Hornet’s Sting

by Derek Robinson

  * * *

  The Russians flew whenever the weather allowed, and always with an escort to give cover. A spell of easterly winds helped, and several times they chased Huns that had been blown too far west and were labouring home; always the enemy escaped.

  The next patrol was a morning show. A-Flight was gasping and freezing at nineteen thousand feet when Gerrish saw a pattern of dots drifting across white cloud about two miles below.

  The Pup was not built to be dived steeply for two miles. Jokers who tried that trick found that the Pup’s speed built until it went off the clock and the wings shuddered feverishly and occasionally broke. And pilots were not designed to fall like a stone for ten thousand feet, either. It gave them piercing ear-aches and gushing nosebleeds and wretched pains behind the eyes. So Gerrish descended cautiously, in stages. The dots grew into a formation of Pfalz single-seaters, chunky little fighters painted bright yellow and olive green. They had seen the Pups long ago. They were cruising around in a wide circle, waiting.

  There was no pattern to the fight. Gerrish gave a signal and the Pups tipped over and went down in a rush. Red and yellow tracer flickered and bent as pilots tried to track their targets, the formations sliced through each other, and now there were no formations. The sky was a tangle of aircraft, all searching and escaping, all hunting and being hunted.

  Duke Nikolai followed the flight and fired off half a drum in four very brief bursts. Every Pfalz that came within range swerved as he squeezed the trigger-grip and his tracer went racing wide. It was like trying to nail a butterfly. He hauled back the stick and the horizon fell away and the little Nieuport soared easily into a loop. His ears popped as he went over the top. The opposite horizon swung into view, and then the air battle was spread below him and he was diving again. He knew he was safe; Count Andrei was always close behind him. He picked out a sluggish-looking Pfalz, trailing smoke. It rapidly expanded into a juicy target and as he fired, something ripped the joystick from his hand and at once his Nieuport was rolling like a barrel down a rocky hill. His fingers burned as if thrashed and his brain was too rattled to think. His other hand took charge, found the stick and centred it and stopped the roll. He was sick. While he was vomiting, his hand took the opportunity to bring the nose up and make the machine level again. His brain began working, he looked around and Andrei’s Nieuport was sitting nearby. Andrei waved. The Huns had all gone, the Pups had all gone.

  He followed Andrei home, flying one-handed. His right arm was as numb as cold mutton. He used his left hand to stuff his right hand into a coat pocket, but whenever they hit some lumpy air the Nieuport strenuously bounced him about until it had worked the hand out of the pocket and then his shoulder hurt. Never before had anything hurt him like this. The pain in his fingers had been hot and bright; the fingers were on fire. The pain in his shoulder was dull but immense. It possessed all that corner of his body and in its greed it sucked strength from every other part until Nikolai felt like a hunchback being punished by his aching, lopsided hump. The air cleared, the bouncing stopped. He stuffed his useless hand back in its pocket again. The Nieuport was wandering. He kicked it until it learned to behave better.

  The field at Pepriac had a Pup standing on its nose in the middle, looking stupid.

  Andrei led him on three long circuits, each lower than the last. At the end of the third circuit Andrei eased back until he was flying alongside Nikolai. When they crossed the hedge they were thirty feet up. Nikolai cut his engine. It was the wrong thing to do, but pain was the master and with one hand he couldn’t handle the engine controls and the joystick at the same time, and he didn’t need an engine now that he was home. He kept the Nieuport fairly level, so when it dropped like a brick, both wheels hit together and it bounced high. That bang was all the encouragement his pain needed to flower. The Nieuport bounced three times more. When it ran to a stop, he was slumped sideways, out cold.

  Plug Gerrish was wiping whale-grease off his face with a filthy towel as he tramped into Doc Dando’s office. Nikolai was lying on a bed and Dando was examining the Russian’s right hand. Andrei stood nearby, pouring vodka into small medicinal glasses.

  “If you must amputate, try and leave the trigger finger,” Gerrish said. Nikolai looked up. “On second thoughts, cut his head off,” Gerrish said. “He’s never used it, he won’t miss it.”

