Read Online Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson - Free Book Online

fuselage. He began to count all the gauges and switches and indicators crammed onto the instrument panel and overflowing down the sides, reached twenty-five, saw a dozen more and gave up.
    Silk found a field of cloud and made fun of it, skimming the surface, rushing down slopes, charging up hills. Then they were over the sea. It looked as if it had been spray-painted a deep metallic blue. Silk found a fluffy cloud and flew slowly around it while Trimbull, installed in the upper gunner’s position, raked it savagely with bursts of fire while the real gunner guided his arm. Trimbull enjoyed watching the tracer bullets most of all. They streaked like red devils. Silk flew home at a hundred feet, hurdling the power lines, while Trimbull gripped the pilot’s seatback and flexed his knees and silently cheered. Altogether, a successful trip.
5
    At Clifton College, Langham had won prizes for his English essays. His sentences grew like ivy. They were rich with subordinate clauses and parentheses; his handling of the semi-colon was masterly. Often his sentences ran until they made complete paragraphs. He could qualify a statement five different ways without breaking sweat. But he couldn’t write a letter to Zoë Herrick. He tried, and immediately felt swamped by a flood of remembered lust. If he put this hunger into words, his writing became a scribble and then an exhausted scrawl. He gave up. He telephoned her. Easier. Also more dangerous.
    â€œDarling!” she said. “How sweet of you. By the way, you forgot to take your underpants.”
    â€œDamn … Look, chuck them out.”
    â€œNever. I’m wearing them. Not as nice as you next to the skin, but I suppose a girl has to make sacrifices. There’s a war on. Have you been looping the loop in your sexy Spitfire?”
    â€œActually, there’s been a bit of a change. I’m off Spitfires. We’re flying Hampdens now. Twice as many engines, and a ton of bombs. Plus a crew to boss about. So I’m frightfully high-powered.”
    â€œWhat fun. I had a dog called Harrington when I was small.”
    â€œNot Harrington. Hampden.”
    Brief pause. “Harrington. King Charles spaniel. I should know, darling, he was my bloody dog.”
    He let her win. “What are you up to? Apart from my underwear.”
    â€œIf I were apart from your underwear, darling, I’d be stark naked.”
    â€œAh.” His loins gave a small leap. “I know a few pilots who wear their girl-friends’ silk stockings on a long flight. Keeps the legs warm.”
    â€œPrecious, you may have the pick of my lingerie the instant we’re married. Are you free a week on Wednesday? Lincoln cathedral, two o’clock. The bishop got a special license for us. He’s my godfather, he swore to protect me from the flesh and the devil but nobody said anything about Spitfire pilots.”
    â€œThat’s because we’re unspeakable.” Let her think he flew a Spitfire. What harm could it do?
6
    Silk lay stretched on a sofa in the Mess anteroom, engrossed in a paperback called
A Bullet for Your Pains.
He was within a page or two of discovering whodunit when a servant presented Flight Lieutenant McHarg’s compliments and requested Mr. Silk’s presence in his office on a matter of some importance.
    This had never happened before.
    McHarg was at his desk. He pointed to a straightback chair without looking up. He was reading a typewritten report and following every word with his forefinger. Silk looked around the room, and saw framed photographs of McHarg and his Bentley everywhere, so he looked at the floor instead. McHarg finished reading and stapled the pages with a crash of his fist that made Silk jump. “What doesn’t grow on trees?” he demanded. His voice was still grounded in Glasgow.
    â€œFish,” Silk said. “Footballs. Fountain-pens. I give up.”
    But McHarg had lost interest. He plucked at a hair in