“You don’t get promoted just for being a bastard, you know,” Rogers said. “You have to be a bloody bastard.”
“I question whether Dangerfield has the right hide for a commander, anyway,” Lambert said. “I saw him smile yesterday. That’s no good, you know.”
“I’m more fitted for command than any of you,” Kimberley said. “I once stuck a pitchfork through a toad.”
“But did you enjoy it?” Dickinson asked.
“Of course I did. I reveled in it.”
“That cuts you out, then. Too emotional.”
“You’re all wrong,” Finlayson said. “You have to have the right accent before you get promoted.”
“What sort of accent is that?” Gabriel asked.
Finlayson chewed his food while he thought. “Bloody horrible,” he said at last.
“As far as I can see there’s only one reason why anyone gets promoted,” said Richards, “and that’s survival. Live long enough, and up you go.”
“Yes, but why do some people live longer than others?” Dangerfield asked.
“As I already said,” Rogers told him. “You have to be a bloody bastard. Look at me.”
“You’re not a bloody bastard,” Lambert objected. “You’re not even a filthy swine. When one gets right down to it, I doubt very much whether you’re fit to be called a bad lot.”
“Oh, I say, steady on,” Rogers complained. “Dash it all, I am a captain.”
“Plenty of much bigger bastards than you have been made captain,” Kimberley said. “Plenty.”
“All right, then, name three,” challenged Rogers.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Kimberley said dourly. “It would sound like a flock of sheep.” Church tittered.
“I’ll tell you another reason why you won’t get promoted,” Lambert addressed Dangerfield. “You’re far too clean. You wash excessively. I have evidence that you wash in excess of once per week.”
“Only in order to remain tolerable to my comrades,” Dangerfield protested. “I don’t do it for any reason of self.”
“As I said; you don't have the right hide for command. It requires a very thick, very dirty hide.”
“What about b-b-b-brains?” Killion asked.
“Opinions are varied,” Dickinson said. “Some say a commander needs no brains at all. Others say he needs a very tiny brain. Just enough to enable him to, say, count the survivors.”
“I c-could d-d-do that.”
“No, no, no. You’re far too intelligent. Why, I’ve been told you can count up to fifty or sixty, on a good day.”
Killion nodded.
“Well, then. Besides,” Dickinson sniffed hard, “you’re not nearly filthy enough, you’re only moderately dirty in parts.”
Church laughed out loud: the clear, delighted laughter of a child. Killion glanced quickly and looked away. Church was certainly dirty enough. A combination of tent-life and gin had kept Church away from soap and water for weeks. He shaved but he did not wash, and his bright, shallow smile was like the contentment of a piglet fresh from the teat.
The adjutant hurried in, carrying a small cardboard box. “Dispose of this lot, would you, Dudley,” he said. “I must eat or I shall collapse.” He sat down and began lunch.
“I thought we weren’t going to do it like this anymore,” Rogers said. “I thought it was going to be first come, first served.” He poked about inside the box. “Not much here, anyway,” he grumbled. “Hardly worth bothering.”
“For God’s sake stop pawing it over like some damn pawnbroker’s wife,” Lambert said.
“What is it?” Richards asked. “What’s in there?”
“Hardly anything,” Rogers said. “A few gewgaws, a couple of knickknacks, and a whatnot.” He fished out a pair of carpet slippers. “Anyone want these?”
“Two shillings,” offered Dickinson.
“Half-a-crown,” Lambert said.
“They’re not worth half-a-crown,” Dickinson grunted.
Richards threw the slippers to Lambert. “Sold,” he said. “Pay Woody, and make sure he puts it in the mess account. Any offers for these hair brushes? Silver-backed. Exquisite workmanship.”
“Look here,” said Richards strongly, “I’m not sure that I like all this.”
“Then don’t bid, son,” Finlayson said. “I suppose they’re monogrammed?” he asked Richards.
“’Fraid so—C.P.D. Suit Dickinson or Dangerfield, of course. They could always claim they were family heirlooms.”
