Hornet’s Sting

by Derek Robinson

Maddegan nodded as he poked a bit of toast into the yoke of his egg, and he went on nodding as he ate it. A bright yellow drip trickled down his chin and ran out of strength before it reached the point. The replacements watched with interest; they hoped to be offered breakfast. “When you get shot,” he said helpfully, “and they ask you where you got shot, always say ‘Five miles north of Cambrai’. That’s what I did. It makes them laugh like a dingo. I’ve never heard a dingo laugh, but then neither have you, so we’re quits.”

  “Did you get the Hun that shot you?” one of them asked.

  Maddegan felt egg on his chin and tried to reach it with his tongue. “Wrong question,” he said. His tongue wasn’t long enough. He scraped at the drip with a crust of toast. Servants came in with pots of coffee and bowls of porridge, and the replacements thankfully sat down.

  One catastrophe was no reason to ground the whole squadron. Orders arrived from Wing to put every available Pup into the air. The British artillery bombardment was being threatened by a ferocious counter-battery operation. Enemy guns were hunting for British guns, guided by observers in balloons or aeroplanes who plotted the flash of British shellfire and told the German gunners where to aim. Fighters patrolled above. Archie erupted in a dirty rash, and the tunnelling of big shells through the sky created small storms that bounced the aeroplanes like unseen humped-back bridges. Very rarely, the paths of a shell and an aeroplane met exactly, and the gunners picked off the machine as cleanly as a poacher with a rook-rifle. The shell was not fused to explode at height. It merely wrecked the aircraft and sped on its way. Long before the bits reached the ground, the shell had gone on to hit its target. Or not.

  All day, Cleve-Cutler sent Pups in sections of threes to patrol the front. After such heavy losses, experience was at a premium, so Woolley and Paxton flew. Ogilvy flew. McWatters turned up with a bruise as blue as a pound of plums across his forehead. He flew; so did Andrei, his aching ribs generously plastered. Maddegan flew until his leg got so stiff that he couldn’t feel the rudder-bar. The C.O. flew. By nightfall, everyone had done at least two patrols; most had done three. It had been an exhausting day of chasing Huns and being chased by Huns, and often feeling bloody lucky to get home, unlike some. A new boy called Tucker muddled his throttle and strayed away from his formation and got shot down in flames by an opportunistic Halberstadt who sensibly saw no reason to stay and fight the two remaining Pups. Another new boy called Drinkwater shot his own propeller off and forced-landed in a field and might be intact.

  Cleve-Cutler called for a squadron party, but even as he was mixing the Hornet’s Sting, a despatch rider came from Wing. First patrol at dawn. Short party. Early bed.

  Fitters and riggers and armourers worked through the night, but only six Pups were fit for action by dawn.

  The sky was as red as the glare from a forest fire.

  “Will you look at that preposterousness?” Dando said to the padre. They were on the airfield, waiting for the flight to take off.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s profligate. Can’t your God curb himself? Bad enough we’re to have a bloody battle without Himself turning it into Italian opera.”

  “I find it rather jolly.”

  “Jolly? There’s more blood up there than you’d find in Cork slaughterhouse.”

  “Yes? It’s not a city I’m familiar with. I once had an organist who moved to Tralee, but of course he had no knowledge of slaughterhouses. Very few organists do, I imagine . . . Ah, good morning, sir. Although the good doctor here takes exception to the dawn. Too red for his taste.”

  “Mine too. Nasty piece of weather on the way. My knee’s giving me gyp. Never been the same since I hit it with a barn.”

  “How did you sleep, sir?” Dando said.

  “Like the dead.”

  It wasn’t the happiest answer, but nobody blinked. In the R.F.C., when men died they were not spoken of again; not in general conversation, that is. The convention was to behave as if nothing had happened. Death was just a different posting. Of course the tradition sometimes defeated itself. When five out of six brand-new fighters got hacked down and eight men failed to return, that was a body-blow to the squadron spirit. Ignoring it just created a very loud silence.

  The C.O. didn’t look as if he had slept well. He certainly hadn’t shaved well. He kept squinting, although the light was still soft. “What?” he said sharply.

  “I didn’t speak, sir,” Dando said. Cleve-Cutler nodded, blew his nose, cleared his throat. “Come on, come on, come on,” he said.

