More, there was the certainty that a great advance must come very soon. Everyone tried to snatch what enjoyment he could while he was able to.
In the third estaminet that the American pilots entered, Kaczinski saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure surrounded by a noisy group. He recognised the Australian accent and the rough-hewn face.
He thrust his way through the throng towards Stokoe.
“Hey, Flying Asshole, wanna come outside?”
Stokoe turned. A slow smile of sheer pleasure spread across his face. He had a large glass of beer in his hand. He nodded, drained his beer and jerked his head towards the door.
Paxton put out a hand to restrain him, but Stokoe brushed it away. Baird took a grip on his belt, but Stokoe twisted out of it.
Codrington had hailed the American major commanding the squadron, whom he had never seen before, and was getting him a drink.
The American C.O. gave him a nudge.
“Looks like there’s going to be trouble.”
“For your fellow, yes.”
“Yeah? Wanna bet?”
“We’re supposed to stop this sort of thing, not encourage it.”
“I’ve got a hundred francs says my guy will take that big observer guy.”
“Done. Against my better judgment: I should ignore the whole thing, or prevent it.”
“What the hell.”
They followed the others out and around to the back of the building.
Neither Stokoe nor Kaczinski had the first idea of how to use his fists scientifically. Stokoe was cool and contemptuous. He had never lost a fight in his life. Kaczinski was angry. He was angry with Stokoe for the old insult and with the Comtesse for the new one. He charged in, head down and fists flailing.
Stokoe stood his ground and swung both fists like clubs. Kaczinski landed a punch on his ear, he hit Kaczinski on the temple and sent him reeling aside. They closed again. Stokoe took a wild swing in the wind, grunted and leaped in with a looping right that took his opponent on the cheek and split it open. They stood toe-to-toe, hooking and jabbing crude blows that did little damage but jarred their arms and shoulders as they fended each other off.
Kaczinski slammed a fist onto the side of Stokoe’s mouth and hurt him: he felt a piece of tooth break off and he felt another tooth cut his lip. He rushed in and swung three massive swipes. One took Kaczinski on the right side of his jaw, the other on the left. The third whizzed over his head for he was already folding at the knees, unconscious before he hit the ground.
He lay there for a full minute before he stirred; and then he could not drag himself to his feet for another minute and more.
That was the prelude to a convivial evening which the American and British airmen shared and which ended in the R.A.F. officers’ mess.
The next morning Kaczinski’s C.O. had him formally paraded in front of him.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson. Officers do not have fist fights in public places. You are a bad example to the men. I’m going to see that you work your butt off, Kaczinski. You’re going to fly every goddam detail that comes up. The others pilots will take a rest in turns, but not you. Every time even one machine of this squadron takes off, for the next seven days, you are going to be flying it. Goddamit, if you must fight, at least win.”
Kaczinski’s jaw was too swollen for him to make any coherent rejoinder.
*
Dupuis had been hit in both forearms by anti-aircraft shell splinters. This incapacitated him so badly that he had to go to hospital where even his teeth had to be brushed for him by a nurse.
He fretted and fumed. Gabin took command in his absence; which he did not like, to start with. And, while he was away, Gabin was shooting down more Germans. These considerations kept him awake and hindered his recovery.
To make matters worse he was ordered, by the general who was ultimately responsible for him, to take sick leave. On the day of his release from hospital he spent several pleasant hours with Adèle but was constantly suspicious and alert for some sign of her having taken another lover.
She was perplexed.
“What is the matter with you, my dear? You behave as though you are distraught. Why are you so jumpy?”
“I am worried about the squadron.”
“Thank you for the compliment! While you are with me I do not expect you to be thinking of other matters.”
He parted from her in a huff that evening. On the next day when he called on her she gave him a tender smile, which his paranoia took to mean guilt or subterfuge.
“Darling, I am desolated: I cannot see you today. There is a luncheon at the Palais de l’Elysée, a hasty arrangement ... my husband has to fill in for another Député who has been taken suddenly ill and I have to accompany him. This evening, early, there is a reception for some important Allied politician, also a last-minute affair ... I have to go to my hairdresser now, and then to my dressmaker. Tomorrow we must entertain some Allied commission or other here to lunch and we dine at the American Embassy. I am so disappointed. Forgive me, darling ... but you still have several days’ leave and ...”
Dupuis interrupted her, large red spots burning on his cheekbones.
“If you must deceive me, do not insult me by inventing these childish excuses. Who is this other man you are obviously seeing? No! Don’t tell me. I do not want to know. And as for my having several more days ... I am returning to the Front at once.”
“But, my dear ...”
She sounded imploring but he pushed her away. He was well enough to fly. He must get back and see what was happening on the squadron.
*
Rudel looked across his desk at Ehrler.
“According to this letter I have received from your wife, you have not been home for a year. She says she has been ill, that her sickness has been aggravated by worry over you. She begs me to send you on leave and to make sure that you go home and see her. What is all this about, Ehrler?”
“My wife is a highly neurotic woman, sir. She exaggerates. Did she send you a medical certificate proving her illness?”
