The Professionals
Page 16
I caught a whiff of burning oil as we flashed through the drifting smoke from the blazing aeroplanes, then we were roaring over the huts towards the trees. I saw men with rifles firing and a machine gun on a cartwheel swinging round. A little flag of fabric began to flap on the lower wing and the trees seemed to be rushing towards us, growing enormously in size until they seemed to fill the whole of my view. I headed for the smallest.
‘The trees!’ Sykes screamed, his mouth by my ear. ‘The trees! Lift her!’
‘She won’t come up,’ I screamed back. ‘She’s too heavy!’
With two aboard, the Albatros was taking a long time to climb and I saw the trees flash past on either side. For a moment I thought we’d gone through them.
‘Think we clipped ’em,’ Sykes yelled. ‘Saw a lot of flying leaves.’
We were clear of the airfield at last and I found the rising sun and swung in a wide circle to put it behind me on course for the west. Sykes was staring backwards and downwards, looking for Germans, but my eye was searching the roads. After a while I caught sight of a small figure that I knew instinctively was Marie-Ange’s. She’d not wasted time and had already put a good distance between herself and the aerodrome and I felt thankful for that. Then I saw her lift her arm and the frantic flutter of a white handkerchief as she slipped backwards, a small forlorn figure, out of sight below the wing. I realized then that I hadn’t said a single one of the things I’d wanted to say to her. Nothing else but ‘Run! Get away from here as fast as you can!’ It hardly seemed to express what I’d wanted to say. And that chaste kiss I’d decided on had turned out to be nothing more than a hurried peck as I’d scrambled for the bank.
It was a good job Sykes was with me because he didn’t give me the chance to think about it long.
‘A couple of ’em are off,’ he yelled in my ear. ‘They’re coming after us.’
Sitting on his knee I was half out of the cockpit and, with the wind flattening my hair, half-frozen in the slipstream. The Albatros felt as though she’d been crash-landed at some point in her career and they’d never been able to true the rigging up and she seemed to fly left-wing-low, while the Mercedes engine was throwing out oil which I could feel spattering my face in a fine mist mixed with odd larger globules.
‘How’s the leg?’ Sykes yelled.
I’d almost forgotten it but now I realized it was painful and felt sure I could feel the blood running in bucketfuls into my boot. ‘Numb,’ I shouted.
‘Better turn the wick up a bit,’ Sykes suggested. ‘Those two behind are catching up.’
I juggled with the throttle but it didn’t seem to make much difference.
‘Won’t go any faster,’ I said. ‘Carrying too much weight.’
‘Coming up fast,’ Sykes yelled and, turning my head, I saw the two Germans right behind us, climbing for height. I decided there was no point in trying to get up very high. We had only a matter of ten miles to go but I knew they were going to be the longest ten miles I’d ever flown.
‘Better cock the guns,’ Sykes advised. ‘Might need ’em.’
It seemed a good idea.
With its extra load, the Albatros was sluggish and there was nothing I could do about it. We were only about a hundred feet up, just skimming the tops of the tall poplars, and I saw a ruined church spire flash past, all the slates missing and the laths showing. Faces were staring up at us, white against the brown earth, and I saw horses and guns moving forward to the lines, their drivers also gazing up, obviously wondering why two German aeroplanes were advancing with such menace on a third.
‘Here they come,’ Sykes shouted. ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful!’
I heard the clatter behind and there was a whack of bullets passing through the wings and I saw the tracer trails and smelt the smoke of the bullets.
‘Port,’ Sykes yelled and, as he kicked at the rudder bar, I shoved the stick over and we skidded away from them.
There was another sharp ack-ack-ack behind us and I knew by the sound that the German was dangerously close by now.
‘Port again!’ Sykes roared and we skidded away again.
‘We can’t keep going to port,’ I screamed. ‘We’ll end up back at Phalempon.’
‘Have it your own way, but the Huns are to starboard!’
The rattle of guns sounded again and splinters leapt from the edge of the wing. We skidded away again, to starboard this time as the German flashed past, and for a moment I thought we were going to hit the second German who came up unexpectedly on that side. By the grace of God, he pulled away in time, and as the first one banked steeply to come behind us again, I saw we’d been given a minute or two of grace before he got into position once more, and pushed the nose down to gain speed.
I could see the lines now just in front and a whole string of shell-bursts. The thought that we were going to be flying through the barrage just as the shells reached the last few yards of their downward arc made my stomach turn over but there was no chance to do anything about it. The Germans were coming up behind us again and they must have been so furious or so excited at seeing us escaping they, too, didn’t bother to turn aside. I heard the machine guns go again and saw more flags of fabric flap. A bullet whanged against the engine cover somewhere and I heard it scream away. A large hole appeared above my head and more splinters flew.
Between us we managed to fling the machine away from the stream of bullets but, sitting high out of the cockpit without a safety belt, I seemed to flop about like a jelly on a hot plate. My leg seemed to be stiffening, too, and I was certain now that my boot was full of blood.
‘Gettin’ warm,’ Sykes roared. ‘Can’t you do anythin’ about it?’
‘No!’
‘Thought you were a dab hand with an aeroplane?’
