She found that very funny, and he felt flattered. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Paxton. Oliver Paxton. And you must be Mrs. Haffner.”
“No, no. Everyone calls me Judy. I don’t like Oliver. Haven’t you got another name?”
Paxton didn’t like Arthur. “There’s David.”
“Bring my friend David a lovely steak,” she told a waiter.
His glass was filled with wine. The cavalryman, Henry, had been found a place elsewhere at the table. A steady shuttle of waiters came and went. The only person not eating was Judy. She seemed able to follow half a dozen conversations at once. Occasionally she stroked Paxton’s hand, even tucking her little finger inside his, and when his steak came she watched him eat and she shared in his enjoyment; he looked at her and she made a happy pout, so he sliced the most tender piece of the steak and carefully put it between her lips. She shut her eyes as she ate. For no reason at all he felt a little weak, and drank some more claret.
Everyone chatted to him; he chatted to everyone. Judy ordered apple pie for him, and it was a revelation: sweet and tangy, crisp and flaky. Apple pie at Sherborne had been stodge in stodge. How right he had been to leave school! He could easily eat another piece of apple pie but he wasn’t sure if that was the done thing. In any case she took his hand, and squeezed it, and said, “Now you’re going to protect me against all these hulking great thugs, aren’t you, David?”
“But of course.” He felt like St. George with a freshly ground and sharpened sword.
She took his arm as they all trooped out. He realised that nobody had paid. Money didn’t seem to matter to these people; this was a refreshing, exhilarating experience; an introduction to a higher level of living. He cocked an eyebrow at the smiling head waiter as they went by. The man saw it, and cocked an eyebrow in return.
Two chauffeur-driven Buick limousines were waiting. They drove out of Amiens to the west, quite fast. “This must seem awfully slow to you,” she said. She had an appealing way of drawling one word in a sentence; apart from that her voice was light and only faintly tinged with Irish. At first, when he saw that elfin face, he had assumed she was delicately built, even fragile, but now he saw that she was slim unfashionably slender, in fact – but very well put together. Jolly nice legs, and a jolly good chest, or whatever it was that girls called it. “I’m just glad to be alive,” he said. She opened her eyes wide. “Death by starvation,” he said. “Deadly dreary.” She laughed, and imitated his clipped style: “Deadly dreary,” and laughed again, all of which made him feel good. “Want to play a little tennis?” she said.
They were passing some grass courts. Beyond them a lake glittered in the sunshine, with a wooded hill overlooking it and part of a big, honey-coloured house visible through the trees. “Don’t you lose a lot of tennis balls in the lake?” he asked.
“Hundreds!” she said with a childlike gusto. “Thousands!”
Jimmy Duncan knew he’d already killed the gunner of the Aviatik when he saw a red streak shimmering along its side. That was during the third attack, when he fired two short bursts but the German pilot jinked so hard that Duncan missed with both; however, there was no return fire and he saw the long streak behind the rear cockpit. It stood out against the Aviatik’s camouflage, a pattern of green and yellow cubes, like expensive gift-wrapping. Maybe a bullet had nicked an artery. If the gunner wasn’t dead he was dying fast: Jimmy Duncan knew that for sure. Now was the time to get in really close and blow the Aviatik to bits. Now. Fast.
Frank O’Neill wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t noticed the blood and he thought maybe the gunner was reloading, or clearing a stoppage. Rush in now and he might pop up and make holes in them both. Besides, there might be another machine lurking high above, in the sun. It was a dazzling afternoon and he couldn’t search that part of the sky but something in his gut said somebody was up there. They were three miles on the wrong side of the Lines and they’d been bloody lucky to catch the Aviatik, so lucky that he wondered whether it was a decoy and he was about to be jumped from a great height. It was late in their second patrol of the day and O’Neill was tired.
On the other hand the Aviatik was slow and probably damaged. It couldn’t get away. It should be an easy kill.
He flew the FE parallel to the Aviatik, just outside the range of its gun, and tried to squint up into the semi-glare around the blinding disc of the sun. Splinters of light danced in his eyes until they were lost in the wash of tears.
