The Two-Headed Eagle поп-3

by Джон Биггинс

  Even so, I felt that my reception at Haidenschaft flying field broke all bounds of civilised courtesy. As I arrived at the gate, stiff and caked in dust, I noticed that the sentries did not salute me. I was just about to demand the meaning of this when the Adjutant appeared from the guard­room. I saluted, introduced myself and presented my compliments—prior to giving him a piece of my mind on the standard of his sentries, who appeared not to recognise a naval officer when they saw one. But before I could gather breath he merely grunted:

  “Hmnph! That’s our motor bike isn’t it? What d’you think you’re doing with it? ”

  “I was asked to return it from the station at Divacca.”

  “About time too and all.” He seized the handlebars from me and be­gan to wheel the machine away as I tried to unstrap my valise.

  “Wait a moment,” I said. “My orders are to report here to the Kom- mandant of Fliegerkompagnie 19 and then proceed to your sub-unit 19F at Caprovizza.”

  He paused and turned round. “We don’t have much to do with that lot here, and as for Hauptmann Heyrowsky I doubt whether he’ll be very pleased to see you. If I were you I’d just push off and not bother him.” “Very well then,” I said, trying to sound as dignified as I could while removing my luggage from the carrier. “Since you clearly can’t spare the courtesy to receive me as befits a brother-officer I shall consider that I have reported here as ordered and make my way now to Fliegerfeld Caprovizza. Might you be so kind as to give me directions?”

  Without turning round the Adjutant pointed over his shoulder with his thumb in a vague southerly direction.

  “Other side of the road, over the level crossing and past the cem­etery . . .” He paused as if a thought had just struck him. “Feldwebel!” he shouted into the guard hut, “bring out that bicycle would you? We’ve got someone here who’s going to join those bastards over at Caprovizza.” The bicycle was wheeled out from behind the hut and thrust at me. “Be a good fellow and take this with you, will you? Hauptmann Heyrowsky saw it in town and thought that it might be a nice present for your Herr Kommandant. He said to tell Hauptmann Kraliczek that if he’s feeling in a particularly daring mood one day he can come over here and we’ll teach him to ride it.”

  “Might I request that comment in writing, if you wish me to convey it to my commanding officer?” I said, as stiffly as I could. “You understand I’m sure: duels and courts of honour and all that sort of thing.”

  The Adjutant smiled. “Certainly. There’s a note under the saddle springs already. As for duels between our CO and yours, I doubt very much whether it’d ever come to that. But if it did I certainly know where I’d place my bet.”

  I felt after this last insult that there was little point in prolonging this sour and uncomradely exchange. So I swung myself on to the bicycle— which mercifully still had rubber tyres instead of the hemp-filled canvas tubes which were now being supplied as substitutes—and pedalled away down the side road and across the railway line as instructed. Soon I was skimming along a level, poplar-fringed road among the flat maize fields of the valley bottom: one of the very few bits of the Vippaco Valley (I soon discovered) level enough for airfields. A couple of kilometres outside the town I stopped and shaded my eyes against the sun to watch the approach of an aeroplane, coming in low to land at Flik 19’s flying field. It was a Lloyd two-seater by the looks of it. As it roared overhead I saw that a good half of one of its lower wings had been reduced to a chaos of splintered ribs and tatters of trailing fabric. Dark drops plopped into the dust of the road as the aeroplane passed overhead, and one of them splashed warmly on to my forehead. Damn it! Engine oil, I thought, hoping that none had got on my clothes. I wiped it off with my handkerchief—and saw that it was not oil but blood.

  I arrived at k.u.k. Fliegerfeld Caprovizza at sixteen minutes past twelve, according to my wristwatch. Not that anybody seemed to mind very much. I made my report to the duty warrant officer and was led to my quar­ters—a distinctly threadbare tent—by a private soldier. The base of Flik 19F was not at all an imposing sight: a stony stretch of more-or-less level field on the edge of the River Vippaco with four or five canvas hangars and two wooden ones under construction, a Stationskanzlei hut, a small marquee which I took to be the officers’ mess and a few rows of tents for accommodation. At the edge of the field stood a row of log-and-earth shelters whose purpose entirely escaped me. A motor lorry and one or two horse-drawn wagons stood near by; likewise a field kitchen and a couple of barrows with petrol drums for fuelling aircraft (standing dangerously near the field kitchen, I considered). The only aeroplane that I could see was a Hansa-Brandenburg two-seater being rolled out of one of the can­vas hangars. Otherwise the place seemed deserted in the midday heat that wobbled above the field, stilling even the cicadas in the riverside thick­ets and making the barren karst hills to southward appear to dance and undulate like the waves of the sea.

