Hornet’s Sting

by Derek Robinson

  The next map showed lakes and rivers and blotched streams of blue. “This is the swamp map after seven days of bombardment,” he said. Swamp covered so much of the planned battlefield that there were gasps of laughter. “I know,” Kerr-Scott said. “But wait. There is more to come. Here is yesterday’s swamp map, after ten days of bombardment.” There were a few chuckles but they quickly died. The map showed scarcely any dry ground in front of the British Lines. Almost everywhere was blue; almost everywhere was bog. This was the ground the P.B.I. would be expected to take.

  “We’ve also made a raised map, out of plasticine,” Kerr-Scott said. “It might give you a better idea of what the area looks like from the air.”

  The crews strolled over to the raised map. Cleve-Cutler stayed to talk. “I take it our lords and masters know about all this, sir,” he said.

  “Yes and no. We sent copies of the swamp maps to G.H.Q. Yesterday we received orders to discontinue the practice.”

  Cleve-Cutler nodded. “A reasonable request. If you discontinue making maps, perhaps the gunners will discontinue making swamps.”

  “That’s a pretty thought. But look here: we mustn’t be too hard on G.H.Q. We’d probably do the same, if we were in their shoes.”

  Cleve-Cutler was startled. “Ignore all this, sir? Surely not.”

  “Yes, we would, old chap. How many rounds have our guns fired, already? Two million?” It wasn’t an argument; Kerr-Scott’s voice was gentle. “If you shoot off two million shells at the enemy and then you don’t attack him, he’s won a victory, hasn’t he? The important thing to remember about G.H.Q.’s battle plans is that they have no reverse gear. Unlike my tanks.”

  Cleve-Cutler wanted to ask if the tanks would reverse out of the swamp; but he was only a major, and such a question might be tactless; so he said nothing.

  “Please thank the pilots who took these photographs, if you have a chance,” Kerr-Scott said. “Very brave men.”

  But the photographs are wasted, Cleve-Cutler thought. “I’ll try,” he said.

  The crews filed out of the warehouse and climbed onto the transport.

  “Not quite what I expected,” Major Champion said. “Still, food for thought. Eh?”

  “Perhaps the rain will hold off,” Cleve-Cutler said. “Perhaps the sun will bake the bog and save our bacon.”

  “It never has yet, so it’s certainly overdue.”

  The squadron flew back to Gazeran.

  They took off and landed by flights.

  Paxton’s was the last flight to land, and Mackenzie was the last in the circuit. This meant that when Paxton touched down, Mackenzie was still half a mile away, three hundred feet up, and edging closer to the Biff in front.

  It was flown by Drinkwater. He was a serious young man who always did his cockpit checks twice and who never forgot his first instructor’s warning that most accidents happened during take-off or landing. He was scanning the aerodrome, looking for wrecks or ambulances or other obstructions, when something alarmed his peripheral vision, and he glanced left and saw the right wingtips of Mackenzie’s Biff overlap his own left wingtips and create a six-inch sandwich.

  Drinkwater’s instinct was to escape to the right. But any bank or sideslip might cause the machines to touch. The thought frightened Drinkwater and he flew absolutely straight and level. He risked a look at Mackenzie. The man was without helmet or goggles and he was grinning. Now the pairs of wingtips were separated, but only because Mackenzie had let his Biff drift back a little and wander even further to the right. His propeller arc was only eight or ten feet from Drinkwater’s wings. Both machines were shaking and bouncing in the combined turbulence. By now Drinkwater was so frightened that he did not think; he just whacked the throttle open and climbed. His mouth was dry and no matter how hard he swallowed, it refused to summon up spit. He looked down. Mackenzie, hair blowing in the wind, waved.

  By the time Drinkwater had circled and lost height and lined up another approach, Mackenzie had landed.

  Drinkwater got down safely. He spoke briefly with his gunner. They agreed Mackenzie had been insanely stupid; that left nothing more to be said.

  When they entered the flight hut Mackenzie was there alone, sitting on the table, swinging his legs. He was obviously waiting for them. Drinkwater hung up his flying gear and gave Mackenzie time to apologise. His gunner busied himself and kept his mouth shut. Mackenzie combed his hair. The gunner got bored. He wanted his tea. He waved a hand and left, briskly.

