by Peter Albano
The attack had carried the formation far north of its patrol and suddenly an ugly brown smear erupted a hundred yards beneath Randolph’s wingtip. Then another and another; black and brown octopus with white phosphorescent tentacles trailing earthward. Randolph banked south, away from archie and pulled back on the stick. Altitude. They needed altitude. Again, he was gripped with that nameless dread, an atavistic prescience that turned his blood to ice and sent a million cold needles to stab the flesh of his face and neck. This time he would take them up to sixteen thousand feet—so high no Hun could surprise them upsun.
With the two novices tucked back into formation, Randolph turned the patrol back onto its southern leg, the ruins of Contalmaison sliding past far below. As they gained height, the vast panorama of northern France—even the southern part of Belgium—opened beneath, the green farms quilted geometrically; green for crops, brown for ploughed fields. The actual front faded, the trenches and disputed no-man’s-land nothing more than a serpentine of brown, the misery and slaughter there illusory.
The two veteran pilots never relaxed their search, heads turning in rhythmic set patterns, searching every quadrant, every corner of the sky, never resting, eyes never allowed to focus short or become fixed by the sun, a cloud, or the whirling fan of the propeller. But Barton and Winter were exuberant, waving and smiling in the euphoria of victory. Repeatedly, Randolph stabbed a finger at the horizon and gesticulated wildly. The subalterns would search for a moment and then turn back to each other, waving and laughing. Fuming, Randolph pounded the coaming, vowing to chastise the pair unmercifully when they returned to the field. A glance at the altimeter and Randolph leveled off at fifteen thousand feet, just below parallel rolls of white cumulus that stretched to the horizon like cheese cake in a baker’s window. Feeling slightly giddy, he pulled the tube from his oxygen bottle and took several long pulls. He saw the other pilots doing the same thing. He knew they were too high for any Jasta to pounce on them from above. The premonition of disaster began to fade.
Abruptly and miraculously he was proved wrong and the sky above them was filled with garishly painted diving aircraft and the chatter of machine guns. Even in stunned astonishment, Randolph reacted with the instincts of the survivor of dozens of air battles, kicking left rudder and horsing back on the stick until the horizon fell away and his cowling and Vickers were pointed at the attackers. Staring at the needle-nosed attackers, astonishment became fear that went beyond fear, a full circle back into courage. He choked back the dread lumped in his throat and stared through his ring sight.
There were six of them, all new Albatrosses and obviously of Oswald Boelcke’s circus. The leading German, red and yellow fuselage with a checkerboard upper wing, was the master killer himself and he would have riddled Randolph if the Nieuport had not reacted like a startled cobra and lashed back at its attackers. Nevertheless, Randolph felt a riveter’s hammer pounding the plane as shot struck home and a stagger wire parted with a twang like a bowstring. But the major got off a short burst that ripped fabric from the German’s upper wing near the spot where the radiator should have been. But it was not there. Boelcke plunged past. To Randolph’s horror, he counted the best pilots in the German air service, identified by their gaudy paint jobs known to everyone: Werner Voss, Max Mueller, Manfred von Richthofen, Erwin Boehme, and the coldest butcher of them all, Bruno Hollweg, flying a black machine with a jagged yellow arrow stretching the length of his fuselage.
There was something different about these Albatross scout fighters. The radiator was beneath the upper wing, which had been lowered and the visibility had been improved by enlarging the slot in the upper plane and splaying out the cabane struts in the form of an N. Must be a new model. The D.2 with a higher service ceiling, flashed through Randolph’s mind.
Reed had turned into the attack with a tight chandelle and had fired a burst that had tipped chunks and splinters of plywood from a blood-red Albatross fuselage. Surprisingly, Barton was still off Randolph’s tail plane, but Winter was already a dead man. Paralyzed by the first attack, the eighteen-year-old had committed the pursuit pilot’s cardinal sin; he had flown straight and level while looking around in confusion. Hollweg’s black machine had slashed in on him like a shark smelling blood, ripping his fuel and oil tanks with a score of rounds, sending the volatile mixture into the hot engine where it ignited in a yellow flare like a flame thrower. The doomed Nieuport twisted past Randolph, curving toward the ground, leaving a black epitaph of smoke behind, Winter waving and screaming as he roasted alive. Watching the boy’s hideous death, sudden madness possessed Randolph; no fear, no doubts, not even conscious thought—only the urge to kill. He was an animal and the sky was his jungle.
