War Story

by Derek Robinson

  O’Neill went through the overcast and into a new world where the cloud was as white and smooth as linen and the sky had the huge, friendly blueness that gave heaven a good name. Paxton blinked with approval a few times and then got down to the business of hunting Huns.

  O’Neill took them up so high that cold began to seep like a stain through the flying gear, and Paxton couldn’t believe he had ever been hot and sweaty. He loosened his straps and moved about, working his body as he searched. After an hour he was tired and all they had seen was a couple of British Nieuports and a Vickers Gun Bus. Paxton waved as they passed and hoped they would go away.

  He no longer heard the engine-roar and the wind-rush. The FE seemed not to be moving. It hung in space, occasionally leaning one way or the other. He had eaten his chocolate. He was chilled and he had cramp in his right buttock. The whole silly afternoon was a wash-out. He was glad when O’Neill turned towards the sun and began to lose height. That way lay steaming hot baths and drinks before dinner. The FE stopped its gentle dive and began climbing, hard. Paxton, irritated, looked around and saw O’Neill pointing to the left and high, almost vertically.

  It had to be an enemy machine. Only an enemy would be falling so far, so fast. Paxton fumbled for his binoculars and before he got them out he knew it was too late to use them. Already he could make out details: a biplane, sleeker than most, glossy purple, with a snout-like exhaust poking straight up. O’Neill had turned to face it, but his climb was so much flatter than the enemy’s dive that Paxton had to crouch to get it in his sights. He tested the Lewis, saw a round of tracer fall away, remembered that he was firing upwards, must allow for that. Now the Hun seemed to be accelerating, quite startlingly: Paxton had the impression of adjusting the view through binoculars and making it rush closer. He saw propdisc, undercarriage, tailplane. When he could see the wingstruts he would open fire. He saw the struts and fired, and his tracer passed tracer jetting from the nose of the Hun, and he edged his fire down and saw it washing and wandering all around the Hun while a magnificently destructive banging hammered in his ears, and he was remotely aware of the enemy tracer flickering past, missing him, harmless, and the target was big, unmissable, perfect and suddenly it was snatched from view because the FE had been flung aside. “You bastard!” he shouted. “Gutless bastard!” He dropped the Lewis and snatched a flare pistol from its clip, swung around to face O’Neill and fell off his seat when the FE banked even more steeply. Paxton fired. He was halfsprawled in a corner of the cockpit, left arm hooked around his seat. The flare was red, a hot brick-red, and it raged across O’Neill’s cockpit and streaked between the struts of the left wing like a slice of a furnace. O’Neill threw up an arm: too late: it had missed him. But Paxton tasted joy. The red blaze of the flare matched his rage at O’Neill for cheating him of his kill. The FE heaved itself from one bank to the other. Paxton tumbled with it, got his boots against the side, stood, hurled the pistol at O’Neill, missed by a yard. O’Neill didn’t even duck. He was pointing dead ahead. The FE levelled out and Paxton saw the Hun, half a mile away, turning to attack. He fell over his feet getting to the Lewis.

  Big black crosses outlined in white, on deep purple shimmering to silky green: the enemy looked as pretty as a butterfly. It made its turn and became a sharp silhouette. This was going to be a simple, head-on attack, both machines at the same height. He just had time to rip off the half-empty drum and bang on a full one. Flame was flickering in the nose of the Hun like impossibly rapid Morse. Paxton aimed, squeezed, revelled in the battering, stammering racket. The enemy propeller-disc shattered in a whirl of fragments and he lowered his aim as the Hun lost speed and sank. He could see the pilot’s head. Strikes sparkled around it. Everything magnified as if the plane were being inflated and then it exploded and was gone.

  O’Neill hauled the FE up to escape the whirling debris. By the time he had circled, there was only a fading smudge of black smoke and a handful of bits of aeroplane already well on their way down. Paxton leaned out and watched them until they hit the cloud. It really is like bursting a balloon, he thought. Just like bursting a balloon.

