Woolley left him and ambled over to the cockpit. For a moment Richards was afraid he might look inside, but he only patted the fuselage and spat on the hot exhaust pipe, which sizzled. “Poor old cow,” he said. “Who’s your mechanic?”
“Fairbrother,” Richards said.
“Get him now, tell him to fix that fabric and everything else, and refuel. Then find Rogers and Lambert and practice close-formation stuff. They’ll explain.” He ambled off.
When he was thirty yards away he looked back. Richards was wiping his face with a handkerchief. Woolley put his hands on his hips. Richards dropped the handkerchief and lurched away from the airplane. “Fairbrother!” he shouted weakly. “Corporal Fairbrother!” A man came running.
Rogers had a car. That evening he and Lambert took Richards, Gabriel and the adjutant into the nearest town, which was Montigny. Rogers and Lambert had flown together for several weeks; they talked easily and treated Woodruffe almost as an equal. Richards was very tired. He made himself comfortable in the back and left everything to the others. Gabriel was not tired; he sat forward and paid attention to the conversation, but did not join in. He was tall and gave the impression that he could have been taller, for his frame was strongly boned and his head bulged powerfully, like an intelligent swede.
“How did you get this car, Dudley?” Woodruffe asked.
“Hugo gave it to me.”
“Hugo couldn’t afford a car like this.”
“No, he won it. He and another chap were attached to one of those odds-and-sods squadrons, you know, Dutchmen and Americans from the Foreign Legion, and Japs, and Canadians on the run, and a few Portuguese. Well, one day a Portuguese lost his wings in a power-drive. I think he’d caught fire and he was trying to blow it out, or something. So they all drew lots and Hugo got the chap’s car.”
“Yes, but how did you get it?” Woodruffe asked.
“Well, Hugo got shot up, and his last words were, ‘Give Dudley my car.’ So I took it.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Woodruffe said. “Hugo couldn’t stand you. He said you talked too much.”
“No, no. It wasn’t that. He never forgave me because of school. I got elected captain of cricket when he was only made secretary, that was all. Hugo was a bad loser, you see. He got frightfully emotional about the Germans, you know, when his brother was blown up. He was just the same at school—couldn’t bear to lose.”
“Unlike our froggy friends,” Lambert said, “who make a career of it.”
“They fired at me again last week, you know,” Rogers said. “Twice. And they must have known. Perfect visibility.”
“Of course they knew,” Lambert said. He had a restless, brooding face that had been born looking battered; now, twenty-one years later, it was lined and pouched. Between the creases the skin was white, and even slightly freckled, but the face retained all the baggy reluctance of infancy. “Of course they knew. They got a damn sight nearer hitting you than any poor Fokker.”
“I saw a great big château this morning,” Rogers said. “Only a couple of miles from our field, too. Make a perfect place for us to live, and the lawns are big enough to land on. I went down and tried it, actually, and had a quick look-around. No one’s living there, Woody. We could move in tomorrow. Honest.”
“The old man would never agree,” the adjutant said.
“How can you tell? He might.”
“Ask him, if you think there’s a chance,” Woodruffe said.
“Not likely. You ask him.”
“I’m happy in my tent, thank you.”
“You’re scared of him,” Lambert accused.
The adjutant did not answer. Gabriel glanced at him. Woodruffe was thinking. He said: “I honestly don’t expect to be afraid of any man who isn’t actually trying to kill me, ever again. I was very scared in the trenches, scared of the Minniewerfers and the whizzbangs and the jack joneses, but the men who fired them … no. They were too far away.”
They drove in silence for a while.
“The only man who really frightened me,” Woodruffe said, “was a colonel. He believed that the best time to attack was 1 PM because that was when the Germans would be eating lunch. He said he got the idea quite suddenly one day when he was eating lunch at brigade HQ. He said he looked up and saw everyone with his Sam Browne off, spooning soup, and he realized how horribly vulnerable they all were. So he went around trying to get up a surprise attack—no artillery barrage—precisely at one in the afternoon. Just over the top, cut our wire, cross the shell-holes, cut their wire, and capture the enemy trenches. Now that man frightened me.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Did he ever do it?” he asked.
