The Professionals

by Max Hennessy

  Once I met Charley in London and we had a lively week-end of shows and tea-dances. She was gay and brittle and full of all the up-to-date things to say and do, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

  ‘I’m a rotten dancer,’ I pointed out as we struggled through a two-step.

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ she said cheerfully, ‘Lulu’s terrific.’

  I knew he would be, of course.

  ‘I’m not too bad on waltzes,’ I said.

  ‘Same here. With knobs on. Old-fashioned, but it doesn’t matter. You get used to them in the end – like wooden legs.’

  We even got romantic, holding hands on the Embankment, but it was freezing cold and a bit discouraging.

  ‘Do you like girls?’ Charley asked me in her clear high Roedean voice.

  ‘On the whole,’ I said, ‘they frighten me to death.’

  She giggled. ‘I’ve never been kissed by a pilot,’ she observed helpfully, and when we went to see ‘The Maid of the Mountains’, which was all the rage just then, and the hero sang his song about ‘At seventeen he falls in love quite madly with eyes of tender blue, at twenty-one he’s got it rather badly with eyes of a different hue’, I realized it applied to me. Whoever had written those lines was quite a shrewd judge of adolescence.

  While we were in London, someone introduced me to Albert Ball. He was a reserved young man, short and unprepossessing but with bright dark eyes and a keen jaw. He seemed uncomplicated and by no means intellectual and he said if I wished he’d try to pull a few strings and get me posted to 56 Squadron where he was going and which was coming to be considered rather special because it had a whole bunch of experienced pilots. I thanked him but said I was still hoping to join Sykes.

  From time to time I got an opportunity to fly different machines, some of them awful, one or two of them good like the Bristol Scout, which was not only a sweet little machine to handle but a beautiful machine to look at.

  One day I flew over to Joyce Green to pick up a new one. The Wing Fighting Instructor there was a man called McCudden who had gone to France in 1914 as an air mechanic and was now an officer with three medals. I watched him take up a Bristol Scout and do six loops in a row with it. He had a lot to say about fighting in France and I was able to pick up a few tips. He had some good ideas about instructing, too, and some good pupils, one of them, an Irishman called Mannock, being particularly impressive, though someone told me he was far too old to be a pilot and could only see out of one eye.

  I was almost frantic to get back to France by this time and only the occasional alarms when the Germans were supposed to be approaching London brought any excitement. They all fizzled out as false, though, and the story went around that the Germans had called off the Zeppelins. Too many had been lost because of bad weather and they were now said to be developing a giant new bomber to do the job instead and were merely doing reconnaissance for when they were ready.

  At the beginning of March, we were given a few Sopwith Pups for training and we all got a chance of trying our hands out on them, a few of the older hands even doing patrols, and I saw Bull watching me with dour envy as the Major sent me up to look out for the Germans. Peckett seemed unenthusiastic, a curious pale character of a man who seemed to leave no impression on anyone, while Catlow was frankly indifferent. It was clear now that he had no wish to do any more than he was doing at that moment, and Jane had heard stories in Fynling which confirmed the rumours that strings were being pulled to get him posted to the staff or as a permanent instructor and I guessed that was the reason for his comfortable self-satisfaction.

  Nothing ever happened on the patrols, of course, except that one day I saw an aeroplane way below me and stalked it for what seemed hours. Whatever it was, it was faster than a Pup and I never caught it, but I saw it several times after that and became convinced that it was one of the high-flying German reconnaissance planes we’d heard of, sneaking across the Channel to take photographs of London Docks with those wonderful cameras they had. I began to wait for him and in the end he became an obsession.

  I began to ask the other pilots about him and even began to visit other squadrons in search of information. But I seemed to be the only one who’d ever spotted him, and people began to laugh and ask if I’d seen Old Faithful lately. Finally it became a matter of pride to find out just who the intruder was, so that I began to fly higher and higher in the hope of catching him unawares.

  One day I actually got the Pup up to 18,500 feet which was about as high as anyone ever got one and I began to think I was pretty good. I was just basking in self-satisfaction when I saw Old Faithful below me on my left and I banked round at once after him. The Pup had reached its limit, though, and as I turned on to a new course I lost 500 feet at once in the thin air and had to start the slow deliberate climb upwards again. But I had my eye on the other machine now and I had learned long since in France that height put the odds in your favour every time.

  There was a lot of cirrocumulus about and the other aeroplane started to dodge in and out among it, which made me more certain than ever that he was a German. I decided to take no chance and fired the gun to warm it up.

  Old Faithful turned again, and again I lost height as I turned with him. But I had manoeuvred behind him and above his tail now and I was right in the eye of the sun as I began a long steep glide towards him. I still couldn’t make out what the other machine was but I had long since made out the black crosses on his wings and decided he was in for a nasty surprise. He turned slightly and I turned with him. I was drawing nicely close to him now, only 500 yards away and approaching fast, and I’d still not been seen. The observer was hanging over the side, probably using a camera, and had never looked up.