  Cleve-Cutler and Tim Piggott were watching the last of the afternoon patrols return. They saw O’Neill and Paxton land. They saw them get out, and they saw O’Neill kick Paxton and Paxton punch O’Neill and both men go down in a wild tangle. By the time they had strolled over to the fight it had lost almost all momentum through sheer exhaustion. “Give these gentlemen my compliments,” Cleve-Cutler said to the fitter,”and ask them to meet me in my office as soon as they can bear to be separated.”

  Cleve-Cutler sat behind his desk, looking even jauntier than usual. Piggott leaned against the door. Paxton and O’Neill stood as far apart as possible. They were still in flying kit. Paxton’s face was white where his goggles had been and black around the mouth and chin from the blow-back of the Lewis. O’Neill’s face was rubbed green with grass-stain.

  “I don’t care who starts,” Cleve-Cutler said.

  “Fucking maniac tried to kill me,” O’Neill said. “Tried to kill himself too. I don’t mind that, he can kill himself any time he likes, I’ll hold his coat.” All his Australian accent had vanished.

  “How, when and where?”

  “Right in the middle of a scrap with a Halberstadt. Two seconds after the Hun finished having a go at us, this fucking maniac turned round and had a go at me. With a flare pistol. Just missed me, just missed the propeller, just missed setting fire to the wing, just missed doing the Hun’s job for him.”

  “Missed?” Piggott said. “How could he miss? He was only three feet away from you.”

  “He was crashing about like a drunk in a knocking-shop. So was the bus, come to that.”

  Cleve-Cutler asked: “Why did he fire the flare pistol at you?”

  O’Neill threw his gauntlets on the floor. “He didn’t like the way I flew the aeroplane,” he said.

  “Oh!” Paxton said. Cleve-Cutler looked. Paxton gazed back, and then let his gaze fall and his shoulders slump. “Sorry, sir. I shouldn’t interrupt.”

  “Too late now.” Cleve-Cutler waved him on.

  “Well, sir … I mean, he doesn’t half tell a lot of whoppers.”

  “Such as.”

  “Well, I never did any such thing.”

  Cleve-Cutler turned to O’Neill. “The accused declares that he did not utter the words alleged.”

  “No, no, no,” Paxton said fast,”I mean I never fired any flare pistol at anyone.”

  “You … lying little bastardl” O’Neill heaved himself forward but Piggott jumped between the two men and checked him. “He tried to shoot me!” he shouted. “He wanted to put that bloody flare straight through me!” The mask had gone. O’Neill was furious and it showed.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Paxton said. He licked his upper lip, which was split and bleeding. “I don’t think observers should go around shooting their pilots, not in the sky anyway. You need someone to drive you home, don’t you?”

  Cleve-Cutler looked at Piggott. “What would you say, Tim?”

  “It’s always been the generally accepted idea.”

  “He’s a fucking maniac,” O’Neill growled. “He wants to kill everyone.”

  Paxton cocked his head, as if he had heard a distant voice. “Not everyone, surely. The odd Hun, perhaps.” He began to smile at O’Neill and hurt his split lip. “Ow!” he said. “Mustn’t do that.”

  “Well, you got one Hun today,” Cleve-Cutler said.

  “Yes, thanks to O’Neill. He got close enough for me to apply the finishing touches. He did all the hard work.”

  “You prick,” O’Neill said. “You piss-poor lump of shit.”

  “I sense here a difference of opinion,” Cleve-Cutler said.

  “Hey!” Piggott said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we take a look at the pistol? Then we can see if it’s been fired or not.”

  “I lost it,” Paxton said. “Awfully sorry.”

  “Lost
it? How the hell did you come to lose it?”

  “Dropped it over the side. I took it out to make sure it was loaded and suddenly the plane sort of went over sideways and before I knew it… Goodbye pistol.” He grimaced. “Didn’t want to mention it. I mean, a chap feels such a juggins.”

  Piggott sniffed. “Well, you’ll have to pay for it, that’s all.”

  “Bollocks,” O’Neill grunted. “All bollocks.”

  “What about the way O’Neill flies the aeroplane?” Cleve-Cutler asked.

