Goshawk Squadron

by Derek Robinson

  “Like all bad ideas,” Woolley said, “this one is brilliantly simple.”

  He sat on the big table in the mess, one bare foot tucked up, and cut his yellow toe-nails with heavy scissors. The pilots stood out of range of the parings.

  “You will load your airplanes with TNT,” he said, “fly in line-astern to Corps HQ, and crash on to the roof of the Corps commander’s château, in alphabetical order.”

  Nobody laughed. Dickinson lit a cigarette, and they watched the match burn out.

  “When you have done that,” Woolley said, “you will fly to Berlin, where you will stand to attention in your cockpits and piss on the Kaiser, thus ending the war.” He sheared laboriously through a horny overhang.

  Lambert looked at his watch, and yawned.

  “And after that,” Woolley said, “you will come back here and stop the German air force from examining the hole which their artillery has just blown in the British Line, a hole about the size of Lancashire, and that will be the biggest waste of time of all, because the German Army found that hole an hour ago, and is now galloping through it as fast as its little legs will carry it, heading in the direction of …” he snipped the final toe-nail and straightened his leg to study the result “… us.”

  Rogers had been looking out of a window. He started, and turned, pretending a well-bred confusion. “Awfully sorry, sir,” he said. “Miles away, I’m afraid. What is it you want done, again?”

  Woolley pulled on a sock. “Just get up there and fend them off,” he said. “Stay over the Jerry lines, and keep them busy, that’s all.” He stamped his foot into his flying-boot. “Keep them away from the fighting until the poor bloody infantry gets a chance to stop running.”

  “How long do you think that will be, sir?” Callaghan asked.

  “About a week.”

  They looked at him, but Woolley was serious.

  “Well, that seems simple and straightforward enough,” Rogers said.

  “You’re simple,” Woolley told him. “The plan is utterly bloody impossible, but if you can’t see that, you’re probably better off.”

  “I hope you told the Corps commander it was impossible,” Finlayson said sourly.

  Woolley laughed through his nose. “On the contrary, you sickly convalescent, he told me. He doesn’t expect us to succeed, but on the other hand he doesn’t expect the German attack to succeed, either. He has to do something with us, we’re on his ration strength. If you want his exact words, he said ‘Get up there and make bloody nuisances of yourselves until I tell you to come down.’”

  “What a way to win a war,” Lambert said in disgust.

  “Don’t talk daft. You’re not here to win the stupid war, you’re here to help make sure nobody loses it. You’re not Henry the Fifth on a flying bloody charger, you know. You’re a semi-skilled mechanic, just like the municipal ratcatcher, on piece-work. Keep your mind on your job, or some big gray bastard will bite you in the thumb.” A fitter rapped on the window. “They’re ready. We’ll fly in pairs. Shufflebotham, you come with me.”

  Goshawk Squadron flew all that day, and came back from the patrols badly mauled. German aircraft crossed the Line in a constant stream: two-seater observation planes, single-seater scouts, twin-engine bombers, heavily escorted photographic planes. By noon all the squadron’s reserve aircraft were in use, and the mechanics were sucking blood from cut fingers and grazed knuckles as they worked too fast on battered planes which had just creaked home with streaming canvas and smashed spars, or laboring engines, or cracked fuel lines, or crippled controls, or lopsided undercarriages. Half a mile away smoke still rose from Dangerfield’s machine, where he had crash-landed on fire after stopping a burst of tracer in the wing. The fire had spread to the fuselage and reached the cockpit by the time he got the wheels on the ground and jumped out. He flew again within the hour, fat blisters coming up on his right hand and not much left of his eyebrows.

  In the late afternoon Dangerfield and Killion were flying together on their fifth patrol when they saw a formation of five Pfalz fighters climbing toward them. Dangerfield had started the day tired; now, after repeated bouts of combat and the shock of his crash-landing, he was weary beyond anything he had ever known. He watched the Pfalz D VIIs coming up out of the east, with all the loathing and resignation of a slum-dweller who sees yet another street-brawl lurching his way.

