“Did you know that a nom de plume is a borrowed name? It says so in this dictionary one of the pilots gave me. Why would someone want to borrow a name?”
“Guns tested?”
“Yeah, did it while you were still dreaming of Ruby.”
At last the sun peeked shyly from behind a dark cloud and the wet leaves of the beech trees glistened and floundered in a small breeze. A flock of starlings dipped and fluttered in unison from a small copse to search for the first meal of the day. Another ten minutes passed. Thomas checked the time on his pocket watch and looked across the airfield. As usual, Sergeant Bull was precisely on time. And jumping from the driver’s seat of the five-ton armoured lorry mounted with a Vickers naval gun he approached the fox hole. After a detailed check of the Vickers machine-gun he snatched the dictionary from Stan’s hand.
“You’re on duty, Banks. If you want to read you should have joined a library and not the army,” he snapped angrily, leaving Stan glaring after him as he bobbed towards the lorry and drove away.
“Sometimes he gets on my bloody tits,” Stan grumbled.
Thomas ignored the complaint and searched the sky for any sign of German intruders. Stan placed his thumb on one of his black front teeth and jerked it back and forth.
“I reckon I’ve got the makings of toothache,” he said. “Do you reckon there’s a dentist in the village?”
“A dentist? You need a bloody coalminer to remove one of your teeth.”
“Arseholes.”
Thomas grinned and shaded his eyes with his hands. At first it looked like a speck on the horizon. Then as the seconds passed by it grew larger and became a dot of red and white in the Wedgewood-blue sky. Stan looked up then made a dive for the gun and pulled the cocking lever into position like he’d been taught. Thomas knelt with the canvas ammunition belt resting in the palm of his hands, ready to feed in two-hundred-and-fifty rounds of .303 bullets every thirty seconds.
“Aircraft approaching!” Stan roared, ringing the heavy brass warning bell.
With his thumbs pressed ready against the firing buttons he watched through expectant eyes as the shape drew closer, weaving from side-to-side and reducing height as it approached. Then he saw the large black menacing crosses painted on each wingtip and on the side of the fuselage.
“Come on, come on, just a little nearer, you murdering bastard, I’m waiting,” he whispered loudly.
Thomas remained still, like a statue, keeping his eyes firmly on the ammunition belt. The moment it expired he would feed in another, the way Sergeant Bull had taught him. Don’t rush, lad, keep it quick and easy. A jammed gun’s no use to anyone, the sergeant had said, and Sergeant Bull never told lies. Stan’s thumbs pressed down on the buttons and the rapid chatter of outgoing hot metal tore towards the oncoming aircraft. As he fired the vibration sent his helmet slipping forward over his eyes. He leaned his head back to prevent it obstructing his line of vision. Thomas began to laugh as Stan jerked his head first one way and then the other like an Eastern belly dancer might as he fought to regain his line of sight.
The orange flashes from the aircraft wiped the smile from his face as a stream of bullets danced and spurted towards their fox hole. Something tugged the cuff of Thomas’s uniform and he felt his boot knocked to one side, and then with a great rush it was upon them, the engine squealing and roaring like a hundred maddened banshees, the shadow, like a great passing bird, blocked out the sun. Then it was gone, winging its way to the safety of the drifting clouds. Stan stared angrily into the bottom of his helmet with the strap entangled round his ears.
“Fucking thing!” he roared, and madder than a sack of snakes he threw the helmet out of the fox hole. “It’s about as much use as a leaking kettle in a drought.”
The hole in Thomas’s cuff showed where a bullet had missed his hand by a fraction of an inch, and the heel of his boot had been shot off, taking part of the sole with it.
Later they stood and clapped when the squadron returned, smiling at Lieutenant Singh as he jump off the wing of his Sopwith wearing an oversized flying helmet over his turban.
“Oh dear, dear!” he exclaimed. “I’ve had such a wonderful time up there today.”
