Yardley woke blearily; and prematurely, his watch told him. He felt lonely and bitter. These were sensations he could not betray by utterance or demeanour, and keeping them to himself imposed a stress of its own.
He was completely dedicated to winning the war, and every setback was magnified, in his view, because it delayed this achievement and cost more lives. He was, in fact, a fanatic, although he would have loathed anyone to perceive it. The ruthlessness of a blind fanatic was absent in him. He had become callous about the enemy but time had heightened his concern for his own pilots and observers. His feeling of loathing that morning for the machines which he blamed in part for letting his men down was symptomatic of his partisanship. He loved aeroplanes and he loved flying for its own sake, but he bore a grudge against designers who could not give his men a fairer chance. Lately he had surprised himself when he acknowledged that he was transferring this grudge to the DH4s themselves.
If the DH4s were deemed unsuitable for night bombing, they would be made to revert to daylight operations. There were two reasons why he detested that prospect. One was that he believed that night bombing was the quickest way of defeating Germany; by damaging its morale, its industry and communications. The other reason was that engine trouble, false compasses and bad weather were as frequently met by day as by night, but anti-aircraft fire was more accurate and fighters were an infinitely greater threat: to his crews. He was not thinking about himself.
It was true that fighters could escort day bombers; but not on long-distance raids; and, anyway, it hurt his pride to have to depend on fighter cover.
His squadron absorbed virtually all his thoughts and affection. Despite his friendly nature and gregarious life, he was a solitary man. He had brothers and sisters, so his parents’ affections had been spread between them all; and rather thinly, for they were both reserved and undemonstrative people. He had no wife, he was not betrothed, he had not even a mistress. He enjoyed women’s company and indulged in ephemeral love affairs, but he had no strong emotional attachments to anyone.
He lay awake in some anguish. He felt a vein throbbing in his temple. He knew that at least six of his 18 crews had failed to find the target. Three of those had bombed something; God knew what. It made his head ache to contemplate what they might have done. Not that he cared if they killed or wounded civilians in their homes, but it made for unpleasantness. The German newspapers screamed barbarity, Parliament waxed indignant — against its own side, of course — Headquarters passed down a stiff rebuke; and people like Quinn redoubled it.
Nobody knew yet, and perhaps never would know, whether the other four crews had got to Fichtewald or how effectively they had attacked.
He could find no consolation. Quinn wanted to see the DH4s ordered back to day raids because it would discredit him. And, Yardley thought, because the chances of his becoming a casualty would be increased.
He threw his bedclothes aside and got up, unrefreshed, to face whatever was in store. It could hardly be pleasant.
*
Two people shared all Yardley’s fears and desires; and some more besides, because of their devotion to him. Those additional apprehensions were on his behalf, not their own.
They lacked sleep also. Tearle had gone to bed at a reasonable hour but had had himself roused in time to be out on the tarmac at the time of Yardley’s expected return. Wotton had stayed up with Yardley to await everyone else’s.
They were both aware of the extent to which Yardley was striving to come to terms with an ugly situation. Neither of them was a devout man, any more than their commanding officer was. Prayer did not occur to either of them as a resource. Divine intercession would have seemed as unlikely to both of them, to all three of them, as picking up a gold nugget on the airfield or of seeing Colonel Quinn wearing a genial expression.
Left to do the best they could with their own mortal resources, they were reduced to worrying about him: for one look at Yardley’s resolute face confirmed that they could contribute nothing that he did not have in abundance. He had courage enough to spare, he had determination and endurance. All he needed was luck, and perhaps he had already exhausted the whole amount that destiny had allocated to him: for to be alive at all after so long at the Front he must have been drawing heavily on it.
Wotton, who had the gift of catnapping and the blessing of an athlete’s slow heartbeat, found greater benefit in fresh air than long sleep. He had told his batman to call him in time to join in a game of football with some of the off-duty troops in the late morning. He was therefore up before Yardley and presently, glowing healthily, was drinking tea in the squadron adjutant’s office.
“We’ve had signals in from our own chaps, the Frogs and one American pilot that they’ve seen the wreckage of two DH4s behind the Hun lines this morning,” Tearle said. “The Yankee chap actually went to the trouble of almost scraping the ground so that he could read the identity letters and numbers. Both ours, I’m afraid.”
“Who were they?”
“Jones and Green.”
“Badly smashed up?”
“No. They should have survived, all right.”
“I hope the Hun didn’t give them too rough a time.”
Reports had come from prisoners of war who had crashed or been shot down on bombing raids over Germany of rough handling by their captors before they were handed over to the German Air Service. It seemed to be the German soldiers’ and civilians’ first instinct to apply rifle-butt or boot as soon as they caught an Allied airman.
“I hope the CO never gets taken,” said Tearle.
They dwelt unpleasantly on the eventuality for a moment.
Wotton said, “He’d tear into anyone who touched him. There’d be no stopping him. The Hun would shoot him; or bayonet him.”
“That’s what worries me, Alec.”
Wotton said wryly, “Well, if it happens to him, I’ll be there to try to see he doesn’t get too violent.”