  “Three dislocated fingers,” Dando said. “I’ve just put them back. Now I’m going to do the shoulder.” He took off his right shoe. “No point in waiting. It won’t sound any better.” He put his right foot in Nikolai’s armpit, grasped the wrist with both hands and jerked hard. Nikolai screamed. “Told you so,” Dando said. He took Gerrish’s towel and wiped his hands. “He’s good as new now. That’ll be ten guineas. No cheques, no credit, no refunds if he dies after twenty-four hours. Ah, thanks.” Andrei was handing around the vodka.

  “You’re a lucky Russian,” Gerrish said to Nikolai. “A bullet bent your joystick. It looks as if it’s got brewer’s droop.”

  Nikolai said a word in Russian. Dando looked inquiringly at Andrei.

  “Better you don’t know,” Andrei said.

  “In fact you’re a very lucky Russian,” Gerrish said. “Just before someone scuppered you, you scuppered a Hun. You can add one Pfalz to your score. He was a flamer, if it matters. Does it matter?”

  Nikolai swallowed his vodka and held his glass out for more. “Not in Imperial Russian Air Force,” he said faintly.

  “God’s teeth! A joke! A palpable joke,” Gerrish said. “The peasants have permission to laugh. When will he be fit to fly?” he asked Dando.

  “Tomorrow,” Nikolai whispered, and drank more vodka.

  “Don’t ask me,” Dando said, “I’m just a bloody tradesman, one step above an undertaker’s mate, that’s me, what do I know?” He snatched the bottle from Andrei and stamped out.

  “Pay him no heed,” Gerrish said. “Doctors never win a war. It makes them moody.”

  * * *

  The Pup standing on its nose had belonged to a pilot called Avery. He had been shot through the foot, a very messy wound because the bullet was tumbling when it struck. Simply nursing the Pup home and getting it to touch down was a triumph of determination, but then he muddled the controls. He meant to throttle back; instead he made the engine race. So the tail came up and the nose went down. The propeller attacked the turf, and the next thing Avery knew was he was being loaded into an ambulance, and Charles Dash was chatting to the driver. “... awfully nice girls at Beauquesne,” he was saying.

  “Not any longer, I’m afraid,” the girl driver said. “They’ve moved on.”

  “I must say, I think you F.A.N.Y. girls are absolutely splendid.”

  She laughed. “It’s the uniform. Irresistible.”

  “Everyone at Beauquesne was awfully friendly.”

  “Well ... that’s nice.”

  “I can’t tell you how awfully friendly everyone was. I never knew girls could be so ... friendly. Where are they now, d’you know?”

  There was a pause. Then she said, flatly: “Look. Life’s too short. Honestly. Forget them. They could be anywhere.”

  Avery made an effort to speak, but all that came out was a croak. Dash’s face appeared, only inches away and upside-down. “Don’t worry about a thing, old chap. It’s just your foot,” he said. “Nothing serious. Besides, you’ve always got another foot, haven’t you?” His breath smelt of peppermint. He disappeared. The engine was started, and the ambulance vibrated in a way that Avery found alarming. Dash’s face reappeared. “You scored a flamer. Did you know? They’ve given it to Nikolai, but everyone hit it.” The ambulance began to move. Avery had a sudden swamping fear: they were leaving his foot behind, someone had cut it off. Again he tried to speak, but he heard himself whimper instead. Dash said, “One-eighth of a Pfalz, that’s your share. You get the wheels, the oil tank and the gunner’s left elbow. Lucky boy! Cheerio.”

  * * *

  Duke Nikolai declared himself fit to
fly, and to prove it he was now playing bad ragtime on the mess piano.

  Plug Gerrish was dozing in an armchair when McWatters came and sat next to him. “Four more kills and he’s an ace,” he said.

  “Don’t care,” Gerrish mumbled. “I’m off-duty ... Buggering bastard shit!” he roared. Captain Crabtree had popped a toy balloon behind his head, and Gerrish had almost fallen out of his chair.

  “Sorry,” Crabtree said mildly. “Loud, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re a maniac. You’re ...” Gerrish realised that a dozen pilots were watching, and he swallowed the obscenity. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. His knee hurt.

  “Spud said it would test your reflexes, didn’t you, Spud?”

  “No,” Ogilvy said.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t flatten you,” Gerrish said. He could feel the pulse in his neck pounding like running feet.

  “Spud’s got some more balloons. D’you want one?”

  “No I haven’t,” Ogilvy said. “Come on, Plug, we need to talk.”

