Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson

just started to rain. Cattermole went off to bed. The other three hung about for a while, too tired to make up their minds, and then wandered off to bed as well.
    An hour later an airman banged on their doors and announced that the CO wanted them in his office immediately. They were still groggy with sleep when they got there. Barton was sitting at his desk. The adjutant stood behind him. “For God’s sake, Fanny,” Stickwell grumbled, slumping into a chair. “Can’t a chap ever get a decent night’s rest?”
    â€œStand up,” Barton ordered sharply.
    â€œOh, don’t be so bloody officious,” Stickwell muttered, and did not move.
    â€œFlying Officer Stickwell,” Barton said, “I have given you an order.”
    At once Pip Patterson took his hands out of his pockets. The atmosphere, he noticed, was cold and hard. The adjutant was watching very carefully, and Fanny Barton had a look on his facethat said
You tread on my toe and I’ll break both your legs.
“Sticky, you idiot, get up,” Pip whispered.
    â€œBollocks,” Stickwell said, with all the force and intelligence of a three-year-old child. He was still stupid with sleep.
    â€œCome on, Sticky,” Mother Cox said irritably. “Do as he says.”
    â€œWhy should I? I can hear just as well sitting down, in fact I can hear a damn sight better—Hey!” Stickwell shouted as Cattermole grabbed him and yanked him upright. The chair fell over.
    â€œTwo reasons,” Moggy said. “One: he’s the CO. Two: you’re on active service.”
    â€œAll right! let go my hair.”
    â€œAnd three,” Pip said righteously, “if we stand, you stand.”
    â€œOkay, for Christ’s sake!” Stickwell glared at Fanny Barton. “I’m up. We’re all up. What d’you want?”
    Barton half-closed one eye and looked at him.
    Stickwell straightened his rumpled tunic, rubbed his left elbow, and smoothed back his hair. Nobody spoke. He eased his collar and did up a stray button. At last he met Barton’s gaze. “What d’you want, sir?” he asked.
    Barton opened the half-closed eye. “I want you to take those horses back where you found them,” he said. “And I want you to do it now.”
    Rain pattered against the window.
    â€œWe’ll never find that field again, sir,” Cox said gloomily. “Not in the middle of the night.”
    â€œOh yes you will. You are commissioned officers in a squadron of Fighter Command in the Royal Air Force. You are not a bunch of hooligans living off the land and stealing whatever you fancy. You’ll find the horses loaded on a lorry at the main gate. That’s all.”
    When they had left, the adjutant said: “Well done, old chap. Jolly well done.”
    Fanny Barton was still staring at the door. “Somewhat heavy-handed,” he said.
    â€œNot a bit.”
    â€œIt felt sort of … What did Sticky say? Officious.”
    â€œUtter rubbish. You had no choice.”
    Barton sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a snortof dissatisfaction. “Why do they have to behave like such bloody lunatics, uncle?”
    â€œOh well … They’re all a bit mad, you know. They wouldn’t do it unless there was a damn good chance of getting killed, would they? So they can’t be completely normal. They’re not what you’d call model citizens, any of them. More like vandals, I suppose. They’re just itching to be turned loose with an eight-gun Hurricane on some lumbering great bomber. I mean, that’s your average fighter pilot’s attitude, isn’t it? Show him something, anything really, and deep down inside, his first reaction is: What sort of a mess could I make of that with a couple of three-second bursts? Herd of cows, doubledecker bus, garden party—makes no difference what it is, that’s the thought in the back of his mind.