Nobody wanted the hair brushes. Rogers put them back and took out a New Testament. “In original wrappings,” he announced. “Mint condition, uncut leaves.” He took it from its case and opened it. “With a rather touching inscription in green ink,” he added. “Any offers?”
“Damn it. I’ll have that,” Richards said angrily. He looked at Gabriel. “I’m surprised you don’t want it.”
“I already have one,” Gabriel said.
“Do I hear a bid?” Rogers asked.
“A pound,” Richards snapped.
“Any advance?” Rogers looked around. “Not only green ink but also excellent spelling,” he urged.
“God damn you,” Richards swore. He jumped forward, snatched the testament, and thrust it into his tunic pocket.
“Sold for a mere quid.” Rogers rummaged around and produced a silver cigar-cutter, a small framed photograph of a middle-aged couple, and a pocket-watch. Nobody wanted any of them. He then took out a small book, expensively bound in limp leather. “Highways and Byways of Old Hampshire,” he announced. “The work of a clerical namesake, possibly a relative.” There were no bids. “Are you quite sure?” he asked Richards. “After all, you do have the beginnings of a small library … As you wish. That seems to be that, then.”
“Pitiful,” said Finlayson. “Not worth the effort.”
“All right,” the adjutant said, “you can go back to a vulgar free-for-all if you like. I don’t care.”
“Half a tick,” Rogers said, “I missed something.” He scrambled in the bottom of the box and came up with a small piece of carved and polished wood. “This appears to be a miniature cricket bat,” he said, “carrying the miniature signatures of a pygmy team. Some kind of trophy or memento, no doubt.” He peered at it. “Somebody seems to have scored a hundred runs and been the hero of the school.”
“I’ll take that,” Gabriel said. Lambert raised his eyebrows. “As a keepsake,” Gabriel said.
“The chair will consider a motion,” Rogers told him. “In other words, how much?”
“Well; five shillings.”
Rogers looked at the little bat. “Five bob for an unbeaten century? The chair is disgusted. The chair itself will bid ten.”
“A pound.”
“Two pounds.”
“Four pounds,” Gabriel said thickly. He was sitting with his hands inside his pockets, legs crossed, shoulders hunched, watching closely as if Rogers were trying to trick him. Rogers tossed the piece of wood in the air so that it spun.
“Oh, eight pounds,” he said.
Now the squadron was alert, watching to see if Gabriel would fight. He was taken aback. “Look here,” he said. “You’ve no right …” Rogers flicked the bat in the air again. “Hell and damn,” Gabriel said flatly. “A tenner.” It was the first time anyone had heard him swear.
“Fifteen.”
Gabriel looked at Richards, but Richards said nothing. “It has absolutely nothing to do with you,” Gabriel told Rogers. “You scarcely knew him. I’ll give twenty pounds for it.”
“Forty,” said Rogers shortly.
“I would remind contestants that all bids are cash,” Woodruffe said, “and if you don't have it I shall take it out of your pay.”
Gabriel looked at the ground. His head was quivering slightly, and his breathing was jerky.
“The bid stands at forty,” Rogers said. “Any advance on forty pounds?”
Woodruffe laid down his fork and closed his eyes.
Rogers cleared his throat. “Going, then, for forty pounds,” he said. “Going. Going.”
“Eighty,” said Woolley.
“Eighty?” Rogers asked. He pulled his hat over his eyes, over his nose, his whole face, and held it there. Then he lifted it, like a waiter taking the lid off a dish. “Do I hear eighty pounds for this excellent example of … of …”
“You heard,” Lambert said. “Now speak up or shut up.”
“Ninety,” Rogers said. He looked at their skeptical faces as if seeking support. He cleared his throat again and laid the little bat carefully on the table. “Ninety pounds.”
“A hundred,” Woolley said. He was holding a bent fork and scraping at a loose fiber of wood on the tabletop.
“Guineas,” Rogers said rapidly, before he could think about it.
“And twenty.”
Rogers sat nodding, and looking down the table. He reached for the bat and sent it skimming along the boards. Woolley stopped it with his fork. He picked it up and went to the door of the tent. He looked at the sky, and scratched the back of his neck with the bat. “Gunnery practice,” he said. “Take off in ten minutes.”