“I got the gunner,” Duncan bawled. He was kneeling on his seat and facing O’Neill. “Gunner’s dead.”
“Says you,” O’Neill shouted.
“Let’s go, let’s get the bugger.” Duncan tried to reach into O’Neill’s cockpit and grab the joystick. “He’s mine, I want him.”
O’Neill batted his hand away. “Okay!” he shouted. “Sit down, for Christ’s sake!” If Duncan had knocked the joystick he might have been thrown out. It was a measure of Duncan’s hunger for a kill after dozens of barren patrols.
Duncan sat. O’Neill nudged the throttle forward and eased the joystick across. The horizon swung like a seesaw. A touch of rudder brought the nose around until the Aviatik was dead ahead, chugging along, pouring smoke from its upright exhaust, its pilot praying for rescue, or a cloud, or a miracle. When it was obvious that none of those was going to appear he despaired and stuck his nose down.
To dive was the only thing left to do and also the worst thing to do. The FE could outdive an Aviatik, which meant that O’Neill would catch him, and when he did the German pilot would no longer be so free to jink and dodge and swerve. On the other hand it could be dangerous down there. German ground fire was notoriously lethal. All these thoughts chased each other through O’Neill’s mind when it was already too late. The FE was howling and vibrating as its dive steepened.
He caught the Aviatik after they had fallen about a thousand feet, and the strain on the German plane’s wings was such that O’Neill could see them fluttering and distorting. If his FE was doing the same he didn’t want to know, so he didn’t look behind him. He manoeuvred so as to give Duncan a slightly upward shot. When the Aviatik exploded or fell to pieces he wanted to be out of the way. They were four lengths apart. France lay in front like a map. Duncan fired. Every third shot was a tracer. His bullets went skimming over the Aviatik’s top wing. He adjusted his aim and fired again. The Lewis gun jammed.
Duncan had never before cleared a jam when he was hanging in a dive with a hurricane battering at his arms. The Lewis often jammed; he knew just what to do; but it demanded strength and skill to force the gun to reject the faulty round wedged in its breech, and then to accept a fresh round, properly cocked, while the FE rocked and shuddered. This jam was a bad one. Duncan heaved and thumped until in the end he had to fumble under his seat for the leather mallet and give the gun an almighty wallop, and then another. The third bash did the trick. He gasped for breath and relaxed. The FE lurched, and the mallet swung and knocked the ammunition drum off the top of the gun. He grabbed and missed. The drum bounced off his chest and vanished. Fear made him shout: that drum could have smashed their propeller! Maybe it sailed wide. Maybe it went clean through the disc. What difference? By the time he had unclipped a spare drum and banged it into place the dive was over. Duncan looked up and saw trees higher than his head. O’Neill was chasing the Aviatik up a valley.
The German was dipping and rising, working hard at making himself a poor target, but the valley was narrowing and O’Neill was steadily gaining. Duncan fired a couple of short bursts. The Aviatik seemed to stagger. It dropped until its wheels were parting the tall grass. O’Neill held the FE steady to give Duncan a good, final, downward shot. Both men were looking at the Aviatik. Neither of them saw the telegraph wire strung across the valley. It took Duncan’s head off as cleanly as a grocer cutting cheese and then it snapped. O’Neill felt the FE shudder. At first he thought a cylinder had blown, but the engine note sounded true. Duncan wasn’t firing. Why the hell w
asn’t Duncan firing? Another jam? O’Neill half stood and looked down into the front cockpit. Duncan’s body was flopping about and blood was jetting out. The body flopped again and O’Neill got a hot squirt in the face. He sat down and hauled the joystick into his stomach and spat. As the FE climbed away, below it and behind, the Aviatik came to rest with its tail in the air.
They all drank coffee and cognac on the terrace of the honeycoloured house. Servants brought the coffee but Judith Kent Haffner served it, strolling amongst the men with a silver coffee pot that had a neck like a swan’s, while two maids followed carrying cups and sugar and cream. Paxton stood at the edge of the party and pretended to be examining the house but really he was watching her. There was a rose garden nearby; sometimes the breeze carried its scent. She reached him and now he could look without pretending. “I want to know something,” she said as she filled his cup. “I want to know how big your machine-gun is. Now be honest, David.”
