Goshawk Squadron by Derek Robinson

course. What else is there to do with money?”
    â€œWell …”
Kimberley was appalled. “I knew you were keen on dancing and all that, but to throw away a good farm for the sake of slithering about some stuffy dance-floor—”
    Church got up. Dangerfield, who was next to him, feigned surprise. “With me?” he said, lisping. “You want to dance with little me?” Church stood awkwardly, trying to keep his smile steady, and gripped the back of his chair. Dangerfield rose, managing to make his neat figure look almost voluptuous. He took Church by the arms and led him into a hopeless waltz. Chairs went down, mess-waiters grabbed other chairs before Dangerfield could steer Church into them. Near the entrance to the tent Church ducked free and trotted out. He stumbled and fell, and took his time over getting up, and stood swaying. Woolley, his elbow on the table and his head propped against his hand, saw this and said nothing.
    Rogers came in, swinging a cricket bat. “Ah, there you are, sir,” he said. “There’s someone to see you. An enormous American. Chap we met last night.”
    â€œNothing to do with me,” Woolley said firmly. “Shove him on to Woody.”
    â€œI have, sir.
He
wants to see you, too.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œMore pilots, I think.”
    Woolley finished his Guinness and got up. “See me in ten minutes,” he told Delaforce. He went out. Delaforce tried to appear normal but he was so excited he could hardly eat.
    Rogers glanced at the food on the table and moved away. “Funny, I don’t feel very hungry,” he said. He played an imaginary shot with his cricket bat. Kimberley watched.
    â€œFind something sexual in cricket, Killion,” he challenged.
    Killion glanced at Rogers, who was now holding the bat low and facing an imaginary bowler. “Observe how the handle seems to emerge from the groin,” he said. “Then look at the remarkable length of the bat. Did you ever see such boasting?”
    â€œWhat nonsense,” Rogers said angrily. “Utter nonsense. If that’s all you know about cricket, Killion, it’s no wonder you failed your exams.”
    â€œMedicine’s loss,” Killion said, “is aviation’s gain.”
    â€œThat’s what I like about you, Killion,” Lambert said. “You quit while you were still behind, and it shows.”
    Woolley found the adjutant in his tent, drinking Scotch with a truly enormous American.
    â€œSir, this is Mr. Martin, of the United States Army. He was extremely kind to us last night in Montigny.”
    â€œHow do you do?” Woolley shook hands. “I don’t understand your American ranks.”
    â€œStameetcha. That’s all right, Major. Just call me Chuck.”
    â€œDudley promised our friend a flight,” Woodruffe said.
    â€œDudley’s a bloody fool,” Woolley told him. “I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. My squadron only flies SE5as, and they’re all single-seat planes.”
    â€œOh, well,” said Martin. “Give me enough Scotch and I’ll fly home anyway.” The adjutant topped up his glass.
    â€œIf I could have a word with you, sir,” he said. They went outside.
    â€œBad news, I’m afraid,” Woodruffe said. “O’Shea died in the hospital last night. There must have been some hidden brain damage, they think.”
    Woolley scratched his face and looked in his fingernails. “Who?” he asked.
    â€œO’Shea. You know, yesterday morning. He went through those trees.”
    â€œI thought you were going to get them chopped down.”
    â€œI am, as soon as—”
    â€œWas that aircraft a complete write-off?”
    â€œNo,” Woodruffe said miserably. “Just the wings. The wings were smashed.”
    â€œOh.” Woolley lost interest.
    â€œI wondered if you intended to write to