by Terry Deary
The black road was a ribbon spattered with the khaki and brown of lorries and marching men. The Somme looked peaceful and shiny green while the railway yards hid under a haze of smoke.
To the east Aimee could see the flashes of the enemy guns pouring shells down on the ground, closer and closer to Bray. Her farm looked small enough to be a doll’s house and the animals were dots in the smooth green of the fields.
Tears filled her eyes and blurred the scene. It was beautiful. It was the last thing she’d ever see, she knew.
Aimee was expecting the grip of Sergeant Grimm’s hand on her smock but it still made her sick when she felt it.
‘So sad,’ Silver Hand said. ‘A girl goes in an air balloon for the first time. She panics and runs around and falls out.’
The strong right hand lifted her so she was half out of the basket. She couldn’t find the breath to cry.
‘Goodbye, Aimee,’ said Silver Hand.
26 March 1918: East of Bray
Doctor Weger and Marius looked down from the ridge on to the town of Bray. ‘The Romans used to fight on elephants,’ Marius said.
The doctor gave a sudden laugh. ‘What?’
‘I didn’t know the British still used them,’ the boy said and pointed to a field on the edge of the town. ‘Well, it looks like an elephant to me.’
The doctor moved his head and went stiff. ‘It’s a balloon. A hundred times more deadly than an elephant,’ he croaked.
‘A balloon can’t hurt you,’ Marius argued.
Doctor Weger took a deep breath and spoke quickly. ‘It will rise in the air with at least one man in a basket below. He will take pictures of this wood. The pictures will show where our big guns are. The British will pour shells down on our gunners. They could kill fifty of our men and wreck a dozen guns.
Marius shivered and watched as the grey monster swelled. ‘What can we do?’
‘Shoot it down.’
‘I haven’t got a gun,’ the boy said.
‘I mean send a message to the aerodrome and get a fighter plane to shoot it down.’ The doctor turned to the boy and gripped his shoulders. ‘The nearest aerodrome is just off the Peronne road. A farmer’s field turned into an airstrip. You can run there faster than I could.’
‘How far?’
‘Five kilometres.’
‘I can run that in twenty minutes,’ Marius said.
‘It will take that long to get the balloon in position. You might just get there in time. Now go.’
Marius turned back on to the track through the wood. He leaped over roots and clambered over trunks of trees that had been shattered by shells. He tripped on a broken branch from time to time, rolled and picked himself up, always moving forward.
At the far side of the trees he saw a field sloping down to the road. It was crowded with trucks but they would be no use to him. They were all moving westwards towards Bray. His boots clattered on the road and he had to weave around the groaning lorries. His lungs started to burn and his legs grew weak from the lack of good food. He pictured British shells landing among his comrades and found new strength.
His boots were heavy as houses. He paused, took them off and threw them over his shoulder. Marius sprinted on. The road sloped downwards towards the river. At last he saw the aeroplanes on the grass and the pilots sitting outside their tents while mechanics worked on the planes, filling them with fuel and loading the guns.
The grass was soft under his feet. A guard inside the gate tried to stop him. Marius gasped, ‘Urgent message,’ and raced across the airfield.
One of the pilots looked up from a game of cards and his pale thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘What’s the hurry, soldier?’
Marius’s lungs ached and his mouth was so dry his voice was a crow croak. ‘There’s a balloon going up... farm field near Bray...’
The pilot jumped to his feet. ‘Then we’ll have to shoot it down,’ he laughed. He strode across to the rows of planes. Some were painted in camouflage green but others – the fast fighters – were painted bright colours as if to say: ‘Come and shoot me if you dare.’
The pilot walked towards a bright red plane with three wings. ‘Is number 477 ready to fly?’ he barked at a grease-covered mechanic.
‘Five minutes, Baron,’ the man replied. ‘We’re changing the oil and...’
‘In five minutes a hundred men could be dead.’ He looked around the airfield. ‘What is ready to go now?’
‘The Albatross J2, Baron.’
