Goshawk Squadron

by Derek Robinson

  “Happy,” Margery said. She put down her food and carefully brushed her fingers, staring at the floor. Woolley belched, and stretched. Margery sucked at the inside of her lip. “You know that I want you,” she said steadily, still not looking at him. “And I know that you … need me. What I don’t understand is why …” But here she ran dry. Her voice had no more words. She turned to face him and he saw how her skin was shivering, the self-control leaking out of the corners of her eyes, her face breaking up. He put down the bottle and sat on his hands and waited.

  “I’ll never be any use to anyone else,” she wept. “You’re the only one I want to help and you won’t let me get near you except … except …” Now the hair was over her eyes, the drops were splashing wetly down her breasts.

  He wriggled his toes and saw a flight of aircraft peeling off, beautifully, one by one. “Well, I haven’t changed,” he said gently; only it came out curtly.

  “I know.” She couldn’t find a handkerchief. “Oh blast blast blast.” She found it and mopped up. “It’s all right for you. You’re not fat and you don’t spend all day washing bloody bodies.”

  “Everybody knows you’re the best in the business.” He took her hand.

  “I could have married cousin Freddy’s best friend Gerald,” she said.

  “Tell me about him.” He pulled her on top of him.

  “Tell me about yours, first.”

  “My cousin Freddy’s best friend was Norman,” he said. “He was deported to Liverpool for strangling Lady Mayoresses. Three, he done, in one afternoon.”

  “Liar,” she said. “Lovely liar.” They kissed.

  That night, in the damp gloom of the mess tent, Goshawk Squadron got good and drunk.

  “Pneumonia,” Lambert said, pouring gin. “I ask you: what a way to go.” He sneezed.

  “You noticed that he didn’t bloody condescend to pull a bloody trigger himself,” Finlayson said. He was wearing red flannel around his neck to ease the pain. “I’d like to see him hit one of those bloody kites. Arrogant bastard.”

  “Hear, hear,” agreed Church. He was wandering around, standing in front of people and smiling. Occasionally he sneaked off to one side and had a good long suck at a silver flask.

  “P-p-p-ower c-c-c-corrupts,” Killion managed.

  “I wonder if we have grounds to complain to Corps?” Dangerfield said suddenly.

  “Oh, definitely,” Church said. He came over and smiled at Dangerfield.

  “Tell you what,” Dickinson said, “I bet you he does it again tomorrow. I’ll give five-to-one on.”

  “Oh Christ,” said Lambert. He reached for his glass and knocked it over. “Double Christ.” He found the bottle and drank from that.

  “It’s not impossible,” Gabriel said. “After all—”

  “For God’s sake take a drink and shut up,” Finlayson told him.

  “I second that,” Church said cordially. He went over to Gabriel and smiled.

  “You can’t dismiss the possibility that the old man might have a plan,” Gabriel said stiffly.

  “Major Woolley to you,” Rogers said.

  “If you ask me, I think the fellow is certifiably loony,” Dangerfield said. “I think he’s finally cracked a cylinder.”

  “Bound to happen,” Kimberley said.

  “Bound to happen,” Church agreed, nodding.

  “I’ll lay three to one he’s still sane,” Dickinson offered.

  “Done,” said Woodruffe, coming in from the rain. “Put me down for a fiver both ways.”

  “You can’t bet both ways on a two-horse race,” Dickinson objected.

  “All right, old man. If you want to back out. Perfectly okay with me.” The adjutant squinted muzzily through the cigarette smoke. “Look here, you chaps,” he said, “I want to do something for you.”

  “Well, you can do something for me,” Lambert said. “You can tell that sadistic bastard to cut out bloody gunnery practice in the pouring rain.”

  “Sorry,” the adjutant said. “Not possible.”

  “Useless clown,” Finlayson said.

  “Tell you what I will do,” the adjutant said, “I’ll get hold of everybody’s score-card and alter it so you all get full marks.”

  “Bound to happen,” Church said softly.

  Killion stood up and walked stiffly over to Woodruffe. “W-w-w-what I w-w-w-want,” he said, “is a g-g-g-girl.” He blinked seriously.

