“What does one have to do to become an ace?” Hannington was at his blandest.
“Shoot down five enemy aeroplanes; or balloons.” Nungesser saw a look of amusement begin to dawn on the Englishman’s face and added hurriedly: “Balloons are often more dangerous to destroy: as you know, they are very heavily defended by anti-aircraft guns; and at that low altitude one is very vulnerable. All claims have to be confirmed by independent witnesses.”
“I understand that aces are mentioned by name in official bulletins?”
Nungesser frowned. “Yes. We don’t like it, but the official attitude is that this is good for morale and encourages everyone to score his five. We dislike the whole business, because it is invidious: it is much easier for a single-seater pilot to become an ace than for the pilot of a two-seater, which is so slow in comparison.”
“How do you get on against the Rumpler Cl?”
Nungesser was only too glad to change the subject. The sergeant pilots had been invited to the officers’ mess to meet the great man, an event unthinkable under Major Dunnett, and everyone gathered round to listen, the French-speakers interpreting for the others, Nungesser interspersing what he knew of English when he could.
Boyd pressed towards the front to hang on every word. The French custom of wearing medals, not mere ribbons, had evoked many amused looks and whispered criticism when their visitor was first seen without his flying coat. But on this man, who looked the epitome of the veteran fighting airman and had a plethora of injuries to show for his achievements, they did not look out of place, ostentatious or vulgar. Boyd had seen Ball at close quarters in the air and again when he chanced to do a forced landing on the 59 Squadron aerodrome. He was a serious, boyish nineteen although he had a DSO and an MC and bar already. It was hard to credit that so self-effacing a youth was one of the three greatest air fighters in the RFC. He had also met Major Lanoe Hawker, who had the reserved demeanour of an Edwardian paterfamilias and the deprecating air of one who was entirely reluctant to kill. But about Nungesser there was a dashing flamboyance that transformed the essentially sordid business of warfare into one of glamour and inspired others to emulate him. Recklessness exuded from him and Boyd found it irresistible. He himself had not won his decoration in the trenches by being hesitant. There was an unquenchable urge within him to throw himself headlong into action and he realised that it was only now beginning fully to emerge. It was a drastic change in self-expression for a young man who, less than two years ago, had been an articled clerk in the humdrum atmosphere of a Lincoln’s Inn solicitor’s office.
The talk ranged over the performance of the Fokker, the Rumpler and the elderly Roland Taube which was still seen occasionally. The Bébé, the DH2 and the Bristol Scout. The British pilots listened respectfully to their visitor’s views on tactics and his recommendations on how to get the best from the Bébé when they at last got one on the squadron.
Boyd looked frequently towards Holt, who had been noticeably quiet and subdued during the past few days. His whole attention was on Nungesser and he kept nodding as he marked a point to remember. To Boyd it seemed that there was a touch of desperation in the way he grasped at anything that would distract him from what appeared to be some deep-seated inner preoccupation. It worried him. The Elliot Holt he had known for six months, bluff, jovial, extroverted, full of confidence and good humour, had seemed impervious to worry. Now he was frequently glum and taciturn. Boyd knew the effects of battle fatigue and had experienced its ravages on himself. But he had endured nearly a year of active service before he began to succumb to it, and Holt had experienced only three months of fighting. Life as a front-line pilot was fraught with stress, but they lived in reasonable comfort and did not fly after dark. Their day may be nerve-racking but it was short. Whatever was harassing Elliot, it must be something more than that everlasting damnable fear of being trapped in a burning aircraft which was the bogey about which they all brooded from time to time.
*
While Chandler’s squadron waited impatiently to receive the four Nieuport Bébés they had been promised, the British General Staff hastened their preparations for the Battle of the Somme. The Battle of Verdun was drawing to a close. The enemy drive on Paris had been halted. In the safety of his HQ at Montreuil, fifty miles behind the front, a front neither he nor any officer on his staff had ever visited, or would deign to visit until 1917, General Sir Douglas Haig, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force, laid his insane plans which would lead to the annihilation of 600,000 Allied officers and men; and the same number of Germans: following a precedent set by the bone-headed Marshal Joffre and General Pétain at Verdun, where they ultimately succeeded in sacrificing 315,000 Frenchmen; and where 281,000 Germans died in the process of killing them.
