Dusk Patrol

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Boyd leaned over and said quietly: “I fell out of the top of my second loop. Scared myself stiff ...”

  “You were lucky not to end up permanently stiff, buddy.”

  “I managed to correct the spin, though. I mean, it works even when you aren’t ready for it.”

  “What comes next?”

  Boyd looked undecided, as though unsure how his thoughts would be received if he expressed them. “It must be possible to do a complete roll.”

  “Sure, just so long as you remember to keep your nose up when you’re at ninety degrees and upside-down.”

  “You’ve done it?”

  “No, but I’ve thought it out. The only problem is, can you come out of an inverted spin the same way as you can come out of a right-way-up spin? And if not, and you have to get right-way-up, can you half-roll the aircraft when you’re on your back and spinning?” (It was to be many months yet before the young Lieutenant Sholto Douglas, later Air Chief Marshall Lord Douglas of Kirtleside, became the first pilot to induce a deliberate inverted spin; and come out of it.)

  “And what do you think is the answer?”

  “My personal answer is that I’ll wait. And if I find myself in combat and unable to save my neck in any other way, I’ll try an inverted spin and see what happens. Provided I have at least 5,000 feet underneath me.”

  “But perhaps an inverted spin isn’t inevitable if one attempts a full roll.”

  “Right. Let’s give it a whirl tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, we won’t get any practice: it’ll be patrolling all day.”

  “OK, so we’ll try a roll in a fight.”

  “I’m game.”

  Hannington interrupted them. “What are you two gassing about so earnestly?”

  “Horses,” replied Boyd promptly. Hannington well knew that his view of horses was that they were dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle, and he had never ventured near one in his whole urban and suburban life.

  “Cheeky young swab, Nick. I have a feeling we ought to go out and celebrate tonight. It’s a pity to let the car and that overweight chauffeur stand idle.”

  “Celebrate what?” asked Holt. “Surely nothing so simple as a few spins and a loop or two?”

  But Hannington was equal to him. “Oh, that! A mere trifle, I agree. Poor old Rupert: he was my first troop commander in the regiment, you know; and a damned good one, if bone idle. But I think we ought to celebrate his departure, somewhat unseemly though it was.”

  Holt looked stunned. “My God! Is this what they call British sang-froid? To a simple guy from the prairies, it sounds more like downright cruelty.”

  “On the contrary, old bean. It would have been cruel to let him carry on as he was: he’d have been killed before long; one way or another.”

  “You think he’s going to survive what happened this afternoon?”

  “No doubt about it. The MO telephoned the Adjutant from hospital. Rupert has been through all this before: breaking bones out huntin’ and racing – he’s taken some stupendous tosses in the National – is nothing new to him. He’ll recover: but this time it’ll take him about a year and he’ll never fly again. Jolly neat way of getting rid of an idle CO, what?”

  “We should hold back any celebration until we know who is coming to replace him,” said Holt.

  Hannington tapped the side of his nose and smiled. “I’m thinking of opening a book on it.”

  “You’ve obviously got inside information,” Boyd accused him.

  Hannington merely kept smiling and asked “What about going out to dine?”

  “Maybe I’m thin-skinned,” Holt told him, “but I don’t think I can go out and celebrate a guy just about pulverising himself. How about you, Nick?”

  “I think there’s going to be enough celebrating in mess tonight, with everyone so bucked about all we learned today.”

  “Except poor old Rupert Dunnett,” drawled Hannington. “He didn’t learn much.”

  And Holt, recalling that he had learned something he would have preferred not to, said, “Guess I’d rather stay in mess if there’s going to be a party.” He felt he needed a lot of people around him until he had got used to the idea that he might, any day, be forced to kill a blood relation with whom he had no feud at all.

  Ten

  The day after the final intervention of the force of gravity in Major Dunnett’s active flying career, a corpulent Brigadier-General accompanied by a sleek aide-de-camp and a lieutenant-colonel who combined obsequiousness towards his superior with a snarling demeanour for his juniors, visited the squadron.