“Your only hope of that would be to convince him that if he got rough you’d get beaten up as well, in reprisal. They wouldn’t only take it out on him and let you off.”
“If the CO pitched into them, I’d be bound to join in.” Wotton laughed, but there was not much amusement in it.
“This is a disgracefully pessimistic conversation; but I’ll tell you one thing: if I get back on flying, I’m never going up without a pair of marching-boots tucked into the cockpit. There’s not a celluloid cat in hell’s chance of walking home in a pair of fug boots.”
“Now there’s the benefit of a university education,” said Wotton. “I’d never have thought of that.”
“Don’t be an ass. Seriously, though, I’d like to be able to put it to the CO without him telling me I’m a defeatist. Seems a sensible precaution, to me. If one has to come down behind the lines, there’s always a chance of walking out if one gets a few minutes’ start before some Hun turns up.”
“Leave it to me, Harold. I’ll take a pair of boots up next time, and the CO can rag me all he likes. I’ll take a spare pair for him; without his knowing.”
“I’d never have thought of that. Who needs a university degree after all, what?”
“There’s just one thing: if the CO knows I’ve got anything as heavy as that aboard, he’ll want to chuck them at the enemy after we’ve dropped our bombs.”
“You’re probably right.”
They were silent for a while, Tearle working and Wotton drinking tea.
Tearle looked up, tossed a memo he had just read into his “out” tray and said, “What are we going to do, Alec? The CO is the last chap in the world to crack up; but it’s always the most indestructible people who crack up worst if it happens.”
“If only he didn’t take things so personally. As soon as HQ decided to put us on night ops, he had to take on every bomber squadron in the RFC as well as the Hun defences. He never takes his mind off it.”
“Useless to suggest leave. Even two days in Paris. That’s what he needs: a break.”<
br />
“He’s overdue for home leave,” Wotton said with a rueful face.
His own home leave depended on his pilot’s taking his.
“Oh, he won’t think of leave until he’s satisfied night ops are going smoothly. And even then I don’t think he’d want to...” Tearle grimaced.
“Wouldn’t want to turn his back on the Colonel.”
“Right.”
“No chance of the Colonel being promoted and posted?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. And as long as he keeps goading the CO, I’m worried about what may happen.”
“I wish he had one interest outside this aerodrome.”
Wotton sounded fervent and looked bothered.
Tearle said, “I know what’s in your mind, Alec. It worries me, too. But perhaps the Colonel will try a bit too hard. The Brigadier is pretty bright, you know.”
“If the CO just had something else to occupy his mind, for even a small part of the time...”
“I know. I agree with you. Believe me, if there was a hospital with nurses instead of RAMC orderlies within two hours of here, I’d get the mess to arrange a party of some kind. But I can’t think of any distraction for him.”
It was not as though they were discussing a new idea, it was just that the time was unpropitious. They had often talked about Yardley before, in their affection for, and loyalty, to him. Tearle had the ability to remember, accurately, what they had said before; what, indeed, anyone had said about any particular subject, over the past few months. He was a very useful adjutant. He and Wotton both sat in thought and Wotton’s memory for that kind of conversation was good, too. But neither of them was fruitful of any great plan for saving Yardley from being pushed to some disastrous extreme by the strength of his reaction to Colonel Quinn’s implicit and intuitive cruelty.
Tearle reflected that Alec Wotton had put his finger on it when he said that as soon as the squadron was put on night ops he had taken on every other bomber squadron in the RFC as well as the enemy defences. Yardley’s squadron had to do better than every other. It had to be, and to be known and admitted to be, the best bomber squadron in the Service; which meant in the world.
It was a point of pride which made him highly vulnerable to a man like Colonel Quinn.
Chapter Eleven
The bombs were still falling when the thud of the heavy iron knocker on the front door echoed through the house.
Ilse raised herself on one elbow to hear better. She thought at first that the concussion of a bomb burst must have jarred the door knocker. The knocking was repeated and she hurried to her own room to put on a dressing-gown and slippers before skipping down the stairs.
She drew back the bolts, turned the key and opened the door a few inches to peer out.
“Are you all right? Is your mother frightened?”
Uwe Gratz stood there in some dishevelment, his greatcoat mis-buttoned, obviously in haste.
“Come in, Uwe, come in. How... how kind of you!”
Ilse was shivering with fright and from the blast of cold air that had swirled in through the open door.
Uwe, not slow to take his chance, despite her acid remark about his breath, wrapped his arms about her and made soothing noises.
“Don’t worry... it’s all right... how is your mother?”
Frau Nauroth was screaming from the top of the stairs, with a touch of hysteria.
“Ilse! What is it? Whom have the pigdog English killed now? Ilse! Ilse? Are you there?”
Ilse called up the staircase, with some impatience.
“It’s Uwe, Mutti. He came to see if we are all right... if you are all right.”
Frau Nauroth called, “Uwe?”
He relaxed his hug on Ilse and called back, “Yes, Frau Nauroth? Are you all right?”
“God in Heaven, who could be in this pandemonium? Ilse, take Uwe into the kitchen and make a cup of cocoa for us all. I’ll come down in a moment.”
