Hornet’s Sting

by Derek Robinson

  “It’s not Christian,” McWatters said. “I wouldn’t have joined up if I’d known there was cheating involved. What’s going on, padre?”

  “Not for me to say, old chap. Just a simple cleric, me. I leave the tricky stuff to the bishops.”

  “My dad was a bishop,” Woolley remarked. “Very hard on the knees, he said.”

  “Well, prayer often involves self-denial.”

  “That wasn’t prayer. That was rescuing fallen women in Huddersfield. When you’re a bishop in Huddersfield, you can’t turn a corner without tripping over a fallen woman.”

  “How distressing. Would anyone like to play ping-pong?”

  “Weak ankles,” Woolley said. “That’s what causes their downfall.”

  Out of earshot of the group, the adjutant said gruffly, “I’ve nothing against an honest joke, but there’s no place in war for cynicism. For God’s sake, man, think what effect your remarks have on others.”

  “My dear chap.” Crabtree plucked a grey hair from the adjutant’s lapel. “I had no idea I caused you such distress. You should have spoken sooner.”

  “I did, damn it.”

  “The damage is done now, of course.” He found another hair. “You must be brave, Uncle. Can you last out? It’s only for a few more days.” He patted Brazier on the arm and walked away. “Be not dismayed!” he called back.

  “Lunatic,” Brazier said.

  Crabtree waved a friendly arm. “My pleasure.”

  Earthquake Strength 7:

  Difficult to stand. Furniture broken.

  The Biff crews had a keener appetite for training now that the opening of the bombardment meant the Big Push was near. Cleve-Cutler felt the strain of waiting for action fall away. He had exhausted his capacity for anxiety and mistrust. Optimism flooded in. It was time for another mess-night party, time for a bathtub of Hornet’s Sting.

  Heeley knocked back a glass of the mixture. It rushed down his throat like friendly lava. “Christ!” he said. His voice was strangely husky and virile; he sounded ten years older. The drink hit his stomach and the happy uproar of the party faded and twisted in his ears, and then surged back. “God speed the plough!” he said, just to enjoy his new voice.

  “Plough be damned. Send for the fire brigade.” The other voice, strong and plummy, came from behind him. “What the deuce is in this drink? Apart from gunpowder and Brasso, that is.”

  Heeley turned and saw a tall man with a big face and a chest fit for an opera singer. He was over thirty, balding, and he wore the uniform of the Blues. Heeley squared his shoulders and tried to look intelligent in the presence of a staff officer. “The formula’s a military secret, sir,” he said. The man blinked, and twitched his nose. Heeley looked again, and saw he was only a lieutenant. Wearing wings. For the love of Mike, he thought. We’re not that hard up, are we? “Sorry,” he said. “This stuff turns you blind. Heeley.”

  “Savage.” They shook hands. “Just arrived. Are we celebrating something?”

  “Well, there’s going to be a battle.” Heeley had never met such an elderly new pilot. “You must be Dufee’s replacement.”

  “Probably. What happened to Mr Dufee?”

  Heeley thought, briefly. “Better you don’t ask,” he said. “Let’s find the Old Man.”

  Cleve-Cutler was impressed by Savage. Most replacements said yes, sir and no, sir and were happy to walk away. Savage enjoyed a chat. From time to time he hooked a thumb in his tunic pocket and surveyed the crowd of drinkers. He might have been in his club in Pall Mall. The C.O. asked him where he had come from.

  “Westminster. I was one of the bright young men who made Lloyd George sound credible. Frightful hours. One scarcely slept.”

  The C.O. struggled to decipher this reply. “And before that?”

  “Well, of course, I volunteered in ’14 but the army turned up its nose when it found I had flat feet and couldn’t ride a horse, so I made myself useful in the House, and eventually L.G. noticed me. I drafted his speeches, corrected his spelling, that sort of thing. Educated at an elementary school, did you know? Yes. Can’t spell for toffee. Probably can’t spell toffee, if truth be known.”

  “So you were an M.P.”

  “Still am. Left the government when Lloyd George tried to pin the blame for Gallipoli on poor old Kitchener.” Savage shook his head. “Not cricket.”

