“Sorry, old chap,” his father said. “I’m afraid it’s shore duty for you until that rumblegut of yours changes its tune.” Rufus, chomping his way through a second helping of scrambled eggs on toast, nodded bravely.
The tune never changed. Rufus went from short to long trousers, his voice broke, he turned sixteen and started shaving, but whenever he stepped into a boat his stomach emptied itself with an energy his father had never seen matched, not even during storms in the China Seas. The risk was too great. Milne senior wasn’t going to disgrace the family name with a naval cadet who might well throw up at the mention of the word “dreadnought”. In due course he pulled strings and got his son a commission in a decent regiment, the Green Howards. That was in 1910.
In 1912 Rufus took private flying lessons from a Frenchman at Brooklands aerodrome. His father felt cheated when he learned that flying did not make Rufus sick, and his mother felt relieved when he got his certificate. She thought it was all over then. But he kept on flying and in 1914, six weeks after the war began, he transferred to the Royal Flying Corps. Rear-admiral Milne (now retired) gave up. The Green Howards weren’t the real thing, they weren’t the Navy, but at least they were a proper lot, a decent outfit, a regiment. What was the RFC? A bag of tricks, a joke, and not even a funny joke that you could tell your neighbours. So be it. The admiral had nephews in the Navy and he had a younger, non-vomiting son who would follow them soon. He tried not to think about Rufus.
Rufus Milne had long since stopped thinking about his father, who existed in his memory as a gruff and discontented figure pruning roses very hard, as if he suspected mutiny below. Rufus enjoyed flying, he was proud of his rank, and he liked commanding a squadron; but he had grown up in such an atmosphere of suppressed disapproval and disappointment that even now, after six years in the army and two years in France, he hid his feelings behind a wall of disarming habits and mannerisms. He spoke in a drawl that suggested nothing was as important as it seemed; he rarely looked people in the eye, preferring to let his gaze wander past the left ear while he nodded and blinked at what they said; he slouched as he walked; and he had several chunky, short-stemmed pipes that demanded a lot of attention. He often seemed vague, and vaguely elsewhere. Sometimes, when people met him for the first time, they wondered how on earth he got to be a major, let alone a squadron commander. That was what Paxton wondered as he sat opposite him. Fellow looks half-asleep, he thought.
“Weren’t we expecting you ….urn…. rather earlier than this?” Milne asked, so softly that Paxton leaned forward.
“Yes, sir. Five days ago, sir:”
“Five days, eh? As much as that…”
“I’m afraid we ran into a spot of bother on the way. Several spots, in fact.”
“Ah …” Milne slumped in his chair and squinted at the sunlight. “Spots of bother, you say.” He seemed to be trying, not very hard, to remember what bother was like. Far away, thunder rumbled. The sound rolled like a slow avalanche until it made a window shiver. Milne glanced at his wrist-watch. Paxton waited, upright and alert. The door was slightly open. A fly wandered in, as if looking for a friend, and Milne watched it until it wandered out again. “Suppose you tell me,” he suggested.
“Yes, sir. The first thing that happened, sir, was the weather turned rather nasty soon after we took off from Shoreham. You see I’d planned to fly due east, that is, straight across the Channel, and reach the French coast at Boulogne but some pretty stormy squalls hit us, and what with the cloud and the wind and the rain the other chaps simply couldn’t keep formation on me. I was leading, you see. So it looked too dangerous to fly straight to Boulogne – not that we could fly straight if we wanted to, the wind was chucking us about so much – but anyway I knew it was at least sixty miles to Boulogne, mostly out of sight of land, and I decided we ought to follow the coast to Dover instead and then make the short crossing to Cap Griz Nez.”
Paxton paused. The CO smiled encouragingly at the empty air beside his left ear, so he went on.
“Well, as I said, it was dreadfully stormy when I changed course, sir, and although three of the other chaps saw what I was up to, unfortunately the fourth man didn’t. I remember a very large black cloud. We went one side of it and he went the other, and I’m afraid I never saw him again. Lieutenant Kellaway, sir … Anyway, the rest of us managed to stagger along to Dover, getting thoroughly soaked in the process, and I could see that a couple of our engines weren’t too jolly – you know, coughing and spluttering – so down we all went and landed at the ‘drome there. I mean that was the idea, sir. We all did our best but one chap’s engine simply conked out before he could reach the ‘drome and he went slap into a tree. Awfully bad luck. Chap called Wilkins.”
