Not looking up, O’Neill said: “Then you’d better bloody hurry, hadn’t you?” It took Kellaway a few seconds to work out what he meant. He hurried out.
O’Neill grunted, and put his letter away. He watched Paxton brush his hair. “Jimmy Gordon was a lousy gunner,” he said. Paxton stopped brushing and looked. O’Neill had never spoken to him like that before. The words were as flat as ever but they were the beginning of something, not the end. “Oh, yes?” he said.
“Jimmy couldn’t think ahead. You get a Hun diving at you. Say he’s in front and a bit to the right. Coming down at two o’clock, say. No good aiming straight at him is it?”
“No. You’ve got to aim at where he’s going to be in the time it takes the bullets to reach him. He’s diving, so you aim ahead of him.”
O’Neill waited for more, and shook his head. “We’re dead,” he said.
Paxton stared. He could see that Hun; he could hear the hammering Lewis, follow the streaming tracer. “Aim a bit to his left, of course. To allow for our own speed. I mean, that’s bound to push the bullets to the right.”
“We’re still dead.”
Paxton finished brushing his hair. “Maybe the gun jammed,” he said lightly, and wished he hadn’t.
“He’s high, we’re low, you’re firing uphill. What about gravity?”
“Oh yes. Bullet-drop. Aim high to allow for bullet-drop. I took that for granted.” He picked up his cap and twirled it on his finger. “Coming to lunch?”
O’Neill didn’t move. “It only takes one bullet, you know,” he said. “You won’t even know it hit you.”
“True.” Paxton’s voice sounded thin. “Very true,” he said more confidently.
“You want a steady gun-platform. I can do it. I can fly straight and level. That’s perfect for you. It’s also perfect for the Hun. You miss him, and he’ll definitely kill us.”
Paxton cleared his throat. He could think of nothing to say.
“Now that Ross has gone, Gus Mayo’s the best gunner in the squadron,” O’Neill said. “For Christ’s sake go and talk to him”
“Right,” Paxton said.
Next day Frank Foster and Gus Mayo saw a trail of smoke at six thousand feet. It was being made by a Fokker monoplane with terrible engine trouble. The Fokker tried to dive to safety when it saw them but its wings got the shakes and it had to pull out. Foster cruised underneath it and Mayo shot it down. “You wouldn’t believe so much smoke could come out of such a little plane,” Mayo told Brazier. It was no great triumph. Certainly no cause for serving Hornet’s Sting.
Dando was awoken at three in the morning by the howling of an animal. It rose and fell with a regularity that would have been musical but for the desperation behind it.
Rain was drifting, making a soft, fine mist. Dando put on his boots and tunic and took an umbrella and a flashlight. He traced the sound to Captain Foster’s tent where the dog Brutus was making an unhappy noise. But the howling was coming from Foster, who was having a nightmare. His face glistened like wet marble, and his eyelids flickered non-stop.
Dando shook him awake and the howling died in a gasp of terror. Foster’s eyes were as clear and empty as a child’s. Dando kept talking, repeating their names, making reassuring noises while he lit a hurricane lamp. Foster’s head was drenched and his pyjamas were soaked. “I’m coming back,” Dando said. “Don’t get up.”
He roused Foster’s batman. They got Foster out of bed, stripped off the drenched pyjamas and towelled him dry. All the time he stood, shoulders slumped and knees wavering, with his mouth open and his eyes half-shut, and said nothing. Dando got fresh pyjamas on him while the batman changed his bedding. He was asleep before they got him into bed. Dando checked his pulse: it was bumping along like a cart on a stony lane. The batman had found half a bottle of rum. They each had a tot, and Dando gave Brutus a mouthful in a saucer for good luck.
At breakfast it was obvious to Dando that Foster remembered nothing of the night; he was good-humoured and seemed refreshed. Dando found an opportunity to tell Cleve-Cutler. “So what, old boy?” the CO said. “Half the squadron has nightmares. I have nightmares. Don’t you have nightmares?”
“No, sir.”
“Something wrong with you, then. Sometimes I wake up in the small hours and this camp sounds like Christians versus Lions. All quite normal.”