The German Air Force was not organised in squadrons, but in flight sections (Abteilungen), of which there were thirty-four in France, each established for six aircraft, known as field flight sections, Feldfliegerabteilungen, or Flabt for short. These were numbered in succession, and as each aircraft bore a bold serial number, it was not difficult to identify the Flabt to which it belonged.
Holt was aware of the carnage at Verdun and the massive preparations for a repetition of it on the Somme, but his major concern was about Flabt 18 to which Emil Holz belonged.
The more he thought about Emil the more it oppressed him that they might one day come face to face. Although he had vilified him in his thoughts when his father wrote to tell him that Emil had joined the German Aviation Service, the truth was that he was not at all a bad fellow. True, he did not have a prepossessing appearance, with his narrow face and protruding teeth. And he did not share his own fervour for sport and all outdoor pursuits. But he was quick-witted and amusing, courteous and warm towards his American family members. And two sabre scars on his face were evidence that he was not entirely gutless.
It disquieted him that he and Emil had spent a week together in San Francisco and cousinly debauch. They had been good companions for those seven days, although they both recognised that they were incapable of a real affinity, and he wished now that he could truthfully say he had never liked the fellow.
*
Boyd found himself increasingly fascinated by the balloons that he flew past every day a few miles behind the British lines. He wondered why it was necessary to risk slow BE2s and FE2s (the ‘Fees’ which had been a mainstay of the RFC from the beginning of the war) on artillery spotting if this could be done adequately by balloons. He resented seeing pilots’ and observers’ lives thrown away and he was indignant at the time wasted by scout pilots when they had to act as escort.
Having been so long in the infantry, his contempt for the staff was boundless and he did not accept that the functions of aircraft and balloons were complementary.
He said as much in mess one evening. “It seems to me a lot of tommy-rot putting up BEs and Fees as well as those bally gasbags. It’s duplicating work.” The squadron had flown two particularly trying escorts that day, on each of which a spotting aircraft had been lost. “I’d like to know just what goes on in those balloon baskets. How much use are those balloonatics? Do they simply picnic up there, or what?”
“We had better find out,” said Chandler. “Why don’t you spend a day with the balloonatics? I’m a believer in seeing how the other half lives.”
“I’d like to go along,” said Holt at once. He would take any opportunity to be free for a day from the constant worry that he might find Emil Holz in his gunsights.
“It is up to your flight commander. What about it, Anthony?”
“Good wheeze,” Hannington agreed. “I agree with Nick. It’s a fatuous waste of effort to send aeroplanes up to do what should be done by the bally balloonatics. I know the right chap to speak to about it: I’ll arrange it tomorrow.”
The observation balloons were part of the RFC, so it was easy enough to get permission to send two pilots along to make an ascent. The balloon officers were always delighted to int
roduce anyone to their esoteric trade.
Boyd and Holt reported early, two mornings later, to a dingy little house that had escaped shell damage, surrounded by tents and a Nissen hut.
The lieutenant who came out to meet them when he heard their tender draw up was of their own age and walked with a limp. He was of medium height, very thin, and the weatherbeaten hue of his face was testimony of the many hours he had spent exposed to sun, wind and rain under his balloon. He had a breezy manner and a staccato way of talking. Boyd, who was familiar with every possible manifestation of nervous tension induced by active service, wondered what he had let himself in for.
“My name’s Mather,” said the balloon officer, shaking hands; firmly, Boyd was relieved to note. “I’m glad you got my message about not wearing flying coats or greatcoats. On cold days, we wear over-trousers or complete flying suits.”
That was a bit of an impertinence, thought Boyd. What were these static chaps doing, dressing up as flyers? “What’s the reason?” he asked.