‘If you think you can do any better,’ I yelled back, ‘we’ll change places.’
The Germans seemed to be sitting just behind us now, potting at us every few seconds, and why neither of us was hit I couldn’t imagine because the Albatros seemed to be falling to pieces about our ears. But I could see barbed wire now. It was new wire and hadn’t gone rusty, and it lay over the ground like a pale blue mist. Then Sykes started hammering at my back and, turning my head, I saw him pointing. Though I couldn’t get round properly, I saw the flat top wings and the dihedral of the lower wings that stamped a group of Camels coming down.
The Albatroses had seen them, too, because one of them was swinging away to bolt for home. The second seemed to decide on one last try and came in again for us. I felt sure this time that the Albatros was going to fall apart but it kept on flying even when I threw it in as tight a bank as I dared. As we came round we were face to face with the German who was going round in the opposite direction and I pressed the trigger of the guns. I smelled cordite and saw the guns jumping and he began to wobble and I saw a puff of smoke, then he had flashed past and I was too busy simply keeping the machine flying to worry about what had happened to him.
‘He’s gone,’ Sykes roared. ‘And the Camels have got the other! We’re all right now… Oh, my God!’ – his voice rose to a scream – ‘No, no!’
I didn’t have to look to guess what had happened. The Camels hadn’t noticed what was going on and had seen only three German Albatroses apparently larking about close to the ground. They had disposed of one and probably we had disposed of the other and now they were coming down on us.
The Mercedes engine was making weird noises now, as though something were loose inside, and I had an awful sensation that the wings were about to fall off. But we were over the German front line now and crossing the blue belt of barbed wire.
The first Camel came in so close I could see the oil on the engine cowling catching the early morning sun. The guns rattled and the Albatros took more punishment, but by the grace of God once again we weren’t hit ourselves. The engine was labouring badly now, though, and I could see smoke coming in puffs from it and could even smell it.
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‘We’re on fire!’
‘Keep it up,’ Sykes roared. ‘Only a bit further!’
But the Albatros was barely flying now. I could see wires trailing and hear them twanging all round us and I knew that if I tried to dodge the next Camel that came down the wings would simply fall off. But the Camels seemed to consider that they had done all that was necessary and, probably hoping we’d land intact, they were waiting just above for us to crash. I didn’t think they’d have to wait long.
I saw the shell-holes come up in front then another belt of wire and the British trenches.
‘We’ve made it,’ I yelled, then to my horror a positive fusillade came up at us. Both sides were shooting at us now. The Germans had long since spotted two heads and caught on that something was wrong and had opened up with rifles and machine guns, while the British, seeing only black crosses on the wings, were doing the same. The wings looked like sieves by this time and the engine gave one last despairing clang and stopped. The propeller jerked twice and halted in a horizontal position, and in the silence all I could hear was the hum of the wind through what wires still remained and the roar of battle about me.
I had never realized just what a lot of noise went on in the front line. I could hear machine guns rattling away steadily in short bursts and the separate pop of rifles, the whole lot backgrounded by the thump and crash of shells.
We floated over the British front line, barely flying, and I saw a shell explode just in front, then we were drifting through the smoke and the clods of earth and the spray of water it had thrown up. The ground was only just beneath us now, and there was a ruined cottage just ahead right in our path. I tried to bank to starboard but I knew I couldn’t and the wingtip caught the gable end. I felt the aeroplane lurch and pieces of wood and metal fell off, then the wheels touched and the machine, still miraculously upright, rolled along what must have been the only piece of flat dry land for miles around and dropped neatly into a shell-hole. The tail came up, and I was surrounded by a violent crunching, crashing sound, then everything went black.
I came round with a pain in my face and firmly convinced I was dead. Foul-tasting water was in my mouth and eyes and nose. I tried to raise my head but a tremendous weight came down on it, shoving my face into the water again. With the desperation of the drowning, I fought free and found I was sprawling at the bottom of the shell-hole with Sykes alongside me. He had fallen out of the cockpit straight on top of me and seemed to have fared better than I had. My nose was bleeding where I’d banged it in the crash and I felt sure I was dying. Sykes didn’t waste time sympathizing, however. He grabbed me by the collar and as he dragged me free from the aeroplane I realized that, just to make things complete, I was saturated with petrol.
A shell exploded just over the lip of the crater, showering us with earth and stones and water and we scrabbled in the torn surface trying to bury ourselves in the soil. I was frightened to death and almost weeping with fury that this should happen to us after all we’d been through. The water in the bottom of the shell-hole was foul and green and stank abominably, then it suddenly dawned on us that we’d made it, and, sprawling in the slime in the bottom of the shell-hole, we leapt at each other delightedly.
My leg gave way as I jumped up and I fell helplessly against Sykes, clawing at him for support. But it didn’t matter that my breeches were soaked with blood. I knew no bones were broken and we were delirious with joy, pounding each other’s shoulders, our faces streaked with dirt, our hair flattened by the wind and drenched by the water, rolling and yelling and laughing, until we must have looked like a couple of drunken puppies wallowing about, both of us covered with mud and the blood from my nose.
