The Bright Blue Sky

by Max Hennessy

  The bright summer gold was changing to bronze and the trees were showing a rusty tint. Leaves began to fall and suddenly there was a winter chill in the evening air and mist in the valleys.

  There had been no reply from Nicola and Dicken had come to the conclusion that she’d forgotten him. Then he received a letter from, of all people, Marie-Gabrielle. It was postmarked Genoa, written in a full round hand and shockingly spelled, but she pointed out that they all missed him and were sorry he’d disappeared. It raised his hopes but since she’d forgotten to include the Genoa address, he had no idea where to reply to and could only send his letter to the house in Capadolio, which, he felt sure, was standing empty and echoing by this time.

  There was still no news of moving to England and he decided the postings home were hanging fire because the authorities thought the war might end. He and Hatto were flying only occasionally and were spending the rest of their time visiting squadrons and learning RAF methods with reports, records, returns and repairs.

  “I think they just wanted a couple of spare adjutants,” Hatto complained.

  October came with the countryside beginning to look shabby, with heavy dews, steel helmets wet with rain, and the Germans going backwards faster and faster. They began to think they were never going to fly in war again, but just when they were least expecting it and when they had come to the conclusion they were permanent fixtures, they heard that Rivers had gone home and that they were going home, too.

  Diplock took over the squadron, and it wasn’t entirely unexpected that late in the evening Dicken was presented with a demand for a full-length report on the Snipe.

  “Why?” he asked. “The damn thing’s been around since early in the year.”

  The Recording Officer seemed puzzled. “The Major wants one written in the light of cold weather conditions. He says 201 Squadron’s complaining that the Bentley doesn’t give the power output it’s supposed to.”

  It sounded an odd sort of request but the German Air Force was said to be regrouping for the final assault on the German frontier, because nobody seemed to have seen anything of them for days, and he rather fancied a last look at the sky where he’d fought so long.

  The wind was cold and there was a smoky autumn smell in the air as he climbed into the Snipe and taxied across a muddy field marked by wheels and tailskids. He liked the Snipe despite the habit it shared with its feathered namesake of darting from side to side as it took off. Both were endowed with a high power-weight ratio and the zigzags were caused by the pilot trying to counteract the gyroscopic kick of the huge Bentley rotary.

  The evening was heavy with low-bellied clouds that looked like the wet sails of ships-of-the-line, majestic and threatening and, with the sun blood-red in the west, full of threatening purple valleys and glistening pink pinnacles. As he lifted towards them, he could see fragmentary glimpses of the patterned earth, squared hedgerows and patched fields, and the black ruins of the fighting zone, its buildings like broken teeth near the zigzag lines of the trench system.

  Climbing higher, enjoying flying after so long, he felt he belonged among God’s chosen few. It wasn’t given to many men to experience the joy of being alone in the upper air, looking, it seemed, on the face of the Almighty himself. It was a heady sensation, especially with the war ending. For four years thousands of young men like himself had known no future, but in all that time, apart from small cuts and bruises, he had not been much hurt. He’d been luckier than Hatto, lucky to have been sent to Italy. Staying in the fiercer flames of France, he might well have been dead.

  His thoughts busy, his eyes roved restlessly about him, moving instinctively, alert for the slow-moving specks above or the brief shadows below that could mean death. The Snipe climbed easily and he reached 20,000 feet without much trouble, breathing in great gasps through his mouth in the thin air. As he levelled off, he saw a two-seater Rumpler to the west of him against the light, its wings and spars outlined with fire. Unable to resist the temptation, he swung the Snipe round on its wingtips, the motor crackling, the wires howling, the earth revolving, and went down in a shallow dive. The German observer clearly hadn’t seen him and, as he came up beneath it and fired, the Rumpler shuddered and began to break up.