  Still Mackenzie was silent.

  “I don’t know why you’re here,” Drinkwater said. “You needn’t be afraid that I shall report you to Paxton.”

  “You poor fish. You’re not brave enough to report me to the man in the moon.” There was a lot of vigour in Mackenzie’s voice, and a little contempt. “You hate taking risks. You shouldn’t be flying a fighter. You should be driving a tram.”

  “Awfully kind of you to care what I do.”

  “Do? You don’t do a damn thing. You play safe. No risks! That’ll get you nowhere except the grave. What are they going to say about you? Here lies young Drinkwater ... um ... he nearly took a chance once, but then he funked it.”

  “Look: that idiocy of yours upstairs,” Drinkwater said harshly. “I don’t care what you do to me, but you nearly killed both our gunners. That’s intolerable.”

  Mackenzie jumped down from the table and strode over to him and punched him in the belly. Drinkwater was winded and sank to his knees, wheezing. “You swine,” he whispered.

  “Well, you said you didn’t care what I did to you.”

  After a while, Drinkwater staggered to his feet. At once Mackenzie tripped him and he fell on his rump.

  “I knew a very nice chap at school who said you should never kick a man when he’s down,” Mackenzie said. He kicked Drinkwater in the ribs. “Personally, I’ve always thought it was the best time to kick him.” He put his cap on and went out.

  * * *

  The C.O. had got out of his flying kit and was heading for the mess and a cup of Earl Grey, when he saw the adjutant trotting towards him. This was a signal in itself: in Uncle’s army, officers never ran, except when playing games or leading an attack. Then the C.O. saw two men in civilian clothes, and he felt a harsh tightening of his chest. Civilians always brought trouble. “If they’re from the Paris embassy, I won’t see them,” he said.

  “They’re not.”

  “Russian embassy? Brazilian embassy? Daily Mail? It’s been a foul day, Uncle. You look after them.”

  “They’re Americans. Bliss said we must be nice to them. He was on the phone. Be charming, he said.”

  “What do they want?”

  “They seem to be looking for the secret of success.”

  “Should have stayed at home, then. Come on, we’ll pour Scotch into them. Perhaps we’ll win a goldfish in a jam jar.”

  The Americans wore dark suits and Homburg hats. They stood near the biggest Buick the C.O. had ever seen. Brazier made the introductions. Mr J. J. Dabinett was tall and thin and cheerful. Mr Henry Klagsburn was stocky, and when he shook hands he looked hard at Cleve-Cutler as if memorising his face. Both men were clean-shaven and about thirty years old. “How can I help you?” the C.O. said.

  “Sir, we’re here to sell the war to America,” Dabinett said.

  “You should have come three years ago. It was brand spanking new then. It’s got a bit shop-soiled now, a bit tattered and torn. Been left out in the rain too long.” Cleve-Cutler remembered that he was supposed to be frightfully nice. Sod it. Too late now. Like the Yanks.

  “That’s exactly why we’re here, sir,” Dabinett said.

  He spoke quickly and clearly. A group of Chicago businessmen, all millionaires, were very concerned about the indifference, the apathy of many Americans towards the war in Europe. Enthusiasm was a weapon as important as any gun. So they had sent Dabinett, who was a journalist, and Klagsburn, a cameraman, to make a film about the war to be shown in the U.S. and thus boos
t morale there. For the past month they had been all over the Western Front, searching for suitable material.

  “Seen Verdun?” Cleve-Cutler asked.

  “Yes. Impressive but ... not encouraging.”

  “The Boche say they had a quarter of a million casualties at Verdun. Same for the French, probably. Only five miles wide, you know. Five miles of battle, half a million dead or wounded, and stalemate.”

  “We can’t find what we’re looking for in the French Army, sir.”

  “Neither can the French Army, Mr Dabinett.”

  Pessimism made Brazier restless. “I think you’ll find the British Army is made of sterner stuff. Listen to those guns. We’ll blast the Boche out of Belgium, you’ll see.”

  “We saw,” Klagsburn said. “Belgium ain’t what you’d call a pretty sight.” He had a New York twang that stretched the vowels like chewing gum.

  “You don’t fly the Camel here, sir?” Dabinett asked.