  “You’re sex-mad, Killion,” Dangerfield said.

  “Mad,” Church endorsed.

  “Tell you what,” Woodruffe said. “Can’t get you a girl, but if you get her into trouble I’ll see it’s all right.” Killion walked away, stony-faced.

  “I know you’re tight, Woody,” Finlayson said, “but the only thing you could do for us now would be to shoot the old man. It’s time he was put down. Can you do that?”

  “Bound to happen,” Church said.

  “Sorry,” the adjutant said. “Can’t shoot the Commanding Officer. Tell you what, though. If you shoot him, I’ll get you off the court-martial.”

  “Shooting’s too good for him,” Lambert said.

  Faintly, above the moaning of the wind, they heard a cracked wheezing, the unskilled sequence of chords of a sea-shanty played at half speed.

  “Listen,” Finlayson said, “the bastard’s at it again. Celebrating another kill on his bloody squeeze-box.”

  “That p-p-p-poor g-g-g-girl,” Killion said.

  “Bound to happen,” Church murmured. He slipped out and went to his tent, got his revolver, and emptied it in the direction of Woolley’s tent. Everyone ran into the rain to see what was happening; everyone except Woolley. “By the time I got my boots on it would all be over,” he told Margery. “I don’t suppose he hit anything, anyway.” They found out next morning that he had, in fact, hit an airplane; but not seriously.

  Force 5: Fresh Breeze

  Small trees in leaf begin to sway

  February was a wretched month. Woolley’s training program was grindingly hard, tent-life cold, wet and colorless, and the news from the Front depressing. One day at breakfast Richards asked Woodruffe what was going on.

  “Nothing much, officially,” the adjutant said. “All the rumors are that Jerry’s been bringing his troops back from the east by the train-load. Corps think he’ll try a really big push as soon as the rain stops.”

  “He always does,” said Finlayson wearily. “Spring wouldn’t be the same without an offensive.”

  “This will be different,” Gabriel said.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” Finlayson demanded.

  “I read the newspapers,” Gabriel said, unmoved. “Presumably the Germans do, too. They know the Americans are sending troops.”

  “They already have,” Rogers said, “as we well know.”

  “Only a few divisions,” Gabriel said. “Not yet enough to stop a German assault.”

  “Bull,” Finlayson said. “In case you didn’t know, an American division is twice the size of an ordinary division.”

  Gabriel supped his porridge in silence.

  “In any case,” Finlayson went on, “all those Huns the Kaiser is bringing back from Russia are fagged out. They’ve been fighting out there for bloody years.”

  “And winning,” Gabriel said.

  There was a gloomy silence.

  “What d’you think, Woody?” asked Rogers. “Does the Hun have enough troops to do any damage?”

  “Somebody did tell me he thought they might be a tiny bit stronger than us at the moment. I believe the figure mentioned was one and a half million in rifle strength.”

  “Good Christ,” said Killion, before he could remember to stammer.

  “Of course I got that from a chap in Intelligence,” Woodruffe said. “They’re always wrong.”

  “What I can’t understand,” Richards said, “is why we have to wait. Why don’t we hit them first?”

  “It’s been tried,” Lambert told him. “Remember Passchendaele?
That was our idea.”

  “Passchendaele,” said Dickinson softly “Passion Dale. There’s something almost Miltonic about it. Or do I mean Bunyanesque? Ranks of valiant warriors crashing to catastrophe, with a great deal of rolling thunder and rather too much sulfur and brimstone.”

  “It was pretty horrible,” said Kimberley severely.

  “Don’t tell me, chum. I was there. I flew forty-three patrols in one week.”

  “Have you really been in the Corps that long?” Woodruffe asked in surprise. “I had no idea it was that long.”

  “Only last July,” Dickinson said.

  “Still …” Woodruffe peered at him thoughtfully.

  “If I were Jerry,” said Finlayson, “I’d go for the French. They don’t want to fight anymore. Our froggy friends have had enough.”

  “I say, is it really true that the French artillery had to fire on their infantry?” Delaforce asked. “To drive them over the top?”