  They watched the Pups taxi to the end, turn into wind, and take off one by one. “Pretty little bus,” the C.O. said. “No bloody good against the new Albatros, of course. Well, I’m off to Wing. Damn great Committee of Inquiry. Bliss told me to bring my pyjamas, so you might include me in your prayers tonight.”

  “I always do,” the padre said.

  “Spud’s in command in my absence. Failing Spud, it’s Paxton. Failing Pax, it’s the cookhouse cat.” He got into his car and it left at speed.

  “Fletcher,” the padre said. “That was the organist. I haven’t thought of him in donkey’s years. Fine musician but he rejected the doctrine of Transubstantiation, so he got the sack. Went to Tralee.”

  “Hullo,” Dando said. “Hullo.”

  “The next chap was frightfully devout but he kept pulling out the wrong stops. Made a shocking din.”

  “They’re coming back,” Dando said. A white flare raced away from the leading Pup: the wash-out signal.

  Everyone landed. The pilots got out and gathered around Ogilvy. “Damn compass was duff,” he said. “They’re fitting a new one.”

  Nobody spoke. R.F.C compasses were a joke. No two compasses ever agreed, and the whirligig of combat usually left the compass spinning and useless. Today the sky was clear. Nobody needed a compass to find the Front, or to find Gazeran afterwards.

  “Better check yours, too,” Ogilvy said. “Check everything else, while we’ve got time. Better safe than sorry.” There was something strained about his speech. He sounded breathless, yet he had done nothing.

  They went back to their machines. Woolley and Paxton sat on the ground, leaning back-to-back.

  “Spud never used to be such an old woman,” Paxton said. “Duff compass, for God’s sake!”

  “Where I grew up, we only had one compass for the whole street,” Woolley said.

  Paxton half-turned his head. “After the war, old chap, feel free to ask me for employment. The estate can always use a good rat-catcher.”

  “Where I grew up, we had rats as big as Shetland ponies. I remember —”

  “Woolley!” Ogilvy called. “Your prop’s been damaged.”

  They went over, and he showed them a nick in one edge. “It was there yesterday,” Woolley said. “It’s nothing.” But Ogilvy sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Suppose it caused vibrations,” he said. While the propeller was being replaced, Ogilvy had a tyre changed on another Pup and he made the armourers check all the drums for oversized rounds. When the flight took off it was very late.

  It landed two hours later.

  As Maddegan couldn’t fly, he had been made duty officer. He couldn’t ride a bicycle either, so he authorised transport for himself. Now he told his driver to take him to the Pups.

  He found Ogilvy waving a compass in his mechanic’s face. “It’s just no good, Collins,” he said. He sounded very tired. “This is ... this is a Hun compass. You understand? A totally dishonest, hostile compass. What is going on? I’m at a loss, Collins. And this bally compass is no help whatsoever.”

  “No, sir. I’ll have it changed, sir.”

  “Splendid fellow. Splendid fellow.” Ogilvy gave him the compass and turned away, his head and shoulders slumped with the fatigue of carrying a compass. “Hullo, Dingbat,” he said wearily. Collins rolled his eyes and scuttled away. “Anything happen while we were up?” He yawned.

  “Nothing much. Three new Biffs got ferried in from Engla
nd.”

  Ogilvy straightened up. He was stiff with anxiety, but his voice was still weak. “I must see them. How many did you say? Where are they?”

  “In the hangars.”

  “Come on.” Ogilvy set off, striding heavily in his thigh-length boots. Maddegan limped after him. “This is important,” Ogilvy croaked. “Why only three? Why in the hangars?”

  “I thought it was safer.”

  Ogilvy stopped. “Why safer?”

  “Well, one of the gun crews thinks he’s found an unexploded bomb. It’s in a ditch, but ...”

  “Oh, Christ. Where?” Maddegan pointed, and Ogilvy set off in that direction. “Mustn’t forget those lousy compasses,” he muttered, and suddenly stopped. “What’s Wing got to say? When does the balloon go up?”

  Maddegan could scarcely hear the questions and he didn’t know the answers, so he said, “There’s eight replacements waiting to see you in the mess.”

  “Eight? Where from?” Now Ogilvy was wheezing; he looked intensely worried; even shocked. “What are their names? Never mind.” He turned towards the mess.

  “Look here, Spud. I have transport.” Ogilvy was silenced by this simple fact. They drove to the mess.