  I put down my bags on one of the two camp-beds—the soldier obedi­ently reported that I would be sharing the tent with a certain Oberleutnant Schraffl—then washed and brushed the dust off my clothes as best I could, combed my hair and straightened my bow-tie before making for the mess tent. I found it to be deserted except for one officer in flying kit smoking a pipe with his back turned to me. The mess cook reported that dinner had finished half an hour past and that the Herren Offiziere had all gone to rest in the shade of the cypress trees on the other side of the field. As for food, there was only some tinned meat with cold potatoes and some warmed-over mehlspeis. I took this as courteously as I could and sat down at one of the trestle tables.

  The officer in flying kit turned round—and we both recognised one another. It was Karl Rieger, late captain in the 26 th Jager Regiment and a close friend of my elder brother Anton. We shook hands and embraced, not having met since 1912 or thereabouts. My first enquiry was after my brother, who had been missing in Serbia since August 1914, when the 26th Jagers had been wiped out in the fighting around Loznica. Since then I had questioned every survivor I could find in the faint hope that my brother might have been taken prisoner. But Rieger could offer no help: he had gone down with dysentery just after Potiorek’s army had crossed into Serbia and had been lying in a hospital bed back in Sarajevo when the regiment had gone to their doom. Having no unit left to rejoin when he came out of hospital, he had volunteered for the Fliegertruppe and had served as an officer-observer on the Russian Front before training as a pilot. He was now the recently formed Flik 19F’s “Chefpilot”: in theory the only officer in the unit apart from the Kommandant who could fly an aeroplane, since all the rest of the pilots on the strength were NCOs.

  “I haven’t been here that long myself,” he said. “Only arrived last month when they split us off from Heyrowsky’s lot over at Haidenschaft. As you can see, we’re still using canvas hangars and the pens are only half finished.”

  “The what? ”

  “The pens: those log-and-sandbag things over on the other side.” “Please tell me—what on earth are they for? Surely you don’t expect the Italians to start shelling the place: we must be a good twenty kilome­tres behind the lines here.”

  “If it was only shelling we had to worry about! They’re against the bora. It’s not too bad now in summer, but believe me, come the autumn the wind’ll be howling along this valley like anything. Flik 4 had their en­tire aircraft strength written off in five minutes last winter because they left them outside with nothing but tentpegs and a few sandbags to hold them down. One of them blew so far away they still haven’t found it. I can tell you, Mother Nature’s not going to catch us like that: we’ve taken enough losses from the Italians lately without having to worry about storm damage as well.”

  “How are things on this sector then—in the air I mean?”

  He drew reflectively on his pipe before answering.

  “Not too bad until the past few weeks. In fact for the first twelve months of this war we had it pretty well our own way over the Isonzo: hardly saw the It
alians at all, which is scarcely surprising, since I believe they came in with only about fifty serviceable planes in the whole country. But since about Easter things haven’t been so bright. They’ve been setting up aircraft factories over there like nobody’s business and buying up every­thing they can lay their hands on abroad, so now we’re pretty well equal as regards numbers. But I’m giving away no secrets if I say that the quality’s got much better on their side these past few months. I reckon our fellows have still just about got the edge, man for man. But the Italians have been getting Nieuport single-seaters from the French lately and, believe me, they’re a handful if you meet one when you’re flying one of our old furni­ture vans: nimble as a bluebottle and climb so fast you wouldn’t believe it. We’ve had a hot summer of it so far in Flik 19F: forty-one aircrew joined the unit so far, of which twenty-three killed, wounded or missing and ten aircraft written off, five in crashes and five from enemy action. But that’s enough of me rambling on, Prohaska. Tell me, what’s our newest Maria- Theresien Ritter doing honouring our humble unit with his presence?” “Sent here at short notice I’m afraid.”