  “Absolutely,” Finlayson said. “They had a mutiny. The troops wouldn’t leave the trenches, so the French generals laid down a barrage on them. That soon shifted them.”

  “What happened afterward?”

  “Afterward? There was no afterward. Why d’you think they didn’t want to get out of the trenches?”

  “It makes me feel sick,” Rogers said. “Physically sick.”

  “Mind you, the other side has the same problem,” Dickinson said. “I’ve seen the Jerries running up and down behind their men, waving pistols. It’s the same for both sides.”

  “What a filthy war it is,” Richards said. “It’s all so cramped. There’s no room for a bit of cut and thrust, it’s just … it’s like … two great stupid fellows standing toe to toe and … bludgeoning.”

  Woodruffe listened to all this with deepening anxiety. “I was at Corps yesterday,” he said, “and General Somebody was telling people how things looked, and he said we were definitely on top. He thought that one big blow would knock the Germans right out. He said there was every reason for optimism.”

  “God,” Lambert said. “I didn’t know things were as bad as that”

  As soon as the rain stopped, Woolley had the planes warmed up. He went to the middle of the field and spread out a small tablecloth. Then he rang his handbell and waited for the pilots to assemble.

  “This,” he said, “is your life insurance policy. Read the small print carefully.” He walked across the white square. Delaforce and Richards looked at his footprints doubtfully. Church twisted his head sideways as if the writing were the wrong way round. The others stood and smoked, or twitched, or shrugged, or blinked, or nodded, or performed whatever other small compulsion their nervous systems required of them these days. Gabriel noticed how gray the hairs were on the back of Woolley’s neck. Finlayson stood behind Kimberley.

  “This cloth is today’s target,” Woolley said. “It makes a good target, for two reasons. First, you attack it from above. Always attack from above. When we get into action, some of you will forget that. They will be killed. Height is an advantage. Always try to fight with an advantage.” Woolley pursed his thin lips and addressed Rogers and Kimberley in particular. “I have been described as lacking in chivalry,” he said, and his flat Midlands accent made the word sound medical. “This is not true. I try to kill the man with the first shot. I see no point in needless pain.”

  Kimberley could not tell if Woolley were serious or mocking. He looked away.

  “To kill with the first shot,” Woolley went on, “means getting close. The closer the better. Twenty-five feet, one length of the airplane, is a good distance. Fifty feet is the maximum. I am talking now about the first shot. Get in close and kill him before he knows it. Marksmanship is more important than flying skill. If you can kill him first, you won’t need to out-fly him. If you miss, you lose the advantage of height and surprise. The enemy has a chance to out-fly you, and if he has a better machine he will probably kill you. Never give him a chance to fight on even terms if you can sneak up and kill him first. Do you all follow that?”

  The wind licked at the white cloth and peeled up one corner. Woolley stood on it.

  “Suppose there’s a lot of them,” Gabriel said.

  “Kill one or two and run away,” Woolley told him. Gabriel nodded as if that was what he expected.

  “The second reason why this is a good target is that it’s the same size as the vital part of the airplane.” Woolley turned his back on them and sat in the middle of the cloth. “Your bullets must hit this. Never shoot at the airplane. A Fokker or an Albatros or a Pfalz does not bleed. You can perforate a Triplane until it looks like old net curtains, and the pilot will end up killing you and flying home.” He stood up. “Shoot at the pilot. If you miss him you may still hit the gas tank or the engine.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Finlayson sourly, “but in a dogfight you have to fire at whatever presents itself.”

  “It’s just luck, really,” said Dickinson.

  “Anyone who depends on luck is a fool and a suicide,” Woolley said. He squinted at the overcast sky. “The sun is there,” he pointed. “Come out of the sun and fire one burst of ten rounds from no higher than fifty feet. Red flag for a hit, white for a miss.”

  They walked to their aircraft, which stood gently shuddering against their chocks, the engines droning in unison. Gabriel, Dangerfield and Finlayson discussed the best angle of approach.

  “The flatter you come in, the longer you can take to pull out,” Dangerfield said. “So you get a better chance to aim.”

