The formation swam up as Woolley held the flight in its dive. At ten lengths the furthest Pfalz turned to meet the attack, far too late. The six SE5as went through the German formation like an Act of God, spraying fire in a red-hot probe. Woolley, Callaghan and Peacock scored bursts on the two-seater. Dickinson and Church engaged the scouts. Blunt saw nothing ahead but he shot off a dozen rounds on impulse as he plunged through a great hole. He remembered only details: the shiny, slate-blue skins of the German wings; the old-fashioned, pinch-waisted crosses; the swept-back tail-fins. Then he was hauling back on the control column and edging in on Woolley as the flight hurtled up in a long recovery from its dive. Centrifugal force clamped his backside and spine against the seat. He screwed his neck around to try and find the enemy. Ragged black smoke led to the two-seater; the Pfalz scouts had gone, vanished.
Woolley leveled off two hundred feet from the burning aircraft and flew parallel. The pilot had collapsed inside his cockpit. The observer lay sprawled across his gun, his blond hair streaming romantically in the wind. Something erupted with a soft boom, like a distant starting-gun, and the aircraft crumpled. Its tail stood up and it fell, spinning slowly as if it were gently unwinding itself.
It crashed on one side of a thick hedge. A herd of cows had been standing on the other side, and Blunt watched them stampede away, fanning out like clumsy messengers with news for all parts.
“I can’t get over your not being related to C. G. W. Peacock,” Rogers said. He shook his head and frowned at his drink. “It really is the most remarkable coincidence.”
Peacock clasped and unclasped and reclasped his hands in an embarrassment of humility and candor. “Never even met him, I’m sorry to say,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets. Nobody else had their hands in their pockets. He took his out.
“Hampshire,” Rogers said. “Opening bat. Useful bowler, too.”
“We … live in Norfolk.”
“Norfolk?” Rogers looked at him doubtfully. “D’you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a cricketer from Norfolk.”
“No, we … don’t seem to go in for … cricket. Much.”
“Oh. Isn’t there rather a lot of water up there?”
“The Broads, yes. Jolly good for sailing.”
“Ah.” Rogers drank his drink with the air of a man who had found out why Norfolk people play so little cricket.
There was an odd silence. The squadron had gathered in the anteroom to the dining room for a drink before lunch. Everyone felt relieved to have left Pont St. Martin, with its freezing tents, and to be here in Fricourt, where the airfield had hutted accommodation and a village down the road. Everyone was pleased about the German two-seater, whose remains lay outside in the back of a truck; but nobody was going to say so while Woolley was in the room.
Rogers turned to Blunt. “There was a Jonah Blunt who turned out for Somerset occasionally,” he said.
“Sorry.” Blunt flushed with shyness. “Different Blunt.”
“I used to play cricket,” Church stated. “I played for England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.”
“Pay no attention,” Dickinson told the replacements, “he’s only showing off in front of the visitors.”
“In that order,” Church said firmly. “England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. I was very good.” He smiled craftily at Blunt and got himself another drink.
There was another pause. Peacock glanced warily around him. He noticed tiny signs of strain: finger-tapping, abrupt yawning, twitching of the eyes. Some pilots stood serenely, studying their cigarette smoke; but then Peacock saw their white knuckles.
The only exception was the CO. He leaned his backside against a table, arms folded. He didn’t look pleased with himself, or with anyone else, either. He looked like one of those Irish rebels whose photographs one saw in the papers: swarthy, intense, indifferent to any opinion but their own. Smudged by cheap newsprint. Hanged.
Peacock wondered if all fighter squadrons were like this. People at home said they were a gay, defiant, rather reckless band of cavaliers of the sky. Peacock turned away and saw Finlayson picking his nose.
An airman came in: lunch was ready. They finished their drinks. “This is a lot better than Pont St. Martin,” Dickinson said. “That mess tent was horribly drafty.”
“My billet has cockroaches,” Lambert complained. “Big ones.”
“Clever wee beasts,” Finlayson said. “They won’t live where they can’t get food and comfort. Consider yourself lucky.”