He walked over to the coke brazier where the cooks kept the food hot; and looking first at Rogers, then at Gabriel, he tucked the little bat into the bright red fire, and walked away.
A sack of empty tins lay beside each aircraft: accumulated cookhouse waste. Woolley briefed the squadron. Starting in numerical order, each plane would climb to fifteen thousand feet and empty its sack. The rest of the squadron would circle at twelve thousand. By the time the tins had fallen that far, the wind and slipstream would have blown them all over the sky. Close in to no more than twenty-five feet and fire no more than five rounds at a time.
The difficulty lay not only in hitting the tiny spinning fragments of silver but also missing the bigger objects flying all around. It had been some time now since the old pilots had been in a dog-fight, and Killion for one was sweating heavily by the time he landed. The nervous tension of dodging and ducking about a sky crowded with equally dodging and ducking planes, some firing, some looking as if they might fire at any instant, some sheering wildly away to avoid a collision; and all the time trying to grab a quick shot at a mere point of light: all this brought back the strain of combat, when you were pressed on by the excitement of chasing the enemy, pulled back by the horror of shooting a friend, and periodically shaken with fright by the thought that at any second you might be cut in two.
As soon as they had all landed, Woolley rang his handbell.
“For Christ’s sake, ding bloody dong,” Finlayson growled. He joined Kimberley and they trudged across the field. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “Jesus! You have to fly right up to them before you can see them.”
“It’s a madhouse,” Kimberley said. “I nearly hit old Lambert just now. Miracle I didn’t hit him. Miracle.”
“Maybe you did.”
“Well, he landed all right.” Kimberley looked around for him. “As a matter of fact, I think I did hit him,” he said. “In the tail.”
“Somebody hit me in the tail,” Finlayson said. “There’s a damn great hole in it.”
“Could have been a tin,” Kimberley suggested.
Finlayson grunted. “Any bastard starts shooting at me, I’ll do the same back at him.”
“Don’t blame you,” Kimberley said, without enthusiasm. They fell silent as they got near Woolley.
He had found one of the tins, and it lay at his feet. He took his revolver from its holster and cocked it. “Get closer,” he told them. “Get much closer.” He kicked the tin away from him and took a snap shot. He missed. The explosion made them flinch. “At a hundred feet,” he said, “all you’re doing is warning him that you’re there.” He stopped nearer the tin and fired again, and missed. “At fifty feet you might hit a wing, or a wheel,” he said. He bent and scooped up the tin with the barrel of the revolver, and held it high.
“Get right up close!” he cried. “Get right up where you can put the muzzle under the back of his helmet and blow his bloody head off!” He pulled the trigger and sent the tin spinning through the air. The echoes soaked into the vastness of the windy field. “Get close,” Woolley whispered. He holstered the weapon and walked away.
“Some bastard got too close to me,” Finlayson said. “I got a burst through the tail.”
Woolley stopped and turned. “That was me, Finlayson,” he said. “I thought you knew. You were hanging back, Finlayson.”
“Fighting’s one thing,” Finlayson said angrily. “Target practice is another. I’m not going to get myself killed just because—”
“Fool!” Woolley boomed. “Feeble fool! You can’t survive, Finlayson. You can only win. If you want to survive, you shivering ninny, you might as well shoot off your big toe. Here, I’ll do it for you.” Woolley snatched out his revolver. “A ticket home, that’s what you want.” He pulled the trigger. The bullet missed by twelve inches. Finlayson jumped and retreated. “What’s the matter, Finlayson, don’t you want to survive? I’m trying to help you survive, Finlayson!” He fired a shot over the man’s head. Finlayson ran backward. “For God’s sake, sir, have some sense,” he pleaded.
Woolley lowered his gun. “Sense,” he said. “Now there’s a silly word to use in the middle of a war. All the sensible people are dead.”
Richards suddenly understood. Richards saw that Woolley was trying to do more than train them, and lead them, and pass on the lessons of experience: he was also struggling to turn each of them into the kind of person that he himself had become.