  The Brig was a genial enough old buffer who thoroughly enjoyed his life in the comfortable château where he and his ilk messed. He meant no harm to anyone except the enemy, whom he detested with the ferocity attainable only by one who had never been within range of a shell or bullet himself. In practice, however, he had managed unwittingly (and witlessly, poor buffoon) to contrive the slaughter and serious injury of hundreds of airmen who had the misfortune to come under his influence. And it was early days yet, the war still not two years old. Who knew what magnitude of manslaughter he would achieve if it dragged on long enough and he were promoted?

  The warning signal from Headquarters about his advent ordered all three flight commanders to be on parade. Chandler grumbled. As senior flight commander he had taken over the squadron commander’s office work and had intended to postpone it by spending the morning flying.

  From a window he saw the Brigadier’s car arrive. By sending up a BE2 to watch for its approach and signal this by Aldis lamp, he was ready. He would be at the front door to greet the unwelcome visitors.

  He had been tempted to put German markings on the spotter, confident that none of the car’s occupants, with the possible exception of the private soldier who drove it, would know a BE2 or any other British or French aircraft from a German one. He would have liked to do that, because he would have had paper bags of flour dropped on the car, which he thought was the last the Brigadier and his companions deserved.

  When he saw the car stop and the ADC get out and give the sentry an obvious dressing down, he regretted his irresolution. Dunnett may have been stupid and lazy, but he was a professional cavalryman and no one could criticise the bearing of his troops. The sentry had called out the guard well in advance of the staff car’s arrival and they had presented arms with a precision that would not have evoked criticism at Buckingham Palace. Their turnout was impeccable, as Chandler had made sure by personal inspection.

  The sight of the popinjay captain rebuking his sergeant guard commander and men enraged Chandler. He had half expected it. The Brigadier was a guardsman and so, of course, was his ADC. Rivalry between Guards and cavalry was intense. What was more, the visit gave the staff an opportunity to imply that the minute the stern eye of a major was removed from the squadron its standards deteriorated. Chandler was a professional soldier too, and knew all the gambits, moves and countermoves. But he did not like them any better when he was on the receiving end.

  The Brigadier preserved his genial exterior when he greeted Chandler, but the colonel said in a voice that grated like a buzz-saw, “Sloppy guard turnout. See they get extra drill.”

  The colonel was an infantryman too, but not of the Brigade of Guards. He wore the badges of a humble county regiment. Chandler knew the history of the regiment, as did every officer and man in the regular army. It had earned contumely and punishment for cowardice in the Indian Mutiny at a place called Bhendapur, where two companies broke and ran before a mob of armed sepoys instead of standing their ground and dying honourably. Chandler had always thought they were wise to do so, for they lived to fight another day and defeat their earlier vanquishers. But he held them in contempt just the same. From that day, the regiment had been deprived of the right to wear white, the colour for virtue, on any part of their uniform. And at any mention of Bhendapur they would unbuckle their leather belts and set about their mockers.

  Chandler said “T
he troops on this squadron blanco their belts ... and the rest of their webbing, every day, sir. I’m sorry to hear you complain of their smartness.” Which made the colonel turn puce, the ADC snigger while trying to glower, and the Brigadier pinken with suppressed amusement. The Brigadier had a low opinion of regiments of the line, whose officers had miserably small private means; if any at all; but he could not condone what verged on insubordination and indubitably achieved insolence.

  The other two flight commanders stood at attention behind Chandler, both strangers to the distinguished visitor. He introduced them and from sheer habit the Brig looked them up and down with instinctive disdain and a sharp eye for an excuse to tick them off. But one of them was a regular Royal Engineer and wore the Sappers’ badges. Sappers were the intelligentsia of the pre-Great War Army and the Brigadier quailed at the thought of crossing verbal swords with one of this breed, with their reputation of being mad, married or Methodist and formidable in polemics. The other wore the RFC tunic and not only sported an MC but was also the son of a Lieutenant-General in a War Office appointment. He was perfectly safe from the Brigadier’s criticism.