A green Albatross with yellow tiger stripes swooped down on David’s tail on an ideal killing angle. With all his strength, Randolph pulled back on the stick and kicked tight rudder, snapping into a half roll to the right, taking advantage of the tremendous torque of the rotary. He felt his wings vibrate, wires jerk and screech. The green machine filled both rings. Snarling in released tension and triumph, the major pushed the button, trying for a three-quarter deflection shot. A stream of tracers caught the Albatross just back of the cockpit, punctured the big white Maltese cross, ripping splinters from the fuselage and fabric from the tail plane. The enemy machine dropped away in a screaming dive.
Randolph fell in behind Reed, and following his flight leader, Barton protected Randolph’s tail. The outnumbered and outgunned Nieuports began to circle while five Albatrosses roared up around and over the trio, looking for openings. None could be taken without price. The sixth Albatross, the green machine that Randolph had riddled, banked slowly to the north and dropped in a shallow dive toward the German trenches. It trailed smoke. Randolph was sure it was Voss. He waved a fist in the air. “Come on, Kraut buggers! Come on! I still have a tank full of three-oh-three-ball.”
Jagdstaffel Two adopted new tactics. Two pairs, Boelcke and Erwin Boehme, Hoehe and Hollweg, flying in very close tandem, continued to circle the Nieuports while Manfred von Richthofen climbed and lurked a thousand feet above the deadly cotillion, waiting for an opening. With Boehme clinging hard on his tail plane, Boelcke half rolled and charged in on David, squeezing off a quick burst while inverted. Showing iron discipline, David continued his turn while Randolph’s gun sight came to bear on the checkerboard Albatross. A sharp move of the stick with a matching movement of right rudder for balance, and Randolph had Boelcke centered. Randolph heard a creature growl deep in his throat as he squeezed the tit. A two-second burst. The Vickers bucked, the belt raced up from the tank, brass shell casings streamed from the chute, and a whiff of cordite struck like a sexy woman’s perfume. Eighteen rounds and a half dozen strikes on the checkerboard’s upper plane and the D.2 trailed puffs of paint dust and ripped fabric. Furiously, Randolph kicked rudder without bank, throwing the Nieuport into a spar-bending, flat, skidding turn that hurled him against the side of the cockpit, his Vickers tracking the Albatross like a hunter following grouse.
“I’ll jump your king, checkerboard bastard!” Randolph shouted, ignoring the pain he felt in the shoulder bruised by the coaming. But before he could fire again, the checkerboard completed its roll and dropped out of his sights. He cursed bitterly.
There was a blur of red overhead. Richthofen. Diving. Breaking the ting. Barton pulled up sharply. Fired a burst at the diving machine. Richthofen ignored the young pilot, eyes glued on Reed’s Nieuport. A short burst from fifty feet and Reed’s Le Rhone began to trail smoke. Like a pride of lions singling out an injured wildebeest from the herd, Richthofen pulled up and Boelcke and Boehme banked sharply toward Reed’s crippled Nieuport, smelling the kill.
Screaming “No!” Randolph banked toward Reed while Barton rolled toward Boelcke. Instantly, the orderly cotillion collapsed into a disorderly free-for-all. But the sky was too crowded, six aircraft converging on the tiny bit of space holding Reed’s scout plane.
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br /> Showing unbelievable daring for a novice, Barton slashed into, perhaps, twenty feet of Boelcke, his stream of .303 tracers ripping canvas from the great squadron leader’s already damaged upper wing like skin slaking from a molting serpent. Either out of control or surprised by the reckless attack, Boelcke pulled up hard while Boehme, trying to protect his leader, plunged past in a sharp dive after Barton. Too close and intent on the young Englishman, Boehme’s left wing slashed through Boelcke’s right upper plane, knocking off the aileron horn and severing the control wire. With the aileron flopping loose like a door in a gale and canvas ripping from his wing, the great flyer throttled back and turned gradually into a shallow dive toward his lines. But the dive sharpened quickly as the main spar broke and his top wing ripped free and fluttered behind the fuselage, trailing wires, torn fabric, plywood, and broken struts. Immediately, the lower wings sheered off and the fuselage steepened its dive into a streaking vertical death plunge like a stone dropped from a bluff.