All of a sudden, for only a fleeting moment, it didn’t feel like a war any more. It was unreal and amusing. With a quizzical grin on his face Thomas watched the pilots laughing and joking. It was as if they had just spent the evening down the Bull and Bush playing darts for half pints.
Outside the air hung still and silent, the only sound to prick his ears coming from the ever present dampened thump of the guns somewhere far away on the front line. In the wooden hut Thomas sank onto his bed and for the first time in months recalled his vow of death. Why he allowed the mental process to cogitate he failed to understand, and in a daze attempted to dismiss the thought from his mind, yet like always it persisted. Most nights he summed up the strength and courage to push away the torment Archie heaped upon him without the slightest hint of mercy. For a time it felt as if the agony had diminished. Perhaps he thought Archie’s eternal quest for revenge was at last fading
News of the Germans’ retreat to the Hindenburg line meant the Germans were losing the war, particularly with the advent of the American presence. His newly-found courage deserted him and steadily the horror of existence after the war built up in his mind, the once almost forgotten flames of his extinction fanned his imagination. He must die, he must keep his promise. Like an eternal curse the lifeless face of Archie sprang into his mind, his eyes empty and staring, his lips cold and blue and his neck swathed in a deep open gash held only by threads of dried skin. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut and again struggled against the overriding burden of guilt flowing through his veins like lava from a volcano. Now, after all he had been through why couldn’t the past sever itself from the shackles of his soul?
On 1 April 1918, The Flying Corps were awarded the title Royal Air Force and pilots celebrated as much as Major Billy would allow. Completely fascinated by their attitude, and realising they were mainly upper-class former schoolboys with an insatiable zest for life on the ground as well as a complete disregard of danger in the air, Thomas enquired why they never used parachutes.
“Ah, now there’s a question,” Pilot Officer Daniel said. “The beggars seem to think we will abandon the fight too early and jump, the saucy bounders. Damn airplanes are only made of wood wrapped in Irish linen and take off and land on pram wheels. I say, why don’t you let me take you up for a spin? We’ve got a few twin-seaters, and I’m sure the major wouldn’t mind too much. Be here after lunch about half-past one.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed and he nervously rubbed his hands up and down the sides of his legs, “I’d like that,” he said.
“Bloody hell,” Stan Banks said, growing pale in the face. “You’ve got some nerve going up in one of those death contraptions.”
Moses winced and feeling unsure of Thomas’s motives watched him with suspicious eyes. He was aware that front-seat gunners often fell out of the aircraft when the pilots were forced to take evasive action. Thomas pulled on flying boots and a flying helmet and climbed into the front cockpit of the Bristol F26, known with affection as the Biff. Daniel smiled when he saw the Mauser rifle in his hands.
Suddenly Thomas felt the surge of an animal instinct for self-preservation, and gritting his teeth forced his eyes to remain open. Already he regretted his foolhardy decision and apprehension leapt into his heart tormenting his imagination. The flimsy aircraft bounced and rocked over the airfield as though it were ready to collapse and judder into a thousand pieces, leaving him lying broken and helpless. He gripped the sides of the cockpit with white-knuckled hands as though to hold the aircraft in one piece, convinced that the machine would never leave the ground. Suddenly, the bouncing ceased and for a moment he thought they had stopped in the middle of take-off.
He sighed with relief when the aircraft rose smoothly over the treetops, below the ground pulled away at an angle his brain failed
to comprehend. A cold wind pulled at his face muscles distorting his features and he closed his mouth to catch his breath. He relaxed his grip and peeked cautiously over the side. It felt good, different, better than a fun ride at a fairground.
Over the trenches of the Western Front he looked down on men that looked like slow-moving ants. Huge field guns stood like toys in a row and the trenches resembled a maze of furrows ploughed by a loose horse and plough. He smiled with pleasure when the plane banked and dropped away to port, turning his stomach over and over on the descent to the safety of Mother Earth. When Daniel gunned the engines open and pulled back on the stick, the machine responded magnificently nosing up into the clouds, forcing him down into the seat. His smile grew wider and he wanted to laugh out loud, he wanted people to see him looking down on a flock of starlings flying below him. The plane banked and the world opened out as they passed through vapours of drifting clouds, he raised his hand to wipe away the moisture from his goggles obstructing his view. Finally he released his feelings and screeched with childish delight as the ground rushed towards him as they approached the airfield. He waved madly at anyone watching when they skimmed over the buildings and zoomed out of sight to gain altitude.