  “May I offer you a glass of sherry, sir?” asked Chandler. “Or coffee?”

  “Like to see your mess. Cup of coffee would be pleasant.” He implied “after the rigours of an hour’s drive.” And, of course, the disturbing sight of wounded men pouring back from the trenches.

  Chandler had told the mess sergeant to lace the coffee with cognac if his guests rejected sherry. The Brigadier commented on the unusual excellence of the coffee and waxed even more genial than usual, drank a second cup and was by then verging on the exuberant.

  In the squadron commander’s office, with all three flight commanders standing expectantly in front of the desk while he occupied the chair behind it with his ADC at his elbow, wondering why he felt so hazy after mere coffee, and the lieutenant-colonel was inspecting the camp with the squadron Adjutant, the Brigadier cleared his throat and declared: “Don’t want to beat about the bush. Thought I should tell you personally. Major Dunnett’s replacement.” He cocked an eye at each of them and then rolled it back, bloodshot and as yellow as ivory, to settle on Chandler. “Not posting in a replacement. Congratulate you, Chandler, on taking command. Promotion to acting major effective forthwith.”

  Chandler could hardly credit it. He had been prepared for HQ to inflict some promoted flight commander from another squadron on them, at best. At worst, someone who was already a major and with ambitions to fly something more lethal than a desk. In any event, an outsider who would impose new ways on the squadron of which he would not approve. Instead, it was he who was going to introduce his own theories and practices to the 59th. The two other flight commanders looked pleased.

  “Thank you, sir. May I ask who is taking over my flight?”

  “Ah! Well now ... difficult decision. Decided to give it to Hannington. He’s got the seniority. Also the flying experience, even though he’s a comparative newcomer to the squadron.”

  “Glad to hear it, sir.” Glad indeed, for Anthony already knew his ways. And this keeping it in the family was a promising new way for the staff to think; in so far as they were capable of mental exercise at all.

  The Brigadier put a monocle in his right eye and consulted a sheet of paper his ADC had given him.

  “Want to talk to you about tactics. What d’you think of offensive patrols behind the Boche lines, what?”

  “In theory, sir, they are the whole purpose of our existence. In practice, although our pilots are better than the enemy’s, our aeroplanes are not. Which means they can climb higher and wait for us to appear. When we do, they manoeuvre better than we can and if anyone is damaged and has to go home, they can easily catch him up.”

  “What about these new manoeuvres you chaps have been practising?” the Brigadier asked with a sly look.

  “Spins, sir? Useful ... but unfortunately one can’t spin all the way home after a fight ... and that’s when the Hun catches up with us.”

  Triumphantly, the Brigadier said, “But they shouldn’t be in any condition to chase you.”

  “As they invariably outnumber us, sir, they do tend to have several survivors after an action.” Chandler reminded himself not to let his irritation show, or he would lose the promotion he had just been given.

  “Enemy morale is obviously poor. They seldom come over our lines. Difficult to believe they fight with much determination when they do meet you.”

  “We’d be glad to take anyone from HQ along with us in the observer’s seat of a BE2 at any time, sir, to provide first-hand information on what it’s really like to meet the Hun in the air.” Chandler knew he had gone a little too far, but such uninformed imputations and assessments were intolerable.

  The Brigadier stared at him with his fishy eyes and stroked his moustache. “Grass on the other side of the fence always greener, what?”

  Chandler persisted with his point. “Could we have a staff volunteer with us for a week, sir, to let him see for himself what we do and what the enemy does?”

  Guffaw from the Brig. “But if it’s as deadly a business as you say, chances are our fella wouldn’t live to tell the tale, what? Waste of perfectly good staff officer.”

  “Good staff officer” was, in Chandler’s view, a contradiction in terms. He changed the subject. “The official escort formation doesn’t allow us to spot enemy scouts above us quickly enough, or protect our reconnaissance aeroplanes properly, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Flying a section on each side of the reconnaissance machine or machines, and another astern and 500 feet above, is like a blind man tapping his way to the edge of a platform when a Tube train is coming in, sir.”