  “I think he’s jolly brave,” said Paxton. “When the Hun’s coming at us he holds the plane absolutely straight and level so I can get the best possible shot. I’m frightfully lucky to have a pilot like that.”

  Cleve-Cutler nodded to himself, slowly and at length. “Buzz off, both,” he said. They went out.

  “Well,” Piggott said. He scratched his head.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Cleve-Cutler said.

  “D’you think he tried to shoot him?”

  “I’m sure he did. Have you ever seen Frank in such a bate? Eyes like headlamps.”

  “Then he was right. Paxton’s crazy.”

  Cleve-Cutler tugged at his left ear. “Um,” he said. “Ah. Well, now. He was crazy then, up there, for a little while. He’s not crazy now, is he?”

  “No, but he’s a bloody liar, isn’t he?”

  Cleve-Cutler laughed and laughed. “That was damn good, wasn’t it? I must say I enjoyed that. He’s pure animal, is our Paxton. Half blood-lust and half low cunning, all wrapped up in the old school tie.” The thought made him laugh again. “What a shocker. I wish I had more like him.”

  Paxton and O’Neill kept well apart on the way to the pilots’ hut. As they were getting changed, O’Neill said: “You’re not a sodding juggins. You’re a halfwit. All you had to do was say that flare pistol got lost through enemy action, and they’d have given you another one, free.”

  “It’s something called honesty,” Paxton said. “You wouldn’t understand. “

  They said nothing until they met the adjutant to report on the patrol. O’Neill gave a fairly detailed account of the fight; he identified the enemy as a Halberstadt D II single-seater, one gun synchronised to fire through the propeller arc. The way it disintegrated in the second attack, just blew apart, made him believe that its fuel tanks were punctured and an incendiary bullet touched a stream of vapour. Good pilot. Determined.

  “Anything to add?” Brazier asked Paxton.

  “Only to say what a pleasure and a delight O’Neill’s company has been, and how I look forward—” O’Neill punched him on the side of the head, a slog of a blow that hurt the hand as much as the head. Brazier cried,”I say, there! Now come along!” Paxton swung a fist wildly and blindly and hit O’Neill in the stomach. Then they were whacking and slamming at each other, usually missing, until Brazier grabbed them by the collars and dragged them apart. He hoisted them onto their toes and gave them a good shake. It was an astonishing feat of strength. Paxton’s teeth were rattling, and O’Neill’s hands were flopping as if his wrists were broken. “Now listen here!” Brazier shouted. He gave them a good flourish to gain their attention, and blood sprayed from O’Neill’s nose. “That sort of thing’s not on! You’re not at home now. I’ll have no brutality in this camp. Cut it out or I’ll take on the pair of you and beat you to a bloody pulp.” He tossed them aside.

  O’Neill went to the mess for a drink. Paxton went to his billet and got cleaned up. Then he went to see Piggott. On his way there, three people congratulated him on his kill. He asked Piggott’s permission to go into Amiens for a couple of hours. “Yes, yes, by all means, go, for Christ’s sake get out before you start another fight,” Piggott said. On his way to borrow a motorcycle, Paxton was congratulated by four more people. Several others waved as he rode out of camp. He never knew he had so many friends.

  Chapter 16

  There was nobody on the lake, and the tennis courts were empty. The grounds were empty, too. The further he rode up the drive the emptier everything looked. It was a drab, lifeless evening and when he glimpsed a corner of the house it seemed big and unfriendly. What if Mr Kent Haffner met him? He lost his nerve and turned back and rode fast to the entrance gates. The old man who had opened them to let him in emerged from the lodge and opened them to let him out. Paxton sat on the bike with his feet on the gravel and counted the pounding heartbeats. What was he afraid of? A middleaged American diplomat? We reposing especial Trust and Confidence in your Loyalty, Courage and good Conduct … So what the dickens was he afraid of? He revved the engine. It backfired and the old man jumped. He was afraid of meeting Judy, of course. Afraid she might not like him this time. How feeble! He turned the bike again and roared back up the drive.