“Die! Die, murdering bastard!” Randolph shouted joyfully.
The Germans were stunned and for a moment, seemingly paralyzed by the loss of their leader and the ferocity and skill of their enemies. Randolph felt hope surge as he pushed his stick forward and dropped after Barton and Reed, who had turned off his engine and was gliding for a landing. Boehme and Richthofen, both damaged, suddenly turned for home. But Hollweg, followed by the blue and white bumble bee striped machine of Max Mueller, suddenly half rolled into a dive, streaking for the retreating Nieuports.
Defying his shaky wings and followed by Barton, Randolph pulled back hard on the stick and felt the wicker seat sag, wings vibrate and threaten to buckle. The sharp turn and climb cost him speed and he slowed to a near stall. With little air flowing over his airfoils and control surfaces, he had to fight the vibrating controls with the tired muscles of his arms and legs to bring Hollweg’s black machine into his range finder. A head-on attack: that was what he wanted. He gripped the stick with all his strength and pushed hard on the rudder bar, working it back and forth like a child’s seesaw to maintain balance. Hanging by its prop, the Nieuport trembled anxiously like a predator poised for its killing leap. He had only an instant, but for that instant the black machine filled the concentric rings.
Both pilots fired simultaneously. A stream of fireflies whipped past Randolph. There were snapping sounds like whips cracking in his ears and suddenly the Albatross filled the whole sky. In a wink it was past him, hard rubber tires of the landing gear almost brushing his head and jarring the tiny scout plane with its backwash like the passing bird of death. Max Mueller and Barton were firing on each other, exchanging bursts that crippled. Engine missing and streaking oil, the German turned for home. Barton, engine riddled and leaking its own life’s blood, dropped off in a steep dive. Hollweg, still diving, flattened his dive into a perfect killing angle as he closed the range on the helpless David Reed.
Shouting “No! No!” Randolph dropped out of his stall and split-essed the Nieuport into diving pursuit. But the light scout plane had no chance, the heavier, more powerful Albatross diving at a much higher speed. It was over in seconds. Helpless, Reed turned in his cockpit to face his executioner. He was waving a fist when a dozen rounds caught him in the chest, smashing his ribs, lungs, and heart. Immediately, the Nieuport flipped on its back and plummeted to the ground, crashing in a field just back of the British reserve trenches. The Albatross streaked for home.
Randolph eased his throttle and circled the wreck as artillerymen rushed to it. He leaned far over the coaming with his goggles up, the slipstream whipping the tears from his cheeks. The sobs were bitter and anger and grief carved his face into an ugly mask—all hard, deep, down-slashing lines. His brother had died again. “I’ll kill you, butcher,” he shouted at the Albatross, which had become a speck on the horizon. And then waving his fist, he said, “This isn’t war—this is murder. I’ll kill you, Hollweg—kill you if it takes my life.”
Blinded by tears and keening to himself like an injured animal, he turned for home.
VII
The news of Oberst Oswald Boelcke’s death was reported joyfully in the British press. But there was no joy in Fenwyck despite the fact that Number Five Squadron was given credit for the great flyer’s death. Walter was the exception. Exuberant and slavering over his toasts, the master of Fenwyck crowed and gloated, boasting, “One Englishman was worth a squadron of Huns. Randolph will teach the bloody Boche how John Bull can fight.”
Filtering from the overcrowded hospitals, horrifying rumors about the battle in the Somme valley persisted, began to spread through the populace like influenza through the slums of the Isle of Dogs. Late in September, the liberal Manchester Guardian reported, “On the first day alone, one of every two men of the entire attacking force of 143 battalions had been a casualty; three of four in the case of officers.” Notwithstanding, Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig insisted on pressing the offensive, arguing, “These losses cannot be considered severe in view of the numbers engaged, and the length of the front attacked.” And the meat grinder continued to devour the flower of England’s manhood until the populace became numb and sickened by the horror.