“Yes, after I was posted, I heard that he did. He was one of the first killed, in fact. He led the attack, you see, because he really believed in it. He was so enthusiastic, he kept on and on, until he bored everyone so much, they finally let him try.”
“I wonder if the Germans do take lunch at one o’clock,” Rogers mused.
“Events seemed to indicate not,” Woodruffe said.
Montigny, when they reached it, was dark. This part of France was within range of German bombers, and no streetlights were lit. They drove through thickening traffic to the main square.
Only one restaurant was open. It was full of smoke and soldiers. Everyone seemed sober, but they made a great deal of noise, and many smoked cigars. Nobody saluted Woodruffe, although his captain’s insignia was clearly visible. “They must be Americans,” Lambert said. He stopped a passing soldier and examined his badges. “They are Americans,” he said. “Goddam right,” the soldier told him.
They waited for a table. Woodruffe said: “If these aren’t all gym instructors, or drill NCOs, then they’re physically the finest-looking infantry I’ve ever seen. They don’t even know the meaning of defeat.”
“I didn’t know it had any meaning,” Lambert said. “I thought it was just policy.”
They were hungry now, and the healthy, muscular confidence of the American troops both impressed them and depressed them. Eventually a table emptied and they sat down. Waiters—all old men—hurried past, until Rogers seized one by the elbow. “Menu, menu!” he shouted.
“Nussing,” the waiter said automatically. “All gone. No food, no wine. Les Americains ont tout mangé” He tugged his arm.
“Mais nous sommes pilotes,” Woodruffe said.
“No you’re bloody not,” Lambert told him.
“Avions,” said Rogers. “Aviateurs. Contre le Boche, n’est-ce pas? Bleriot. Vrooom! Acka-acka-acka!” He released the man to use both hands for his impression of aerial combat, and the waiter scuttled off. “Soup!” Rogers bawled. The waiter waved and kept going.
“Think we’ll get anything?” Gabriel said.
“My God, I’m hungry,” Richards said. He was awake again, and alert.
“You had a busy afternoon, didn’t you?” Woodruffe asked sympathetically.
“Up for three hours,” Richards said. “Half that time was with Major Woolley, too.”
“That counts double, at least,” Rogers remarked. “The old man flies every minute as if it were his last.”
“And one day it will be,” Lambert said, “and God help hell, then.”
“One sees what you mean,” Richards said. “He has a forceful manner. Not a man to tolerate differences of opinion.”
“Blunt,” said Woodruffe. “Blunt and bloody, like a well-used bludgeon.”
“Really, they ought to bring us some food,” Richards said. All around them waiters were clearing away the debris of large meals. A different waiter came by, and Richards grabbed him. “Look here, you simply must bring us some food,” he insisted.
“Pas moi, pas moi,” the waiter gabbled. “II faut demander au—” He put his foot against the chair and dragged his skinny arm against Richards’ grip. “We must keep him,” Lambert said, “as a hostage.” The waiter stamped his puny foot. “Ah, the famous French offensive spirit!” Woodruffe e
xclaimed. The waiter burst into tears. After a while he sat on Gabriel’s knee, still crying, still held by Richards.
The first waiter came back with three bowls of soup and three pieces of bread.
“Plus?” Rogers asked. “Two plus?” The waiter said nothing, but put the bowls on the table. Lambert seized him. “Pas assez!” he shouted. The waiter had a fit of coughing and ended up on his knees, choking and spitting. The second waiter watched miserably. “My God!” Rogers said. “Is this what we’re fighting for?”
Gabriel tasted the soup and pushed it away. “Cold,” he said. Woodruffe yawned and rested his head on his arms. Rogers, who was smoking, began using his cigarette to singe the white hairs on the backs of the second waiter’s hands. The second waiter watched, fascinated. After a while he developed hiccups. Several waiters had gathered and were watching from a safe distance.
“One begins to wonder,” Richards said, “whether there is in fact any more food.”