  Two against five. The advantage of height, the disadvantage of numbers, and of fatigue. Dangerfield felt a deep desire to rest his head and just let the enemy go by. He had done enough, it was unfair to ask for more … He slumped and waited for God to save him. Suddenly, definitely, he decided to quit, turn back, go home, leave everything until tomorrow. He straightened up and waved at Killion, pointing hard to westward.

  Killion waved back and dived into the attack. Horrified and enraged, Dangerfield watched him go. Killion looked back. Dangerfield swore and thrust into a dive. His disgust mixed with despair as the Germans drove toward him, and the emotions drugged his tired brain. When the enemy formation scattered he took a second too long to pick out an opponent, and one of the Germans slid under his tail. The first burst from his machine gun hammered through Dangerfield’s weary back and smashed his instrument panel.

  Killion saw the SE5a topple and fall over, but he was too busy fighting off the circling scouts to see if Dangerfield crashed. A formation of six Camels came to his rescue and the battle broke up, drifting away to other parts of the sky, leaving Killion to cruise home, alone.

  The adjutant found Woolley with the armorer, checking ammunition before he allowed his machine-gun drums to be filled. Woolley looked as if he had been fighting a forest fire: his eyes were red, his face was filthy, and one ear had bled down his neck. He sucked at a bottle of Guinness, and went on fingering the rounds.

  “Corps wouldn’t tell me the latest position on the phone, sir,” Woodruffe said. “I had to go over and get it in person. They say too many of our telephones have been captured, you never know who you might be talking to at the other end.”

  “What have we lost?”

  “Well, it’s not as bad as it might have been.” The adjutant settled down and looked through his notes. “They attacked along about sixty miles, from Lens down to La Fère, more or less. They just about leveled our Front Line with that bombardment.”

  “I know. I saw it.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, they broke through on about a forty-mile stretch. Where they really gained ground is up toward Arras, they made about five miles there, and down around St. Quentin. It looks as if we might have to pull back behind the Crozat Canal and hold St. Simon. That would mean they’ve taken something like ten miles at that point. Of course we’re digging in now—”

  “Five miles. Ten miles. How long is it since anyone advanced five miles in one day?”

  Woodruffe shifted uncomfortably. “Not since 1914, unless you count—”

  “How did they do it?”

  “Well … that’s the extraordinary thing, nobody quite knows. The bombardment destroyed our first system, of course, and there seem to have been a lot of gas shells landing amongst our gunners—those that weren’t killed—and they say the Hun did a lot of damage with his trench mortars and those awful minenwerfers. But it was the mist that really let him in. The Jerry troops just sort of walked right through in a lot of places, and the next thing anyone knew we were retreating. It took Corps rather a long time to adjust, I believe. They’re not accustomed to moving five miles in one day. Especially backward.”

  Woolley held up a bullet and showed it to the armorer. “Piece of shit?” he said.

  “Piece of shit, Mr. Woolley.”

  He threw it into a bucket. “Presumably the cruel, implacable, scheming Teuton hordes will do the same tomorrow,” he said.

  “Ah, well, now that’s an open question,” the adjutant said. “Corps rather thinks not. Corps feels that with all the losses they must have taken, the Germans will almost certainly be consolidating tomorrow. Evacua
ting wounded and bringing up supplies and generally tidying up.”

  “Corps is an asshole full of farts.”

  Woodruffe smiled uncertainly. “Also, sir, you must remember that we’ve brought up all possible reserves to plug the gap.”

  “You amaze me,” Woolley said. “You truly do. What happened today? They attacked our Line. It wasn’t a very brilliant Line, but at least it was a Line, with trenches and wire and stuff. They bashed hell out of it so much that it burst wide open, and we had to use all our reserves to hold them. By which time they were miles inside our Front.”

  “Yes, but we shall do better tomorrow,” Woodruffe insisted. “I mean, we won’t be taken by surprise tomorrow, shall we?”

  “And tomorrow they won’t be attacking strong positions, they’ll be hitting us out in the open. Good Christ, if they can make five miles a day when they have to fight through four systems of trenches and get right inside our Battle Zone, how bloody far d’you think they’ll go when we have nothing to hide behind except cow turds and haystacks?”

