Piece of Cake by Derek Robinson Page B

Miller. “Or as we say in Warsaw:
Jag tycker om det.”
    â€œYou’ve got until tomorrow to learn that lot,” Fanny said. “I suggest you test each other. Okay? Right. I’m going to phone Group.” He went out.
    Moggy Cattermole took his copy by the corner and dropped it into the wastebasket. “Bumf,” he said, and shut his eyes.
    â€œHey, steady on, Moggy,” Billy Starr said. “That stuff’s secret.”
    â€œThe Air Ministry knows no secrets,” Moggy murmured.
    His action produced a few smiles, but only a few; Cattermole was not universally popular. He was bigger and heavier than anyone else, and when he was bored he had a habit of strolling about the mess, snatching newspapers and magazines which he then redistributed arbitrarily, giving the gardening page to someone who had been deep in the football results, and so on. Once, back in the early summer, a member of “B” flight by the name of Gordon—nicknamed “Flash” because he was so reserved—had seen Moggy coming and had taken a firm grip of his
Daily Express.
A friendly struggle led to a friendly fight, and within a minute Flash Gordon’s nose was bent and his
Express
was spattered with blood. It was an accident; but as Flip Moran remarked, so was the
Titanic.
“What you must remember,” Flip said, “is that nine-tenths of Cattermole’s charm lies beneath the surface.” Many agreed.
    â€œPlease yourself, Moggy,” Billy Starr said. “Just don’t come to me for help when we get to Poland.”
    â€œWouldn’t dream of it, old boy.” Cattermole’s breathing had become slow and regular. “The rest of you, please try not to move your lips when you read,” he said. “It makes such a din.”
    He was asleep when Fanny Barton came back with the news that Group had given permission for one section at a time to carry out flying training, as long as the aircraft were fully armed. “Green section goes first,” he said. “Then Blue, Yellow, Red.” Before he had finished speaking, Green Section’s pilots were reaching for their overalls and boots. The others slouched and watched. Fanny looked at this mixture of eagerness and envy and was overtaken by memories of the schoolroom, of inky drudgery, of the lucky few released to play games while the rest remained trapped. “Keep within five minutes of the aerodrome,” he said, and that too raised echoes:
Stay in the school grounds
… Moggy Cattermole’s eyeshalf-opened as Green section hurried out. “Deserters,” he said. “Ships leaving the sinking rat. Gun ’em all down.”
    Now that everyone had something to look forward to, the afternoon passed more quickly. And there was soon something else to talk about: an intelligence officer had been posted to the squadron.
    He was a middleaged flying officer with a domed forehead, hornrim glasses and a face that seemed designed to show off his false teeth—beaky nose, narrow jaws, wide cheekbones. His name was Skelton, and they were impressed to learn that he was a Cambridge don, called up because he was in the RAF Reserve.
    â€œI’ve never met a don before,” Moke Miller said. “What sort of donning do you do?” Skelton frowned. “What Moke means is,” Fitz Fitzgerald explained, “what d’you teach?” Skelton pushed his glasses onto his forehead and compressed his features until his eyes were squeezed shut. “I mean, perhaps dons don’t teach anything,” Fitz suggested.
    â€œIn a sense.” Skelton’s face relaxed to normalcy. “And in the greater sense, perhaps nobody teaches anything. Teaching is a fraudulent word that should be abolished. There is no teaching, there is only learning. One encourages learning. At least, that is the theory.” He let out a snort of mirth and replaced his glasses. “History,” he told