Damned Good Show

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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 it’s a big job, being Prime Minister,” Hunt said. “I just wish he wouldn’t sound like an undertaker who’s lost the body.”

They were in the Mess anteroom 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 Minister’s 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.

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