by Peter Albano
McDonald circled a fist over his head to show he was well and Randolph returned the signal with the cut throat sign to indicate damage and pointed first at the mist of vapor trailing the S.E.5 and then at the British lines. Nodding understanding and throttling back, the Scotsman turned his plane toward home. Licking his lips and smiling, Randolph plunged after the Boche, following the trail of smoke like a predator trailing the spoor of an injured quarry.
Randolph was surprised by how low the dogfight had drifted, his altimeter showing only seven thousand feet as he began his dive. The red and yellow checked Albatross was far below, trailing black smoke, but the flames had actually diminished. Must have been the oil tank that flared for a moment and the clever pilot had managed to keep the flames away from the wing fabric. The pilot? Free of the mad swirl of the dogfight, Randolph had time to think. He racked his brain. He had heard of the color scheme and knew it belonged to someone important. Some prominent killer. Landenberg came to mind—an aristocrat like von Richthofen. August von Landenberg, the Prussian butcher. Second in command to Hollweg and Max Mueller’s replacement. He had seventeen kills.
Randolph laughed out loud and pounded his padded coaming. He wanted Hollweg but would be delighted to kill Landenberg. The German was far below and was flattening his dive into a glide, obviously looking for a landing place. The smoke trailing the Albatross had thinned to a brown haze and Landenberg glided south and east toward the lines. The man was thinking. He was approaching the lines where he knew there would be batteries of German antiaircraft guns and machine gun emplacements to give him cover as he made his dead stick landing.
In a near vertical dive with engine roaring and wires whining and humming, the S.E.5 knifed through the stringy cloud cover, which had been nearly burned away, and the terrain was clear, the ground rising at a frightening speed. White and green lines turned into stone fences and hedgerows and the land became creased and irregular instead of flat and featureless as it appeared from great heights. The patchwork green quilt, tiny specks and clusters of trees became stands of poplars and oak, wrecked buildings, and groups of shell holes, water-filled and reflecting light like dirty brown mirrors. There was a clear meadow just to the east of the Albatross and Landenberg banked gracefully toward it.
Randolph pulled the stick back. His cheeks sagged, his guts felt heavy and low, his increased weight drove him deep into the wicker seat. Bouncing and vibrating and with the wires screaming their objections, the fighter flattened its dive. With the horizon below his cowling again and with the needle of his speed indicator all the way to the red line, he rocketed over a battery of heavy artillery and then a sunken road leading to a communication trench, coal-scuttle helmets of Boche infantrymen bobbing up and down like bubbles in a stream. Some startled white faces turned upward and a rifle or two was fired, but the fighter was too low and its speed too great. The shots went wild.
Landenberg was to his left and not more than three hundred feet high. Randolph kicked hard left rudder, cutting across the German’s course like a chord cutting the arc of a circle. Landenberg would drift directly into an ideal killing angle and with a dead engine, there was nothing Landenberg could do but make his peace with his Gott. Randolph laughed again and spittle sprayed. He pulled back on the stick, gaining altitude to position himself above the Albatross. He backed the throttle off. He had made a mistake.
There was a great flash to the south and west as an entire battery of seventy-seven-millimeter antiaircraft guns fired. Immediately, four ugly bursts smeared the sky a thousand feet above the S.E.5 with silver balls and brown and black smoke, white-hot bits of shrapnel raining and leaving white trails like the phosphorus of incendiary bullets. “Cut your fuses, you bloody bastards,” Randolph shouted, pounding the side of the fuselage. And they did, the next salvo from another battery to the south exploding close enough to rock the little fighter like a cork in a gale. Anxiously, the major looked at his altimeter, which indicated a thousand feet, and eased the stick forward, and the S.E.5 dropped its nose. Soon the 77s would not be able to depress low enough to track him. However, he would be within range of small bore. He shrugged.
Another great flash from a stand of brush southwest of the meadow turned his head. The little fighter rocked as shells screamed past and exploded hard on its tail. More flashes and explosions, probably 3.7 centimeter. Hunched behind the windscreen and peering ahead of the Albatross, the major saw something that caught his breath and chilled the pit of his belly. At the far end of the meadow, tethered down and carefully camouflaged, was an observation balloon. The balloon was one of the most feared and hated observation posts the Germans had. Floating fifteen hundred to two thousand feet above its winch, observers in wicker baskets had a clear view of the English rear that gave heavies easy targets. Even ammunition dumps had been destroyed by guns directed by balloonists.