  They went out. The buzz of conversation began again. “Poor old Plug,” Simms said. “If he was my hunter I’d have him put down. Send the remains to the glue factory. We need lots of glue in wartime.”

  “What for?” Heeley asked.

  “Plans of attack are constantly coming unstuck,” McWatters said. “Rather like Humpty-Dumpty.”

  “At least Plug jumped when that balloon went bang,” Munday said. “You didn’t even blink. I’d sooner have a skipper who’s jumpy than someone carved out of lard.” After that the talk deteriorated.

  The flight commanders took a stroll and talked about patrols, tactics, Huns, Russians and Cleve-Cutler.

  They agreed that the C.O. had his orders from Wing and it was a waste of time to challenge them. There was no alternative to Deep Offensive Patrols. The Pup hadn’t enough muscle to beat the latest Hun machines, but nothing could be done about that. Nor about the Hindenburg Line, which was lousy with Archie. The Archie was getting worse, too: more big guns, which forced the Pups up higher and higher, where the weather was usually worse and it was always a bloody sight colder. Crabtree began talking about rumours of electrically heated flying-suits in the German Air Force, when Gerrish interrupted.

  “What gets on my left tit is having to drum up trade for that snotty little Russian.”

  “I find him rather plucky,” Crabtree said. “Also astonishingly stupid.”

  “He’s got courage coming out of both ears,” Ogilvy said. “That’s why he never listens.”

  “Never learns, either,” Gerrish said. “My lads are fed up with poncing for foreigners. So am I.”

  They had reached the part of the airfield known as Pocock’s Patch. Long ago, a blazing pond of petrol had left the earth charred black, with Pocock cremated in the middle. Now, for the first time, his Patch was blurred by bright new grass. The wind had lost its bite. Blue sky slid behind white cloud. A few more weeks of this and the generals would feel it was safe to have a really big battle.

  “Can I borrow Dingbat?” Crabtree asked. His flight was due to go on patrol.

  “Take him,” Gerrish said. “My granny flies better than him, and she’s five years dead.”

  Crabtree told Maddegan to stay near the Russians, and to shoot at anything Nikolai shot at. The Australian said that he found it hard to stay near anyone and as for shooting, everything whizzed about so fast... “Do your best,” Crabtree said.

  The flight had a busy afternoon.

  Cloud clogged the sky. They stumbled upon a fight – Aviatik two-seaters against SE5s who were escorting a pair of RE8s, probably coming back from a photographic job–but after some long-range gunplay the Aviatiks dived into cover. They were outnumbered; very sensibly they vanished. The Pups moved on. They had a brisk scrap with five smart-looking Fokker scouts, all green and gold, all very aggressive. Maddegan soon lost sight of the Nieuport he was supposed to be shadowing. He made up for it by charging at the enemy and firing at every image that leaped across his vision. He fired too late, because his Pup was rolling and skidding and falling and his tracer was always bending the wrong way. The Fokkers quit and flew home at a speed the Pups could never match. And then, twenty minutes later, it happened all over again, except the Fokkers were silver-grey with scarlet zigzags down the fuselage, and this time Maddegan plunged into the battle without bothering about Nikolai. He fired his second burst when a Fokker turned on him, rushed at him, swamped his vision and God alone knew how they missed collision. But in a thin slice of time he saw his bullets rip across the enemy cockpit, he saw the pilot’s arms thrown high, and he tasted blood. He tasted blood because, in the fear of collision, he had bitten his lip.

  * * *

  “Two Huns?” Cleve-Cutler said. “Definitely two? Not possibly, or probably?”

  “Definitely two Huns,” Crabtree said. “Absolutely positively utterly certainly definitely. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  “And Duke Nikolai got them both?”

  “Splendid shooting.” Crabtree turned aside and spat. He was still in flying kit, and sweat washed whale-grease into his mouth. “The whole flight is full of admiration, sir.” He spat again.

  Cleve-Cutler looked hard at Crabtree’s glistening, deep-lined, empty face. It was as blank as his voice. He looked away. The last of the Pups was landing. “Two short,” he said.

  “Grant’s engine blew. Forced landing, our side of the Lines. Hooper’s gone for good. Tailplane got shot off. Fell like a brick.”

  “Hooper ... Tall thin lad?”

  “No, that’s Cooper, A-Flight. Hooper had big ears. He replaced Latham.”