  His heart was still thumping and thudding when a maid showed him into the library. He felt slightly giddy, and when he saw Judy Kent Haffner wrestling with another young officer he felt ill. They were sitting on a sofa and they were flushed and breathless with laughter. “You’re a cheat and a stinker,” she said, gasping, and pushed the man away. “David’s going to thrash you. Aren’t you, David?”

  “Within an inch of his life.” Paxton was impressed by his voice: he sounded calm and easy. They had been playing backgammon. It was all just fun. He ordered up a smile and walked across the room as if he walked across rooms every day. She stood and tossed her hair back and kissed him on the lips. It came as a shock. He never knew girls tasted so good. “Goodness, you’re all dusty! Anne-Marie …” The maid was still there. “Show Mr. Paxton to the Chinese bathroom.”

  When he came back, looking pink and smelling of jasmine, the other man had gone. She took both his hands and led him onto the terrace. “You saved me from a dreadful fate,” she said. “I was getting whopped, absolutely whopped. Now tell me, how is the war going? You’ll stay for dinner, you must, otherwise I shall be miserably lonely and probably shoot myself between the fish and the meat, which is a very painful place to get shot, and where the hell have you been all this time?”

  “Fighting the foe.”

  Still holding his hands, she took a step back and studied him At first he went slightly red but then he asked himself what he had to be ashamed of? Nothing. All his mother’s friends said he was goodlooking. So he turned no more than slightly red and he looked straight back at her. It was a wonderfully enjoyable experience.

  “Do you still have your marvellous machine-gun?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And am I going to find out how long it is?”

  “No. Military secret.”

  “You’re my hero.”

  They walked to the rose garden, where the air was heavy with scent. “You know, we ought to be able to eat roses,” she said. “Look at that one: pure rich cream. And here’s one like the flesh of a peach.”

  “I heard about a breed of wild deer that eats roses non-stop. Just the flowers.”

  “Clever animal.”

  “My aunt doesn’t think so. She breeds roses.”

  “Silly woman! I’d love to be a deer.”

  “Would you? Can you jump?”

  She picked a lemon-yellow rose and twirled it. “I jumped for my living,” she said. “You can get a free show, if you like.”

  She took him into the house, to a small ballroom, empty of furniture. “Be a sweety and put something on the gramophone.”

  He wound the machine and was startled to see her kick off her shoes and pull her dress over her head. She was wearing the tightest bathing-costume he had ever seen. He had never known that girls’ legs were so long and so beautiful. “Golly!” he said. “You look absolutely …” He took a huge breath.

  “Yes, well, ballet dancers are supposed to look absolutely and that’s what I was before I got married. You never saw one of these before? Leotard.” She was bending and stretching. “I like to practise every day. Come on: music, music!”

  He put on a record: Bizet’s Carmen. She was right, she co
uld jump. And she flexed like rubber. He kept changing records and learning things he had never suspected about the way women were shaped, until suddenly she stopped dancing and sat in the middle of the room, gasping for breath. “Why does everything beautiful,” she asked,”hurt so much? Don’t try to answer. Come and talk while I bathe.”

  He followed her to yet another bathroom, where she went behind a screen of smoked glass. Paxton sat in a cane chair and watched her blurred shape while he talked about life at Pepriac. He had never before been in the same room with an utterly, totally naked woman, and when he thought about it he got peculiar aches just behind his ears, so he tried not to think. That was impossible. Why does everything beautiful hurt so much? At last she came out, wearing a towelling robe. “Want a bath?” she said.

  “Um … Not at the moment, thanks.”

  “I’ll scrub your back.”

  Now he knew he was being teased. “I have a batman who does that for me,” he said.

  Dinner was excellent. Baked stuffed mushrooms, buttered whitebait, tournedos Rossini, strawberries with kirsch. Lots of wine. They talked about trivialities until she ate her last strawberry and said “Tell me about the war.”

  He drank more wine while he thought what he ought to say. “Don’t think,” she said,”just say what you feel.”

  It was a challenge. “All right. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, especially not the other chaps, because they’d—”