted you placed under close arrest,” Rafferty said. “I talked him out of it, this being your big night and the boys getting tanked-up.”
“I couldn’t make a proper speech,” Silk said. “Not my style.”
“Well, you’ve had the last laugh. From tomorrow, you’re off 409 Squadron. Where next, I don’t know.”
“Two tours have got to mean something,” Silk said. “Any old cockpit will do. Not Training Command. I’ve done that. Ropey old kites. Terrifying.”