War Story

by Derek Robinson

  “I shall never sunbathe again,” Foster said.

  “No future in just charging at the bloody things,” Piggott said. “You’d need an icebreaker to get through the archie.”

  “Well, there has to be a way. This is not orders from the rear, you understand. I’d just like us to develop a reputation for something other than going on a binge.”

  Various suggestions were made: fly high and bomb the balloon, fly not so high and set fire to it with incendiary parachutes, tow a grappling iron on the end of long thin cable and rip the thing open (a French pilot had actually attacked German planes like that, in the days before machine guns were carried). None of these ideas excited anybody. Cleve-Cutler told them to go away and think some more.

  Foster held a meeting of ‘C’ Flight pilots. “Balloon-busting,” he said. “That’s this month’s fashion. You win a goldfish in a jar for every balloon you bust.” He was chewing his nails.

  “I wish you’d stop doing that,” Yeo said. “It makes your fingers look pruned.”

  Foster sat on his hands. “Spud?” he said.

  “Well, there’s always the Milne Method,” Ogilvy suggested. “Bit expensive, I suppose. And what d’you do for an encore?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Charlie Essex said. “I can’t spell balloon-busting. Can’t even say it.”

  “It’s a matter of finding some way to baffle the archie, isn’t it?” Yeo said. “The problem’s not the balloon, it’s getting close enough to bust it.”

  “Bloody archie,” Essex muttered. “I really hate the stinking stuff. It doesn’t fight fair.”

  “Nobody’s invented the perfect weapon yet,” Foster said, chewing a thumbnail. Yeo sighed, and Foster sat on his hand again.

  “We’re not going to find the answer here,” Ogilvy said. “Maybe if we go up and look …”

  Nobody had a better suggestion. “All right,” Foster said. “Next time the weather’s right, James and I will study the problem from several angles.”

  “Keep your heads down,” Essex said. “They can’t see you if you can’t see them. That’s a scientific fact.”

  Pepriac was rarely silent. Engines were constantly being tested, and aircraft took off and landed all day. No matter how often he saw it, the act of take-off – the bellowing, bouncing charge across the grass, the instant of lift, the easy climb – never lost its magic for Paxton. He felt the cramp of envy, and a craving that no amount of tramping across the land of the Somme could diminish. He went to see Tim Piggott and asked to be allowed to fly again.

  “It’s not my decision. I didn’t ground you.” Piggott’s rigger had extracted a ragged lump of shrapnel from his FE’s undercarriage and it lay on his desk. He poked at it with a pencil. “Besides, there’s no room for you. All the FEs are fully crewed.”

  “There’s the Quirk.”

  “If it was up to me you could take it and good riddance to you both.” Piggott frowned, hard. His left eyelid had started flickering again. He put a finger on it to make it stop. “The Hun loves chumps like you. Very sentimental, the Hun, very fond of children, he enjoys putting large lumps of red-hot metal through their stupid little heads.” The point of the pencil snapped against the piece of shrapnel. Piggott looked at it bleakly. “Buzz off,” he said.

  Paxton told Kellaway about this exchange. “If you ask me,” he said,”it’s a clear case of professional jealousy. We knocked down a Hun and Piggott got hit by shrapnel.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Kellaway said. “Where was he hit?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. At the Front somewhere.”

  “A chest wound?”

  “No, no, no. Piggott wasn’t touched. For God’s sake pay attention.”

  “I’m getting one of my headaches,” Kellaway said. “I’d better go and lie down.”

  Paxton was not discouraged by Piggott’s words. Sooner or later, he knew, the squadron would need a pilot. Every day there were forced landings because of engine failures – a cracked fuel line, a clogged-up carburettor, a broken electrical lead. The crew of a machine in ‘C’ Flight were lucky to survive when their propeller shattered and the fragments hacked through the control cables leading to the tail. The plane obligingly crashed into a small lake, the only stretch of water for miles around, and they waded ashore. Once, as an FE circled the aerodrome, smoke suddenly boiled out of the engine and Paxton thought his day had come; but this pilot deftly blew out the fire with a series of plunging sideslips, and he landed grinning. Another time, Paxton saw an officer fall out of a tree, and he sent a passing mechanic to get the ambulance. The officer turned out to be Douglas Goss (he had been looking for a lost cricket ball). He was a catalogue of pain and injury, but it was a walking catalogue, and he dismissed the ambulance and limped back to the mess. “Bloody branch broke,” he told Dando. “Typical shoddy frog tree.” Frank Foster picked a twig out of Goss’s hair, and said: “Anyone who goes up in one of those things must be mad, that’s my opinion.” Next day Goss was flying as usual.