  He was still watching it, curiously saddened by its fall, when something smashed against his right thigh with a force that made him cry out. It lifted his foot from the rudder bar and, for a moment, unable to make out what had happened, he thought something had broken from the wing and shot through the side of the fuselage. It was only as the pain came that he realised he’d been hit by a bullet.

  He was shocked and wondering where in God’s name it had come from because the observer of the two-seater couldn’t possibly have hit him, but as he looked frantically around, he saw a square-bodied machine disappearing below in a flash of vermilion. He recognised it from the comma-shaped tail as a Fokker DVII and realised it must have been guarding the two-seater.

  Automatically, he swung to face it. It was sitting on his tail, waiting to kill him, and, lifting the nose of his machine as if to climb, he saw the Fokker follow suit. As it did so, he kicked hard with his good leg at the rudder bar and slithered sideways to put the machine in a vertical bank. As the Fokker appeared alongside and then in front, so close he could see the streaks of oil on the engine cowling, he saw the pilot look around in alarm, the sun catching his goggles so that they were like two huge red eyes. As he pressed the trigger, the German’s head lifted, then the machine began to slide away in a long slow dive, the sun glinting redly on the curve of the wings. At first he couldn’t tell whether he’d hit it or not, but then he saw a thin white trail coming from beneath it that he knew was petrol and, as he watched, there was a flash that became flame and the machine curled away beneath him, trailing a thick column of smoke.

  Half-fainting from the pain of his wound, he was on the point of turning for home when he saw airplanes all around him, like a cloud of flashing butterflies in the crimson sky. In a half-daze, he couldn’t imagine where they’d come from because they hadn’t been there when he’d spotted the two-seater or even the Fokker. At first, he thought they were British machines, then that it was a dogfight that had somehow drifted his way, because they seemed to be all different. He recognised Albatros DVs, Pfalzes, Fokker DVIIs and triplanes, even a high-winged monoplane he’d never seen before which seemed to have an incredible rate of climb.

  The air about him was filled with the smoke trails of tracers and he decided the Germans had been deliberately keeping quiet to lure him to where they could fall on him. The Snipe was already showing the effects of their firing, little flags of fabric flapping on the wings, and just behind his head he could hear a crack-crack-crack which at first he thought was a machine gun but finally realised was a strip of canvas torn from the fuselage and clattering in the slipstream.

  A Fokker swam past in a pink glow that came through the purple clouds and he saw a red and white sunburst on the upper wings and the letters, “LO”, on the fuselage. Somewhere, he remembered, someone had told him about this machine. As it slithered away, avoiding him, he saw the moving elevators were lettered, and though he couldn’t recognise what they said, he knew without doubt that he was up against Udet and his group.

  Pressing the trigger, he saw his bullets go into the red Fokker’s fuselage, then it slipped away expertly and he had to concentrate on another machine that appeared in front. Somehow, the very number of enemies had revived him. His right leg was agony but it still moved and he realised the bullet had not broken his thigh but had simply gone through the thick part of the flesh. But as he wrenched the Snipe round, congratulating himself that with luck he might still get away with it, a second bullet tore into his left calf like a sledge hammer.

  Half-fainting and nauseated by fear, aware that his only hope was to keep the Snipe going round in tight circles, he held on, clinging desperately to consciousness and firi
ng every time anything came within his sights. Preserve your ammunition. Keep circling. Then something hit his head and, as blood filled his eyes, he decided he was dying. But even through fading consciousness he instinctively kept the machine in a tight bank. Keep turning. Keep turning. Don’t panic.

  For a moment he lost consciousness but, as he came around again, he forced himself to concentrate and wrenched off his goggles so that he could see better. Vaguely he saw a triplane going past like a set of shelves burst into flames and wondered if someone had come to his help. But the rest kept pecking at him and he had to assume that it had been his own bullets which had sent it down. A DVII appeared in front of him and, as he fired, it seemed to stagger in the air and fall away, its rudder hanging off, its pilot head-down in the cockpit. Still he kept on going around and around and suddenly the machines about him vanished.