“No, but why would the poor woman lie? She is obviously in great distress. You have been on leave twice in the past twelve months. Where did you spend it?”
“At home, sir.”
Rudel stared at him for several seconds.
“You are lying to me, Sergeant Ehrler. You are a schoolmaster by profession, only a temporary soldier. I am a professional soldier and I know when a man is not telling the truth.”
Ehrler stood at attention and looked over the top of Rudel’s head.
“Well?”
“I have nothing to say, sir.”
“Well, I have. You are to go on leave.”
Ehrler blinked and twitched.
“With respect, sir, would the Hauptmann be good enough to ask my wife to send a medical certificate? I do not wish to be absent from the squadron at a time like this, with the big push imminent.”
Rudel considered.
“Very well. And don’t think I want you to go: I don’t want to lose my gunner at this particular time. But if your wife needs you, you must go: if she is really ill.”
“How long will it take to get a certificate, sir?”
“A week or ten days.”
Ehrler looked pleased. Any reprieve was welcome.
“When you came in, I had made up my mind to send you on leave at once. And Seeckt with you: he needs a rest. When I do send you, I shall send him as well. And Leutnant Weisbach and I will do the minimum of flying until you both return.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Patriotism is all very well, but you have to think of your family sometimes, you know: such as about twice a year.”
Rudel smiled but Ehrler did not respond.
Twelve
General Ludendorff, Chief of Staff to Field Marshal Hindenberg, the German Commander-in-Chief, declared, in 1917, “I forbid myself to use the word ‘strategy’. We chop a hole. The rest follows.”
On 21st March 1918, this attitude was exemplified when nearly 6,500 German guns and over 3,500 mortars bombarded the British trenches. There was a dense mist that morning. Five hours after the bombardment had started, 62 divisions advanced through the mist on the British Fifth Army.
On the 5th April the Germans ceased that offensive in Picardy and on 9th April they began another in Flanders. By 12th April they had suffered 348,300 casualties and the Allies 351,793. But the British held the enemy in check.
On the evening of 12th April Rudel again briefed his crews.
“Field Marshal Hindenberg believes that the way to victory lies in opening a way through the British sector. Those who profess to be expert in meteorology say that experience in this area at the present time of the year suggests that low cloud and morning mist will continue for the next couple of days.”
Rudel was in his usual good spirits. He spoke of the weather prophets without rancour. Everyone in his audience laughed with him, sharing his unmalicious mild sarcasm. He was a popular squadron commander, as much for his unusual appearance and buoyant disposition as for his bravery and ability.
“Reveillé tomorrow will be one hour before first light and unless some unforeseen change in the ground situation has occurred, we can all expect to have a busy day. So no roistering tonight: don’t drink too much and go to bed early.”
Seeckt dug an elbow into Ehrler’s ribs and grinned. “Aren’t you sorry now that you argued about going on leave? I hear things are pretty hot in that sector.”
“I have no regrets. I’d rather face the whole Allied fighter force than spend five minutes being harangued by that acid-tongued harpy I made the mistake of marrying.”
“It’s all right for you, but you mucked up my leave as well.”
“You wouldn’t want to miss this show tomorrow, would you?”
“I’ll be better able to answer that this time tomorrow.”
“Touch wood when you say that: it’ll be the thirteenth.”
Seeckt, still grinning, rapped his knuckles against his own skull.
“There. Now we’ll be all right. It’s a shame we aren’t allowed off camp tonight: it’s one of my regular evenings for a visit to the Puff.”
“You’ll enjoy it all the more tomorrow.”
“Now you’d better touch wood.”
Ehrler reached up and touched his friend on the head. He winked at him and they both laughed. They both felt the same warmth of shared comradeship. Ehrler was a cold-hearted man but over the many months they had been together he had learned to admire Seeckt’s easygoing kindness, his stoicism and his brilliant shooting. Even Seeckt’s stupidity was endearing.
*
Lieutenant Colonel Fotheringay-Brown leaned back in his office chair and favoured Codrington with his unblinking, fishy, pop-eyed stare.
Codrington wished the Colonel would get on with it. He hated the smell of Turkish tobacco. Fotheringay-Brown smoked Abdullahs and their aroma was always present in his office and floating around him in mess.
“Got a thticky job for you, Crather. It may theem like thentiment or favouritithm, but I regard your thquadron ath the betht on the wing. That’th between ourthelveth, of courth.”
“Of course, Colonel.” Codrington smiled. “It wasn’t a bad squadron when you handed over to me.”
“Well, I like to think tho. That’th why I’m detailing you for thith job tomorrow.”
“What’s up, Colonel?”
“The Hun hath been uthing hith new ground attack squadronth to good effect on other part-th of the Front, dethpite the weather. Our area hath not been badly hit yet. It’th bound to come. I want you on readineth at firtht light every morning from tomorrow. If thothe blathted Thlathtath thow up, I want you to be ready for them.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You’ll have to patrol on our thide of the Front. If we wait until an air attack cometh in, we won’t be in time to catch them. Tho patrol at motht economical thpeed, tho that you don’t uthe all your petrol before the Hun turnth up.”
