“I am doing something,” Digby said calmly. “I’ve been given the task of finding out why this is happening. We lost fifty percent of the aircraft on that raid.”
“Bloody treachery at the top, I suspect. Or some fool air marshal boasting in his club about tomorrow’s raid, and a Nazi barman taking notes behind the beer pumps.”
“That’s one possibility.”
Bart sighed. “I’m sorry, Diggers,” he said, using a childhood nickname. “It’s not your fault, I’m just blowing my top.”
“Seriously, have you any idea why so many are being shot down? You’ve flown more than a dozen missions. What’s your hunch?”
Bart looked thoughtful. “I wasn’t just sounding off about spies. When we get to Germany, they’re ready for us.
“What makes you say that?”
“Their fighters are in the air, waiting for us. You know how difficult it is for defensive forces to time that right. The fighter squadron has to be scrambled at just the right moment; they must navigate from their airfield to the area where they think we might be, then they have to climb above our ceiling, and when they’ve done all that they have to find us in the moonlight. The whole process takes so much time that we should be able to drop our ordnance and get clear before they catch us. But it isn’t happening that way.”
Digby nodded. Bart’s experience matched that of other pilots he had questioned. He was about to say so when Bart looked up and smiled over Digby’s shoulder. Digby turned to see a Negro in the uniform of a squadron leader. Like Bart, he was young for his rank, and Digby guessed he had received the automatic promotions that came with combat experience-flight lieutenant after twelve sorties, squadron leader after fifteen.
Bart said, “Hello, Charles.”
“You had us all worried, Bartlett. How are you?” The newcomer’s accent was Caribbean overlaid with an Oxbridge drawl.
“I may live, they say.”
With a fingertip, Charles touched the back of Bart’s hand where it emerged from his sling. It was a curiously affectionate gesture, Digby thought. “I’m jolly glad to hear it,” Charles said.
“Charles, meet my brother Digby. Digby, this is Charles Ford. We were together at Trinity until we left to join the air force.”
“It was the only way to avoid taking our exams,” Charles said, shaking Digby’s hand.
Bart said, “How are the Africans treating you?”
Charles smiled and explained to Digby, “There’s a squadron of Rhodesians at our airfield. First class flyers, but they find it difficult to deal with an officer of my color. We call them the Africans, which seems to irritate them slightly. I can’t think why.”
Digby said, “Obviously you’re not letting it get you down.”
“I believe that with patience and improved education we may eventually be able to civilize such people, primitive though they seem now.” Charles looked away, and Digby caught a glimpse of the anger beneath his good humor.
“I was just asking Bart why he thinks we’re losing so many bombers,” Digby said. “What’s your opinion?”
“I wasn’t on this raid,” Charles said. “By all accounts, I was lucky to miss it. But other recent operations have been pretty bad. I get the feeling the Luftwaffe can follow us through cloud. Might they have some kind of equipment on board that enables them to locate us even when we’re not visible?”
Digby shook his head. “Every crashed enemy aircraft is minutely examined, and we’ve never seen anything like what you’re talking about. We’re working hard to invent that kind of device, and I’m sure the enemy are, too, but we’re a long way from success, and we’re pretty sure they’re well behind us. I don’t think that’s it.”
“Well, that’s what it feels like.”
“I still think there are spies,” Bart said.
“Interesting.” Digby stood up. “I have to get back to Whitehall. Thanks for your opinions. It helps to talk to the men at the sharp end.” He shook hands with Charles and squeezed Bart’s uninjured shoulder. “Sit still and get well.”
“They say I’ll be flying again in a few weeks.”
“I can’t say I’m glad.”
As Digby turned to go, Charles said, “May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“On a raid like this one, the cost to us of replacing lost aircraft must be more than the cost to the enemy of repairing the damage done by our bombs.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then. .” Charles spread his arms in a sign of incomprehension. “Why do we do it? What’s the point of bombing?”
“Yes,” Bart said. “I’d like to know that.”
“What else can we do?” Digby said. “The Nazis control Europe: Austria, Czechoslovakia, Holland, Belgium, France, Denmark, Norway. Italy is an ally, Spain is sympathetic, Sweden is neutral, and they have a pact with the Soviet Union. We have no military forces on the Continent. We have no other way of fighting back.”
Charles nodded. “So we’re all you’ve got.”
“Exactly,” Digby said. “If the bombing stops, the war is over-and Hitler has won.”
The Prime Minister was watching
Late at night, after all the memoranda had been dictated, the cables sent, the reports annotated, and the minutes initialed, when he was too worried and angry and tense to sleep, Churchill would sit in one of the large VIP seats in the front row with a glass of brandy and lose himself in the latest enchantment from Hollywood.
As Digby walked in, Humphrey Bogart was explaining to Mary Astor that when a man’s partner is killed he’s supposed to do something about it. The air was thick with cigar smoke. Churchill pointed to a seat. Digby sat down and watched the last few minutes of the movie. As the credits appeared over the statuette of a black falcon, Digby told his boss that the Luftwaffe seemed to have advance notice when Bomber Command was coming.
When he had finished, Churchill stared at the screen for a few moments, as if he were waiting to find out who had played Bryan. There were times when he was charming, with an engaging smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes, but tonight he seemed sunk in gloom. At last he said, “What does the RAF think?”
“They blame poor formation flying. In theory, if the bombers fly in close formation, their armament should cover the entire sky, so any enemy fighter that appears should be shot down immediately.”
“And what do you say to that?”
“Rubbish. Formation flying has never worked. Some new factor has entered the equation.”
“I agree. But what?”
“My brother blames spies.”
“All the spies we’ve caught have been amateurish-but that’s why they were caught, of course. It may be that the competent ones have slipped through the net.”
“Perhaps the Germans have made a technical breakthrough.”
“The Secret Intelligence Service tell me the enemy are far behind us in the development of radar.”
“Do you trust their judgment?”
“No.” The ceiling lights came on. Churchill was in evening dress. He always looked dapper, but his face was lined with weariness. He took from his waistcoat pocket a folded sheet of flimsy paper. “Here’s a clue,” he said, and he handed it to Digby.
Digby studied the sheet. It appeared to be a decrypt of a Luftwaffe radio signal, in German and English. It said that the Luftwaffe’s new strategy of dark night-fighting-