“I suppose we should consider ourselves jolly lucky,” Peacock said. “I mean, to have a German plane shot down the first time we went up.”
Lambert shrugged.
“I never expected the first scrap to be so easy,” Callaghan said. “I must say it gives a chap confidence, that sort of thing.”
Woolley stopped in the doorway and turned around. Everyone else stopped. “You found it easy?” he asked Callaghan.
“Well, sir …” Callaghan was confused at finding himself the center of attention. “I mean … they didn’t really stand much of a chance, did they, sir?”
“Isn’t that as it should be?” Woolley hadn’t moved, but the other pilots were shifting and looking away.
“Yes sir, I suppose … all I meant was, it’s nice to start off with a gift from God, so to speak.”
Killion groaned and beat his fist against his forehead. Callaghan glanced unhappily from him to Woolley.
“Understand this,” Woolley said. “While you are in this squadron, which I think will be a short time, you will never use the word ‘luck.’ Luck never killed anyone except the fool who believed in it.”
“Yes, sir,” Callaghan whispered. Woolley turned and went in. Callaghan squeezed his hands to control the trembling. Dickinson nudged him. “In a sense you were right,” he said. “That two-seater was a gift from God. But God around here is the old man, and believe me, he organized it.”
The conversation during lunch was a little more relaxed. Killion took pity on Callaghan and tried to discuss Freud, which only confused Callaghan the more. Eventually Richards told Killion to shut up and then found himself obliged to say something else in his place.
“I knew a Dermot Cavanagh in Dublin,” he said. “I don’t suppose …”
“We’re not really Irish at all. Must have been once, but … Funny thing, we had another sort of Anglo-Irishman at our flying school, only he passed out before I did. I heard he was posted here. Rather hoped to see him, actually.”
“Well, you know how it is. People come and go.”
“Yes. Still, I’d like to keep in touch. O’Shea, his name was.”
“I shouldn’t bother if I were you.”
“But couldn’t I get hold of his address, somehow? He and I—”
“Believe me, it’s not worth it.”
Callaghan opened his mouth to beg to differ, saw Richards’ expression, and shut it.
The adjutant came in. “I do think it’s rotten the way none of you chaps speaks French,” he said angrily. “You get into all kinds of trouble, and they come to me and complain. Save me some lunch,” he told a steward.
“Are they causing a stink over what we did at St. Denis the other night?” Lambert asked.
“No, no. But don’t worry, that’ll come before long.”
“We should have paid the bill, you know,” Dangerfield said. “Dinner for ten, plus wine.”
“I’ll send them a check,” Rogers said. “Remind me to send them a check, Woody.”
“I think I’ll get you to make out several checks. In fact you might as well sign the lot and give them to me.”
“Thinking back on that occasion,” Kimberley said, “isn’t it odd that we haven’t heard a squeak from the frogs about it?”
“Frogs croak,” Church said.
“It’s not odd at all,” Woodruffe said. “For a start, we got posted the very next day. That put them off the scent. For another thing, I told a friend of mine at Corps to shuffle his documents if the f
rogs started looking for us. He’s put us down as posted to Belgium en route for Italy.”
“Masterly staff work,” Lambert said. “What a blessing it is to have fundamentally dishonest officers.”
A black-shawled Frenchwoman appeared at the window and rapped on it. “Oh my God. Her again,” Woodruffe said. “Don’t let her in or I’ll never get any lunch. I can’t understand a word she says.”
“I speak a little French,” Blunt offered.
“Go ahead,” Woodruffe said. “Tell her there’s nothing we can do.”
Blunt let her in. An old man shuffled after her and hooked a horticultural implement of a hand around her arm. The woman sniffed back her tears, and drew the shawl around her body, which was heavy and useful like a sack of potatoes. Only the eyes lived in her face.
She faced Blunt and spoke bitterly in rapid French. He tried to slow her down with gestures which she interpreted as signs of denial, and so she poured it on. He looked helplessly at the adjutant, who was eating; then at Woolley, who was cleaning his ears with a matchstick; and turned back. “Pas bon, pas bon?” he told her, smiling miserably. “Je ne comprends pas.” It sounded feeble.