  “But you reduce the visible area of the target,” Finlayson said. “Ideally, you should come straight down on it.”

  “At fifty feet?” Gabriel asked.

  “He’s never made us do this before,” Dangerfield said. “If you ask me, it’s bloody dangerous.”

  “That, it would seem, is half the point,” Gabriel said. “Incidentally, taking the old man’s philosophy to its logical end, I presume that one would be expected to destroy an enemy machine even if one knew that, say, the pilot were injured or out of ammunition, and therefore unable to fight back.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Finlayson said.

  Dickinson was the first to dive. He came out of the nonexistent sun at 45 degrees and concentrated on keeping the nose pointing just below the tablecloth, remembering that the Lewis gun would fire high to clear the propeller. The wind tugged the machine one way and he nudged it back. At fifty feet he squeezed the gun lever just as another block of air shouldered into the little SE5a. The short burst made the plane tremble.

  He pulled firmly back and cleared the target by twenty feet.

  White flag.

  Rogers was hard behind him but he undershot and came in shallowly, and only touched the Lewis lever for a second before veering away.

  White flag.

  Lambert learned from them both, steepened his angle, and left everything a fraction later. His plane seemed to swoop down a straight slope until an abrupt crackle signaled the moment to pull out. He leveled off about ten feet above the ground and banked as he climbed, looking back at the red flag.

  The rest of the squadron, circling and watching from five hundred feet, took their turns. Each pilot wheeled out of the fictional sun, nosed down, and jockeyed his bouncing machine into a dive. The white square slowly magnified, then seemed to blossom, and there was one second when everything happened: the cockpit was shaking, the engine bellowing, the ground looming, the tablecloth leaping and dancing. Then he was swinging out of it, feeling the blood retreat from his head, sensing the ground reach up for his wheels: twisting to see the flag, before he went up and waited his turn to do it over again.

  Everybody missed on the first attempt except Lambert, Church and Kimberley. On the second round half the squadron scored hits, and by the end of the third only Finlayson, Delaforce and Rogers had failed. Rogers was having trouble with his gun. Finlayson couldn’t master the wind conditions. Delaforce was simply a bad shot.

  On the fourt
h round the tablecloth was cut to ribbons, and there was a delay while the ground crew put a fresh one in its place. Everyone except Rogers and Delaforce had scored with at least part of a burst. Rogers landed to get his gun cleared, but Delaforce was by now wild with disgust; he had an almost physical appetite to see his bullets strike home. He climbed hard, hurried around the field and broke into the circling planes for another attack.

  This time he could not believe the white flag. He was convinced that he had been on target. He couldn’t have missed: they were wrong! He drove the plane back into the circuit and again forced them to let him through. He dropped on that maddening, tattered square of dirty white like an eagle on a lamb. He pushed the SE into a near-vertical dive and stared wide-eyed at the growing target.

  Long before it was time to fire he realized that he would have to pull out or crash; below fifty feet there would be no recovering, not from this angle, not at this speed. Yet he couldn’t bear failure again, with the whole squadron watching. He decided to risk a burst at long range and squeezed the trigger; nothing happened. He checked that the gun was cocked, and squeezed again. Again, nothing. The slipstream built up to a scream, and despair drugged his actions. When at last he hauled back on the stick the ground was close and rushing up. He pulled out of the dive and cleared the target area, every joint and spar in the airplane shuddering under the strain. He could see the horizon just above the shining disk of his propeller, and he fought to drag the leaden nose up to it. His wheels ran into the wet turf and the whole machine crumpled and fell to its knees like an animal shot in the chest. Delaforce was impaled on the control column, but by then his neck was broken anyway.

  Woolley wanted to see only one thing: the ammunition drum. It was empty.

  Nobody spoke to Woolley at lunch, yet everybody meant Woolley to hear. Accidentally, obliquely, the squadron had found this way of striking back. It was a feeble retaliation, but it was all they had. They spoke loudly and clearly, not interrupting each other: like actors.

  “I don’t see why you should be a captain when I’m only a lieutenant,” Dangerfield said to Rogers. “I’m a much bigger bastard than you are.”