The pilot was pulling on a leather coat and flying helmet as he marched across to one of the dull planes with two wings and two seats. He looked over his shoulder at Marius and called, ‘The British fighters will be ready to defend the balloon. I can’t fight them in this bus. I need a gunner in the rear seat. You can be my gunner and show me where you saw that balloon.’
Marius hardly had time to gather his breath. He ran after the pilot as mechanics scurried around to make the plane ready for take-off. ‘I don’t think I can fire a machine gun.’
‘Of course you can. Every soldier learns it in basic training.’
Marius almost blurted that he had done no basic training. He had no right to be there. But the pilot – the Baron – was already climbing on to the wing of the plane. ‘You know the plan,’ he called to the other pilots who were heading for the small planes with three wings. They answered with salutes. He then turned to the boy. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Five kilometres north-west of here. Near the town of Bray.’
‘I know it,’ the pilot said as he hauled himself into the cockpit and a mechanic helped Marius into the seat behind the pilot. The pilot pressed switches and gave a thumbs-up sign to one of the ground crew who swung the propeller round.
The engine rasped, sputtered and sparked into life. Marius struggled back into his boots as the plane turned round and began to race and bump over the grassy field. The wooden frame creaked and groaned then the rattling of the wheels suddenly stopped as it lifted into the air.
The wind took the breath out of Marius’s body and the speed pressed him back in his seat. Fumes of petrol and castor oil filled his nose while the wind sang through the wires that held the plane together.
As they soared towards the clouds the pilot levelled off and circled. Marius saw the balloon at the same time as the man in front of him. From the skies it appeared a much smaller elephant than it had looked from the woods and Marius wondered how they could hit such a tiny target.
The pilot nudged the controls and the plane began a flat run towards it a kilometre away. Suddenly brown smoke mushrooms appeared in the air beside them and splinters of shell spattered against the plane – the British gunners on the ground were ready for this sort of attack and were firing at them. The pilot held steady and the balloon began to loom larger. Marius strained forward and saw two pale faces staring at him from the basket.
One was a man in British army uniform. But the other seemed to be a girl in a smock dress and the man was lifting her above the side of the basket. ‘It’s a girl,’ Marius screamed. ‘Don’t shoot.’
Through the roar of the wind and the engine the pilot didn’t seem to hear. Marius reached forward and slapped the man hard on the shoulder just as he took one hand off the controls to press the trigger on the machine gun facing forward.
The plane lurched, the bullets sprayed wide of the grey monster. Hot gusts of air from the gun blew back in Marius’s face. The pilot turned and looked back angrily. ‘You made me miss.’
‘But it’s a girl in there,’ Marius cried.
‘One girl or dozens of our gunners,’ the man shouted in reply. ‘Sit down. I’m going in for a second pass.’
The plane wheeled through the sky and turned back towards its helpless target. The faces of the man and girl had vanished.
This time he wouldn’t miss.
26 March 1918: East of Bray
As Silver Hand held the girl over the side of basket he felt the balloon jerk. The ground cr
ew had seen the German plane before Sergeant Grimm or Aimee had.
‘Albatross J2 from the east,’ an officer barked. ‘Height one thousand feet. Prepare to fire anti-aircraft guns... and get the balloon down as fast as you can.’
‘It won’t be fast enough, Captain,’ a soldier said as he put the cable motor into reverse and started to wind in the cable.
He was right. It was slow, too slow. Still, the sharp downward tug of the cables sent Silver Hand falling backwards into the basket and Aimee fell alongside him. They struggled to their feet and looked at the nose of the aircraft whirring towards them. They looked down the barrels of two machine guns.
The plane swerved a little as the guns spat their fire and the ripple of bullets missed. In a moment the plane had rolled on its side and was turning for a second attack. Aimee watched, helpless, as the enemy came back. The pilot in goggles seemed to be arguing with a small soldier in the back seat whose pale face looked afraid.
Anti-aircraft shells were exploding around the plane as the men on the ground tried to track it and shoot it down. But it was moving too fast.