However, at lunchtime Foster bought Dando a drink and took him aside. “Was it you made Brutus squiffy?” he asked.
“Guilty.”
“Don’t do it again, old boy. You probably don’t know this, but there have been attempts to poison the poor hound.” Foster looked squarely into Dando’s eyes.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I’m surprised you find it necessary to ask.”
“Well, I’m a newcomer here, remember.”
Foster took a long look around the room. It was noisy and cheerful as it filled up for lunch. “You can tell them this from me. If they want to kill Brutus they’ll have to kill me first.”
Dando signalled for more drinks. “Do you have any particular person in mind?” he asked.
“Second-lieutenant Paxton,” Foster said.“I’ve been watching him. He enjoys killing. Well, I’ll enjoy killing him. I say, Paxton!” he called, and beckoned.
“I honestly don’t believe he means you any harm,” Dando said.
“Look here, Paxton,” Foster said, amiably,“you’ve got a reputation as something of a ladykiller. What?”
“Oh, not half. Why?”
“Somebody killed my girl in London. She cut her throat. Wondered if it was you.”
“Not me, old chap.”
“On your honour?” Now that it was obvious that Foster was mocking him, Paxton’s only reply was an uncomfortable smile. “No honour, you see. Paxton doesn’t really belong in this squadron,” Foster told Dando. “He’s a common tradesman. A merchant of death to home and industry.” And he winked. Dando noted the brittle glitter in his eyes, and wondered how much of it was drink.
In another part of the room, Gerrish was telling Tim Piggott: “I worked out where Jumbo’s idea went wrong. He was going to use the balloon crew as his shield while they parachuted down. But he was more or less directly above the balloon when he was shooting at it, so I reckon his bullets went straight through it and killed the crew in the basket, so they never had a chance to parachute. See?”
“Maybe there never was a crew,” Piggott said. “Maybe the basket was empty.”
“A decoy? Bit expensive, isn’t it?”
“Dunno. Look what they got: one FE, Jumbo, his observer. Or maybe it was just a test flight. Testing the balloon.”
Gerrish kicked a chair. “The old man said it was a lousy idea.”
“Got your replacements yet?”
“Arrived this morning. Pilot’s thirteen, observer’s twelve. Shout loudly and they burst into tears.”
Chapter 17
Somewhere a dam had burst. It was a huge dam, stuffed with thunder, and in its rush to escape, the thunder rolled over itself and made a double thunder, and then the double thunder exploded with a roar, and the roar swelled until the air was swamped with noise. Fifteen miles away, lying on O’Neill’s bed, Paxton thought the hut would collapse under the weight of noise. A pane of glass fell from a trembling window and shattered. He rolled off the bed just as O’Neill came in. “You’ve been signing my name on your mess chits, you prick,” O’Neill said, pitching his voice to penetrate the roar.
“Well, you’ve been signing mine on yours, you turd. What the hell is that?”
“Guns. They go bang. Didn’t you know?” He began rummaging in Paxton’s trunk. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much starch put in your shirts … Is this my bottle of rum?”
“I expect so.” Paxton was in the doorway, looking to the east. He expected to see a distant sign of such a colossal roar, but there was nothing. A few panicking pigeons clattered overhead. “Is this the Big Push?”
“Christ knows. Is
this my toothbrush?”
“I expect so.”
“Jesus … Can’t you get your own?”
“I did. You took it. How long will this last?”
O’Neill removed a bunch of coloured photographs from Paxton’s hand. “I wish to buggery you wouldn’t breathe on my naked ladies,” he grumbled. “And go and stink in your own pit.”
“It’s wonderful,” Paxton said. “Just listen. It’s superb. Isn’t it superb?”
“Get your bonnet on,” O’Neill said. “Let’s go and get some breakfast.”
