At Silk’s Vulcan, the ground crew were in spotless white overalls. The crew chief was watching one man hose down the wheels. Others polished the fuselage, got rid of oil streaks, picked off bits of birdshit. “Looks good, chiefy,” Silk said.
“Bags of swank, Mr Silk. If it’s wet it’s clean, isn’t that right? Etcetera.”
Silk delayed his lunch until he knew the Mess would be half-empty. Even so, Quinlan and Tucker saw him and came over to his table. “The CO’s called off the eyepatch stunt,” Quinlan said. “Too many accidents. One chap tripped and fell into a flowerbed. Prize petunias. Serious damage.”
“You started it all, didn’t you?” Tucker said. He had taken off his eyepatch and was wearing it like a knuckleduster.
“Not me,” Silk said. “Blame Pulvertaft. It was his idea of a squadron badge. He’s lost his marbles.”
“On the contrary,” Quinlan said. “The eyepatch represents this squadron at its gung-ho finest. Suppose your anti-flash blinds fail. You’re looking at something so bright it makes the sun seem like a fifteen-watt bulb. What’s the result?”
“I’m blind,” Silk said. “We’re all blind.”
“No, we’re half-blind. The eyepatch saves one eye. The op goes on. We hit the target.”
“Crikey.” Moments of amazement sent Silk back to the language of boyhood. “So we all attack Russia…”
“Wearing eyepatches. Unjammable. Kruschev can’t touch us.”
“Touch us? He can’t even see us. Unless he’s got an eyepatch - ”
“It’s no joking matter, Silk.”
“Of course not. Does the army know about this? The Irish Guards could take Moscow looking like the Pirates of Penzance.”
Tucker had listened with growing irritation. His shoulders were hunched, his knuckles flexed. “That’s not a Service Issue eyepatch you’re wearing,” he said. “That’s some naff poncey girly piece of stuff.” He hooked a finger into the elastic and stretched it. Silk expected pain and he flinched and half-turned and lost his eyepatch.
“Hullo,” Tucker said. “That’s not mascara.”
Quinlan leaned forward and looked. “It’s not Service Issue, either.”
“My wife punched me,” Silk said.
“No jokes,” Tucker said. “What really happened?”
“It’s true. She’s tough. She used to box for Cheltenham Ladies’ College. It was a sucker punch. You wait. I’ll kill her next time.”
“You’re married to that MP, aren’t you,” Quinlan said. “Lady Shapland. One of the ban-the-bomb crowd. They’re all maniacs. Can’t you keep her under control?”
“She’s not Lady Shapland. And neither am I.” That made no sense, but Silk didn’t care.
“Nobody mucks about with anyone in this crew,” Tucker said. “Next time she belts you I’ll break her arms.” He strode away.
“The only thing he cares about is putting the bomb on the Aiming Point,” Quinlan said. “He’s very dedicated.” He looked at his watch. “Bugger. I’ve got to go and keep wicket against the Yanks. Will your eye be okay tomorrow?”
“That depends,” Silk said. “If I get burned to a crisp during the night by the Soviet nuclear juggernaut, then I’m afraid I can’t make any promises.” But Quinlan had gone.
The teams gathered on the airfield.
Pulvertaft wore a white coat: he had appointed himself umpire for the cricket match. He was chatting with Quinlan. “Hope you’re wearing a box, old boy,” he said.
“Certainly, sir.” Quinlan flexed his knees and felt his crotch. “The crown jewels are safe.”
“I’ve selected that tall red-headed armourer to open the bowling. He had a trial for Middlesex, once. I’m told his quick ’un reaches ninety miles an hour.”
“Golly.” Quinlan whacked his wicket-keeping gloves together. Thunderbolts, eh?”
Pulvertaft took the match ball from his coat pocket and tossed it from hand to hand. “I’ve told him to give the Yank openers a few rib-ticklers. Make ’em hop! They don’t know the difference between cricket and croquet.” He chuckled. “We’ll educate them.”
“Here comes their chief, sir.”
Brigadier Leppard was strolling towards them, hands behind his back. “You guys ready to play ball?” he called. “We’re willing to consider surrender terms instead.”
“Awfully decent of you. Consider this instead.” Pulvertaft threw the cricket ball at him, quite hard. Leppard swayed sideways and casually caught it in a glove the size of a saucepan. “What have you got there?” Pulvertaft said. “Heavens above. It’s one of those baseball things, isn’t it?”
“Correct.” Leppard gave him the ball. “Baseball mitt. Essential equipment.”
“Extraordinary. I hope you’re not proposing to wear it in the match. Gloves are against the rules of cricket.”
Leppard looked at Quinlan. “He’s got two mitts.”
“He’s keeping wicket. That’s an exception.”
Leppard smiled. He had a good smile: modest, friendly, energy-efficient. “I’m all for exceptions. I’ll buy your exception if you buy mine. My guys wear mitts and play with baseball bats. But you can use your ball.”
“Awfully kind. You won’t object if we keep the score?”
“Well, now.” Leppard walked away, five paces, halted, stared at the sky, came back. “My guys aren’t going to like that.”
“Cricket is a complex game,” Pulvertaft said. “Your guys won’t know a square cut from a ham sandwich.”
“A square cut is two pairs, jacks and queens,” Leppard said. “At least, that’s what it is in Detroit. Ever played poker in Detroit?” he asked Quinlan.
“A pleasure yet to come, sir.”
“Okay. We keep the mitts, you keep the score.” Leppard shook hands and went away.
“Baseball mitt,” Pulvertaft said. “Looks more like a birth defect.”
Quinlan laughed, briefly. He was thinking of the red-headed fast bowler. Ninety miles an hour. The slip fielders might feel glad of a catcher’s mitt if one of those thunderbolts came their way.
The baseball teams had little to discuss before their game. The American captain, Major Jed Jakowski, met the British captain, Wing Commander Joe Renouf, to toss a coin. Renouf won and decided to bat first.
“Anything you need to know about baseball?” Jakowski asked. “Rules and stuff?”
“Nothing,” Renouf said. He disliked sport. He hadn’t wanted to play this stupid game, but Pulvertaft had made him captain without discussion.
“You sure? Cricket it’s not.”
“This country invented baseball centuries ago,” Renouf told him. “Its true name is rounders, and it is played by small children at girls’ schools all over England.”
Jakowski looked for the joke but all he saw were Renouf’s clenched jaws and bleak stare. “We take baseball a touch more seriously,” he said. Leppard was approaching. “Okay, let’s get the show on the road.”
“Everyone happy?” Leppard asked.
“The RAF want to use their cricket bats.” Jakowski shrugged. “Suits me.”
“Absolutely,” Leppard said. “A bit of give-and-take is good for the soul. Sport unites nations, yes? I’ll be watching from the balcony.”
Quinlan won the toss and put the USAF in to bat.