  “Extremely short: I was over in Kanzlei before dinner and we still haven’t got your posting papers, only a telephone call from the War Ministry. What have you been up to, old man? Caught in bed with the Heir-Apparent’s wife or what? ”

  I smiled. “No such luck I’m afraid: just a minor disagreement with the Marine Sektion. It looks as if I shall be off U-Boating for a while. I’m here as an officer-observer I believe, though I can fly if needed: I’ve had a licence since 1912.”

  “Splendid—you’ll certainly find that useful. All the pilots except for me are rankers.”

  “What about the Kommandant?”

  Rieger smiled wryly. “Herr Kommandant? Oh, not him I’m afraid: he says that flying would get in the way of his duties as commanding officer.”

  “What duties? Surely in an air unit the commanding officer’s main duty is in the air? ”

  “Perhaps so in most units. But not in ours. I suspect that our man would get dizzy standing on the edge of the kerb. Anyway, you’ll see what I mean when you meet him, so don’t let me prejudice you. But going back to what I said before, I certainly advise you to get some flying time in on your own as soon as ever you can, even if you only intend flying as a passenger. Life’s getting pretty hectic now and more than once we’ve had officer-observers landing their own plane when their pilot’s been knocked out. Oh yes, my dear Prohaska, I assure you that flying over the South-West Front is no easy number these days: we live fast here in the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe.” He rose and picked up his leather flying helmet. “Anyway, can’t sit here all day. I hope that you’ll excuse me but we’ll talk further this evening. The Kommandant presents his compliments and says that he’ll see you at fourteen-fifteen hours when he gets back from Haidenschaft. He’s been at the printers it seems, looking at the proofs of a new form for us to fill in. As for me, I’ve got to go and look at a machine with the Technical Officer. It came back from the repair shops only this morning and I want to see that everything’s as it should be before I sign for it. Auf wiederschauen.”

  Rieger went out, and I was left on my own. The mess orderly brought me a cup of that black, bitter infusion of roasted acorns described as “kaffeesurrogat” and I picked up a day-old copy of the Weiner Tagblatt. I felt a good deal happier now than I had done after my oafish reception at Flik 19 a couple of hours before. I had just walked into a tent and had immediately run into someone I already knew, so perhaps this would be a congenial posting—at least for as long as I survived to enjoy it. I glanced at my watch: five-past two. I would go back to my tent and change out of my travel-grimed uniform into field dress for my interview with the commanding officer.

  I emerged from the stuffy mess tent into the glaring sunlight to be greeted by the drone of an aero engine. An aeroplane was coming in to land on the field: a Hansa-Brandenburg CI to judge by the characteristic inward-sloping wing struts. It lined up to land, about fifteen metres up and as steady as could be. But as I watched, something went terribly wrong: the aeroplane suddenly lurched over on to one wingtip, which struck the ground with a splintering crash, kicking up a cloud of dust. I thought that the pilot had managed to right the aeroplane, but the thing simply cart­wheeled into the ground before my horrified gaze, nosed over and then skidded crazily across the field to end up in the bushes on the bank of the river. I ran towards the wreck, joined on the way by a number of ground crewmen. But as we neared it, whumpf!—the whole thing went up in a bright orange puffball of flame. We ducked and stooped about the bon­fire, eyebrows singeing from the heat, coming in as close as we dared to peer into the blaze and see whether the pilot might still be dragged clear. In the end we were driven back by the crackle of ammunition going off in the inferno.

  By the time a hand-pumped fire engine had been brought up and a thin spray of water was playing on the wreck there was hardly anything left to burn, just a smoking tangle of bracing-wire and steel tubing jumbled up with glowing embers, a blackened engine and the upturned, tyreless bicycle wheels of the undercarriage. Gingerly we approached it, fearful of finding what we knew we must find. In the end I almost tripped over the ghastly thing before I recognised it for what it was. It lay twisted and grinning horribly, smoking gently as its charred fingers gripped the smoul­dering remains of the steering wheel. Fighting back a desperate urge to be sick, I knelt down, trying not to smell the stench of burning bacon. Only the boots and the steel goggle-frames remained intact; that and the metal identity tag hanging on a chain around the shrivelled throat. Without thinking I bent to pick it up—and yelped with pain. In the end I had to lever a stick under it and twist. The chain snapped and it went flying, to land hissing in the damp grass by the edge of a streamlet. I walked over and picked it up. It was the usual Austrian identity tag: a small metal case like a girl’s locket, embossed with the two-headed eagle and containing a little booklet giving the wearer’s personal details. I prised open the case, and found the paper toasted brown by the flames but still legible. It read, Rieger. Karl Ferdinand. Oblt Geb. 1885 Leitmerit%. Rm Ktlsch. Not fifteen minutes before, I had been chatting in the mess with this fire-blackened obscenity smouldering among the embers. As he had so recently observed, in those days we lived fast in the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe.