They took off half an hour later, to cover a Quirk on a photographic patrol. All the squadron was in the air. Paxton was eager to see what the bombardment looked like but when they crossed the Front it was obscured by a drifting fog of smoke from the guns, and the enemy trenches were completely lost under a cloud of grey-brown dust, which occasionally gave birth to shapely puffballs when the heavy howitzers caused an unusual amount of damage. The barrage drowned out the FE’s engine. There was so much din that Paxton heard nothing. He thought he might have gone deaf, so he undid his flying helmet and peeled back a flap. His ears hurt. It was like being in the middle of a mob of angry blacksmiths He did up his helmet, fast. Behind the British Lines, gunflashes made a flickering stream of red and yellow that wandered to the north and faded into their own smoke. Paxton turned his head. Another stream wandered south, as bright as fireflies. Those guns have fired a thousand shells while I watched them, he thought. How magnificent! How stunning!
They rendezvoused with their Quirk and took care of it while it paraded up and down, infuriating the archie. If O’Neill held his course and height for thirty seconds the archie had a go at him, too. But this was not their day. The Quirk got its pictures and went home. O’Neill still had fuel. He climbed and searched further to the east.
There was nothing much to see: the odd speck, hopelessly remote and going away; the odd line of cloud, and not much of that. O’Neill decided to make a certain cloud his turning-point. It turned out to be big and sprawling, with a massive overhang that almost formed a cave. The shadow of the FE got there first by half a second and went flitting across the face of the cloud until he caught up with it and they charged into the near-cave and came out the other side as an Albatros came flying in. For an instant O’Neill’s stomach clenched as hard as stone because he knew their wings must hit. They flicked past each other. He slumped, forgot how to breathe, and recovered to find his arms and legs automatically stuffing the controls into a corner so as to drag the FE into a tight turn before the Albatros came back and cut it to pieces.
Paxton found it very entertaining. It was like sitting in the cinema, with unexpected pictures suddenly appearing and disappearing. The FE banked, and that was like sitting in a fairground ride, swinging in a circle that pressed you into your seat. Enormous fun. The tail of the Albatros crept into his vision. He screwed his head around. It was a dove-grey two-seater. The observer had the rear cockpit, and a cutaway in the top wing gave him a wide field of fire. Paxton saw him swing his gun, release a squirt of fire, and raise his head to check results. Missed by a mile.
That short stutter of bullets roused Paxton. He shoved himself forward and swung the Lewis to the side. Hopeless: with the FE in such a steep bank he was aiming at the ground. He sat on the cockpit floor and aimed as high as possible. Still too low. A ten-round burst went nowhere near the Albatros. He shouted at O’Neill and shook the Lewis. O’Neill saw, but he held the FE in this tail-chasing turn, the wings almost vertical. O’Neill had his own problems.
The Albatros carried a machine gun in its nose, synchronised to fire through the prop. At least he was pretty sure it did. The FE had a nose gun. First plane to get behind the other would score. So each pilot hauled his machine into the tightest of circles. With the planes banked on their wingtips, each observer was trying to fire above his head and it couldn’t be done. The gun fittings made it impossible. O’Neill could flatten his turn and give Paxton a shot, but only at the cost of slackening the circle and letting the Albatros catch him.
So round and round they went.
Paxton got back on his seat. He wondered if he could unfix the Lewis and fire it from his shoulder. Unlikely. He took out his Service revolver and blazed away at the enemy, hanging perpetually opposite him. He might have been firing blanks for all the difference it made.
O’Neill worried about fuel. He worried about it so much that he failed to notice a stubby little German biplane arrive overhead. It flew up and down, apparently intrigued by the scene below. Paxton saw it, and pointed. There was nothing O’Neill could do except curse, so he cursed. After a while he lost sight of it. There was nothing he could do about that, either.
The stubby Hun had vanished because he had decided to interfere. Perhaps he thought the Albatros needed rescuing. More likely he thought the FE was easy meat. His plan of attack was simple. He would approach, straight and level, until the FE, tipped on its side and presenting a large target, flew into his sights.
This happened and he opened fire and that was that. Half his bullets missed, two or three splashed against the case of the Beardmore, and several holed the nacelle or the canvas wings. These last bullets kept going, of course, and a cluster of them found the tailplane of the Albatros, whose pilot abruptly found his machine threshing about and trying to fly crabwise. The tail-chase was over. Paxton saw the Albatros wandering into his sights and he gave it a burst. O’Neill saw a collision dead ahead and kicked the FE until it reversed its turn and sheered off. The next time he saw the Albatros it was far below and diving hard. The stubby little Hun had disappeared. Very wise, O’Neill thought. Forget it ever happened. He flew home, carefully, counting the bullet-holes. He could see fifteen. The mechanics later found another twelve.