“Ex-cuse me,” said an American. “Can we have our wader back? He gets the cawfee, see.” The man was brawny; he seemed to be an officer: he wore a tie and two revolvers. “The hiccupy one,” he said.
“Nearly finished,” Rogers said. He singed the last of the hairs and polished the wrist with his cuff. “There you are. Give it a rub with an oily rag and it’ll last for years.”
“Thanks. What’s goin’ on here, anyway?”
“We are on hunger strike,” Woodruffe said. “We have sworn not to eat until they bring us food. The fast is entering its ninth day. As you can see, my comrades are in a sorry state.”
“‘Sorry’ is not the word,” Lambert said. “We are almost sickeningly apologetic. What if we die here? Who will pay the cover charge?”
“You want some grub, is that it?” the American asked.
“Yes,” said Rogers, quickly and firmly.
“Whyncha say so? Ay-Meel!” he shouted. “Ay-Meel! See, we own this dump …” The head waiter arrived. “Ay-Meel, these friends of mine want a big, long dinner, with lots of good booze. Okay? Toot Sweet, see, goddamn hungry, got it?” The head waiter hurried off. “You get any trouble, just ask for me. Name’s Chuck Martin.”
“How do you do. I’m Woodruffe.” They shook hands. “I must say that we are all greatly obliged to you, Mr. Martin.”
“Chuck. Real pleasure meeting you all. Enjoy your meal, now. Stop by and see us again, you hear?” He led the hiccupping waiter away.
Waiters converged, laid a fresh cloth and place settings, a big plate of hors d’oeuvres, fresh rolls and butter, and two carafes of wine. “You asked what we were fighting for,” Lambert said to Rogers. “Whatever it is, the Americans seem to have cornered the market.”
As the meal got under way they began to relax once more. Woodruffe asked Gabriel what he did before he joined the RFC. He was obviously too old to have come straight from school.
“I was a theological student,” Gabriel said. “I wanted to enter the Ministry.”
“I knew a cricket Blue who became a parson,” Rogers remarked. “They let him play, too. Say what you like about the Church of England they know the value of a good offbreak bowler.”
“I was going to be a Baptist minister.”
“You wouldn’t have liked that,” Rogers said. “They won’t even let you read the sports pages, did you know? They’re not keen on alcohol, either. And they’re definitely discouraging about sex. In fact the only thing they positively approve of is praying.”
“And total immersion,” Woodruffe said.
“In that case they should put all the Baptists in the trenches,” Lambert said. “From all reports they’d find it an ideal existence.”
“Pardon my vulgar curiosity,” Woodruffe said, “but what made you want to be a Baptist minister? Were you … inspired, or … or … I mean, did you hear The Call, so to speak?”
Gabriel laughed. It was the first time they had heard him laugh, and there was little humor in it. The function of Gabriel’s laugh was to preface a point of interest.
“It wasn’t like that at all; quite the opposite. The reason I entered theological college was sheer snobbery, to prove that I really was better than everyone else. You see, ever since I was sixteen I’d been doing slum missionary work.”
“My dear chap!” said Richards. He topped up Gabriel’s glass.
“Where?” asked Woodruffe.
“Sheffield.”
“A dreadful place,” Rogers said. “I couldn’t stand living in a place like that.” He drank deeply.
“Couldn’t your people go somewhere else?” Richards asked. “It does seem awfully bad luck having to grow up in a place like Sheffield.”
“You could have moved to Harrogate,” Rogers said, “or Scarborough. Or even York. Why live in Sheffield?”
“It was unavoidable,” Gabriel said. “My parents were slum missionaries, too.”
“Oh, I say, look here!” Richards protested. “But how utterly beastly for you.”
“They still are,” Gabriel said calmly. “And doing magnificent work, too.”
Richards was deeply moved. “My dear fellow,” he said. “I had no idea. Not the slightest idea.”
“Well, why shouldn’t Gabriel’s parents be slum missionaries?” Woodruffe demanded impatiently. “Why not?”
“Somebody has to look after Sheffield,” Lambert said. “Important source of steel. That’s where they make the penknives for the generals to sharpen their pencils so they can draw red lines on maps. The war wouldn’t last five minutes without Sheffield.”
