by John Masters
He swung the S.E., turning tight inside the Albatros. Von Rackow couldn’t properly fly his machine and unjam his guns at the same time, and in a few seconds Guy was inside him, then above. Von Rackow gave up on his guns and climbed away. Guy followed, aimed his machine, pressed the trigger … but a fraction of a second before, the Albatros turned sharply, and he missed … again … again … His petrol gauge marked nearly empty. Angrily he tried one last burst – again von Rackow jinked at the last moment. Guy turned away, heading for home. Von Rackow, receding to the east, waggled his wings in sardonic farewell.
Corporal Frank Stratton climbed up on his wing as soon as he switched off the engine, and said anxiously, ‘You all right, sir? There’s twenty holes in the upper wing and there must be twenty more in the fuselage.’
Guy pushed back his goggles and climbed stiffly out of the cockpit. One kill … Frank was holding the bucket ready … ready for him to vomit into, the sign that the whole squadron knew by now meant that the Butcher had killed. But he did not feel as he usually did. The long duel with von Rackow had altered his emotional view of the fight. He was exhilarated: von Rackow could fly, all right – better than he could, no doubt about it even allowing for the Albatros’s superiority in manoeuvreability. Von R. should have had him before his guns jammed. There were several seconds there when he’d had Guy helpless in his sights, the range short, the air still and clear.
‘I got one,’ he said.
‘Good news, sir! That makes you 37 … and at least one Hun every day this week!’
Guy started walking toward the long hutment, recently erected, which housed the headquarters offices of the three squadrons that used Ambrines – 333 equipped with S.E. 5 As, and two squadrons of Bristol Fighters. He said, ‘I’ll come back when I’ve made my report.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Frank saluted, watched his pilot for a few moments, then returned to the machine, for which he was mechanically responsible.
When he reached it, he stood a moment, staring at the starboard side, counting the bullet holes in the canvas, then walked round and counted those in the port side … then in the wings, then in the aluminium sheet of the engine cowling. Fifty-two in all. They’d need a big roll of canvas and a big pot of dope. Where was that lad Farrar with the step ladder?
The rigger’s voice was close behind him – ‘Here y’are, Corp. I was in the bogs … had to go …’
Frank glared at him disapprovingly. Wonder the squadron commander didn’t say something about the length of his hair, must be four inches long, wavy, and thick with lavender oil; but he was a good man with the fabric – worked in a tailor’s shop before the war, he said.
Frank indicated the S.E. – ‘Someone put a lot of holes in our machine, so you patch them, while I look at the engine and the controls, make sure no harm done there.’
He climbed up onto the wing, thence into the cockpit and began carefully working all the controls – rudder, ailerons, control column – feeling the firmness and accuracy of the response. He’d check them all by sight, by actually running the cables through his hands, later, and then make sure no bullet had hit a stressed strut: but this to start with. All good so far. The Germans who’d put all those bullets into Mr Guy’s machine had fired high. Mr Guy never made that mistake. If you aimed a little low, you’d still hit some other part of the fuselage, but if you were high, all you’d hit was air.
He climbed out and down, moved the step ladder and climbed up to examine the propeller; then he unfastened the engine cowling and, getting Farrar to start up the engine, watched it, as the propeller whirled. All well, no damage to the cylinders, plugs … fuel pipes sound, exhaust clean, firing sweetly … no, one of the cylinders sour … No. 5 … He pulled a notebook out of the pocket of his greasestained overalls and made a note with a stub of pencil … then stopped the engine, climbed back to the ground, and made more notes.
A shadow fell across the notebook and he looked round to see Guy Rowland staring at the S.E., his flying helmet and goggles in one hand, stroking his chin with the other. He said, ‘How is she?’
‘Number 5 cylinder – or the plug – is sour. That’s all – an’ the bullet holes, of course.’
‘We’re going on a sweep at three this afternoon.’
‘She’ll be fixed by then, sir … Farrar, be careful with that dope. The surface has to be smooth, you understand?’
‘O.K., Corp.’
Guy Rowland said, ‘There are two things wrong with this plane. One is the manoeuvreability has to be improved, somehow. The other is that there’s something wrong with the engine, but I’m not enough of an engineer to put my finger on it.’