Suddenly, without question or condemnation, he released his grip and placed his hands on his lap. His saliva turned bitter and sour in his mouth, and solemn faced he waited for the aircraft to bank one more time allowing him the opportunity to slither from the seat and plummet to the earth below. Now would be a good time to end his life. Suddenly, from across the sun he saw the black spot, like an approaching bird growing larger. For a moment he felt a tinge of dread and again his hands reached out and gripped the sides of the aircraft. He watched the spot draw closer then gain altitude and circle overhead like a menacing bird of prey, the black crosses on the wing tips and fuselage turned his dread to naked fear.
Without warning, Daniel banked away to the port and started to climb to meet his adversary head on. Panic clawed at Thomas’s senses. He grabbed at the machine-gun mounted in front of him as the air became filled with tracer bullets. Daniel pulled back on the stick, and with the engine screaming in protest Thomas felt himself forced back into his seat and struggled to control the mounted machine-gun. At last his fingers hovered over the firing buttons and he fired two short bursts, he pressed again, nothing. His guns jammed, here he was, a novice in the art of aerial warfare, then feeling cold yet perfectly calm he reached for his rifle and rested it on the fuselage.
The German aircraft, black and venomous, whizzed over their heads and banked, then turned to face them just below their flight line. Daniel, realising Thomas’s intentions for a split second held his line, and at two hundred yards Thomas raised the rifle, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The German pilot jerked back and looked around him as if expecting to see a second aircraft, then slumped forward. The nose of the aircraft dropped, and cart-wheeling and spinning out of control headed down out of control.
Daniel circled overhead and watched the aircraft smash into the ground then explode into a ball of orange fire. With a grim smile he pulled back on the stick, climbed and turned eastward.
Thomas eased his near-freezing body from the cockpit and fell to his knees as the young pilots surged towards him, offering their congratulations.
“I say old chap, damned fine piece of musketry that.”
“Just a lucky shot,” he stammered.
He spent some time struggling to right his mind and failed to understand their excited emotions at what he’d just achieved: one dead German. In the trenches he’d killed twenty in a quarter of the time. Nevertheless, the kill was attributed to him and his name was entered in the squadrons’ records book for eternity as having shot down an enemy aircraft. When he finally found himself alone he sneered with a barely suppressed anger. He had just allowed the best opportunity of ending his life to pass him by. He had been ready to jump from the aircraft, until the untimely event of the German turning up to scupper his plans. There was no way he could have left Mullins to the mercy of the enemy aircraft.
It was a mild evening when he left with Moses, Atlas and Stan Banks to celebrate his notoriety in the air in the small village on the edge of the airfield. The countryside basked in drowsiness. Overhead the sky hung soft pink with flounces of gold and pale blue. As they walked Sergeants Bull’s words of a new life in Canada filtered through his mind. A new beginning away from the horror of war, he had said. Perhaps it might work for him.
At the inn they would often take a drink and sing bawdy songs with anyone present, including the locals who never missed the opportunity of a free drink, and he would sit quietly in the corner and sip lemon water. It was the happiest any of them had been during their time on the front, a cushy number, they called it. Clean, dry clothes, three hot meals each day, and a real bed to sleep on. They even dared to hope that they might see out the war on the airfield. Major Billy seemed happy with their input and Atlas gave him lessons on how to be a crack shot with a rifle. He’d taken on Stan a couple of times to no avail and took his defeats in good spirits. When Moses offered him advice he quickly declined without giving a reason and walked away, leaving Moses staring angrily after him. Yet, still Thomas couldn’t completely escape from the haunting appearances of Archie. Like the moon, he came at night, jeering and taunting as the noose swayed and threatened in his hand.
