Goshawk Squadron

by Derek Robinson

  “If you don’t get that booze here soon,” Woolley said, “I’ll kill you.”

  A couple of airmen had come out of the trenches to see what the shooting was about. They watched from a distance.

  “You’re a little mad, Woolley,” Hawthorn said. He breathed deeply, playing for time. “But not completely insane. Not completely. Not so foolish as to put your head in a noose. Even in wartime, murder is still murder.”

  “I’ll kill you now,” Woolley said flatly, “and stick your fat body in my plane, and in ten minutes I’ll throw you out behind the German lines, unless you get me my booze and my scarves.”

  “Cut your losses, Woolley.” Hawthorn indicated the airmen. “Too many witnessed now.”

  Woolley reached down and shot the spur off Hawthorn’s left boot. The impact knocked his feet from under him. He got up very slowly. The airmen did not move.

  “This is the most arrant, selfish, unpatriotic swindle I ever heard of,” he said thickly. “Don’t talk to me about your bloody pilots. They don’t need a bottle of Scotch a day and new silk scarves every week.”

  “I don’t know why I bother to tell you,” Woolley said. “They need booze because the stink from the engine gives them the runs. They also need booze to stop them from thinking about what they do all day. And you, you po-faced runt, you’ve no idea what they do.”

  “On the contrary.” Hawthorn had trouble with that word. “Artillery observation. Take photographs. Spot for us.”

  “Shit. They go up and try to fry the enemy alive, two miles high. You never even set fire to a man on the ground, so you don’t know what it’s like to burn one.”

  Hawthorn lifted his dispatch-case and looked at the hole, and said nothing.

  “The silk scarves go around the neck.” Woolley rested the hot barrel against Hawthorn’s neck. “The neck must turn. The enemy is trying to creep up behind and fry you. The head rotates. The silk lubricates. The machine goes on working. Remove the lubricant and it seizes up. Overheats. Catches fire.”

  “All right,” Hawthorn muttered. “But you can’t tell me your hardworking pilots wear out a silk scarf every other week, so you don’t need new ones all the time.”

  “The scarves wear out when the pilots do,” Woolley said. “Unless you want us to use nonflammable silk?”

  Hawthorn took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. Woolley touched it with the muzzle of his gun. “Silk,” he said.

  On the way to the adjutant’s office, Hawthorn said bitterly: “You’ll never get away with this. How am I going to explain the holes in my hat and case? And a broken spur …”

  “Tell them you got shot up by enemy aircraft,” Woolley said. “You’ll probably get a medal.” He pushed open the door. “Woody, this officer will telephone Corps HQ and have everything delivered today.”

  “How splendid,” the adjutant said. “May I sound the ‘All Clear’ now, sir?”

  “Yes.” Woolley went away.

  “I wonder if you could ask them to send us some decent toilet paper?” the adjutant asked. “I can’t believe the general staff use the same quality they send us here. Could you?”

  Hawthorn nodded dumbly.

  After forty minutes at his ceiling of fifteen thousand feet, Killion felt drowsy and slow, like his airplane. The air up there was too thin to support either of them properly.

  He tugged at the flask of whisky inside his tunic and eventually worked it out. It took a long time to open it and when he drank, it tasted warm against his mouth, as if it had been in the sun; only there was no sun, not even at fifteen thousand. Cirrus at more than twenty thousand screened it out. Killion felt the encouraging, rewarding liquid charge slowly down his throat. He drank another toast to himself. It was his twentieth birthday. He was going to get a Hun.

  Killion should not have been flying; he was supposed to be on reserve. But it was his birthday, so he invented a hiccup in the engine to let him take it up for height testing. It was his birthday; he had letters from his mother and his grandmother, who sent a five-pound note and a newspaper photograph of the royal family. And tonight he was going to meet a magnificent girl called Jane Ashton who worked in the YMCA canteen in the village of Chavigny. It was a happy day for Killion, too happy to be spent on the ground.