“I’m not allowed … I mean, I’m pretty sure that sort of thing is, you know, secret.”
“Wow,” she whispered. “Holy smoke.”
Later the men played tennis. Paxton had no tennis shoes, of course, so he played barefoot and beat Henry, who didn’t try terribly hard. The breeze had dropped; the afternoon was baking hot. “Fancy a swim?” Henry said. “There’s an hour till tea.”
They undressed in a boathouse that overhung the lake and smelt of tar. Several costumes hung on hooks; all were too big or too small. “Oh, forget them,” Henry said, and ran and dived in. Paxton followed him before he had time to think about it. The water was superbly cool and smooth; when he looked up he could see the surface, glowing greenly. He swam underwater as far as he could and burst up into the sunlight, gasping for breath.
They fooled about for a minute or two and then swam to a small island, little more than a huge boulder with a couple of trees growing out of it. The rock was smooth and hot. Paxton stretched out on his back and felt the heat soak into him. “D’you do this sort of thing often?” he asked.
“Now and then. Judy keeps more or less open house. Once you’ve been invited you’re free to pop in whenever you like.”
“Very generous.”
“Damn good billiards room, too.”
Paxton waved at what could be seen of the house. “She’s awfully young for such a whacking great place, don’t you think?”
“Awfully young and awfully beautiful.”
“What I mean is, how does Mr Kent Haffner fit into the picture?”
“Ah. Well, we don’t see much of him. He’s American, she’s Anglo-Irish. I don’t know all the facts, but I think she’s his second wife and he wants to be the next American ambassador to Paris, so he’s got himself appointed special consul or something, to prove how good he is. Apparently he spends all his time travelling around France and buttering-up people. Getting Yankee war material sent over. That sort of thing. Stinking rich, obviously.” Henry closed his eyes.
“I see. So Judy has to find her own friends.”
“She likes goodlooking young men. She’s probably up in her bedroom right now, watching us through a telescope.”
Paxton laughed. “Don’t be absurd.” But he sat up and raised his knees.
“Don’t worry, old man. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.” Henry got to his feet and waved in the direction of the house. “Her husband’s a hundred years old,” he said. “Fifty, at least. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
Tea was served on the terrace. It was lavish and Paxton was hungry. The jams and jellies were English; the scones and cakes were made English-style; there was even a genuine sherry trifle. Judy knew how to please her guests. Paxton took his time and ate his fill, and watched her dance as the gramophone played jazz. She made a game of it, dancing through and around the guests and changing partners whenever the whim took her, which was often. Eventually, inevitably, she released her partner and took Paxton’s hands. “Bad mistake,” he said. “I’m dreadful.” But she was already dancing and he did his clumsy best to match her steps. Fortunately they moved into an empty part of the terrace so he didn’t have to worry about colliding with chairs and tables; nevertheless he was frowning furiously. She stopped and hugged him. “You’re not dreadful, David,” she said. “You’re appalling.” He stood, shocked and delighted, and waited to see what happened next. She led him to a stone balustrade where they could pretend to admire the view and no one could hear them. “You’re as stiff as one of those great big machine-guns of yours,” she told him.
“I never said I was a dancer.”
“Absolutely right. You never did. How many German aeroplanes have you shot down?”
“One. One big one. Two-seater Albatros.”
She had linked her little finger with his. Now she tightened it. “Tell you what. You shoot down another German plane and I’ll teach you how to dance.”
“That’s a bargain.”
Yeo’s replacement was an eighteen-year-old called Peter King who should never have been given his wings. He had impressed the interviewing officer at the War Office with his games record at Winchester and his fresh-faced keenness to get stuck into the Hun. He survived pilot training because he was lucky and because the aerodrome was so big that it disguised his faults. His instructor was a man who had been sent home after too long in France; he despised instructing and he disliked King because he was such a bad pilot, so he ignored him whenever he could. A lot of instructors were like that. They called the trainee pilots ‘Huns’ and were glad to see the back of them.