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” Klagsburn said. “Very hot piece of machinery. Small bus, big guns. If Douglas Fairbanks flew a fighter, it would be a Camel. This Bristol Fighter is too big.”

  “It is not too big,” the C.O. said.

  “He means too big for the cine-camera, sir.”

  “Then get a bigger camera,” the C.O. growled.

  “Oh, sure,” Klagsburn said. He walked away.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Dabinett was calm. “My colleague has been filming in too many trenches lately. It cramps his style.”

  Brazier had only once been to the cinema, and its appeal was a mystery to him. “So ... what are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Action,” Dabinett said. “We had high hopes of filming your cavalry in action, sir. The folks back home don’t see this war going anywhere. If we can show them some movement...”

  “Who the hell is that?” Klagsburn demanded.

  “That’s Mackenzie,” the C.O. said. “He’s just a pilot.”

  Klagsburn pointed, for Dabinett’s benefit. “He could be the guy ... Jesus Christ, what a face. Pray God he hasn’t got a hare lip. Get him, get him.”

  Cleve-Cutler beckoned, and Mackenzie changed direction. “Is he an ace?” Dabinett asked. “Knocked down a few,” the C.O. said. Bliss had ordered niceness. “He’s a frightfully nice chap,” the C.O. said. “Awfully popular.”

  “Will you look at that face?” Klagsburn said to Dabinett. “That’s pure gold.”

  “He’s a bit short.”

  “I’ll stand him on a box. That face ... They’ll love that face in Chicago. Hell, they’ll love it in Milwaukee, and Milwaukee’s full of krauts. Pure gold.”

  “These gentlemen are from America,” the C.O. said.

  “Jolly good,” Mackenzie said, and smiled.

  “Thank you, God,” Klagsburn muttered.

  “Would you mind taking your cap off?” Dabinett said. “We’d appreciate it.” Klagsburn was walking around Mackenzie, and grunting and nodding. “Perhaps you could ruffle your hair for us?” Dabinett said. Mackenzie did so, and laughed. “Pure gold,” Klagsburn said.

  Fifty yards away, Drinkwater leaned against the doorway of the flight hut and rubbed his ribs and watched. Maybe he’s right, he thought. Maybe I should take more risks. Doesn’t do him any harm, does it?

  * * *

  Lacey found a carbon copy of the original, which he’d used as a bookmark in his Golden Treasury of English Verse. He took it to the padre’s little chapel. Nobody would interrupt him there. The air was heavy with a religious aroma: linseed, sacred balm of cricket bats. He sat on the stool of a portable organ which he had bought for twelve guineas using Harry Simms’s bank account, and he read the lines aloud:

  Now God be thanked

  From this day to the ending of the world!

  Blow, bugle, blow! Was ever . . .

  He read the rest in silence. It was awful. It just brayed and clashed and fell over its own feet. He felt ashamed. Surely he could do better than this?

  It took an hour, but in the end he was pleased, even proud. He took it to the adjutant, who read it and said: “It’s too short.”

  “Were it longer, it would be too long.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  They showed it to the C.O. “It’s a bit short,” he said.

  “Looked at another way, sir,” Brazier said, “it’s not too long.”

  “True. Well, let’s hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Lacey filled his lungs and orated:

  Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

  Men like eagles hunt their foes.

  At home in the heavens, and Heaven’s their home.

  See! In the sunset their epitaph glows.

  “Well, it certainly rhymes. Nobody can say it doesn’t,” the C.O. said. “You’ve put ‘heaven’ twice in the same line.”

  “That’s irony, sir.”

  “Ah. Well, we can’t have too much of that, can we?” He initialled the page. “Send it off, Uncle.”

  * * *

  Steadily the squadron’s original F2As were being replaced with F2Bs. The big difference was the engine. The F2B had a Rolls-Royce Falcon III. Its twelve cylinders created such a surge of power – half as much again as the Falcon I – that unwary pilots got a punch in the back if they opened the throttle too fast and too far. The F2B’s maximum speed was 123 mph, an improvement of 13 mph. That might not sound much, but if it took a pilot inside the killing range of his guns, it was very useful indeed.

  The fitters and riggers had serviced Mackenzie’s Biff; now he had to air-test it. He found Paxton in a deck chair outside the mess. Half the squadron was there, idling away the hour before lunch.