  Down through the drifting cloud he could sometimes see the hazy plan-view of a German airfield. Sooner or later, something had to land there. Meanwhile Killion let the SE bumble along, barely dragging enough air under her wings to maintain height. Occasional planes crossed the landscape, far beneath, but nobody toiled up to challenge him. The enemy was oddly restrained these days. Killion was too exhausted by the feeble air, and the cold, and the need to watch the airfield, to try and think of a reason. He held the control column between his legs and sprawled across the cockpit, his frozen nose over the edge, and allowed Jane Ashton to drift around inside his head like smoke.

  He dozed momentarily: his legs relaxed and the plane wobbled him awake; and there was a whole squadron of tiny Huns wheeling toward the tiny airfield. Killion immediately put the nose down. The engine stopped its fretful clacking and began to bellow with satisfaction as the air became stronger. He steered through the middle of every cloud in his path. With all that activity below it was unlikely that any German pilot would look upward. The ground staff must have seen him, but what could they do? He streaked out of a thin patch and saw the aircraft bigger now and shinier, curling around in a wide arc to start landing. They were too big to be fighters, even two-seaters. They were bombers. Twin-engine German bombers. Probably Gothas. Another birthday present.

  Red flares began coming up from the airfield, but the first bombers were committed: they had nowhere to go but down. Killion steepened his dive and began picking his targets. He still had five thousand feet to go. One bomber was just touching down; three others were strung out in approach; the rest were reforming. He decided to attack right down the landing path, diving from behind them, and he nudged his throbbing aircraft slightly to one side. He could feel the warmer, stronger air rushing past, making the whole machine vibrate. Anti-aircraft guns opened up, hopelessly off-target, nervous of hitting their own planes. Three thousand feet. Killion reached up in a panic; he’d forgotten to cock his gun. Two thousand feet. Tracer laid stitches across the sky: the bombers still in formation were firing long shots at him. Now machine guns on the ground showed flame, and as he curled around to line up with his targets he saw smaller aircraft—Rumplers or maybe Aviatiks—taxiing across the field. One thousand feet. The rearmost bomber was shooting at him, but its pilot was dodging to spoil Killion’s aim, and the bullets sprayed wildly. Killion cackled with pleasure at the trouble he was causing. He plunged on the bomber and raked it from tail to nose; then let his dive carry him under it and pulled up in time to plant a burst in its belly before climbing into a half-roll which brought the next plane almost within range.

  This time the enemy pilot could not even dodge: he was almost on the ground. Killion raced down at almost three times the German’s speed, and saw his shots plucking and smashing at the lumbering fuselage. Bullets from somewhere rapped his own aircraft, and then he was hurdling the bomber and flattening out above the battered grass of the field. He flew through a wild cross-fire of small-arms and caught up with the third bomber just as it was taxiing toward a hangar. That had to be slaughter. Killion opened fire at a hundred yards and emptied this drum in a series of probing bursts that brought a bloom of flames to the aircraft just as he skimmed over it.

  Now Killion was defenseless. A Rumpler, straining to make height, saw him coming, turned panicking away and hit a tree. Killion jumped over a barracks through a cross-hatching of furious ground fire, and fled to the west. A huge explosion drowned the enemy fire and Killion caught a glimpse of a burning bomber slowly sliding along on its nose. Then he was over a railway line, over a wood; out of sight and reach of the guns. He hedge-hopped all the way home.

  Men were shoveling dirt into steaming bomb-craters when he la
nded. He was told that Woolley wanted to see him right away. Killion found the pilots in the armorer’s stores, silent and resentful, checking the rounds in Lewis drums.

  “Where the shit have you been?” Woolley demanded.

  “Height-testing, sir,” Killion said. He felt apprehensive yet jubilant.

  “You’re a cunt, Killion. You were supposed to be here, on reserve. While you were farting about, we got bombed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Killion saw that he was very angry.

  “Three mechanics dead, Killion. Three.”

  Killion stared at the rounds in Woolley’s dirty hands and said nothing. He felt that Woolley had no right to be so contemptuous, so damaging; Killion alone could not have stopped a bombing raid; besides, hadn’t he just destroyed two, maybe three of the enemy? You couldn’t talk to Woolley, you couldn’t live with him. Killion felt hatred flare inside his whisky-bound guts. He refused to speak, or move, or do anything.