  Paxton borrowed a motorcycle and explored the more northerly parts of the Somme. He found a fresh kaleidoscope of regiments, with more units arriving daily. It excited him to know he was part of the most brilliant battle-force the world had ever seen, he was in the prime of his life, and he was about to demonstrate his dash and prove his courage in the mightiest clash of arms ever known. And – most splendid part of all – Britain was going to win! Patriotism glowed in him like plum brandy.

  The roads were dense with military traffic, endless supply columns feeding the infantry its meat and drink, its bullets and bags of mail and boots, and so Paxton often rode his motorcycle across country. It was a sign of the changing times that he was stopped by a military policeman at the entrance to a field, and made to prove his identity.

  “If you wouldn’t mind keeping to the side of the field, sir,” the man said. “There’s manoeuvres going on in the middle.”

  Paxton-chugged around the edge and saw nothing going on in the middle. He was stopped by another MP, and then by a third, who was reluctant to let him continue. “You ought to have been given a special pass, sir,” he said.

  “Well, I’m certainly not going back to get one,” Paxton said crisply. The man consulted his clipboard. Paxton looked too. “There it is, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “Air Liaison. Two from the end. Satisfied?” He rode off before there could be any argument

  A couple of hundred yards ahead stood a reviewing stand built of scaffolding poles and planks. Cars were parked nearby, and a crowd of officers lounged about. It was an odd scene: like the finish of a fashionable point-to-point, but without the horses.

  He avoided the crowd and left his bike near the cars. This wasn’t his sort of show; those were staff officers, colonels and brigadiers and generals; he shouldn’t be here; he could get into very hot water. That’s what made it irresistible. But did he have the nerve to walk over to those officers and join in their conversation? No. No, he knew he wasn’t brave enough for that. Instead he walked over to a driver who was sitting on a running-board. The man came to attention. “Stand at ease,” Paxton said. “Look here, I can’t afford to stay long, I’ve got to get back to my squadron.” He glanced wisely at the sky. “Routine patrol, but it’s got to be done.” How sweetly the lies flowed!”So when is this show going to start, d’you reckon?”

  “Well, it’s late now, sir. In fact—” An orange flare burst high in the air, half a mile away. The crowd began moving towards the stand. “Good man,” Paxton said. (Always praise the servants, his father had taught, even when they haven’t done anything; it costs nothing and they feel they have to work harder to deserve it.) He hurried to join the crowd.

  Nobody looked twice at him. He found a space to stand at the top, in a corner, behind some Guards subalterns. Their gloss made him feel dingy.

  A major appeared below, and announced through a megaphone: “One minute to zero hour.” Paxton began to notice things. Two hundred yards to the right a long trench had been d
ug, in the correct military zigzag pattern; communication trenches led to it. Two hundred yards to the left, white tapes had been laid in a long line, parallel to the trench. A second set of tapes could be seen a hundred yards behind the first. Between the trenches and the tapes the ground was smooth and green. There was no breeze. Sounds carried perfectly: a few crows complaining as usual, a horse neighing somewhere out of sight. It was all very peaceful. “Zero hour in five seconds,” the major said. Conversation ceased.

  Whistles blew, dozens of whistles, and men popped up from the trench as if on springs. “The first wave will advance in extended line at walking pace,” the megaphone informed. “They will cross No-Man’s-Land in eight minutes and thirty seconds.” Indeed the wave had set off and NCOs could be heard shouting, straightening the line. Very soon it was impressively correct. A lieutenant walked in front of each platoon, holding a revolver or a walking stick. “The men are spaced five yards apart,” the megaphone declared. “Company HQ, comprised of company commander and six men, can be seen following.” Whistles shrilled again, and the trench ejected another force. “The first wave having completed one hundred yards, the second wave commences the advance,” explained the megaphone.

