Daniel knows better than to complain. McCudden has tinkered with his own engine and carburettor so brilliantly that he can get his SE5 up to 22,000 feet. One day Daniel visits 56 Squadron, and Mac lets him take his bus up. At 21,000 feet Daniel gets hypoxia so badly that he falls delirious, does something stupid and unaccountable with the controls, and nearly spins to earth. The cold is utterly unbearable and makes his bones ache to the marrow. When he comes down he has hypothermia and has to be collected in the squadron tender. When he returns two days later to collect his bus he says to McCudden, ‘Think I’ll stick to Camels. Don’t know how you do it.’ McCudden claps him on the shoulder, and says, ‘Well, old fruit, you wouldn’t catch me in a Camel. Each to his own. One day someone’ll come up with a better engine and you’ll be upstairs with us. Can’t you get hold of a Bentley?’
The Camel pilots complain of having to do too much ground-strafing, because they can’t ascend very high, but they are unaware that everyone else is also having to do it, including those who can get to 22,000 feet. Even the Dolphins are receiving the same unwelcome orders. It’s a far cry from the scouts’ original job, protecting their own two-seaters and destroying those of the enemy. Like everyone else, Daniel longs for the old days. It’s actually a relief to go into combat with an enemy you can see, to have a proper duel, after days of strafing. A curse on those who worked out that an aircraft can also be used for mowing down soldiers.
So Daniel is content to keep a watch on his back for Huns coming out of the sun, knowing that when he dives his wings almost certainly won’t fall off, and knowing that the moment a Hun attacker arrives, his machine guns popping and the tracer zinging past his ears, he can split-arse the Camel with such instantaneous virtuosity that he can turn twice for every once of the foe. Nothing will worry him until the Fokker DV 11 arrives, too late to make enough of a difference, and the Fokker pilots themselves not realising for several months how good their new planes really are.
Now Daniel, having dropped his eggs on a transport column and somehow become separated from his flight, plays with the clouds. High above Albert he hits a heat bump and suddenly ascends vertically for four thousand feet. It is like going up in a lift, with exhilaration thrown in. He is stunting around the towers and chimneys and battlements of the cumulus. He pretends he is landing on the flat parts, and scoops his undercarriage through the vapour. It is sparklingly bright up there. Every detail he sees is in sharp and glistening focus. He zooms up a vertical wall and loops, blipping the engine when he sees the cloud beneath him again. He loops once more, half rolling at the top so that he is horizontal again. He dives until he is going faster than two hundred miles an hour, and the wires are singing. Here is a crevasse, a cathedral, a cave, a chimney, lilac shadow. He pulls back the joystick steadily and carefully, and he is level again. He has to pump the oil pressure up by hand, and switches to gravity for a moment. His compass spins, his ears are aching almost unbearably. Up he loops once more, and barrel-rolls at the top, straight over the gleaming summit of a cloud. He flies between the sun and the cloud, and looks at the exquisite double-rainbow nimbus around the shadow of his machine. He goes into a falling leaf, then centralises the controls and comes out of it. He goes into a spin, turns off the petrol, gets through that horrible moment when the controls go limp, pushes the joystick forward to convert it into a dive, and gets out of that too, Gosport fashion. He remembers the full horror of his first spin, and smiles grimly. It had happened because he had stalled in a loop, and for a few seconds he had foretasted the bitterness of doom. He sings loudly to himself: ‘If you want the sergeant major, we know where he is, we know where he is…’
He nips down into a valley of dove-grey shadow, and hurtles back out of it. He all but stalls the machine, it hangs on its propeller for a second, and then he drops it back down to follow the dunes and ridges. It is like tree-hopping and contour-chasing at altitude. The beauty and clarity is not of this earth. Nothing is more sublime and ineffable than this. He crashes through a white wall into greyness, and sees nothing until he emerges through the other side and realises that he is almost upside down. He goes fully upside down, and feels the straps straining against his shoulders. He holds hard onto the spade grip of the joystick, because he has no parachute, and no one really trusts the straps.