  The replacements, feeling much better with an English breakfast inside them, sprang to attention at the sight of Captain Ogilvy in full flying kit. The fleece-lined jacket was open and he carried goggles and helmet and muffler. Oil and grease still decorated his face.

  Spud had it all prepared in his head: Welcome to the finest squadron on the Western Front, bar none. All he produced was a cough, a long and rasping cough that did his voice no good and hurt his chest. He thumped himself on the chest, and tried to apologize. His throat wheezed. That hurt too.

  A waiter brought a chair. Maddegan sent for Dando. Dando got the ambulance.

  Half an hour later, Dando found Paxton shaving in the officer’s bathhouse and told him he was acting squadron commander.

  “Don’t be absurd, doc. I’ve never even been an acting flight commander.”

  “Well, Spud’s blown a fuse, so you’re it.” He described the symptoms.

  “Sore throat. Give him a pill.”

  “Listen, Pax. I’ve been watching Spud for days. What’s wrong is in his mind. It doesn’t want to go to war any more. So it’s stalled his engine.”

  Paxton stared at him in the mirror. “Well, that’s bloody convenient, isn’t it?” He trimmed his moustache.

  Dando watched, and wondered. They’re not normal, he thought. They divide their world into fliers and failures. You’re either eagle or eagle-shit. Wings on their breasts and sweet fresh air between their ears. “We’d better go and see Uncle,” he said. “Make it official.”

  * * *

  Brazier reduced the situation to its military essentials. Scratch Captain Ogilvy, never mind how or why. That, according to Cleve-Cutler’s orders, made Lieutenant Paxton the acting C.O. But now Paxton was standing here, chewing a corner of his moustache and looking like a vegetarian who’s won a pig in a raffle. That, too, was of military significance.

  Brazier telephoned Wing H.Q., managed to get Colonel Bliss, told him what had happened, said he simply wanted to confirm the appointment.

  “What? Not bloody likely,” Bliss said. “Captain Woolley is your senior officer, isn’t he? He gets the job. Forget all that tomfoolery about a court martial. Right now, only one thing matters.”

  “The Big Push.”

  “After that you can court-martial Woolley for wearing his knickers back-to-front for all I care. Don’t worry about Cleve-Cutler, I’ll take care of him.” He hung up. The adjutant did not. “Did you get all that, Lacey?” he asked. “Good man ... Kindly send a runner to Mr Woolley. My respects, and can he spare me a few minutes. I’m infinitely obliged to you.” Now he put the phone down. “Due to an indisposition,” he told Paxton and Dando, “the part of Acting C.O. will be played by Captain Woolley until further notice.”

  “On the accordion?” Paxton said. He felt both cheated and relieved.

  But before Woolley could arrive, Sergeant Lacey tapped on the door and announced two visitors: Captain Lightfoot from the A.P.M.’s office, and Mr Hennessy from the British embassy in Paris. Brazier waved them in. Hennessy was about forty, tall, with a face like the jack of clubs. He was dressed for the moors in a lovat tweed jacket and breeches. Lacey took his cape and deerstalker.

  “I was hoping that Major Cleve-Cutler would be here this time,” Lightfoot said.

  “Alas . . .” Brazier spread his arms. “The demands of war.”

  Lightfoot leaned towards Hennessy. “This squadron can be unexpectedly . .. what shall we say . .. volatile.”

  Dando snorted. “Volatile isn’t the half of it. Feckless is the word you’re looking for. Yesterday half of them went west.”

  “That’s quite appalling,” Lightfoot said.

  “No feck at all, at all.” Dando felt the stage Irishman coming over him, and shut up.

  “It wasn’t the best of days,” Paxton said. He stuffed his empty pipe into the corner of his mouth and gave the visitors a challenging smile.

  Hennessy uncrossed his legs, and re-crossed them the other way: a small diplomatic prompt. “Nevertheless ...” Lightfoot began, when Woolley came in. “Lacey says I’m acting C.O.,” he said. “What’s wrong with Ogilvy?”

  “He took his bucket to the well once too often,” Dando said.

  “Ah. Poor Spud.” Woolley noticed the civilian. “I know you.” His voice was flat as stale beer. “You ran the Lamb and Flag in Leeds. Buggered off with the vicar’s wife and the burial club funds.”