But the hydrogen-filled silk bags were highly flammable and could be easily ignited by phosphorus incendiary bullets. Early in December, Randolph had shot one down over Transloy and had almost been killed himself in the great whooshing ignition of hydrogen gas as it mixed with oxygen above the balloon. Because it was a stationary, explosive target, the concentration of archie around a balloon emplacement was far more dense than that protecting any other target. When Randolph returned from the attack, Cochran counted twenty-seven bullet holes and six shrapnel punctures in the Nieuport. “We’ll send your machine to blighty after your next one,” the mechanic had said, shaking his head.
Now Landenberg was leading him into another inferno. Biting his lip and setting his jaw, Randolph never changed his course as the Albatross approached the meadow at a very low altitude. Now Randolph could see dozens of mounds of earth like rabbit burrows breaking the surface. Barrels were pointed at him like thickets of young saplings. The Englishman punched the throttle to the last stop and placed his thumb on the tit. The Albatross filled the first ring, but it was over the first emplacements and the first line of machine gunners had a clear shot.
Tracers stormed past and Higgins felt the controls jerk and the plane shudder as ball tore through the little fighter. He could see Landenberg looking over his shoulder. He was grinning. Grinning! Cursing, the major crossed his controls and then reversed, skidding from side to side and throwing off the aim of the machine gunners. But he lost speed and Landenberg was out of his range finder. Then he ruddered back to the Albatross and from one-quarter deflection he thumbed the tit and saw his tracers pound the enemy airplane with macelike blows that sent plywood and fabric flying. Risking a stall, Landenberg banked hard to his left toward a stand of poplars and a grassy meadow to the east. There were at least twenty emplacements dug in in front of the trees. It would be point-blank and zero deflection. Randolph had no choice; it was kick right rudder and turn away from Landenberg or die.
Banking to the north and curving away from the guns, Randolph was followed by a hail of tracers until he had climbed above one thousand feet. Then the 77s started again, dozens of bursts following, rocking him, and now and again the thump of shrapnel striking. Hate was boiling in the major’s veins and suddenly all reason, all caution was blown away, replaced by a wild animal’s frenzied thirst for blood, hunger for the jugular.
Landenberg had landed in the field, his wheel catching on a mound of soft earth and the Albatross ground looped, shedding its wings and flipping on its side like a dead vulture. The Englishman could see three or four gray-clad infantrymen rushing to the wreck from nearby tents. Renewed puffs of black smoke were rising and flames began to lick at the wreckage. The pilot was struggling to free himself and he appeared to be weak and perhaps injured. As Randolph curved toward the meadow, the first two infantrymen had already freed the pilot and had pulled him clear and placed him on a stretcher. The Englishman began his dive.
Carefully, two of the soldiers picked up the stretcher and began to walk toward the balloon installation. Far to the north and temporarily free of antiaircraft fire,
Randolph throttled back and then curved back toward the group, bringing them into his ring sight. Within seconds he had bored in so close, he could see the red crosses on the arm bands of the stretcher bearers and the blood on Landenberg’s leg and flying jacket. His helmet was off and his blond hair was blowing in the wind. The German pilot turned toward the approaching S.E.5. He was very young, like so many of Randolph’s dead pilots. The medics, too, turned their faces to the approaching fighter and Randolph could see that they, too, were just teenage boys. There was no fear there, the boys apparently convinced their red crosses protected them from attack.
Machine guns began to fire and more tracers raced to meet the S.E.5. The major could feel the fighter tremble from the strike of shot and a half dozen slugs shattered his instrument panel and his compass exploded, splattering his left leg with alcohol and stinging his cheek with bits of glass. But nothing could stop Randolph. Eyes wide, lips skinned back into a grin that collapsed into roaring laughter, he thumbed the tit at the long range of four hundred yards. He could not miss.