“The parachute harness straps go round the thighs as well as the chest and shoulders. A long coat would get in the way.”
“Do we have to wear parachutes?” Holt asked with mild scorn. “We’re not used to them.”
“No,” said Mather cheerfully, “no obligation to wear one. But we lose an average of one observer a day, and the only reason the casualties aren’t higher is that some of us manage to jump out in time.”
“Is that how you hurt your leg?”
“No. I was wounded in Gallipoli. I was in the infantry then. When I came out of hospital I volunteered for this job. And I promptly broke my hip in a balloon accident while I was on the training course at Roehampton.”
“You mean one of these things came down?” Boyd said.
“Oh, no, they never do that unless the Boche shoots ’em down. No, we have to do ordinary ballooning before we’re allowed up in one of these things, and I was on a fifty-mile cross-country when the wind became a bit frisky and we came down with rather a bump. Anyway, we’re not likely to get blown off our mooring today. I’ll show you how to put on your harness. Unless, of course, you don’t think it’s necessary.”
“Yeah, we think it’s necessary,” said Holt.
Mather showed them the parachutes, attached to the outside of the balloon and contained in canvas bags from which they would easily slip at the tug of a man’s weight. A wire ran from the parachute to the balloonist’s harness.
“All you have to do is vault overboard,” said Mather.
“And pray,” Boyd muttered.
“That’s not obligatory, either. I’ve made three jumps and I’ve never heard of a ’chute failing to open. Of course one has to be high enough.”
“How high?” Holt asked.
“Fourteen hundred feet is enough.”
“How high are we going this morning?”
“Four thousand. Ready?”
They climbed aboard and the balloon began to rise smoothly.
Boyd had forgotten that he did not have a good head for heights, until he peered over the rim of the basket. For a moment he felt dizzy. This was totally different from flying. In an aeroplane, he had never felt a moment’s queasiness, but in this static contrivance he felt exactly as he did if he looked out of the window of a tall building or from the edge of a cliff.
He looked up hurriedly.
“What can a spotter aeroplane see that you chaps can’t?” Holt asked.
“I don’t really know. I think I ought to have a trip with you chaps and find out. Anyway, my job today is watching for enemy movements behind their lines. They’ve been moving up an awful lot of stuff lately, even by day.”
“Three pairs of eyes should be better than one,” Boyd suggested. “Tell us where to look.”
Mather pointed. “You watch in that sector. Holt, you concentrate on the arc between that church steeple and the low hill over there.”
When they reached their operational height, Boyd began to enjoy the sensation of floating in godlike isolation and without the noise of an engine or the turbulence of slipstream or air pockets. He could hear the sound of the guns, of machine-gun and rifle fire, of motor engines. But none of these was obtrusive and the flash of gunfire in the distance looked like an illusion rather than a threat. The air was tainted with the whiff of stale explosive fumes, but less pungently than he was used to when flying over the trenches.
He was sweeeping his sector of the landscape with field-glasses when Mather exclaimed “There’s something!”
Boyd and Holt both turned and asked “What? Where?”
Mather, his binoculars still to his eyes, said “Towards Cambrai. Just behind their support trenches. Can’t you see the sun reflected from their windscreens? There’s a sunken road there, and I think some Boche motor transport must have crept up. That must mean a staff visit. Yes, I can see, now: two ... three motorcars. Yes, by Jove, I think this is where we bag a Hun General.” He picked up the telephone beside him and gave rapid information to the man at the other end of the line, on the ground.
“Hurry, hurry,” he said quietly, to himself. Then to his two companions: “We’ve got the range. We dropped a few on that spot last week.
A few seconds later, they heard the boom of gunfire near at hand and saw the debris from shells bursting around the place Mather had indicated. He spoke into the telephone again. Another salvo dropped on the sunken road, and Mather cried out: “Bull’s-eye! Did you see?”
“Yes.” Boyd had his glasses on the drifting smoke and dust. He had clearly seen a motor vehicle flung in the air by the force of an explosion.