  Four hundred yards, three, two, one, seventy-five, fifty. Now! I pressed the trigger. The gun barked once then stopped and I shot helplessly past within a matter of yards of the German. I was livid with rage as I saw the observer look up, startled, then bang the pilot on the shoulder and grab for his gun. The pilot, who must have been enjoying the view, swung the machine over in a bank and fell out of the sky in a steep dive, while I tried to follow him, banging on the cocking handle of the gun to drive the cartridge home, cursing and furious, but unable to do a thing about it. All I could do was follow him down in the hope of frightening him into crashing into the sea, but he was far too old a hand for that and he levelled out not far above the waves and fled across the Channel, while I could only weave about above him, keeping out of the way of the streams of bullets that were snapped off in my direction by the observer every time I came within range.

  I landed with a splitting headache from the altitude and was in a foul temper with myself and with the armourer who’d serviced the gun. The jam was caused by a faulty round and I was furious that he hadn’t noticed it because that sort of thing could get you killed if it happened at the wrong time. The armourer was cheerful about it. He was a little mad, I think. He was called Gumbell – Gum Boil to his friends inevitably – and he had a habit of playing a fiddle outside his hut at night, because he played it so badly his hut-mates refused to allow him to play it inside.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, sir,’ he insisted.

  ‘Whose was it then?’ I demanded.

  ‘Well, I didn’t make that there bullet.’

  ‘No.’ I had to agree. ‘But you made up the belt. From now on I’ll make ’em up myself and I’ll check every cartridge.’

  I went to the office to make my report. Catlow was inside with Peckett and Bull and he was looking a little green about the gills. The Major looked up as I arrived.

  ‘See anything?’ he asked.

  ‘One aeroplane, sir. The chap I’ve been chasing. I’ll be up there tomorrow again in case he comes back.’

  He grinned. ‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a job for you with these chaps here.’

  I looked at the other three. I still didn’t hit it off with Catlow and I couldn’t imagine enjoying anything he was involved in.

 
; ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘France,’ the Major said.

  ‘What!’ I suddenly understood the look on Catlow’s face. ‘France!’

  The Major laughed. ‘They’ve suddenly noticed all those applications you’ve been putting in,’ he said. ‘You’ve been posted. You’re to pick up new Pups and cross the Channel to Rochy-le-Moutrou.’

  ‘What’s the squadron?’ I said.

  He told me and my heart fell to my boots. ‘That’s not Sykes’.’

  ‘What did you expect?’ the Major said with a smile. ‘You made too much of a fuss about joining him. You ought to know that the powers that be only exist to thwart people like you and me. What you should have done was apply to go to any squadron but Sykes’.’

  I went off in a fury and wrote another application. It was properly in triplicate and in good Service language but it was also full of rage and sarcasm. The Major glanced at it then he grinned and handed it back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to put it through. If I did they’d court martial me and probably shoot you. There’s nothing for it, Falconer. You’re going where they’ve told you to go. You can do what you like about transferring when you get there. But there’s nothing I can do here.’

  Chapter 4

  We flew to France via Dover, halting to refuel and have lunch at Lympne before setting our course from Dover Castle. We landed at Marquis, near Boulogne, in time for tea. I’d had to watch Catlow carefully because he was constantly straggling. He’d spent a solid three hours on the telephone from the village pub the evening before we’d left, and Bull, who’d been there with Peckett, said his indignant bleating had been heard by everyone in the place. Clearly his plans had gone awry and he was making hurried shifts to get some help.

  When we landed he said he’d been having trouble with his machine but I caught the flight-sergeant’s glance and suspected it was just an excuse and that he wasn’t looking forward to France. Shortly afterwards we flew on to a place called Petit Snythe, and stayed the night there and went on the following morning to Rochy-le-Moutrou. It was the ominous date of 1 April 1917 – April Fool’s Day.

  Rochy was a triangular-shaped field and as I approached I could see some FE2bs on the ground that indicated we were sharing it with another squadron. There was an awkward line of trees at one end, but I dropped over them without trouble. Catlow, who was straggling again, only just missed them, however, got into a wobble and made a bad landing that stood his machine on its nose. Almost immediately a Crossley tender came hurtling out from among the huts, bouncing over the grass, and stopped alongside him. I saw a tall man get out and Catlow standing very straight and stiff while he got what was clearly a wigging.

  Then the Crossley went across to Peckett and Bull and I saw them also standing stiff and silent. When I saw it coming across to me, I decided I wasn’t going to do any standing stiff and silent and deliberately turned my back to take my coat off.

  As the Crossley screeched to a halt behind me, I heard a loud voice as the door slammed. ‘When are you new pilots going to get some training?’ it said. ‘I’m damned if I…’

  As I turned, the voice faded at once and I saw a big red-faced man staring at the ribbon under my wings.

  ‘What did you get that for?’ he demanded.

  ‘Flying, sir,’ I said. I was always much better at standing up to angry officers than I was to girls.

  ‘Oh!’ He began to calm down considerably. ‘This your second tour of duty?’

  The anger died out of his face immediately and he turned back to the Crossley. ‘Better let me have your papers and all the rest of the nonsense,’ he growled. ‘I’m the C.O. My name’s Latta.’