“We’ll take off at dawn, Colonel, and patrol at a hundred feet. The big problem will be collision risk, if the visibility continues as bad as it’s been.”
Codrington returned to his own office and summoned Paxton. Casualties had brought Paxton an acting captaincy and command of a flight. He was also second-in-command of the squadron. Even the strains and hardships of life on the Western Front had not changed him much from the plump, jolly young man who had sailed from Canada in January 1916, two and a quarter years ago. He was still rosy-cheeked, well fleshed, disposed to ready laughter. Codrington noticed that, like the rest of them, he had acquired lines at the corners of his eyes since he first joined the squadron; and, like them all, he looked markedly tense on occasions like this.
“Something up, Crasher?”
Codrington explained his orders from the Colonel.
“Hell, I can hardly read my instruments when we’re climbing through the mist. You seriously mean we have to patrol thirteen machines in it?”
“At a hundred feet.”
“Jethuth!”
They both laughed.
“I wanted to have a word with you before I send for the other flight commanders.”
“You mean you want my collusion in convincing them that the Colonel hasn’t suddenly gone crazy.”
“Something like that. It won’t be too bad if we keep a reasonable height separation and watch our turns carefully.”
Paxton gave him a look of disbelief.
“You’d make a lousy confidence trickster, Major.”
When Stokoe was told about the plan for the morrow he looked incredulous and said “Stone the bloody crows.”
Baird didn’t often make jokes, but he made one then.
“You won’t be able to see the bloody crows to chuck stones at them, unless the weather changes.”
*
Kaczinski, at the end of that day, said “While the rest of you guys are sitting on your asses, I’m becoming the best foul-weather pilot on the whole damn squadron.”
His comrades raised a cheer and a burst of laughter.
Andretti, who had been feeling far from cheerful for days, tried to hide his misery by an attempt at humour.
“Maybe you should thank that big goddam Australian for all the experience you’re getting.”
“Hey, I blasted him in the mouth pretty good, didn’t I? Remember all that blood on his face?”
Somebody unkindly asked “When are you having the stitches taken out of that gash on your cheek, Bax?”
Kaczinski grinned ruefully.
Andretti wished he could find something to grin about. He had stopped worrying about how hard he had hit Monsieur Lenoir and had stopped fretting over having wasted so much time on Monique when he might have been pursuing some poorer and humbler fifteen- or sixteen-year-old who would have been dazzled by his lavish spending and his pilot’s wings, and succumbed instead of yelling her head off and biting his hand. His depression was entirely engendered by his terror of encountering the enemy.
Kaczinski was looking forward to action. He had been sent up early every morning for the past few days to make a weather reconnaissance. He had seen enemy aircraft in the far distance sometimes when he climbed above cloud. He would have liked to challenge one, if he could get close enough, but was forbidden to get into a fight. The C.O. had sent him up to report on the weather, and that was strictly all.
*
Dupuis was in conclave with Gabin; reluctantly, for he still felt no more cordial towards him. But Gabin was his deputy commander and his strict training as a regular officer compelled him to observe protocol.
During his absence in hospital and his cut-short convalescence, Gabin had scored four more confirmed victories and the British had decorated him with a newly created medal, the Distinguished Flying Cross. Dupuis could not keep his eyes off it, dangling on Gabin’s chest.
“What I wanted to tell you, Gabin, is that our western flank of the line, wh
ere it adjoins the British lines, has been under attack today from the Boche ground attack squadrons. Whatever the weather, I’m taking the boys to give air cover to our trenches tomorrow.”
“Good. It will be a change to have something specific to do instead of scouting around in this rotten Flanders weather trying to find someone to fight. We should get plenty of fun tomorrow, if the Boches have been active today: they’re too unimaginative to try something else.”
“Unimaginative, yes: but also thorough: now they’ve started, they’ll keep on; not only because they can’t think of anything else but also because they won’t leave off until they’ve done all the damage they’ve been ordered to. They’re like machines, robots.”
“Will you wait to see if the sun does come out and burn the mist off?”
“No. We’ll surprise the Boches by taking off at dawn, however poor the visibility.”
“Excellent. “
Dupuis gave Gabin a sour look. Military custom did not require a second-in-command to pronounce his Commanding Officer’s tactics excellent. His place was not to approve or disapprove, but to carry out orders.
*
When Codrington’s batman roused him with a cup of tea — he detested the thickness of cocoa, which was the standard brew, on his palate before he had brushed his teeth — he told the man to pull a curtain aside enough for him to see out.
The mist brushed palely against the glass in the dark grey early morning light. The yellow beam cast through the window panes by the electric bulb overhead was reflected back. It made a fuzzy smudge against the mist and slowly dissipating darkness. Flying in formation was going to be close to murderous or suicidal, depending on how one looked at it. Murderous of the Colonel to order it, suicidal of them to do it.
The hot tea tasted pleasantly sharp and cleansing. He felt drowsy and unenthusiastic. He hoped he would feel livelier after he had finished the cup and had a shower. His mind would be more alert and his body brisker, he knew, but he doubted that his willingness for the task would increase.
No Wrath of Men Page 15