  Paxton was puzzled. This was all rather slow. He expected troops to charge when they advanced, shouting hoarse defiance, terrifying the enemy into surrender or retreat. These chaps were just plodding. Then the first wave got close enough for him to see how heavily loaded they were. Equipment was strung all over them. Faces shone with sweat. “Full packs are worn,” the megaphone announced obligingly. “Two days’ rations and water bottles are carried. Each man has his rifle with bayonet, two gas respirators, full ammunition pouches, two grenades, one spade, one pair of wirecutters and other minor kit. Thus he can be sure of being ready to cope with any eventuality.”

  The first wave plodded past the reviewing stand. Whistles shrilled and the third wave appeared from the trench.

  “At zero hour,” said the megaphone,”our barrage lifted from the enemy Front Line, represented here by white tape, and moved to the enemy Second and Third Lines. No resistance is anticipated. However, for training purposes, some opposition has been allowed to exist.” Sure enough, half a dozen isolated figures sat up behind the white tape and began firing blanks. The first wave kept walking. Eventually the megaphone admitted: “Minor casualties may be suffered.” Here and there a man gratefully sank to his knees and lay down. A bugle sounded. Stretcher-bearers climbed out of the trench and trotted forward.

  “You will notice,” the megaphone said,”that some men carry poles with flags. These will be raised in due course to act as markers for our guns. Others carry wiring stakes. They will use these to fortify captured positions. Rockets and carrier pigeons are carried for purposes of communication. Machine-gun units are present.”

  By now a fourth wave of troops had come out of the trench. The first three waves were walking steadily across No-Man’sLand, five yards between men, a hundred yards between waves, the NCOs nagging at them to straighten their lines. Paxton was enormously impressed. There was something so calm yet so implacable about this attack. Unstoppable: that was the word. They looked as if they could walk all day, wading rivers, climbing hills, trampling the enemy beneath their steady tread, never tiring. He chuckled. “They really need a band,” he murmured,”playing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.” The Guards subalterns looked at him, looked at each other, looked away. Go to hell, Paxton thought cheerfully. How many Huns have you shot down? Well, then.

  A green rocket went up. “The first wave has now reached and captured the enemy Front Line,” the megaphone reported. “It arrived fifteen seconds late. Our apologies.” The reviewing stand was mildly amused. “The fifth wave has now left our trenches.” My God! Paxton thought. Is there no end to them?”This fifth wave will carry out mopping-up operations, if necessary. The sixth wave will act as reinforcements, preparatory to the seventh wave, which will consist of Battalion HQ including Signals.”

  There was a pause while the second wave trudged to the white tape and lay down. The third wave followed but crossed the tape and kept going. So did the fourth. A minute later a red rocket went up. “The enemy Second and Third Lines have now been captured,” said the megaphone. “Our barrage had already lifted from them, of course.” There was a flicker of ironic applause. “The opportunity for breakthrough has therefore been created,” said the megaphone defiantly.

  Everyone looked to the right. This was the climax, the clincher, the cream on the cake. Sure enough, a trumpet call brought a squadron of cavalry surging into view, and behind it a second and a third, all boiling up to a full-blooded gallop. The horses went streaming over the trench. Paxton stopped breathing. Bright pennants raced from the ends of lances, swords made streaks of light. It was a race between the squadrons. The infantry had scattered to leave a wide gap. As the cavalry hammered past them they cheered, a throaty, disciplined roar that made Paxton grin with delight. He breathed again, deeply and triumphantly. The cavalry raced out of sight. “The breakthrough has been achieved,” said the megaphone. “Tea will now be served.”

  The reviewing stand slowly emptied. Everyone drifted, in a haze of talk, to a group of trestle tables. Paxton took half a cucumber sandwich, a slice of cake and a cup of tea. He found himself standing next to a middle-aged major who blinked a lot. “What did you think of it, sir?” he asked.

  The major sipped his tea and stopped blinking. He said: “I think perhaps someone has over-egged the pudding.”