  “Too many guns jam,” Woolley said. “From now on you’ll check every bullet before it goes into your drum.” He looked at Killion as if urging him to argue so that Woolley could knock him down. Killion shuffled over to a box of ammunition. “Look out for oversize or deformed rounds,” Woolley said, and managed to make the advice sound like a curse.

  Killion got to work. For a while there was nothing but the click of ammunition, the scrape of boots, and the stink of Woolley’s rancor. Then Callaghan came in.

  “I was told you wished to see me, sir,” Callaghan said stiffly. “My batman was just running a bath.”

  “Start looking for oversize rounds,” Woolley said. “Your batman can scrub his own ass for once.”

  Lambert tittered, then laughed aloud. Callaghan frowned. “Could it possibly wait for half an hour, sir? I’d rather like—”

  Woolley dropped a box of ammunition. Rounds spilled and ran across the floor. Everyone stopped work. “Get outside,” Woolley ordered.

  “Really, sir, I—”

  “Get out!” Woolley drew his revolver and drove Callaghan through the doorway. “You’ll get a bath, you stinking schoolboy, like they get in the goddam trenches. Run!” Callaghan stood, hanging on to the rags of his self-respect. Woolley lashed out with his boots. Callaghan ran.

  Woolley chased him to the nearest bomb-crater. A shattered drain half-filled the hole with lumpy, scummy water. Woolley ordered him into it. When he hesitated Woolley fired. The rest of the squadron watched and heard Woolley cursing, kicking clods down on Callaghan, shooting into the water. They heard Callaghan splashing and collapsing in the quagmire of his own making.

  “This is how those poor sods live!” Woolley bellowed. “This is what they get from asshole to breakfast. Get your head down!” He aimed across the water. The air split, smoke and flame grew, the bullet slammed into the crater wall and sprayed Callaghan with mud. Callaghan was now utterly terrified. He hurled himself away and tried to climb out. He gibbered and choked over an appeal for mercy. “Get your head down!” Woolley shouted. Again the revolver exploded, again Callaghan staggered away from the spurt of dirt. He retreated to the deepest part and stood up to the chest in filth, weeping.

  “I want to hear you swear,” Woolley demanded. “Swear!”

  “Bugger,” said Callaghan pitifully. “Bugger, bugger.”

  Woolley fired into the muck, sewage spattered over Callaghan’s face. “You piece of shit,” Woolley said. “You couldn’t fight a retired German whore. Swear, swear!”

  “Shit,” croaked Callaghan. “Shit, piss, oh my God, oh Christ, bugger, bugger, oh please, fuck, sod, fuck, oh please sir, fuck.”

  “This is where you live now,” Woolley said. “You stay in there or I’ll shoot you.” He walked away.

  After ten minutes, Callaghan peered wretchedly over the rim of the crater. Woolley, sitting on a box thirty yards away, took a snap shot at him. The bullet went high. Killion heard it as he hurried down the road to see Jane Ashton. It was his birthday, and he had had enough of war for today.

  Force 9: Strong Gale

  Slight structural damage occurs; chimney pots and slates removed

  Killion had arranged to meet Jane Ashton outside the Chavigny canteen. It was a big place and he waited for twenty minutes while girls came and went. After the dozenth girl Killion began to be afraid that he would not recognize her; but when she came out, even with a single dimmed-out light bulb behind her head, she was so much more than his memories of her.

  Jane Ashton was a slim girl, with short, soft hair curling around a face so pleasant that people automatically smiled when they met her. Yet her eyes were serious, even speculative. You might wish to help her but you wouldn’t think of advising her; and usually she needed no help, either. There was a delicacy about her which dominated Killion, and a womanliness which sent the blood pumping to his head. She made him nervous and reckless at the same time. So had every other beautiful girl, of course; but Jane Ashton was now not only the first beautiful girl Killion had kissed good night, she was the first to kiss him in return, and kiss him as if she had a great deal to give as well as take. Even now the shock trembled him, and when she put her arm in his he was afraid to speak.