Dirt spurted from the field in tall brown clouds of dust, shattered rocks, and clods, and marched toward the stretcher. The surprised bearers dropped Landenberg, hurled themselves to the ground, and began clawing at the earth frantically, trying to escape the death roaring toward them with their fingernails. Randolph wanted the stretcher, but approaching from the rear of the group, all three men were lined up perfectly. The Vickers stitched a stream of ball through first one bearer, then Landenberg, and finally the last medic. Randolph felt an amalgam of intense excitement and joy, deep warmth, and his mouth was suddenly filled with saliva. Throttling back two notches, he flattened his dive and worked his rudder bar back and forth, the Vickers spraying the group with a long burst, the hammer blows jerking the trio spasmodically like victims of epilepsy; blood, dirt, brains, and gore flying. Finally, the end of the belt jerked up from the tank and the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber.
Jamming the throttle full forward and roaring over the corpses, Randolph leaned over the coaming and waved a fist back over his elevator. He shrieked with laughter. “Three letters home, you bloody bastards!” he screamed. Then, leveling off at no more than twenty feet, he hopped over a copse of trees and raced to the south and the safety of the British lines.
Randolph was the last pilot to return from the patrol. Cutting his switch as he taxied to the end of the flight line, his fighter became the tenth S.E.5 in the row. The engine had not yet gasped its last when chief mechanic William Cochran, followed by his four-man crew, raced up. While the mechanics stared in amazement at the torn and ripped wings and fuselage, Cochran helped the major down from the cockpit. “Flight Lieutenant Cowdry bought it,” Randolph muttered. “Who else? Who else, Sergeant?”
“Flight Lieutenant Baldwin, sir.” The old sergeant sighed and avoided Randolph’s eyes. “A flamer, sir.”
A cold hand closed on the major’s throat and he turned toward the farmhouse. The mechanic’s voice stopped him.
“By your leave, sir,” Cochran said, waving at the S.E.5. Randolph stopped, turned, and walked back to the plane. “Upon my word, Major, did you fly through a threshing machine?” the mechanic asked, peering through a one-foot rip in the fabric midway between the cockpit and the tail. “Two broken ribs, a severed stay.” He gestured at the perforated wings. “I can see a broken wing rib from here, two shot-out compression braces, and your main upper wing spar was nicked and splintered and Lord knows what else, sir. There must be a hundred holes in her.”
“Do what you can,” Randolph said, impatient for his first Scotch. “If she’s too badly chewed up, scrap her and I’ll fly a reserve.”
“Right, sir.” And then to the four wide-eyed mechanics staring at the torn fighter, he said, “Step lively, men. Into the hangar with her.” Quickly the mechanics gripped the aircraft and began pushing it into the hangar. Randolph turned and walked to the farmhouse.
Captain Hartley Carter questioned Major Randolph Higgins and wrote the major’s report. It was nearly noon and Randolph had stripped off his heavy flying kit and was on his second Johnnie Walker before Carter sat across the desk from him. His body ached and his head was a stone and he sank down with his chin almost touching his chest, his face limned with a gray patina of fatigue. He could hear the pilots’ celebrating voices coming from the mess tent. They had shot down eight Albatross D.2s to a loss of two S.E.5s. But Randolph’s mind was on his losses—Cowdry’s face looming through the effects of the Scotch; a book of horror, white, strangling on his own screams, beginning a death ride that would take over a minute to complete. Interminable. A long, long time to think about it. And Baldwin. Another young, bright-faced lad immolated slowly in his burning fighter. But the squadron had a victory and the party was on. But not for Randolph. His drinking would be solitary over two letters.
“You had a kill?” Hartley Carter began.
Randolph looked up. “Two,” he answered, lighting a Havana cigar from a box Walter had sent him. He did not particularly enjoy the harsh, biting tobacco, but it was a form of celebration after a kill. Today he would smoke two.
“Southeast of Bapaume?”
“Quite right. The first at about eleven thousand feet, a dozen rounds into the cockpit. He was a dead man long before he hit.” The memory brought a smile to Randolph’s face and he drew on the Havana.
Hartley Carter nodded. “Captain McDonald and Lieutenant Leefe Hendon witnessed the kill.” He turned his lips under and drummed his temple with the pencil. “But we have no witnesses to the second kill,” the adjutant added.
“I don’t give a tinker’s dam. That Kraut is still dead.” The squadron leader laughed wildly and tossed off the rest of his drink. Sergeant Major York recharged his glass.