  Lightfoot stared, and then shifted his stare to the adjutant. Brazier busied himself with some papers. Paxton frowned at Woolley. Of them all, Hennessy was least impressed. He raised one eyebrow fractionally, then put it back.

  “This is Mr Hennessy,” Brazier said. “From our embassy in Paris. And Captain Lightfoot, who speaks for the assistant provost-marshal.”

  “Oh.” Woolley became guarded; almost shifty. “Well, I’ve gone straight ever since the Brighton stranglings. I paid my debt to society.”

  “Of course you have, sir.” Brazier winked hard at Lightfoot. “Anyway, I’m sure we’re here to discuss military matters. Eh? Is it cheese again? Or jam?”

  “Neither.” Lightfoot said. “It’s far more serious.”

  “Richthofen’s a woman,” Woolley said. “Wears a size ten girdle.” But suddenly he lost interest. He leaned against the wall and let his eyelids droop.

  Hennessy spoke. “You have two Russian pilots.”

  “One,” Brazier said. “The count. You’re two days late for the duke.”

  “Dear me.” Hennessy had a voice that was accustomed to instructing servants. “Well, that alters the situation radically.”

  “But not entirely,” Lightfoot said. “The duke was lost on active service?” Brazier nodded. “There are two assassins at large,” Lightfoot said, “and they may be unaware of that sad fact...”

  For the next ten minutes, he and Hennessy outlined a Bolshevik plot to destroy all relatives of the Tsar in the West. It was a complicated business. The conspirators might try to gain access by claiming to be journalists or Russian Orthodox priests or diplomats. They might use chloroform or cyanide or more straightforward methods of despatch. Kidnap was not impossible, Hennessy said, and described how it might be done.

  “Jesus!” Dando said. “If I didn’t know you were an embassy man, I’d swear you were in the Secret Service, whatever that is.”

  “Let me be clear why we’re here,” Lightfoot said. “It’s a matter of criminal law.” He took King’s Regulations and Army Law from his briefcase. Slips of different coloured paper marked relevant passages. “Were your Russian officers ever attacked or threatened in any way?”

  “I should have been the first to know,” the adjutant said.

  Hennessy produced photographs. “Have you ever seen these men?”

  “That one looks a tiny bit like
my batman in 1915,” the adjutant said. “He copped it in the Festubert show.”

  “They call themselves Gordov and Shtemenko, or sometimes Gouzon and Sarras, or even Gimbel and Steinbrunner. Their appearance ...” Hennessy had much to say about aliases and disguises. Brazier listened patiently, but Paxton and Dando grew restless. “In short,” Hennessy said, “this pair is not only ruthless but also cunning. And tenacious. They don’t know that Duke Nikolai is no longer here. They’ll find a way in.”

  “They may be here already,” Lightfoot said.

  “Extra precautions will be taken,” Brazier assured him.

  “This isn’t burnt cheese, captain. This is an international conspiracy. This is life and death.”

  “Oh, bollocks,” Woolley said. “These two buffoons are dead. Nikolai killed them with a Lewis gun. Uncle put the bodies into a bomb crater. A little Irishman blew them up. They came down like confetti. A French farmer got married on the spot, just to save money. If you don’t believe me I’ll tell you his name: Pierre, after his father who was also Pierre. Good enough?”

  “Excellent!” Brazier said jovially. “I especially liked the confetti.” Woolley scowled at him.

  “Count Andrei,” Hennessy said. “You say that he has survived?”

  “Heavily sedated,” Dando said. “He took a nasty knock, so he did. We’ll hear nothing from him for a week.”

  “Did Duke Nikolai leave a will?”

  “That he did,” the adjutant said. “According to Count Andrei, he left his soul to the Tsar and his boots to anyone they might fit. No takers so far.”

  “Very apt,” Lightfoot said bleakly. “Nothing much seems to fit here, does it?”

  “Ah, that’s war for you,” the doctor said. “High explosive can be terribly dislocating. Humpty-Dumpty isn’t in it, so he’s not.”

  The adjutant walked with his visitors to their car. “Just supposing your two ruffians turn up here,” he said. “What should we do with them?”

  “Shoot the blighters dead,” Hennessy said without hesitation.

  “Consider it done,” Brazier said. Lightfoot gave him an odd look, but Brazier just smiled and held the car door open. He was bored with being an adjutant. He wanted to live dangerously again. Otherwise what was the point?