  Cleve-Cutler nodded. Latham was just a name. “Time for a squadron thrash, don’t you think? Celebrate your Huns with copious quantities of Hornet’s Sting? Yes. Big party tonight.”

  Maddegan was always the last to land. He was excited, came in too fast, needed all the field; still, he didn’t break the Pup. His mechanics called out: “Any luck, sir?”

  “Doomed the bastard!” That delighted them. He said it again, more loudly. “Doomed the bastard!” They cheered.

  He trudged towards the flight hut, peeling off his flying gear. He was hot but happy. As his ears cleared he heard birdsong. Men waved and applauded, not because a kill was such a great achievement but because his happiness pleased them.

  Snow, the Canadian, came out of the flight hut. “I doomed the bastard,” Maddegan said.

  “No, you didn’t.” Snow stopped him. “The Russian, Nikolai, he got two Huns.” He spoke softly. “Nobody else got anything. Nik got two Huns, all on his own. Understand?”

  “Aw, heck. This isn’t fair,” Maddegan grumbled.

  “Sure. Now be a brave boy, and smile for mommy, and go in there and congratulate the son of a bitch. Skipper’s orders.”

  Maddegan went in. Count Andrei was pouring vodka into chipped mugs. The pilots were standing around with bribed smiles on their faces. Duke Nikolai was carefully wiping grease from his face. “Hey!” Maddegan said. Nikolai hid behind the towel and peeped over the top. “How about you?” Maddegan cried. “Two Huns!” He hugged him. Nikolai was a good head shorter, and Maddegan found himself looking at Crabtree. “That’ll do, Dingbat,” Crabtree murmured. “You’re in England, remember.”

  Vodka for everyone.

  “A toast,” Crabtree said. “The duke’s two Fokkers!”

  “Albatros is better,” Nikolai said. But he drank.

  Cleve-Cutler was walking to the mess when he changed his mind and went to the orderly room instead. “Sergeant Lacey,” he said. “Kindly ask the adjutant to put Duke Nikolai in for the M.C.”

  “The citation has already been drafted, sir.”

  Cleve-Cutler leaned over the desk and swivelled his head. Lacey had been making out a cheque to Selfridges for fifteen guineas. The bank was Coutts. “What’s this all about?”

  “For a new piano, sir. The late Lieutenant the Honourable Jeremy Lloyd-Perkins has kindly donated one to the mess.”
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  “We already have a piano.”

  “True, sir. But for how long?”

  * * *

  Hornet’s Sting was invented by Cleve-Cutler to be drunk by the squadron on special occasions: some sad, some not. There was no fixed formula. He let whim and inspiration guide him as he emptied bottles into a galvanised hipbath. Brandy and champagne made a good base, followed by port, gin, apple juice, fresh ground pepper, more champagne, a couple of bottles of Guinness, some rum, a blast of soda water for fizz, a splash of Benedictine for good luck. Count Andrei donated two bottles of vodka. “Just what we need to encourage the brandy,” Cleve-Cutler said. He tipped them both in. “What’s that green stuff?” he said. “Never mind, I like green, let’s have some.” He tasted the mix. “Needs aniseed,” he declared. “And claret! Lots of claret.”

  It was a typical mess-night party. There were guests: pilots from a nearby Pup squadron; some Cameron Highlanders, in camp at Pepriac; and a passing major-general whose car had hit a pothole, broken an axle and stopped passing. By a tradition dating back several months, dinner was served at tables arranged in a circle and each man ate from his neighbour’s plate. By the same tradition, roast potatoes were always thrown, never eaten. “You can always tell the cricketers,” Ogilvy said to a Cameron Highlander. “They eat with one hand and field with the other.” He forked a carrot and, at the same time, caught a roast potato as it whizzed by. “See?”

  “I detest cricket,” the Scot said amiably.

  “Well, I don’t care for potatoes.” Ogilvy flung it at Munday and hit Dash instead.

  “In fact, all games are a waste of time,” the Scot said.

  “No, no, no. Take footer,” Simms said. “Christmas 1914. British troops and Huns playing footer in no-man’s-land. Damned sporting!”

  “Bunkum,” McWatters said. “Bloke I knew was there. He said they cheated disgracefully.” He threw his potato and winged a waiter.

  “That’s your Prussians for you,” Ogilvy said. “I wouldn’t trust them at ping-pong.”