Read Online Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Derek Robinson
Ads: Link
either. How the hell did you get downâthree miles downâwith a smashed rudder? Or a bust prop? Orâif bloody Moggy hit you and knocked you back into Blue Twoâwith both?
âSections line astern,â the Ram announced. âFlights echelon port. Go!â
He held his position and watched closely for blunders. GreenSection swung away to its left, clearing the air behind him. Red Two dropped into the space behind his tail, Red Three fell in behind Red Two. Yellow Section followed, each aircraft keeping slightly below the one in front in order to miss its wash. Now âAâ flight was in line astern and completely invisible to the Ram. He studied âBâ flight. They were almost in formation, weaving snake like as an adjustment worked its way through, then settling into a straight line. Not bad, not bad at all. âShambles,â he told them. âSloppy, scruffy, slow. Wake up! Squadron in vic. Sections astern. Go!â The section wingmen swung out, reformed vics, closed up. He looked across at the twin arrowheads of âBâ flight. âWake me when youâve finished,â he said. âAnd remind me to give you something for your arthritis. Squadron in vic, sections echelon starboard. Go!â
The Ram drilled his squadron intensively for the next half-hour, often changing course as he changed formation, sometimes changing altitude too, and always nagging at them to tighten up, sharpen up, get a move on. It was relentlessly demanding work, but the knowledge that a single misunderstanding could mean a collision completely overcame fatigue; at the end even Cattermole felt clearheaded.
âWe canât have a battle climb without a battle,â the Ram announced. âLacking enemy aircraft, we shall make do with cloud formations, which even you should be able to hit.â He led the squadron down in a series of plunging power-dives, each culminating in a mock-attack that led to a steep, turning climb and a rapid change of formation to set up the next power-dive. They finished within sight of the airfield. The Ram put them into sections line astern and took them into the circuit.
All the way down he had been thinking about whom to chop. Cattermole, obviously. And Stickwell, of course. Cox? Yes, Cox had asked for it. Miller, too. That made four. Chopping four ought to shake up the rest more than somewhat, he thought.
Halfway around the circuit. Speed: 160 and falling. Undercarriage selector lever to âdown.â Usual hydraulic whining. Double clunk as the wheels lock. Green light on. All correct.
The big question was: when to chop? Sooner the better, obviously. But with the international situation so tricky the squadron couldnât be left below strength. Not even for a day.
Speed: 135 and falling. Height: seven hundred feet. Slide the hood open and lock it. Nice bit of breeze. Downwind leg. Turn to port. Nice view of the rest of the squadron all strung out, descending. Good plane, the Hurricane. Tough, fast, chunky. And lethal. Blast any bloody Heinkel or Junkers to hell and gone in ten seconds. Five, even. Flaps down. Final approach.
Well, they would all play in this game of rugger, anyway, chopped or not. Do them good. Got to be fit to fight.
Over the barbed wire. Usual crowd waiting to watch the squadron land: groundcrew, fire tender, bloodwagon. And the adjutant, standing over there at the side all on his own. Funny how you could recognize people by the way they stood â¦
Maybe four was too many. Three might do. Give Cox another chance. Yes.
Down. Down. Gently down. All power off ⦠now! Up comes the nose and onward she floats, sinking, sinking, until bump, rumble and squeak, she touches the ground and runs.
Yes, chop three. If not today at least tomorrow. But why not send for replacements now, immediately? Of course, good idea! They might even arrive tonight, with luck. Why not indeed? Yes, definitely. Got to get the old adj cracking on
âSections line astern,â the Ram announced. âFlights echelon port. Go!â
He held his position and watched closely for blunders. GreenSection swung away to its left, clearing the air behind him. Red Two dropped into the space behind his tail, Red Three fell in behind Red Two. Yellow Section followed, each aircraft keeping slightly below the one in front in order to miss its wash. Now âAâ flight was in line astern and completely invisible to the Ram. He studied âBâ flight. They were almost in formation, weaving snake like as an adjustment worked its way through, then settling into a straight line. Not bad, not bad at all. âShambles,â he told them. âSloppy, scruffy, slow. Wake up! Squadron in vic. Sections astern. Go!â The section wingmen swung out, reformed vics, closed up. He looked across at the twin arrowheads of âBâ flight. âWake me when youâve finished,â he said. âAnd remind me to give you something for your arthritis. Squadron in vic, sections echelon starboard. Go!â
The Ram drilled his squadron intensively for the next half-hour, often changing course as he changed formation, sometimes changing altitude too, and always nagging at them to tighten up, sharpen up, get a move on. It was relentlessly demanding work, but the knowledge that a single misunderstanding could mean a collision completely overcame fatigue; at the end even Cattermole felt clearheaded.
âWe canât have a battle climb without a battle,â the Ram announced. âLacking enemy aircraft, we shall make do with cloud formations, which even you should be able to hit.â He led the squadron down in a series of plunging power-dives, each culminating in a mock-attack that led to a steep, turning climb and a rapid change of formation to set up the next power-dive. They finished within sight of the airfield. The Ram put them into sections line astern and took them into the circuit.
All the way down he had been thinking about whom to chop. Cattermole, obviously. And Stickwell, of course. Cox? Yes, Cox had asked for it. Miller, too. That made four. Chopping four ought to shake up the rest more than somewhat, he thought.
Halfway around the circuit. Speed: 160 and falling. Undercarriage selector lever to âdown.â Usual hydraulic whining. Double clunk as the wheels lock. Green light on. All correct.
The big question was: when to chop? Sooner the better, obviously. But with the international situation so tricky the squadron couldnât be left below strength. Not even for a day.
Speed: 135 and falling. Height: seven hundred feet. Slide the hood open and lock it. Nice bit of breeze. Downwind leg. Turn to port. Nice view of the rest of the squadron all strung out, descending. Good plane, the Hurricane. Tough, fast, chunky. And lethal. Blast any bloody Heinkel or Junkers to hell and gone in ten seconds. Five, even. Flaps down. Final approach.
Well, they would all play in this game of rugger, anyway, chopped or not. Do them good. Got to be fit to fight.
Over the barbed wire. Usual crowd waiting to watch the squadron land: groundcrew, fire tender, bloodwagon. And the adjutant, standing over there at the side all on his own. Funny how you could recognize people by the way they stood â¦
Maybe four was too many. Three might do. Give Cox another chance. Yes.
Down. Down. Gently down. All power off ⦠now! Up comes the nose and onward she floats, sinking, sinking, until bump, rumble and squeak, she touches the ground and runs.
Yes, chop three. If not today at least tomorrow. But why not send for replacements now, immediately? Of course, good idea! They might even arrive tonight, with luck. Why not indeed? Yes, definitely. Got to get the old adj cracking on
Similar Books