When Woolley instructed them in shooting the enemy in the back he was not being melodramatic, he really meant it, because Woolley was a professional. The amateurs played at fighting; they kept their scores and rejoiced in their adventures, and they were brave, good-humored warriors. But Woolley took it seriously. He had asked the ultimate question— What is it for?—and got the obvious, the only answer. You flew to destroy the enemy. You did not fly to fight, but to kill. It was neither fun nor adventure nor sport. It was business.
Woolley was in business with death, while the rest of them were just playing with life. Richards suddenly saw this, and he guessed how erodingly lonely the man must be. Then Woolley looked at him. All the emergent pity in Richards turned sour. You couldn’t feel sorry for Woolley. You couldn’t feel anything for him. Woolley was a man you could only feel against.
It was still an eventful afternoon. Half the squadron had a go at Woolley, popping off a couple of rounds in his general direction and then having to dive away fast when he swung toward them. Woolley patrolled the squadron and gave a brisk burst more or less behind the tail of anyone he considered to be holding back. The flying became more disciplined. Instead of hunting all over the sky, the pilots concentrated on one scatter of targets and spiraled down through them, turning tightly in order to cut down the risk of collision. Marksmanship improved. The pilots became more aware of each other, developing a slick, anticipatory sense of where and when each one would go next.
One man flew with real urgency and some venom. Finlay-son followed Woolley all around the squadron, looking for a chance to get his own back. Woolley gave the squadron a lesson in evasive flying. The only times he allowed Finlayson to get a clear view of him there was always another plane lined up on the other side. Nobody—not even Finlayson—knew what would have happened if he had ever gotten the chance to pepper Woolley. Meanwhile he blazed away at the tumbling dots of metal with a grim obsession.
The exercise nearly ended badly. Dickinson was the last to empty his tins, and so he was the top plane when bits of wood began spitting in all directions. There was a bang; the spinning disk vanished; and the engine raced from a bellow to a scream. His propeller had gone.
At once he put the nose down and switched the engine off. The plane slid into a shallow dive. All around he could hear the toy snarl of wheeling planes. It was a sound he had never heard before: like sit
ting in a tall tree full of hornets. The weight of the engine tugged his nose down and he had to keep tugging it up again. He slid between two planes, Church and Killion, and saw them circle and follow him down. He stood up and pointed forward. Killion waved. The rest of the squadron was still below, plunging and climbing and chasing its tail. He side-slipped to miss three tightly spiraling planes, and found himself drifting into another cluster. Automatically he hauled back on the stick. The nose lifted sluggishly, the rush of air slowed, and the plane stalled.
Dickinson slammed the stick forward, but by then he was falling, wavering, spinning. He plunged past one plane and caught a blurred glimpse of another, wheeling toward him. He manhandled and trampled the controls: nothing answered. The other plane continued its turn, its wingspan widening. Dickinson half rose and screamed at the man but the plane lumbered on, seeming to spread itself with deliberate stupidity right across his path. Dickinson shouted his rage. At the last moment the other pilot looked up. Dickinson ducked down and screwed up his face, bracing himself against the shock, listening to the widening roar of the other engine.
The blow rattled the plane as if it had been a car bouncing through a pothole. Then the engine note was suddenly fading, turning light and harmless; and Dickinson felt the controls start to answer. He eased the SE out of its manic plunge and into a steady glide.
One set of wingtips was a mess, and both wings on that side looked a bit bent back; otherwise, nothing. He looked up and saw a plane following him down; it too had a battered wingtip. He laughed aloud. What a nonsense it all was! The difference between two dead men and two slightly bent airplanes was just a fraction of a second. What a joke! A couple of wires in his damaged wing snapped, slashing open the fabric. He stopped laughing.
The other plane powered alongside him: Kimberley. Dickinson waved, and Kimberley waved back, and dived away. Dickinson sailed down in slow, sweeping curves, feeling strangely innocent. It occurred to him that if this were over the Front he would be a gift for even the stupidest German pilot. It also occurred to him that if he ever found a German plane as helpless as this, Woolley would require him to destroy it.
Goshawk Squadron Page 9
