Goodbye Mickey Mouse - Len Deighton

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Thaxted’s only aircrew mess being in the Officers’ Club, the RAF men were eating breakfast there when Farebrother arrived. MM waved to him and he took a seat at MM’s table, chosen to provide a close look at the British flyers.

      Perhaps the sergeants were uncomfortable at being cast adrift on an ocean of officers, for they were shy and uncommunicative. They’d been to Berlin that night and lost a section of tail plane and a chunk of wing over the target. The pilot was a grey-faced boy of about twenty, and the rest of them looked like undernourished schoolboys. These flyers who fought by night were pallid and withdrawn by comparison with the noisy suntanned extroverts which US Army selection boards seemed to prefer as crews.

      Mickey Mouse never stopped fidgeting with the salt and pepper and tapping his fork against the tablecloth. ‘Look at those guys,’ he said, indicating the bomber crew with his fork. ‘The British have been fighting too long. They’re tired and low.’

      ‘Maybe you’d be tired and low after a night over Big B without fighter escort and half your tail missing,’ said Farebrother.

      MM gave him a sly grin. ‘We’ll be finding out soon,’ he said. ‘With these new external gas tanks we’ll be able to fly our ships to Cairo if the brass dream up a reason for it.’ He used the tip of his tongue to search out a piece of ham stuck between his teeth. ‘Paper gas tanks. Sounds like they’re carrying the metal-saving campaign too far, right?’

      ‘Will they come off the shackles when I jettison?’ said Farebrother.

      ‘You’ve got something there, pal.’ MM turned in his seat for a better view of the RAF men. ‘One of the topkicks asked the Limeys to stick around. There’s some kind of celebration in the Rocker Club tonight.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘They want to grab some gas and get back to their squadron. Look at those kids, will you? Are we going to look like that by the time we are home again?’

      ‘Did you hear the radio this morning? The RAF lost thirty heavy bombers over Germany last night. Thirty crews! Sure they want to get back, to see if their buddies made it.’

      Lieutenant Morse got to his feet and said, ‘I’m going into Cambridge on my motorcycle, want to come?’ Morse’s black mongrel, Winston, crawled out from under the table and shook itself.

      ‘I’ve got some letters to write.’

      ‘So can you lend me five pounds?’ MM drained his coffee cup while standing up. Farebrother passed him the money and MM nodded his thanks. ‘So they went to Berlin last night,’ he said enviously. ‘You get headlines going to Berlin. No one wants to know about the flak at Hannover or the fighter defences at Kassel. But go to Berlin and you’re a headline.’

      ‘And you want to be a headline?’

      ‘You bet your ass I do. A kid at school with me was on a sub that sank a Jap ship. The town gave him a parade. A parade! He was a hashslinger on a pigboat. He never even finished high school.’

      The Officers’ Club bar was a gloomy place, most of the blackout shutters permanently fixed over the windows. Farebrother found a corner of the lounge, and despite the noise of the men fixing up the Christmas tree in the hallway, he began writing a letter to his mother.

      ‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’ It was one of the British waiters, a completely bald, wizened man, bent like a stick and flushed with that shiny red skin that makes even the most dyspeptic of men look jolly.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Farebrother.

      ‘You won’t be flying today, sir,’ he coaxed. ‘The rain is turning to sleet.’ Farebrother looked up to see wet snow sliding down the window glass fast enough to obscure the view across the balding lawns to the tennis courts. Over the loudspeakers came a big-band version of ‘Jingle Bells’ on a damaged record that clicked.

      ‘It’s too early for booze, Curly. The captain wants a cup of coffee.’ It was Captain Madigan—Farebrother recognized him from the night journey on the truck from London. ‘None of that powdered crap, real coffee, and a slice of that fruitcake you sons of bitches all keep for yourselves back there.’

      The bald waiter smiled. ‘Anything for you, Captain Madigan. Two real coffees and two slices of special fruitcake, coming right up.’

      Madigan didn’t sit down immediately. He threw his cap onto the window ledge and went across to warm himself at the open fire. When he turned round he kept his hands behind him in a stance he’d learned from the British. ‘My God, but this must be the most uncomfortable place in the world.’

      ‘Have you tried the Aleutians or the South Pacific?’

      ‘Don’t deny a man his right to grouse, Farebrother, or I’ll start thinking you’re some kind of Pollyanna.’ He bent over to remove the cycle clips from his wet trousers. ‘I suppose you’re sleeping in a steam-heated room here in the club?’

      ‘I’m in one of the houses across the road.’

      ‘Well, buddy, I’m in one of the tents that blew down last night. There’s clothing and stuff scattered over three fields. The mud’s ankle deep in places.’

      ‘There’s a spare bed in my room.’

      ‘Whose?’

      ‘Lieutenant Hart.’

      ‘The one who was shot down over Holland?’

      ‘Lieutenant Morse told me Hart had an ulcer.’

      Madigan looked at him for a moment before replying. ‘Then let’s keep it an ulcer.’

      ‘I don’t get it.’

      ‘Lieutenant Morse isn’t really a fighter pilot,’ said Madigan. ‘He’s a movie star, playing the role of fighter pilot in this billion-dollar movie Eisenhower is producing.’

      ‘You mean he doesn’t like talking about casualties?’

      Before Madigan could reply the loudspeaker was putting out a call for the Duty Officer.

      Farebrother said, ‘It’s room 3 in house number 11. Dump your things in there and wait till you’re kicked out. That’s what I would do.’

      Madigan slapped Farebrother on the shoulder. ‘Farebrother, you are not only the greatest pilot since Daedalus, you’re a prince!’ Madigan repeated this to the waiter when he arrived with the coffee and cake. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Captain Madigan,’ said the waiter. ‘And thanks for the toy planes.’

      ‘Aircraft-recognition models,’ Madigan explained when the old man had gone. ‘What do I need them for in the PR office. He’s giving a party for the village children next week.’

      ‘You’re a regular Robin Hood,’ said Farebrother. He gave up the attempt to write to his mother and began to drink his coffee.

      Madigan remained standing, searching his pockets anxiously as if he was looking for something to give Farebrother. ‘Look,’ he said as he relinquished the search. ‘I can’t find my notebook right now, but you haven’t made any plans for Christmas, have you?’

      ‘I figured we might be flying.’

      ‘Even the sparrows will be walking, Farebrother. Look at that stuff out there. You don’t need to have majored in science to know that the Eighth Air Force birdmen are going to be having a drunken Christmas.’

      ‘And what about the public relations officers? What kind of Christmas are they going to be having?’

      ‘London is a dump,’ said Madigan, sitting down on the sofa and giving Farebrother enough time to consider this judgement. ‘And over Christmas, London will be packed with big spenders. Not much tail there for a captain without flying pay.’ Self-consciously he touched the top of his large bony head. There wasn’t much hair left there and he pushed it about to make the most of it. ‘I’ve got the use of a beautiful house in Cambridge over the holidays. See,

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