Ilse led the way into the kitchen, impeded by Uwe, who had wrapped an arm about her and was holding her so close to him that they both tripped and nearly fell as they walked.
“I had to come and make certain you were safe and your mother was not terrified,” he said.
Ilse disentangled herself.
“I’m safe. And mother is terrified; as you heard just now.”
Uwe sat down, eyeing her bare ankles; and her breasts through her night dress and woollen dressing-gown. He had seen her in thin summer frocks, but there had been two layers of clothes under those and her breasts had been confined in a bodice. Tonight they were bouncing gaily with her movements and there was a special intimacy about the bareness of her ankles. He had never before seen her when she was not wearing stockings.
He said, “My father is not on night duty this week, thank God. There are fires raging at the junction. But the flak got two of the pigdogs and I am sure they hit many more, who will not get back to their base.”
“What about those balloons your father said they were going to put around the junction?”
“They will wait until we are ready to fly from our new aerodrome.”
“And when will that be?”
“In another ten days. When I finish my leave, in three days’ time, I have to go to the aircraft pool at Bremen to pick up a new machine and fly it to Schutzstadt. We will be living in tents and using canvas hangars while huts and metal hangars are being built. We can start work as soon as the electricity has been laid.”
Ilse’s vitality was at its lowest, at that hour of the morning, and she was grateful to Uwe for his kindness. She had also had a bad scare. All this gave her a sudden access of indiscretion and false sentimentality.
“Thank God! I shall feel much safer when your Kest is ready to start defending us.”
“Will you really?”
He got up from his chair, full of amorous intentions, but all he got was a piping hot mug of weak cocoa thrust into his hand. He nearly dropped it.
Frau Nauroth’s voice came tremblingly from the doorway as she walked unsteadily in. Her putative and always hopeful future son-in-law put his cocoa down hurriedly and went to take her by the arm.
“Thank you, Uwe. Thank you. You are a kind, good boy.” Frau Nauroth lowered herself into a chair with a sigh. She looked horribly ill. The two young people stared at her with compassion.
“Damnation take those Englishmen,” Ilse exclaimed.
Uwe looked grim. “We will be the cause of their damnation. Just wait until the Kest is ready for action. We will give them a lesson they will never forget.”
“God be praised that Germany has fine young men like you to protect us all,” Frau Nauroth said.
Uwe looked at Ilse for some expression of appreciation from her.
“Perhaps,” said Ilse, “we are only reaping the whirlwind sown by our brave, fine young Zeppelin flyers. The English are getting their own back for our bombing of London... and other places... Liverpool...”
Her mother looked stricken and uttered a cry of anger, putting one hand dramatically to her breast. Uwe went red with anger and his jaw dropped in unbelief.
He said, “Have you taken leave of your senses, girl?”
Frau Nauroth said, “You are wicked to think such things. I am ashamed that my own daughter...” She began to cry; again.
Ilse was already regretting her weakness towards Uwe. She had always disapproved of what she had read in the papers about the Zeppelins’ incursions over England. She really did believe that the present air raids on Germany had been provoked by the indiscriminate bombing. The papers did not admit to it, but she had heard rumours and her own common sense told her that an airship above the clouds could not be sure where it dropped its bombs: even with an observer in a gondola at the end of a 3,000 ft cable, spotting from below cloud.
She gave them each in turn an insolent look and shrugged her shoulders as she retorted, “What is wrong in deploring the whole principle of one country bombing another? I can do that without in any way lessenin
g my hatred of the men who come and do it to us.”
“Well, at least that is something, I suppose,” Uwe muttered. “Kind of you not to hate our Zeppelin crews for dropping their bombs on the English.”
“But I do dislike them for provoking the English to retaliate at our expense.”
He looked furious. “How can you say it is in retaliation? You know nothing about it, you silly girl. Whether or not we bombed England, the English would have flown over here with their bombs as soon as they had machines capable of the range. You know nothing about it at all, Ilse. War is not a polite game, you know. There are certain rules...”
“Yes: such as those about the use of poison gas.”
Uwe began to shout, as Germans always do, especially when in uniform: whether the uniform denotes a municipal crossing-sweep or a Grand Admiral.
“It is a great pity that you cannot devote your criticisms to better purpose than denigrating your own nation, my girl. You are...”
“What was that you were saying about war not being a polite game, but having certain rules?”
Still shouting, he replied, “No, it is not a polite game. Neither side waits for the other to make the first move. Both sides do as much as they can against the other, as soon as they can. Germany was capable of bombing targets hundreds of miles away long before England could reach Germany even from bases in France. The English still cannot cross the North Sea. If they had been able to, we would have had bombs falling on Berlin long ago. You talk nonsense when you say these attacks are retaliatory.”
Frau Nauroth put out a palsied hand to pat Uwe placatingly on the arm.
“Never mind, my boy. Don’t let a silly girl get you all worked up. Ilse, you are very foolish.”
“I suppose,” said Ilse, who was not only, as Uwe had told her, contrary, but also as stubborn as a mule, “the English did not have poison gas in March 1915 at Neuve Chapelle? No doubt they would have used it, if they had?”
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