Mercifully, rains came with November and the fighting bogged down. Haig bragged that a strip of land twenty miles long by six miles deep had been wrested from the enemy. But the price had been over 400,000 British casualties and nearly 200,000 French. Brenda found the numbers incomprehensible, like trying to understand distances to the stars.
There were strange doings at the War Office and Ministry of Munitions and rumors were rife of revolutionary new inventions to unlock the deadlock: a calcium arsenide powder to be scattered by shell fire that would be ingested by the enemy as dust, causing arsenic poisoning; coal dust to be fired over the German lines, then ignited to cause the type of explosions that ravaged coal mines; carborundum powder to be scattered over enemy positions to jam the mechanisms of small arms and artillery; smoke bombs fired by four-inch Stokes mortars; huge flame-throwing machines similar to the German flammenwerfer but much larger and secretly dug in and assembled close to the German positions. All of the “battle winners” except the smoke bombs and a tracked fighting vehicle called “Tank” were abandoned. There were calls in Parliament by disgruntled MPs for the resignation of Prime Minister Herbert Asquith and his liberal government.
Postcards and letters from Randolph and Lloyd continued to arrive sporadically. Randolph’s letters brought joy to Rebecca yet, at the same time, they were disturbing. Consuming hatred and a craving for vengeance permeated his sentences and the style was strangely distant, as if the writer were speaking to himself, pulling aside the drapes that hid his subconscious and baring his secret soul. He was possessed by a German, Hauptmann Bruno Hollweg, who had inherited Boelcke’s Jasta Two. His whole life force seemed to be directed at killing this man. He was given credit for shooting down the ace Max Mueller and his kills climbed to twenty-two.
Reginald Hargreaves visited often. Lancer had been repaired and moved to Portsmouth on the south coast. Although the commander could not admit it, the ship was the leader of a squadron of four destroyers assigned to the Channel fleet to intercept German raiders—usually fast destroyer sweeps aimed at sinking coastal steamers. Occasionally, daring German raiders shelled coastal towns. Fortunately, there had been a lull since Jutland. Brenda looked forward anxiously to his visits.
Early in November Brenda was standing at her French windows when Reginald’s Hillman touring phaeton charged up the drive. Nicole mirrored her mistress’s excitement and giggled while helping Brenda into a green diaphanous pale-hued tea gown of softly draped mousseline. “Magnifique, ma maitresse,” the Frenchwoman murmured as Brenda left the room.
Walking down the stairs, Brenda wondered about the handsome naval officer. Why am I so eager to see him? Does it show?
Reginald was on his way to Chatham for a meeting of destroyer commanders and could remain onl
y for a few hours. He loved the garden and they spent the afternoon under an umbrella shading a table placed at the edge of the lawn and next to lush flower beds that were still blooming despite the late season. Dorset served tea and cakes. Luckily, Walter was in London and would not return until late afternoon and the women gathered around the commander eagerly.
Immediately on seating himself, Reginald found Rodney on his lap. It was obvious to everyone the boy had adopted the young naval officer as his substitute father. Brenda felt her heart wrench as she watched her son crave for his dead father’s attention. Somehow, in his child’s mind, the boy had come to terms with his father’s absence. Although he had never been told his father was dead and had no concept of death, he knew Geoffry was gone and would never return. He rarely spoke of his father; questions about his father visibly upset his mother and grandmother. He understood this.
After Rodney’s playtime was over and Nathan had crawled through the garden chasing butterflies and grasshoppers until exhausted, the boys were taken by Bridie and Nicole to the nursery for their afternoon naps. Rebecca, also obviously tired, excused herself and retired for a brief rest. Reginald and Brenda were alone.
“Do you feel you have mourned long enough?” he began, eyes moving audaciously from her face, to her breasts, to her waist, to her hips and back again.
The man could excite her. There was no doubt about that. “What do you want, Reggie?”
“To see you alone—take you to lunch, dinner—a show.”
“You want me in bed.”
He started at her boldness, his eyes widening. “You Americans are blunt.”
“True or not?”
“Of course I want you in bed—nude, next to me.” His eyes probed hers with the intensity of lights searching for Zeppelins. “Don’t you want that, too?”