“Where, Major?”
Randolph sipped his drink thoughtfully. “It began south of Bapaume. It was Oberleutnant August von Landenberg. I recognized his paint scheme. I put a burst into him—he was on McDonald’s tail.” He stared hard at Carter. “McDonald has got to have seen us.”
“Yes, sir. He saw the Kraut hit and dive out of the dogfight with you in pursuit. But no one saw the kill.”
Randolph tapped his desk. “I boffed him to the south about a mile from the lines on a straight line between Bapaume and Bailleul.”
“Altitude?”
Randolph’s smile had the dust of death on it. “Zero.” He broke into maniacal laughter. Carter chewed his lower lip, Longacre stopped typing and looked up from his machine, Sergeant Major York stared at his major.
“Zero, sir. Are you sure, sir?”
It took Randolph a few moments to regain his composure. Then he gasped between chuckles, “As sure as von Landenberg is a corpse. As sure as Hollweg is writing a letter home to Landenberg’s Prussian parents.” The convulsive laughter returned, the major bending at the waist and holding his stomach.
Two hours later, Randolph was still at his desk, sipping his fourth Scotch and studying his pilots’ reports. He had just lit his second cigar when the two officers arrived. One, a captain, was the effeminate Wilfrid Freeman from division. The other was a major who Randolph had never seen before. Longacre, Carter, and York all came to their feet while Randolph remained seated, chewing on his cigar and staring up expectantly at the newcomers who stood rigidly, almost at attention in front of his desk, swagger sticks smartly tucked under their right arms. Both were in tailored uniforms that glowed with spit and polish.
The major was a fat, middle-aged man with a confident, haughty look of a career officer on the rise. “I’m Major Liam Townshend from Corps,” he said uneasily, like a man about to plunge into icy water.
Randolph did not offer a chair or a drink. Instead, he blew a cloud of smoke into the air and sank back into the battered cushions of his chair, contempt burning in his eyes. Townshend wrinkled his nose disdainfully at the pungent fumes and continued. “It has been reported through Swi
ss channels that this morning an S.E.5 from Number Five Squadron killed three Germans on the ground.”
Randolph took another puff of smoke into his mouth and then blew it toward the major. Anger flickered in the officer’s eyes as he continued. “The men were helpless. Two stretcher bearers and a wounded pilot—August von Landenberg. The stretcher bearers were wearing Red Cross arm bands.”
Chuckling, Randolph held the Havana before his eyes and turned it, examining it as if it were a valuable heirloom. “I flew that fighter—I killed them. What took you so long? It’s been almost eight hours,” he said, grinning. He put the cigar back in his mouth. Longacre, York, and Carter stirred uneasily.
Freeman spoke in his high-pitched voice. “Good Lord, sir. Not medics—not helpless men?”
Before Randolph could answer, the major said, “Dash it all, Major Higgins. Corps doesn’t approve—the government doesn’t approve of the murder of helpless men. There’s the small matter of the Geneva Conventions the Crown signed over fifty years ago.”
Randolph felt the liquor boiling in his stomach and the fire spread through his veins to every vestige of his being. “Murder! The Geneva Conventions!” he shouted, straightening and leaning forward, stabbing the cigar at the major.
“Yes,” Townshend said grimly. “We fight like gentlemen. There are certain rules of warfare we must—”
Randolph bolted out of his chair. “Gentlemen?” He rocked on his heels with uncontrolled laughter. Longacre, Carter, and York looked at each other anxiously. The staff officers stood impassively. “Gentlemen!” he repeated incredulously. “Tell Cowdry and Baldwin about the gentle art of killing. Tell them about the Geneva Conventions. Tell all my dead boys.”
“Please, Major Higgins,” Townshend said. “There is no need for rudeness.”
“How polite is a Spandau? A Parabellum? How polite is it to kill my boys?” Randolph gestured overhead. “That bloody bastard Landenberg had seventeen kills.” He leaned forward, eyes narrow, jaw jutting. “He was a butcher and I made sure he wouldn’t give me any more letters to write home.” He stabbed the cigar at the major as if it were a weapon and growled, “Tell that to Corps, you bloody spit and polish popinjay.”