‘I gave it a top check over last night, sir, and …’
‘Ah, that’s why you have those bags under your eyes. I thought you’d been out on the tiles with a mademoiselle.’
‘I’m a married man, sir,’ Frank said, grinning. Mr Guy liked to tease him about being a Romeo, but he’d never looked at another woman but Anne, and Mr Guy knew it.
He said, ‘Well, sir, I think it’s the reduction gear … I don’t know why the Hispano Suiza people don’t re-gear the engine so that it doesn’t need reduction. I’d like to see them put a Rolls Royce Falcon in, same as the Bristols have.’
‘That looks pretty big for an S.E. 5.’
‘It is, sir, so they’d have to modify the cowling … change the engine bearers, recalculate the centre of gravity … but none of that should give them any trouble at Farnborough.’
‘Well, I’ll talk to the C.O. about it, and try to persuade him to put these ideas to Wing.’ He nodded and turned to walk away. Frank came up beside him saying, ‘Sir … is there any chance of leave soon?’
Guy stopped and looked at the corporal. Frank knew that the R.F.C. was being stretched to the limit of its men and machines. It was unlike him to ask for leave when he must know that it was all but impossible. There were many domestic emergencies which in more normal times would merit the grant of leave … not now, though. The war demanded all.
He held Frank’s eyes. ‘Trouble at home, Frank?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ Frank’s open face was disturbed – ‘There was a letter from Mother in the post bag yesterday. She said I must come home … she said she’d tell the R.F.C. about my being 4 F really, and not fit for active service, if I didn’t.’
‘Did she say why it was so important?’
‘No, sir. But I wish I could go home for a couple of days and see what’s the matter … Mother’s practically crippled with the rheumatism and arthritis and all. Dad has to look after her about as much as she looks after him, Ruthie says. That’s my sister, sir – Mrs Hoggin.’
Guy recognized that Frank didn’t really expect to get leave. What he wanted was someone to talk to; and here he, Guy Rowland, was closer to Frank than any of the other corporals or sergeants in whom another man might have confided, in preference to an officer.
He said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t get any leave now, Frank. It’s not even worth applying, unless …’
‘Oh, no, sir, I understand.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘I suppose I’m just feeling a mite homesick for Anne and the kids – ’ he laughed again – ‘Even to see Victoria – that’s a motor bike my Dad’s making in his shed, to go a hundred miles an hour. I used to work on it with him before the war … not much though. I bet I could get a hundred and five out of her, if he’d let me, but …’ he shrugged – ‘He’s my dad, and he’s set in his ways.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ Guy said.
They walked on until Frank Stratton said, ‘Well, I’d best be getting back, sir. She’ll be in tiptop shape in no time … and you can bag another Hun for tea.’
Guy laughed, waved his helmet and goggles in the air in response to Frank’s punctilious infantry-type salute, and went to the officers’ quarters – ten huts, each with two quarters in it, each for two officers. He had the end quarter – alone.
In the room he dropped his helmet and goggles on the bed, picke
d five letters off the table and sprawled back in a battered wicker chair by the empty grate. The windows were open, and a robin was sitting on the window sill watching him, its head cocked. He found a Nice biscuit in his pocket, broke off a crumb and threw it at the little bird. The robin dodged and flew down outside, following the crumb. Guy began to open the letters.
His sister, Virginia: thrilled to hear he had shot down twenty-eight German aeroplanes, not counting twelve balloons. It was a swizz that they never mentioned his name in the papers, or showed his picture. They’d have to do it if he won the V.C., wouldn’t they? She was so proud of him and had his picture up in her barrack room and all the other girls thought he was so handsome. He’d better be careful if he ever came to visit her again, as she couldn’t guarantee his safety (ha ha) … She’d been home on leave. Mummy spent most of her time moping around the house. She ought to get a job, there were plenty she could do, but she just sat and moped. The girls in her Section were marvellous, friendly, helpful, they all stuck together, and she’d never thought it could be so much fun with other girls, after Cheltenham Ladies College. And she was going out every Saturday with Battery Sergeant Major Stanley Robinson, D.C.M., who wished to be remembered to Guy and respectfully wished him all good fortune. Lots of love and kisses X X X X.