  When he came around, the Snipe was falling in a flat spiral like a falling leaf and automatically he pulled it out and started to turn again as he saw the Germans close in once more. By this time he had decided he was as good as dead and found himself, even as he forced himself to hold the machine in its turns, wondering what it would be like. So many of his friends had died, he wondered if there would be a party when he joined them or whether it would just be darkness, like going into a room without windows, without light, or sense or smell.

  Several times he saw the red Fokker with the word “LO” on the fuselage and was once near enough to read the jeering comment on the elevators, “Du doch nicht!” But he couldn’t hit it, though the Germans – because there were too many of them and they were getting in each other’s way – also seemed able to do no more than put odd bursts into the Snipe. Two of them directly in front of him missed each other by inches as they swung away from his bullets and he saw the pilots give him a horrified look.

  Another Albatros fell away then he saw a gap and headed for it in the hope of diving for home. But his left hand jerked as a bullet ripped into his forearm and he saw blood pouring down his sleeve. Oh Christ, he thought, this is really it this time.

  Still the Germans came at him, making a final effort to kill him as if determined to avenge their friends. It was Voss all over again, he thought. Even the same time of day. Everybody in the RFC had felt admiration for the young German who’d taken on a whole flight of SE5s led by, of all people, the great McCudden. But the SEs had killed him in the end for the simple reason that one into seven didn’t go and, though the Germans were reputed to be no longer as good as they were, it was clear that one into thirty didn’t go either.

  Knowing his petrol was low, he managed to switch to the reserve tank. Then he realised he was no longer being nagged by the Germans and saw that a squadron of SE5s had appeared above him and the Germans had bolted for home. The clouds had closed over the sun at last and the brilliant blood-red in the sky had given way to a pale pink with, beyond it, the rising purple of the night, and he was alone, a minute speck in the immensity of the heavens.

  He could barely see now for the blood in his eyes and he was barely conscious, but in front of him he could make out the road that led to Ypres and realised he was safe behind the British lines. Certain he couldn’t make it home, he looked round for somewhere to put the machine down. Through a blur of pain he saw his wings in tatters, wires hanging loose and one of the centre section struts almost shot through. If he didn’t put it down soon, the Snipe would fall down of its own accord.

  He was low now but how he’d got there he had no idea and as he saw a darkened field, he quickly put the machine down in it. Halfway across, he saw a dip approaching, but there was nothing he could do about it, and as the Snipe touched the ground, an incredible lassitude swept over him. The wheels dropped into a ditch, the nose went down with a twanging of wires and the groaning of strained struts and the tail came up. Fortunately the Snipe’s forward momentum had almost finished and it didn’t break up, but, thrown forward as the machine nosed over, he felt the crunch as his nose broke. The world went red and unrecognisable and he decided for a moment he was in Hell; then he realised he was hanging upside down from his straps. Forcing himself to move, he released his safety belt and fell out.

  His nostrils full of the smell of petrol, he pulled himself to his knees, aware of men pounding across the grass to him, and was just on the point of crawling away when there was a flash and a great gust of flame that seemed to belch up at him. Feeling himself being dragged away, he heard himself shrieking for them to put him down because too many things were hurting at once. The flame died quickly and they had him on his feet now, unaware of his injuries, and were hurrying him into the dusk away from the machine.

  “Made it, lad,” someone with a Red Cross brassard said. “You’re going to be all right. Where’s all the blood on your face come from? Have you banged your nose?”

  Dicken shook his head feebly, almost devoid of the strength to do so. “I think it’s more than that,” he said. “I think I’ve been wounded as well.”

  They stared at him, startled, then the man who had spoken saw the blood on his legs and immediately began wrenching at his coat. The pain was more than he could bear and he slid through their hands and sat down. He was just conscious as he flopped back in the grass.