  “I meant the exercise, sir.”

  “So did I, old chap. So did I.”

  Potty, Paxton thought. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, and sidled away.

  Bunches of troops were walking back to where they had come from. He rode his motorcycle across the field, twisting and turning to dodge them, and going slightly too fast because he enjoyed it and because he envied the way the cavalry had been free to race like the devil. Some soldiers stopped and cheered him. That made him feel good. He celebrated with a bit more speed. The rear wheel skidded out of a turn, nothing dangerous, just enough to earn another cheer, so he purposely skidded out of the next turn, straightened up and charged into a little hollow so fast that he came out of it flying, three feet of air beneath his wheels. He landed almost perfectly; but almost wasn’t good enough at that speed. The bike wobbled more and more as if it were shaking its head harder and harder until finally it fell over and flung him aside.

  The nearest group of men waited and watched. When they saw him stand up, they walked on.

  His lungs didn’t want to work. That was the worst thing. No matter how hard he sucked, his lungs refused to fill. All the breath had been knocked out of them and now they seemed numb or dead or something. Not dead: struggling. Failing. Useless. He thought: This must be what drowning is like, and immediately thought, What an odd thing to think, and then miraculously squeezed a cupful of air into each lung.

  After two minutes he had so much breath he could afford to laugh.

  The handlebar was a bit skewed but the wheels went round and the brakes worked. Trouble was, the engine wouldn’t start. No matter how hard he stamped on the starter, the engine wouldn’t even cough. He laboured at it until his leg was weary and his face was sticky with sweat.

  It was a long way to Pepriac.

  He propped the wretched machine on its stand, and sat down to rest. “D’you know what you are?” he said to it. “You’re a mechanical turd.” A soldier was watching.

  He was short, and made to look shorter by the packs and webbing and equipment hung about him. “Hullo,” Paxton said. “I don’t suppose you can make this damn thing go, can you?”

  The soldier came over and stooped to look at it. His hands and wrists, grasping his rifle, were small. The cords at the back of his neck were not yet powerful enough to be those of a man. “I could try, sir,” he said.

  “Please do.”

  The soldier laid down his rifle and took off his steel helmet. He had a small face w
ith neat and tidy features, like a boy’s, and serious eyes. His black hair had been closely clipped. He sat on his heels to examine the machine; and Paxton, with a great rush of memory, saw who it was he looked like. The gardener’s boy. Dick. The best friend he’d never had.

  No, that wasn’t strictly true. For a couple of weeks, in the summer holidays when they were both fifteen, he and Dick had been wonderful friends, closer than he had known it was possible to be, each totally trusting the other and each able to make the other laugh just by looking into his eyes. Dick was only the gardener’s boy but he had something special, not just good looks, although Paxton envied his smooth skin and freckles (he used to count them) but a kind of charm that Paxton had never met before. For that couple of weeks he felt he wasn’t fully alive unless he was with Dick. His parents noticed. They disapproved. Dick was barely literate and have you seen his fingernails? Paxton got packed off to stay with a seaside aunt until next term began. After that, it wasn’t the same.

  But he never forgot. And now this young soldier, no bigger than Dick had been, touched the same chord. “How old are you?” Paxton asked.

  “Seventeen, sir. I think I’ve got it.” He did something to some wires. “Your electricals was all loose, sir.”

  “Ah. I had a small crash, you see.”

  The soldier started the bike, revved the engine, let it stop.

  “Splendid!” Paxton said. “You’re a genius. Jolly good stuff.” He stood up. “What’s your name?”

  “Watkins, sir. Private Watkins.”

  “Jolly good.” The more Paxton looked at him, the more he remembered Dick. He very much wanted this man to smile, the way Dick had smiled. “Aren’t you awfully young, to be in the … whatever it is you’re in?”

  “Bradford Pals, sir. There’s younger than me.” Still no smile.

  “Bradford Pals? That’s one of those battalions full of chaps from the same place, isn’t it? I met one the other day, in the Highland Light Infantry. Glasgow Tramways, they call themselves. I couldn’t understand a word they said.” Paxton chuckled. Still no smile. “It must be great fun, being with your pals.”