Cleve-Cutler looked at King’s logbook. “Twenty hours,” he said. “Eight solo.” He passed it to Foster.
“Yes, sir,” King said.
“You’ve never flown an FE.”
“No, sir.”
“Now’s your chance. Go and get some kit.”
“Thank you, sir.” King went out, looking as if he had won several medals.
“Give him the worst machine we’ve got,” Cleve-Cutler said,”I don’t want him smashing anything new. He goes up alone, of course.”
“All right.” Foster paused on his way out. “He reminds me of someone,” he said, “but I can’t think who.”
“He reminds me of everyone who comes here. Boring, isn’t it?”
Foster walked with King to the aeroplane and briefed him on the take-off routine and what speeds to aim for. King nodded all the time. “You know about torque?” Foster asked. “Slight tendency of the plane to rotate the opposite way to the propeller?” King nodded. “Apply a bit. of opposite rudder to cancel the torque,” Foster said. King nodded. “The main thing is to keep your revs up and give yourself plenty of height,” Foster said. King nodded. “And no violent manoeuvres, no stunting.” King nodded. “And your crab sandwiches are under your seat,” Foster said. King nodded. Foster stopped and looked at him. King blinked, and smiled. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Foster said. “It’s not compulsory.” King nodded.
He took off without difficulty. It was the ropiest FE in the squadron, heavily patched and splinted, but the engine was sound. King loved the pusher-propeller arrangement. It was a thrill just to sit in the open and enjoy the rushing air and the panoramic view.
It took him forty painstaking minutes to climb, in wide and easy circles, to three thousand feet. This was the happiest moment of his life, and the shock was all the more severe when the engine coughed and faltered. King panicked. The engine spluttered. One petrol tank was empty; it was time to switch to another. Foster had warned him of this. A good pilot – even a mediocre pilot – would have had the sense to let the nose drop, let the aeroplane make its own speed. King clutched the joystick and the FE stalled. It fell sideways, clumsily, and dropped into a spin. King kept his frantic grip on the joystick. The FE went on spinning down, chucking its tail from side to side, until King felt as dizzy and breathless as if he were in a runaway fairground ride. He clung to the joystick like grim death.
Everyone stopped to watch the plane fall. Several batt
alions of infantry camped nearby saw it. So did a couple of squadrons of cavalry, and a unit of sappers, and some gunners. Not many French farmers looked up: they usually got on with their work and let the war go by. Still, King had the biggest audience of his brief life as his FE tumbled from the sky, twitching like a scrap of paper.
“Oh, Christ Almighty,” Foster said, in a voice like cracked leather. “What a waste.”
“Not your fault,” Cleve-Cutler told him.
They saw the FE hit the ground about a mile away. A second later the sound reached them. It was like a wooden hut collapsing. They saw flames, and then the bang of the exploding fuel tank made the windows rattle.
Cleve-Cutler stood and stared at the smoke. There was nothing he could do at the wreck, and in any case other men were already on their way to it. “I’ll write to the parents,” he said. “What was his name? King, wasn’t it?”
No reply. Foster had gone.
Five minutes later he found Foster in the anteroom, scribbling with chalk on the blackboard that normally carried Flying Orders for the day. Foster had cleaned the board and covered it with algebraic equations. He was still writing, writing so hard and so fast that bits of chalk went flying. He reached the edge of the board and stopped.
“Doesn’t add up,” he said. “I can’t make it add up.”
“That’s because it’s all junk, old boy,” Cleve-Cutler said.
Foster took a pace back. They examined the mass of algebraic nonsense for quite a long time. “Well, of course it’s junk,” Foster said. “That’s why it won’t add up! That’s the whole problem, don’t you see?”
Cleve-Cutler found a cloth and wiped the board clean.
“Come on, Frank,” he said. “I’ll buy you a nice big drink.”
One of the Buicks delivered Paxton back to Pepriac in good time for dinner. He sought out Kellaway and found him lying on the grass, watching a game of cricket. “Hullo!” he said. “Guess what?”
“The Kaiser’s had a baby,” Kellaway said without looking up.
War Story Page 22