  “But surely ... Kitchener was War Minister at the time, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. But he’s dead. Went down with the Hampshire last year. L.G. blamed a man who couldn’t answer back. Resignation same day. Your war may be a bit noisy, but it’s not such a racket as politics.”

  “That’s nice to know.” The C.O. had to raise his voice, Hornet’s Sting was having its usual effect. “I’ll put you in A-Flight. Come and meet Captain Gerrish.”

  Heeley found himself next to McWatters. “For five francs,” he said, “I’ll tell you how to get out of a bad spin.”

  “Don’t be absurd, lad. You couldn’t get out of a revolving door.”

  “Captain Woolley told me how.”

  “Ah, that’s different. I haven’t got five francs, but I’ll owe you ten. And I’ll make you a lieutenant in Nicky’s Imperial Russian Air Force.”

  “He’s already offered me a captaincy.”

  Andrei, drifting by, overheard this. “Only a captain? Simms is to be a colonel. Paxton won’t consider anything below major-general. Woolley wants to be an admiral and fly seaplanes.” He wandered on.

  “All right, how does this anti-spin idea work?” McWatters asked.

  “Well, the important thing ...” Heeley’s brain was fuddled. “I’ll try and remember.”

  Cleve-Cutler took Gerrish and the adjutant into a quiet corner and discussed the arrival of Lieutenant Savage, M.P. “He could be an asset to this squadron,” Gerrish said. “He’s been in Government. He knows which wires to pull.”

  “Exactly!” the C.O. said, “Why have we only got six Biffs? Why not twelve? Chaps like Savage can open doors.”

  “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Brazier said. “By the way I can’t make a case for court-martialling Captain Woolley, sir.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “No real offence committed.”

  “Then invent one!” Cleve-Cutler said jovially. “Get the son of a bitch off my squadron. Buck up, Uncle. Put some grease on your squeak!” He stamped away.

  The racket of the party subsided for a moment, and the rumble of the barrage filled the space. “This had better be a bloody good battle,” Brazier said, “or that man is liable to take off all his clothes and dance in the moonlight.”

  As the squadron went in for dinner, McWatters gave Heeley five francs. “Dingbat owed it to me,” he said. “Now we’re all square.”

  “You promised me ten.”

  McWatters sniffed. “Gentlemen don’t haggle, Heeley, especially in the mess. Do up your flies, old chap. This isn’t The Gay Hussars.” By the time Heeley had found that none of his buttons was undone, McWatters had vanished into the crowd.

  Maddegan, as one of the newest pilots, sat next to Savage. During the soup, Maddegan advised him about the rituals of mess-night. “You throw the bread rolls with your left hand. See?” He demonstrated. “That was Munday I hit. Nice bloke. Now later, you throw the roast potatoes with your right hand. And when the skipper gives the toast, Hornet’s Sting, you get both feet off the ground. Left and right.”

  “My goodness,” Savage said. “Such a lot to learn.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll write it down for you.” He searched his pockets and found a piece of paper. It was covered with writing. He turned the paper one way and twisted his head the other, looking for the beginning. A bread roll bounced off his head. “Doomed you, Dingbat!” Munday shouted. Maddegan ignored him. “Bet you don’t know how to get out of a spin,” he said.

  “My instructor recommended prayer,” Savage said.

  “See that chap? Face like a dead dingo? That’s Woolley. He told Heeley.�
�� Maddegan waved the paper. “All down here! Yours for ten francs.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “Cost me fifteen.”

  Cleve-Cutler banged the table. “Gentlemen! The squadron toast.” Loud scraping and scuffling as they stood on their chairs. “Hornet’s Sting!” they roared, and drank to the dregs. Getting down was harder. A few fell. Waiters hurried to refill the glasses. “Bloody good grog,” Maddegan said. “What were we talking about?” His fingers were wet, and some of the ink had begun to run.

  * * *

  Next morning the day was bright, with high cloud and a frisky wind, sometimes soft, sometimes gusting. The barrage kept up its drum-roll in the east. Duke Nikolai refused to get out of bed. “Is big thunder,” he told his servant. “Is bad storm.”