‘Beat the whole bloomin’ German air force,’ Sykes shouted.
‘And the whole bloomin’ British air force!’
‘And the German army!’
‘And the British army!’
‘Navy, too, come to that!’
We leapt at each other again, but this time, the antics were brought up short by a dry rasping voice that sounded like Munro’s.
‘Hands up, ye Prussian bastards, or Ah’ll gi’e ye four inches o’ cold steel richt doon the throat.’
It brought us up sharp and we released each other to turn round and stare open-mouthed at a soldier in a mud-caked helmet peering at us over the lip of the shell-hole. He was a sergeant and alongside him two other men appeared. They were all three heavily moustached, their faces black with dirt, their uniforms and kilts covered with mud.
Sykes grinned. ‘We’re English,’ he said. ‘English pilots. We’ve just escaped.’
‘Aye, tell me anither yin.’
Sykes looked up indignantly. ‘We’re wearing British uniforms, aren’t we, man?’ he said.
‘Could ye no’ be spies?’
‘We are British!’ I scrambled to my knees and screeched at him in fury, terrified he’d shoot me after the effort we’d made to escape. ‘We pinched the damn’ thing and flew it back!’
‘Hoo do Ah ken ye’re British?’
Sykes looked up, gave him a brilliant beaming smile and began to swear. He used all the good old Anglo-Saxon words he had ever heard uttered by sullen privates in a cavalry stables, together with all those he’d gathered from raw-knuckled fitters crouched over recalcitrant engines on frozen mornings, and rounded them off with a few he’d doubtless picked up in the hunting field and from poachers round Hathersett village. I stared admiringly. So did the sergeant.
His moustache lifted and they all three of them began to grin. The rifles they were pointing at us dropped.
‘Och, aye,’ the sergeant said. ‘Ah ken fine ye’re British.’
They jumped into the shell-hole and offered cigarettes.
‘For God’s sake,’ Sykes said. ‘Don’t light up, or we’ll go up in flames! We’re drenched in petrol.’
They dragged me out of the shell-hole belly-down to the ground while machine gun bullets whack-whacked over the top of us, uncomfortably close. A shell burst and they ducked, then the sergeant lifted his head.
‘Now,’ he yelled. ‘Run!’
He jumped to his feet with the others and they dragged me with them, heads down, until we fell into a trench, all in a heap on top of each other.
The sergeant heaved me to my feet and sat me on the firestep. ‘Ah reckon the C.O.’ll want to see ye, laddie,’ he said paternally. ‘Ye’d better come this way. He’s frae Edinburgh an’ he keeps a gey fine dram o’ whisky.’
The sergeant’s commanding officer gave us all a drink and telephoned to Wing for us, then they bandaged my leg – which turned out to be not half as bad as I’d expected – and sent us down the line with an escort to help me along. When we got back to the aerodrome, it was like a riot – especially with Sykes turning up, too – and Munro and Bull were capering round us as if they were mad.
‘And what’s more, mon,’ Munro yelled in a frenzy of delight. ‘We’re gettin’ Camels! It’s official!’
It was wonderful to be back and send the telegrams home but right at the height of the party that Munro insisted on starting, I went outside, leaning heavily on a stick someone had given me. The horizon was still flickering with the shell fire and I could hear the thud of explosions and the faint rattle of machine guns. Suddenly I found Sykes alongside me. ‘Lookin’ for the dawn risin’, Brat, old son?’ he asked gently.
I nodded, but I wasn’t really. I was remembering Marie-Ange and her lonely walk home, because it had suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the reason she’d been so eager for us to go by boat was because she’d decided to come, too. I had remembered the tears in her mother’s eyes and had suddenly wondered if she’d been saying good-bye. She’d often said she wanted to see England again, and if that had been in her mind, her return to the farm would be twice as wretched.
‘Penny for ’em, Brat,’ Sykes said.
I could hear the noise in the mess and Munro shouting out a song at the piano.
’It’s the only, o
nly way,
It’s the only trick to play—’
‘Not worth a penny,’ I said.
‘You realize they’ll send us home, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Policy for escapers. In case we’re shot down and captured again. Could be awkward. ’Sides, you’re wounded. Intrepid birdman hurt in a death dive.’
I grinned. ‘How long will it be for?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Just till the Germans have forgotten us, I suppose.’
I nodded. It made sense. But I had one thing to do first, leg or no leg. Sykes was going to find himself organizing a patrol towards Noyelles. He didn’t know it yet, but he was, and I was going to be on it. And there was going to be a message dropped near that great Dutch barn where we’d spent so long hiding in the straw. I was already looking forward to seeing that small solemn figure by the house and the sudden frantic waving I knew would follow when she guessed who it was.
Next in The Martin Falconer Thrillers:
The Victors
Martin Falconer had one big anxiety: would they let him fly again?
A gripping story, totally convincing in its portrayal of the ordeals and rewards of flying in the First World War, for fans of Alexander Fullerton and W. E. Johns.
Find out more
First published in the United Kingdom in 1973 by Hutchinson Junior Books
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Canelo
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Copyright © John Harris, 1973
The moral right of John Harris writing as Max Hennessy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.