From No. 9056748 Private John D. Merritt, Co.D, 16th Infantry Regiment, El Paso, Texas … He was in the Army now, a dogface, earning all of $25 a week, what did Guy think of that? Only half the other enlisted men, old regulars, could read or write, and when he’d foolishly let slip that he had been at Harvard they’d given him a hard time, until he fought the one who’d been riding him the hardest and broke his nose. But they were good fellows. He’d never known any people like them before, meeting them was like going down into the cellar of your house and finding a whole different breed of Americans down there, who’d quietly been feeding the furnace and fixing the plumbing without anyone upstairs realizing what they really looked like. They’d show the Krauts something when they got over. And that wouldn’t be long as (deleted by censor).
From David Toledano, Royal Field Artillery, in Palestine, obviously … enjoying the climate, bathing in the Mediterranean … had enough leave recently to visit the Valley of the Kings and Thebes: magnificent, awe inspiring … life likely to change its tenor now that Allenby is coming out as C-in-C. We hear he is nicknamed the Bull, and we expect him to live up to it, and lead us charging off against the Turks …
His father: proud of him … the battalion in the line again after a short rest … saw aeroplanes flying over all the time and often wondered if he’s in one of them … the battalion was in good shape though something must be done about (deleted by censor) before winter comes. The battalion had a good many casualties the last time it was in the line, but remained in good spirits. Your Affec. father …
From Florinda – this one he’d kept till last: she was performing at three hospitals a week, all over the country. Getting so tired of sitting up in trains all day, all night, always looked like something the cat brought in, in the mornings, and the trains always late … thought about him a lot, couldn’t realize it was six months since he was here, how time flies, and now she’d better stop, bloody train to catch in an hour and couldn’t find her music and she had the curse, what a life, love, love, love. …
He held the letter and stared sightlessly out of the window. Nothing about other men there. But what right did he have to be told about that? Did he want to be, if there were? He must remember that she wasn’t Probyn’s granddaughter any more, but a very rich peeress and actress, very beautiful – miles away, in space, and circumstance. The robin watched him from the window sill, waiting for more biscuit. Guy saw nothing, but an abstraction of sky, cloud and earth, unfocussed, framed in the oblong of the window. The robin flew in and landed on the table beside him. Then he noticed it and, feeling in his pocket, held out his hand, full of biscuit crumbs. The robin hopped onto the ball of his thumb and began to peck away with great satisfaction, and no fear.
The four S.E. 5 As of D Flight, 333 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps, flew north through scattered banks of heavy cumulus cloud in V formation, the flight leader, Lieutenant Guy Rowland, D.S.O., M.C., at the point of the V. They were at 8,000 feet, the air cold for the time of year. To the left, slag heaps, pithead towers and wheels, and the enormous straddling black shape of Tower Bridge marked the mining towns of Hulluch, Loos, Lens, and La Bassee. The flight was keeping about five miles on the German side of the trench lines. A south-west wind of twenty knots at that altitude made the machines crab slightly to keep on course. It was evening, the sun low, squalls coming up.
Guy flew with no thought on the business of flying. By now, that – the maneuvering of the control column and the rudder pedals, was instinctual, as were his periodic glances at the compass and altimeter. His attention was concentrated in the encircling sky … the line of observation balloons to the west – the German ones very close, the British beyond, over the slag heaps and pitheads … two R.E. 8s, Corps aircraft, doing artillery spotting and ranging for the British guns – tempting targets for Jasta 16, those R.E. 8s. Von R’s men liked to pounce out of the clouds on the practically helpless R.E.s, shoot a couple down, then fly back, speeding on the western wind, to their bases.
Major Sugden’s orders had been unequivocal – ‘Sweep just the German side of the line at eight thousand, from Arras northward to Armentières, then back at twelve thousand. Attack and destroy anything you meet on your patrol, except balloons … Our object is to demonstrate to the infantry that we control the air over the front line fighting area. As you know they have recently been attacked by German aircraft. I hope you catch some of them at it … particularly in our gun areas.’