‘Where are those fighter planes we were promised? The Sopwith Camels?’ the British officer groaned.
Sergeant Grimm had sunk into the furthest corner of the basket and had wrapped his knees in his arms, as if he could protect himself from the bullets that way. He was moaning, ‘Dear God, please save me. Save me.’
The German pilot had the balloon lined up in his sights now and was heading straight towards Aimee, half a kilometre away.
As Aimee looked back at Sergeant Grimm, who had his eyes closed and seemed to be praying, a rope caught her face. The rope had a red ribbon wrapped around it and she remembered. She pulled hard on the rope. There was a pause then the balloon valve opened and they began to drop like an eagle on a mouse below.
The enemy pilot who had fired his guns was a hundred metres from them when he opened fire again. But he found himself shooting at where the falling balloon had been. He pulled the control stick and soared upwards as the ground guns poured their shattering shells towards him. He weaved across the sky to put them off and made his way back east towards his airfield.
A gunner in the ground crew looked to the west and cried, ‘British fighter planes on their way. Stop firing.’
From the west a flight of three planes roared across the River Somme. Red, white and blue roundels were painted on the stubby wings. ‘Sopwith Camels.’ A soldier nodded. ‘They’ll get him. German swine.’
The gunners cheered but the rest of the crew were hurrying across to where the basket had landed. Aimee and Sergeant Grimm had hit the ground fast and were thrown out on to the soft ploughed field. Aimee lay there, shaken, while the sergeant wailed, ‘I’ve lost my hand. The strap’s snapped. Help me find my hand. It’s solid silver, you know.’ Men began to search the field and a soldier quickly found it, shining in the dark ploughed earth.
Aimee picked herself up. She was shaking and aching. Once she was sure she had no broken bones she ran across the field to the farmhouse and crashed through the kitchen door.
‘Aimee,’ her mother cried. ‘You’re a mess. Covered in dirt – pigtails coming loose. What have you been up to?’
The girl began to tell her story and Mrs Fletcher scowled. ‘I should never have let you go up. I put your life in danger,’
‘You’re one of the White Lady spies, Maman. Your life will be in danger too when the Germans get here. They’re just on the other side of the woods. I saw them.’
‘It’s not the same,’ her mother said.
Aimee took a deep breath and blurted, ‘He tried to kill me.’
‘Of course he did. That’s the German pilot’s job.’
‘Not the pilot. Sergeant Grimm. He tried to throw me out of the balloon basket. If the German pilot hadn’t turned up and started shooting, he would have done.’
Mrs Fletcher turned pale. ‘Why would Sergeant Grimm want to do that?’
Aimee told her about the traitor’s telephone call to Benedict. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ Mrs Fletcher asked in a low voice.
‘He said he’d kill me if I told anyone,’ Aimee replied.
Her mother spread her hands. ‘He tried to kill you anyway. It’s the only way he’ll be sure you won’t talk.’
‘I know,’ Aimee whispered. ‘What can I do?’
Mrs Fletcher picked up a shawl and threw it across her shoulders. ‘Captain Ellis is looking for a spy. Now I can tell him who it is. You stay here and feed the lambs for me.’
She found Captain Ellis in the old school, packing away the office they’d set up just a few days before. In the bustle of the hurrying men he listened. ‘Aimee’s word is not enough. No one else heard the phone call. But we can watch Silver Hand now. Even set a trap for him. Though it will have to wait. The Germans will be here tomorrow. If we remain in Bray they’ll destroy it with their guns. We need to get back to Amiens.’
‘I’ll stay here and keep spying for you.’
‘You’re a brave woman, Mrs Fletcher.’
Colette pretended to pick something off the floor to hide her blushes. ‘I have Aimee to help me. Together we’ll make life hard for the Germans. Goodbye for now. I’ll see you when you return,’ she said with a faint smile.
Captain Ellis nodded. ‘We will be back.’
But it would take longer than he thought.