  “Double or quits, sir,” Mackenzie said pleasantly. Paxton looked up. The sun was in his eyes. Mackenzie’s face was a blank dark shape. “I’m air-testing my Biff, sir. It’s a good time for our double or quits.”

  “Go to hell.” Paxton pulled his cap over his eyes.

  “Double or quits it is, then, sir,” Mackenzie said.

  Ten minutes later, Mackenzie took off. The Biff climbed and turned, and began a shallow dive towards the mess. It levelled out at fifty feet. Something round and red fell from the rear cockpit. A few deck chairs quickly emptied. It turned out to be a football, bouncing hugely and travelling fast.

  “That’s his bomb,” Dando said. “Wasn’t there some idiot pilot who used to drop footer balls on Jerry aerodromes?”

  “A. C. H. Manton, in 7 Squadron,” the padre said. “Opened for Somerset in the summer of ‘14. I saw him make a century before lunch, on a wicket with more devils in it than you’d find in Revelations.”

  Mackenzie came back and cruised by, and waved. So did his gunner, a tall young man named Tyndall, who had hair the colour of new straw. They climbed steeply away. The sky soaked up the engine’s roar until it was just a buzz.

  “Great sportsman, Manton,” the padre said.

  “We couldn’t afford sportsmanship at Bog Street School,” Woolley said. “Sometimes we had to take it in turns to cheat.”

  Mackenzie reached two thousand feet and turned into the wind, which seemed to be fairly steady. At an indicated airspeed of sixty-five miles an hour, the Biff was balanced and happy. It might hit the odd invisible bump or pothole which might make it twitch or wobble. Or it might not. Best not to think of that.

  “Ready?” he shouted. He unfastened his seat belt.

  “Any time,” Tyndall answered. Their cockpits were so close together that when they leaned backwards their shoulders touched. An inch more, and their heads touched.

  “Ready, steady, go!” Mackenzie shouted. Still holding the joystick, he raised his feet and hooked them on the front of his cane chair. At the same moment Tyndall stood and turned and swung his right leg out of the aeroplane. Mackenzie shuffled left and used his right hand to drag Tyndall’s foot down onto the chair. With Tyndall’s body fighting the gale, the Biff bucked and rocked. Mackenzie worked the stick and got the wings level again.
“Come on!” he bawled. Tyndall groped for and found the spade grip on the top of the stick. Mackenzie let go of the stick, turned to face the tail and swung his right leg over the side. The airstream blew it on its way and it fell into the rear cockpit. For a long moment both men had a foot in each cockpit and both their bodies were shaken by the rush of air. The Biff resented their antics; it twitched nervously. Mackenzie grabbed the Scarff ring and heaved, and fell into the rear cockpit, head first. When he straightened up and looked out, Tyndall was disappearing into the pilot’s seat. At once the Biff stopped complaining.

  They let it fly itself while they congratulated themselves on being alive.

  Tyndall was a gunner only because he had failed flying training as a pilot. He knew how the controls worked. When he took the Biff across the aerodrome he was careful to stay at least a hundred feet up. Even so, everyone outside the mess could see that Mackenzie was not the pilot. Neither man wore his helmet, and Tyndall’s yellow hair was like a flag. What’s more, Mackenzie was putting on a show with the twin Lewises, making them spin around the cockpit and aim high and low.

  Everyone thought the whole stunt was very clever and very funny; everyone except Paxton.

  “You’re in Queer Street, aren’t you?” O’Neill said to him. “You were broke before and now you’ve suffered a complex fracture of the wallet. You may never play the violin again.”

  “It was a cheap, childish trick,” Paxton said. “No wonder you were impressed.”

  “Ask Lacey to lend you the money. He only charges 45 per cent.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “And if you welsh on him, Dingbat breaks your legs.”

  Paxton did not go in to lunch with the others. He saw the Biff land clumsily at the other end of the field, and taxi towards the waiting mechanics, and he sent a mess servant to tell the crew to meet him in his flight commander’s office.

  When they came in, he had prepared a list of their offences and he read it out. It contained a lot of reckless endangering and gross irresponsibility and utter disregard and conduct prejudicial to efficiency in war. “Until these charges are heard in court martial, you are grounded,” he said. “Now get out.”