  I left the scene of the crash feeling very weak at the knees. The birds had now resumed their interrupted chirping in the under-growth by the riverbank, and two ground crewmen—both Poles I could hear—were heading towards the wreck with the tarpaulin-shrouded handbarrow re­served for such errands. They did not seem unduly awed by the solem­nity of their gruesome task, which I learnt later they were often called upon to perform. As they neared the site of the crash they met a fellow- countryman coming the other way.

  “Carbonised this time, Wojtek?”

  “Completely. But never mind—it was only an officer.”

  Hauptmann Rudolf Kraliczek, commanding officer of Fliegerkompagnie 19F, was not at all pleased that I had arrived three minutes and twenty-seven seconds late for my interview with him. Still shaky from the terrible sight I had seen only a few minutes before, I blurted out my apologies and reported that I had just witnessed a crash on the other side of the flying field. He waved my excuses aside irascibly.

  “Herr Linienschiffsleutnant, please refrain from bothering me with such trifles.”

  “But Herr Kommandant, your Chief Pilot Oberleutnant Rieger has just been killed . . .” He rolled up his eyes in despair behind his pince-nez. “Oh no, not another one. Rieger, did you say?”

  “By your leave, Herr Kommandant, Oberleutnant Rieger.”

  “Are you sure? ”

  “Perfectly certain, Herr Kommandant: burnt beyond recognition. I saw his remains with my own eyes and removed his identity tag myself.” He got up from his desk and selected a crayon.

  “Which aeroplane was it? ”

  “A Hansa-Brandenburg just back from repairs. It seemed
to go out of control just as he was coming in to land. From what I could see of it . . .” “Be quiet,” he snapped peevishly, turning to face a board which cov­ered the entire back wall of his office and which was itself covered by twenty or so sheets of squared paper with jagged rising and falling lines of various colours and with a rainbow-hued array of bars. He had a red crayon in his hand and seemed to be talking to himself.

  “One more officer-pilot down and one aeroplane less. Oh gottver- dammt, it’s really too bad: how can they expect to keep orderly re­turns if they behave like this? Let me see: Effective Against Nominal Establishment for July should have been here . . .” he traced a line on the graph, “. . . and now it’ll have to go here. Why couldn’t the idiot have crashed next month?”

  While Hauptmann Kraliczek was thus engaged, rubbing out and cor­recting lines on his beautifully drawn charts, I was able to get an unin­terrupted look at the man. And really, even if I have never been much addicted to what might be called the “male-model” view of military leader- ship—that an effective fighting man should necessarily look like a Viking chieftain or a Greek god—I have to say that he did seem a remarkably odd specimen to be running a front-line flying unit in the middle of a world war: a most unsoldierly-looking soldier. Not that he was deficient in military smartness: rather that there was too much of it. Although he was kitted out in the standard field-grey service tunic I noticed that this was immaculately brushed, and entirely free of the patches and darns that were increasingly widespread among front-officers now that we were approach­ing the third year of the war. I also observed that instead of the breeches and puttees which were de rigueur nowadays, he wore pre-war salonhosen of the General Staff pattern, dark grey with a double red stripe, impec­cably pressed, and leather shoes rather than field-boots like the rest of us. As for the man inside this get-up, he had more the air of a rising deputy bank manager than of a military officer: pale, sleek and bespectacled, with neatly manicured little hands which looked far more accustomed to wielding a pen than a stick-grenade or a pair of wire cutters. I saw also, as he turned to face me, that although he wore the balloon-badge of the Fliegertruppe on his collar patches behind the captain’s three stars, he had neither the wings of a pilot nor those of an officer-observer. He brushed the eraser-crumbs carefully off his tunic before speaking.