She stared, and said something that might have been a question or a rejection.
“Parlez plus lentement, s’il vous plaît, madame,” he said. “Très, très lentement.”
“He is asking her how much her daughter charges,” Lambert said in a stage whisper.
She took Blunt’s arm and spoke urgently. She pointed to the window. She spoke again, led him to the window and pointed. The old man went with her and stayed there, peering through the dirty panes, scrabbling absently for something to hold on to.
“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” Blunt said. “C’est très difficile.”
“Now he is asking how much she costs,” Lambert said. Several pilots laughed. Blunt went toward the adjutant. “I’m not at all sure, sir,” he said. “It sounds as if something has died.”
“It can’t be the old man,” Kimberley said. “I just saw him move.”
Woolley said something to a steward. The man went out. Woolley continued his ear-cleaning.
“Send them to the police, for God’s sake,” Dickinson said. “What do they expect us to do?”
“It does seem odd,” Blunt said. He went back. “Je ne comprends pas, madame. Expliquez-vous encore, s’îl vous plaît.”
She looked from Blunt to Dickinson, who was peeling an apple. She began to cry. Through her tears she repeated her previous words, only with more anguish and entreaty.
“She’s cutting her prices,” Lambert said. “I knew she would.”
“Mais nous ne sommes pas la police,” Blunt told her awkwardly. “C’est dommage, mais …” He paused. “Damn and blast. What’s French for ‘Why don’t you?’” Nobody had any suggestions. “Peut-être les gendarmes …” he began.
Then the woman surprised them all. She pointed downward with both hands, shook them violently, and made the sound of a machine gun.
“Good God,” said Rogers. He was quite startled.
Woodruffe stared at her trembling hands and face. He swallowed uncomfortably. “Don’t just stand there,” he said, “find out what the hell she means, say something.” He put down his knife and fork.
“Uh … madame …” Blunt thought desperately. “Je regrette …” She snorted. “… que … que tout ce que vous … er … disez n’est pas clair.”
She glared. She stamped to the window and thrust the old man aside. “Vos avions!” she shouted. “Vos mitraillettes!” She stamped back and seized Blunt’s arm, rapping on his wrist-watch. “Aujourd’hui!” she screamed. “Aujourd’hui vous avez tué ma petite!” And then she really began weeping.
“Jesus Christ,” the adjutant said. “I hope I didn’t get that right.” He looked at the stiff, unhappy faces of the pilots. “Come on,” he called out over her sobs. “You were up there, you should know.”
The mess steward came in with Woolley’s piano accordion and gently laid it on the table.
“All I got was ‘airplanes’ and ‘today,’” Finlayson said. “What the devil is the old bitch up to?”
“She says we shot her daughter,” Blunt said.
Finlayson held his breath, and then let it out in a rush. “Bloody nonsense,” he snapped. “How the hell could we? She must be mad.”
Woolley eased the broad straps around his shoulders and opened the bellows with a wheeze.
“As far as I can make out,” Blunt said, “the girl was in the fields under our dog-fight, and somebody’s bullets hit her.”
“That wasn’t a dog-fight,” Kimberley said contemptuously.
“Shut up.” Woodruffe turned to Dickinson, while Woolley played a few experimental chords. “Dicky, you were there. Could you—could we have done that?”
“I suppose so.” Dickinson made a helpless gesture. “Any-thing’s possible, isn’t it? We were low enough. Anyway, high or low, the damn bullets have to end up somewhere, haven’t they?”
“It’s a wonder more people aren’t killed,” Church said darkly.
Woolley edged his way into a shanty: The Death of Tom Bowling.
“I still don’t see what we can do, anyway,” the adjutant said.
“Ah … madame …” Blunt hesitated, waiting for a pause, and finally tapped her on the arm. “Je vous en prie … uh … Que voulez-vous?”
This brought on such a bout of weeping and incoherence that the old man shuffled forward to lend his support. Blunt retired in despair. “What can anyone do?” he asked. “If she’s dead, she’s dead.”