The little fighter flew into a white, damp, swirling blindness of cumulus, lurched and heaved through it and after two minutes burst out into sunlight. Guy swept the sky … no change … there must have been strong updraughts in that cloud, for his altimeter read eight five. He pointed the nose gently down, and the two others followed close. Into cloud again, bump, watch the altimeter carefully now, still rising, with nose down. He broke again into sunlight, seeing straight ahead, five hundred feet below, the black crosses and yellow spinners of twelve Albatros D III fighters. No need to signal – nose down – attack! Throttle wide … he had one in his sights, just beginning to turn away. He fired at a hundred and fifty feet, and the Albatros exploded into a huge ball of fire, so large that he flew through it, the flames momentarily scorching him, the smells of burning fuel acrid in his nostrils … He was through, an Albatros closing up on his tail, tracer bullets beginning to clack past. He swung the S.E. round in a tight, flat crab motion. The Albatros, expecting an Immelmann, passed close to the right as Guy held the S.E., kicked it back and waited till the Albatros slid into his sights … a long burst … got him! No, damn, the man was falling off, Guy’s sights slipping back toward the tail … he’d put a lot of holes through the fabric there, but it didn’t catch fire. The German turned on his back and started to spin down … doing it on purpose, Guy muttered, it won’t help … he followed, thumb ready on the trigger, twisting and turning … The fellow was down to three thousand … two … one … screaming east, as fast as he could go, he’d burst his engine from over-revving … even so, Guy gained on him steadily, slowly … There was nothing the fellow could do to get away … He flew on, closing inexorably, unaware of the time, any of his instruments, only the fleeing German ahead. At last he was close enough. Why didn’t the man turn and fight? He’d have a chance of doing some damage at least. But he didn’t. At a hundred feet range and barely twenty feet above the ground, Guy fired a one-second burst. The Albatros nosed over at a hundred and ten miles an hour and flew into an open field, disintegrating into a thousand pieces that bounced back into the sky, cartwheeled across the field, burst through hedges. One of the pieces was the body of the pilot, it too breaking and scattering as it bounced.
Guy climbed back and up. No damag
e that he could see, controls all answering well. Time to turn for home. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Where was the rest of his flight?
He saw the Albatros from two miles away, coming out of the setting sun at him … no other aircraft in the sky, all gone home, like birds, to their roosts … all but that single Albatros and his single S.E. They must be at least twenty miles behind the German lines, so the Albatros could manoeuvre any way he liked, while, unless it came to desperation, Guy must try to work back westward – or face imprisonment for the rest of the war, even if he won the dogfight. He flew on, climbing as the Albatros manoeuvred to cut across his course.
He knew it before he saw it: yellow wing tips … von Rackow again, come to get the Butcher. Rain began to stream past him, and the temperature dropped abruptly. He hadn’t enough petrol – he’d never get home – but he had no choice.
Guy turned suddenly and attacked. Von Rackow was ready and twisted away two seconds before Guy was ready to fire. Guy swung the S.E.’s nose again to the west, still climbing … must have some height for emergencies … Why not just run for it? He might just get home, or at least crash-land on his own side of the lines. He had the speed advantage, and von Rackow would only get one chance, as he passed. Guy threw the S.E. into the same flat turn that he had used before, in his second fight of the evening, and for a moment had von Rackow by surprise, the Albatros’s cockpit flashing across his sights as he pressed the trigger. The tracer slashed just behind the pilot’s body, perhaps four or five bullets into the fuselage – nothing serious. Then von Rackow had hauled the Albatros round, water vapour trails streaming from his wingtips, until he too could fire a burst. But Guy was turning hard and it went behind him; he pulled up and heaved round; so for a few minutes they circled, like wary dogs. This time it was von Rackow who attacked, jerking his Albatros into a savage turn and at once opening fire. Guy kicked on full rudder and skidded horribly out of the way … glimpsing the tracer streaming behind his shoulder … pulled up the nose, went over into an Immelmann and at the end of the half-roll found the German coming up at him, the muzzles of his Spandaus red and yellow fire. His own thumbs were on the triggers …