Ten minutes later he accelerated away in a crackle of exhaust from the little Frazer-Nash while Zoë fluttered a handkerchief to the waving hands.
Two or three talks a day. The rest of the time they motored around the county, stopping occasionally to look at a ruined abbey or to stroll along a riverbank that had picturesque swans on one side and inquisitive cattle on the other. Then lunch. Zoë knew all the best black-market restaurants, and they knew her. If the weather turned foul, she navigated Silk to the nearest big house. One day, in a cloudburst, it was Tattershall Castle. “What a pile!” Silk said. “It’s like the Tower of London.” Rain was lashing the windscreen, melting the battlements. “It’s got a moat. Are you sure you know these people?”
“Felicity was at Cheltenham Ladies College with me.” Zoë leaned across and punched the horn. “Rode in a point-to-point without permission, got the sack. Came second, though.” More horn. “Ah! Results.” Servants appeared with golfing umbrellas.
“Have you been here before?”
“Finest lavatories in the county, Silko. Your tubes have a treat in store.”
Felicity gave them tea. Later, Silk peed into a superb lavatory and told his bladder how luck it was to be in a 15th century castle with 20th century plumbing. Then he told himself how lucky he was. Zoë could have smiled at any one of a thousand men, cleverer, better-looking, braver, and the chap would have jumped at the chance. Silk looked in the mirror. Double DFC. No visible scars. Zoë was no fool, so she must have found something special in him. That was good enough.
Life with Zoë was all fun, and that was rare in the middle of a war. Money helped. Lots of money helped a lot. He slipped easily into her lifestyle. They fell easily into bed. As they lay together, joined snugly at the loins, he heard the squadrons circling, making height, and he thought: I’ve done all that, so I deserve all this. Next day the telegram arrived. Report to Air Commodore Bletchley at Air Ministry.
YOU CAN SHOVEL ALL YOU LIKE
The air attaché at the Washington embassy was Group Captain Hardy, a stubby man in a light grey suit. As they shook hands, he made a rapid study of Silk’s face. “No visible scars, thank Christ,” he said. “The last man London sent us had first-degree burns and a lisp. No use at all. Imagine showing him to American mothers. Your boy goes for aircrew and comes back looking like overdone steak and talking like a pansy.”
“Very inconsiderate of him,” Silk said.
“Spare me your wit. It won’t ring any bells over here. I was a pilot once, I know all about crashes, I felt sorry for the poor devil. But this isn’t Europe, it isn’t even a different country, it’s a different world.” They followed the porter to Hardy’s car. “The ambassador wants a quick word. Then we’ve got you a hotel room. Not de luxe, but Washington’s stuffed to the gills with people, and it’s only for one night.”
The ambassador was tall and slim, and he made Silk feel that his arrival was the high point of the day. “I do congratulate you on your second DFC,” he said. “We are privileged indeed. It can’t be right that you are still only a flight lieutenant.”
“Natural phenomenon, sir. Like the eclipse of the sun.”
The ambassador smiled. “Jolly good… But it won’t do. Americans feel shortchanged by any rank less than squadron leader. We leaned on Air Ministry and you are now an acting squadron leader.”
“Let’s get that third ring sewn on lickety-split, shall we?” Hardy said. He helped Silk take off his tunic and he left the room.
“Three things I feel you should know,” the ambassador said. “Steer clear of the race business, Negroes, segregation, their Civil War – it’s a minefield, and it’s their minefield, so leave it to them. Homosexuality is another hazard. Americans believe it’s compulsory in England. They fear for their manhood; that’s why they shout so much. When in doubt, ask them to explain their gridiron football. They like that. And above all, never discuss politics. Your wife is doing truly splendid work in the
Salute For Stalin campaign, isn’t she? Say nothing of that. Americans tolerate Russia as long as it’s six thousand miles away. Here, they consider Socialism a transmittable disease, like cholera.” He smiled. “All tickety-boo?”
“Yes sir.” But this wasn’t what Silk had expected. The song about America said Anything Goes. Obviously, anything didn’t go. “Complicated, isn’t it?”
“Keep it simple, squadron leader. Just say we’re winning, because we’re best. Which, of course, we are.”
Hardy had breakfast with him at the hotel. “Here’s your speech,” he said. “Memorise it. Stick to it. Stand up, speak up, shut up. Can you manage that?”
“Piece of cake.” Typed, double-spaced, with wide margins, it made half a page. “One thing wrong: I never flew a Liberator. Have to change that.”
“You flew a Liberator, Silk. Today’s factory makes gun turrets for Liberators. They’re not going to give up ten minutes of their lunch break to be told what a wonderful kite the Lanc is.”
They drove to Baltimore, Maryland. The plant was vast. Half the workers were women. A manager introduced Squadron Leader Silk as one of Britain’s knights of the sky who took the battle to the heart of the Nazi homeland, and the roar of applause startled him. The speech was easy. He told them the U.S. Air Force and the Royal Air Force together delivered a left-right punch that had Germany on the ropes, and they cheered. He said the Allied formula was simple: we’re winning because we’re best. They cheered. He said he’d flown the Liberator, he’d sat in its magnificent turrets, fired those 50-calibre guns, seen the havoc they caused, and every man and woman here should feel proud… the rest was drowned by a storm of cheering.
In the car, Hardy said: “Seven out of ten. Don’t rush it. And don’t grin. You’re David Niven, not Jimmy bloody Cagney.”
“Where next?”
“Allentown, Pennsylvania. Bomb factory. Same speech, tailored to suit the audience. Any ideas?”
Silk thought. “I could say the bomber’s only as good as the bombs it drops.”
Hardy grunted. “That’s a start.” He turned on the radio. “Ah… gospel music. I’m rather fond of gospel music.”
At the end of a week they had worked their way through Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. Silk had made fifteen speeches, praising the manufacture of everything from radios and bullets to flying boots and navigators’ pencils. At night they stayed at the nearest air base. “Don’t you find this boring?” Hardy asked.
“Compared with what? Flying home from Berlin with one engine on the fritz and a cookie hung up in the bomb bay? Yes, I suppose it is rather boring.”
“Well, I’ve had enough. You don’t need me. I’ll take you back to Washington and put you on a plane to Chicago. You’ll love the Midwest. It’s ten times more boring than the East.”
For the next two months, Silk toured factories making war material in Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri. An officer from the Chicago consulate planned the itinerary, arranged the transport, paid the bills, organized the overnight laundry, quietly reminded Silk which state they were in just before he stepped forward to say how privileged he felt to be in it. They visited forty-two factories, Silk gave fifty-three interviews to radio stations and local papers, was photographed several times a day. If he felt lonely he wrote home: short, jokey letters. If he could find a little fluffy baby-toy for Laura, he sent that too. Did they ever arrive? He never knew. If Zoë ever wrote back, the mail never caught up with him.