He pushes the stick over and then centralises it again so that he does a long vertical turn, like a loop on its side, and he watches the cloud and the visible patches of earth going round in a circle. He is so high above the devastation that he is beyond the distress of it. The Western Front is surprisingly narrow. It is a long scar of brown and yellow earth, cutting through verdant countryside. It’s the right-hand vertical turn that the Huns can’t cope with and can’t follow. Do it long enough and they have to give up in despair. The Camel is a damned swagger machine.
He remembers the occasion when he was stunting up in the cumulus, and came round a majestic stack of pink and golden vapour just as the sun was about to set, and beheld in front of him a whole flight of German Albatroses enjoying their own last bout of stunting before returning home. There is a rumour that the Germans are ordered to return home after a set number of minutes, which is why they often seem to abandon fights unexpectedly. These ones must have been using up their last minutes by having fun. He had decided to bank vertically into a pillar of cloud before they spotted him. He did not have enough fuel left to take them on, so he had let them have their fun. One of the odd things about the Germans is that they disapprove of looping the loop, so you never see them doing it.
He rolls one and a half, pretends he has an enemy on his tail, and immelmanns. He gets on the tail of his enemy and then waggles his wings in wild exaggeration. He banks and follows the contours of a feathered canyon. An SE5 appears out of nowhere, and he realises that it is McCudden. They play hide-and-seek for a while, dipping in and out of the gaps between the clouds, chasing each other round and round a funnel, and then McCudden waves and disappears.
At this point Daniel realises that his voice has gone hoarse from too much gleeful shouting and singing, and that he has no idea where he is. He descends in a shallow dive. He once had his engine stop in a cloud, because of moisture in the jet, and ever since he has worried that it will happen again. You have to come out cautiously too, because you do not know what might be underneath, and without a horizon you can easily end up flying upside down. At forty-five degrees the rudder becomes the elevator and vice versa. You can make horrendous mistakes. He cuts the engine with the button switch and glides down through the cloud, keeping an eye on the bubble of the spirit level, listening excitedly to the harmony of the wires rising in pitch and volume as his speed increases. You can tell how fast you are going, because of the harmony of the wires. These wires were made originally for pianos. And ploughshares shall be beaten into swords. The pristine white clouds are wisps of drifting and swirling ghostly greyness inside. It is one of life’s small disappointments. He notices that, as always seems to happen with Camels, his right foot is drenched in engine oil.
Underneath, to his absolute chagrin, he spots an enemy two-seater, taking photographs over Poelcapelle. It is a Roland Walfisch, which once upon a time had been Daniel’s favourite German aircraft. It is dumpy, with a window on either side for the observer, and has the upper wing lying across the top of the fuselage, just as the Dolphin does. If you turn it over, you support the entire weight of the aircraft with your head.
It is obsolete, and Daniel has not seen one for months. It occurs to him that this might be the last one left in service. He feels a bitter contempt for whoever it was that ordered this machine out on a mission. Then he suspects a trap. He switches his engine on.
He turns and blots out the sun with his thumb. He sees nothing. He glances around for the flash of wings, for tiny silhouettes in the distance, and again sees nothing. The British archie notices him and stops firing at the Roland, so now the crew of the German aircraft know that there must be an Allied craft nearby. The observer
spots him and cocks his Parabellum. He taps the pilot on the shoulder, the pilot looks round and up, puts the nose down and streaks for home.
He hasn’t got a chance, however, because Daniel has the advantage of height and can dive at whatever speed he likes. Even on the flat he can outrun a Walfisch. He curses. Who is this demon who throws a spanner in the works when you’re just out harmlessly stunting in the clouds? He is not in the mood for killing after so much fun.
Nor is he in the mood for being killed. A scout should not attack a two-seater on its own, even an obsolescent one, unless it can surprise it by coming up from underneath. For a good observer, a scout coming from above is a sitting duck. Daniel thinks of breaking away. If he has the wind up, it is the rational wind up.
He opens fire from a hundred yards, too far away to be effective. The observer fires a short burst, and Daniel sees the streaks of tracer passing between his wings on the starboard side. ‘Damn, damn, damn,’ he says between gritted teeth, as he presses on.