  “But thanks all the same,” he whispered. “It was kind of you to try.”

  Eight

  The first real awareness that he was still alive came with Hatto’s voice.

  For some time he had been lying in darkness, certain he was dead but puzzled because he didn’t seem to be in Heaven, nor yet in Hell. Around seemed to be the blackness of nothing, with a numb ache in legs, arms and head, though the pain also seemed to overlap and include the whole of his body. After a while he decided that he was in a type of half-way house, somewhere beyond life while the authorities, whom he saw as a sort of Railway Transport Officer, decided where he should go.

  Then a voice spoke to him. It sounded worried. “You all right, old fruit? This is Willie, your old chum.”

  “Where are you?” Dicken’s lips were cracked and stiff and he found difficulty in speaking. “Are you dead, too?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Aren’t we dead?”

  “Not by a long chalk, old fruit. I’m fine, and they say you’ll be fine, too, before long. I’ve brought you a bottle of champagne for when you’re feeling better. Nothing like champers for an operation, a military disaster or taking a girl to bed.”

  Dicken was silent for a long time. “I felt certain I was dead,” he said eventually.

  “The pill-roller says you’re going to be all right. An SE crowd said you’d taken on a bunch of about thirty Huns and were knocking hell out of them.”

  “Don’t you believe it! They took me on and they were knocking hell out of me. Where did I get hit?”

  “Both legs, one arm, and across the top of the skull. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Not long before, Dicken recalled, he’d been priding himself on never having been much hurt. He’d certainly made up for it. Four wounds in as many minutes.

  “Still,” Hatto went on. “They’re all flesh wounds, though you got a bit burned, too. That’s why you can’t see so well. It’s a good job I was handy when they brought you in. The surgeon wanted to have your leg off.”

  “Oh, God, don’t let him, Willie!”

  Hatto laughed. “Not likely. But you know what army surgeons are like. They get into a rhythm. Slap a man on the table, off with his leg – or his arm or even his head – then ‘Next please. Pass down the car.’ He asked if you were a friend of mine and I said that after four years you were the only one I’d got left and if he took your leg off I’d have his to go with it. Knowing how you like your grub, I told him the best thing would be to plug up the holes so you didn’t leak and hang a feed bag on you and you’d start getting better at once.”

  There was another long silen
ce before Dicken spoke again. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. Or getting on that way.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in England?”

  “Bugger England. They won’t need me, anyway. The Germans are said to be thinking of chucking their hands in.”

  “You mean the war’s over?”

  “Not yet. But it’s beginning to look as if it will be by Christmas. The writing seems to be on the wall.”

  Slowly, Dicken began to learn what had happened. After the two-seater, it seemed he had destroyed three other Germans, though, since two of them had fallen on the German side of the line, it was difficult to confirm them. It didn’t matter much. Killing people was no longer important, and he was sick of it, anyway.

  A little while later a doctor came to dress his face with picric-acid solution. He examined his eyes which were tight-shut with the burnt stubs of his eyelashes and there was a great pink weal across his nose and cheeks.

  “You were lucky,” the doctor said. “Your flying helmet and scarf stopped it being worse. It’ll look unpleasant for a while but the tissue’s not destroyed.”

  “Will I be able to see?”

  There was a moment’s silence then the doctor’s voice came again. “Left eye’s fine,” he said. “Right eye we’re not sure about. So you won’t be flying for a while. The cold could attack them while they’re not protected by lashes.”

  For the next day or two Dicken slept and, when he wasn’t asleep, he pretended to be. For the first time he realised how tired he was and, as he tried to recall some of the men he’d flown with, he found his mind rejected the memories so that all he could see were dead faces, and hear voices that didn’t seem to be earthly.

  There were questions, too. His mind was full of questions. Why had Diplock sent him up? Had he had prior knowledge that Udet was about? It didn’t seem possible, but when Hatto reappeared the thoughts came out. Hatto listened in silence.