“Then there were three.” Milne took a pipe from his desk and began scratching his head with the stem.
“That was on Friday. Wilkins broke lots of legs and things, sir, and his BE2c was smashed-up altogether. Well, on Saturday our engines were okay and I led the chaps across the water, aiming for the depot at St. Omer via Boulogne. By then I think the wind must have changed or something, sir, because what I thought was Boulogne turned out to be Calais, only I didn’t know that at the time. So of course St. Omer wasn’t where we thought it would be, although we flew around for hours and hours looking for it. In the end we had to land any-old-where before we ran out of fuel. And that’s how we came to spend the night at a Royal Naval Air Service place called St. Rambert.”
Milne nodded, or perhaps he was now scratching his head against the stem.
“The naval types were jolly friendly, sir, and they asked us to a party. Frankly, I don’t think Ross-Kennedy was used to strong drink, sir. He was frightfully ill next morning. That was Sunday. I made him take a cold bath and drink lots of black coffee, which I must say didn’t seem to do him a lot of good, but by the afternoon I really couldn’t wait any longer. We all took off and I wanted to get to St. Omer so I could send a message here, sir, in case you were worrying. Then Ross-Kennedy started flying round and round in circles. I could see him being sick over the side of the cockpit. I made all sorts of signals to him to buck up, but I don’t think he saw me. In the end he went round and round and down and down until he tried to land his machine in a field and he overturned. Did a sort of cartwheel. Dexter and I flew on to St. Omer. We spent the rest of Sunday and all Monday morning driving around the country in a tender, but we never found the BE or Ross-Kennedy. Dexter thought it might have caught fire.”
“Then there were two,” Milne said.
“After lunch on Monday we took off and I honestly thought we’d be here by teatime, sir, and we would have been, definitely, if Dexter’s propeller hadn’t bust. It just went all to pieces. He was jolly lucky to get down at Treizennes, sir, but of course they only fly DH2s there so they had to send back to St. Omer for a spare. We got off again at six o’clock, sir, and the next thing that hit us was fog. Really awful, thick, clammy stuff, sir. My compass was worse than useless – it kept whizzing around like mad – and we flew above the fog as long as possible, but eventually we had to come down into it, and then of course we lost each other. I made a forced landing in a field and bent the undercarriage. Miles from anywhere. Slept in a barn. Next morning – that was Tuesday, yesterday -I walked for hours until I found a village. They phoned the nearest ‘drome, which was Beauvois. A tender came out and collected me and together we found the BE2c. They patched up the undercarriage and put in some petrol and I managed to take off and get to Beauvois. Then they mended it properly. That’s where I heard about poor old Dexter. Hit a church. Then today I set off once more, sir. They told me to keep Amiens cathedral on my right and I couldn’t miss Pepriac but … I don’t know … Anyway, here I am. I’m sorry about the other four, sir, and I’m really frightfully sorry I’m so late, because I know how frightfully keen you are to get your hands on these Quirks.”
The fly had come back in. Milne stood up and waved his hat at it, meaning no harm.
“Let’s
go and take a look at what you’ve brought us, anyway,” he said.
They strolled across the grass towards the hangars. It was mid-afternoon, and skylarks sang as if in celebration of the sunlight and the giant blue sky.
“All of ‘A’ Flight are away on leave this week,” Milne said.”‘B’ Flight are up on patrol at the moment, and ‘C’ Flight have gone swimming. Nice to have a bit of peace and quiet, isn’t it? Damned traffic never stops, of course.”
Paxton saw the tops of vehicles moving on the other side of a distant fence and heard the grumble of engines. “Are we getting ready for a Push, sir?”
Milne smiled. “I expect so,” he said. “We usually are.”