The tracer stops, and he is within killing range when he sees that the observer is struggling with his machine gun, which has jammed. The observer is in a rage of panic and frustration. Daniel is only a few yards away and is certain of an easy kill. The observer thumps the gun with his fist, and then, amazingly, furiously wrenches it from its mounting and hurls it overboard.
Like an executioner testing the edge of his axe, Daniel does not open fire as he easily follows the weaving and diving of the Roland. Daniel notes that this is the kind of Walfisch that has no forward-firing gun. He draws alongside, and the pilot looks at him wonderingly. Daniel stabs his finger at him and puts his own arms up briefly to signify that he is demanding surrender. You don’t take your hands off a Camel’s controls for any longer than you have to.
The pilot looks round at his observer, and nods, and the observer puts his hands up. Daniel fires a brief burst to signify that he demands cooperation, and then points in the rough direction of his aerodrome. The pilot nods and they fly side by side at eighty miles an hour. The observer is dejected and sits with his face in his hands. Daniel reflects that the day hasn’t been spoiled after all, and for some reason he begins to think about the lovely house in Eltham where he used to live, before his father was killed. There were four girls living next door, Ottilie, Christabel, Sophie and Rosie. Rosie with the startling blue eyes and chestnut hair. She had been his ideal girl when he was a boy. He thinks, ‘I wonder if they’re still there? If I get through this, I’m going to call on those girls.’ He gets a warm feeling in his guts thinking about them. A house with four girls!
Back at the aerodrome the squadron leader, Major Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert, known as ‘Fluke’, emerges from his hut, and all the ack emmas, pilots and ground staff come out to admire the captive machine, which has landed first. Daniel comes in second, blipping his engine and side-slipping to reduce speed. He volplanes into a perfect three-pointer, which is just as well in front of so many people. Everybody shakes hands with the German crew and has their photographs taken with them and Daniel in front of the Walfisch.
The crew are taken into the mess and offered tea or cognac. They choose cognac. Daniel says, ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ and the two men shake their heads. ‘Français?’ and they both say, ‘Oui, un peu.’ The pilot supplements this with ‘Un très petit peu.’
‘Je suis content de n’avoir pas eu le devoir de vous abattre.’
‘Abattre?’ questions the observer.
‘Tuer,’ says Daniel.
‘Ah,’ says the observer. ‘Nous aussi. Mais vous avez eu beaucoup de chance, n’est-ce pas? Que la mitrailleuse n’a pas marché?’
Major Beckenham-Gilbert interrupts. ‘Daniel, be a good fellow and translate, unless you can get them to talk in ancient Greek. Latin would do.’
‘I said I was glad that I didn’t have to kill them, and they said I was lucky that their guns were jammed.’ He turns back to the two Germans.
‘Oui, j’ai eu de la chance. Je trouve que votre machine est très beau, j’ai toujours aimé le Walfisch. Je n’aimerais pas détruire le dernier. Ça serait triste. Plus tard je veux bien l’essayer.’
‘Oui,’ answers the pilot. ‘Elle est belle mais elle est vachement vieille. J’espère qu’elle est la dernière. Je n’ai pas offert de me suicider.’
‘I said yes I was lucky, and I think the Walfisch is a lovely bus, one of my favourites. I said I was glad not to have shot it down, and I’m going to give it a spin later.’
‘Me too,’ says Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘Might be a good idea to paint out the crosses, though, and splash on some roundels. The last person to take a captured machine up for a spin got shot up the arse by a French farmer with an antique rifle.’
‘And the pilot said,’ continues Daniel, ‘that it’s too old, and he’d never volunteered to commit suicide, and I am going to reply that we all offer ourselves up for suicide every day. On s’offre à la suicide chaque jour.’
‘C’est vrai,’ said the pilot. ‘Mais quand même…’
‘Elle est la dernière?’
‘Peut-être.’
‘Alors, elle est un trésor. Il faut la preserver. We said it might be the last one left, and ought to be preserved.’