  “Is bad hangover,” Andrei said. “Is little-boy-talk.” Nikolai hid his head. Andrei got a fire bucket and emptied it over him. Nikolai whimpered. Andrei tipped him out of bed. Still he lay, wrapped in sodden blankets. “See this,” Andrei said to the servant. “This is breeding. It breeds stupidity and vanity and greed.” He ripped the blankets away and kicked the naked Nikolai until he stood up. Andrei put the upside-down bucket on Nikolai’s head and prodded him through the door. “Bathhouse,” he told the servant. “He shaves himself. If he cries, hit him.”

  Simms was strolling by. “Good Lord. What has he done to deserve this?”

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

  The flight commanders had everyone kitted-out and ready by 9 o’clock. Six Biffs and six Pups would continue training. The spare Pups would patrol between Gazeran and the Lines. That left Simon Savage.

  “Go up and fly round and round the field,” Gerrish told him. “Don’t go near the Lines. If you see a Hun, run away. Just practise the simple things. Get to know the landmarks. No stunts. If you get lost, find an aerodrome, any aerodrome. See me this afternoon.”

  When everyone else had gone, Savage climbed into the oldest Pup. Fifteen minutes later he was buzzing along on top of a dazzlingly white mattress of cloud in a clean and empty world topped with a dome of blue that nobody whose feet were in the mud could ever see or understand. This was sheer pleasure. Soon he lost a thousand feet and got to work with his map, identifying the woods and rivers and roads within a couple of miles of Gazeran. Far to the east, a thin fog of smoke hung over a flickering line of gun flashes. Savage turned away and felt the gusting westerly drag down the Pup’s speed. The cloud was more broken now, and helped by the wind it went racing past the rocking wingtips.

  Now the thrill of flight seized him and he laughed at the adventure of it all; he hadn’t been so excited since he first sped downhill on a bicycle. The world was wonderful. Next moment the world was upside-down. From nowhere another machine had fallen on him. A bored Camel pilot, doing a routine air test, bounced this wandering Pup for fun and went on his way. Savage had looked up, glimpsed the Camel head-on, heard the shout of its engine, and slammed the stick one way and the rudder the other. The Pup tried to obey conflicting orders: half-rolled and skidded at the same time.

  Bad luck sent an air pocket along. The propeller raced but the Pup fell. It hit the bottom of the pocket and Savage bit his tongue. The pain made him jerk the stick. The Pup stalled and fell, spinning like a child’s top. Despite the whirl and the shock and the dizziness, Savage was still in control of himself He knew what to do. He did it and the Pup went on spinning, until it hit a field with a bang that stopped men talking a mile away.

  * * *

  “The impact killed him,” the doctor said. “The fire was irrelevant.”

  “Fat bloody consolation that is,” the C.O. said.

  They were in his office, with the flight commanders. The hut had been hastily built in 1914 and it had suffered three years of baking summers and freezing winters. The putty had cracked and shrunk in its windows, and now the glass rattled like a child about to earn a thick ear.

  “I told him not to do anything flashy,” Gerrish said. “Just go round and round.”

  “Well, he did that,” Crabtree said. “But not in the recommended manner.”

  Cleve-Cutler hunched over his desk and flicked a pencil so that it spun. He was still making it spin when the adjutant came in.

  “I’ve been packing up Savage’s things, sir,” he said. “I found this letter, to his parents. He didn’t have time to finish it, I suppose.”

  Cleve-Cutler read it. “Sodding buggering hell,” he said. He told the flight commanders to leave. He sent for Woolley.

  While he waited, he rolled the letter into a tight spill and scratched his head with it.

  “Hard to believe,” Brazier said.

  “Fellow’s a blackguard,” Cleve-Cutler said After that there was silence.

  Woolley arrived and saluted. Brazier gave him six out of ten for the salute.

  Cleve-Cutler handed Woolley the letter. “From the late Lieutenant Savage to his parents. Read the lines I’ve marked. Aloud.”

  Woolley skimmed through the passage, and grunted in surprise. He said: “This squadron is a jolly lot. They wouldn’t do for the Blues, but the Flying Corps is very unstuffy. Lots of leg-pulling and practical-joking. The only thing taken seriously is the air war. There are expert pilots here whose brains I hope to pick. A chap called Woolley knows the secret of getting out of a spin and has very generously revealed it, for ten francs! I coughed up, and had it explained to me. Apparently the trick is to tip the aeroplane on its side so the rudder becomes the tailplane and ...”