The flat tyre had been replaced. The damaged tailplane had been restored to shape, and the canvas patches were getting a final coat of dope. Paxton was amazed by the speed of the repair, and said so. “They’ve probably done it before,” Milne said. “That stuff should dry quickly in this weather. Tell you what: when it’s ready, why don’t you take off and spend a couple of hours getting to know the landmarks around here. Arras is more or less north-east of us. Pick up the main road that runs south-west from Arras and follow it to Doullens, then pick up the road south to Amiens. After Amiens go north-east towards Albert, then cut back north to Pepriac. You can’t miss it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Faxton. He had been expecting a hot bath and a change of clothes.
“And while you’re up,” Milne said lazily,”after you’ve gone round the houses a couple of times, you might as well finish off with … what shall we say … six practice landings? And let’s see you do the last one from … oh … three thousand feet with a dead engine. Suit you?”
“Yes sir,” said Paxton. The day was very warm and he desperately wanted to scratch his armpits and his crotch, but he dared not. “I don’t suppose there’s the chance of a cup of tea before I go, sir?”
“Listen to those birds!” Milne said, and strolled away.
“Bugger the birds,” said a fitter when the CO was out of earshot,”begging your pardon, sir. Let’s have a listen to this engine.”
They listened, and the fitter wrinkled his nose. All the plugs had to be changed. While that was being done, someone took a blowtorch and a dixie behind the hangar and made a quick brew-up. They gave Paxton a pint of sweet, milky tea. He drank it with such obvious enjoyment that they gave him a refill. The Quirk sounded much healthier with new plugs. He flung the dregs of his tea onto the grass and clambered into the cockpit.
‘A’ Flight came back as Paxton took off. Milne heard the fading buzz of the Quirk being absorbed by the deepening drone of four Beardmore engines. He opened his office window, perched his backside on the sill, and watched the tiny pattern of dots grow into a neat diamond formation. The FEs were no more than a hundred feet up as they passed. Milne knew the flight leader was watching him, so he raised an arm, and got half a wave of a gloved hand in return. That meant: quiet patrol; nothing doing. He watched the flight curl away and lose formation. FEs in the air reminded him of dragonflies. Not from the way they moved, which was hardworking rather than brilliant, rather like a London taxi; but from the way they were put together. Just like a dragonfly, everything important was clustered at the front, the machine was all wings and nose, with a few long bare poles reaching back to keep the tail in place. Milne closed one eye and half shut the other. He ignored the pusher propeller spinning behind the wings and the tricycle wheels hanging down and the Lewis gun poking up and the struts and the wires and the British markings, and all he saw was a khaki blur in the sky. But when he opened his eyes it still reminded him of a dragonfly.
The grub is Okay specially if you like bully beef but what I wouldn’t give for a pint of mild at the Dukes Head as the froggeys got no idea how to make beer and the vin blong gives me wind something chronic.
You wont never guess who I met last week Bert Dixon what a surprise! His mob just come out the Trenches he says half got trenchfoot and they all got lice big as your finger! Bert says to me Ted you got a nice cushy number you stay out them trenches Ted they are murder which I am sure is correct, Bert should know. Bert says any time a plane comes near they all fire at it they never waits to see is it a Hun or not they all fire nobody better tell our major!
“Have no fear,” murmured Corporal Lacey. He was a slim young man in well-tailored khaki. He had an auburn moustache, full and heavy, which made half his face look bigger and stronger than it was. He dipped a small camelhair brush into a pot of india ink and painted out almost all the second half of the page, starting with the line His mob just come out the Trenches … He gave the jet black shape neat, rounded corners and straight sides, so that it formed a deep frame surrounding the only words he had not obliterated. These were: which I am sure is correct.”And who dares deny it?” Corporal Lacey said. He put the page in a patch of sunlight to dry.
He was alone in the orderly room. A kettle was simmering on a Primus stove, and a gramophone was playing a record of string quartets. The music had a harsh, driving urgency. Lacey’s eyes widened as the quartet cut the theme into pieces and flung them together again, the same only different. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “Stand no nonsense.” The door opened and Captain Piggott came in. Lacey stood up. “Did you have a good patrol, sir?” he asked.
“Dud. No Hun, no fun.” Piggott was red-haired and restless. He noticed the gramophone and went over to it. “Is the adjutant in?” His head twisted as he tried to read the spinning label.
“Captain Appleyard is not back from Contay yet, sir.”
