Read Online Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson - Free Book Online Page A

The controller says we’re released to forty-minute availability until twelve-noon. And there’s something else, too. The Ram wants slit-trenches dug. Somewhere near dispersal, he says, so you can all dive into them if Jerry suddenly pays a visit. Right here would do, I suppose.”
    Starr whacked his heel against the turf and failed to make a dent. “Pure concrete,” he said. “We’ll break our necks.”
    â€œI’d better get the digging started.” Kellaway went in search of the NCO’s.
    The purpose of a battle climb was to lift the squadron to combat height in the minimum time. It was hard work for men and machines, the engines slogging away to win a couple of thousand feet every minute, the pilots having to hold tight formation through cloud and air pockets and a change of atmosphere equivalent to climbing the Alps in a quarter of an hour. There was no chance to relax: everything and everyone toiled flat-out. It was the Ram’s favorite maneuver.
    â€œJester Leader to Red Three: close up, damn you,” he ordered for the third time.
    Stickwell was Red Three. His wingtip was ten feet from the Ram’s wingtip. He cut the gap to five feet and concentrated grimly on holding position. His stomach kept jumping as if someone were poking it with a pencil, and his mouth tasted stiff and sour; also his skull seemed to be pressing down on his eyeballs. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was sick.
    At last the Ram looked away from him.
Just you wait, Flying Officer Stickwell,
the Ram said to himself.
I’ll teach you to get blotto. I’ll spread your guts all over this sky before I’m through.
He opened his transmission switch. “Jester Leader to Red Two: where the hell d’you think you’re going?” he said.
    Cattermole was Red Two. He had already been sick: the effectof too much pure oxygen on a system thoroughly abused by alcohol and horse-riding. Oxygen was a well-known hangover cure for fighter pilots but on this occasion, although it had cleared his head, it had also emptied his stomach. He didn’t mind being sick but the vomit had splashed onto his gloves and made them slippery. Whenever he tried to wipe them clean, he wandered out of formation. “Sorry, Leader,” he said, and drifted back.
    You’ll be sorry when we get back, all right,
the Ram thought.
You won’t even stay for lunch, my lad.
He checked on Blue Section. “Tighten up, Blue Leader,” he said. “Stop dawdling.” Flip Moran brought his section forward by half a length, and the Ram put a mental question mark beside Blue Two. Miller. Moke Miller. Always larking about. Not a bad pilot but harebrained, no strength of character. It took more than flying ability to be a fighter pilot. In
this
squadron, anyway …
    At seventeen thousand feet they leveled out and gained speed until they were cruising at about two hundred miles an hour. The last layer of cloud was a mile below them. They seemed to be hanging in a vast blue dome.
    â€œTighten up, everyone,” the Ram said. “Stop wasting space.”
    The squadron inched together. Pip Patterson, flying as Yellow Three, had to watch his section leader on his right and also keep an eye on Red Two, ahead to his left. Both planes were so close he could count the rivets in the cockpit panels. Fanny Barton was Yellow Leader and he kept a straight enough course, but Moggy Cattermole was forever straying sideways. Patterson’s hands were sweating. His ears buzzed and popped; they didn’t like battle climbs, and every time they popped, a shower of tiny specks flickered across his eyes. He hated Moggy Cattermole’s bad flying. If Moggy drifted out any further, Pip would have to fall back to miss him. Green Section was just behind. Pip had once seen the tailplane of a Hurricane after it had been chewed up by a propeller. It was a mess. The propeller hadn’t been much good for anything,