Riptide (aka Bluffing Mr. Churchill) by John Lawton Page A

buffalo, boy?’
    ‘No, sir. A few ducks in the Ozarks. Nothing bigger than that.’
    ‘I shot buffalo. When we had buffalo to shoot, that is. My daddy took me hunting with him the first time in ’99. Nebraska. I was fourteen. Gave me this gun when I was
sixteen.’
    He paused, hoisted the gun and drew a bead on some imaginary object in the sky.
    ‘How far up do you reckon these Nazis are?’
    ‘I really don’t know, sir. Ten thousand, maybe twenty thousand feet.’
    Gelbroaster kept the gun tucked into his shoulder, his cheek along the stock, his finger delicately wrapped around the trigger.
    ‘This gun’ll fire a bullet more’n half a mile. What’s that come to in feet?’
    ‘About three thousand.’
    Gelbroaster lowered the rifle.
    ‘Damn. Damn damn damn!’
    He looked straight at Cal for the first time.
    ‘Have we met?’
    ‘Yessir.’
    ‘Washington?’
    ‘Zurich, sir. Captain Cormack. Zurich consulate.’
    ‘Cormack?’ he looked Cal up and down. It felt to Cal like an inspection.
    ‘You old Senator Cormack’s grandson?’
    ‘Yessir.’
    That dated the general as far as Cal was concerned. A younger man, a man under fifty, would have been much more likely to ask if he were Congressman Cormack’s son. His grandfather had
retired in 1922.
    ‘You new in town?’
    ‘Got in less than two hours ago, sir. As a matter of fact, you sent for me.’
    ‘I did? Well, I’m sure I had a reason.’
    He chose not to remember the reason and scanned the night sky once more.
    ‘Three thousand feet, you say? I’m never gonna get to hit one, am I?’
    ‘Probably not.’
    ‘Pity. In the last war I got three German biplanes over France. I was a young sharpshooter in those days. Took a shot at Von Richthofen, tore a piece out of his fuselage, but I
couldn’t bring him down.’
    In his mind Cal heard Reggie’s voice telling him to remember the Lusitania .
    ‘Perhaps, sir, you should wait for the declaration of war?’
    Gelbroaster considered this.
    ‘That’s a technicality, son. We haven’t declared war, that’s just a matter of time. But we’re here. And there’s a war on. Seems a mite unfriendly to our hosts
not to lend a hand. If you’re invited to a neighbour’s house for dinner and the kitchen goes up in a whole mess of burning chicken fat, you help out with the buckets, don’t you?
Of course we could cut and run, like Joe Kennedy did. Moved his wife and kids out of London when the first bombs fell, got himself recalled at the first opportunity, and told all America that
England was done for. Or we could stay and fight. Which is it to be? You a runner or a fighter?’
    ‘I’m a fighter, sir. But as we’ve only the one gun between us I’d be happy to load for you.’
    Gelbroaster rose up. Five foot eight inches of pure belligerence. No fool like an old fool. He pointed the gun skyward. Cal heard a whispered ‘Geronimo’ and then the boom of the gun
ringing out like a hand-held howitzer.
    ‘Sonsovbitches,’ Gelbroaster said softly, and slipped the rifle into the crook of his arm. ‘Glad to have you aboard, son,’ he said to Cal, patted him on one shoulder and
set off to the roof door.
    The whine grew and grew. Cal had heard it the second the report of Gelbroaster’s shot had died away. Still it grew. Stopped Gelbroaster in his tracks. He turned. They stared up. A German
bomber bursting red and yellow flames – a billowing trail of black smoke – spiralling out of control, spinning down to earth somewhere in the region of Hyde Park. Then a huge, woolly
‘whumpff’ as the plane and its unspent payload of bombs exploded.
    Gelbroaster looked at the gun. Incredulity fading fast. Looked out at the orange glow on the western skyline where the plane had crashed.
    ‘Maybe I’m younger’n I thought,’ he said wistfully, then, lungs full and spirits rallied, he bellowed to the heavens, ‘Root hog or die!’
    Cal stayed. The bombers came in waves. He sat in Gelbroaster’s chair and