“Bloody lucky,” O’Neill said.
“Piss off, Bunny.” Paxton showed him the heel of his left flying boot, shot through and flapping loose. “Bloody Huns can’t shoot straight. “
O’Neill tried to undo a button but he couldn’t make his fingers work. “You don’t take it seriously, do you?” he said. “It’s all just a game, isn’t it?”
“As long as we win, Bunny.” Paxton wrinkled his nose and undid the button for him. “Who cares? Just listen to those guns!”
The opening barrage had lasted an hour and ten minutes. It subsided to a perpetual thunder. For weeks the London papers had been predicting a big new offensive. Well, everyone knew now where it would be. The mood at Pepriac was optimistic. The Hun was taking a tremendous battering, the sun was out and the Chinks had finished digging the swimming pool.
Most of the squadron strolled over to look. It was a very big hole, brimful of water from a diverted stream. “Bet you haven’t got anything like that back in Grand Rapids,” Mayo said to Stubbs.
“Awesome is the word for it,” Stubbs said. “Truly awesome.”
“No, I think wet is the word,” Ogilvy said. “Where’s Charlie? He was at Cambridge.”
Essex tossed in a small stone. “Liquid,” he said. There was a round of applause. “Or maybe fluid,” he added.
Mayo said: “I think Pax should declare it open. After all, it was his idea.”
“Who, me?” Paxton said.
“Brilliant.” Mayo pushed him in. Stubbs pushed Mayo in. After that everyone got pushed in until only Charlie Essex was left. They all got out and chased him and caught him and threw him in. He couldn’t swim, and it was a few moments before Spud Ogilvy remembered this, so they had to fish him out and hold him head-down to empty him. But it was an excellent pool and there was no need to wear trunks. Paxton felt the hot sun on his wet skin and looked about him at the leaping, splashing bodies. Comradeship, he thought. That’s what this war is all about.
“Nothing was happening,” Tim Piggott said. “That’s the funny thing. We were in the middle of a patrol, no Huns, no nothing. And I got this sudden overwhelming impulse.”
“Well … perhaps not quite overwhelming,” the padre said. “Ot
herwise you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”
“If I hadn’t been strapped in I wouldn’t be here now. I tell you, padre, the urge to climb out of the cockpit and walk away was enormous. Irresistible. All right, nearly irresistible.”
“This may seem a silly question.” the padre said,”but where did you think you were going?”
“Nowhere. Just… away, I suppose. Away.”
They were sitting in the padre’s room. The guns rumbled like a passing train that never passed.
“I would suggest a spot of leave, but…”
“I’ve already had a spot of leave. Hated it. Ended up in London, getting drunk. Came back a day early.”
The padre chewed on his lower lip for such a long time that Piggott grew worried that he might draw blood.
“I promised myself I’d stop doing this,” the padre said,”but evidently my will is weak. Take the Bible, shut your eyes, let it fall open wherever it will, place your finger on the page, see what verse you get.”
“Rather like using a pin to find a winner.” Piggott followed instructions and opened his eyes. “Ecclesiastes, nine, verse ten. ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.’”
“I say! That’s pretty snappy, isn’t it?”
Piggott read it again, silently. “Life is better than death,” he said. “That’s what it boils down to.”
“Yes indeed. And personally I find it very encouraging. I must admit I was beginning to despair … But what’s your opinion?”
“If it wins, I’ll back it,” Piggott said.
Someone had changed the soap in the Chinese bathroom. Now it had a delicate scent of lemons. The towels were crisp and thick, and had snarling red dragons woven into them.
Evidently she was giving a party. The terrace and the rooms opening onto it were full of talk, laughter, music. Paxton guessed there were fifty officers, all young, and half as many nurses, all pretty. You could drink champagne, or champagne. Everyone was drinking champagne. Chinese lanterns hung all around the terrace and never mind the blackout.
War Story Page 28