  He climbed back into the tender and disappeared. He hadn’t impressed me very much.

  I walked across to Catlow who’d now been joined by Peckett and Bull. His bad landing wasn’t anything unusual – some of the most successful fliers wrecked as many British machines as German – but he was still red in the face from what had been said to him.

  ‘My God,’ he said, when he saw me. ‘That was a bit rich!’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ I said. ‘He’s probably in need of a bit of leave.’

  My guess was a good one. Latta had been out far too long and was tired and suddenly overworked as the front woke up with the better weather of spring. He was in control of himself when we arrived.

  ‘We’ve had rather a knock,’ he said as I handed over the papers. ‘We’re under strength and now we’ve lost three men in one week. That’s a lot. The Germans opposite are too damned good for us with these new Albatroses.’

  ‘Which new Albatroses?’ I asked.

  ‘DIIIs. They’re hot stuff – much faster than the DIs. Pups can barely stand up to them and hitting ’em for six gets harder all the time.’

  It was news to me and a bit of a blow because we’d thought the Pups were first-rate machines which had been brought out as the answer to DIs.

  Latta was pawing through the scattered papers on his desk now, his whole manner harassed and short-tempered. ‘You’ll be in A flight, with Catlow,’ he said. ‘The others’ll be in B. You’ll be deputy leader. Do you know this part of the line?’

  I said I did and he nodded. ‘You’d better take them all over straight away then. Let ’em have a look at it. But don’t take any chances. We’ve stopped solitary patrols. No one goes over alone these days. We go in twos and threes.’

  As we turned away, he called us back. ‘Oh, and keep a watch towards Douai. That’s where trouble comes from.’

  I remembered the Fokkers that had bothered me the previous year. ‘It always did,’ I said.

  He seemed anxious to appear keen and interested. ‘They’re a painted lot,’ he said. ‘They daub their machines all colours. I’m told it’s so they can distinguish each other in the air. Leader’s a chap called Richthofen.’

  Catlow’s machine hadn’t been much damaged and, after lunch, with a new propeller it was fit to fly. Catlow looked nervous, though, and I told him to keep close to me and do what I did.

  ‘Always keep a look-out up there.’ I jerked a hand at the watery sun. ‘Watch it all the time. Not just when you’re bored but always. Shove a thumb in front of your eye when you look up. It kills the glare and allows you to see. It might be a black spot. It might be a pale white cross, it might be a flash as the sun catches a pair of wings. But if you see anything, look again and, if you’re sure, let me know.’

  Catlow looked sullen. He’d never enjoyed having someone as young as I was tell him what to do and he still hadn’t got over the fact that he’d been swept into the net of the war while his relatives were fighting tooth and nail to save him. I didn’t intend being merciful with him, however, and jabbed a hand at the tails of their machines. ‘And keep one eye on those,’ I went on. ‘Keep looking until your neck aches, because if anybody comes at you, that’s where he’ll come from.’

  Catlow seemed to think what I was telling them was a lot of nonsense but I hoped for his sake that he was taking notice, because I was taking no chances myself. I’d long since taken the opportunity of making a few additions to my machine. I didn’t like the windscreen with its padded edge because it spoiled my vision, and I’d had it taken off and replaced with another that was curved and gave me a better view. In addition, I’d also spent the lunch hour pasting maps of the region for thirty miles either side of the line on to thick squares of cardboard and slotting them into a holder alongside my seat. I’d learned that survival depended on care and preparation and, in view of the reputation of the new German Albatroses, it seemed a good idea to do what I could to narrow the gap between us with a little forethought.

  The Le Rhône was still warm and it sounded good as it roared into life, the Pup quivering under the stress of its power. I’d learned in England that trying to handle the Pup in thick leather regulation gloves was like trying to play cricket with a feather, and I’d searched London for a pair of finer ones that allowed a more sensitive to
uch.

  As the rumble of wheels stopped and we became airborne, I glanced back. Bull was close up on me, grimly holding his position. Peckett was just behind, but Catlow was wandering away already. He seemed congenitally incapable of flying in formation. I waved him fiercely into position but I had to throttle back to allow him to catch up before we headed for the line. The brown stain of the trenches had not changed much since the last time I’d seen it but, as always, I was not emotionally moved by the sight of it. It had been there a long time now, a great scar on the earth running all the way from Switzerland to the sea, and it didn’t concern me. My base was in green meadows and my battlefield was up here in a clear sky where it was swept clean by the wind after every struggle.

  There had been a lot of fighting in the last year and the ground below seemed to be honeycombed with shell-holes, all filled with water. The artillery fire had shattered dykes and streams and turned it into a desolation of mud so that I wondered how men lived in it. As I stared down at it I heard a different sound from the monotonous roar of the engine and glanced quickly round, knowing at once what it was. Three hundred yards away on the same level several puff balls of black smoke hung in the sky. Anti-aircraft fire was always a little unnerving. On the ground, shells never seemed to have the same importance because you always knew they were fired at random into the blue at anyone who happened to be in the target area.

  In the air, it was different because it was very clear they were aimed directly at you, and it gave them a personal spiteful effect.