26 March 1918: East of Bray
Marius watched in horror as three British fighter planes began to close in on the Baron’s Albatross. His pilot shouted, ‘Shoot at them.’
The boy looked down the barrel of the machine gun, lined up one of the Camels and pulled the trigger. ‘It’s not working,’ he cried.
The Baron steadied the plane, stood up in his seat and turned around. He pulled a small lever on the side of the gun. ‘Safety catch off first, idiot.’ He threw himself back into his seat and dived towards the River Somme, weaving to throw the enemy off his tail.
A Camel followed every move and was just fifty metres behind Marius now. The boy pulled the trigger and the gun crashed into life. Bullets spewed wide of the Camel but the enemy pilot panicked and threw his plane out of the way.
Then the Baron began firing his own gun that pointed forward as a second Camel attacked from in front of the Albatross. The British pilot fired too. Marius watched as bullets stitched a line of holes through the wings to his right and the tail-plane behind him. The next time the stitching could be through him.
Then he saw their airfield ahead where pilots and crew were running around like ants. He felt like cheering. They were almost safe. The German planes had large white patches with black crosses on their colourful wings. The Baron flew low over the field then soared upwards again.
‘Why aren’t we landing?’ the boy wailed.
The pilot shouted over his shoulder, ‘Because if we land they will shoot us like ducks on a pond.’ He saw another Camel appear over the head of Marius and swerved. ‘Keep firing.’
Again the wild stream of lead sent the enemy diving away for safety.
The Baron looked around again. ‘Now we are not ducks on a pond. We are the decoy duck. While the British are shooting at our poor helpless little plane the rest of my squadron are climbing in the clouds like falcons waiting to swoop.’
There was a distant pattering rattle of machine guns and the Baron grinned. ‘And here they come,’ he said.
Marius swung round in his seat to see six coloured triplanes dive down on to the surprised Camels. They were a rainbow of death. They swooped and twisted like the falcons the Baron had promised. Marius watched, mouth open, and almost felt sorry for the British pilots.
The Camels turned towards the river and headed back west with the triplane hornets stinging them with bullets. One Camel was on fire, its engine spilling black plumes behind it, then it disappeared from his sight as the Baron brought their two-seater in to land gently on the grass and coast towards the village of tents on the edge of the airfield.
The engine stopped and steamed and crackled. The pilot climbed down and waited for Marius to join him on the ground, legs shaking and heart drumming. Mechanics ran towards the plane to lift the damaged tail-plane and pull it away to be repaired.
A tall man in a cap with a ghost-gaunt face strolled across. ‘Well done, Manfred. Did we get the balloon?’
‘No. This soldier spoiled my aim. The balloon went down but I don’t think I hit it.’
‘It didn’t have time to take pictures though?’
‘No, Commandant, but it will live to fly another day.’ He looked across the airfield towards the red triplane. ‘I’m off to hunt British turkeys, but first I will shoot this boy. Stand him in the middle of the field and I will use him as a target to warm up my guns.’
‘Manfred,’ the thin officer moaned. ‘You know you can’t do that.’
‘I am Manfred von Richthofen, Germany’s greatest hero of the skies. No one will dare to punish me.’
He strutted away to the red plane, which was ready to fly. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ Marius said. ‘The Red Baron, they call him. He really is our greatest hero. Will he shoot me?’
‘Only if you run.’ The pale officer sighed. ‘Stand in the middle of the field. He will fly towards you. Look him in the eye and he will admire your courage. Turn and run and he may do something nasty.’
Minutes later the boy stood wearily in the middle of the grass field that the pilots were using as an airfield today. Every few days they moved forward as their army advanced. A cool wind blew across the Somme and he shivered. He forced himself to stand as straight and tall as he could.
The red plane circled and droned then came low towards him, almost the height of Marius’s head. The boy’s eyes were filled with tears. He looked straight into the goggles of the Red Baron, raised an arm and saluted. Manfred Von Richthofen raised a quick hand in reply as the plane roared over Marius and almost blew him down.