  The Brigadier frowned. He disapproved of metaphors, similes and other flights of fancy. Highfalutin’ stuff. His tone was distinctly unfriendly as he said “Explain yourself.”

  “Well, sir, there has to be a scout well ahead and much higher than the rest of the formation, to make the earliest possible contact. Preferably more than one. The port and starboard (The brig nodded. He owned a yacht, was a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron, and although he hated the Navy he understood nautical terms.) sections need to be higher than the reconnaissance aircraft, and there should be two rear sections: one 1,000 feet higher, which the Hun would see; and another several thousand feet above that, which could drop on the enemy unawares.”

  The Brigadier’s already rubicund cheeks began to assume an interesting plum colour and he allowed his geniality to be replaced by a marked peevishness. “God God! Are you suggesting a whole squadron to escort a couple of reconnaisance machines?”

  “It would keep down the need for replacements, sir.” Even a Brigadier-General was not immune from Chandler’s wolfish, cynical smile. “It would please the Treasury: aeroplanes are expensive.”

  The Brigadier-General looked as though he were going to shoot puffs of steam and flame from his nose, mouth and ears. Then a light (a dull one, naturally, but discernible as such) gleamed in his protuberant eyes and he said, the magical invocation of the Treasury leading him along a path of career speculation, “May be something in that.” He rose.

  “You’ll stay to lunch, General?”

  “Like to, but can’t, thank you. Got to hurry along.” The Brig was not one to feed in a mess out in the blue when there was ample time to get to one of his favourite restaurants before he had to look in on another squadron.

  And, thought Chandler, he would like to see the day when the old boy hurried after anything except a piece of skirt or a fox.

  *

  Chandler was wearing a major’s crowns on his cuffs by the time the morning patrols returned. He sent for Hannington; who did not notice the crowns and, after saluting as usual on entering anyone’s office, said “Here I am, Henry.”

  “Sit down, Anthony.”

  Chandler crossed his arms on the desk and said, “I’ve got good news for you: congratters. You’re taking over B Flig
ht.”

  Hannington moved his gaze from Chandler’s eyes to his tunic cuffs. “I say, I’m sorry, I hadn’t noticed. ’Gratters yourself, old boy ... sir! I’m delighted. And jolly pleased to get command of the flight.”

  “You can put your third pip up straight away.”

  “What sort of form was the Brig in?”

  “His usual. The ADC inspected the guard and that oaf Loudon had the brass neck to complain about their turnout. The ADC spent his time lighting the Brig’s cigarettes and looking supercilious. Still, it could have been worse: I had their coffee well laced.”

  Hannington laughed. “Absolutely the only thing to do when one’s descended on by the gilded nincompoops. Did any of them say anything sensible at all?”

  “The Brigadier asked me what I thought about recce behind the Boche lines, and I told him the official escort policy is useless. That we need a high for’ard lookout and a high cover section at the rear. He became apoplectic.”

  “Too many aeroplanes to escort a mere one or two spotters?”

  “That’s it. So I asked him to send us one of his staff for a week, to fly as observer and find out for himself what it’s like.”

  “He didn’t care for that, no doubt.”

  “Hardly. But at least he more or less conceded my point when he turned it down: said that if the Hun is as big a pest as we say, the staff wallah wouldn’t live the week out! Of course I couldn’t argue against that.” Chandler grinned ruefully.

  “Wily old fox, ain’t he?”

  “We can forget about him. I’m going to run things entirely my way and we’ll operate much more as a squadron in future. As the French are doing.”

  “Les Cigognes,” Hannington murmured. “Don’t you think we should get one of their best chaps over to tell us something about it?”

  “I’m arranging it. I’m going to fly over and call on them tomorrow. About the flight: I don’t know what you think, but in my view we’ve got three quite exceptional pilots in Holt, Boyd and Sergeant Jorkins.”

  “I agree. And an unshakeably reliable one in Eastman.”