  “The reserves are fresh,” Woodruffe said. “The reserves will hold them.”

  “The Hun has reserves, too. What happens when he makes another hole? What do we plug that with?”

  “It’s never happened before,” Woodruffe said stiffly. “I suppose we should have to ask the French for help. Or the Americans. Frankly, sir, I doubt if the occasion will arise.”

  “You mean you hope it won’t. It looks to me as if we’ve forgotten how to retreat. I don’t suppose the Germans have forgotten how to advance, and if they do it again tomorrow we shall have to learn something new, won’t we?”

  Major Gibbs came in. “Ah, Woolley. Sorry to bother you, but this squadron has assumed unusual significance in the present difficult situation. The French have been accusing us of lack of cooperation lately—military cooperation, that is. Naturally they are plotting to get us to take over the dangerous bits of the Front, and launch all the expensive attacks, and so on. Typical dago trickery. Anyway, they’ve seized on this legal brouhaha as an example of Albion’s perfidy, so to speak. How can they help us if we don’t help them? That sort of thing. I needn’t tell you what a nuisance they can be.”

  “Then don’t. The French can go and fuck themselves, for me.”

  “Me too. Unfortunately we need their help too much at the moment. Unless we get some French reinforcements soon, we’re going to have nothing left to fight with. Assuming that the Hun keeps attacking, of course. Anyway, Corps commander has promised them immediate action, which being translated means: a couple of your pilots will have to face the music, I’m afraid.”

  Woolley finished his Guinness. “Next week,” he said.

  Gibbs shook his head. “Now.”

  “Tell Corps we’re flying from dawn to dusk. Tell them about the war against the Germans.”

  “That’s exactly it, though. The generals are falling over themselves to get French divisions sent up as reserves. We can’t risk any friction. It’s all thoroughly political, but you must see the military sense behind it.”

  “But surely we can’t need reinforcements as desperately as all that,” Woodruffe said.

  “Oh yes we do. We do indeed.”

  “All right, you can court-martial someone,” Woolley said. “Invite the French police along.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Desertion in the face of the enemy.”

  “Good Lord, that’s a bit stiff. The penalty’s death.”

  “Serve the bastard right. I never did like him.”

  “Who is it?” the adjutant asked.

  “Any of ’em.” Woolley looked at them with stony satisfaction.

  It was three miles to Jane Ashton’s place. Killion trudged it with a kind of dogged stupidity, too tired to think after the all-day violence. He passed bivouacking troops on their way up, and had to stand in gateways while supply columns clattered by, or lines of ambulances rumbled back. He got lost, he forgot where he was going; he gave up and sat down; he set off again. When at last he got there and knocked on the door with a sticky bottle of claret, a stranger let him in.

  “I’m Mary,” she said, as if there were nothing more to be said about that. “You must be Jack. Jane’s in the bath, I’m cooking dinner.” That accounted for everyone.

  “I see,” said Killion. “You’re the other girl.” He blinked at the bright lamplight. Jane should have been here, not … whoever this was. Mary? Mary.

  “What’s that you have?”

  “This? Bottle. Wine,” Killion explained.

  Mary took it. “I could have used some half an hour ago, in the sauce. We’ll just have to drink it. Sit down. You look like something the cat brought in.”

  Killion sat down and fell asleep. Jane woke him. “Dinner’s ready, Jack,” she said.

  “Don’t want any,” he mumbled. “Too … tired …”

  “Rubbish,” Mary told him. “If I’ve cooked it you’ll eat it. You can wash your hands in the bathroom. They look as if they need it.” She began dragging chairs up to the table. Jane smiled and helped him up. He washed his face in cold water and came back red-eyed but awake. The table was laid, and a roast chicken lay waiting for him to carve.