Woolley swung into a second chorus, and gave it greater volume. There was now a touch of jauntiness about his phrasing.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Richards cried. “What exactly did she say? She said ma petite, didn’t she? How do we know it was her little girl? It could have been her little anything.”
“Little cow,” Dickinson suggested. “Vache is feminine.”
“Ask her how old it was,” Woodruffe told Blunt.
“Ask what?” Blunt called across the vibrant sea-shanty.
“How old it was,” Woodruffe shouted. He looked impatiently at Woolley, but Woolley was putting his heart and soul into the music.
“Uh … madame …” Blunt said. “Votre petite … uh … quel age?”
She turned away and sank to her knees. With her arms crossed over her breast, she rocked to and fro, while long, shuddering sobs twisted her face. The old man looked accusingly at Blunt.
“I don’t think it can be a cow,” Blunt called to the adjutant. Woolley released three loud chords, and started on a ponderous version of the Sailors’ Hornpipe.
For a few moments the pilots sat there, appalled by the racket, upset by the tragedy, unwilling to leave. Woolley picked up the tempo. His fingering was dreadful and his chords were wild approximations, but he pressed on, bashing out his hornpipe in direct competition with the Frenchwoman’s lament.
Rogers stood up and said: “This is no good.”
Woodruffe shouted: “What?”
Rogers walked out. Lambert got up, and with him Killion and Church. Soon the rest of the squadron was trailing cautiously and apologetically past the French couple, until only Woodruffe and Blunt were left. Woolley began the hornpipe again. Blunt looked confusedly at the adjutant, but Woodruffe had his head in his hands.
Blunt went to the door. Woolley followed, playing him out. He hooked the door shut with his foot, and walked away, spilling wrong notes behind him like a gardener sowing weeds.
Fifteen minutes later Woolley had the squadron in the air. They repeated the morning’s patrol, landed, refueled and took off again. No German aircraft were seen.
Once, Woolley took his flight a little farther over the Front than usual, just to provoke the gunners. For the new pilots it was a disturbing experience. Dirty blots of smoke appeared, leaking quickly into the sky like bad ink on cheap paper. Then came the wicked crack-boom! and the tossing, jarring turbulence
. Next the murdering puffs of explosive charge and ragged steel fragments dissolved into weak smoke and the plane was butting through the piece of sky which, seconds before, had been laced with violence; and meanwhile, other shell bursts erupted just as unpredictably ahead, and behind, and below.
Woolley browsed this area, changing course and height every fifteen or twenty seconds to confuse the gunners. Finally he had exhausted the new pilots’ capacity for fear. They loathed the German guns and they looked with longing and detestation at Woolley, but in each of them fear had given way to a curiously objective fatalism. Some shells were distant. Some were close. The next might kill you. So what?
They survived and flew home, and Peacock found himself savoring the memory. Even mortal danger was not entirely unpleasant.
Kimberley’s engine failed and he crash-landed in a field, without harm; the others touched down safely. The adjutant watched them stroll back to their billets, unbuttoning their flying coats, stamping and kicking to work the stiffness away. They shouted obscene greetings to him, treating him like a commissionaire, or a barman. Nobody asked about the French couple.
Woolley trudged toward the adjutant. He recognized the pastel forms in his hands: indents and returns and vouchers and reports, all the papers that had to be signed to authorize the war to continue. Then he saw bolder colors: huge red crosses against a white panel on a muddy truck. He started to run, turning away from the adjutant. He was carrying his handbell by its clapper, and he shifted his grip to the handle and began clanging. Startled pilots stood aside. Church was too slow and Woolley’s shoulder barged him out of the way. The bell clashed all the way to Woolley’s billet until he kicked open the door. Then it was still. Margery was sitting on the bed holding a bottle of Guinness that foamed all down her hand and wrist.
“I heard you coming,” she said. “I never could open these damn things.”
“How did you know this was my hut? Did they tell you?”
“Certainly not. To have asked would have been indiscreet. I went around and smelled them. This one smelled like yours.”
Woolley took the bottle and licked the Guinness off her wrist.
“I don’t smell so bad,” he said.
Goshawk Squadron Page 12