“Contay? What the devil’s he doing in Contay? That’s Kite Balloons, isn’t it?” Piggott abandoned the label. “What’s this bloody awful music, Lacey?”
“Dvoř ák, sir.”
“Sounds foul. What is it, German?”
“Bohemian.”
“Just as bad.” Piggott found a typewriter with paper in it and began poking the keys. “They’re all Huns, over there. When’s the adj going to be back? I want to play some cricket.”
“He didn’t say, sir. He went there for lunch.” Lacey went over and lifted the needle from the record. “Would you like a cup of tea, sir?”
Piggott nodded, still pecking away at the keys. Lacey assembled tea, sugar and milk. Piggott dragged the paper out and looked at it.
“Your filthy machine can’t spell,” he said.
“I believe I hear Captain Appleyard’s car, sir.” Lacey put three china mugs on a tray. Piggott folded the sheet of paper into a glider and waited. As the door opened he launched it. The glider flew past Appleyard’s head but the adjutant didn’t notice it. “Afternoon, adj,” Piggott called; but Appleyard didn’t hear that either. Head down, frowning, he hurried across the room. He looked dreadful. His face was dead-white about the chin and mouth, yet blotched with colour at the cheekbones. There was sweat on his brow: sweat, after twenty miles sitting in the breeze of an open car? He moved with his shoulders hunched as if holding himself together. “Glass of water,” he said to Lacey without looking, and went into his room. The door banged shut.
Piggott found his glider and smoothed out the crumpled nose. He watched Lacey pour water from a jug, and spoon white powder into the glass. Lacey looked up. “Bicarbonate of soda,” he said. “Incomparable for swift relief.”
Piggott followed him into the office. Appleyard was lying rather than sitting in an old, padded swivel chair. His tunic and shirt collar were open, and the top of his flies were undone. One foot was propped on a desk drawer. His eyes were shut but the eyelids trembled, and the hollows below them gleamed wetly.
Lacey placed the glass in his hand and held the fingers secure until Appleyard had swallowed most of the fizzing drink. “Mr. Piggott is here, sir,” he said, and went out.
Appleyard sat up and wiped his face with a khaki handkerchief. “Come in, Tim,” he said. “Take a pew, have a cigar. To what do I owe …” He broke off to utter a belch that seemed to begin in his boots.
“You feeling all right
, adj?” Piggott asked.
“Nothing to worry about. Touch of the Zulu’s Revenge.” Appleyard was an old-style career officer, now in his mid-forties, a balding bachelor who had seen much service in India and Africa and who wore three rows of faded campaign ribbons to prove it. So why was he only a captain? The squadron was too well-mannered to ask, and in any case there were more interesting things going on in the world. “Ever see a Zulu, Tim? Very large gentlemen. Black as your hat and brave as a bull. Bullets can’t stop ‘em.” He had buttoned his flies and was rearranging the paperwork that cluttered his desk. “Just look at this bally stuff! Grows like weeds … Now then: what’s your problem?”
“Oh … Several things. Let’s start with pay. Jimmy Duncan says his pay has never been adjusted since he got his second pip, and that was weeks ago. Also two of the ‘A’ Flight mechanics still haven’t got their proficiency supplements, or something.” Piggott was pacing up and down, carefully placing his feet so as to stay on the same narrow floorboard. “Then there’s my fitter, Corporal Lee. His wisdom tooth’s giving him absolute hell, but there’s never a travel warrant for him to go to Amiens and get it taken out. I mean, that’s bloody silly, isn’t it?” Piggott reached a wall, pivoted on his heel, and began the return journey. “And now I’m told by stores that the men’s latrines haven’t got a drop of disinfectant. Not a single drop. In this weather! I mean to say, adj, just think of—”
Appleyard’s cough stopped him. It was a savage spasm that gripped the adjutant’s lungs and seemed to attack his throat like a chained dog. Piggott turned away. The noise was so hurtful it made him feel slightly sick. Still seized by his cough, Appleyard stumbled to an open window and eventually, painfully, managed to spit outside. The spasm ceased. He came back, mopping his face. His chest was heaving and he looked exhausted. “Better out than in,” he whispered. Threads of saliva linked his lips.
War Story Page 2