‘Wouldn’t mind it as a run-about,’ says the Major.
One of the prisoners gestures towards Daniel’s Camel. ‘Cet avion…le Camel…il est absolument incroyable…il est là, il n’est pas là…qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire contre un avion comme ça?’
‘En anglais on dit “split-arse”,’ says Daniel.
Major Beckenham-Gilbert understands that they are talking about the Camel, and interjects, ‘Damned bloody split-arse.’
‘Damt blutti split-haus,’ repeats the German pilot.
‘Qu’est-ce qui se passe maintenant?’ asks the observer. His face is pale and worried.
‘Vous êtes tous les deux prisonniers, naturellement. Demain vous partez, mais ce soir vous dînez au mess avec nous. Je dois vous avertir qu’à la fin du repas, nous nous levons pour porter un toast au roi. Vous ne devez pas porter le toast, mais vous devez vous mettre debout. Compris?’
They nod, and their faces light up at the thought of a meal. They have heard that the British have plenty of meat. Daniel offers them cigarettes. Camels, courtesy of the Americans. The two Germans look at the packet and smile. Daniel gives them the entire packet. He says to the Major, ‘I told them they could dine with us tonight, and they’d have to stand up for the loyal toast, but wouldn’t have to drink.’
‘Seems a shame not to drink. Mind you, I wouldn’t toast the Kaiser. Well, I might do so, but I’d take the opportunity to wish him a stiff case of haemorrhoids.’
‘Pour vous la guerre est finie,’ says Daniel to the two captives. ‘Finie,’ they nod, wondering what emotion to feel. They have a sense of let-down, anticlimax, relief, fear of the future, extreme weariness permitted at last. They feel a bond of affection and gratitude for this British airman who has changed their lives by making the future possible, and who seems simultaneously to be French.
‘Si vous avez besoin de quelque chose, avertissez-moi dès que possible, d’accord? Je vous donnerai le numéro de téléphone ici, et j’écrirai une lettre comme espèce de renseignement. Je vous donnerai aussi l’addresse de ma mère. Après la guerre, si je suis toujours vivant, on va se rencontrer et dîner ensemble. Je vous invite.’
The pilot is touched. He says sincerely, ‘J’espère que vous survivrez. Dieu vous prête la vie. Je vous remercie de nous avoir épargnés. Je vous souhaite le bonheur et prospérité et des jolis enfants.’
‘Et moi aussi,’ adds the observer. ‘Nous vous devons la vie.’
‘I told them to keep in touch,’ says Daniel. ‘They thanked me for sparing them, and wished me lots of pretty children.’
‘Seem like a decent pair of fellows,’ says Major Maurice Beckenham-Gilbert. ‘Now I come to think of it, I think that they might be the two blighters who nearly shot my rudder off, over Arras.’
42
The Telephone (1)
Millicent was standing on a chair dusting the frame of the portrait of Mr McCosh’s grandfather with a feather duster, when the telephone rang. ‘Oh bother!’ she exclaimed, and hopped down. She ran to the apparatus and lifted the earpiece off the hook. She put on the most aristocratic voice she could manage, and recited the words that Mrs McCosh had once made her repeat fifty times, until she had got it quite right: ‘Eltham 292. The Grampians. Millicent speaking. To whom would you like to speak?’
‘Ah, Millicent,’ said a warm voice from east London. ‘You don’t ’alf sound posh. It’s you I’m after, as a matter of fact.’
‘Who is it? Is that you, Hutch?’
‘What if it wasn’t? How many boyfriends have you got, my girl?’
‘About fifteen, but only four is serious. Where are you? Are you home?’
‘I’m home. I’ve got two weeks. When are you off?’
‘After church. On Sunday.’
‘Can I come and see you? I want to ask you to marry me.’
‘What?’
‘You heard.’
‘Hutch! You can’t just ask me on the phone! All casual!’
‘I haven’t. I’m going to ask you on Sunday. We’ll go down to the Tarn.’
‘You won’t find a dry place to kneel.’
The Dust That Falls From Dreams Page 16