LITMIR.BIZ

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the invasion.’

      ‘Really,’ said the Education Officer.

      ‘Yes. This chap will be a brigadier in no time at all. Anyway this fellow …’

      ‘Your cousin.’

      ‘What?’ said Sweet. ‘Oh yes, my cousin. He’s got German and French pretty well buttoned up and he’s thinking of having a crack at the old Russian or the old Jap. What do you think would be best? Perhaps Mandarin? I mean, you can’t tell the way it might go. What would you have advised the chap to study?’

      ‘He’d do best to concentrate still on his French and German. Conversational practice. Vocabulary building, perhaps working solely with military books.’ Sweet was looking rather blank. The EO felt that he was expected to continue. ‘He should try translating some of the Manuscrit de mil huit cent treize by Baron Fain, who was Secretary of Napoleon’s Cabinet. Or there’s Danilewski’s Denkwürdigkeiten aus dem Kriege 1813; I translated a piece of that once to pass the time away in France. Then for the Battle of Waterloo there’s the famous Documents inedits by the Duc d’Elchingen …’

      ‘If I want to read about our victory at the Battle of Waterloo,’ said Sweet, ‘I don’t need any French blighter to tell me about it.’ He laughed ironically.

      ‘But for your cousin …’

      ‘Oh, my cousin doesn’t need that sort of thing,’ said Sweet. ‘He thinks internationally: Russkie or Jap. Perhaps you don’t think internationally.’

      ‘I’m afraid I never do,’ said the Education Officer.

      ‘My cousin always does,’ said Sweet. ‘So do I. Look here, sir, I know that in the first war the trenches in France were full of poets and all that, but because chaps beat the Mess up once a week, de-bag some poor blighter and have a little horse-play you mustn’t think that they are a lot of shallow-minded musclemen. I mean, these chaps do their bit; some win a gong or two by luck or judgement.’ Sweet smiled. ‘But that doesn’t mean that when the shouting’s over they can’t enjoy some good poetry and music and sit down and try and think what the world really means to the common man.’

      ‘I don’t jump to conclusions,’ said the Education Officer. ‘As it is I’m rather proud to be sharing a Mess with so many interesting young men.’

      ‘Nice of you to say so, sir.’

      The Station commander was standing alone near the cupboardful of Squadron silver. Sweet thought he was counting it. The Mess Sergeant thought he was trying to see if the rearmost cups were polished. Actually he was trying to decide if the Command swimming trophy was solid silver or only plated. Sweet turned back to the Education Officer. ‘There’s an operational matter I must speak about with the Stationmaster.’

      The Education Officer followed Sweet’s gaze. ‘Oh certainly,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me hold up the war.’ He sniffed burned fat and watery cabbage and decided that he wasn’t hungry. He missed his wife’s home cooking more than he’d thought he would. What good was he doing here?

      ‘And thanks awfully,’ said Sweet as he moved among the earnest young drinkers around the bar. The light through the glass doors gave them haloes of sunshine. Sweet addressed the Groupie directly. ‘All alone, sir? Have I pestered you about my collection for the village children’s party?’

      ‘Hello, young Sweet, yes, you had a quid from me last week.’

      ‘Of course, sir.’

      ‘Your team going to knock spots off those Besteridge chaps on Saturday?’

      ‘I think so, sir. Mind you, Flight Sergeant Lambert is going up to London on a pass. I was rather counting on his slow bowling. Two of their team played for their county before the war to say nothing of this professional they’ve got. But Lambert’s set on taking his wife up to London. He says he doesn’t like playing for the Air Force.’

      ‘Bad show that, but I’m sure you’ll win, Sweet. I’m going to stonewall for you. Anyway, I’ve got ten bob on us.’ They both laughed and the Groupie bought Sweet a small beer.

      Sweet said, ‘There’s a story, sir, that you scored a century for 3 Group before the war.’

      ‘That’s true enough. I also played for Fighter Command one year. Before I got this touch of arthritis, or whatever the quack says it is, I was quite a sought-after bat.’

      ‘That’s what I heard.’

      ‘Oh come along, Sweet, I’m sure I’ve bored you with the story of my batting at Sandhurst … when the umpire tried to catch the ball …’ and the Groupie was launched into his reminiscences.

      Several officers moved aside, for the Group Captain’s stories about his cricket prowess were familiar to most of the Mess. His narrative was laced with monosyllabic four-letter Anglo-Saxon words which helped the Group Captain to establish a democratic camaraderie with his virile young officers. This, at any rate, was his theory. For this reason the Mess still had male waiters and barmen when most others had airwomen doing these jobs. The Groupie finished his anecdote flushed and happy. He said, ‘If your team win on Saturday the chances are the AOC will invite you for dinner.’

      ‘Yes, I’d heard he does that.’

      ‘Give you a chance to tell him your theories about staff planning and strategy,’ the Groupie said chuckling.

      Sweet bowed his head modestly. Groupie said, ‘But you’re a Flight commander now, Sweet. You’re finding out a thing or two about running a unit, eh?’

      ‘In a small way of business,’ admitted Sweet modestly. ‘But I must say I had no idea of the amount of paperwork necessary just to get an aeroplane into the air.’

      The Groupie gave a short ironic laugh. ‘Now you are finding out where the real war is being fought, laddie. Saturation bombing of airfields with Air Ministry bumf, memos, requests and bloody nonsense, each prepared in triplicate and filed under waste paper, what?’

      Sweet smiled at the Group Captain to indicate how much he shared his contempt for chairborne warriors. ‘Especially when all a chap wants to do is get to grips with the damned Huns, sir.’

      ‘That’s it,’ exclaimed the Groupie enthusiastically. ‘I’m employed to kill Huns, and by God, my squadron will kill more Huns of all shapes, colours, sizes and sexes than any other in this man’s air force or I’ll know the reason why.’ The Groupie smiled and self-deprecatingly added, ‘At least, that’s what I’ve told Air Ministry a few times, eh?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sweet. ‘In fact, on this matter of killing Huns there’s something you could help with … I say, I’m sorry to talk shop and all that …’

      ‘Now then,’ said the Groupie. ‘You know my views about those bloody squadrons where they taboo shoptalk in the Mess.’

      ‘Well, on this business of killing Huns, sir. There’s a pilot – a damn good chap, experienced, decorated and all that, a good NCO – but he told me that he thinks our bombing attacks are “just old-fashioned murder of working-class families”.’

      ‘Confounded fifth columnist!’

      ‘Yes, sir, I knew you’d be annoyed, but that’s not all. This war, he says, is just the continuation of capitalism by other means.’

      ‘That’s Karl Marx he’s quoting.’

      ‘Yes. It’s a misquote of Clausewitz actually, sir.’

      ‘It’s a bloody disgrace. A chap on my station you say?’

      ‘Flight Sergeant Lambert, sir. It might be just a touch of the jitters, mind you.’

      The Groupie’s face changed. ‘Lambert again, eh. Still, he’s got a good record, hasn’t he? And we’ve got to remember that Karl Marx is on our side now. Got to hand it to the Russkies, Sweet, they’ve put up a jolly good show lately. This

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