“One more for luck,” said Mather, and spoke into the telephone again.
It was Holt who warned them of the approaching Rumpler. They turned in the direction he was pointing. It was still behind its own lines, but looked to be on a course directly towards themselves.
“I’ll tell the Archie boys,” Mather said, unflurried. Once more he cranked the bell-handle on his field telephone and picked up the instrument.
They watched the Rumpler approach and Boyd felt his heart-beat quicken. He hated the feeling of impotence, standing there in mid-air swaying about in a wicker basket that was even more unprotected than a wood and canvas aeroplane, which could at least take evasive action.
The Rumpler crossed the British trenches to the accompaniment of anti-aircraft fire that thickened as it continued its way westward.
“Get him ... get the blighter,” Mather muttered. “Sometimes I think they recruit our Archie gunners from the eye-hospitals!”
The Rumpler, which had delightful handling qualities as well as over ninety-four miles per hour in speed, was twisting and changing altitude all the time, slipping past each cluster of British shell bursts.
Boyd, through habit searching the sky all about, told the others: “It’s a decoy. Look there.”
They looked, and another familiar shape was dropping on them at a steep angle. A Rumpler again.
“It’ll be no bother until it turns and the observer in the rear cockpit can use his gun on its Schneider ring,” said Holt.
The first Rumpler had turned directly at the balloon now and was only 1,000 yards away. “Haul down,” Mather ordered into the telephone. They felt a jerk as the cable started to wind in.
They kept turning their eyes from one enemy aircraft to the other. The anti-aircraft guns kept up their fire and as a clump of smoke-billows hid the Rumpler that was only a quarter of a mile away now, they saw it fall apart into a twisting gallimaufry of separate pieces: a wing one way, another somewhere else, the whole tail unit flung high while the engine and airscrew went whirling down. Two spread-eagled bodies spun out of the seething smoke.
They cheered and at that moment a hail of bullets swept into the balloon.
They looked up in astonishment, and Boyd exclaimed: “There’s a blasted Spandau on the port side, shooting through the prop.” No report had reached the squadron of this latest modification to the Rumpler C1.<
br />
The balloon’s descent became quicker as gas poured out of a myriad punctures.
The Rumpler turned and the observer poured more fire into the balloon.
“Jump!” yelled Mather.
Boyd heaved himself over the edge of the basket and in the couple of seconds that he hung by his hands before releasing his grip, he felt the basket tilt as Holt scrambled after him. They exchanged a wry glance and then both let go.
They saw Mather, who had snatched up the telephone to give some last-second information to the guns, poised with one leg over the edge of the basket when the Rumpler swept in once more and the pilot fired his Spandau. They saw bullets hitting Mather from head to foot and flecks of blood fly, before he toppled back into the basket. The balloon was well alight and coming down fast.
The Rumpler pulled a tight turn around the two parachuting airmen and its pilot laughed derisively at them. Holt read and memorised its serial number. He saw the crossed woodman’s axes in red on its side. And he recognised the face that was turned towards him in a toothy smirk of triumph.
He braced himself for the tearing lash of bullets through his body. Or perhaps it would amuse this enemy more to riddle his and Boyd’s parachutes and watch them fall to be smashed as flat as kippers on the ground 2,000 feet below.
But Emil Holz turned his axe-emblazoned Rumpler away and climbed to safety, twisting among the ack-ack shell bursts.
*
Boyd had never been more shaken. He had had experiences as terrifying, in the trenches, but none that was worse.
Even so, he thought Elliot Holt was taking the episode a trifle too much to heart. He had been pale and trembling for a long time after they came safely to the ground, and ever since had been tight-lipped, morose and monosyllabic.
The unaccustomed landing had jarred them both and given them a few bruises, but that was nothing, even though Elliot, being heavier, had suffered worse. They had both liked Mather and in the short time they had known him had respected him. At the end, they knew they had witnessed an act of great courage and devotion to duty as he stayed back long enough to pass a final message to the ground.
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