  Mary organized the plates and kept an eye on his carving. Killion felt her watching, and sawed clumsily at the bird. Hot grease spotted the fresh tablecloth. Eventually he managed to hack off a wing, in two parts. The knife slipped and cut his finger. He sucked it, sniffing, and then started on a leg. Drops of blood fell on to the chicken. “Here, give me that,” Mary said impatiently. “Suck your finger.”

  Killion sucked and sipped while Mary sliced the chicken rapidly and efficiently. Jane watched him. “I feel like a walking wounded,” he said.

  “I thought you said he was a medical student,” Mary muttered.

  “So I was, once,” Killion protested.

  She discarded the shattered wing. “You’ll never take my appendix out, I can tell you that.”

  “Poor Jack.” Jane kissed him behind the ear. “Have you had an awful day? I hear it’s been bad at the Front.”

  “Flying all day. Flying, flying, flying. Never stopped.”

  “I don’t know what you men make such a fuss about,” Mary said. “As far as I can see you don’t do anything, you just sit up there. Take some more potatoes.”

  “Honestly, I have enough.”

  “Rubbish.” She gave him more. “You need to keep your strength up. The war’s going to last a long time yet.”

  “Anyway, what do you do?”

  “Me? Same as Jane. I work in the forces’ canteen. We seem to spend most of the day rejecting indecent propositions.”

  “Here’s to indecency,” Jane said. “The only thing that never dies.”

  Mary sniffed, but she drank the toast.

  The meal was solid, orthodox and delicious. Killion tucked in. After twenty minutes he was quite awake, and he suddenly noticed Mary’s face. “Good heavens,” he said. “How good-looking you are, Mary. I only just noticed.”

  She half-smiled. “What was I before, then?”

  “I don’t know. Maternal, maybe.”

  “But you didn’t say so.”

  “No. Still, we know each other much better now, don’t we?” She began collecting their plates, and Killion saw a wedding ring on her finger. He swung around on Jane. “You’re not saying much, funny face.”

  “Perhaps I’m waiting for you to ask me how I am.”

  “Ahah. How are you?”

  She looked away, played with a spoon, looked back. “Only wonderful,” she said. They laughed, unexpectedly, even Mary. They had spoken their unknown passwords; now they recognized each other. For half an hour their talk was easy and pointless, and then Killion began to wonder whether Mary was going to stay in all night and he became uncomfortable, chatting pleasantly to someone he wanted to get rid of.

  When Jane went into the kitchen, Mary cleared her throat and looked at him seriously.

  “Ja
ne has told me a lot about you,” she said. “Of course, I’m two or three years older than she is … I have no possible right to interfere, of course; however, I would just like to ask you one thing. Do you plan to marry Jane?”

  Killion had never even thought about it. “Of course,” he said.

  Mary seemed satisfied. She leaned back.

  “Of course I do,” Killion said. The idea attracted him.

  “I shall be going on duty in ten minutes, you see,” Mary said.

  “Why, of course,” Killion said again. “I mean, why not?”

  Jane came in. They both looked at her with satisfaction; Mary sober, Killion a little drunk. She raised an eyebrow. “Have I done something clever?” she asked.

  Simultaneously, Mary said “No,” and Killion said “Yes.”

  When Mary had left for the canteen, Jane asked: “What was all that yes-no about?”

  “Nothing. Everything.”

  “Well, tell me then.”

  Killion stood up. “Mary wanted to know if I planned to marry you. Of course I said I did.” He sat down.

  Jane perched on the arm. “Well, I certainly don’t intend to marry you,” she said.

  Killion was shocked. Jane smiled cheerfully, so that he thought she was being charitable, or even contemptuous, and he looked down at his hands. Then he looked back. “But don’t you love me?”

  “Yes, I do. Does that mean we have to get married?”

  “Uh …”

  “I think it’s a good reason for not getting married.”

  “Really? But we could fix it up now, if we wanted. I mean … Well, this week, anyway.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “I’ve no idea. Mary seemed to think—”

  “Mary’s different. She can’t help hating me because I’m single and she’s a widow.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “She hates the fact that I’ve lost nothing and she’s lost everything.”

  “Oh. Well. Yes. I see. Well, I suppose we needn’t get married, need we?”