  The letter stopped there.

  “I’ve known some selfish bastards in the Corps,” Cleve-Cutler said, “but I’ve never met such a greedy piece of shit as you.”

  “This makes no sense,” Woolley said.

  “Oh, it’s worse than that. It’s trash. You sold a fellow pilot trashy advice, and it killed him.”

  “I never met Savage.”

  “Savage met you,” Brazier said. “He says so.”

  “Heeley came to me. Not Savage – Heeley. He asked me how to get out of a spin and —”

  “How much did you screw out of him?” the C.O. asked.

  “Oh... twenty-five francs. It was a joke. He said I was mercenary, so I asked him what his life was worth. The twenty-five francs was a joke.”

  “What a comedian you are, Woolley. You shoot Dufee in the leg: most amusing. You let an Albatros wipe out five Pups: glorious fun. And now you coach a new boy on how to kill himself: utterly hilarious. You got good value for your twenty-five-franc joke, didn’t you?”

  Woolley looked into Cleve-Cutler’s furious eyes, and knew that nothing he said would help him.

  “You’re confined to quarters,” the C.O. said. “Don’t talk to my pilots. Don’t fly. Don’t fire a weapon. Don’t give orders. Just sit on your greedy, stupid, incompetent arse while I arrange for you to spend the rest of the war cleaning the filthiest latrines the assistant provost-marshal can find. Get out.”

  * * *

  March had become April and spring became pleasant. Blossom foamed in the trees; cows emerged from winter quarters to graze the bright new grass. Sometimes pilots lounged in deck chairs facing the sun. There was talk of tennis, even of cricket.

  The guns rumbled without pause, night and day, but now it was like living near a railway line: nobody noticed the noise any more. Troops were always on the move, flooding eastward. They could be heard singing or whistling on the march. The sound was irrelevant to the life of the squadron. Infantry were a different species. Once, when the music of a military band drifted across the aerodrome, Maddegan tried to hum the tune. “What regiment’s that?” he asked.

  “Worcesters,” Ogilvy said. “Very saucy lot.”

  He was making an effort to sound bright and confident because he knew that his nervous uncertainty had become obvious. Jokes about a never-ending war had long since ceased being funny to him. Too many friends were dead. Ogilvy wasn’t afraid to die, in fact he expected to die; but a good reason for dying would make life easie
r.

  Woolley was confined to his quarters. He took his meals in the mess, but he sat separately and spoke to nobody. He went back to his hut and learned to play the accordion. Sergeant Lacey had got this for him in exchange for his saxophone, which Woolley said needed a complete re-bore and fresh plugs.

  Late in the afternoon, Ogilvy went to have a bath and found Woolley already lying in the next tub. For a while they soaked in silence. Then Ogilvy said, “Wing H.Q. is very peeved at us for losing Savage. We had to send the coffin home.” Ogilvy licked sweat from his upper lip. “More sandbags than Savage inside.”

  “There’s no great mystery about getting out of a bad spin,” Woolley said. “I’d be happy to tell you, now, but I’m not allowed to speak to anyone.”

  “Your trouble is you think you can stroll in here and tell us all our business.”

  Woolley ducked his head and came up gasping. “So I’m not even allowed to tell you what’s wrong with your Biffs.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. You haven’t even flown one.”

  “I’ve done mock combats.”

  “Which the Biffs always win.”

  “That’s true. It works all right in practice. But will it work in theory?” He sucked his teeth. “Just a hunch. I could be wrong.”

  “So far, your hunches have cost us one man killed, one maimed, and six Pups destroyed. Right now, I wouldn’t trust you to count the spoons.”

  “Well, you’d be making a big mistake there.” Woolley stretched, and the bathwater surged. “At my last squadron I got Mentioned in Despatches for spoon-counting. Under enemy fire, we were, but I never lost count. The colonel called out, ‘How many spoons left, Woolley?’ and quick as a flash —”

  “Shut up,” Ogilvy said. “Just ... shut up.”

  * * *

  Brazier strolled across to the anteroom for a long whisky-soda before dinner. He was warming his backside at a spot near the fireplace, and explaining the difference between a Minenwerfer and a whizzbang, when a servant approached him and said that the barrage had stopped.