Not surprising, really. Iâve often thought itâs a damn good job theyâre in the RAF, otherwise theyâd all be out there blowing up banks.â
âYou really think most fighter pilots are a bit mad?â Fanny Barton asked.
âAll the ones Iâve known.â Kellaway laughed as he remembered. âWe had a chap once. He used to fly upside down between the Lines at fifty feet, just to show them what he thought of them.â
âShow who?â
âBoth sides. Everyone was firing at him, anyway. The French always fired at any plane they saw, as a matter of policy. He used to say it was easier to dodge the stuff when you were upside down, because you could see it coming up at you.â
âWhat happened to him?â
âGood question. What
did
happen to him? I know they never shot him down, not when he was playing silly-buggers â¦â Kellaway screwed his face up in an effort of memory. âI think one day he just didnât come back, thatâs all.â He strolled over to the window and examined the soaking night. He flinched as a gust flung rain at the glass. âNot an uncommon state of affairs, of course.â
âWhat about you, uncle? Were you a bit mad, too?â
âAh, well â¦â The adjutant smiled roguishly. âI suppose I must have been. I was bloody lucky, I can tell you that.â
âAnd me? Iâm a fighter pilot. How mad am I?â
The question made Kellaway slightly nervous, and he took his time considering it, running a fingernail back and forth along his lower lip. âLetâs put it this way, Fanny,â he said. âMy guess is,when it comes to the push, youâll probably find that youâre a good deal madder than you think you are. Anyway, youâll know soon enough, wonât you?â
Nothing exciting happened the next day. All morning, the Group controller kept them on fifteen-minute readiness. By lunchtime they were dulled with tedium; they had stopped wearing their flying overalls and boots, because it was too hot; the prospect of the afternoon stretched drearily and endlessly before them, probably even hotter and more tedious. There was a limit to the number of lectures the pilots could be expected to listen to, and Barton had already used up the most interesting onesâemergency landing and ditching procedures; enemy aircraft recognition; how to bale out; ranks and badges of the German Air Forceâso he was glad to see a dispatch-rider turn up with an urgent package from Air Ministry.
It contained two dozen duplicated documents, each numbered and stamped in red CLASSIFIED SECRET. They were titled
Useful Polish Terms and Phrases for British Aircrew.
With the package came a memorandum, signed by Air Commodore Bletchley, to the effect that each pilot must memorize these terms and phrases within twenty-four hours. It was essential, he said, that not only the contents but also the very existence of this material remain secret.
Fanny distributed them, got each man to sign for his copy, and gave the signed list (with his own countersignature as confirmation) to the dispatch-rider, who roared off to London.
For a brief and rare moment, the only sound to be heard in the mess was the whisper of turning pages.
âVarmvatten,â
said Flip Moran, âis Polish for âhot water.ââ
âThey should know,â Stickwell said. âTheyâre in it.â
âVad ar det som har hant?
means âWhatâs going on?ââ Mother Cox said.
âAnd crash-bang-wallop means the
Luftwaffe
has just blown up the railway station,â Cattermole remarked. He lay slumped in an armchair, drowsy after too much lunch, his copy lying unopened on his stomach.
âWhat a cockeyed country,â Billy Starr said. âThey eat something called
kottbullar med lingon.
Meatballs with cowberries.â He made a face. â
Cowberries.â
âI like it,â said Moke