“If I should die,” he said to Moses, while the others were getting drunk and throwing horseshoes at a metal spike stuck into the ground, “what would happen to everything I own? My money and my pocket watch for instance?”
“It would go to your next of kin, unless you make out a will,” Moses said, looking at him from the corner of his eye. “Why, you are not thinking of doing something stupid again are you?”
“I don’t have a next of kin, so I’m going to make out a will and leave everything I own to you. I have thought about this often, it’s what I want,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t talk about such things, I don’t want to hear it,” Moses said sharply.
From the corner of his eye he watched Thomas and wondered what had prompted him to ask the question.
“No, I want to. You are the nearest thing I have to family now. I can never return home, I trusted you to keep my secret and you did. And anyway, you are my best friend, along with Stan. I’ve decided.”
And that was that. Moses knew that once Thomas made up his mind about anything, nothing would shake him into changing it, so he remained silent. Eventually growing tired of throwing horseshoes, Moses, Stan and Les Hill joined a group of off duty pilots inside the inn. Thomas remained alone outside deep in thought.
The distant drone of the three approaching aircraft did nothing to necessitate their attention. Aircraft took off and landed at short intervals throughout the day while starting or ending missions. The first bomb erupted, lifting Thomas clean over a low slate wall. Clambering to his feet he saw the black German crosses on the wingtips. The second and third bombs crashed into the wood-framed inn sending up a mass of red and orange flames licking avidly at the falling dusk and lighting up the sky. Thomas hesitated for a split second and with a seemingly scant concern for his own safety rushed into the inferno of flames and choking smoke. He saw Moses first, and heaving him onto his shoulder staggered out and left him gasping for air on the damp grass.
Inside the burning inn Stan Banks felt the flames attack his body and groped at thin air while searching for the exit, Thomas grabbed his arm and led him outside then returned into the inferno. Beneath a pile of burning timbers he found Atlas lying with his eyes closed and stared at the blood pumping from his body where a wooden beam had impaled his chest. All around flames licked at the charred remains of men caught leaning on the bar before the explosion. He looked down at his burning trousers and in a panic began slapping furiously at the greedy flames rapidly spreading over his uniform.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was only a misty vague outline surrounding the distorted and haz
y features of what might have been either man or woman. The charred body jerked at each recurring prick of pain as though he’d fallen into a pit of wriggling porcupines. It did not scream or remonstrate, and suddenly without reserve it knew it was a woman because she was gentle, like his mother, so he retained a vision of his mother and allowed it to settle in his mind.
“Hello, Archie, my name is Rose, Nurse Rose,” she said in a soft voice, pushing a wisp of straggly hair back inside her fresh linen headdress. “I’m going to attempt to cut away the burnt clothing from your body. It will be very painful, so if you want me to stop, just nod your head.”
She sounded distant and detached, yet the precision of her words gave him a feeling of great comfort, and if he had been in a position to relax he would willingly have done so. He couldn’t see the helplessness pitched in her caring eyes, nor the unrelenting pain that cruelly clutched and twisted at her insides. Ever since the doctors had surreptitiously placed him in her care the warring conflict of uncertainty flooded her ever-mounting doubts for his survival, and she didn’t know where to begin. It was that simple. Twenty months she’d spent on the front and she thought she had seen all the pain and suffering that the damnable war had to offer and that nothing again could ever be worse. But she had never seen anything like the shape before her and for a fleeting moment despair conquered hope. She had never been witness to a living cinder.
Her breath smelt of fresh coffee, warm and reassuring like the comforting drift of a mild sedative, and for a passing moment he imagined he could smell the slight brush of crushed roses. Whoever it was had come to ease the pain and quell his suffering with her small warm hands. He could feel them, he was certain. Bathed in a riotous discomfort he listened anxiously for the sound of her voice, her soft lilt, the warm touch of her hand on his arm, but then his mind faltered remembering that her name was Rose, Nurse Rose she had told him.
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