  “That was an awful day,” she said. “How are you?” “I’m twenty.”

  “I’m twenty, too.”

  “There must be a joke about that, but I’ve forgotten it.” She laughed, and he felt proud because he hadn’t stuttered. “I should have brought you a present,” she said.

  “You have.” Killion was amazed at his own sophistication: it worked, it worked. They walked toward the village while he struggled to contain and enjoy his feelings. “Would you like to eat at the same place?” he asked, taking no risks.

  “Yes. Did you have a good birthday?”

  “Good and bad. Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” That sounded jerky, unsure, not at all sophisticated.

  “We should wait until tomorrow,” she said; but it was a suggestion, not a statement. Their feet stumbled on the cobbles, and she gripped his arm. “It’s simply asking for trouble,” she said. “We’d only be storing up grief for ourselves.”

  “I know. But can I?”

  “I may have to work.”

  “The next day, then?”

  “God … I was going to lead a quiet life. I gave up men after the last time.”

  “Give up giving up.”

  “We mustn’t start … we mustn’t get …”

  “No. But can I see you tomorrow?”

  “Oh, why? It’s pointless. Anything could happen at any time. It’s silly.” He said nothing. “Besides, I have to wash my hair.”

  He wanted to speak, to say anything so as not to seem sullen or graceless, but there was nothing; and they went into the restaurant stiffly, not looking at each other. When they were holding menus she looked away. “You should have asked me later. It’s been a rotten day, you see.”

  “I just had to know.”

  “What if you got posted?”

  Killion looked in the menu for an answer and was saved by the arrival of the waiter. He ordered a lot of food and a lot of wine.

  “I see you’re trying to guarantee results,” she said, but lightly.

  During the meal they talked about England, mainly London where they had both lived. They exchanged experiences and enthusiasms. She drank a lot of wine for a small girl, and enjoyed it. They were at the brandy stage when she said; “You know, you got all that sex psychology wrong, before.”

  “Nonsense. You’re repressed, that’s all.”

  “Not half as repressed as you are. You see sex behind everything, and so you imagine that everything has sex behind it.”

  The French couple at the next table heard the scurrilous word and stared reproachfully at this affront to their palates.

  “It’s a good rule-of-thumb,” Killion said loftily.

  “Only because it’s your thumb,” she replied. He blinked with surprise. She took his hand and squeez
ed the thumb. “Look, if I were hungry, I mean really hungry, starving. I would look for food everywhere, wouldn’t I? So everything I saw would be in terms of food. If I saw this candle it would remind me of a carrot. Well, that’s what you’re like. You’re hungry, and you see everything in terms of food. Well, there is a lot of food about, but once you start trying to live in a world of nothing but food, you’re going wrong.”

  “It’s a nice mistake, though,” Killion said wittily.

  “No, it’s not” She surprised him by her intensity. “You can’t see it now, because you can’t. But when you see it like that you don’t just distort the world, you distort yourself. Don’t you understand? You’re trying to see more than exists, and so you’re squinting.”

  He refused to look at her. “Nice speech.”

  “Oh, don’t sulk. I can’t like you when you’re so childish and … heavy.” He blinked at the words like you.

  “How do you know so much about it anyway?” he mumbled.

  She took her hand away. “I’m tired of men who look at me as if I were a fillet steak, that’s all.”

  He took her home to the cottage near the canteen. He was intensely miserable and, hidden by the darkness, tried to apologize. His stutter resisted him. “I’m s-sorry.” He held both her hands in his and looked down at the pale blur of her face. He felt tears, stupid, pointless, treacherous tears. “I can’t help b-b-b-being the w-w-way I am.” He gave up in disgust. Her fingers tightened around his own, harder and harder, pulling him down. Briefly he refused, not wishing her to know about the tears, and then they kissed. Her mouth was searching for him, and giving to him. Killion’s head surged: girls weren’t like this; she had seemed not to want to … She had said … He gave up. Her arms slipped inside his tunic and encircled his thin body. Relax and enjoy your problem, he told himself.