“I think we should all be jolly grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel for going round sobering up the slums of Sheffield so that the disgusting steelworkers have a cool head and a steady hand for making generals’ penknives,” Woodruffe said, “and I ask you to drink to that.”
“More wine!” Richards called, but a waiter was already topping up their glasses. They drank to Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel.
“Let’s look on the bright side,” Richards said. “Old Gabriel got away from the beastly Baptists, after all. Isn’t that what matters?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Woodruffe said. “Tell us how you did it, Gabriel. Can one buy oneself out, or …”
“I had a Vision,” Gabriel said. “I was attending a lecture on Redemption, Faith and Freedom, and God spoke to me. He said it was all a lot of bull, the whole course at this Baptist College. I glanced up, and He was cleaning the windows.” Gabriel forked a small potato and looked candidly at their several faces. “Please don’t think I dramatize or exaggerate,” he said, “because that is exactly what happened.”
“You say that He … that He was … uh … cleaning the windows,” Woodruffe said uncomfortably. “I don’t suppose … What I mean is, there’s not the slightest chance that—”
“The raiment was quite distinctive,” Gabriel said. “Also the beard.”
“Quite so, quite so.” Woodruffe nodded strenuously. “Just a thought.”
“What was it you said He said?” Rogers asked.
“The exact words were: ‘This is all a lot of bull,’” Gabriel said, “delivered in a firm, but not angry, tone of voice. It left no doubt in my mind as to what to do.”
“What did you do?” Lambert asked.
“I joined the RFC.”
“Hmm.” Woodruffe chewed thoughtfully. “And do you feel that you are nearer your God here than you were in Sheffield?”
“Really, Woody!” Lambert exclaimed. “What a question to ask.”
“Oh,” Woodruffe said. “Ah. Sorry.”
The meal burbled on. Lambert ordered brandy and cigars, forgot that he had ordered them, and ordered them again. Only Gabriel remained more or less expressionless. Woodruffe sprawled and studied the man’s inscrutable marble bust of a head. He felt a desire to walk around behind it and suddenly bawl “Gas attack!” in its left ear. It was not natural for a man to drink and yet look so sober, especially when his normal appearance was so depressingly competent and controlled.
“I
say,” Richards said to Rogers, “did you really mean what you said about the French firing on you last week?”
“Last week and every week. They never miss a chance.”
“But I thought there were signals, and no-firing zones, and things. Can’t you pop off a Very light and shut them up, or something? I mean, suppose they were to hit you … think how awful that would be.”
Rogers smiled, and swirled his brandy about.
“I mean to say, a joke’s a joke,” Richards said.
“Oh, well.” Rogers lit Woodruffe’s cigar, and then his own. Richards blinked uneasily.
“If I were a French gunner I’d fire at everything that flew within range,” Lambert said.
“But what possible good would that do, if it was a British plane?” Richards demanded. “I mean, be serious for a minute.”
“It would make me feel better,” Lambert said, as if that ended everything.
Richards stared from Lambert to Rogers. “Well, you chaps surprise me,” he said. “If any blasted French gunner started popping off at me, I’d soon go down and put fifty rounds behind his left ear for him.”
“Which would prove that he was right all the time,” Woodruffe said.
“Certainly not. How can anyone expect—”
“Oh, tish and tosh,” Rogers said easily. “Look, the frogs have had an awful war. Inconceivably horrible, tragic, appalling, wasteful war. Not much worse than ours, maybe, except that it’s their country, so they feel worse.” Richards glowered, red and resentful. “Don’t look like that, old chap, it’s true. All they want is to be left alone. If anybody disturbs them they shoo him away. Bang-bang, go home, whoever you are. Don’t you see, they don’t want to win the war—they want the war to end.”
“Not the same thing at all,” Woodruffe said, yawning.
“But we’re Allies, we’re helping them,” Richards protested.
“Extremely dubious, that,” Lambert said. “The frog is our natural enemy. We should be fighting him, only God got the history books wrong.”
“Well …” Richards shrugged, too disgusted to speak.
Goshawk Squadron Page 3
